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Between the Rivers
he was convinced that he didn't have to take care of every detail himself, that after he
announced a policy decision his staff and battery commanders could and did operate on
automatic pilot.
He made a few minor changes in policy. A battalion commander was entitled to
ride in a high, oversized, clumsy vehicle called a command car, but Eric Peach had
preferred a jeep, which is handier. Bob Hughes, who stood at five feet five including his
bristly sandy-red hair, preferred the more imposing command car. And Peach had wanted
Service Battery to stay up close to the rest of the battalion where he could keep an eye on
them. Now Capt I. W. Smith of Svc Btry got what he wanted: the right to locate his
battery half-way between the battalion and the supply points ten to twenty miles behind,
where they had to go after ammunition, rations, etc.
Hughes did have one weakness. He was an incurable optimist, and he tended to
hear the good news and turn deaf when the bad came in. I took to following him around
to meetings and things so someone in the battalion would know what was really going on,
as well as the Bob Hughes version.
There was some good news. Colonel Theimer was transferred - kicked upstairs
-
and now commanded an artillery group of several battalions. We were too happy for
ourselves to waste any sympathy on the group. Lt Col Sutton, the Div Arty S-3, became
the new executive. [He was promoted over the heads of two battalion commanders who
were senior to him. One, Reimers of the 343rd, was crushed and resentful; the other,
Norris of the 345th, was pleased and proud. Sutton had been his protege.]
And we did see Eric Peach again. He dropped in on us a month or so later to tell
us that he now commanded a battalion of heavy artillery - 8" howitzers. He called them
"mobile earthquakes," and they were not expected to move rapidly. He had found his
niche!
In 1946, at Camp Hood, Texas, I found myself once more under the command of
Bixby, now a colonel again. At a cocktail party he came up to me with a drink in his hand
and several on his breath, put his arm over my shoulders, and said, "Moore, I bet you
thought I was an old son-of-a-bitch when I relieved your battalion commander."
Having had less to drink that he, I managed to avoid saying, "Yes, sir," without
lying outright. I think I muttered something about personality clashes and tried to move
to a less sensitive subject. He spent some time justifying himself, then asked me if I
remembered "that God-damned Theimer." Of course I did - could I ever forget? He went
on, "That worthless son-of-a-bitch took ten years off my life!"
I was astonished but delighted to hear that he shared the opinion of all right-
thinking artillerymen who knew Theimer, and was emboldened to say, "However, sir,
you did one thing that none of us in the 915th will ever forgive you for."
He looked surprised, but not angry. "What was that?" So I told him. And in the
next chapter, I'll tell you, too.
151, (152 blank)
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