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.