If these items could speak...

*Just a quick disclaimer before reading this post: There are images below of items taken from Nazi Germany, many of which are adorned with swastikas. These photos have been posted here to chronicle my grandfather's time in the U.S. Army during WWII and do not in any way, shape or form serve to celebrate or condone National Socialism or anti-Semitism. 


For years I'd been hearing about the box that held my grandfather's war loot. The description of what was in that white breadbox first came when I expressed interest in his service during WWII, a time in his life that seems to hold many clues to his personality and what was really lurking beneath the surface of his silence. The box, my father said, was filled with knives, coins, pictures and a massive Nazi banner. When he died in 1983, contents of the box were distributed among his children and my father was given his Purple Heart. To help with my research, my uncles Terry and Ted were kind enough to send me photos of the items.

Glen G. Earley
B Company, 745th Tank Battalion

To call Glen Earley's wartime experience painful would perhaps be the greatest understatement in history. That pain - both physical and emotional - included the loss of two older brothers and a combat injury that nearly took his life and caused him problems until his death at age 59. And while it doesn't sound possible to neatly cache all of those memories in a box and close the lid, it is something that my grandfather certainly tried to accomplish.

Glen G. Earley's breadbox, where he kept his war loot, including Nazi bayonets, belt buckles and decorations. 

It wasn't as if grandpa never took the box out. My father told me that after being pestered - mostly by the boys - Glen would reluctantly let them see inside. "The first thing in there was this huge Nazi banner," my father recalled. "It was folded on top there, so we always looked at that first."

Measuring about 4 feet wide and 9 feet long , it was the type of rectangular banner seen so often in war movies hanging from buildings. As the story goes, my grandpa pulled it down from the driver's seat of his Sherman tank.

My grandfather pulled this Nazi banner down from a building from the driver's seat of his Sherman tank.

My father recalls seeing several knives in the box. When I scanned through the photos of the loot in my inbox, one of the very first things to jump out at me was a German K98 bayonet for a Mauser rifle, the exact same kind of knife I'd purchased just four months prior in a small antique shop in West Monroe, Louisiana. I remember seeing several bayonets in a glass case, and when I asked the owner to show them to me, I somehow gravitated toward the K98, ignoring other German and Japanese knives. Perhaps grandpa was speaking to me in some strange way. 

German K98 bayonet, meant to fit on a Mauser rifle.

Below are many of the other items from the box. I've done some research on most of them, and have provided a description of each as best as I could.

German Luftwaffe cap (enlisted). The Luftwaffe was the German Air Force, commanded by Herman Goering.

Hitler Youth knife (grip is missing a swastika).

I believe this is what is called a "tinnie", or a small tin badge commemorating Kreistag Day in 1939...I think that was a party rally, or something similar.

I'm not sure what this coin or medallion symbolizes. It says Aachen on it, which is a German town where the 745th Tank Battalion (grandpa's outfit) was engaged in heavy fighting in the fall of 1944.

German War Merit Cross, a decoration that - when adorned with swords like this one - is awarded to soldiers for bravery in combat and is just below an Iron Cross.

Souvenir wooden shoes from Belgium.

Belt buckle...but I'm not sure of the origin yet.

This medallion appears to have Pope Leo XIII on it, but not sure of the origin. Catholic perhaps?

I believe this is a souvenir from Paris.

This is a Hitler Youth belt buckle (which got switched upside down when I posted it here)  and reads "Blood and Honor".

(another upside down issue here) I did some research, and this belt buckle appears to have belonged to an SS officer.

I'm still looking to find out what those ribbons are on this swastika.

I'm also unsure of the origin of this coin, but it appears to be dated 1937.

This German Army officer's shoulderboard belonged to an Oberleutnant (US equivalent of 1st LT) in the artillery. 

There is no way to tell, but I'm assuming this is a picture of grandpa's tank crew. That's a Sherman behind them.

Another unknown tanker, likely from the 745th.

We believe these are photos my grandpa picked up.

This appears to be a handmade knife of some kind.

Some photos of destroyed German tanks and armored vehicles.

A folding saw.

If these items could speak, I'll bet they could tell some stories.

Suffering in silence: A short history of Glen G. Earley

It's amazing what you can find when you really start digging.

For years, I've been intrigued by the lack of information about my grandfather and great-uncle, both of whom served in WWII. My grandfather, Glen Earley, is just a whisp of a memory in my life; I was just six-years-old when he died, and I don't recall much interaction between the two of us. His death wasn't seared into my memory like other members of my family, likely because his final wishes specified that there was to be no funeral service. His body was cremated and his ashes committed to the depths of the Pacific. There is no marker, no place to mourn...nothing noteworthy - to me, at least - to record the end of his life upon my mind.

When I think of Glen, the image of an older man sitting in a chair with a drink in his hand flashes into my mind. I don't think I ever saw him get out of that chair. As I learned more about him and what he physically endured in the course of his lifetime, I understood more. The only clear memory I have of him speaking to me was during a visit to his house when I was very young. I remember bringing along some coloring books and crayons. When I proudly showed grandpa my work - which, of course, I thought was exquisite - I recall him looking at it closely, then down at me. "You missed some spots," he said. "You've got to fill in all those holes." That memory, which I later recalled to my father, garnered this response: "That sounds like him," he laughed. "He was a real hard-ass." But even in the way he remembered his father's hard exterior, my dad conveys the utmost respect for Glen, a man who, despite his physical limitations and unfathomable physical and mental pain, never wavered in caring for and supporting his family. I suppose you could call him tough, but it's much deeper than that.

That's the only exchange I can remember with Glen. And to this day, it makes me sad. I was very close, on the other hand, with my maternal grandfather, who lived until I was in my late 20's. Perhaps this is why I felt such a void; there were unfulfilled expectations there.

In addition to the very few words spoken between my grandfather and I, this is the only photograph (that I'm aware of, anyhow) of the two of us together. And by together, I mean in the same frame.

Glen - and the entire Earley family, really - could be looked on the as the epitome of American sacrifice during those tough war years. That sacrifice began with the oldest son, Lyle Calder Earley. Lyle's desire to serve his country fueled a decision to undergo a risky operation to correct the childhood skull injury that had rendered him unfit for service.  Within a month of the operation, the 26-year-old was dead as a result. He left behind a wife and an unborn child.

Lyle C. Earley, August, 1943

Lyle and Joyce Earley, June 1943

As the family mourned for Lyle, their other son, Dorel Lyman, was serving in the Italian campaign as a tank driver with the 751st Tank Battalion. Dorel landed with his outfit in Anzio in January, 1944 and was killed May 28 during the Allied push toward Rome. He was just 21. Compounded with the tragedy of Lyle's death, so fresh in the hearts of the Earley family, Dorel was first listed as missing in action for several months as the army struggled to find his remains, adding uncertainty to the devastation. Glen, who was at that time at the Armor School at Ft. Knox, Kentucky, was optimistic about his brother being found alive, and wrote home to his parents in June, keeping their hopes high by telling them how bad the army was about keeping track of some of its men.

Dorel L. Earley, 1942

After action report from the 751st Tank Battalion, listing Pvt. Dorel Earley as missing in action.

In addition to the grief facing what was left of the Earley family, I can only imagine the sheer terror Glen must have felt as he trained to do the same job that had killed his brother. But if it bothered him, he kept those emotions well-hidden, instead attempting to lighten the mood in his letters by mentioning small, amusing details about life in the army. In a futile attempt to save his sole surviving son, Glen's father, John Lyman wrote several letters to the War Department, asking that he be excused from combat duty. The replies were all the same: Glen could not be spared. "My husband's health broke for several months," Glen's mother, Henrietta Calder Earley would later write. "This was indeed a trying time in our lives."

Glen was sent to the ETO sometime in the fall of 1944, where he joined the 745th Tank Battalion, a well -respected and battle-tested outfit that had landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day, fought its way through the hedgerows of France and through the rough battles of Aachen and the Hurtgen Forest in Germany.

After fighting in the Battle of the Bulge and in several other campaigns inside Germany, Glen was wounded near the town of Uckerath March 24, 1945. It was a day and an injury that, in many ways, shaped the rest of his life.

Now, when I see the image of that older man in the chair, drink in his hand, I think of his story of personal tragedy, and I almost understand. Almost.

A thousand miles and more

I traveled hundreds of miles. Hundreds of miles across dry desert arroyos dotted with Saguaro cacti, through the vast, brown expanses of New Mexico, the ironboard-flat farmlands of Texas and through the wooded bayous and swamps of Louisiana, I saw it all.
 
Driving across the country with nothing but some good music and my own thoughts was something that I've always dreamed of. For the past several years, however, my top priority has been getting my career in order. Thousand-mile road trips weren't really an option. But since undergoing heart surgery in November, I had quite a bit of time on my hands. Not to mention a beautiful woman waiting for me in Louisiana.

It was time to go, time to see the country I'd only spied from airplane windows, the country people like Jack Kerouac saw from the window of a passing car and were so inspired to write about.
 
Day one: San Diego to Las Cruces

It was a cold, foggy morning when I set out across the foothills and mountains of San Diego County, carefully making my way down to the desert floor of the Imperial Valley. I arrived in Yuma at dawn, a city that, despite being just two and a half hours from home, I had never visited. There I crossed the famous Colorado River into Arizona, trying to keep my eyes on the deserted highway as I marveled at huge, rocky desert mountains in the distance. From there it was a straight shot across miles of arid desert, through Gila Bend and the Sonoran Desert National Monument, where I drove through a mountain pass that almost made me change my mind about the lack of beauty in the desert. I never thought I'd use the word breathtaking to describe a desert, but there was something special about this spot that left an impression on me; there was something in the rugged, rocky peaks and white sand arroyos dotted with Saguaro cactus that spoke to me.

Through Arizona, I stopped in small, nowhere desert towns like Willcox and Bowie to stretch my legs and to look at historical markers. I fell in love with an old railroad depot in Willcox, where I snapped dozens of pictures and thought about a bygone era when the towns were centered and built on the tracks. Across the street from the depot in Willcox was a one-block historic district, but two crazy-looking characters hanging out in front of an abandoned building made me think twice about checking it out.

Train depot in Willcox, Arizona

Thousands of pecan trees were spread out in neatly-planted rows in Bowie, directly across from run-down old houses and what looked to be the remnants of thriving roadside businesses built in the days before Interstate 10 cut through the small town. I considered stopping to buy pecans at a small stand - and some homemade jerky - but changed my mind at the last minute.

Pecan trees in Bowie, Arizona

I next found myself in the land of Walter White and Jessie Pinkman, wide open valleys with nothing to break the wild winds but a few bushes. New Mexico looked to me like miles and miles of desolate grassland broken here and there by wild, jagged mountain peaks. I could almost see that rusted RV parked down a dusty road, chemical smoke billowing from it in the distance. Vince Gilligan really knew what he was doing when he chose the wastelands of New Mexico as the backdrop for Breaking Bad; the two went together like peanut butter and chocolate.

Late in the afternoon I finally began to see the familiar spike-toothed peaks of the Organ Mountains in the distance, a sign that I was nearing Las Cruces, where I had planned to spend my first night. I checked into a La Quinta Inn, where, unfortunately, the room smelled a bit like someone had been cooking human feet in it, and after a decent meal and a couple of beers, I fell asleep eager to start the next leg of my journey.

Sunset in Las Cruces, New Mexico, bathing the Organ Mountains in pink light.

Day two: Las Cruces to Abilene

I was up bright and early the next morning, ready to get closer to Monroe and excited for a stop in Roswell. The route I planned would take me up next to those peaks of the Organ Mountain range, through a pass and down into the White Sands Missile Range. From there it was through the town of Alamogordo, up into the pine forests of the Sierra Blanca range, onto the brown flats of Roswell, then a crisscross of Texas cotton fields to Abilene, where I would spend my second night.

Up through a small pass in the mountains, I started down into the enormous valley housing the White Sands Missile Range, an ominous and mysterious place dotted by secret military installations that could be seen shimmering in the distance. I pulled into a turnout and captured the still of the valley just as the sun peaked over the horizon, basking the entire area in a red glow. Heading down the hill, signs warned that the road could be closed for hours when missile tests were being conducted. Out there on the range was the Trinity Site, where the first nuclear weapon was detonated in July, 1945 as a part of the Manhattan Project. Also somewhere out in the valley were two enormous, intersecting runways built to train shuttle pilots. In 1982,  Space Shuttle Columbia was forced to land there because of poor weather at other landing sites.

Sunrise over the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico

While I'd heard of the White Sands National Monument, I really didn't know anything about it. So as I approached the site that morning, I decided to stop in. It ended up being one of the most rewarding stops of my trip.

White Sands National Monument is a sea of white sand dunes spread across the desert floor, constantly shifting and changing shapes in the wind. For a small fee and a short drive from highway 70, you can explore the dunes. And it's something that you really have to see for yourself to appreciate. I arrived shortly after dawn, with only a handful of other visitors spread throughout the park. I marveled at how beautiful the place was and can't begin to explain the absolute silence. It was an amazing experience.

White Sands National Monument, New Mexico

From the quiet sands of the monument, I went on through Alamogordo, a city that had long ago made headlines during the Trinity test and most recently for the excavation of a landfill containing some 700,000 unsold Atari E.T. video game cartridges, which were later sold online. Some reports indicated that the once obscure games were selling for $500 and more. Some crazy business.

I passed up through some beautiful mountain peaks, where patches of snow still dotted shady spots under large pine trees and wild streams coursed through ravines and canyons. This was Billy the Kid country, made famous by the young outlaw during the Lincoln County War. I drove through a long, winding valley dotted with ranches that eventually opened up to a desolate and windswept country void of anything taller than scrub brush.

I was excited about passing through Roswell, eager to see some of the UFO freaks for myself. But Roswell turned out to me more of a normal town that I had thought. I drove past a UFO museum, but because there were no freaks to gawk at and with so many miles ahead of me to reach Abilene, I kept moving. I don't think I missed much.

McDonalds sign just west of Roswell, New Mexico

UFO Museum, Roswell

To the border of Texas and beyond was country as flat as I had ever seen. I passed the gates and gravel drives of countless ranches, their barns and outbuildings visible in the distance, usually shielded from the wind by groves of large trees. Oil wells also dominated the landscape, the pumpjacks methodically working away. 

With no major highways to lead me to Abilene, I drove along two-lane country roads bordered on both sides by cotton fields, sometimes getting caught behind tractors and enormous farm equipment that blocked both sides of the road. In a a forgotten small town I stopped for a cheeseburger and cherry limeade at a Dairy Queen, watching as people in overalls and straw hats came and went for their lunches.

I finally reached Abilene in the early evening, glad to have finally get out of the car and rest. I had big plans to find a restaurant and enjoy a good meal and drinks, but in the end I just ordered a pizza and crashed early. It had been a very long day

Day three: Abilene to West Monroe

My day began before dawn, where I set out across the rainy Texas flats for West Monroe, Louisiana, via Fort Worth, Dallas and Shreveport.

As dawn broke, I passed through an area of Texas that I really found beautiful; rolling hills covered in trees and more of those ranches. I stopped for gas in a small town called Ranger, thinking that I would like to see what this part of the country looked like during the summer months, when all the vegetation was green and thriving.

I passed through Dallas, cursing the traffic and sloppy drivers, then began my last leg on to Monroe, through a crazy rainstorm where big rigs roared recklessly past me at 90 miles per hour. It was quite the white-knuckled drive. I made it to Monroe early in the afternoon, thankful to be off the road and back with my girl.

Homeward bound

Day one: West Monroe to Dallas

Short of about two dozen layovers at Dallas/Fort Wort airport - most of which I spent running through the massive terminals trying to make flights - I had never been to the area and spent any time there. On top of my list was a visit to Dealy Plaza, where, on a brisk November day in 1963, President John F. Kennedy was gunned down. I had always been fascinated by the story and the countless conspiracy theories that surrounded it. During my time at the Register, I had even done some research and written a short story about Lee Harvey Oswald's time as a Marine at the former El Toro Marine Corps Air Station.

I left West Monroe early on a Sunday and drove the four hours to Dallas through blinding rains. I arrived shortly after ten a.m. and was able to check into my hotel room at the Fairmont, which was located downtown and near the West End. It was a short walk to Dealy Plaza and the museum that was established inside the former Texas Book Depository, the building from which Oswald is accused of shooting JFK (according to the Warren Commission, that is).
 
When I arrived at the plaza and bought my ticket for the museum, what I found were hordes of tourists, many of whom I watched walking around smiling, laughing, running out into the middle of the street to take selfies at the exact spot where JFK was shot. The spot - marked with a white X in the center of Elm Street - was overrun with people when the traffic light at the top of the hill slowed traffic. To put it lightly, I was disgusted.

I suppose it's just a personal problem of mine: I assumed and expected that people would visit the spot and act respectfully, somber even. I expected people to be dignified, not take family photos in front of a white X where a man was killed. But I was wrong.

The former Texas School Book Depository

X marks the spot...and where people run out into the street, perhaps satisfying some type of morbid fascination.

Tourists take photos of JFK assassination spot, Dealy Plaza

I spent as much time as I could stand inside the museum, which takes visitors through a series of exhibits on the sixth floor of the building. The corner window, from which Oswald supposedly made his three shots, was sealed off by a glass partition. But it was so full of tourists that I eventually decided to cut out. My time outside on the plaza had really put me in a foul mood, and I was muttering to myself about the disgust I felt with human nature. I was there to learn about the assassination and to pay my respects...maybe I was in the wrong mindset.

My mood didn't improve after returning to my hotel room and watching the Chargers throw away their chance at the playoffs with a disappointing loss in Kansas City. I had decided I was going to meet the team wherever they played the next week if they'd won, so those plans circled the drain.

Dallas skyline

I had a quiet dinner of country fried steak and Lone Star beer in a steakhouse downtown, then hit the rack early: My Monday was going to take me all the way from Dallas to El Paso, a 10-hour drive across West Texas.

Day two and three: Dallas to El Paso/El Paso to San Diego

That Monday was one of the longest days I ever spent on the road: I spent countless hours and miles crossing the wastelands of West Texas. Other than nearly running out of gas and coasting into a Chevron station on fumes about 100 miles outside of El Paso, I saw and did nothing significant.

I got on the road at the crack of dawn Tuesday, determined to beat a major storm headed into the San Diego area and get through the mountains before the heavy snow fell. Luckily I made it, and arrived home early in the afternoon.