William Samuel “Sam” Studstill died last week, in Monroe County, GA, at age 98.  He was laid to rest at Georgia Veterans Memorial Cemetery on March 4, 2024.

Nothing distinguished Sam from the millions of other World War II vets who were drafted as young men, served and fought honorably, and in the process defeated the greatest evils in history.  Then they returned home, had families, and built the largest economy, strongest military, and greatest country the world has ever seen.

Now, for the first time in my life, I don’t know a single living WWII veteran.

Growing up in the 1950s, ’60’s, and ’70s, most of the adult males I knew were all WWII vets, or so it seemed.  My father, uncles, father’s friends, mechanics, male teachers, and even a priest all served.  Veterans that I knew were fighter pilots, B-17 aircrew men, fought on Iwo Jima, were in Patton’s army, captured by the Germans, and survived being torpedoed — and, in the case of the priest, comforted the wounded and administered last rites to soldiers in Italy.  None of them bragged about his war experiences; if they did, they’d only be bragging to someone who likely saw more action, did more fighting, or was more heroic.  Whether they served in the military or remained on the home front producing the food, equipment, and materials required to win, it was a given that everyone, male and female, did his part to defeat the Axis Powers.  They did so because it was their duty.

In the early 1990s, I read an article that said we were losing 1,500 WWII vets every day, and soon none would be left.  For me, that day has arrived.  Of the 16-plus million WWII vets, only about 100,000 remain.

I struggle to find adequate words to express my feelings of profound admiration, respect, and thanks to Sam — one of the last of his generation — and to my father (Lt. Col. Oliver, USMC retired), and to the millions of others who saved the world from tyranny and darkness.  Despite thousands of WWII books written, despite annual veterans’ parades and ceremonies, and countless memorials in their honor, I feel that our collective thanks are insufficient to repay the debt we owe to the Greatest Generation.

Perhaps the best way to repay that debt is to acknowledge their legacy and remember their accomplishments.  Western civilization owes our present good fortune and future hopes to the exploits of brave men and women, like Sam.

I got to know Sam, at age 92, because of an article I sent to the local newspaper.  It was the anniversary of dropping the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Truman’s decision to drop the bomb very likely saved my life.  No, I wasn’t alive; I wouldn’t be born for years.  However, my father was in the Marines and would have participated in the invasion of Japan.  He could easily have been killed.  Turns out, the A-bombs likely saved Sam’s life as well.  After reading my article, he emailed and told me as much.

During WWII, Pvt. Studstill was in the Army, assigned to the 88th Infantry Division (I.D.) in Italy.  He saw frontline combat from early 1944 until Germany’s surrender in May 1945.  However, the Pacific War was still being fought.  So the Army ordered the 88th I.D. back to the States to train up for the invasion of Japan.  Sam was on a troop ship headed home when they heard the news that the A-bombs had been dropped, and the war was over.  I can’t imagine the relief those men must have felt when they learned that their war-fighting days were done.

I contacted Sam, and we met at his house.  We talked about his Depression-era childhood and his war experiences.  Having been in the Army myself, in the infantry (as well as military intelligence), and stationed in Italy, I related to his experiences.  Because of that, Sam told many stories and showed me memorabilia and numerous war photos from Italy.

Sam loved telling stories.  They were fascinating.  He talked about growing up dirt-poor, about his basic training at Camp Wheeler (near Macon, Ga.), and about his combat time in Italy. 

Like many of his generation, Sam grew up on a farm — no electricity or plumbing — in very rural Telfair County.  He was raised in poverty.  During the Depression, families earned money any way they could.  His family grew cotton, made sugarcane syrup, and harvested pine sap, which they sold to a turpentine distiller.  Sam plowed the fields behind “Minnie” the mule and walked three miles just to catch the school bus.  (No, he didn’t walk through snow.  Remember, this is the Deep South.)  After high school, Sam was drafted into the Army.  When he was shipped to basic training, it was the first time he had ever been out of Telfair County.  He thought his mule-handling days were over.  Wrong.

Sam arrived in Italy the day after Allied Forces captured the Monte Cassino fortress.  He was immediately sent to the front lines — high in the mountains.  The only way to re-supply troops and evacuate the wounded was with mules.  Sam was back to tending mules, but now he was fighting the Germans as well.  He was a communications wireman, which means he laid telephone wire from the command post to the front line units.  While he wasn’t an infantryman, he ensured that the colonels and generals could talk to them.  He spent much of his non-mule-tending time crawling wire up to the forward-most troops.

I just finished a book, The Winter Army by Maurice Isserman, about the 10th Mountain Division, specifically that unit’s combat time in Italy.  The book describes the ruggedness of the terrain, troops scaling rock faces to attack the enemy, using mules for re-supply, and the miserable winter weather.  While reading the book, I kept thinking of Sam and his exploits with the 88th I.D.  Both the 10th and the 88th divisions fought in mountainous terrain and must have had identical experiences.  It’s extremely difficult just climbing mountains — hard to imagine being shot at or fighting, or, in Sam’s case, dragging telephone wire up to the front-line soldiers in such rugged terrain. 

With regard to being in combat, Sam was much like many other vets.  He didn’t talk much about it.  I had to coax the stories out of him.  But once he started, he kept going.

I’m thankful that Sam reached out to me.  It was my honor to have known him.  When I think of men like Sam, men like my father, and all the others who took an oath to defend this country, I think of John 15:13: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”  A corollary would be “one who is willing to lay down his life for his fellow man shows true love.”

Thank you, Sam Studstill; thank you, veterans, who, at one time, were willing to lay down your life for country and fellow man. 

Image via Wikimedia Commons, public domain.