War Diary:

Private Roy F. “Poe” Despaux, 1st Squad, A Company,
29th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division
DOB: 1923/12/23
Place of Birth: Venice, Plaquemine Parrish, Louisiana

23-24 October 1943
Scotland
Re-assigned from Battalion Reserve to Combat Infantry Squad (Introduction to the squad):
Je suis Roy Despaux (pronounced as dee-POE), not yet twenty, am born and raised in a small Cajun shrimp fishing community, comprising of forty-some families, where evah body know evah body and people nevah go noweah. Not even the Great Hurricane of 1915 nor the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 could wash all our folks away; as we are as far down the delta as anyone can go without a boat. Most folks ‘round home are either shrimp-trawlers or orange pickers, or some o’ both. We always have plenty of critters for de gumbo pot. Not much else aside from hunting; mostly feral hawgs, and of course, the ubiquitous “gatuhs.”
My Papa took me gator hunting for first time, when I was 7. It remains the most memorable event of my youth. Sitting in a small boat, dark water, cypress stumps, and vicious danger in the form of teeth and muscle) beneath us. I vividly recall how I held tight to the board seat while watching Papa frantically reeling in a thrashing and gnashing 10 foot long, 450 pound monster. How awesome it was to see Papa with gig line wrapped tightly around his left hand, holding the gator’s head against the boat, and with a single-barrel J.P. Stevens 12 gauge in his right hand, put a slug into the beasts “sweet spot.” That’s the only way to kill a gator, “aim small.. miss small” to hit a spot the size of a chicken egg, just behind the skull. A hit anywhere but __, only pisses him off. Most folks hunt in pairs; one to haul and other to shoot. Papa preferred to go solo – I do too.
Bringing home a gator is cause to celebrate. The Men folk prepare and cook the gator. We do celebrate a lot, ‘round here. Gator fry’s and fish fry’s with lots of spicy treats, spirits, music and dancing. Girls ‘round here are an ordinary breed of critters. I can say so, since I’m related to about half of them. There is this one girl, Cherrita, who though plain to look at, has quite a head on her shoulders, and can shoot the wings off a horsefly with a 30-30 Winchester. I ‘m a right damn good shot with the 30-06 Springfield that Gran’paw Claude gave me on my 13th Birthday.
In my little “free time” I liked to listen to Papa’s short-wave radio and soon became consumed with the events beyond the bayou. The world is at WAR and the terrible deeds of the Nazi’s and Japs all seemed yet so far away from our world, until... the night the Nazi submarine torpedoed an oil tanker. It burned for three days, illuminating the night sky as smoke hovered over horizon by day. The war was definitely “close enough to home” for me – I figured it was neigh time to do my part in it.
Before the war, I aspired to become a Pilot-boat Captain, and ultimately get my own Charter-boat, to take well-to-do city-slickers out to where the big fishes grow. Well, I never would’ve dreamed I would be steaming “off to war” across the Atlantic, with thousands of other guys on the world’s largest ship afloat!
Well guys, I’m big, but not dumb. I read a lot. Our town library is small, but I can honestly say that I have read most every volume of American literary classics. My school-mates gave me hell after reciting Edgar A. Poe on stage at school. After that, they laughed and everybody then after called me “Poe,” (a clever play on my name?). Y’all may call me “Poe.”

(Just don’t call me “Francis”– or I’ll kill y’all ;)








24 October 1943
Inverness, Scotland
The Squad:
Here I am in Inverness, Scotland, and about to embark upon the proverbial “adventure of a lifetime!” Perhaps this will become an understatement - since I am off to war – a half a world away from my home- a stark contrast indeed, to life as I knew it- as a son of a son of a fisherman.
Today me and McKee (from Leadville, Colorado) were finally assigned to a Combat Infantry Squad - Able Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, 1st infantry Division -”Big Red One.”
They seem to be a fine bunch o’ guys. Three guys are farm boys from the Maine woods. They talk kind of Cajun-like, but I barely comprehend their peculiar patois. Sergeant Lewis is from Maine too, but he say he can’t understand none of us, except for McKee and maybe Crowenshield. He insists on calling me “dus-bolle” or sumpthin or another, for some strange reason.
Something big is a brewing according to the local scuttle-but. There are rumors of infiltrations and paratroop activities, indications that the krauts are gearing up to invade- somewhere. Sarge is a real straight-shooter, and informed the Squad that we would be boarding the CENSORED* for a SECRET** Exercise. I reckon it ain’t gonna be a gator hunt.