"I Heard You Paint Houses": Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran & Closing the Case on Jimmy Hoffa by Charles Brandt Page B
Authors: Charles Brandt
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Social Science, Biography & Autobiography, Mafia, LABOR, True Crime, Business & Economics, Criminology, Criminals & Outlaws, organized crime, Gangsters, Mafia - United States, Hoffa; James R, Teamsters, Sheeran; Frank, Gangsters - United States, Teamsters - United States
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staffed division has 15,000 members, Sheeran saw replacements march in and be carried out on a daily basis. The report asserts a record of “511 days of combat” for the division itself; that is, 511 days of shooting and being shot at on the front lines. The Thunderbird Division fought valiantly from the very first day of the war in Europe to the very last.
With time out for rest and rehabilitation along the way, Private Frank Sheeran, with 411 combat days, experienced more than 80 percent of the division’s total “days of combat.” Sheeran was conditioned for the rest of his life by the experience of killing and maiming day after day, and wondering when he would be next. Not all people are affected the same way by the same events. We are each our own fingerprints and the sum of our own life’s experiences. Other combat veterans I have interviewed drop their jaws and gasp at the thought of 411 days of combat.
“ “I ought to kick your ass,” Charlie “Diggsy” Meiers said. I was two years older than Diggsy and a foot taller. We had been pals since grade school.
“What did I do wrong? What do you want to kick my ass for, Digs?” I asked and smiled down at him.
“You had a noncombat gravy job in the MPs. You could have sat out the whole friggin’ war in the States. You must be crazy transferring over here. I always knew you had a screw loose, but this takes the cake. You think we’re having fun over here?”
“I wanted to see some action,” I said, already feeling like a jackass.
“Well, you’ll see it.”
A blast like thunder and a loud, whistling buzz shot across the sky. “What’s that?”
“That’s your action.” He handed me a shovel and said, “Here.”
“What the hell is this for?” I asked.
“Your foxhole. Start digging. Welcome to Sicily.”
After I got done digging, Charlie explained to me that an exploding shell is going to spread its shrapnel on an angle upward. You get down and stay down and let it sail over you. Otherwise it cuts you in half right across your chest. When we were kids I looked out for Diggsy, but now it was going to be the other way around.
How did I end up with a shovel in my hand in Sicily in 1943?
In August 1941 I had enlisted in the army. The rest of the world was already in the war, but we were neutral and weren’t in it yet.
Biloxi, Mississippi, was where I did my basic training. One day a Southern sergeant addressed the recruits and said he could lick any one of us and if anybody thought otherwise they should step forward now. I took a giant step forward, and he had me digging latrines for five days. It was just a trick to get us to respect his rank and rank in general. They were getting us ready for a war.
After basic training, the army took one look at me and sized me up as a perfect specimen for the military police. They didn’t ask you what you thought of your new assignment, and before the war started there was no way out of the MPs.
But after Pearl Harbor, with a war going on, they let you transfer out of the military police if you were willing to go into combat. I liked the idea of dropping out of the sky and into combat, and I signed right up for the Army Airborne and transferred to Fort Benning, Georgia, for paratroop training. I was in real good shape, so the rigid training of a paratrooper came easy for me. I liked the whole idea of finally seeing some action. When your parachute landed, you’d be on your own a lot, kind of self-reliant. I thought I was something special until I jumped from a tower during training and dislocated my right shoulder. I had landed wrong, and they gave you only one mistake. They cut me from the team. I was now going to go into the infantry as a combat foot soldier.
Meanwhile, no amount of authority or military discipline could stop me from getting into my little scrapes. I was in one scrape after another in my army career. I went into the army as a private, and I came out four years and two
With time out for rest and rehabilitation along the way, Private Frank Sheeran, with 411 combat days, experienced more than 80 percent of the division’s total “days of combat.” Sheeran was conditioned for the rest of his life by the experience of killing and maiming day after day, and wondering when he would be next. Not all people are affected the same way by the same events. We are each our own fingerprints and the sum of our own life’s experiences. Other combat veterans I have interviewed drop their jaws and gasp at the thought of 411 days of combat.
“ “I ought to kick your ass,” Charlie “Diggsy” Meiers said. I was two years older than Diggsy and a foot taller. We had been pals since grade school.
“What did I do wrong? What do you want to kick my ass for, Digs?” I asked and smiled down at him.
“You had a noncombat gravy job in the MPs. You could have sat out the whole friggin’ war in the States. You must be crazy transferring over here. I always knew you had a screw loose, but this takes the cake. You think we’re having fun over here?”
“I wanted to see some action,” I said, already feeling like a jackass.
“Well, you’ll see it.”
A blast like thunder and a loud, whistling buzz shot across the sky. “What’s that?”
“That’s your action.” He handed me a shovel and said, “Here.”
“What the hell is this for?” I asked.
“Your foxhole. Start digging. Welcome to Sicily.”
After I got done digging, Charlie explained to me that an exploding shell is going to spread its shrapnel on an angle upward. You get down and stay down and let it sail over you. Otherwise it cuts you in half right across your chest. When we were kids I looked out for Diggsy, but now it was going to be the other way around.
How did I end up with a shovel in my hand in Sicily in 1943?
In August 1941 I had enlisted in the army. The rest of the world was already in the war, but we were neutral and weren’t in it yet.
Biloxi, Mississippi, was where I did my basic training. One day a Southern sergeant addressed the recruits and said he could lick any one of us and if anybody thought otherwise they should step forward now. I took a giant step forward, and he had me digging latrines for five days. It was just a trick to get us to respect his rank and rank in general. They were getting us ready for a war.
After basic training, the army took one look at me and sized me up as a perfect specimen for the military police. They didn’t ask you what you thought of your new assignment, and before the war started there was no way out of the MPs.
But after Pearl Harbor, with a war going on, they let you transfer out of the military police if you were willing to go into combat. I liked the idea of dropping out of the sky and into combat, and I signed right up for the Army Airborne and transferred to Fort Benning, Georgia, for paratroop training. I was in real good shape, so the rigid training of a paratrooper came easy for me. I liked the whole idea of finally seeing some action. When your parachute landed, you’d be on your own a lot, kind of self-reliant. I thought I was something special until I jumped from a tower during training and dislocated my right shoulder. I had landed wrong, and they gave you only one mistake. They cut me from the team. I was now going to go into the infantry as a combat foot soldier.
Meanwhile, no amount of authority or military discipline could stop me from getting into my little scrapes. I was in one scrape after another in my army career. I went into the army as a private, and I came out four years and two
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