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The Greatest Generation
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
This website is a dedication to my parents, Raymond and Betty Iseli Sr., the original command team of my life. I hit the jackpot being born to the Greatest Generation, and not just because they could survive on Spam and grit. They kept the family ship afloat and stayed hitched until Mom's final muster in '99 and '09. My old man? Born smack in the middle of the Great Depression, raised on a Canton, Illinois farm as a kid number nine out of a baker’s dozen, forced to quit school in the 8th grade. His mom checked out early, so he bailed at 16 to wrangle hay bales across the Midwest. Legend has it he was perched on a hay rack when his boss handed him a draft notice in 1940, talk about airborne delivery. Next stop: Camp Swift, Texas, where he joined the shiny new 95th Division, and got his boots broken in with 25-mile hikes twice a week. After that, it was Fort Indiantown Gap, PA, for more fun and games before shipping out to Normandy. On weekends, he’d sneak off to a little place called Lebanon, PA, where he met my mom. The rest, as they say, is classified.

Then it was all-aboard out of Boston for a seven-day cruise across the Atlantic, no shuffleboard, just seasick GIs, landing in London before getting express-mailed straight to the First taste of combat? Try hedgerow roulette, with Germans so close you could practically borrow a cup of sugar, if they weren’t trying to kill you. October 26, 1944: the 95th rolls in to relieve the poor souls stuck outside the fortress city of Metz. Six days later, they get the green light to attack, and for the next month, it’s nonstop whack-a-mole with the German army. At one point, my dad’s hugging a pillbox wall, Germans just 15 feet away, so he lobs mortar rounds straight up and listens for the thud on the other side. The division took a beating but finally bagged Metz on November 21, 1944. The locals said it was the first time in two wars anyone had managed that trick. From then on, the 95th got to strut around as the Iron Men of Metz.

A week later, they punched through the Siegfried Line near Saarlautern and snagged a bridge over the Saar River, no easy feat, unless you like incoming fire and losing friends. Dad caught some shrapnel in the arm, got a quick patch job, and jumped right back in. He ended up behind a machine gun, babysitting the bridge while a parade of troops and tanks thundered into Germany. Meanwhile, the Battle of the Bulge kicked off, so the 95th got reassigned from the Third to the Ninth Army, because why not keep things interesting? They held Aachen and the western shoulder of the bulge, and somewhere in that mess, Dad picked up his Sergeant stripes. All told, they spent over 300 days in the thick of it, from Metz to Berlin, before pulling two months of occupation duty. No rest for the wicked.

Looking back, Dad had a highlight reel of war stories that would make any sea story sound tame. His crew had a reputation for dropping mortar rounds right into enemy foxholes, precision work, or just dumb luck, depending on who you ask. They never slept outside because the Captain would gather the squad and ask, 'Take the next town before dark or sleep in the mud?' They always took the town. Then there was the genius in the rear who swapped their high-tops for rubber boots. Result: frostbite for him, frozen feet for the rest, and a mutiny to get their boots back. On his 24th birthday, they captured a pillbox loaded with Cognac and celebrated like it was New Year’s in Paris, maybe a little too hard. The Captain had to remind them that counterattacks don’t care if you’re hungover. Right before the war ended, they scored a bag of Marx and held onto it until they could trade for German beer and toast VE Day. The real MVPs? The cooks, who somehow got hot chow up to the line every day. No canned mystery meat, just eat fast or go hungry, because you never knew when you’d have to grab your gear and haul out.

Epilogue
The war wrapped up in '45, and Dad made a beeline back to Lebanon, PA, where he promptly married Betty Jane Good, my mom, and the household's original drill instructor. They cranked out four kids, with yours truly bringing up the rear as the last and loudest. Dad built two of our houses with nothing but his own hands, a hammer, and probably a few choice words. Both of them juggled more jobs than a Marine on mess duty, but somehow we never missed a meal or a Christmas. Mom checked out in '99 at 72, and Dad hung up his hard hat working in '83, right when I was getting my freedom papers from the Corps. He spent the next couple of decades living the good retired life until 2009, when he finally stood down at age 90. Not too shabby for a guy who bailed out of school after eighth grade. Only in America can you go from foxholes to easy chairs if you play your cards right.

"Lest We Forget"
The cost of freedom is some times high,
It is up to us to remember and be greatful
for what they have given us all.
God Bless America

Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me.
80svmfp3@gmail.com

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