MEMORIES IN COMBAT BOOTS

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MEMORIES IN COMBAT BOOTS

BY

TOM MEYLOR

The total casualties for the 29th Infantry Division in the 2nd World War were 20,324

NOTE: ALL OF THIS BOOK WAS EDITED AND COMPLETELY SELF-PUBLISHED BY TOM'S BROTHER, STANLEY MEYLOR. THIS TASK TOOK ALMOST ONE YEAR. THIS WAS STAN'S THANKS TO TOM FOR HIS(TOM'S) SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY.




CONTENTS

DEDICATION 6

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 6

FORWARD 8

EDITOR'S FORWARD 9

THE BEGINNING 15

OVERTHERE 20

FROM THE BEACH 36

UP TO THE FOXHOLES 40

SPORTSPLATZ 47

WATCH ON THE ROER 53

SPRING 56

UP TO THE ELBE 64

THE ELBE AND BEYOND 68

BERLIN 74

TO ZONE INTERIOR 83

DEDICATION

I would like to remember my parents, Edward and Amanda Meylor, who brought me into this world. Little did they know that before I was to face life, I would face pain and death? This brought untold anguish, worry and pain to them and my brothers and sister.

I would like to thank them for their patience and support upon my arrival home from overseas, and there continued support in all the years afterward.

I would also like to remember my first wife, Eileen, who brought five children into the world for me. The continued support during my times of trial when I probably didn’t understand my pain and anger myself was beyond all expectations. I love them all.

To my second wife, Donice, who helped raise those children and helped me to express my thoughts and feelings and get some of these ideas written down, I thank her and love her.

All of these people who are close to my heart have helped me to grow and escape some of the pain of two years of service to my country.


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Thanks to my wife, Donice, for assistance and encouragement in getting my thoughts and feelings down on paper.

My brother, Stanley, has been especially helpful in encouraging me to continue putting down my thoughts and feelings. He has also been instrumental in getting the information set up on the computer.

My brother, Danny, has been very helpful in encouraging me to continue on with the story and giving some direction to the process.

My daughter, Elizabeth has assisted in editing a part of the story.






FORWARD

My story begins 50 years ago. Part of my story was written in England and mainland Europe in 1944.

The rest of the story was written in more recent years as a result of questions and conversations with an army buddy, Edwin “Mac” McIntosh, whom I trained with and served with in Co. B, 115th Infantry, and 29th Division. His quest for his story started much earlier than mine. I found that his memory of things covered a broader spectrum.

My memory covered a more limited area and depending on circumstances was seen from a different perspective. To many people who were not there, the different stories do not seem plausible. I can assure you that many stories can be told about the same incident. The stories are all true as each individual's emotions dictated.

The incidents I have written about are as I felt them and recall them, those that were burned into mind and soul.

I did not write down everything because it would be a monotonous account of rain, mud, freezing, snow and endless fear in primitive conditions. A lot of time was spent staring out into the blackness or artificial moonlight of the night. The
trees and bushes would begin to move around. Thoughts of home and questions would come to mind. Why was I there, trying to destroy someone? Could I avoid being killed so that I could see my family again?

In spite of the inhuman conditions, and the seeming desire of civilization to reach its lowest level, individual heroism and concern that went unnoted, for the most part, by members of one’s squad, platoon, and company, were as much as Christ expected of himself. Every man was a hero to have joined in a common effort for the good of all in the face of almost certain death.


It must be noted that the families and loved ones who did not physically participate suffered the emotional pain and worry for their loved ones. In many respects this was even more difficult. Each of us there, at the worst, knew where we stood.

The writing of my story has helped to draw forth some of the pain and put this pain in another medium. Although the memories will never cease, I believe I have been partially successful.


EDITOR'S FORWARD:

THE APARTMENTS ON FOXHOLE STREET

"At the edge of Bourheim we were dropped off at our foxholes.”

For some reason these innocent sounding words stood out more in my imagination than even some of the more horrendous scenes and events described in this book.

How do you “drop a person off” at a foxhole? Does the commander say to the 8by8 truck driver, “Just drop this soldier off at 7856 Hell Street, Foxhole #47, and make sure that he has soft bath towels and some clean underwear every day. Also make sure his foxhole has fresh rain water and stir up the soil at the bottom daily so he can place his feet in it at night for quiet meditation?”

To understand the reality of the foxhole, I think we have to listen to Tom's own words:

FOXHOLES

"In January of ‘45 the temperatures plunged to 20 degrees below zero. To survive was getting more complicated. We had four men on our outpost. We had a residence fox hole, a watch foxhole and an outside sleeping foxhole. The residence foxhole was covered and had a stove. We could rotate one man in the covered foxhole, two guys on watch, while one man tried to sleep in the glazed coffin- like hole with the snow drifting in. I was never so dammed cold in my life.

After so long a time some guys got trench foot, which was the result of long term cold and wet. It incapacitated those that got it. We tried to keep our feet dry by changing our socks every day.

Getting trench foot was serious. The powers that be inferred that getting this was an act of cowardice.

Sleeping in the outside hole was a special challenge. The walls were glazed with ice. I never really slept. The snow drifted into the hole, and it was unbearably cold. If I did go to sleep, I must have wiggled my toes in my sleep.

It was now the middle of January and it had been two months since I had a change of clothes or a shower. We smelled awful. We waited until after dark, if possible, to heed the call of nature. It was a miserable process.
Most of the time we had K-rations. Some days not even that."

How could those who were at home ever know what it was really like? We poured over the maps of the fronts; the movements of armies, but we never really even knew where Tom was, besides how he felt. We read Ernie Pyle, searched the faces of soldiers in pictures in Life. Struggled to get some slim idea from the pictures of Bill Mauldin, but we really didn’t have a clue as to what his war was like.

We, at home, could only wonder. At the end of the day, I still went to a warm, safe bed.

One day Frank Burch and another fellow came into the yard in the Marcus Co-op gas truck. Frank had this telegram in his left hand as he started to get out of the truck. He stopped on the running board when he saw my Dad about ten feet away. Behind me I heard the window above the kitchen sink open, and I knew without looking that my mother was leaning as near to that screen as she could, waiting. What followed was one of those “frozen moments” of silence that one never forgets.

Finally Frank broke the silence; “It’s O.K., Amanda. It’s O.K., Ed. He was wounded. He was only wounded.” Frank didn’t really know what that meant; “...only wounded.”

Sometime after Tom came home from the war, he, Jerry and I went southeast of Marcus to go fishing at a little pond right near a country dirt road. It was a cold and dreary overcast day.

Jerry and I were on the side of the pond away from the road, and Tom was on the side near the road. We were all pretty focused on the fishing when an ancient Model-A Ford putted down the road behind Tom and backfired. Tom hit the ground hard and dug his hands into the dirt so hard that if we would have tried to pick him up, I believe that the very earth would have come off its axis. It took Jerry and I some time, patting Tom on the back gently and saying over and over, “It’s only an old Model-A backfiring," before he let go of the ground and came back to us.

From that “frozen moment” on, I have often wondered what it must have been like to be in a foxhole, and whether, perhaps, every night, every moment, might have had its “frozen moments”, that, strung together, stretch out to the ongoing “now” and perhaps, any future “now”.

This book has given me some insight, small in comparison to Tom’s experience, but I'm happy to be this much a part of this book.——Stan Meylor. Editor


After Thoughts: October 1989 by Tom


Very early in the morning I re-read some of the accounts of a few days of my life. The thoughts again race through my mind, amazed at all the faces and names I can’t remember. I am puzzled as to why I was one of those to return home.

It has taken me about 45 years to get this down on paper. The story is based on what I can remember.

I am still not able to convey the full range of emotions I experienced. I still think about the war and the guys that were killed or those that I never saw again.

The pain and suffering of those at home was greater than I understood until recent years. When the Western Union person appeared at the doorstep of a service man’s family, it brought fear to their hearts.

I learned much later that one of my brothers or sister intercepted the message that I was only wounded. This was my family’s second telegram.

I was brought up as a God-fearing Christian of the Catholic faith, to accept a belief that there is a Greater Power. Though I have no problem with religion and the goals to keep the world from going completely insane, my attitude towards organized religion was changed that day in February 1945. It hasn't made sense to go through all the ritual and posturing to make contact with our Higher Power. It seems that everyone talks about the proper thing, but they seem to go through all these things as if they are afraid to encounter their God directly. As I watched that bomb expand, cutting down so many young men, I could only think that I could be watching the end of my life. I could only think that I was dealing face to face with my God, and to this day I basically feel that is the way it should be. To reconcile my feelings with how others feel about it seems to create confusion in my mind. In spite of all this, I still practice my Catholic faith.

I probably felt deep down that I had what could be described as a near death experience. I was at peace and did not feel any concern about surviving beyond that point. In recent years I find that my experience does not fit what has been written about this subject.

For me it was difficult to come home. I was afraid that I would cause my family more pain and suffering. I found things in real life didn’t make much sense. (What is real life?)

I feel as though I was cheated. Most of my life I’ve experienced severe headaches. I had to operate within some defined boundaries or I couldn't handle it. I could always tell when I was about to explode, but I couldn’t do any thing about it. This then made me feel fewer worthies.

I thank God I had a family who accepted me and continued to support me during those tough years.

Many experienced painful times during the war years and still carry the scars. They continue to suffer in silence. I pray they can find peace.


THE BEGINNING

I was in high school when we started becoming aware of the real problem in Europe. One of the first things I remember was the news- reel that showed the invasion of Prussia. From then on Germany kept over-running country after country. We didn’t have the benefit of TV then so it was usually a long time before the news showed up in the papers and on the newsreels.

Germany had developed a highly mobile form of warfare with tanks and planes. They moved with such swiftness that left the overrun countries in a state of shock.

As time progressed, fellows older than I was being mobilized. They were going off to far away places to train to be pilots, soldiers and sailors. Everyone knew that the people of this country were going to face trying times. The rationing of sugar, gasoline, coffee and many other things had started. The government was
Requesting that all-out food production begin. Many people left our hometown to work in the shipyards and the airplane plants. The country was racing, desperately, to become fully prepared to assist England, France and the overrun countries. The United States was preparing for all-out war.

This was an opportune time. Our country was not too far removed from the great depression. There was a lot of available labor. They could go to work; they could go to war!

Everyone was worried about the future of his or her loved ones. They knew that some of those that had to go to face the enemy would not come home.

I was at a school function, still 17, when the word came. The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. This was a great shock. We would have to go to the service to face God knows what.


The attack on Pearl Harbor drew the country together to exert greater effort to prepare for the coming years.

During the next years, the word came back that a friend had been killed in Italy or the Pacific or wherever our men were in the service of their country.

In February 1944, I was inducted into the army at Camp Dodge, Iowa. The train ride to Camp Dodge was a lonely one. I was wondering what would happen. I was soon processed to go out to Camp Roberts, California; my first long trip to anywhere.

It was hard to believe that such a large camp was already built. Thousands and thousands of trainees were there to learn some of the skills that might be needed. It was quite an experience to meet all the different people from all over the country.

I took my training in Infantry Intelligence and Reconnaissance. This training emphasized the methods of acquiring information, familiarization with weapons, the enemies, and ours and learning about enemy organizational structure. We spent a lot of time infiltrating other units in the field. I always expected to have a rattlesnake looking me in the eye.

Training was soon over. We were told that if we were attached to the same kind of outfit, most of us would be dead in six months.

I was given a delay in route to Ft. Meade, Maryland, to visit my home and family. It was a sad day when I had to leave because we all knew that I might not be back. What I remember most about that parting was my Dad saying, “Give em Hell.”


OVERTHERE: To England, 1944


The following was written in England in 1944, shortly before going to France.

Well everybody, I'm going to start my story a little before the censors went to work, so I couldn't tell you every thing that was going on. Of course, this began actually when I was inducted. My preparation for overseas really began at Fort Meade, Maryland. It was a nice camp close to Washington D.C. and Baltimore, Md. The last pass that I had in the USA was to Washington. I went up to see some of the kids from home that were working there. It was swell seeing them again and I enjoyed myself. They asked me to come back again if I got a chance, but I knew that I probably wouldn’t be back again for a long time and I was right.

We had a little additional training. I particularly want to recall that I was given a BAR (Browning automatic Rifle). It was heavy, lacked sights. I was using it in a simulated attack on a town with house to house fighting. (As will later be seen, this will have some significance.)

A few days later we pulled out on a troop train loaded down with all new equipment some in our packs and some in our duffel bags. (I can still smell the odor of that equipment after almost 50 years, but I would not be able to describe it exactly.) I didn’t have a weapon issued yet.

We passed through some nice green country on the way to the P.O.E. (Port of Embarkation) Camp Kilmer, New Jersey. This Camp is close to Brunswick, New Jersey.

Here is where they really started getting down to brass tacks. The mail was now being censored going out. We naturally didn’t get any mail from home. I was issued a carbine, more equipment. There was boat drill and a dozen other things. This is what they called final processing and
took about 48 hours.

I was there a few days longer and at night we could go to all the shows at the Kilmer Bowl. The last afternoon we were there, the floorshow from the Latin Club was staged for US. It was very good. The girls were all dressed up in flamboyant costumes with a lot of feathers and headdress. They performed with enthusiasm.

We were rolled out of bed long before daylight the next morning for a good breakfast. By the time it got light we were on the train. The band played “Over There” and some other stirring music as the train pulled out. I know that it brought a lump into the throats of lots of guys. I know it did mine, for I was beginning to realize that home and country would be far behind me.
As we passed through the towns and by the plants, all the people waved at us, sort of a last farewell. It did help my spirits. I know.

We detrained on the Jersey side and took a long ferry ride up the river to the New York side and got off at one of the piers where the larger ships were tied up. On the left side of the pier was the Queen Mary. We were speculating whether we’d get on it, or the one on the right. (When I speak of we I am referring to McIntosh, Matson, Radin and myself. We all trained together and ironically we were all wounded and survived. Some of the others that we knew did not survive.)

We ended up on the one on the right. It turned out to be the Ille de France. No small boat. I later learned that it was the third largest ship in the world.

This was the 15th of August, 1944. We were the advance party, thus had work lined out for us on the trip over. Our Platoon got K.P. and the bunch I was in got in on serving the chow.

I could see the Empire State building from where I was. It sorta stands out like a lone tree on a hill.

About 10 bells the little old tugs began moving us out into the channel. We were soon underway. I saw the Statue of Liberty slip by through a C Deck porthole. I wondered when I would enjoy again the liberty for which she stands and when I would see her again.

The ship passed out through the sub-marine nets. We were soon at sea. A blimp was hovering the first day but it wasn’t seen after that. The ocean was quite calm and it was a nice day. The ground swells increased as we hit the open sea. The ship was always zigzagging—the only protection that it had, plus its speed. We were on our own.

Only two meals a day were served. It was some mighty poor chow. The Limeys were doing the cooking and I guess, with 12,000 men to feed, it would have been a problem anyhow. We were supposed to have that job for the whole crossing. It didn’t take long for the powers to be to change this. Some Navy boys took over every other day. That constant stink would’ve made me plenty sick. At least we were two decks above the water line.

Some events that I didn’t write about originally but can belatedly, were these: Most every-one got terribly seasick, as everyone said, "At first you thought you were afraid you were going to die and later you were afraid you weren’t." The guys would come through the chow line and they couldn’t tell the gravy from the pudding, so the servers, including me, would end up putting the pudding on the potatoes if they lingered too long. Everyone was on the verge of vomiting or did. One day the ship was rolling as far as it could go each way. The waves were coming over the bow so the ship was also pitching terribly.

The cooks were preparing corned beef. On one roll all the pans started sliding off the counter and the contents spilling into the scuppers. The cook picked the meat out of the slop and through it back into the pans. You can imagine how that affected my appetite. The eggs were boiled in a big steamer; most of them were a deep green when they were opened. It was claimed that the Limeys brought rotten food from England, fed that to the troops and kept the good food to take back to England.

Bing Crosby was on the ship. I got to see him sing and do his show for us. The one Sunday at sea, I met him coming from Mass as I was going to a later one.

Every morning there was boat drill to prepare for potential torpedoes. On one of those mornings, I had just gotten into my bunk. The bells started to ring and the whole ship seemed to move under me. I thought we had been torpedoed. As it turned out it was gun drill with a live load.

There were only a couple of rough days. (We went just south of Iceland.) I sure would not have wanted to be on a smaller ship as one of those days the waves broke over the bow which was at least forty feet above the water line. The days were a lot colder for we were a long ways north. The days also got longer but complete blackout was observed every night.

Finally nine days later on the morning of the 24th of August, we saw a semblance of land again, just small barren rocky islands which jut out from Northern Ireland. They started getting greener and sure made me feel good.

That morning, I saw my first convoy, heading back to the States. There were all kinds of ships including aircraft carriers. They kept coming by for hours.


We entered the Firth of Clyde. It wasn’t until afternoon that we could see both sides of the firth at one time. It’s really beautiful here. The submarine net was opened for us and we were ready to anchor offshore. There were a few small towns onshore. As these came into view everyone rushed to one side of the ship to get a better look, as a result the ship listed to a scary point. There were several battlewagons and flattops there too. During the night both the Queens had anchored. Lots of men were coming in.

The following morning we disembarked to a series of small boats and were taken to the dock at the railhead town of Juroku, not too far from Glasgow. We were here in Europe! We were loaded on to those compartment rail coaches, while the English Red Cross girls passed out coffee and doughnuts. I could see then and there that the U.S. had some pretty girls.

One could tell that these Islands had been subject to war for the blackout was perfect. It was dark as pitch at night. Some places were splattered by bombs. We passed Coventry in the daylight and about all that was left standing was most of the large historical church.

On the 26th of August, 1944, we were off-loaded from the train and taken to Camp Stapley, a small little place, and formed into a group. We who had trained in the States as cooks, clerks, Intelligence and Reconnaissance were to be given more training as riflemen. That’s where we were lucky because some of the boys went right straight to France and saw action a few days later.

It wasn't very far to the zone of action, so I thought then. Just a hundred miles. There was a lot of activity around Camp Stapley in the week I was there. It was new and interesting, all except for the bad days. At almost daylight the Spitfires would roar out from their base about a mile away. It was amazing to see these planes scattered in small meadows always ready to streak out to meet the German planes and buzz bombs.

The B-24s were always around. The C-47’s could be seen towing gliders, practicing for the next action. The most impressive day was the drop on Arnhem. The vast armada seemed to go on for hours.

It sure rained a lot in England. I wouldn’t care for that weather myself.

We moved on to Warminster Barracks in Wiltshire. It was here that our six weeks training program really began, but nobody put much heart in the training. Every one thought the war would be over soon. In the last few weeks of training we realized that the war would continue on. Fleets of bombers and gliders were a usual occurrence and they were going to only one place: the mainland of Europe.

While in Warminster I did get an evening pass to Bath. All these English towns seem strange to most Americans. The streets are narrow and then, of course, black as ink at night. The pubs are generally small places. One has to cultivate a taste for their beer. It is really strange how much difference there is in their speaking. Some, one can understand and others it’s almost impossible.

As at all replacement depots chow was terrible here too. They couldn’t even keep the water hot in the garbage cans. In just a little while there was a layer of grease on the top of the water. After eating, every one was expected to wash their mess kits by sloshing them around in hot soapy water and then rinsing in another can. No one seemed to give a dam and as a result most us of spent a lot of time at the latrine. Actually it was a disgrace to the American Government.

There was a tank track through the middle of the tent where I slept, so there was usually water running through the tent.

The training that stuck in my mind was the 1000 inch range with a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle). I learned how to assemble and disassemble this weapon. I also got to fire the rifle about 10 times at a little target 1000 inches away. A real deal (I was later to become an assistant BAR man).

There were eight men sleeping in my tent. Almost every night one of us would have night K.P. Working from both ends we managed to get a little to eat. One night Mac was on and he handed Pete and me a gallon of stuff out the back of the mess hall. We took off. Getting caught could have been serious. Pete and I dug a hole and put the gallon of stuff in it covered it with a board and set one of the legs of a cot on that. The next morning we got ready to share the spoils. We found we had a gallon of catsup. What a laugh on us. We mixed some with water and drank it anyhow.

After the training was over, a few passes were given to London. I was one of the lucky ones to go. The pass was only for 36 hours. The trains ran funny and no one got excited if they were an hour late, as that one was that day. It was raining as usual when I got into London about noon. I took off to the Main Club at Rainbow Corner to find out where I would stay that night. I needed to get there before dark so I’d know where I was. The tour from the Red Cross had already left, so I took off on my own by foot and on those queer looking double decker buses.

I never did get into the habit of looking the opposite direction from what I did in the States. So I would find myself about to be run over from an unexpected direction.

The first interesting place I came across after I left the Rainbow Corner on Piaccdilly Circus was Trafalgar Square. This is where Nelson’s column stands. He was a great naval hero.

After deciding which of the many streets to take, I found the Parliament and Big Ben, which were located on the famous Thames. It was raining cats and dogs, but I decided to cross the river on foot by going across the Westminster Bridge. By the time I made the return trip, I was soaked to the skin and cold, but satisfied.

I was able to get dry again in my inspection of Westminster Abbey. This was England’s most famous church. Many centuries of architecture are to be found here. Some of the inscriptions I noted dated back to 1060, commemorating people who died in the time of one of their plagues. Most of the windows were blown out from the blitz. The building itself was not seriously damaged. The entire floor is of stone. At one time there were inscriptions on each of these blocks. Over a long period of time and thousands of feet, almost all of the evidence was worn away. It was perrty dark and it seemed cold, too, as I sauntered along reading offthe names of famous people and wondering about those that I couldn’t read.

By the time I left, the rain had stopped and the dead leaves of fall were drifting down and blowing around among the statues, columns and monuments. I found one of Abraham Lincoln not far from the Abbey. It was a pleasant surprise to find this so far away from home.

There is something about a late fall damp day with the falling leaves blowing around that I felt that day, but I really can’t put it into words.

As I strolled down Birdcage Walk, I wondered why it was called that. There were still a few flowers blooming in a little park on my right, and two snow-white swans were peacefully gliding around on a small pond that was there.

At the end of the narrow street it turns to run along the other side of the park under a different name. The street spreads out over a large area. In the center of it sets a beautiful white stone monument from New Zealand and behind these sets Buckingham Palace. It amazed me that it was so simple. The flag was flying that day which indicated that the King was there.

From the Palace I headed back along the other side of the little park, on what I believe they called the Maas, to St. James Palace. I gathered this palace was constructed further back in the ages, for each window had its individual balcony. It was here I left the Maas to go back to Rainbow Corner.

On the way I passed offices of the steam-ship lines which still had some of their prewar travel advertisements hanging in the windows.
The devastation from buzz bombs and airplanes was just hard to believe. These people suffered for so many long months.

I had a bite to eat at the Red Cross and took it easy for awhile. When I left to go to the show, it was dark already. The narrow streets didn’t help matters any. After I crossed the Circus and looked back, I said to myself, “Which one of those streets did I come from?” The theater was very nice but they must pay a lot of taxes because they were charging 4 1/2 shillings. That’s about 90 cents for a western show but at least it ran straight through. Not like a GI show when they change reels a couple of times during the show.

On my way back to the Club I took the wrong street and was lost for a bit. I started over and soon got the right street. I was confronted by one of the Picaddily Commandos. God, was she ugly. I soon escaped and made it back to the

I crawled into the bunk and between white sheets for the first time in three months. There was not one damn drop of water running under my bed either. It really was wonderful.

The next morning I got up, for a change, after it started to get light. No one was hollering at me. I ate breakfast and stepped out on a peaceful street. It was going to be a beautiful day but I was on my way back to the train station to ride back to camp in those separate compartments that are so common on English trains. Always back to that damnable mud. How I hated it.

Yep, I made it to London. As I came down between the tents one of my buddies told me there would be no more passes. We would be heading to France! Yes, things were looking rougher all the time.

*You will note "pertty" is misspelled. My folks said they always knew that I wrote the letter because of the way I spelled that word.


To France-October 1944

After our training in England, the next destination the mainland of Europe — France.

The thought of this gave all of us a sickening feeling in our hearts. We had already adjusted to harsher living conditions and wondered if it could get much worse.

We were transported to Southampton, a port on the English Channel, arriving in the dark of the night to load on this fair sized ship.

We were burdened down with full combat gear. As we plodded up the gangplank, the searchlights were stabbing into inky black sky. Every once in awhile a German plane would be caught in the beam of light, then another search light would pick him up. Soon the anti-aircraft tracers went arching up towards the plane. Some of the shells getting near, others falling off, seeming to die in the sky. The guns were a long ways away, as there was no sound. A strange sort of experience.

There were some LSTs (landing ship tanks) and a lot of smaller craft on the water. The ship we boarded was a cargo vessel. Our group along with many others were sent down into the bowels of the ship. It was dirty and black. The last cargo must have been coal. There were no portholes! We had no idea where we would land but it was supposed to be a short trip and we’d be off loaded soon. In the early morning we were on our way, rocking and rolling. What a sick feeling.

In a few hours the engines stopped; apparently we had arrived someplace. The ship continued to buck like a bronco.

I got to see a bit of topside as I was detailed to get the breakfast ration for a group of eight men. I went up to the door of the galley with my little bucket and some guy stuck his arm out the door and tossed eight beady eyed smoked fish and a portion of hard bread into my small bucket. The fins and tail were still on the fish. Really appetizing! As it turned out we got this ration twice a day for five days.

There were no showers or even a place to wash up. We didn't even take our clothes off. As it turned out a shower or change of clothes was not to be for a couple of weeks. It was a good thing that we were outside most of the time.

We continued to pitch and roll, and the word was that the sea was just too rough to unload. Still makes me sick thinking of these days.

Even though the seas seemed to be rolling fiercely, the powers that be decided they couldn’t wait any longer. We were going to disembark. They were using small landing craft to take us ashore. The shore looked a long way off. While I was waiting, I could look around and see the artificial sea wall they made by sinking ships and concrete things to make a harbor so that the June 4, 1944, D-day invasion could be accomplished.

The waves from the Channel were crashing over this sea wall. In places the ocean had washed out gaps that allowed the sea to come rushing into the shore. There were also many destroyed ships and other craft that lay in all directions inside and outside the harbor.

Just beyond the shore’s edge were the high cliffs that seemed to tower up from the beach. There was still a lot of debris scattered on the beach such as barbed wire, tanks, trucks and guns. We were told that we were landing on Omaha Beach.

It was soon my turn to try to get on the landing craft. Some guys were loading from the gangway and others of us went over the side, down the landing nets with a full pack and rifle.

The landing craft was bobbing up and down crazily in the water. The deck of the craft looked like it was 15 feet below me at its lowest point. I had to time it so that I didn’t fall between the ship and the landing craft and also drop on the deck of the craft just as it started down. There wasn’t too much room for error.

Soon the landing craft was loaded. We started churning away through the gunmetal gray, white capped water.

After a time our craft dropped its ramp. We had arrived on the coast of France!



From the Beach to Germany

The weather was dreary, wet and cold as we assembled to march up the route that only a few months before, so many thousands of men suffered and died securing the beachhead and the imposing cliffs to our front.

Off to our left were stockpiles of ammunition and supplies. These supplies were being loaded onto trucks with a gin pole. A very primitive way of lifting. This again showed the determination and ingenuity that was being used by our people to retake France and destroy the will of the Germans.

In just a short time the Port of Le Havre was to open. This would greatly increase the flow of supplies to the front.

As we topped the cliffs I looked back to view the English Channel’s rolling sea. I wonder now what I was thinking since this sticks in my mind.

To my left front across a wooded valley a huge Military Cemetery had already been established. Rows and rows of white crosses seemed to march endlessly, commemorating those that would never be seen alive by their families and loved ones again.

Somewhere in that area we camped for the night, pitching a two-man pup tent in the rain and mud. We didn’t have anything to eat that night. Just wet and cold.

I can’t seem to remember the masses of soldiers that got off that ship. The next day we loaded onto trucks that were part of the Red Ball Express. We were taken to the Carentan railhead. Here we loaded into box cars, 40 hommes ET 8 cheveax. The boxcars looked like miniatures compared to those in the states. These cars were supposed to hold 40 men or 8 horses. They loaded about 44 men into each car.

We were also given a rock hard 1000-calorie D bar that was chocolate. This was supposed to last us for the long slow trip to Holland.

The weather had improved so it was a clear, crisp day.

The locomotive gave a few short tootses signaling that we were about to move out. There was a scramble to re-board the train. We had all our gear and new rifles but no ammunition. There wasn’t room for every one to lie down completely. The roof was full of bullet holes, so when it did rain it was mighty uncomfortable. The train stopped often for bad track or priority trains. Every time the train stopped nearly everyone got off, some to go to the bathroom. Some started a little fire to heat water for coffee or bouillon. At any time "toot", the fire was left burning, guys pulling up their pants trying to make the train.

One time I saw a guy crawling under the boxcar to get to the other side of the tracks. About that time the engineer tooted and started the train. We all scrambled onto the moving boxcar. Someone yelled, "Where’s Pete." (Pete Radin was from Salinas, California and lives near there today). I hollered back that I saw a guy under the train. On the next stop here comes Pete with a sheep-faced grin. He had lain between the tracks under the train, as the caboose passed over him he reached up and grabbed the back end, pulling himself up to get on the train. He scared the hell out of the conductor.

We passed through many destroyed towns such as St.Lo. The French people greeted us waving and yelling, especially as we went through Paris. They threw some bread to us and cheered us on. What a lucky catch if you were the one to catch the bread.
As I look back now it is so hard to believe that almost everyone kept getting back on, when we all knew that some of us would never come back. What a master job ofpsychological brain washing they did on most of us.


Some place along the line the train must have stopped for quite awhile, because we built a fire and melted and burnt the Cosmoline out of the barrel and metal parts of our rifles. It didn’t take long for my rifle to turn brown from rust because of all the rain leaking through the roof.

The M1 Garand rifle was a remarkable weapon. It held eight rounds by virtue of a clip that was inserted into the top of the action. It was a semi-automatic that ejected the clip after the last shot. It could take a lot of abuse under extreme conditions and still operate. I soon polished my rifle up again when I had a chance.

There were still some apples on the trees but most of the leaves were gone. Destruction was all about: twisted tracks, burnt out vehicles and buildings. We were sure glad to get off the train at Heerlen, Holland. It had been five days of starting and stopping with somebody’s knee sticking in one's stomach, a leg lying over you. Can you imagine trying to sleep with a steel helmet still on your head?

We were quartered in a school building, clean and dry. Some of the guys slipped out through holes in the fence to see what was in town. The entry gates were guarded by M.P.s. I don’t know if it was to protect the local citizens from us, or to prevent desertions.

We were on the second story in a room where woodworking was taught. I crawled up on one of the tables to sleep. We were awakened a couple of times by a freight train sound and then the building shook. It was thought that a big railroad gun was being used. Each time we headed for the basement. Later in the night I awoke and everyone was gone. In the morning we learned that part of the top of the building had been blown off.


The next few weeks seem to be blurred as we were moving up. One of the things I remember was going down into an air raid shelter made of logs and boards. I could see some flashes in the distance. It was pitch black inside and I could feel dirt sifting down the back of my neck from the cracks. It seemed like an awful place to get buried. Another time a bunch of us were heating C-rations in our helmets.

Some place near Liege, Belgium we saw our first buzz bombs. The buzz bombs made a loud sputtering noise as they went over. Some-times we could see them. Sometimes we would see them when they shut off. The bomb would nose down immediately and plummet like a rock, shortly there would be a huge explosion and our eight-man tent would jump off of the ground. The scariest ones were those that could not be seen but could be heard, especially those that seemed to be headed towards us and then shut off before they got overhead.

A little fighter plane base had moved into a nearby apple orchard. These were used to support the bombers coming from England. They would set up in a clearing, lay down some perforated steel matting and be ready to fly a mission in short order.

Our next stop: Germany!


Up to the FoxHoles
November and Early December, 1944


On a dreary overcast day near the end of November we left by truck to move closer to the front. We wound our way through the rubble of Aachen, Germany. This city was virtually in ruins. There were a large number of American and German planes in dog fights over Aachen.

We kept moving up. Our forces had nearly penetrated to the Roer River but some pockets of resistance remained. There were a lot of little villages in that area before Julich and those of us that were coming up, would soon hear of Siersdorf, Durboslar, Aldenhoven, Bourheim, Kirchberg, Linzenich Gut, Hasenfeld Gut and the Sportplatz. There had been bitter fighting in many of these places just before I got there and there was much more to come.

The date was approximately November 25, 1944, as Bourheim had just been taken. Night had fallen and it was pitch dark. Somewhere close to Bourheim, we started to move out by foot. We passed through Bourheim very quietly. There were a number of dead Germans lying around: some face down in the mud others staring blankly into the night. I could hear the muffled firings of guns in various areas out toward the front.

At the edge of Bourheim we were dropped off at our foxholes. The one I was assigned to was already a deep hole with a firing step. The hole was mostly covered with boards and dirt. My fellow foxhole buddy and I took turns standing guard.

In the gray dawn I could see the hedgerow in front of me. There was also a guy wire coming down from a pole. I had no idea where the hell the enemy might be. As that thought crossed my mind an artillery shell came in with a hissing whiz-bang. I soon learned it was an 88. That meant it was close. The shorter the whiz the closer it was. There were some Tiger tanks somewhere out front. They rained down a barrage of shells. This was a terrifying experience for new recruits who just came on line. At daylight the shelling quit. I had survived. The guy wire next to the foxhole had been chopped into pieces.

I feel reluctant to write about these episodes. My foxhole buddy was a sergeant. As soon as the shelling started he cringed in the bottom of the hole and cried and moaned like a baby. It almost made me sick and was very unnerving to boot. This was the same sergeant that about 10 days later, I considered pushing into a well as I was leading him to an aid station after the Sportplatz battle. He would never have been found. I probably should not judge him so harshly, but I did and others did. He probably should have been taken out of the line before.

Later that day we had some marvelous ham and eggs out of a K-ration box and some crackers, all of which were cold. We were ready for a new day.

Sometime in the morning I was called upon to go on a patrol to Kirchberg. There were to be two of us. The history indicates that this town was taken on November 27, so it would appear that no one was sure who had the town when we left to find out. We drifted out over the open fields and hill to this town about a mile away.

We entered the town. Most of the buildings were still standing, but the town seemed to be deserted. It was an errie feeling. As we were going down a main street hanging close to the buildings artillery round came in. Shrapnel was whining and buzzing around as it bounced off the walls of the houses. It just didn't seem too bad. However we knew that we had been observed at some point but the Germans had chosen not to expose themselves too much. We didn’t waste too much time there and headed back without further incident.

The snow soon came and we were to live with that for most of the winter.

On one of the first days up on the line, several men bailed out of a B-25 American bomber, out to our front in no-mans land. The bomber was trying to make it back behind the lines. The pilot bailed out just as the plane went down. The plane immediately exploded in flames. The pilots chute was strung out but not enough to break his fall. The pilot and parachute were enveloped in flames. Another man gave his life for his crew and his country.

We next moved down on the railroad tracks near Linzenich Gut and, of course, Tom got picked again to go on some more combat patrols. I never could understand how I seemed to be among the groups that got to go on these. One night we made a patrol to the Roer River, black as the Ace of spades, cold and dreary. We made contact with an outpost that Mac was on.
The outpost was right at the end of the Catacombs. These were a series of tunnels built by Julius Caesar’s Legions. What a scary place to be. Parts of these tunnels were also occupied by German soldiers from time to time.

Our leader was a short, wry, part Cherokee Indian sergeant. I don't remember his name. Something must have happened to him later on because I don't remember seeing him after going on those patrols.

We were swinging back to complete the patrol, going up the Aldenhoven-Julich road, when the Germans shot up green parachute flares that lit up the whole area. The shadows were dancing around wildly. We had hit the road and were looking for surprises. It was really hard to tell what was what.

We started moving up the road again. I was the tail end man, watching the sides and the rear. I heard a noise and tried to contact the man ahead of me with a muffled yell but the rest of the patrol kept moving on. By this time I was prone and alone as the sounds of marching feet approached me.

I had no idea that might be coming. It was very possibly an enemy patrol. They were oblivious to my presence, and if they had been able to, they would have found that I had the drop on them and that they were looking down my gun barrel. Of course I would have been able to get only one or two shots off before I’d have a hand grenade tossed at me. Things were getting very tense. What should I do? I could barely see them as I called out the password a couple of times. In a way this was stupid and risky as I had exposed myself to either a positive response or a burst from a German burp gun.

Fortunately the leader responded with the password. All of us scared as hell. I never even knew what outfit they were from. These situations were always touchy, because the enemy could have had the password.

I am sure that a lot of GI’s were killed accidentally under these circumstances. It took a cool head and nerve to run the risk as I did. Sometimes it would have been better to shoot first and ask questions later. Shooting however would have brought down mortar or artillery fire. Lying exposed on that frozen snow covered road probably would have meant death. I guess the Good Lord had his hand on my shoulder.

Now I had to join up on the last man of my patrol without getting shot by him.
It seemed that being on line for such a short time I ended up being 1st scout or bringing up the rear, both exposed positions. I needed to get smarter. After one patrol we got into the Company C.P. where they had a little fire and it was nice and warm. It was for a critique. The warmth felt
wonderful. At the end of one patrol, I heard one member of our patrol say that Meylor seemed not to be afraid. That really scared me because I knew I'd be tested further. I don’t know how I did it, but I didn’t go on another patrol for a long time.

We stayed along the railroad tracks for a time. I remember disassembling and cleaning my Garand rifle, spreading it out on my share of a pup tent, in all its many pieces. I wondered what I would do if we were attacked or shelled.

About the 2nd of December elements of the 29th Division started their attacks on the Sportplatz. Every night this went on. The rumble of guns, small arms fire, and the flashes reminded one that there was a war on. We hoped that someone would take this pocket of resistance soon.

We moved over to Koslar to get into position. We were digging in just outside of town when I saw a mortar round hit between four of us, Mac was one of the group. It made a hole in the ground, but did not go off.

This was the time that I had Chutnicutt as a foxhole buddy. He helped dig the hole but he would sleep on guard. He didn’t worry, but I did. The thought of getting my throat cut in my sleep didn’t appeal to me.

One disgusting thing Mac and I saw in Koslar were two big sows eating the guts out of two dead Germans. I cannot put words together that can express my revulsion.

On the morning of December 8, 1944 our turn came. We jumped off before dawn. My platoon was to make the frontal assault on the Sportplatz.

From November 23, 1944 to December 31, 1944, the 115th Regiment had 115 men killed in action, 577 wounded in action and 34 missing in action, for total causalities of 746.


SPORTPLATZ, December 8, 1944. Written 12-4-88


On a cold pre-dawn morning, Company B 115th Infantry 29th Division got ready for the final attack on the Sportplatz, just across the Roer river from Julich, Germany.

Units of the 29th Division had attacked on the previous six nights without success. We could see and hear the artillery fire. The sky was ablaze from time to time. I thought of the summer thunder storms that looked so dangerous in the night sky when I was home.

As we jumped off from Bourheim, it was pitch dark and the ground was frozen. We crossed an open field that had been planted to turnips and we learned later, mines.

Fear and apprehension were ripping at our hearts. Each of us again wondered if this was it.

When we approached what appeared to be the remains of a fence, before we entered a pasture, German flares went up to illuminate the area. Machine guns began traversing our line. Soon mortar shells started dropping in on us to discourage our advance. At the next fence hedgerow we really started to take a beating. The shelling became more intense. The 1st Platoon of Company B was composed of about 40 men. I was one of those men. We were assigned to make the frontal assault. A couple of guys, Kentucky and some-one else, were ordered to go in with bangalore torpedoes to blast a hole through the barb wire entanglements and mine fields that might impede our advance. I never saw those men again.

We were pinned down. Dawn would be coming soon. I could barely see a couple of guys to my right and to my left as the shells exploded around us.

I could not crawl forward into a shell hole because I became entangled in the barbed wire. I backed off and tried again. No luck. Off to my right I could see a stream of tracer
bullets poke their way down the hedgerow, hit a metal tank, and ricochet over my head and back. The odor of burnt powder from the exploding shells became more intense. As the battle became more furious, I became calmer. This was really amazing.

Leo Miller, a BAR man (Browning Automatic Rifle), was on my immediate left. I was his assistant and green as grass. Leo was trying to give me a little advice and looking out for me. Miller was from Chicago, married and had a little girl back home. Miller started to tell me something. About that time a mortar shell or something exploded in our faces. I felt something hit my leg like a sledgehammer. All was quiet. I reached out to Miller and called out to him. Miller met his Maker that day, helping those around him.

I don’t know how many others were hit, but we pulled back. Later in the early dawn, we were ordered up again. Lt. John Hatch was urging us on, leading the way. At that point there were twelve men left to participate and eight of us were wounded. I was on the right side of the line and I could see tracer bullets from a machine gun sweep the line. I swear that the bullets went between every man without hitting anyone.

I later learned that we had been directed to the left side of the Sportplatz. As a private, I wasn’t privy to the latest information. Chief Tsossie, an Arizona Navaho, and I were directed to take up positions on the extreme left flank. We were near the Roer on the river bottom. We made a dash out quite a ways in the open, and then had to dig a slit trench foxhole from the prone position. I dug down about two feet to rock and gravel where the water started coming in. I wiggled in like a snake, digging ahead of me as I went.

During the day a few rounds were dropped in on us. The most frightening thing was to hear and see our own dive-bombers aiming for the fortifications across the Roer. I could see the bombs being released from the planes. As these descended and sailed over us, I just knew they had them aimed right at us.

At that time the Army was short of artillery shells and could not use as much as was needed. As a result, more was risked by many this day. Tech Sgt. LaVerne Sackett, well respected by his men, personally directed a tank into position and directed its fire. This heroic effort cost him his life.

As the day wore on I became uneasier because Tsossie and I were in an exposed position. It seemed that a few more shells were coming in and getting closer. The action at the Sportplatz seemed to be lessening. I yelled at Tsossie, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” I jumped up and dashed to the next shell hole. As I slid in, I looked back. An explosion rocked the area. I could see smoke curling up from my recent foxhole. Tsossie was OK. I made it again. Why?

We soon joined our group. The Sportplatz had been taken. As Time Magazine observed in the December 18, 1944, issue, “After a solid week of fighting, the 29th took the pool with bazookas, grenades, bayonets, then wiped out the last resistance at the south end of the oval. The capture had cost more U.S. casualties than the taking of many a German village.”

As night fell, I led two GI's back across the open fields, not knowing the hazards of the mines there. Some men followed the hedgerow or the road back and suffered more that day.

After 12 days on the front, it was obvious that this could be an awful, long war or a very short one.

**************
Miller was a Catholic. On this Feast Day of the Immaculate Conception, I am sure he was already at peace in Paradise.


WATCH ON THE ROER

After the Sportplatz came the long winter of waiting. We moved around a lot on the line. Ever staring out into the blackness of night. Some times it got down to 20 below zero. There was a run of 14 days that I seemed to only get about an hour of sleep a night.

A part of each night each one of us had to curl up in a blanket in a hole under the railroad track. This hole was like an igloo. If I slept at all I must have wiggled my toes in my sleep because they were always on the verge of freezing. Occasionally we made contact with the unit on our left.

One night I was on that detail and got to check in with this soldier on out post. I could not clearly see him but I talked to him. After the war I met a fellow that was from a town neighboring my hometown. During our talking about where we’d been, we concluded that we had made contact with each other that night long ago.

During this time the Germans started a big push to the south of us. This push would become known as the “ Battle of the Bulge.“

Several units were pulled out of our sector to stem the onslaught of the enemy. The 29th was stretched out to an outpost every 100 yards or so. We were shifted to the command of Field Marshall Montgomery. On our immediate north was the Canadian Infantry.

The overcast skies on most days prevented the fighter planes from attacking the German forces that were going into the Bulge. I remember one of the days when the planes got up, we saw an American plane shot down, then the pilot bailed out and we shouted for joy.

At about that time the German fighter made a sweep around and shot the pilot as he was swinging in his parachute, drifting slowly to earth. Could anything be more despicable?

We continued to dig trenches for defense and hoped that we could get moving again. Unfortunately this struggle had to be resolved one way or another.

The little spotter plane would go up to see what he could see. He was usually at treetop height because of the fog. His job was to detect, if possible, any troops and tanks that might be working into the area. German troops dressed as Americans were infiltrating the area and causing a lot of concern. We were all required to wear our gas masks so that we could use this to further identify strangers.

The day the sun finally broke through was a day of jubilation. The fighter aircraft were able to take control of the big guns and blast the tanks.

The Bulge was over and now we could prepare for the big advance. The crossing of the Roer River, the capture of Julich and the push into the heart of Germany!

Spring 1945

After a long, cold winter and delay caused by the Battle of the Bulge, spring was finally close. The day we all knew was coming was now at hand. We had been equipped with shoepacs to keep our feet dry, and enough K rations for a couple of days. I was now a bazooka man. This was a long tube that fired a small rocket and was supposed to be used to knock out a tank. About the best one could expect was to get close enough to disable one of the tracks. Needless to say this was an awesome responsibility with a short life span. In addition I had only fired this weapon about three times. This could be on-the-job training.

In the early hours of predawn February 23, 1945, our group left Koslar, Germany, to cross the Roer River downstream from Julich.

We had been attached to a British Corps under Field Marshall Montgomery. A massive buildup of British Artillery had formed up behind the jump off point; the guns looked like they were hubs to hub. The barrage began. It was deafening and beyond description. Surely no one could survive this.

As Company B, 115th Infantry marched down the road to the jump-off point, other units of the 29th Division were preparing to cross the Roer River by footbridges to get into Julich. Mortar shells and small arms fire were sporadically falling around us and on the road.

I had a tremendous foreboding about this day and had previously written to my family. I am not sure what I wrote, but I am sure that they sensed my deep concerns. Yet I did not want to convey any concern and cause them more anguish. As it developed they did not hear from me for a long time, nor I from them.

We were to cross the river by Alligator. Shortly before we got there Sgt. Harshman from California was hit in the leg. He was smiling as I went by. He had the million dollar wound; he was going home. I never saw him again.

The alligators had been busy that morning. It appeared that there was a lot of open dirty floodwater to cross before we got to opposite shore. We loaded into this vulnerable floating box. I was one of the first on. Already there was blood on the floor from other wounded. Again there was the elevation of fear.

Soon we were clanking away, then a churning as we entered the water. We were progressing slowly. Quite soon it was obvious that there was some kind of difficulty. The effort to get clear across was stopped and the ramp was dropped. Everyone was getting off in a hurry as some of the guys were getting shot before they could get off.

My time came and since I was on the opposite end from the ramp I was determined to exit at high speed, so I thought. I came to the end of the ramp and saw only dirty water before me. I jumped forward one foot and immediately plummeted like a rock for seven feet. Since I was loaded down with a bazooka, six rounds of bazooka ammo, a carbine etc., I hit the water and kept going down for about twelve feet. I could see the light filtering down through the water. No panic. I just let myself go till I hit bottom, then pushed off towards shore and crawled out of the canal.

We were across the Roer River at last, soaking wet, shoepacks full of water.

We were hugging the west bank of the Roer facing the German positions and waiting out the next move, dreading the thought of exposing ourselves again.

Prisoners were being brought back. I heard one of our sergeants tell one of our American soldiers to take the prisoners back across the river to the rear area and be back in five minutes. This sounded like impossibility and still bothers and me to this day.

Another event that stuck in my mind is a wounded GI bleeding from both sides of his neck and his mouth. A medic was working on him, using sulfa drugs and bandages. I assume that a major aid station at that point in the offensive was hours away, but only a mile or so in actual distance.

The danger did not subside but the intense fear seemed to go away. It was always this way every patrol, every attack.

A new report filtered down the line that one of the replacements was just killed in action, so new that he was faceless and nameless in my mind. I got the feeling that everyone felt so sorry for him because he had only been in the army about six months. This feeling was somewhat a contradiction in thinking as I saw it. He only saw real fear for a few days with no suffering. It was over for his family too. Those of us who were still alive had suffered fear for many months, which did not seem so bad since we were still alive. But we never knew if the next second would bring an end to the mud, the wet, the cold, and the uncertainty, the fear and, "God, why was a buddy picked to die and not me

I have learned that after almost 50 years this question has never fully resolved and probably never will be. I believe there was feeling that those of us who endured long periods of combat should not have done so.

While waiting on the Roer River bank I heard a zip, then a sharp slap on my trench knife and then a buzzing in my bazooka. I tipped the bazooka and out fell a shiny rifle bullet. I missed out on the million-dollar wound again.

Toward evening we were ordered to move out, our goal to dig into defensive positions on the high ground.

Colonel Red Johns led the Battalion up out of the Roer Valley to a flat plain. This impressed me very much, a Colonel leading the Battalion.

There again we dug in, a hole about 3 x 3 and about 4 feet deep. An infantry soldier always started digging wherever he stopped. The hole was deep enough to stand up in and still fire your weapon and then be able to get some protection by crouching down if mortars or artillery came in. We dug with a small entrenching tool.

I remember that I had to crawl over and dip water out of a shell hole with my canteen so I could get a drink. The smell of burnt powder was still present and the water had an oily look to it. How I got my hole dug so fast is beyond me.

It was still light yet when the Nebel wefers were being fired from the edge of Mersch and Pattern. We could see the ignition, then a series of swishing sounds; then it was like a hailstorm. The rocket shells fell on top of us. I hugged the bottom of my hole and heard a chunk hit the backside of my foxhole. It went right over my back, a piece big enough to tear a person apart. When the firing stopped we needed to pop our heads up to be prepared for a counter attack.

Sometime before nightfall the story made the rounds that Chutnicutt, an Apache, had just shot an enemy soldier at nearly a mile with a specially designed snipers rifle.

The next day we were pulled back to Julich again. We were headquartered near some paper mill. That night for the lack of a better place to sleep, Mclntosh and I slept in a pile of paper bags. We stuffed paper bags inside our jackets and pants and covered up with the bags so we could keep warm.

The next day February 25, 1945, as I was passing a bombed out church and unbelievably immense bomb craters, I looked up and saw a German plane nearly upon me. The plane was close enough so that I could see the goggles on the pilot's face. The pilot had a very determined expression. I thought he was in trouble because there was no propeller. At about that time he released a bomb that sped towards the British guns across the river. The plane was being fired on, but the anti-aircraft guns could not even come close. I just saw the first jet aircraft in action.

Later that morning the platoon had been assembled and was moving down the street. I had no idea where we were bound, but I was near the tail end of the group. There on the street were all of the troops, tanks, anti-tank guns and what have you. I heard the rattle of machine gun fire. I sensed that it was a plane though there was no other noise. The next instant was like a lifetime. A ball of fire started to expand about 200 feet down the street. It seemed to expand by steps as though my eyes and brain could not grasp the continuous expansion of this ball of fire. I believe I was among the first to be dive bombed by an enemy jet plane.

In this same instant I saw and heard the devastating effects of this 500-pound high explosive bomb. I first saw men cut down at the ankles; those further away were hit higher up on their bodies. I can especially remember one poor guy who had his guts ripped out of his body and they were stretched out on the street next to him. He was crying for his mother. I can still see that after almost fifty years. My entire platoon went down in front of me.

Clarence Anspach was a step in front of me and a half a step to my left. Apiece blown out of his right arm just below his shoulder swung by my face. The rest of his right arm and hand were still in the sleeve of his coat, attached by only a few shreds of his arm and sleeve. Clarence dropped dead as his lifeblood spread around my feet and splattered on me. He was a great kid! Most of all he was a good soldier, a real buddy.

A microsecond later the blast and the bang hit me as though my head was coming off. I learned later that something slid off the right side of my right eye socket. I was the only one left standing in that massacre. I am sure there were 300 people between the bomb and me. I can remember that I turned to get away. I must have blacked out for a bit.

I heard someone moaning and went to check it out. There was a GI at the bottom of a basement step; for some reason I already knew that it was McIntosh. I rolled him over on his stomach. An ugly hole about the size of a fifty-cent piece was just above his hipbone next to the spine. God, he was already starting to turn blue. Mac had been a wrestler in high school in Davenport, Iowa. I knew he would never wrestle again. I don’t know what he weighed, but I picked him up and carried him up the stairs. My later recall puts us in the Battalion aid station where they took him. I was not sure I would ever see him again or would ever know what happened to him.

Later that day someone told me I should go to the aid station, and there I started another journey. I was on an ambulance being moved back to another aid station. We were following an ammunition truck when it hit a mine. Then another terrific blast stopped the ambulance dead in its tracks. Again a miracle. As I was taken into the aid station, I saw Mac being hauled out on a stretcher. He was sort of a gray blue.

I don’t remember being taken to the field hospital at Aachen, but I remember being taken into a large room where there were a lot of wounded. I could see a hazy image of a person in a white gown and another person haggard and heavy bearded. My first thought was that an angel and the devil were debating on whom gets me. Of course it was a doctor and nurse checking me over. They even gave me a shave.

From Aachen I was taken by hospital train to Liege, Belgium, then to Masstrich, Holland, and then to Soissons, France. By the time I got to Soissons I was immobile with blood in my lungs, eyes and urine. I could feel all the nerves in my scalp with my fingers. The treatment in these hospitals was very good and all the people were very kind. I was sure going to hate leaving there.

Easter time had rolled around and I had been transferred to another ward in another building. About eight guys were in this one room. Next to me was a Russian soldier who had been captured by the Germans early on. He had escaped and had been fighting with the Belgian guerrillas. He had not seen home in the Ukraine for seven years. He had been a farmer and seemed to have a happy outlook on life. Another was an Italian soldier and could only speak Italian. Technically, he was a prisoner of war. Some of the personnel were French. We had quite a multi-lingual conversation before we all got the whole story.

During that time the whole of General Patton’s group rolled by tank by tank. This was quite an inspiring thing because I knew that the war was nearing its end.

Not long after that I was called down to see the doctor or whatever. He hit me on the knees and elbows and asked a few questions. I wasn’t smart enough to put on an act. It. wasn’t long before I was on a boxcar headed back to the front. I wondered again if I would ever get home.


Up to the Elbe: April 1945


After I was discharged from the hospital in France, I was routed through Paris back to the front. We stayed in some large building one night. A couple of us found some mattresses to cover up with and slept under a stairs. Most of the rear echelon looked like they were already living the good life. I saw some of the natives fighting over the contents of a garbage can behind a hotel one-day.

As we prepared to load onto the boxcars for our trip back to Germany, a lot of the soldiers who had never seen the front were blowing off like they had seen it all. The guys coming back out of the hospitals were quiet, acting like raw recruits, asking questions, like: “Is it really bad up there? Have you killed anybody? Have you seen anyone die?” We were acting dumb, and I doubt that many of those who bragged about being up there really ever figured out who we were.

These boxcars were called 40 & 8s, 40 men or 8 horses. We lay on the floor if there was room. The cars were shot full of holes and leaked water when it rained. If you have ever seen the movie Dr. Zhivago, you can have some idea of the impression that I got. We moved slowly. The countryside still seemed to be burning; large cities were burning. The devastation is just hard to describe. Somewhere before we got to the Rhine River we were loaded onto trucks to cross the Rhine on pontoon bridges to rejoin my outfit in Munchen-Gladbach.

We were in some fairly good accommodations for a short time. I can’t really remember what we were doing there. One day when we were marching I saw my mother’s maiden name, "Berendes", on a manhole cover. The family must have been in the foundry business.

Very shortly we were pulled out of that duty and were on our way back to the front. I guess it was considered mopping up, but it was still combat.

I was in the last attack of the war for our unit. Almost all of the guys were experienced combat veterans; most had been wounded at least once. The leaves were starting to come out on the trees; the weather was nice. It was a nice day to be alive or a nice day to die.

Sgt. Alphonse Berducci and I were advancing on the left side of the line. As we approached a house, we saw a door partially open with someone peeking out the crack of the door. Berducci ran a line of bullets up the door with his Thompson submachine gun. We checked out the house and found two elderly people and some children. They were all right, but I don’t know why.

As we advanced we came to a clearing and made a wrong turn as our leaders soon discovered. We thus had to reverse our direction. On our way back to the hill we were to take, the Germans were firing 20-mm anti-aircraft guns, ground level fire. The shells were exploding just over our heads. More than likely some of the men were wounded at that time. Here we go again.

We came out of the brushy area into an area of two-foot planted pine trees. I had carried 280 rounds of ammunition into this action. The Cosmoline was already burning out the wood of my rifle. We were down close to the ground. I kept trying to see what was ahead of me. Every time I lifted my head a little bit, a sniper would snip off a branch within inches of my head. Someone yelled at me to keep my head down. I yelled back that I could not see what was going on. It may have been Berducci that yelled at me, because as I looked to my right, there was Berducci up on both feet. At that same instant his head jerked back and he fell to the ground, dead. He had been hit in the head. I could see the back of his helmet explode outward.

This precipitated an emotion that I cannot comprehend to this day. I could have exterminated all of the Germans personally. I was up on my feet and going, firing as I went. Strangely enough I made it up to the large pine trees. As I reached these, an eight-inch pine tree was being cut off just above my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a German soldier getting up out of his foxhole. I took a running jump and hit the German with both feet. As we went down into the bottom of his foxhole, my trench knife appeared in my hand. I was intent on settling things right then. Some of the other members of the platoon restrained me from other action. Maybe this German was responsible for Berducci’s death.

As I marched the German farther up the hill and through woods, I learned that he had been a navigator in the Luftwaft, and had only bombed the Russians. In my broken German I asked him, “Why? The Russians are our friends.”

He responded, “No, America will go to war with Russia some day.”

At that time I had to agree with him. I soon turned this prisoner over to someone else.

As we moved through the next town, we dropped hand grenades through basement windows of houses as we marched down the street. Only a short time before I’d been restrained from killing a man, yet God knows how many children and women might have been in those basements. For us, this was the final day of combat in Europe.

In the next few days we continued on to the Elbe. I was put on advance scout. I was scared, still in an extremely hazardous position. We passed through British positions, slept in the hay in barns at night, and picked up prisoners who were anxious to surrender. One day we had one old soldier happily carrying the bazooka ammunition. He too felt sure that he would get back to his home on the farm near the Rhine river.

The memories continue to haunt me down through the years. As one buddy* wrote, “These gallant young men would never die until the moment of their own deaths.” After reading this comment I better understood what I had been feeling. This understanding had brought me some of the peace that I had been looking for.

Even to this day, the experience of this day of combat out of so many is more painful to recall than the loss of those of my own family.

*I especially acknowledge Edwin A. "Mac" McIntosh, Placintia, California for saying these words. These special words have gone along way toward helping me understand myself.

The Elbe and Beyond

It seemed that we were up on the Elbe River only a
few days. During that time we dug up some of the backyards of the houses we were staying in, to discover the prized possessions of the former inhabitants.

The Germans had left because someone started the rumor that the Russians were to take over these positions.

Obviously the Germans had good reasons to be afraid. In fact, they were terrified because of the treatment the Russians had at the Germans' hands.

Early one morning a German cargo plane came out of the mist and fog from the east, crossed the Elbe, and again disappeared into the fog. I’ve often wondered what kind of a story those passengers could tell.

There seemed to be a different feeling in the air. The tension was subsiding, but no one was really thinking about going home. This wasn't talked about. There was a long ways to go, and we knew not where.

One night there were three of us around a table. One of the other two was fooling around with a revolver. It discharged. The bullet lodged in the tabletop in front of me. Another escape from death.

We were on trucks heading back from the eastern front when it was announced that the war was over in Europe. We didn’t even know what day it was. There was no cheering, just a feeling of dejection, of wondering, of resignation. Each one of those combat soldiers was immersed in his own thoughts. I didn't even wonder what was going to happen to me next. I probably didn't even care.

One night on our way back we stayed in a house with beds. One of the guys came off guard duty. He'd been using the BAR. I am sure he did not know how to operate it. He
flopped the gun down on the bed and pulled the pan that holds the cartridges. When this is done the bolt closes. In this case a cartridge was in the chamber and the gun discharged. The bullet came through the back of the bed. The splinters from the bed struck me in the back of my legs.

We eventually learned that we were going to Bremerhaven to take over from the British for our beginning stint for the Army of Occupation.

The further we got into this area the more German soldiers there were wandering along the roads. It seemed like thousands. These people were hungry. They were looking for someone to take them prisoner so they could be safe and get something to eat. At the time we could not feel sorry for them.

As we marched into Bremerhaven we were accompanied by a Scottish Highlander bagpipe group. This was supposed to make an impression on someone.

There wasn’t much left of Bremerhaven. Two nights of intensive bombing almost wiped it out.

The first assignment was to stand guard on a functioning German submarine. It seemed the German submarine commander and his aide had more freedom than I did. They came out of the conning tower, got on a small boat, took off, and came back about an hour later. The German officer had all the gold braid on his cap that you could imagine.

We moved around a lot in the Bremen Enclave guarding various installations.

At Vegasack we were posted at the entrance to a place where submarines were assembled. A lot of German people were employed at this installation. We checked the passes as they came to work. This was really meaningless, because we were never told what we should be looking for. I believe it was more for harassment. We especially checked the passes of the good-looking women. This really troubled them.

One of the times that I was out on the Weser River I got to see the submarine that was almost completed. It was a big thing. The tide was big on this river, probably rose 15 feet or more.

We spent some time in Bremen. Bremen was one of the old free Hanseatic towns and around 787 Charlemagne established a missionary bishop there. The Gothic Town Hall, the Rathaus, and the statue of Roland dating from 1404 escaped destruction. The statue had been enclosed to protect it during the war. The Roland statue is an emblem of ancient privileges and imperial freedom primarily for the early merchant class.

While in the Bremen Enclave a sweep was made of the whole area to check identifications. We started at daylight to go to every house. We were also instructed to confiscate weapons and all Nazi books and literature. In one house we entered, the family was still in bed. They were terrified. All the forbidden books and literature was later burned in an open area. I am sure that some stuff of historical value was lost.

This kind of action was similar to what the Gestapo would do. In some of my later reading it was claimed that the military was looking for ways to stop the rise of Nazi radicals again. The powers that be really never made it clear what their real purpose was. I sometimes wonder if there was some urge to exercise a little extra power.

During our stay in the Bremen Enclave almost every ex-combat infantry man carried his own personal revolver or pistol. I had a 25-caliber pistol that I carried all the time. The M.P.’s were not very happy about this. I felt very uncomfortable if I was without a weapon.

During guard duty at night the temperature would drop somewhat. The dampness would increase and with it the odors of a decaying city assaulted my sense of smell. It smelled like a smoldering garbage dump, only more intense.

We spent a lot of time guarding a displaced persons’ camp. There were a couple thousand people in this camp from all over Europe. One family was from Turkey. One man who went outside the gate on occasion told me about the food in the camp. It was mostly thin soup. He also told me that he had been in Buchenwald. While there he’d been shot and thrown on a pile of wood and other trash along with other people to be burned. He played dead and rolled off, later escaping. He seemed to be quite happy.

From time to time one of us on guard at the gate would make a tour through the compound. On one tour I discovered a Polish lady distilling off a big batch of alcohol. She was doing this in a vat that looked like it had been used for laundry or something. She wanted to give me a chance to sample it. She grabbed a cup off the wall and wiped it out with her dirty apron, caught some in the cup, and offered it to me. It was still warm and smelled potent. I declined. They must have used potatoes and possibly some appropriate garbage from the kitchen. This poor woman was quite nervous and excited. I left and never ventured into that area of the camp again.

One night at curfew, I went up to a hall where the people were dancing. Several people were playing concertinas and accordions. They were having a really good time. I never told them to stop but they eventually broke up the party and went back to their pads.

One day when I went by the men’s showers, some man was getting the hell beat out of him by some big guys. Possibly it was internal camp security settling some violation. It was not my place to interfere.

Another night, members of a special unit that investigated crimes that civilians and military personnel committed, came into the compound. They were looking for a Polish officer who was dangerous and had been robbing some jewelry stores. We looked for him where his pad was. He wasn’t there. This place was a big room with 6 levels of shelves. Each section of shelf had room for 4 to 5 people. There was no privacy and the air was stale and smelled of unwashed bodies. (To think that some of these people lived like this, or even worse conditions, for years.) The criminal was not there.

We climbed up the ladder and entered the attic. The officer must have been asleep. As we spotted him with a flashlight. He awoke and started reaching for his Luger. I stepped on his hand and he was captured.

As they took the prisoner down the ladder, I brought up the rear. Apparently the first guy down the ladder dropped the butt of his rifle to the floor causing the rifle to discharge. The bullet came up through the attic floor. Pieces of plaster went up my pants legs.

Late in the fall more and more displaced persons were being repatriated. One day the Latvians, Lithuanians and Estonians were being loaded on trucks. These people were openly resisting, and in the process being beaten and forcibly loaded. They would be sent behind the Iron Curtain, which was tantamount to a death sentence. A few weeks later some of these people straggled back into the camp. Some had been shot or cut by barbed wire. They told us that many of their friends had died at the hands of Russian soldiers. I don't recall that this issue has ever been historically addressed.

When I think back on that time, I ran a great risk going out into that compound alone. I never thought about the risk at the time. I was just curious and thought getting around the camp was part of the job.

These DP’s seemed to be happy and thankful to be alive. There were a lot of pathetic and malnourished in the camp. After 12 months of exposure to combat and primitive living conditions, we probably didn’t look much better.

Late in the fall, I got a pass to go on a bus tour to Denmark, provided I had enough money to finance the trip. It was a real treat to sleep in some good quarters and get some decent meals. The country was beautiful. We stopped at Arhus, Flensburg Fjord, over to North Sealand and Copenhagen. From Copenhagen we went to see such places as Hans Christian Anderson’s home. It was more like a castle. I saw the changing of the guard at the king’s palace. One day we went up to Helsingor, to the site where one of the Shakes-Pearson plays was presented each year. From that point we could see Halsingborg, Sweden, just a few kilometers across the sound.

Copenhagen was a beautiful city. There were so many people in the streets, and they seemed so full of life. The Germans had suppressed them, but the people and the city escaped a lot of destruction and the savagery of war.

We stayed in one of the large hotels, but had most of our meals at the famous National Scala. For a country boy this was high living. This trip afforded me the opportunity to have my first glass of fresh cold milk in a year. It was the best thing I had in a long time.

After seeing many other interesting sights in the city we were soon on our way back to Germany.

By October and November the 29th Division was being reorganized to ship high point men home. The men with intermediate points were to be shipped to Berlin as a part of the continuing Army of Occupation.


BERLIN

In November a convoy of trucks left the Bremen Enclave for Berlin. We were to continue in the Army of Occupation with the 78th Division. The convoy took most of the day to reach the Russian checkpoint. We were then held up for a long while before the convoy was able to proceed.

Berlin, the capitol of the German Reich, was founded in the 12th century. It grew up over time on the banks of the Elbe and Spree rivers. From August 25, 1940, until April 20, 1945, the city was blasted with 76,652 tons of explosives and incendiary bombs by the British and American air forces. In the last 10 days of the culminating battle in April, the Soviet artillery concentrated 40,000 tons of shells on the city. (Ref.: Encyclopedia Britannica)


Some of us ended up in Wansee for a few days. The quarters were good. This place was in the woods near a little lake. It was fairly comfortable and pleasant there. On our way to chow one noon, a big excavation had been made. Lots of bodies were being extracted. Apparently this had been a mass grave.

A short time later we were moved to a larger camp. A good share of the windows was gone and there was virtually no chow. When I went to Berlin I weighed about 185 pounds. When I left I was down to around 155 pounds. When we were off duty we often went to the Red Cross where we could get coffee and doughnuts. This helped me to survive.

One day while at the Red Cross, the man who wrote "Lili Marleen" was playing the piano and singing the song for cigarettes. He was certainly malnourished.

I stood most of my guard duty on Lt. General Lucius Clay’s residence. He impressed me as being a gentleman and hard worker. He would speak to me when he came through the gate. He often left early in the morning. After awhile a plane was leaving Templehof. General Clay was heading somewhere. Sometimes when I was on guard duty at night of the same day that he left, he came back. He put in some long days. He lived in a very comfortable house. At the same time the natives were scrounging for sticks on the frozen snowy streets.

General Clay was later to gain additional fame for the Berlin Airlift.

One evening about 14 high ranking generals from the four powers came through the gate for a special event at his home.

In the three months that I was in Berlin I was able to go to the Russian Zone many times. Our passes were in four languages—Russian, German, French and English. The money was the same for all the zones except for the first number of the serial number. Each country printed its own money. The Russians issued massive amounts of currency; therefore all the money became nearly worthless. Inflation at its best.

The Tiergarten before the war was covered with trees. Now it was a wasteland. A lot of people in desperate circumstances were there at times. The number of people present depended on how good the black market activities were. Mostly they came to trade for food, which was very difficult to get. One of the days the Russian soldiers came in to arrest whoever they could catch. Pandemonium reigned. People were yelling and screaming, scattering in every direction. The Russians were ruthless. If anyone was caught, it was very hard on him or her. One Russian soldier told us that they themselves had to scrounge for part of their food. If they got seriously ill, their medical facilities were unable to treat them. They would have to secure antibiotics on the black market or steal them.

The Reichstag, the Brandenberg Gate, Goering’s place and all of the other notable buildings were shot up or virtually destroyed.

The place where Hitler resided was really shot to pieces. The balcony from which Hitler gave his speeches was fairly intact. Actually the balcony had a breastwork of railroad ties to further protect him. Close to this place, Hitler and Eva were believed to have been burned after they committed suicide.

Some of the newer guys got into trouble because they went into those other zones at night. They didn’t come out alive.

One of my friends spoke Russian; therefore we were able to venture out a bit more. We saved empty cigarette packs and a carton. One night we went to the main part of Berlin. It was very dark. He carried the carton with one full pack. We were looking for someone to take the bait. I trailed behind as a lookout, to make sure that the special undercover guys did not move in on us. Someone took the bait. We sold the carton with only one full pack for a $100. We didn’t get caught and we had fun. The $100 would buy a few rolls of film or a bottle of wine.

Another day when we accumulated three full cartons of cigarettes, we decided to venture into the Russian Zone to peddle them. We took the train and got off at Potsdamer station. As we entered the Russian Zone, we passed two Russian soldiers. These guys each had a sub-machine gun hanging from their shoulder. Some distance into the Zone, we spotted a potential buyer. He invited us into a bombed out building, where we dickered a bit. We could see another Russian soldier also carrying a sub-machine gun. The buyer and we agreed on one thousand dollars per carton. As the ragged peddler was digging for his money in the bottom of a big sack, my friend and I were discussing the possibility of knocking him over the head and taking all he had. He soon came up with the money. We stuffed it in our coats and pockets. We then proceeded to go down and talk to the Russian.

He told us that he had fought at Stalingrad for a long time. He said the only way the Russians held the city for almost three years was the result of being able to bring in Siberian troops in the dead of winter. They could continue to function under extreme conditions. He said that most of the citizens died of starvation, but they never gave in voluntarily.

Christmas came and the Berlin Cathedral Choir celebrated midnight mass in the Titania Palast, with music. The place was full. I hadn’t been to mass for six months or so. The music was so beautiful. This was an inspiring and moving experience.

As the weather got colder the local people were foraging for sticks and stuff to burn to barely keep warm. Little old ladies would have a small wagon loaded with whatever they could find. The sub-human conditions were starting to get the best of a lot of people, especially those that had it relatively easy during the war.

The military naturally didn’t seem to understand the dehumanizing conditions that most of their troops had to live in, even though the war was over. This further accelerated the decline of their level of life. The military further threatened the men and made the situation even worse.

The following is a letter to The Stars and Stripes, Tuesday December 25, 1945.

"Roughing It in Berlin:
As Gen. Eisenhower has said, the American Soldier should take pride in his unit and uniform, and conduct himself with dignity. All well and good, but how can we possibly have any pride when our living quarters, located in the worst area in Berlin, are nothing but flimsy half gutted barracks with legions of rats and vermin and unsanitary plumbing.

Our medical officer has declared our area unfit for human habitation at present. Pulling guard duty day after day, two hours on and four off, after duty hours we go slinking back to our icy cells where one must be drunk to keep sane and warm.

Good billets are available. The big barrier is the decadent caste system. A colonel gallantly roughs it in a sprawling 19-room mansion. Other officers in less palatial surroundings. We were essential in combat. Had we outlived our usefulness?"
---- (372 Signatures, Ed.) Third Bn., 309th Inf.

I was getting near that level where I was now on the schedule to soon start my trek to the states. I had less than two years in the service, but I was now on the high point list.

Sometime in February I boarded a night train outbound from Berlin. It was on this train that I swapped $1,000 of worthless occupation money for a wristwatch that lasted many years. Our first stop was in Ellwangen, down near the Black Forest. We stayed in S.S. barracks for a few days. This little village had a beautiful one thousand-year-old church.

A few days later we were on another train headed for Camp Top Hat. It was just a matter of time before we would be embarking on a new journey to Zone Interior.


TO ZONE INTERIOR

One thousand four hundred troops loaded on the Vassar Victory. This was about March 4, 1946. This was a Liberty ship that had been produced in a relatively short period of time, for wartime purposes. We had 3587 miles to go to get to the Port of New York. We traveled at 17 to 18 knots.

A comment from the ships newspaper, The Vassar Viewpoint:

“America awaits your homecoming. For months and years your loved ones, friends and even, have offered prayers by those who did not know you, for your safety and welfare. And now you are on your way as a personal answer to those prayers.”

The first couple of days the ship moved at a slow speed through the Scheld Estuary from Amsterdam, Holland, to the North Sea, because oyster mines that had settled on the bottom could be disturbed. Thirty-seven ships had already gone down, the most recent one being the previous week.

The first part of the week was uneventful. We steamed past the Azores and had a bright blue sea. The porpoises seemed to be racing the ship, as they surfaced and dived ahead of us. At night the phosphorescence of the sea was really spectacular.

One of the last hurdles was crossing the Gulf Stream. The waves became enormous. The ship would dive into the troughs. Sometimes a wave would hit the ship in the center as the ship slammed down with a resounding bang. The whole ship shuddered. I expected the ship to break in two the next time that happened.

The war was barely over; yet according to the little paper, General Motor's workers had already been on a 104-day strike. President Truman had gone to Fulton, Missouri, with Winston Churchill for the Breton Woods Conference.

About four hours after passing the Statue of Liberty on March 12, l945, the tugs were edging the ship into the Pier at 42nd St., New York, New York. We were ferried across the Hudson to the Jersey side. I was back on American soil. I was relieved and glad, and yet I was fearful of what was to come.

We went by train to Camp Killer, New Jersey, where I had departed from. We had some good Army chow. In about 48 hours I was classified for discharge and on my way to a separation center in Illinois.

Every thing from here on was anti-climactic. The thing I remember most was the fact that they had us go through a long building and dump all of the stuff in our duffel bags on a conveyor belt, so they could confiscate mostly guns and quite a bit of the extra olive green underwear and the likes of that.

On my train trip to Marcus, Iowa, the fear began to grow. I wasn’t sure that I could impose on my family the tremendous adjustment I would need to make.

The ticket said, "Marcus, Iowa". If the rail line had run beyond Sioux City, out west someplace, I felt I should have just kept on going.

My arrival at Marcus is a blank to me. The War in Europe was over; the real battle would now begin.


After Words

By the time that I arrived home in March 1946, everyone had returned home and all the home folks were trying to get back into the swing of a routine of a normal life without war. There were no flags waving, no cheering. People wanted to forget, and some had already forgotten what had already had taken place. I remember one person that never had to leave home who felt we should have kept right on going and whipped the Russians also. I asked him if he would have liked to volunteer.

Most of the scars all of these people had acquired since 1941 were concealed with grim stoicism, typical of a rural community that cares, and in the name of patriotism. After 50 years of repeated wars and skirmishes, our government develops the patriotism for a cause when needed, and then seems to forget those who bore the brunt of these great causes, be it the people in the service or their families.

Some families had lost loved ones who would never come home again. These families could never complete their grieving because the remains of the loved ones were never given the final farewell.

Others came home changed. They had experienced untold suffering that cannot be described. Others had seen new places and things and were anxious to move on to new opportunities. Our whole country had changed with new ideas and values. There would be no return.

Some of us, myself included, were not sure where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do. We probably didn’t care because we hadn’t even figured out where we’d been.

My father, with all his worries and fears, had the wisdom to figure out something. He needed to give me some direction. He waited about three days and then asked me if I wanted to start farming. I really didn’t care if I did anything, but I agreed to go along with his plan. He must have spent some time planning this with a neighbor who was willing to gamble on me. Until this time it never occurred to me the risk that my Dad and Andy Meehan took to get me started on the road to recovery.

Spring came early that year. I was seeding oats on the 13th of March. It was cold and windy. My father helped me in some of the work and was most patient with me. He gently guided me in a way that I will never know.

During the next two years, I spent a lot of time drinking to blot out the pressures of the past. My headaches have continued for forty-five years and have only in recent years started to decline. My family’s love and concern never faltered, even though they never had any real way to understand what was going through my mind.

There were times when I would lash out without any apparent reason. Almost every day I would vividly recall the savage deaths and wounding of so many of my fellow combat infantrymen. I have wondered why I have survived. I have wondered why I seemed to be so angry for so long. These questions will probably never be totally answered.

We who are living today should be reminded, and be careful, that our acceptance and glorification of violence in entertainment and sports does not further condition us to accept as normal the violence in our daily lives. Everyone must also remember that military training is training for violence. It has one purpose: to conquer an enemy perceived or real. If this goal is to be achieved, there needs to be a substantial amount of dehumanization in the process. It seems
to me that a lot of people are not aware of this.

The years have passed. I will never know what happened to most of my comrades in arms. I salute them. They have their own stories. I hope our paths cross in the future or in the hereafter.



Taps

Day is done, gone the sun
from the lake, from the hill
from the sky

All is well, safely rest. God is nigh.

Thanks and praise for our days
'neath the sun, 'neath the stars
'neath the sky.

As we go, this we know: God is nigh.