The Ones We Couldn’t Bring Home
Piecing together the fate of a missing soldier and the grief that outlived the war
When I began combing the unit archives for any trace of Kay, I thought I was prepared for what I’d find. I knew as well as anybody what kind of atrocities Germany committed during the second World War. I think reading about it has the same kind of appeal as reading true crime in many ways; the allure is not necessarily in knowing people were hurt, but in knowing how some people are capable of such absurd levels of cruelty. It becomes much harder to pass the time with these knowings when you can put a known face to the suffering. I feel certain that researching my relatives’ involvement in the war would look and feel incredibly different if they had been Jewish or living near one of the many war zones.
Part of this, in my opinion, is due to the lack of emotion that comes through looking at something objectively. There’s a bit of numb detachment that comes from viewing atrocity from a safe distance. It’s a lot harder to stomach these atrocities when that numbness and detachment ruptures and we see the humanity of those who were lost.
Humanity isn’t exactly what I was expecting to find in the war and unit reports of the 102nd Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron. I’ve found tally marks indicating the total number of lives lost, but rarely do I find a name. When I do, it’s in a report after someone is listed as MIA — Missing In Action. Platoon leaders, typically witnesses to the event in question, documented the series of events that led to the soldier going unaccounted for. It’s a broad label and usually comes with the acknowledgement that there isn’t enough information to label the person with anything more specific like KIA (Killed In Action) or POW (Prisoner Of War), largely due to a lack of a body.
Kay was a platoon leader that had risen through the ranks following D-Day largely due to, as one of my uncles puts it, “all his superiors being wiped out”. I guess that’s one way to get a promotion. The new titles came with new responsibilities, including writing these reports. Of course I have a special vested interest in reading the ones Kay wrote, or at least signed off on, versus the ones he didn’t; I want to know what he himself experienced above all. All of the reports were objective. This is what happened, this is who saw it, this is all we know.
One report looked a little different, in part because it was more than a standard report, it was an investigation into the accuracy of the classification. It was written in March of 1945, months after John H. Clark had been listed as missing in June of 1944. John had been listed as missing but presumed dead, and the investigation sought to reclassify him as KIA. I don’t know what prompted the need for reclassification, but it was based almost entirely on the statement of Kay, the only witness left in the unit.
From the moment I saw this report, John Clark was on my mind. I couldn’t explain it. He wasn’t the only person Kay had witnessed go missing, this was not the only statement of his I read, but I could not get the image of him helplessly calling out to his fallen comrade out of my head. As with all of those who lost their lives while on tour, John Clark is mentioned in the Unit Honor Roll, a page dedicated to the fallen. Not many of these entries have pictures, and without fully understanding why, it quickly became important to me to see John Clark’s face.
I turned to Ancestry.com. Armed with John Clark’s full name, his hometown, and date of death, it wasn’t particularly difficult to find him. Through census records, draft cards, and images uploaded by his surviving relatives, I got my wish of seeing his face and was able to put together an image of his short life.
This was due in no small part to his remaining family. I reached out to the person that had uploaded his picture with no real goal other than to thank them. I couldn’t explain why I was so interested in John, but I was grateful that his relatives understood. I told them what little I knew of him and pointed them in the direction of the unit archive. They filled in the blanks regarding his childhood and let me know that they actually had no idea how he had passed. It’s not great news to give someone, but I can only hope it brought them some sense of relief or closure.
John Henry Heidenreich (“Jack” to his family) was born in Buffalo, New York on 12 May 1923. He had an older half-sister, Henrietta, from his father’s first marriage, which ended when his young wife succumbed to a short illness. His father met Martha shortly thereafter, remarried, and John was quick to follow. The family was soon joined by another addition, a baby girl named Jewel, when John was two. When the Great Depression hit, the Heidenreich family was not spared from financial hardship, and all three children were moved to a boarding home away from their parents. It wasn’t unheard of at the time, or even abnormal. The strain of the time evidently put a strain on John’s parents’ marriage, because only John and Jewel returned to Martha’s care, who had quickly divorced and remarried Donald Clark. Their son, a junior, came in 1931. The two oldest were adopted, and John Heidenreich became John Clark. At some point over the years, as the tides of the Great Depression began to turn, Martha purchased a local gas station with her sister and was working to build up a business for their sons to inherit upon their return from the war.
By June 1942, John was 19 and working for an arms company in Buffalo when he was called to register for the draft. Records show he was nearly 6 feet 4 inches tall with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. The second and third fingers on his right hand were missing at the first joint; history does not record what caused this, but it does give clues. Many machinists at the time were missing fingers. A build-up of metal shavings required a rag to wipe them away, but it unfortunately was not uncommon for that rag and the fingers holding it to be pulled into the job at hand.
After enlisting, he would have been sent to England to join the 102d Cavalry, likely due to his background in working with machinery. On 1 June 1944, he would have boarded LST-16 for Omaha Beach. He would have spent 7 days onboard before being allowed to disembark to the bloodied yet secure beachhead. For the next three weeks, John took part in what can only be described as the world’s worst camping trip. Almost without rest, he and his fellow soldiers existed behind enemy lines, watching and waiting and reporting back to headquarters.
On 29 June, he took part in a combat patrol. The mission was clear: reconnoiter the enemy-held territory in the area around Les Haies, France and remove any pockets of Nazi threat to prepare for the coming advancement of the US infantry. The patrol had dismounted and left their vehicles behind to move forward quietly, but they weren’t quiet enough.
The patrol was ambushed. The sound of gunfire and the sound of John’s body thudding to the ground hit everyone’s ears almost simultaneously.
They were outnumbered, and the priority shifted from eliminating any Nazis encountered to retreating safely. They fired back, using the trees for cover while they devised an escape route. Kay dove over John’s body into a ditch. He was separated from the patrol, but was protected in his low hiding spot. He called out to John repeatedly, but John never made a move nor a sound. After thirty minutes of calling to him and returning fire, Kay retreated and rejoined the patrol, leaving his fallen comrade behind.
The area in which John fell was heavily contested for weeks. Troops were sent out to search for him as early as a few hours after the incident, but could not safely scour the area for another several weeks. He was never found.
When the patrol returned to camp, Kay would have been the one to fill out the missing person report. As platoon leader, he signed off on it. He was deemed missing as opposed to killed due to the lack of a body. There was still some hope that he awoke and either wandered or was captured, but as time passed, that hope dwindled.
By March 1945, all of France had been liberated and John was still among the missing. He had not been recovered in any prisoner of war camps. What prompted the investigation into his classification is unknown, but Kay was once again called to make a statement. By March, Kay was the last person from the patrol, the last witness, remaining in the unit. He testified that he believed John was killed on the spot, but that’s not quite what stuck with me.
“I tried to crawl back to him,” he said. “I called out to him.” That image has haunted me since I read it.
John Clark was not the first life within the unit claimed by the war, but evidence would suggest that this was the first time Kay lost a comrade, the first time he witnessed a familiar life be taken. He had been witness to carnage, but until then he had not seen a friend among it.
Truthfully, I don’t know if they were friends. I know they had experienced the landings at Omaha Beach, drove through the intermingled and indistinguishable masses of the violently deceased, and began their journey on that awful camping trip together. They may not have been friends, but I imagine bearing witness to and experiencing something so harrowing and formative would bond people together in a way that those lucky enough to not experience it would not understand.
In the last batch of letters I received, I feel like that was confirmed. The occasional bit of correspondence addressed to my grandparents has slipped into the piles of letters they kept. I found one letter addressed to Kay from a rather special woman. It’s a recent development, discovered after I’d started drafting this essay. The entire letter reads as follows:
March 6, 1946
Dear Mr. Kay,
Your letter arrived this morning and also one from your town post office. I have been most anxious to locate you. At Christmas time when I received your card I was so happy; only to discover you had not put a return address on the card.
As you know by now, I sold the little bungalow on Henrietta avenue in Buffalo. I moved over to Grand Island the first week of the year. I have a farm house that is roomy and cozy and with a little over an acre of land. I have been very busy with a furnace to put in of oil, a bathroom, and some carpentering work to be done; but in a few more weeks will relax for the summer time. There is plenty of room, and if ever you come to Buffalo or this way; the island is only on the outskirts.
I have been expecting Speed Cooper since the last week of January. I can’t imagine what is wrong. He seems to believe Mr. Kay that you only can tell as nearly as possible what has happened to my Boy. Speed on the telephone, would not say Jackie is dead. He said you are the last one to see and be with my Boy, and you know more than anyone. He even believes Jack might be alive. I have not had a grave number or anything from Washington. They pay my Boy’s insurance to me monthly and I don’t know what to believe. Lt. Weaver told me by telephone from Cleveland that he knows Jack was killed, but Speed says he does not know, for only you were with him and saw him last. Of course you must know of the many things that run through my mind. I unfortunately went to see the picture “Tomorrow is Forever” and that put more ideas in my head; things I have often thought possible. Do you believe Jack could be alive somewhere in France, Mr. Kay? You know one can’t go through life without so many knocks and sorrow; and if you know; or what you think is possible; please tell me truthfully and honestly and frankly what it is you know or do believe happened to my Boy. I know Mr. Kay it is asking a great deal of you to go back in your mind over the horrors of war; but please forgive me and try to understand — just how much it means to me to have you, Mr. Kay, tell me anything more, for I just hang on to you, perhaps as a ray of hope; or perhaps as a final word of a peace of mind. You may be sure Mr. Kay, after these long months, anything you can tell me, I will bear well, and feel as though you are someone coming straight from my Boy to me.
I have prayed God for all Boys safe return, and as we know this was not possible; you know dear Mr. Kay, that a special prayer was said by me in both church of faiths for your safe return as well as Speed and Lt. Weaver.
I am lasting greatful to you for each of your letters, which I will always keep along with my Boys. I do hope you are in good health, and when you have had time to receive this letter; I would like to call you on the phone and thank you personally for your many thoughtful messages. I hope to go to Flushing, Long Island sometime this spring or summer and if you are at home, I would love to see you for a real thank you.
Please give my kindest regards to your Mother and I will always be anxious to hear from you. Always remember Mr. Kay that my home is as welcome to you as it would be for the return of my Boy. My letter does seem long and perhaps boring to you; but my only excuse to the writing of a Mother about her Boy.
Your most sincere friend
Martha Clark
He wrote letters to John’s mother. He, along with others in the unit, sent her letters from the front. She would not receive her Boy, but they ensured she did not suffer in silence. Her pain is palpable; Martha endured every mother’s worst nightmare. She just wanted to know what happened, she needed to know the truth of her son’s fate, and she had to turn to Kay for mercy. I feel like she knew her Boy was gone, but living with hope of his impossible return had to have been more painful than finally getting closure.
I don’t know for certain if Kay responded, but I have to believe he did. He used his paper rations to send her letters from the Army camp her son should have been at; he mailed her a Christmas card when it was all over and he’d returned home safely. Most importantly of all, he kept her letter. Stowed away for decades amongst those he felt were worth saving. Why would he extend these kindnesses only to deny her the one thing she’d asked in return?
The relatives of John that I spoke to was fairly removed due to their own life experiences and personal circumstances. It is entirely possible that Kay answered this letter and other relatives still did not know what happened. This happened eighty years ago, after all. We marvelled at the similarities. Without knowing him, they had gone to the same trade school as him. After discovering this letter, I marvelled at responding to the same, albeit far less painful, request several generations later.
Many things have come up during my research of my grandparents, but I may never get over how stuck on John Clark I have felt. I found the investigation report by accident and I dove headfirst into a rabbit hole. I couldn’t explicitly explain why John’s report intrigued me more than any of the other ones Kay had written, but when I found Martha’s letter, I felt like it was for a reason.
I didn’t go looking for John, but he still found his way to me. History is built on stories like his: stories of those who disappeared and those left behind to carry the weight. I don’t know why this story found me, but I’m starting to believe that’s the point. Sometimes, we don’t go looking for the past. It waits for us.
