Clay Thomas Bailey
1 Regiment (6 Company)
Rank: Sergeant
Number: 39078456
Date Of Death: KIA 25th December 1943
Age: 30
Gravesite: Lassen Cemetery,Susanville,California 96030
Additional Information: USA
from Lassen,California
born 26.12.1912 Alliance,Nebraska
Son of Quillian Clay and Grace Margaret (nee Kidney) Bailey
Susanville,California
Father of Judy Ruby Bailey (mother's name Helen,unmarried)
educated Denver,Colorado and Phoenix,Arizona
graduated San Bernardino High School,California
employed U.S. Forest Service (fire lookout on Dixie Mountain)
brother Robert was Sgt in USMC during WW2
brother James served in Korea
sisters Alice,Bernice and Dolores all worked at Sierra Ordnance Depot,Herlong,California
KIA Italy
Information from his brother James (Jim)
This was the first time Clay's best friend Jack Furman had seen his final resting place as he never realised that his remains were repatriated at the end of the war as per his mother's wishes.
Photo taken 1995 and submitted by his brother James (right)
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Association Roster & Books and Pictures Collectibles Click here to open the word document about Clay and Jack Furman of the FSSF. Written by Clay's Brother Jim
or scroll down to read it on this page.
Down From the Mountain
When the battle was over and the war moved on, there was silence. The old people and children came down from their hiding places in the caves of the mountain. Their faces looked the same, the old and the young, drawn, pale with fear, and hungry for the light. They looked upon the broken remains of their homes and wept. The soldiers there, tried to help. They held the arms of the old and carried the children down past their chapel with its tattered and blackened Saints.
Then down from the ragged mountain tops the caravans of men and mules bearing what once were young men; their bodies stiff and statue like, drained of all life and promise. No matter their uniform, they no longer had an enemy. They no longer knew fear. They now, all spoke the same language.
That battle took place on Mt. Sammucro, a beautiful mountain in central Italy, the day was December 25, 1943, Christmas morning. The battle its self lasted only four hours and covered just a few hundred yards. Young men from two countries fought and died, one of those young soldiers who died that early morning was my older brother; Sergeant Clay T. Bailey.
The last memory I have of my brother, is when I was a boy of ten standing with him in our yard on a warm September day in 1943. He was to me, a splendid and handsome sight, in his military uniform, with ribbons and a pair of silver paratrooper wings. As the years past the desire to know, just how he had died in the war began to drive me. I went over the few photos I had in my possession that were of my brother during his time in the Army. There I found a photo of Clay and a couple of his buddies. On the photos back, Clay had written “Jack ‘p38’ Furman, I and Joe. We call the Canadians ‘P38’s’ because at the chow table their always intercepting or short stopping when you ask for something, but he sure is a swell guy.”
The search for my brothers role in the war was aided by an article in our local newspaper in 1994, a headline about a person who had served in a special group during world war two (The First Special Service Force). Upon reading the piece, I contacted the man mentioned in the article, Glynn Lee, then a retired schoolteacher in a nearby community. Though Glynn had not personally known my brother, he was able to give me a list of names and addresses that led me to the few surviving members of my brothers company.
On the list one name, Jack Furman, stood out as one of Clay’s friends (On the photo of the three soldiers). I had found someone who knew and served with my brother. I hoped that he might have something to share with me about their time together in the war. Having obtained Jacks telephone number I called.
I wondered if the years had dulled Jacks memory of Clay, it had been nearly 60 years after all, and I, in a fit of timidity, thought he might not want to talk with me at all. It was soon apparent, after the first introductions, Jack was delighted to share the memories of his friendship with my brother. Jack had come from his home in Canada to Montana to become part of a force of men who would, with little intent on their part, become somewhat of a legend. My brother, Clay, who was at this time in the U.S. Army, volunteered for service with this force and he was sent to Montana for specialized training. As they trained Clay and Jack recognized each other as, kindred souls, each could depend on the other for what might lie ahead. One would only have to spend a short time with a veteran of that terrible conflict to understand the love they felt for each other. The fear and uncertainty of War they felt, was not just for their selves, but also for their buddies.
During our talk Jack informed me he and his wife, Myrle, were "snow birds” and came down every year from their home in Vernon British Columbia, to Arizona, where they spent their winters. Jack told me, they would often pass through the town of Susanville California on their way to Arizona. At the time, my wife and I were living the village of Greenville, just a short drive from Susanville; we agreed to meet there for the first time.
I was immediately taken by Jacks warmth and eagerness to talk about his friendship with "C T'“, his nick name for my brother (Clay Thomas Bailey). Jack spoke about the small foolish tricks they played on one another, boyish things; to which all young men are prone; Clay, while home on his last leave, told me a story of the invasion of the Island of Kiska, in the Aleutian chain. While command had every reason to believe there were Japanese troops on the island, they had in fact left only a short time before. The first wave of troupes ashore was the 1st reg. with Clay and Jack. When the 3rd reg. in the second wave came ashore, Clay informed one of their people; "they were not to be concerned, as C T and the first wave had scared the Hell out of the Japanese and they all left the zone". ( This was an ’unconfirmed story’ related to me by Clay on that September day those many years ago.) Kiska, was to have been the Forces first shot at combat, but it did not happen, this would not be true of their next engagements.
In October, 1943 after completion of their training in the United States, my brother and Jack shipped out to North Africa aboard; the 'Empress’ of Scotland', a boat, according to Clay " that was barely sea worthy "and deserved other names and certainly not,' Queen' of any thing. Upon arrival in Casablanca, Morocco, Jack and my brother, had but a short 'leg stretch' before they were boarding another ship, at Oran, bound for the bay of Naples on the west coast of Italy.
The Force mission was to precede northward to the mountains surrounding highway 6 and clear them of all enemy forces. This undertaking would last into the next year and at a huge expense in lives. The Force faced formidable German troops, who had several years in which to establish their mountain top fortifications. Battles took place on or near mountains that I, as a child, had seen in newsreels at our local theater, but had little understanding of their significance, or what if any part they might play in my life. I had no idea at that time my own brother was in this far off land fighting those battles; I understood only as numbers and maps and images of men with stars on their shoulders, pointing at the distant horizons as if it were most important, and trying not to look directly at the cameras. It was here in this place of madness Jack Furman lost his best friend and knew that it was final; he would see C.T. no more. The War went on for Jack, until wounded in battle, he returned to his home in Canada.
At our fateful meeting in Susanville, nearly 60 years had gone by since Jack Furman laid eyes on my brother. Jack helped me to understand more about what he and Clay had gone through, but had a question for me; “do you know where C.T. is buried.” I had always assumed Jack knew where Clay was interred. As it turned out Jack on his many trips back to Italy and Europe, searched all the Allied military cemeteries to find my brothers resting place, all to no avail. He had no way of knowing in those times, that at the conclusion of the Second World War the war department informed my mother; if she wished they would bring her Son home from the soil of Italy to be re-interred in a military plot in our local cemetery. I cannot explain clearly enough, the joy I felt at our meeting, when I was able to tell Jack his search was over, and that C.T. lie at rest less then a mile from where we sat. Jack, I, and our wives’ drove the short distance to Clay's grave, and there for the first time in nearly 60 years of searching, Jack knew at last where his friend lay.
I would not presume to try to relate Jacks feelings at this time. Only an old soldier would understand, one who could look past the hate and fear of War, and see clearly the times of Love and caring. At that time, standing at Clay's grave with Jack, I knew no fiction writer could have made these men up; I stood in the presence of two Heroes.
Some of the readers of this essay may feel it is in some ways an anti war statement,
they would not be entirely wrong. I feel that, not to be against War is to show less then honor to those who have fought and died in any War. It is my believe those who fought, did so to end those Wars with the hope there would be no further use
in their children’s futures for the hell of War.
JMB
