Glenn W. Bushey, with pictures of his wartime service
It comes as no surprise to anyone that we’re losing our World War II veterans at an alarming rate.
Glenn W. Bushey, 96, a Camp Hill member of “the greatest generation,” has no intention of joining them any time soon. A veteran of two wars, he survived a machine-gun sniper’s three bullets at age 19—one that “grazed” his left arm, removing a chunk of it; a second that struck his right leg; and the third hitting the left side of his face, above his lip and below his cheek. If it left a scar then, there’s none now.
One of his medals is a Bronze Star for combat in World War II. Another, the Combat Infantry Badge with Star, reminding him of experiencing life in the Army on two levels: a PFC (World War II) and an officer (Korea).
Though widowed for nearly 10 years, Bushey continues to lead a busy life. He refuses to let the world pass him by staying aware of what’s going on in it; he’s active in his church, and not only mows his own lawn but that of a neighbor, taking advantage of today’s technology: a sit-down mower.
No, he’s not immune from the rigors of old-folks woes. He fights them by taking physical therapy three times a week. In fact that’s where we met—at Gilbert Physical Therapy in Mechanicsburg—admiring his determination to go through his paces, then fascinated by hearing snippets of his story. That’s not the extent of his physical activity; he also walks a mile six mornings a week (not Sundays).
Here’s his story:
Bushey became an Army man for no other reason than his height or, lack thereof. In his senior year at West Shore High School in Lemoyne, a Navy recruiter offered a course (called V-12) to prepare young men to be Naval officers. He was the only one who signed on. With a little boating experience, the Navy was his first choice for military service. He passed the course. But when he was ordered to report, a well-dressed Navy man told him he failed to qualify. Why? At five-foot, two-and-a-half inches, he didn’t meet the 5-4 minimum. But the officer said, “We’d love to have you in the Navy—as a sailor.”
No thanks.
While waiting to be drafted, he enrolled at Gettysburg College. Meanwhile, the draft regulations were altered from allowing draftees to express a preference of military service to taking potluck. When his number turned up, the pot showed Olive Drab. He was inducted at the New Cumberland Army Depot on the Monday before Thanksgiving 1943, and his first duty was K.P. (kitchen police, for the uninitiated), assigned the challenging duty of “pots and pans,” including Thanksgiving day, with lots to scrub in the chow hall kitchen. (As he spoke, one could almost hear Irving Berlin singing, “You’re in the Army Now.”)
Bushey, in 1944
But that Navy officer training had a delayed benefit. It made him eligible for a top-secret training program at Fort Benning, Ga., with the 86th Infantry Division. The 13 weeks included basic training, then on to Louisiana for more specialized training in weaponry, where he was hit with poison oak in August 1944, because the designated bivouac area at Fort Livingston was incorrectly called “safe,” delaying his direct participation in the war. As Bushey explains, “There was a group of privates to be sent to Europe as replacements. I was on the list but, because I was hospitalized, I did not go.
“After being released from the hospital, I was given a week’s leave. While on leave, the 86th Division moved to Camp Cook in California for amphibious training . . . then the 86th went to Boston in February 1945, then to Europe.”
He climbed aboard a former German liner that had been converted to a U.S. troop ship, landing in Le Havre, France; a train took him to Holland, then to in a small town between Bonn and Cologne, Germany.
His Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) was “rifleman,” and his assigned duty for all that specialized training, “Platoon Runner,” carrying messages between units whether or not bullets were flying.
Hello war.
While many Germans surrendered, there continued to be heavy combat and artillery fire.
How did he feel? “Afraid.” After all, he was just 19.
Nevertheless, he and a fellow dogface, a PFC Bennihoff (“can’t recall his first name, but can’t forget him”) were ordered to “charge” as a German tank fired at his unit, along with other artillery. “I could see the bullets,” he said. Later he and Bennihoff talked about that episode before going their separate ways.
A German tiger tank, a remarkable machine, said Bushey, “couldn’t be penetrated,” and was armed with an 88-mm gun and machine gun. “We had a bazooka, fired it, but it didn’t do much [damage] to that tank.”
“That night I was so tired; but we had a lot of German prisoners” to deal with, he recalled. “We had cut the German pocket in half,” which virtually ended that battle.
One thing the young grit-covered private wanted was to wash up.
“I came upon a house where members of my squad were preparing Easter dinner,” adding that they weren’t sure how to make mashed potatoes. “I knew how,” because his mom taught him. The house had hot and cold running water. “So, I offered to make mashed potatoes in exchange for a bath. They agreed.”
“On the way back, I saw a general coming toward me.” Turned out to be James M. Gavin, a two-star rough-and-ready officer who commanded the 82nd Airborne Division. “How are you doing today, soldier?” he asked the young private, promising, “We’ll be relieving you soon.”
Didn’t happen soon enough.
Bushey’s unit, now attached to the 7th Army, was ordered to go from northern Germany, through Nuremburg, to the Danube River.
“We were on one side of the river, and we could see the Germans on the other side,” he said. “We weren’t sure if they were soldiers, and kept moving.
Bushey, in 1945
“We came to this town that had a dike around it. There was no shooting in town. We went down side streets.” That was April 27, 1945, 3 p.m. “We turned left to the dike. I was kneeling . . . all of a sudden, I heard, pop-pop-pop. I didn’t feel anything, but I tasted blood. Looked at my left arm and saw blood. But I still didn’t know I was hit.
“Then I looked at my leg; there was a lot of blood. I told the platoon leader—a lieutenant—I am hit.”
Bushey was told to find a medic.
“So I hobbled back around the corner, out of the line of fire,” crossed the river in a small boat, and he was dispatched to a field house, where “the bullet was removed from my right leg.”
From Germany, Bushey was transferred to a hospital in Paris, where he caught a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe, and he could see tourists. After three days, Bushey was flown to a hospital in Cambridge, England, seeing through a window a lot of students from the college nearby.
On May 8, V.E. Day (Victory in Europe), the Germans officially surrendered, and his division was shipped to New York City to participate in a big ticker-tape parade. Shortly after that, his unit was deployed to the Philippines. The war with Japan continued.
“I wanted to go,” he said, “but they wouldn’t let me. I was very disappointed.”
Why did you want to go?
“They were my buddies. You want to be with your buddies, right?”
Not fully recovered, no parade, no redeployment.
A Liberty ship that took 14 days to cross the Atlantic and reach the states brought him back home or, rather, to the separation center at Fort Indiantown Gap, where, because he could type, he worked on providing mustering-out pay for GIs being discharged until he accumulated enough points for his own discharge.
Finally, he became a civilian in March 1946.
End of story? Hardly.
Back to Gettysburg College on the G.I. Bill, a friend persuaded him to sign up for ROTC and take a five-year hitch in the National Guard. It meant a $20-a-month stipend and, said his friend, “We just came out of a war; there won’t be another in five years.” Sure.
He had earned a bachelor’s degree with a math major and was hired to teach math at a Maryland school in 1949.
But along came Korea.
Bushey was activated from the reserves in June 1951 and ordered to take infantry training at Fort Pickard, Va., and eventually, Korea, where the 1st lieutenant was assigned as assistant commander (second in command) of a rifle unit in May 1952. The only combat he saw was in the form of “back-and-forth artillery fire.” Nevertheless, there were casualties.
As a reserve officer, he was rotated out early five months later.
“I had enough,” he said, and quit the reserves.
Glenn W. Bushey, holding his service medals, with story author Bill Blando
Again a civilian, he was hired in 1953 by West Shore High School in Lemoyne, teaching math/algebra, his favorite subject, as the school transitioned over the years from junior high to middle school. Bushey served as Lemoyne Junior High principal, later as assistant principal for the new Cedar Cliff High School, retiring in September 1982.
Lemoyne was the town his father—one of seven boys who had four sisters—settled in, supporting his family as a carpenter.
Bushey married Marian, a social worker, in 1962. She died in their golden anniversary year, 2012.
He earned two master’s degrees (education and administration at Penn State, and an arts master’s in math), and a fellowship to study at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, N.Y.
He is bald, but apparently not because of his educational pursuits. He blames it on the liner inside his helmet. It didn’t fit snug and kept shifting, rubbing his hair and scalp the wrong way. Result: becoming hairless “over four or five years.”
Today, he remains very active. At his church, Camp Hill’s St. Timothy’s Lutheran Church, he served on a pastor-search committee. With carpentry in his DNA, he helps build things, occasionally teaches a Sunday School class and does whatever other chores his church needs. He keeps his home of nearly 60 years as neat as a pin and just as clean (with a bit of help from a housekeeper). As for the DNA, it comes from his dad and six uncles who were all carpenters.
When asked, he is proud to show an album with family and military photos; also his medals, held in a deep frame. They include his Purple Heart, of course; Good Conduct, Weapons Proficiency and Combat Infantry medals; the Bronze Star; and the Combat Infantry Badge with Star for combat in two wars.
On the back of the frame is written: “Crossing the Danube (4-27-45) . . . the first of the 341st Infantry crossing the Danube (faced) an assault barrage, (aiming) to establish a beachhead.
“Company B, supported by a machine gun of Company D, led the attack. Casualties were: 14 killed, 27 wounded (including Bushey).” The inscription was signed by Company D’s Lawrence Bennett of Newburg, N.Y., who added, “A day I will never forget.”
PFC/Lt. Bushey might say, “Neither will I,” because he hasn’t.
A final note: At 5-2-and-a-half, being addressed as “Shorty” isn’t unusual. But Bushey really stands 10 feet tall, don’t you think?
Many thanks to Bill Blando of New Cumberland for contributing this Veterans Day story. Blando, a veteran himself after serving in the U.S. Army from 1958-60, is also a veteran journalist who—despite his retirement in 2004—is still discovering stories like this one, for which we are thankful.
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