The story that follows is based on the experiences of Donald Eaton Peck, an Able-Body Seaman in the Maritime Marines and a PFC in the armed forces during WWII. Mr. Peck served in the Maritime Marines from June 1944 until February 1945, and in the United States Army from March 1945 until November 1946. As an Able-Body Seaman, he sailed through war zones in the English Channel, completing such jobs as steering the wheel and dropping the anchor. He was considered a civilian at this time. However, the only time Mr. Peck was shot at was during his time as a civilian, since he didn’t serve in the Army until the war was declared over.

In the army, he started out as a combat engineer and managed to get as high as PFC. After the war, he enlisted in the Army Reserve, and it was here that he ended up a Staff Sergeant. Honorably, while in basic training in Oakland, California, he received the recognition of the Expert Infantry Badge. Upon his return, he moved to Rocky Hill, Connecticut, and he now lives happily Canton, caring for his lovely wife when he’s not driving a bus route each morning and afternoon.

Sounds of Battle

The smell of America is like no other in the world; fresh and welcoming. Like Sunday morning eggs and coffee over a newspaper. Like that time before nightfall when the sun goes down and the air is just right for a relaxing dose of nothing on the back porch. It’s different from the smells in Europe along the English Channel. Over there the air reeked of gun powder and sacrificed lives; and when you breathed in, you filled your lungs with fear until you thought you’d suffocate. Even the urban smog of New York City was as pleasant as the scent of a woman to Donald, and he took long deep breaths of welcome home.

It was February of 1945, and Donald Peck and five of his comrades stood apathetically outside the train station. They had an hour before their train to New Orleans would arrive and felt an interruption of respite. Only days before had the six of them returned from the Paris, where they had concluded their service in the Maritime Marines. The interruption would be a brief one for Donald, who had turned 18 while in Paris and planned to enlist in the United States Army as soon as he could. After all, his country needed him over there. As a civilian in the Maritime, he’d had quite an unpleasant taste of what the Germans and the Italians were capable; he knew couldn't waste another second in returning to the aid of his fellow countrymen, who were falling by the hundreds to the bullets of Nazi guns.

His mind had become a constant weaving of images, and he found himself tumbling in and out of consciousness, as though he were a ship on the rolling waters of the sea. In a single moment he could be back in the war zone of Belgium, a civilian, yet still every second fearing for his life. The Germans and their attacks weren’t always easy to spot, and he knew any second he could be shot down. The worst was the silence; you let your guard down for a split second until you heard the explosion of guns all around you. Silence was a deceitful prelude.

It suddenly happened. The crash of combat rang out cutting through the stillness like the swing of a sledgehammer. While a million possibilities suddenly surrounded him, Donald’s body knew one simple survival reflex: get to the ground! Quick! Down there, there’s a chance to survive, to avoid the bite of a bullet directly through his chest. Between the six of them, their expressions revealed the same shared emotion -- pure panic.

In embarrassment, Donald picked himself up from the filthy New York City sidewalk. The others then realized their foolishness and stood up as well. The sound had been no more than the clang of a metal garbage can thrashing upon the cement. All around the six men, puzzled looks helped bring reality roaring back over them. They stood together, breathing long grasps of relief.

The invigorating smell of America was at their noses again, washing the visions of fighting and death from their heads. The smell of baseball pick-up games and cherry Popsicles that melted before you could finish them. The smell of acceptance for people of all different heritage. The opportunity to fulfill the American dream. The smell of freedom; a freedom Donald knew was valuable enough to keep fighting for.