By BILL WELCH
Morning News city editor
First Lt. Donald Davey knew he would die serving his country.
He had seen too much death in just 26 days to think that it would skip by him.
It did skip him, but not by much.
July 26, 1944, saw his infantry
platoon assembled along the Seves River in France.
The American Army was on the verge of breaking out from the Normandy peninsual and striking deep into France.
The 90th Division was about to launch an attack
against German positions around the nearby town of Perier.
Davey's unit, part of Company L, 358th Infantry Regiment, would hold a defensive position while other units attacked. Before Davey had been assigned to it in
July 10, the company had been bled white in weeks of fierce combat as they tried to break out of the beachhead at Normandy.
""The platoon had had 70 percent casualties before I got there.
Davey, 24, an
East High School graduate, was standing in a roadway with his men on either side. The area had already been zeroed in by ""mind-boggling'' German artillery. Now, a German mortar shell hit close by.
Shrapnel
ripped into his right side, pierced his liver and came near his spine. A man near him was killed.
""It spun me around and I lost my rifle and helmet. Later, I was conscious enough to know that one of my men
said, "Lieutenant you got a million dollar wound.'
""I didn't even know what he meant.
""I remember being put on a stretcher and hoisted into the air. That was the only time I was
really afraid. It was terrible being up that high.''
Over and over that July, Davey had seen what German artillery could do. He knew he had to stay low to have any sort of chance. And now he was being lifted up
into the air, fully exposed to more artillery fire, more shrapnel. It was more frightening than anything he had known.
Scared or not, by this point in the war, Davey had steeled himself to the certain prospect
that he would die for his country.
""I had been resigned to that. I would die for my country. This is what I had been trained to do.
""I had been excited about going to France, into
battle. I didn't mind. This was my job,'' he says matter-of-factly.
""I was a good officer ... I know I was. And I intended to do my duty.''
As a platoon commander, he had checked his men each night,
making sure they were all right, that they had the right passwords.
""And I was treated all right by them.''
When he stepped onto Omaha Beach July 1, nearly a month after the D-Day invasion of France, he
had seen the wrecked vehicles and the scars on the land from the combat.
""Everything had an impact. I was told to get rid of my lieutenant's bars because the Germans shot at the officers. Then
they told me to get rid of my paratrooper boots because the Germans would just hang you from the trees.''
Moving inland that day and in later days, he had seen the stake-bodies trucks with what appeared to be bodies
heading down to the beach's edge.
""We were told they were, indeed, bodies of the dead. Whether they were German or GIs, I did not know.
""I saw those trucks coming back and I just thought dying
would be inevitable.''
He had hunkered down in foxholes with a veteran sergeant who shook so hard during a German artillery barrage that Davey could feel the ground shake. ""You had nowhere to run
except a hole.''
One of his own men had shot himself in the foot to get out of combat and then reported it to Lt. Davey. A friend who planned to be a lawyer was shot throu¥h both cheeks, tongue and throat.
Other men he had come to know - friends - had died horrible deaths from German mortars and artillery, especially the feared 88 millimeter cannon. To this day, the memories of that carnage bring tears.
The wound Davey
suffered that day in France would indeed be the million dollar would that would send him home, but it would take months.
Shortly after being hoisted up on the stretcher, Davey blacked out.
Perhaps it was then that
the photograph Gladys ""Pug'' Davey kept on her desk at the Office of Price Administration in Erie's Commerce Building fell off her desk.
Her boss was walking by at that moment and picked it up, saying
""Don't worry. He's not hurt too bad.''
""I didn't think any more of it,'' Pug Davey recalled.
The young married couple would later learn that the photo fell at about the same time Don Davey was
hit.
The telegram that everyone at home dreaded did not arrive from the War Department until Aug. 19. It said her husband was ""seriously wounded'' and not much else.
""The worst part was
I knew he was seriously wounded, but I didn't know what it was or just how bad,'' Pug recalled. ""You don't know any details _ and then you wait.''
Almost a month later, she got a short letter from Don, one
that he had scribbled, holding the paper in the air while he was lying on his back.
When Davey woke up after being lifted on the stretcher, he found himself in a field hospital behind the lines. Wounded men were
all around. One of the worst experiences was the frequent visits from the men whose job was to inject glucose into his veins.
After preliminary treatment there, he was taken back to Omaha on the hood of a
jeep. His body was taped in wide strips of adhesive tape from under his arms to his buttocks. He looked like a mummy. He was taken by landing craft to an anchored ship and hoisted aboard. Then it was back to
England.
""When I awakened in the hospital in England, I looked over at the man next to me. The covers were pulled back and I could see his intestines lying on his stomach, clamped together by a
hemostat.
""There was so much death,'' he said, his voice trailing off.
The staff at the hospital put Davey to work as he slowly healed. He censored letters that servicemen wrote home, making sure
there was no information the enemy could use. And he took medical case histories from the patients.
""I saw a lot of combat fatigue cases, or neurosed people.
""They didn't want any part of the
war, like the man in my platoon who shot himself in the foot.''
The number of cases like that led Davey to believe that victory in World War II came from the preponderance of American weaponry, the ability of the Army
generals and the total mass of manpower thrown at the Germans. Many historians agree.
If all the soldiers had been trained as well as he had, the story might have been different, he suggested.
""I
was very well trained.'' At Fort Benning, he learned to take infantry weapons apart, read maps, maneuver at night. Taking 25-mile hikes in eight hours was not uncommon. If there was a shortfall, it was
in tactics, he said.
""I think, initially, the men were were there were well-trained. But right after the invasion, there were a lot of casualties. I think they took a lot of men right out of basic
training and just dropped them over.
""I don't think these men were as adequately prepared as the men I saw dropping out of the towers at Fort Benning learning to become paratroopers.''
Those 25-mile hikes
were meant to toughen up the soldiers. It took a driving leader to get some of them to finish the hike.
""I would end up pushing two or three of them, and carrying their rifles,'' Davey recalled.
Davey had been sent to officer training school after securing high scores on his IQ test and after being interviewed by an officer.
The officer wanted to know why Davey want to be an officer.
""My answer
was that if my life is in danger, I would rather be making the decisions, than have someone else do it for me. That must be what he wanted to hear.''
Lt. Davey got back to the United States on Christmas Day,
1944. The hospital ship that brought him home had left Dec. 6, taking the southern route to the U.S., and getting many on board thoroughly seasick as it went through rough weather.
He had been awarded the Bronze
Star and the Purple Heart for that day in July 1944.
Later in 1945, Davey was retired, honorably discharged. His wound hampered his movement too much to stay in the Army.
To this day, the wound keeps him from making
rotating motions with his body, whether it's to sweep out the garage or swing a golf club.
In September 1945, he enrolled at Gannon College, one of the first to enter under the new GI Bill of Rights which helped pay
veterans' college tuition.
With Pug's help, he went on to become a dentist and set up his own practice in the Palace Hardware Building in downtown Erie, later moving to 34th and State. He retired in 1945.
The couple has two grown children now and three grandchildren.
His Amry experience shaped the couple in many ways, and made possible his education as a dentist.
It's also an experience that he thinks about every day.
Not one day goes by that what he did or what happened to him does not enter his head in some way.
""I'm proud of my Army duty,'' Davey said. ""I always felt that I did my job.
""I don't know what else you can say.''
