Remembering a Veteran: Pvt. Ove Emanuel Mortensen, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines

Ove Mortensen, USMC

By Mark Mortensen  (Grandson) 

Through my biography George W. Hamilton, USMC: America’s Greatest World War I Hero (McFarland Publishing, July 2011), I have established many wonderful friendships. They were intrigued and full of praise for Hamilton, but generally their first question centered around why I wrote the book. The answer was obvious to me. It all stemmed from my grandfather, Pvt. Ove Emanuel Mortensen USMC (1890–1980), the Mortensen family patriarch. As a sharpshooter, he was a replacement for the dead and wounded at Belleau Wood and Soissons serving in Marine Corps combat infantry 66th Company from St. Mihiel to Blanc Mont and, finally, the Meuse Argonne at the time of the Armistice. Because he never “dropped out” or received a Purple Heart, he always was engaged in fighting along the way. 

Ove (White Star) with Fellow Marines of the 66th Company

Ove was my personal hero, and I admired his remarkable life, being born in Copenhagen, Denmark, and single for a third of his life, while married for two thirds. He returned home from the Occupation of Germany in 1919, got married to Jeanette Lipphardt in 1920 at age 30, and in 1921 my father was born, the first of three children. For the next 30 years he earned his living as an accountant and purchaser mostly around his hometown of Winchester.  In 1950 he and my grandmother moved to Cape Cod. 

As early as I can remember, Ove introduced me to a mysterious fraternity-style handshake that was formed with an interlocking grip and pressure point. No one else in the family knew of this, but this was always our secret method of greeting each other and departing. The only fraternity he was ever associated with was the Marine Corps. When I was age 27, I visited Ove lying on his death bed. I formed the fraternity handshake to say farewell, and while he was applying as much pressure as he could, he talked of the importance of the pressure point.

Ove's Damaged Helmet

I’m not sure where this puzzle piece fits, but since age five, the severely dented WWI helmet of my grandfather, Pvt. Ove Mortensen, USMC, remained in my large wooden box along with my baseball glove, bat, balls, and an assortment of toys. I viewed it almost every day, sometimes right side up and other days like an upside-down turtle, always knowing it wasn’t a toy. Patrick Mooney, former Head of Guest Services, Quantico Marine Corps Museum, believed the rivet on the top popped out with shrapnel, while the rear indentation was likely from a machine gun bullet. It was obvious he was very active in Marine Corps infantry combat. When Ove passed away in 1980, I knew someday I would learn more about his past.

Around 1990 I was at the Winchester, Mass. library to seek information on my grandfather's past.  I was amazed to find this letter started my research and my subsequent friendship with author and Marine historian George B. Clark.

THE WINCHESTER (MASSACHUSETTS) STAR FRIDAY JANUARY 17, 1919

Letter from: OVE EMANUEL MORTENSEN (born 1890 Denmark, resident Winchester, Mass.),  66th Company, 5th Marine Regiment

29 November 1918

It’s all over now, but honestly, I never expected to be living at this stage of the game and I guess every one that ever had one of Heinie’s sea bags thrown at him felt the same was as I did. However, here I am, and to the extent of not having even been scratched, got a little gas at Champagne and was hit in the same battle by a bit of casing, but all that resulted from that, was a black and blue spot on my left side about the size of one’s fist. For the first moments I thought I passed into eternity, but only the good die young. Seemed as though the machine gun bullets had a happy faculty of buzzing all around me and the fellows have often told me that in the heat of battle one hardly feels when he is hit, but to make sure I some times felt myself over and looked for blood marks until I could be convinced that I was still intact. You know I often said “No soft job for mine”, but I have changed my mind since then.

Modern warfare is more than a junketing party. Instead of having to wait until we came in close contact with the enemy before we could fight as in those Roman days, we used to get shelled at 18 kilos, with what we called sea bags, 6” to 10” shells.

Not very pleasant things to hear traveling through the air. Fellows used to say they sounded like a Ford with a loose rim, but I’ll take a ride in the Ford anytime as a preference. I have a lots of experiences to tell about “bon” and “par bon” places, but this letter is just to give you a little of my three months in France now that the lid is off, the more exciting things will have to wait until I see you personally in order to make the experiences effective. I have to tell things, which the Censor even now would not allow.

I was sworn in on June 9, 1918. August 17th our Replacement Co. landed in Brest, France. We came over on the German Cruiser, “Von Steuben”, the Crown Prince owned. It was a fine boat, mounted with 18 guns. Our trip was the best ever. It took us nine days to make the trip from N.Y. The betting was 20 to 1 that we wouldn’t arrive, because it was the last of three boats they wanted to get, but we didn’t even sight a “U”. At Brest, we went to a rest camp, one of Napoleon’s old training quarters to rest a week, but it proved to be a week of hard labor at the docks. Here we were furnished with the necessary articles of war and the dope was that we would train for a month or two in Modern Warfare behind the lines within hearing distance of the big guns, and gradually work up to the front. This is what really happened. From Brest, we were piled into box cars, jammed so that we had to take turns at sitting and standing. We rode for two days and three nights, canned tomatoes, “Monkey Meat”, and bread being our rations three times a day and once or twice we stopped for hot coffee. We finally landed in the outskirts of the Metz Sector and to our surprise we hiked all night, joining our several companies in the early morning somewhere behind the battle line. 

The next day we spent in preparation for the coming battle. That night we spent in the woods already for the Boche. At 1 o’clock midnight Uncle Sam’s big naval guns started thundering their messages to Kaiser Bill’s forces. This was where the Boche learned something about an American barrage and American efficiency. The 5th and 6th Reg. of Marines, the 9th and 23 rd infantry make up the 2nd Division, all regulars and enlisted men. A Division that has been cited more than any other American Division in France. We were backed by the famous Rainbow Div. the 42 nd , the 89 th and several others.

At the dawn of the day we started over. We expected a lot of resistance, but I guess Heinie thought all hell had broken loose when our barrage opened up and those that were captured were very happy. They were standing with arms uplifted, officers and men alike ready to be taken captive. It all proved to be a walk-away. We were on this front nine days. From there we went to Champagne, where we fought under the French. Here we took the famous Blanc Mont in the Argonne Woods, a regular beehive of machine guns. We were here for ten days, “Par bon sector”, but always victorious. 

Then, the last and final drive, also purely American. We routed Heinie out of France and they are still running. Soon we’ll have them all over on the other side of the Rhine. This last barrage was terrible. We covered 29 Kilos in two days, chased the Heinies in motor trucks and made them so thankful that they who escaped celebrated even more than we did when the armistice was signed.

I went out as far as Luxemburg with the company, but here I had to drop out. I had just been issued new English shoes and any of the boys that have been over here will tell you what they are like. There is a young iron heap on the heel and toe of each boot, and then they are as stiff as a board. My feet had six blisters on them. These broke and my feet started to swell up so that I could hardly walk. That together with bronchitis ever since September 1st put me in a hospital for a week now, and spent Thanksgiving here and am all fixed up again with the exception of my throat, which is still hoarse.

We got a wonderful welcome in Belgium. I could cover pages telling about our receptions at various times, but I presume that you have read all about it in the papers. Now the only thing that worries us is when we are going home.

Ove

Ove and Jeanette

Following my high school graduation, I lived the summer of 1970 with my grandparents in Harwich Port on Cape Cod. During that summer, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, and Ove at age 80 would live another ten years. Each morning he’d begin the day by placing the American flag outside his weathered-shingle cottage. If inclement weather came, he’d bring the flag inside, and every evening towards sunset he’d retire the flag to the living room coat closet. 

As patriotic as he was, I wondered why he did not wish to attend the weekly evening band concerts at the gazebo in Harwich center or on July 4th view the parade and nighttime fireworks in Chatham. I now realize he participated in the grand Marine Corps Victory Parade on 12 August 1919, down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC and past President Wilson’s reviewing stand. Later that evening at Quantico he heard the best patriotic concert hours before he was released from the Marine Corps. 

The Marine Goes Home

Most certainly throughout the war he witnessed his share of explosions, flares, and “bombs bursting in air.” At some point in his life his cherished 38”x7” framed panoramic photos of the entire 5th Marine Regiment outside the U.S. Capital after the parade and another similar-size photo of his 66th Company that he was so proud of, were relegated to the attic along with other memorabilia. With occasional nightmares, his desire was to put the war in the back of his mind, as he suffered shell shock (PTSD). Therefore, out of full respect only, I did not ask questions to pry into his past. Still, facing these hardships, throughout his life Ove remained physically and mentally strong, and I always thought of him as a grand Marine.

Major

My grandmother, father, and two aunts did not have any war stories to share. Since Ove did not wish to talk of the war, I was always curious as to why he named his dog “Major” in the late 1930s when WWII was blazing in Europe. It was Major, who slept on my dad’s empty bed for several years, while my dad was serving in WWII with the U.S. Army in the Pacific Theater. Around 2009 I became  convinced the dog was named to honor Major Hamilton. This was my original puzzle piece in figuring out that I was meant to write a biography of the man I came to believe was the greatest American hero of World War I—Ove's 1st Battalion commanding officer, USMC Major George W. Hamilton.

[Editor's Note: In a future article, Mark Mortensen will share with us how he came to understand that Major Hamilton is one of our nation's most outstanding warriors.]