In the Neighborhood of Zero: A World War II Memoir by William V. Spanos

By William V. Spanos

Like such a lot of infantrymen of his new release, William V. Spanos used to be no longer even more than a boy whilst he went off to struggle in international conflict II. within the chaos of his first conflict, what may later develop into mythical because the conflict of the Bulge, he used to be separated from his antitank gun workforce and brought prisoner within the Ardennes woodland. in addition to a procession of different prisoners of conflict, he was once marched and conveyed by way of freight teach to Dresden. Surviving the brutal stipulations of the exertions camps and the Allies’ devastating firebombing of town, he escaped because the wasting German military retreated. For Spanos, this used to be by no means a “war story.” It used to be the singular, irreducible, unnameable, dreadful event of struggle. within the face of the yankee fantasy of the best iteration, this popular literary student seems to be again at the moment and crafts a dissident, dissonant remembrance of the “just war.” Retrieving the singularity of the adventure of battle from the grip of authentic American cultural reminiscence, Spanos recaptures anything of the boy’s lifestyles that he misplaced. His booklet is an try to rescue a few semblance of his woke up being—and that of the multitude of younger males who fought—from the oblivion to which they've been relegated lower than the banalizing memorialization of the “sacrifices of our best generation.” (20100218)

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She was about my age, maybe a year or two older, blonde and blue-eyed, fair, full-bodied, an astonishing beauty who was also full of the joy of life—and endowed with a lively sense of humor. By that time I had gotten past my inhibitions, at least to the point where I could will myself, despite my incorrigible shyness, to address the opposite sex. When I first saw her in profile standing near the bandstand swaying rhythmically to a slow Glenn Departure and Border Crossings . 29 Miller tune, I pointed her out to Jerry and told him that my goal was to win her heart.

She was not frowning, nor did she seem puzzled. To me she seemed, in fact, relieved to find two young people from different sides of the Atlantic together and quite upright, in an upside-down world. Claire’s spirits, no doubt animated by the alcohol, were high. Instead of walking beside me, she announced that she was the moon and I, the earth, then started to dance in a circle around me, repeating the pattern as we walked, all the while whispering, “I love you, Yank. ” Entranced by her exquisite beauty and grace, I violated nature, turning around and around always to meet her bright eyes.

I experienced this shameful and disturbing paradox everywhere I was assigned after basic training: at the Army Specialized Training Program at the University of Alabama, at Camp Atterbury in Indiana, at the staging area in Cheltenham, England, and most dramatically for me, in the European combat zone. For the huge convoy of army trucks—“the Red-Ball Express,” it was called— that drove the 106th Division, of which I eventually became a member, across France from Le Havre to the Ardennes Forest in Belgium, where we took up combat positions, were manned entirely by black soldiers.

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