Interview with a Hero - Anthony J. Witek

Along the drive to his house in Calverton, New York, past many of the sparsely littered towns and densely wooded forests buffeting the Long Island Expressway. I can't help but feel both excitement and nervousness. I am about to meet Anthony Witek, veteran of World War II in his home and interview a man who has seen and done more than I can imagine. It is one of those magnificent seasonal transition days where the hints of a breathtaking autumn whisper in the eastern winds, calling to the vacationers and fishermen alike that it is time to leave the summer behind. In thinking about Mr. Witek, the day's beauty is more pronounced. I am forced to notice the East end and its radiance in my drive on this day. In the back of my naive mind I wonder if this day is proof of things often overlooked. It's the simple splendor of this long drive with my thoughts and the subtle companionship of wonderful surroundings. I pull off the expressway merely a mile from his house and my palms begin to sweat and my stomach churns with the prospect of speaking to Mr. Witek. It is only an interview, a simple conversation about his life in the war that changed the world, but I find myself practicing introductory lines to the air.

I pull up to his modestly decorated one story house to see that the lawn has been meticulously kept and the front yard is immaculate. As I turn off the car I am pacified by his appearance in the front door, welcoming me with both a warm smile and pleasant countenance. I have been preparing for this for days, which leaves me now excited, humbled and self-conscious about meeting him. Perhaps he would say that's youth. Perhaps I would say that's awe. Walking to the door, squinting at a brilliant mid-morning sun I see that he is a handsomely aging man. I tower over him, which makes me wonder if he knows how juxtaposed to him I feel small and insignificant in his presence. He extends his hand to me as he opens the door and I grasp it firmly saying simply, "Hello".

At 76 years old he has a remarkably full head of white hair, combed neatly to the side. He is in relatively good shape with a well-deserved pouch around his waist, not atypical for a man his age. What astound me however are his soulful, exuberant and youthful eyes, as deep and far-reaching as the seas upon which he has journeyed. He is suddenly the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Although time, generation, focus and ideals separate us, his eyes bridge that gap and he overwhelms me with his humility. He seems like an ageless man with a wonderful story to tell me. If I, with wide eyes, can listen intently, withdraw some of my awe and learn, he will draw me in and tell me the story of an 18 year old kid from Pennsylvania who went to war in 1942 alone and frightened and served his time in Africa and Europe, and returned a man with a plethora of experiences and stories.
He invites me to sit down and generously offers me an array of foods and beverages but I courteously decline. As I am eager to begin the conversation we sit down at the kitchen table. After a few questions from him as to the nature of the interview, and some clumsily phrased answers from myself, I begin with an embarrassingly oafish question, "Why did you go to war?"

He ignores my ignorance, brushing it aside with a chuckle and begins to tell me his story.

At the age of 18 Anthony Witek voluntarily enlisted in the United States Army. Merely days after he and his sisters huddled with fear and shock by their radio, hearing reports of the bombing of Pearl Harbor and America's subsequent entrance into the war, Anthony Witek became a private in the military. He was immediately sent to Fort Knox, Kentucky and spent 13 weeks in basic training. At 18, this boy from Pennsylvania became familiar with an assortment of firearms, the avoidance of mortar fire and learned the fundamentals of combat. He was thrust into a foreign world while still remaining stateside. He adapted quickly to the men and surroundings at Fort Knox. I notice as he explains this that there is a fondness in his face and gestures when he is remembering these times; an inexplicable simplicity that I can't yet place. He continues to tell me that after basic training he was once again abruptly uprooted and moved to Virginia for another two weeks of maneuvers. It was here that he, like many other soldiers, was arbitrarily placed in a specialized division. He was to no longer be in the infantry. He would become part of the 62nd Armored Field Artillery Division. In the next two weeks he would familiarize himself with tanks, specifically with what he says was called (with ironic affection) the "Iron Coffin". It was called so because this American tank was much smaller and weaker than the German Panzer, and was susceptible to a variation of firepower. At this point his wife comes in, a warm stout woman, and overhears where we are in the story. She interjects with something that resonates strongly with me.

"Imagine going to college, leaving your family, you know how you feel? Imagine 18 years old, going to Africa, in tanks with guns?"

I pause here for a moment to reflect upon my 18th year. I see immaturity, laughter, friendship and family. I can picture smiles and embraces. I can't imagine anything different. In glaring contrast Mr. Witek is 18, trained in combat and tank warfare, away from his loved ones and about to move for the third time in less than 4 months to New York, where he will ship out to Africa, to the war.

I self-consciously continue to ask foolish questions, met with succinct and direct replies that leave me with impish grins. It is simple bewilderment and respect that allows me to blurt them out. His knowing eyes allow me to innocently ask them and he patiently answers.

"Did you feel camaraderie with your tank crew when you went to Africa?"

"Of course. You know, we were through training together and now on our way to Africa, so we were pretty good friends." He says this through hints of a curious New York and Pennsylvania accent. One that I once found abhorrent, with him it seems charming and I embrace it. He continues to tell me of the many variations of weather he experienced while traveling from basic training to maneuvers, and finally crossing the sea. An entire battalion left New York to cross the Atlantic in a cruise ship, tacking in a zigzag pattern for fear of U-boat activity. The ship hit turbulent seas and a shortage in food that contributed to a weary group of men, including Mr. Witek.

"The food was rotten on it. We couldn't eat no food so we were eatin' candy on it for 18 days. That's all we ate on that stupid ship because they didn't have time to replace the food", he tells me in a surprisingly humorous tone. He goes on to tell of how the ship also "lost a few guys" on the way over. It is here that I notice his keen ability to pass over the deaths of men he has seen with terse objectivity. I can feel that even now he deals with it in a way that is almost indescribable; a suppression of emotion that comes across as indifference.

After landing in Africa and living in pup tents for three months, impeded by torrential downpours, Anthony and his tank division found themselves in the precarious position of instructors. Still 18, he was teaching the French tank divisions the subtleties of handling a Howitzer shell. A reversal of the teacher student relationship, his tank division spent the rest of their time in Casablanca, Morocco teaching and trying to assimilate to a land and a position foreign to all. After Casablanca the battalion moved to Rabat for two weeks before the move to Tunisia for the first battle he would be a part of. Casarine Pass was where Anthony Witek would come in contact with the German Army for the first time.

"I think Casarine Pass was our first battle", he says, "Well, we passed Patton and his tanks…man they got wiped out. Well we seen about six, ten tanks burned. We had a big formation, a dry formation. We fought the Africa Core. I was with the 5th Army under General Hodge. Then we went through the pass. We were about two weeks in there."

The Germans had their tanks in mine shafts far across the battlefield. On one particularly devastating day, the American troops, including Mr. Witek were shelled for 8 hours continuously. After that day of shelling, after he endured the scathing scenes of battle only then did they receive their order to return fire. They utilized their field observers to ascertain position coordinates and spent days returning shellfire. Six months into Anthony's military experience he is in war. He goes on to tell me about the charred bodies, the burned tanks. There was a stench unimaginable, whole crews decimated. His crew waded through it all, lumbering in the desert heat, an abrupt and malicious change that left the crew exhausted. In a tone of somber soldier lore he tells me the distinguishing characteristics of the German shells.

"You never hear the one that hits you. You're lucky when you hear the shell, 'cause that means they missed." I can barely contemplate the solidarity involved between these crews. I wonder how many shells Anthony Witek heard; helpless but to watch the German shells fall on suddenly deaf ears.

Then a more direct approach returns in his manner of explanation, "After all, you took an oath, you're supposed to fight for your country…of course we were scared, but, after you get a few days of combat, then you know, you get used to it. Because then you are firing right with them. So if you get hit you get hit. That's life."

He had traveled to Sicily on the heels of a retreating German army after following them to Tunisia. In Sicily he was able to have a few weeks rest, to rejuvenate both young bodies and weary minds. In Sicily he encountered captured Italian troops that offered to join the Americans. Countless troops he said passed, offering their service. They had to be turned away with minimal food and clothing. After they had the Germans what he called "whipped" in Sicily, they continued on to Palermo, their main objective.

I inquire more about Patton to change the subject, the legendary General that has become a type of American Aeneas. It is a slight digression because I feel his resistance to the battle scenes. There is a hint of admiration in his voice, but nothing more. He tells me that he eventually passed Patton again in Italy, after his tank crew moved yet again to the European front. In his only instance of arrogance, he tells me that as they passed Patton (with those two pearl-handled .45's on his belt, those immortalized guns) he wasn't looking upon him with reverence, but with more pride in his own tank division, whom he tells won the battle in Palermo. The battle he says was a suicide mission for the infantrymen. The Germans were entrenched and the Allied troops were sent in droves while Anthony and his tank division supported them with shelling. This tactic would be familiar in the next and most integral battle Anthony would be a part of. From Palermo he would be shipped to England and from England he would travel with his division to Omaha Beach. They spent six months in Banberry, England training for the invasion of Normandy. Omaha Beach was the main objective for the Allies. At six o'clock in the morning, after days of torrential rain, the grisliest of battles was to be fought. He gives me descriptions in shockingly realistic detail.

"At about eight, we had to get in there, after we were chased out at six. They were throwin' in big shells. Then when we got in there, like I said, I seen the water was all blood, guys being chopped up in half. Seen torsos this much layin' down…in the water. A couple half -tracks got hit, they gave the order to evacuate, go against the wall. The wall was a cliff, so everybody was against the wall. Then it was, whose crying? Save me, help me. Then the medics were all over the place."
He continues to tell this story and I am left behind playing emotional catch up. I am caught up in the feverishness of the action sequences and I find myself literally at the edge of my seat, waiting for him to continue.

"One of my friends was out there, the Colonel tells me to go over and get two gas cans. I say, Sir, is that an order? He says, Soldier, go get those cans! So then I go out there, one of my buddies was laying out there, he got shot in the leg with shrapnel. He was turning blue; so I take the tourniquet off, give him a morphine shot, put a new tourniquet on him. At that time I hear a shell come in, Whoosh!. I duck and there goes a piece of shrapnel right over my body. If I had stood up I would've got cut right in half. I couldn't drag him in, so I just had to get the Colonel his gas cans."

I interrupt to ask why the Colonel needed the gas cans. His response succinctly elucidated the feeling that must have pervaded the troops. Chaos, the madness of war, the gauntlet of emotion; all described in one sentence.
"I don't know why he needed the gas cans. He panicked. He was a West Point Colonel. He panicked. Everybody panicked. We didn't know what the hell we were doin'."

They continued fighting, and after thirty thousand lives were lost on the beach they advanced. First the infantry went, then Anthony's tank division. Now they advanced and were fighting the S.S. troops on land, steadily progressing inland. He had learned the art of firing shells from a tank, and was adapt at the different trajectories needed to operate the various shells and distances encountered. They kept advancing on the Germans in France, often so rapidly that the air support that was called for at certain times would receive erroneous information. Anthony tells me that many times the Allied infantry would be bombed by their own air support. The troops were moving faster than the message could be delivered. Unfortunately, friendly fire casualties were often the result of this miscommunication.

It is now barely a year since Anthony Witek enlisted in the army. He is 19 years old. He has seen battle, blood, and bravery on a scope that leaves me speechless. He has fired countless shells, driven thousands of miles in his tank. He has driven by Patton, fought at Omaha, Palermo, Tunisia, and Sicily. He has endured fatigue and sickness and loss. Day and night in pup tents, or crew tents waiting. The food was rotten; he didn't sleep yet he persevered. I ask him if at any point while fighting on Omaha Beach the thought of losing the battle crossed his mind. With the deliberateness and authority of the Generals he fought under he answers me,

"No, we had to win. There was no question about it. It was do or die, so once we got on that beachhead, once we returned, that was it."

It is snowing in northern France, where Anthony Witek's 62nd tank division has just established itself. The army is confident that they have a secure foothold, so they relieve the 62nd with the 58th. The 58th is surprised by German Military forces and wiped out. Those that survive the battle will live only to see the barrels of the German firing squad's guns. The entire 58th is lost, and by circumstance, the 62nd moves on, fate smiling upon them. It is one of those precarious turns of life, and in war, that we are so bewildered we're left expressionless and silent. The reason for the change in guard was for the transferring of the 62nd to Belgium to take part in another infamous battle, the Battle of the Bulge. The Bulge was arguably more important than Normandy. Between the Months of September, October and November the 62nd helped fight a German army that used the snow in their subterfuge of the Allies. Anthony was fighting on the ground with fierce dogfights going on in the air. The 62nd found themselves battling both the elements and the Germans. Waist-high snow and a fierce German force prevented any gain of ground. Finally, the 62nd was able to drive out the Germans and move north to the Rhine. Anthony Witek had survived two of the bloodiest, most casualty filled battles in the history of war. He went ashore on Omaha and persisted. He moved on to Belgium and persisted. These were glorious victories for the Allies in Europe. Anthony Witek had survived, but did not escape war unscathed. After the Battle of the Bulge, he was forced to leave the front, suffering from a severe case of shell shock. An illness not uncommon to soldiers, he was taken to Paris to recuperate. He spent 6 months in Paris and left Europe in October of 1945. He was on American soil for the end of the war, a well-deserved rest for a man who spent three years at the front. He was now 21 years old.

I am sitting down here trying to capture this man's life on paper. I am attempting to tell his story so that many can understand that these stories, these people and these lives are priceless. They are the foundations from which we are stabilized. Anthony Witek will never strike you as a hero. Most veterans won't. He is small in stature and aging, long removed from the war. You've probably passed countless veterans like Anthony Witek and thought nothing of it. Smiled casually at one in the supermarket, passed another on the street. Perhaps we miss these things because we want to forget how indebted we are to them. Anthony Witek is a hero. He has endured what should never be endured. He has seen what shouldn't ever be seen. He has persevered where no one should have to persevere. He has lived a thousand lives in one for children he didn't have yet. He fought for his grandchildren. He fought for his country. He fought for other countries and is still able to chuckle with someone like me about his experiences. If I am lucky, at some point I will be able to sit down with my children and recount this story for them, touching upon even the most minute detail so that his life and his stories will live on and on. More humbled than one should ever feel, the only thing that I will feel is suitable for me to write is simple and succinct, like those responses given to me by Anthony Witek. I think back to the ride home from his house and how even more vibrant the day became. Overcome with pride for this man I was nearly moved to tears, choking them back to maintain my composure. It was then that the sentence arose, the only way I could express my admiration and gratitude for him. I extended my hand and said simply, "Thank you Mr. Witek."

- J.A. Buonantuono

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