Naval Air StationPort Lyautey, Morocco

The following is a personal remembrance of Jerry (Gerald J.) Zimmerman who served at NAS Port Lyautey between 8/2/47 to 4/15/48 and who, for a very special reason, took the time to visit the the Casablanca Military Cemetery. Most if not all the servicemen buried there lost their lives during the days following the November 8, 1942 Operation Torch invasion. Flags of three Nations fly over the Military Cemetery: the USA, Canada, and England.

His reason for visiting the cemetery was to find and locate the grave of Walter Clifton Luttrell. Walter was the brother of his folk's next door neighbor, Stella Piering, back in Wisconsin. Mrs. Piering had asked Jerry if he would try to find and honor her brother, Walter's grave, who was killed in action on the Moroccan beach. The young lady in the picture is Helene Dumas, a French resident of Rabat. She accompanied Jerry as his interpreter and stands in front of Walter's grave. Months later, Walter's family chose to have his body returned home. He is now buried beside his wife Mary in Liberty, Kentucky's Popular Grove Cemetery.

Following is his account of that visit to Walter's gravesite.

April 1st of 1947 I was packing my gear and preparing to fly from the Port Lyautey Naval Air Station in French Morocco, North Africa to the Patuxent Naval Air Station in Maryland. I had completed my enlistment as a Naval Aerial Photographer and was returning State side to receive my honorable discharge. One week before, I traveled by train a hundred miles south of Port Lyautey to visit a Military Cemetery overlooking the Atlantic Ocean just outside of Casablanca. It was my second visit, the first was in the fall of 1947 when I searched for the grave of Walter Clifton Luttrell, an American soldier killed in action during the World War II, 1942 invasion of French Morocco by the United States. Clifton, from Kentucky, was a brother to my folk's next-door neighbor, Stella Piering in West Allis, Wisconsin. Clifton lost his life during that invasion known by the code name, "Operation Torch." It was the first offensive action taken by the Allies in preparation for the eventual Normandy invasion of Europe.

Clifton's entry into the US Army was brought about by a sad situation. Living in the small community of Liberty, Kentucky (about 100 miles south of Lexington), his wife and child died in 1935 from tuberculosis. Clifton continued to mourn their deaths and remained very depressed because of his loss. In 1942 he was 39 years old and, although not eligible for the draft, he decided to enlist in the Army to see if military service might help him get over his lasting grief.

Clifton's death was officially recorded as happening November 10, 1942; two days after his unit took part in Operation Torch. Navy historian, Samuel Eliott Morison, wrote in detail about what happened to Clifton's 7th Infantry Unit, which was attached to the 3rd Regiment. In Volume II of History of the United States Naval operations in World War II, Operations in North African Waters Morison writes:

"7,500 troops and a good deal of equipment were landed at Fedhala on D-Day, 8 November; and by nightfall Major General Anderson's 3rd Division (code named the "Center Attack Unit") had attained all objectives set down in the attack plan."

Morison tells us that the 3rd Regiment's November landing was made "while under heavy enemy fire on the beach of Fedhala, French Morocco". Although neither the Luttrell family or I know how Clifton met his fate. Because he was listed as "Killed in Action" I'm inclined to believe Clifton was severely wounded or killed during that dangerous and costly landing:

"In addition to the main (French) batteries, there were two groups of twin 13.2-mm (.50 caliber) anti-air craft guns, one on the end of the harbor jetty and the other on the neck of the Cape. All four batteries gave our troops considerable trouble on the beaches, especially on Red 3 and Blue; and the 75s sank one of the Jefferson's support boats that rashly attempted to silence it with machine-gun fire."

When the Army notified Clifton's family that he was killed in action they were also informed he was to be buried at a joint, military cemetery for American, British and Canadian Army and Navy personal in Casablanca.

Five years later (1947) Stella Piering learned from my Mother that I was stationed in North Africa. She asked if I might try locating her brother's grave. With the help of a French friend as an interpreter I accomplished that in November of 1947. On that visit I took photographs of Clifton's grave marked with his dog tag nailed to the center of a wooden cross painted white. The cross was one of hundreds standing in perfect meter over and across the neatly cared for area of freshly trimmed green grass. At the top of the flagpole in front and center of the graves, the American Stars and Stripes flew proudly in the warm, African desert wind. When I returned to my Base I processed and mailed pictures of the cemetery to the Luttrell clan.

Clifton was one of the first Americans to lay down his life as the Allies began to take the offensive against Germany. His sacrifice came because the invasion of French Morocco was necessary for the future invasion of Normandy. The air bases at Port Lyautey and Casablanca as well as Casablanca's excellent harbor made it essential for setting the stage to drive General Rommel's German forces out of Africa and back to Italy.

Regrettably, the invasion of French Morocco was one of the more unusual and unnecessary battles during World War II. The tragedy beyond Clifton's death was that the French chose to oppose the U. S. landing. That resulted in U. S. and French soldiers fighting and killing each other for two days, wasting precious lives, equipment and ammunition in a needless, senseless battle. On the second day American officers finally reached and met with key French officials face to face to negotiate a cease-fire and surrender. Immediately the United States Navy took over France's Port Lyautey Naval Air Station and the seaport of Casablanca facilities. The US Army took control of the French airfields in Casablanca for the duration of the war.

The U. S. didn't return complete control of the Moroccan bases to the French until January 1, 1948. On that eventful day I officially photographed the ceremony as the Naval Base photographer,

With France in charge of operations again, American families were given the choice of shipping the bodies of their soldiers back home for re-burial or leaving them in the Moroccan cemetery forever. I was not aware of that choice and, prior to my April departure from Port Lyauety, I returned to Casablanca to visit Clifton's grave one last time to pay my parting respects. When I arrived at the cemetery I was surprised to see many, freshly opened graves, including Clifton's. Only a neat, rectangular openings cut in the green sod remained where coffins had been exhumed. Those empty spaces, their white crosses gone, were filled level with fresh, black earth. I was pleased Clifton was on his way home but saddened for the many white crosses that remained standing. I knew those comrades were never leaving Africa.

The cemetery's staff informed me that the exhumed bodies were already en-route to the United States and plans were underway to rebury the remaining victims of war in a unified, permanent section of the cemetery. Those fallen American, Canadian and British servicemen killed during the invasion and battle of Operation Torch will remain there as a lasting memory and reminder of the tragedy of War. I had tears in my eyes and pain in my heart as I left the cemetery. The question I had in my mind at that moment is still with me today, why did that foolish waste of life between the French and U. S. have to happen?

When I arrived back in the United States in April of 1948 I assumed Clifton's body was returned to Kentucky for burial. I chose not to bring back any sad memories for the Clifton clan by asking if that was what happened. I was 20 years old and I thought, in time, it would become a forgotten memory for me.

In the early 1990s I decided to write my Navy experiences by using the many letters I wrote to my sweetheart (now my wife) Dolores. That re-kindled the memory of my Casablanca visits to Clifton's grave. Unfortunately, through those forty some years, Stella Piering became frail and had passed away. Because Stella's two children were years younger than I was I decided not to contact them and try to let the memory of their Uncle rest in peace.

In 1995, the 50th celebration of the ending of World War II caused me to realize I had become somewhat haunted by the lasting, pictured memory of Clifton's opened, Casablanca grave. Even so, I remained reluctant to invade the privacy of the Luttrell family.

Then, in the fall of 1997, a group of my childhood friends decided to locate former, grade school classmates for a reunion. That gave me a reason to contact a former friend and classmate living in California, Donald Luttrell. He was also Clifton's and Stella's nephew. I telephoned him and after a pleasant visit about the "old days." at La Follette Grade School in West Allis I told him of my lasting memories of his Uncle Clifton. When I expressed my long desire to visit Clifton's grave wherever that might be Donald informed me he was buried in a church cemetery just north of Liberty, Kentucky. He said he remembered seeing the pictures I had taken of the cemetery in North Africa and promised to mail me detailed information on how to drive to the cemetery in Kentucky.

In May of 1998 Dolores and I drove from West Allis to Lexington, Kentucky where we turned off I-75 at exit 115. From there we drove west until we came to Highway 127, which we followed south through historical Harrodsburg and Danville. About eight miles north of Liberty we came upon County Highway marker, 1552 and the Poplar Grove Baptist sign informing us the cemetery was just four and a half miles to the west.

We turned on to the narrow, black topped and winding country road, passing through Kentucky hill country mixed with areas sprinkled with trees and cultivated, freshly planted fields. At the four-mile mark on the car's odometer we came upon a red bricked church sitting on a hill sheltered by a stand of poplar trees with a cemetery in back. A young man was standing at the cemetery gate. He came to the car and said he and his wife were cutting the grass of the cemetery and asked if he could help us. I explained why we were there and asked if he could help us locate Clifton's grave.

With his aid we quickly found the handsome, gray marble marker. It was an emotional and heartwarming moment for me and I knew immediately that I had done the right thing by coming to the grave. As I viewed the headstone I realized, for the first time, I had never seen a picture of the fallen soldier and I had no image of him in my mind. The only vision I had was his dog tag upon a white, wooden cross and the opened, empty burial mound in Morocco. I looked at the year of Clifton's death and realized he had died two years younger than the age of my youngest child and son, Tom, who had just celebrated his 41st birthday on April 14th. I thought of how full of life and ambition he was and what a long life of happiness he still had ahead of him. I could not begin to imagine the pain I would have felt it would have been him instead of Clifton beneath the stone.

Dolores took a picture of me kneeling at the side of the gray marble headstone etched with "LUTTRELL" in large letters across the top. Etched in slightly smaller letters beneath that and to the left side was: "W. C. 1903 - 1942" and, on the right, "MARY 1913 -1935". I told Dolores they had died too young.

While I reminisced in soft tones about my visits to Casablanca Dolores discovered a flat, bronze military marker at the foot of Clifton's grave. Its engravings gave me the information I needed to determine where Clifton was killed during the invasion: "Walter C. Luttrell, Kentucky, PFC. 7 Inf. 3 Inf. DIV. Nov. 23, 1907, Nov. 10, 1942." I noted that Clifton had died 13 days before his 40th birthday. I remembered that my son had made his first free-fall parachute jump on his 40th birthday and his Mother and I had the good fortune to see him do it.

I felt a wonderful peace come over me. The 50-year haunting picture in my mind of the empty grave in Casablanca was replaced with the peaceful, sunny view of beautiful green leafed trees surrounding the Popular Grove cemetery and the stately, gray headstone marking Clifton's final resting-place. I thought to myself, "What must have been a sad moment for the surviving Luttrell family when they placed Clifton to rest had to have been a very sweet reunion for him and Mary."

At 70 and fifty years later, I was able to pleasantly close an interesting chapter in my long life. It is my wish that my children, grandchildren and their children, find a time in their lives to visit Kentucky and drive down County Highway 1552 to the Popular Grove Baptist Church Cemetery. Then, give thanks and praise to Walter Clifton Luttrell and all his fallen buddies who died November of 1942 on the North African, Atlantic shoreline of Morocco to preserve the peace of the World and our beloved United States.

Jerry Zimmerman

NOTE: June 1998: After writing the above I visited with Clifton's niece (Stella Luttrell Piering's daughter) Betty Piering Burgett and she added some new information that seems to coincide and firm up my "educated guess" as to when and where Clifton met his unfortunate fate. Betty heard that when Army officers came to inform her Grandparents that Clifton was killed in action they said he had been recognized as having a superior sense of smell. Because there was some concern that poisonous gas might be used to repel their landings, Clifton and a couple of other selected comrades were placed to the very front of their landing barge. When the barge hit the beach the front gate fell open and heavy enemy fire opened up from the shoreline. Clifton was one of the first shot and killed by the French as he left the barge to rush the beach.