Now 95, Clayton Kittel remembers WWII like it was yesterday

This story waited 74 years to be told

It was probably about a year ago that Clayton Kittel and I embarked on bringing his war story to paper. I look back and ask myself: Why did I sign up to do this? I hate war. It goes against all that I love - life itself. But I didn't even give it a second thought at the time. I couldn't let his cries go unheard.

He held back from telling anyone about what he experienced for so many years and recently it was all he could talk about. It was all that was on his mind. It needed to be released.

Since we have taken the time to write it down, to talk about it, it isn't always the first thing that he wants to talk about. I can see I gave him the ability to find peace.

Please take the time to listen. Our world, to me, seems so messed up. We have lost our sense of community and support.

And nobody is altogether comfortable seeing a grown man cry. Or simply holding someone's hand in a time of need. Hear the cries, reach out and be that special person. We can make a difference. Some things need to change.

~ Kim Buskala

Editor's Note: As you can see in this story, the enemy is referred to as Japs. This is the language Clayton used. He never referred to them as the Japanese. Maybe when thrust into war, soldiers need to find a way to dehumanise the enemy.

When Carlton County's Clayton Kittel was inducted into the military Oct. 13, 1944, he was supposed to have three months of training in Little Rock, Ark.

But after only six weeks, the soldiers were asked to gear up with a fully-loaded pack and rifle and take a 20-mile hike. Raised on a farm near Nickerson, Kittel was one of the men fit enough to stay up front. As a result, he was selected early to be sent off to war.

No further training, no time to mentally prepare. The goodbyes would be short. He was physically fit, and that was enough to fill the requirements in the "Call for Duty." The United States was desperate for troops.

The men were given four days of furlough and Clayton returned home. The short goodbyes left him feeling lost, not knowing what to say. Only knowing that he may never see his family again. Sadness, anger and fear set in. Hopes and prayers would now be his source of comfort.

​"I can feel an angel on my side," the 95-year-old often says. He knows how blessed he is to have lived so long and to have prospered.

Every time he tells this story, tears fill his eyes. Many times he feels he faced death at his door and knows an angel is always there to guide him.

The first time, he wasn't yet in the military. He was working on the farm when he fell and somehow ended up under the hooves of his two horses. A voice from thin air called out and told him to roll. Clayton said it was the voice of an angel. While in the Army, he was reminded of that incident. He knew faith was the only way he would survive and return home alive.

Crossing over

After his furlough, Kittel went to Fort Snelling. He was given a hot meal and was told to board the train. No fanfare - eight men loaded into a box car hooked to a freight train, each given a bunk. He felt as if they were cattle being sent off for slaughter, not honorable citizens set out to fight for freedom. Where were the trumpets?

Anger and resentment are evident as Kittel continues his story. After all, he was a young man with so much promise. He looked forward to adulthood and the days of fending for himself; starting a career and eventually a family. All that changed in a matter of days. Not by his choice but by the government. Then he was traveling across the country to San Francisco.

Once the men arrived in California, there was a Navy boat waiting for them, a destroyer, the USS General Pope. They loaded the boat and went two decks down where they were given another hot meal.

Upon awakening, Kittel looked out and, as far as he could see, there was nothing but ocean. No other boats.

Kittel asked why they didn't have an escort. The captain told him they didn't want to be detected by Japanese subs.

"We zig-zagged our way [across the ocean]," Kittel said. Finally, the Pope delivered the soldiers to their destination: the island of Luzon in the Philippines. When they arrived, the ship couldn't land in the port because there were so many sunken ships from previous battles.

Mountain home

The men were transported by landing craft to the island and brought to a temporary camp at the base of a mountain. They received their mess gear, rifles and half a blanket. Off they marched, up the Villa Verde Trail, nearing the top. There they would find an empty hole, a foxhole previously occupied by the Japanese.

There weren't enough foxholes for all of the men, so Kittel was temporarily put in a hole with two other men, possibly lieutenants, he said. No badges were worn, knowing that any shining objects were a target. And Kittel wasn't there to ask questions.

The first night in that hole, he couldn't bring himself to sleep. He heard a shot and, shortly after, someone yelling "Medic!" That memory still haunts him. Clayton believes somebody's life was lost and repeatedly thought that it could have been his.

Stationed in his foxhole, he thought it could end up being his grave: a dirty, dank hole in the ground, infested with fleas he would continually pick off his skin. Bugs eating him alive. He could no longer stand it. He needed to find some relief. The medic delivered a white powder. It did the trick.

The soldiers didn't have the luxury of bathing. Three weeks would pass before they were given that opportunity. If they had to urinate, they would fill their helmet and throw it out of the foxhole. The half of blanket and the clothing he wore was his comfort and his bedding.

The sun was a simple reminder of how good life was, living on the farm. Those memories and thoughts of his family are what sustained him and kept him praying.

At night, "the Japs" would come. The troops needed a way to know when they were near. Someone thought of using a can from the rations and concocted a trip line. The can would be filled with rocks, so when the trip line was hit they could hear it rattle and know the enemy was near.

Kittel went on a burial mission to bury Japanese soldiers. The stench of death was so strong they had to bury the bodies. He would look at the dead as if they weren't human. It wasn't an easy task to bury them. The ground was hard; they were on the side of a mountain. They were lucky if they could scrape enough dirt to cover a body, but even a small amount would help quell the smell.

Out of the hole

There were artillery boys among his ranks and "they were good at keeping us safe," Kittel said.

Artillery worked the road, the Villa Verde Trail, Hwy 11. If Kittel wasn't in the foxhole, he was with the boys on the road, on a mission to find a large piece of artillery. Rumor had it that the Japanese had carved a hole in the side of the mountain to hide the large gun.

His company was there to take it out, Kittel said. The weapon had been devastating in killing allies and couldn't be seen from the air.

"The enemy opened fire on the troop. We hit the ground," he said. "Rolling off the trail, lying still, what seemed to be for hours. The sound of ammunition coming through the mountainous area sounded like popcorn popping in a kettle."

They could see leaves being shot off branches. Later, the scouts announced "It's clear, they got the gun."

Most headed back to their foxholes. Clayton never did get to see the gun, but the soldiers who recovered the piece said it was in good shape. Coming from a farm in northern Minnesota, it amazed him to think the Japanese could carve a hole in the mountain to hide artillery, in solid stone, but couldn't bother to bury their dead.

"One mission we noticed Japs across the valley on the other side of the mountain, walking the trail," Kittel said. "Our troop opened fire, the noise was immense as we all shot, the shooting went on for about two minutes."

Clayton just held the trigger and emptied his gun. The military didn't provide the men with any ear protection and his hearing would be impaired.

He didn't know if they killed any of the enemy but they were soon gone and the American soldiers were ordered to get back into their foxholes.

Ready and willing

Kittel was sick and tired of the situation he was in. Shortly after the battle on the mountain, there was a call for volunteers to go to Japan. Kittel's hand was the first to go up - he wanted nothing more than to leave the island.

It was the best decision he made, he said. His fellow soldiers thought he was making a big mistake. They thought that he would be sent on a death mission.

Kittel was at a point of not caring. Anything was better than the situation they were in. He could no longer stand it.

About eight of them volunteered.

Kittel remembers flying over Hiroshima, and seeing the flattened landscape where the atomic bomb had gone off. The Japanese had surrendered. He was no longer there to fight a war.

Kittel spent the next year in Japan on guard duty. The first three weeks, he recalls, he saw no Japanese women. When they eventually appeared, they wanted to help look after the American soldiers. He was thankful to have hot meals and clean clothes.

It was small comfort as he counted down the time when he could go home. Alive.