Remembering World War II and the Battle of the Bulge
by Philip Walsh, 2nd AD, 66th AR, Co C
I was 18 years old when I got my draft notice from President Franklin Roosevelt. It was 1943. The notice read “greetings from President Roosevelt” and went on to say I was drafted to the US Army. I had never been away from home before and I wondered if I would return home to Maine.
I was sent to Fort Devon’s, Massachusetts, for a few weeks where I received my army uniform and medical shots. I recall walking down a narrow hallway and got shots in both of my arms. The fellow in front of me passed out after receiving his. I can still hear the guys who had already got their shots saying “you will be sorry.” They were right. They also warned me to watch out for the square needle that’s left in overnight. I found out to my relief they were just kidding because I was a new recruit.
From there I was sent to Fort Knox, Kentucky, for 21 weeks of tank training. I remember being homesick, went to see the doctor, a major, who gave me some pink pills and said I would be fine. I wasn’t. I was still homesick. When our training ended we were sent to Fort George Meade, Maryland, for advanced training. Then I was sent to Camp Shanks, New York, to board the Aquitania for Europe.
I recall when we landed in Greenock, Scotland some Scottish girls greeted us and gave us muffins filled with meat. I took one bite and threw it out. It tasted awful to me. We left Scotland by train to England. By the time I arrived in England I was no longer homesick. It was more than 6 months since I left Maine. The war was underway, and by this time I figured I’d never get home alive.
When I was sent to France I was assigned to Company C 66 Armored Regimen, 2nd Armored Division. Afterward I was deployed to Omaha Beach in June – six days after D-Day. When I landed I asked the Beach Master if many men were killed. He said if anymore were killed no one would have gotten ashore. I remember one solider, in particular who landed on the beach with me. He was from the southern part of the States and was assigned to another tank because tank commander, Lt. Johnson, also from the south, picked him for his crew because of the connection to the south.
This was the first day in battle for us. Lt. Johnson’s tank was heading down a road between a row of hedges rows and ran over a mine. The explosion blew a track off the tank. The crew climbed out of the tank, started to crawl on the ground and a mortar shell landed on the back of the soldier from the south. All that was left of him was a piece of his fly and belt buckle. It was terrifying. Later I was told that Lt. Johnson was planning to get married in Paris after the war and arranged to have his bride’s wedding dress made from a parachute. Unfortunately he was killed outside of Berlin at close range by one of Hitler’s Youth with a Panzer Faust bazooka after he stepped outside of his tank.
We were never told where we would be deployed or given any details. That was one thing I didn’t like about the Army. After Omaha Beach we were sent to another location in France. We were on the front line for 21 days with the Germans firing at us from a train with artillery guns. I remember it sounded like a freight train coming at us. Three crew members and I barely left tank for the entire 21 days. It was too dangerous to stay outside for any length of time due to the constant shelling from the Germans. We had to be extremely careful.
The ground around the tank was all torn up from shelling and the mud was a foot thick. Every time someone left the tank they would get about two inches of mud on their boots. I remember getting mud dropped on my shoulders whenever the tank commander, a schoolteacher, climbed back into the tank after checking our surroundings. I was seated at the machine gunner’s seat and there wasn’t any room to move. It was very tight quarters inside the tank. I also recall when the lieutenant was injured after a shell struck the side of the tank when he was underneath trying to cook a meal with a Coleman Burner. He was taken to the aid station.
We had an opportunity to take prisoners. Seven Germans waving a white flag tried to surrender to us. One of our crew members fired at them and they took off.
After 21 days in France we were on the move again, this time to Germany. We arrived to a location that looked like a park and were able to sleep outside on the ground. One morning when I awoke, I noticed the tank was leaking. I looked inside and saw about three inches of gasoline on the bottom of the tank. A new replacement had changed the fuel filters incorrectly on both Cadillac engines.
Our next deployment was to Bastogne for combat at the Battle of the Bulge where I remained for the duration of the conflict. It was winter, freezing cold, and I drove an open top half track 100 miles in the pouring rain to Bastogne. Somewhere along the way I drove off the road. I was very tired, soaking wet and it was difficult to see because there were no headlights. I accidentally backed into Captain A.Z. Owen’s tank. He hollered “get that man’s name.” I was afraid he would send me to jail. He didn’t do anything.
When we arrived at our destination near Bastogne we were exhausted and cold. We pitched our pup tents in the freezing temperatures and went to sleep shivering. What amazes me now as I think back about sleeping in soaking wet, heavy Army clothes with my shoes frozen to the ground is that I never caught a cold.
Our tank was parked next to a farmhouse. The family living in the home felt sorry for us staying outside in the cold and they invited us in to dry our clothes and get warm. We stayed with them for several nights. Unfortunately one of the soldiers flirted constantly with the homeowner’s wife. The husband got fed up and told us all to leave.
One time we liberated a couple of chickens and some vegetables from a Belgium farmhouse and I cooked it in a 5-gallon can. You cannot imagine how good this tasted on a cold day especially after living on K and K rations. It was the best chicken soup I had ever eaten. A captain from Georgia said to me, “Walsh where did you get the chickens from?” Another soldier spoke up and said he got a package from the states. This seemed to satisfy the captain who helped himself to the soup without asking any more questions.
Later during the battle I was asked to drive this same captain in a jeep to a command post set up in a house near Bastogne. When we arrived we saw the T/5 Sergeant who had flooded our tank with gas when he was assigned to our crew in France. He was on duty at the command post and did not salute the captain in my jeep. The captained yelled to the T/5 sergeant “Salute me.” He obeyed.
When the Battle of the Bulge ended, I was deployed to Berlin. We were the first troops to arrive in Berlin after World War II ended. I was transferred to the 12th Armored Division and sent to Marseilles, France where I prepared to go home. It was 1946. I am proud to have served my country, but I wouldn’t want to go through this again.