VBOB Member Roger Boas has a new book entitled Battle Rattle: A Last Memoir of World War II. The following is an excerpt from his book. Read more about him and the book at: www.BattleRattleMemoir.com

The shooting began again the following day, and I very nearly lost my life. The objective of this battle was to capture Lorient, a strategic seaport where the Germans had their U-boats in pens. But before committing troops to the battlefield, the U.S. command tried another tactic. Ordered, I believe, by General Patton—I don’t think he would have had the hubris to do it on his own—General Wood sent a radio message to the German commander at Lorient demanding his surrender. When no affirmative response was received, we attacked their emplacements outside of the city.

My artillery battalion went into position not far from Lorient, near a very small town called Caudan (population 2,000). Our job was to support Colonel Creighton Abrams’s blistering 37th Tank Battalion, which was leading the attack. The job of the artillery was to set up our eighteen howitzers in range of the enemy’s guns or enemy troop movement. We’d need a forward observer to spot these positions, of course––and as luck would have it, it was my turn.

Major Parker ordered me and my support team to find the highest available perch for an observation post (OP). I surveyed the area and spotted something in the distance––a church steeple at the center of the nearby town. Perfect.

Or at least I thought it was perfect. You got up there with a pair of field binoculars and could see the entire panorama. The Germans had to survey a huge landscape, so even though it was probably the highest structure, they wouldn’t necessarily know we were there. Sure, there was the risk that, with only one way in and out of a bell tower, a rapid evacuation might not be easy. And there was always the danger that my binoculars or another piece of glass could catch the sun and give us away. But every place has its risks. I was totally preoccupied that morning with wanting to do a good job in my debut as forward observer in an actual battle (putting aside the disheartening realization that I had somehow fallen into one of the most dangerous jobs in the army).

Once we went into action any fears seemed to disappear. Excited to be taking up our first observation post, my team drove furtively to Caudan’s main square in our jeep. After parking quietly in an alley, the three of us—Sergeant Plas with his radio, my corporal with his telephone, and me with my map and binoculars—climbed the dusty, winding steps of the timeworn tower to emerge at the thirty-foot top of the church steeple.

The view was breathtaking. And I could easily make out the Germans’ artillery positions from their gun flashes. Keyed up, I got to work, plotting out coordinates and barking them out to Plas, who radioed the firing orders back to our three batteries of six guns each.

Of course, as soon as we began shooting, my German counterpart (wherever he was hiding) would observe the flashes of our guns and would start telling his gun batteries where to shoot back. Pretty soon the entire valley was filled with the booming thunder of artillery. And that’s how it was all morning. Fire. Counterfire. Fire. Counterfire.

The OPs all had one constant: the focus was on the enemy, and not the slightest attention was paid to the civilians in the area or their habitat. We’d often find that the enemy artillery and mortars were next to farmhouses or village homes or in streets or town structures in which civilian noncombatants might be living or working. Yet during the war, I cannot recall anyone ever giving any thought to protecting enemy civilians; our role was to rout the enemy military. If enemy civilians (collateral damage, in today’s jargon) lost their lives––so be it. We never stopped adhering to our mantra: a good German is a dead German.

By mid-afternoon, my shots were improving. I had a pretty good fix on where to aim, but just as I was feeling confident that we could soon take out some of their batteries, it got dark. Major Parker ordered us to stop firing. After nightfall, firing your artillery makes you an easy target––as the muzzle flashes can be seen easily for miles. Thus, we had a de facto ceasefire till dawn.

My team and I snuck back to the jeep and returned to our unit to bed down for the night. I threw down my bedroll in the corner of a barn and shut my eyes, both exhausted and exhilarated. Even though the artillery bombardment had ceased, there continued to be small arms fire—the occasional rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun burst or a solitary sniper shell ricocheting off a wall. But my mind, amazingly, was able to tune all of that out––to label it “distant danger,” not imminent––allowing me to slumber in peace. We had been at this for three weeks, and, while certainly not grizzled like the Fourth Infantry, we were now actual combat veterans.

The following morning Sergeant Plas shook me awake with a cup of coffee. It was an hour before dawn––time to get going. I reported to Lieutenant Colonel Graham, who asked me where I planned to set up today’s OP. I told him I intended to return to the bell tower, which, in my view, had been an ideal position from which to observe the action. The thought seemed to intrigue him, and Graham announced suddenly that he was going to join us.

While artillery commanders tend to stay behind the front lines so they can supervise the guns, I could certainly see why Graham might have wanted to get an overview of the battlefield—to see the actual impact of our shelling and the counterfire from the enemy guns. Though he was more than ten years my senior and far higher in rank, it occurred to me that this was Lieutenant Colonel Graham’s first time in front-line combat, just like me. He wanted to observe the battlefield to glean information that could improve both his understanding and skills as an artillery commander.

So off we went—six of us, including the two drivers––moving through the pre-light of dawn to the town square in Caudan. Darting quietly up three stories to the top of the bell tower, I unfurled my map and got to work. Feeling proud to have the colonel at my side, I pointed out the landmarks that I had spotted the day before––the places I had calculated as likely enemy artillery positions. Graham nodded and, after checking them out with his own binoculars, ordered me to begin the bombardment.

The shooting began and, once again, the plain erupted in artillery explosions. Trying to stay calm under the added pressure of having the CO breathing down my neck, I adjusted my firing coordinates and within short order felt pretty certain to have taken out at least one enemy battery. But that’s when, suddenly, the tables turned. They started firing at us! German shells began coming in from an artillery battery I hadn’t spotted earlier, one with a closer vantage point––which meant I could easily see its muzzle flashes.

Since their rounds were missing us, I decided to return fire, quickly calculating coordinates and having Plas radio them back. My first shot missed. They fired back at us. It was harrowing having shells fly in our direction, whizzing by the steeple.

I quickly shouted out an angle correction, which Plas radioed back to our battalion. These firing exchanges were hair-raising. Who would blink first? Then one of their shells grazed the outside of the steeple, causing bits of masonry to fall, crashing thirty feet to the ground.

“Abandon post!” I shouted suddenly, allowing Sergeant Plas and my corporal to descend the narrow stairwell before me. I gestured to Lieutenant Colonel Graham to do likewise, and we hightailed it as fast as we could down the winding steps, spurting to safety in the nick of time. The German artillery struck a direct hit on the upper part of the steeple, which came crashing down into a pile of rubble.

My eyes widened as I tried to catch my breath, adrenaline coursing through my veins. That was close. My mind began deconstructing the sequence of events, wondering how they had spotted us in the first place, since we certainly were not firing any weapons from the tower. Then it occurred to me: the Germans must have picked up a flashing reflection of the sun off my binoculars. It had been a close call, but the fact that it took the enemy over twenty-four hours to figure out where I was observing them from illustrates how difficult it can be to find the correct target.

The next day my division received orders to leave the Brittany peninsula and move east toward Orléans. I was told that Alex Graham had put me in for a Silver Star decoration for the church steeple action. And Alex was himself put up for his own Silver Star by Colonel Bixby. But the division’s adjutant general, Lieutenant Colonel R. M. Connolly, arbitrarily reduced them to Bronze Stars, supposedly saying: “I’ll be goddamned if I’ll recommend a Silver Star for an artilleryman.” On the Silver Star application sent in by Graham, Connolly had simply printed: “Bronze Star Award directed by C.G.”

Nasty comments were made in my battalion about the adjutant’s attitude and the fact that, as a rear echelon staff officer, he had never even seen action. We were offended: “We’re getting shot at and this desk-jockey has the nerve to criticize us.” Certainly, getting out of the steeple unhurt had been a close shave; another minute and I’d have been a goner. Our artillery battalion had taken causalities steadily since going into war and, in our parochial view, being an artilleryman was dangerous. But, looking back, I’ve changed my mind: the divisional adjutant was right. Being a field artilleryman firing the howitzers several hundred yards behind the front lines was much less dangerous than being an infantryman or tanker on the front lines, a fact none of us considered. What Colonel Connolly failed to realize was that an artillery forward observer, like me (and Colonel Graham that particular day), was stationed at the front line, right alongside the infantry—a fact that would soon cost Dude Dent his life.

For further information, visit www.BattleRattleMemoir.com

History

Nick Zillas, 285th Combat Engineers, Company A tells of this fortunate meeting in 1945 and its surprising climax at the Nashville Reunion in 1992:

On 16 Feb 45, the Third Platoon of Company A was sent on a recon patrol toward Born, Luxembourg. The Company A patrol of one officer and 15 enlisted men was accompanied by a similar patrol of one officer and 15 enlisted men from Battery B of the 42d Calvary.

We were going to go into a small village to find out if it was occupied by the enemy. At the last minute, the plan was changed and we did not enter the village, after all. Our Company A 2d Lt. was in favor of going in, but the Calvary 1st Lt. talked him out of it. As it turned out, this was a very wise decision because later it was discovered that the Germans did occupy the village and were lying in wait for us.

We completed our patrol and returned to our Platoon CP in the vicinity of Boursdorf, Luxembourg. Most of the patrol entered the CP Building, but I stopped to chat for a moment with a man whose name I forgot over the years. That moment of conversation may well have saved each of us from injury or even death; a rocket launcher round exploded inside the CP just before we turned to enter the building! One man, SSGT. Roy Sattetfi.eld, was killed, and I believe about five others woe injured, some seriously.

This October 1992 at the Nashville Reunion someone came up to me and said, “Do you remember me?” I said no, I did not. Then he went on to say, “I want to thank you very much for saving my life!” Those words made no sense to me until he then explained that we were the two men who had stopped for the brief chat outside of the 3d Platoon CP just before the deadly explosion! This man told me that if I had not stopped and spoken to him that day, he would have gone right into the building -just in time for the blast!

The man who thanked mefor saving his life is Charlie Ransdell. His few words to me there in Nashville in 1992 took me back in a flash to our very brief and fortunate encounter on 16 Feb 45. To meet Charlie after 47 years made the reunion in Nashville a very special occasion! By coincidence, it was Charlie’s birthday on the night of our banquet. This gave us a double reason to celebrate – one happy birthday and one warm reunion!”

Submitted by Bessie Zillas, Nick’s wife and Andrea Britton, Nick’s daughter.

TWO CHANCE ENCOUNTERS – IN 1945 AND IN 1992

Nick Zillas, 285th Combat Engineers, Company A tells of this fortunate meeting in 1945 and its surprising climax at the Nashville Reunion in 1992:

On 16 Feb 45, the Third Platoon of Company A was sent on a recon patrol toward Born, Luxembourg. The Company A patrol of one officer and 15 enlisted men was accompanied by a similar patrol of one officer and 15 enlisted men from Battery B of the 42d Calvary.

We were going to go into a small village to find out if it was occupied by the enemy. At the last minute, the plan was changed and we did not enter the village, after all. Our Company A 2d Lt. was in favor of going in, but the Calvary 1st Lt. talked him out of it. As it turned out, this was a very wise decision because later it was discovered that the Germans did occupy the village and were lying in wait for us.

We completed our patrol and returned to our Platoon CP in the vicinity of Boursdorf, Luxembourg. Most of the patrol entered the CP Building, but I stopped to chat for a moment with a man whose name I forgot over the years. That moment of conversation may well have saved each of us from injury or even death; a rocket launcher round exploded inside the CP just before we turned to enter the building! One man, SSGT. Roy Sattetfi.eld, was killed, and I believe about five others woe injured, some seriously.

This October 1992 at the Nashville Reunion someone came up to me and said, “Do you remember me?” I said no, I did not. Then he went on to say, “I want to thank you very much for saving my life!” Those words made no sense to me until he then explained that we were the two men who had stopped for the brief chat outside of the 3d Platoon CP just before the deadly explosion! This man told me that if I had not stopped and spoken to him that day, he would have gone right into the building -just in time for the blast!

The man who thanked mefor saving his life is Charlie Ransdell. His few words to me there in Nashville in 1992 took me back in a flash to our very brief and fortunate encounter on 16 Feb 45. To meet Charlie after 47 years made the reunion in Nashville a very special occasion! By coincidence, it was Charlie’s birthday on the night of our banquet. This gave us a double reason to celebrate – one happy birthday and one warm reunion!”

Submitted by Bessie Zillas, Nick’s wife and Andrea Britton, Nick’s daughter.

TWO CHANCE ENCOUNTERS – IN 1945 AND IN 1992

Nick Zillas, 285th Combat Engineers, Company A tells of this fortunate meeting in 1945 and its surprising climax at the Nashville Reunion in 1992:

On 16 Feb 45, the Third Platoon of Company A was sent on a recon patrol toward Born, Luxembourg. The Company A patrol of one officer and 15 enlisted men was accompanied by a similar patrol of one officer and 15 enlisted men from Battery B of the 42d Calvary.

We were going to go into a small village to find out if it was occupied by the enemy. At the last minute, the plan was changed and we did not enter the village, after all. Our Company A 2d Lt. was in favor of going in, but the Calvary 1st Lt. talked him out of it. As it turned out, this was a very wise decision because later it was discovered that the Germans did occupy the village and were lying in wait for us.

We completed our patrol and returned to our Platoon CP in the vicinity of Boursdorf, Luxembourg. Most of the patrol entered the CP Building, but I stopped to chat for a moment with a man whose name I forgot over the years. That moment of conversation may well have saved each of us from injury or even death; a rocket launcher round exploded inside the CP just before we turned to enter the building! One man, SSGT. Roy Sattetfi.eld, was killed, and I believe about five others woe injured, some seriously.

This October 1992 at the Nashville Reunion someone came up to me and said, “Do you remember me?” I said no, I did not. Then he went on to say, “I want to thank you very much for saving my life!” Those words made no sense to me until he then explained that we were the two men who had stopped for the brief chat outside of the 3d Platoon CP just before the deadly explosion! This man told me that if I had not stopped and spoken to him that day, he would have gone right into the building -just in time for the blast!

The man who thanked mefor saving his life is Charlie Ransdell. His few words to me there in Nashville in 1992 took me back in a flash to our very brief and fortunate encounter on 16 Feb 45. To meet Charlie after 47 years made the reunion in Nashville a very special occasion! By coincidence, it was Charlie’s birthday on the night of our banquet. This gave us a double reason to celebrate – one happy birthday and one warm reunion!”

Submitted by Bessie Zillas, Nick’s wife and Andrea Britton, Nick’s daughter.

V. L. AULD
TIMELINE OF MILITARY SERVICE
IN THE U. S. ARMY
August 1942 to August 1974

Fort Sill, Oklahoma
Enlisted in U.S. Army in August 1942 and spent 17 weeks in basic training at the Field Artillery Training Center. Completed Officer Candidate School graduating in February 1943.

Pittsburg, Kansas
Reported to Pittsburg, Kansas, in February 1943 and completed liaison pilot training, then returned to Fort Sill for the tactical phase of the course.

Fort Sill, Oklahoma
Trained in techniques of short field take offs and landings, one-wheel takeoffs and landings, how to land on roads, how to evade enemy aircraft, and how to fire on targets from the air. On completion of the tactical course for liaison pilot, I was assigned to the 909^th Field Artillery Battalion of the 84^th Infantry Division.

Camp Howze, Gainesville, Texas
The 84^th was being activated at Camp Howze near Gainesville, Texas, where I had completed my pilot training at Gainesville Junior College before enlisting in the Army. The camp had dirt streets and more tar paper buildings like we had at Ft. Sill. I was assigned as the first air officer of the 909^th and was given the job as Battalion Air Officer. The Division went through many field exercises and reached its full complement; however, we had to go through the Louisiana Maneuvers to pass certain tests and receive more training.

Louisiana Maneuvers
From Camp Howze, the 84^th went to the Louisiana Maneuver Area for eight weeks of large-scale games beginning 19 September 1943.   We had our first accident during these maneuvers. Our commanding officer, Major General Stonewall Jackson, was killed 14 October 1943 when flying with a liaison pilot to observe the troops in training. There were several administrative changes made, and our assistant commanding officer, Brigadier General Nelson M. Walker, temporarily replaced General Jackson. However, General Walker was transferred to another unit and moved to Europe for the D-Day Invasion and was killed at Normandy. On 15 June 1944 General A. R. Bolling took command of the 84^th Infantry Division and served in that position for the rest of the war.

Camp Claiborne, Louisiana
On 15 November 1943, the Division moved to Camp Claiborne, a temporary post close to Fort Polk, Louisiana, and continued to train until August 1944 when they began to prepare for overseas movement.

Camp Kilmer, New Jersey
After orders were received to move overseas, the Division reported to Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, then moved to the port of embarkation about 18 September 1944. The 335^th Infantry and units of the Division Artillery boarded the Sterling Castle (an English ship). They were in a collision with another ship at sea during the first night out and had to return to port for repairs. The accident ripped a hole in the bow about 40 feet high, and all 7,000 soldiers went back to Camp Kilmer while the ship was being repaired. Then, they re-boarded the ship and headed for England.

South Hampton, England
The Sterling Castle docked at South Hampton, England, and we joined with the Division in the southern part of England. Spent one weekend in London with my brother Joe Auld, who was stationed in England in an Air Force Glider Unit. We managed to get a room in the Savoy Hotel. After cleaning up, we went hunting for a restaurant—finally found one in a basement. About the only thing they had to offer was something made out of powdered eggs (I think), but we were glad to get that. We went exploring and found the famous Piccadilly Square, the Queen’s Palace, and the famous Cathedral. We parted and that was the last time we saw each other in Europe.

During this period, a change in the table of organization was made, and Liaison Pilots became the Air Section of the Division Artillery Headquarters. We were authorized to have a Division Artillery Air Officer and an Assistant, and my job changed from Battalion Air Officer to Assistant Division Artillery Air Officer.

Our aircraft had arrived in England in crates so we assembled the planes and checked them out. We were authorized to have ten liaison airplanes (L-2’s), but we had eleven pilots. Major Paschall, the Division Air Officer, did not want to ride an LST across the English Channel, so we gathered up parts from all over the United Kingdom and put together the eleventh airplane so all could fly across.

Omaha Beach, France
The first units of the 84^th Division landed on Omaha Beach, France, on 1 November 1944 with the remainder arriving the next three days. An English amphibious plane accompanied us across the Channel, and my plane began to smoke during the flight. That made for an exciting trip, but no fire broke out. The smoke came from some heaving packing grease on the engine that did not get removed before assembling the plane.

We found the Germans had put up long polls (about 8 feet in height) on the beach to prevent planes and gliders from landing, so we landed on a road. My flight was to a strip called A-23 that was on the Cherbourg Peninsula. The wind was too strong for my plane to land so two jeeps were sent out to help; they ran along beside me and grabbed my struts to pull me down.

Gulpen, Belgium
The 84^th Division moved through France into Belgium and Holland in record time; most of the Division spent less than 48 hours in France. Our units were put into the line somewhere near the little village of Gulpen, Belgium, and the Liaison Pilots were given the assignment to fly and orient themselves in finding our front lines and observing the enemy.

Siegfried Line
After our initial assignment, the 84^th Division became a part of the Ninth Army. We worked with the British, the 2^nd Armored, and the 102^nd Infantry Division during the capture of our section of the famous Siegfried Line. It was a tough job to crack, and we finally had to use flame throwers and direct fire to destroy the pill boxes. According to Lt. Theodore Draper’s book, THE 84^TH INFANTRY DIVISION IN THE BATTLE OF GERMANY, it took seventeen days from 16 November to 2 December 1944.

Aachen (located on the famed Siegfried Line) was extremely important strategically and was considered to be the doorway to the heart of Germany. In flying our sector we could see Aachen and Geilenkirchen from the air. Our 333^rd and 334^th combat teams were assigned to start the campaign, and Geilenkirchen was taken in about ten days. According to history, Geilenkirchen was secured between 18 and 24 November 1944.

I was flying in the vicinity of Geilenkirchen when I was shot. A round came through the bottom of the fuselage and hit me in the lower back.   I managed to get my plane behind our lines, spotted an aid station, and landed. Lt. Bonnett, my observer, assisted in getting me out of the plane and took me to the 91^st Evacuation Hospital where I spent about three days. The war would have been over for me if it had not been for my persistence to return to my group; Sergeant Harrington, a native of Henderson, Texas, came to pick me up. On returning to duty, I found my fellow pilots had obtained “stove lids” to sit on to protect their hind parts; I slept on my stomach for several nights. I was the first in my unit to get hit but not the last.

The 2^nd Armored Division encountered the 9^th Panzer Division on or about 17 November. They were on our right flank, and I happened to be flying a regular mission when the German tanks came to my attention. Under normal procedure, we would adjust on a tank and fire for effect. That was probably about three volleys of battalion fire, or 36 rounds. In this case, however, more tanks came into my field of fire, and I was reporting them as fast as I could plot them on a map.

Unknown to me this battle was raging and our armor was no match for the tiger tank. The Division Artillery S3 came on the air and told me to fire the whole Division Artillery on the tanks until they told me to stop. This turned out to be a serious threat to the 2^nd Armored Division and possibly to our right flank.

For the better part of my flight, I was firing 36 guns at a time on these tanks. The best the 105 Howitzers could do would be to make them button up and hope for a lucky hit, but we did help the 2^nd Armored Division get into position to get direct hits on the German tanks and win the battle. This was the largest, longest, and continuous fire mission that I believe I directed.

After breaching the Siegfried Line, the next major obstacle for the 84^th was the crossing of the Roer River which proved to be quite an obstacle. We were closing in on the Roer on 16 December 1944 when the Germans launched their biggest offensive in the battle of Western Europe known as the Battle of the Bulge.   We continued to accomplish our objective in our assigned sector, and our planes would fly over the front lines from daylight till dark looking for targets and communicating with our Infantry.

Our planes were popular targets for the Germans because they knew we could observe their movement. We could adjust on them faster than our observers on the ground; our position in the air added a third dimension to the adjustment. They shot at us with just about everything they had from rifle fire to 88mm cannons and mortar fire.

Marche and Hotton, Belgium
Around 18 or 19 December 1944, the 84^th Division was ordered to take up positions around Marche, Belgium, and establish a line of defense between Marche and Hotton. I took the Air Section’s only 6-by-6 truck and three or four of our crew, and we joined the advance party to go south toward the Ardennes in search of our front line. We arrived just outside the town of Marche at the same time some German tanks drove up to the outskirts of Marche from another direction. They did drop a few rounds on the town, but, fortunately for us, they were not daring enough to enter the town. By the next morning, elements of our Division started rolling in. The troop shortage was so bad that even our Division Commander General Bolling was directing traffic.

On 21 December 1944, I took my crew and truck, and we back tracked about 2000 yards looking for a landing strip. The terrain was hilly and covered with snow, but we finally found a place on the side of a hill. We had to land by putting the plane into a slip over a bunch of tall popular trees so it was a tricky place to land and take off.

The night before our planes arrived from the Geilenkirchen area, there was a tank battle down on the other side of the hill from our selected air strip. It turned out that this battle was the farthest point the Germans were able to penetrate during the Battle of the Bulge. It was the 24^th of December, and my small crew and I were very grateful when the tank battle was over. After our planes arrived and we set up our schedule, we began to fly the line between Marche and Hotten, and I recall flying the line on Christmas Day.

We moved our air strip several times during the Battle of the Bulge, and, at one point, we had moved back from the front to a place just outside of Liege, Belgium. We occupied a chateau with about 20 bedrooms, and it turned out to be right in the line of fire of the buzz bombs. The Germans were trying to hit our big ammunition dump close to Liege. They never did, but one bomb landed about 15 feet from my plane and twisted it up like you twist a newspaper.

As the battle continued, we had to move along to be accessible to the troops. Generally, we fought toward Bastogne which was the area where the Germans had the 101^st Airborne Division bottled up. This is the famous place where the Germans had sent a messenger to tell the Commanding General Anthony McAuliffe to give up. The General sent back his answer: “Nuts.”   As we were gradually pinched off by the 3^rd Army on the right and other troops on our left, we were relieved to return to our positions in the north part of Germany in the vicinity of Geilenkirchen and the Roer River. 

Roer River
Now our attention had to be returned to crossing the Roer River which varied in width from 60 to 260 feet and from 2 to 12 feet deep. The Germans managed to open the gates of the Hemback Dam and blow up Erft Reservoir, so the Roer was at its maximum height and width for about all of February.

The Air Section resumed the job of flying the front and engaging targets of opportunity or on any targets we might be directed to fire on by the Fire Direction Center of the Division Artillery, or of one of the Battalions. By doing this, we helped to force the enemy to keep their movements to a minimum. The 84^th Artillery and our attached Battalions, which at times were as many as 36 battalions, pounded the far side of the Roer to prepare the way for our eventual crossing. The forward observers and air observers made it very costly for Germans to move around. The Infantry crossed the Roer under cover of darkness so we could not fly across, but we had helped to soften up the enemy during the daytime preparations.

Once we had our Infantry across the Roer, we moved in a generally north direction. From the Roer to the Rhine, it was move, shoot, and communicate, and we moved our air strip several times reaching the Rhine River about 5 March 1945.

Rhine River
Our front became the Rhine River, and we flew this path every day. We shot at everything that moved on the other side of the river for about a month while our Infantry rested. We were located directly across the Rhine from Duisburg. Dusseldorf was just south of Duisburg, and the whole east side in this area was industrial. Every time a train would try to move during the day time, we would fire on it with our Artillery.

Our Division did not have the job of establishing the bridgehead on the other side of the Rhine. The 79^th Infantry did that for us, so our Division crossed in the day time on the pontoon bridge established by the engineers.

Elbe River
The plan was for the 5^th Armored to drive toward the Elbe River with the 84^th close behind to clean up any pockets of resistance, but we still had to cross the Weser River before the Elbe.

General Eisenhower had ordered leaflets to be dropped with a message that if the Germans would display white flags, we would not shoot up their villages. As my observer and I were flying well beyond the leading elements of our troops to determine compliance with his request, I spotted the Weser River.   We flew up over the river, and I had quite an eerie feeling about the territory down below. Just as I banked the plane to turn around, we caught a concentration of machine gun fire. I straightened up the plane and pushed forward on the stick to go down to a lower altitude, but nothing happened. They had shot out my elevator cables. Fortunately, I thought about the trim tab and used it to maneuver the plane.

When they hit us a second time, they knocked out our radio, and my observer got hit with several pieces of metal in the back of his head. How they managed to miss me, I’ll never know. I guess that fellow upstairs decided it wasn’t my time. The plane was damaged badly and could hardly fly, so I started looking for a place to land. I eased the plane down using the trim tab, helped the observer out, and we walked over to a small civilian hospital (German). Luck was still with us as no German soldiers were around, and the hospital personnel took care of my observer. Then, we started walking down the road toward our lines. After a while, a jeep came along and took us back to our air strip.

As the Division moved up to the Weser River, the front stabilized for a few days. Hanover came into view from the air, and the enemy was defending more vigorously since the river gave them a good barrier. We pushed across the Weser and to the outlying area of Hanover. After we took Hanover and passed it by, our air strips were being moved forward toward the Elbe River. Near each air strip selected, we found German POW Camps and camps for displaced persons who were literally starving to death.

After we moved up close to the Elbe, a large building came into view and a large sign on the building disclosed that it was a Singer Sewing Machine manufacturing plant. I believe it was the town of Willenburg on the east side of the Elbe. General Eisenhower had made an agreement with the Russian Command to allow the Russians to take the territory on the other side of the river, so we sat there for several days since we beat them to the Elbe.

Heidelberg, Germany
The war was over for us about 8 May 1945. Our Division was moved to an area near Heidelberg, Germany, and we began a phase of military occupation while higher headquarters established guidelines on who would go home. For our occupation duty, the Air Section became a courier service, more or less. The 7^th Army Headquarters had moved into Heidelberg so it became a busy place. I also worked with the local mayor (burgomaster) to settle problems between the civilians and the soldiers in our Air Section. 

Marseilles, France
Finally, it came my time in November 1945 to start back to the States, and I was assigned about 200 men. We were sent to Frankfort, Germany, where we boarded boxcars (forty and eights) and headed for Marseilles, France. On the trip we were put on a railroad siding in Lyon, France, and sat there for about a day and a half. The little children would crowd around and beg for food, chocolate, and cigarettes. Sometime after reaching the camp just north of Marseilles, we moved to the port and boarded a ship for home.

Mediterranean Sea
We moved through the Mediterranean Sea during darkness, and I could see the northern shore of Algeria and Morocco and the lights of the towns along the shores. We moved through the Strait of Gibraltar and headed for New York and back to Camp Kilmer, New Jersey.

Camp Kilmer, New Jersey
Finally, at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, I was assigned at least 200 more troops for a train trip to Camp Chaffee, Arkansas, for separation from active duty. After a short stay at Camp Chaffee and some more paper work, I boarded a civilian bus for the final leg of my journey home.

Tishomingo, Oklahoma
I arrived home in time for Christmas 1945 and went to work with my parents, Virgil and Jeanette Auld, in the dry cleaning business in Tishomingo, Oklahoma.

Oklahoma National Guard
In February 1946, I was officially relieved from active duty having achieved the rank of Captain.

The Army was still high on my agenda, so it wasn’t long before I was headed for Oklahoma City and the 45^th Infantry Division Headquarters. The 45^th Reconnaissance Troop was being reactivated in Tishomingo as part of the National Guard for the State of Oklahoma, and I was given the assignment as Commander for the next four years.

Army Active Reserve
In the fall of 1950, I was relieved as the Commander of the Reconnaissance Troop in order to continue my education at the University of Oklahoma. At that time, I was transferred to the Army Active Reserve and was promoted to Major since I had been a Captain for 5 ½ years.

From the time that I entered college as a full-time student in 1950 until my retirement in 1974, I served in various reserve schools, completed the Advanced Artillery Course, the Command and General Staff College, the Adjutant General Course, and other short courses. As I completed these various courses, I was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and then Colonel.

I attended summer camps at various places every year serving as an instructor several times. I worked in the Adjutant General’s Office at the Forrestal Building in Washington, D. C., for three summers. Since I enlisted on 12 August 1942 and was retired in 1974, I was credited with 32 years of active and reserve time.

I had the privilege of serving at the following posts, camps, and stations in the United States:

• Fort Sill, Oklahoma
• Pittsburg, Kansas
• Camp Howze, Texas
• Camp Claiborne, Louisiana
• Fort Polk, Louisiana
• Camp Kilmer, New Jersey
• Fort Chaffee, Arkansas
• Fort Bliss, Texas
• Fort Lewis, Washington
• Camp McCoy, Wisconsin
• Fort Leavenworth, Kansas
• Fort Meyers, Virginia
• Fort McNair, Virginia
• Office of Adjutant General, U.S. Army Administration Center, St. Louis, Missouri
• Office of Adjutant General, Forrestal Building, Washington, D.C.

In addition, I worked at armories located in Tishomingo, Oklahoma; Oklahoma City, Oklahoma; Albuquerque, New Mexico; and Lafayette, Louisiana.

Service Recognition
During World War II, Liaison Pilots were awarded an Air Medal for 36 missions or sorties to the front line to do their job of directing fire for the Artillery and reporting targets of opportunity and other information observed while on a mission. I completed 123 missions during the European Theater and was awarded three Air Medals.

In addition, I was shot while on a mission somewhere over Geilenkirchen and was awarded the Purple Heart. Other awards I received for service were: European Theater Ribbon with Three Battle Stars, European Occupation Ribbon, and the Good Conduct Medal.

Story and photos submitted by Lorene Auld, Associate and wife of V. L. Auld

When my father returned from WW II, he spoke very little about his experiences. Consequently, I knew almost nothing about his service. After his death, I contacted the military National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis; however, I was advised his records were lost in a fire at the center on 12 July 1973. All they could provide was a certification of his military service dates. I did locate his company executive officer, Captain William Pena, who had written his memories titled, As Far as Schleiden. I also corresponded with my dad’s company commander, Captain Bruce W. Paul. Much of the following summary was obtained from these two officers.

My father, Wilmer H. Gretzinger, entered the US Army on 7 March 1944. He was 32 years old. After basic training, he was sent to Europe and was assigned to the 28th Infantry Division, 109th Regiment, Company I. He arrived in England on 25 August 1944. PFC Gretzinger participated in four WW II campaigns. The first was in the Huertgen Forest, the second in the Ardennes (Battle of the Bulge), the third in the Liberation of Colmar, France and the last in Schleiden, Germany.

In early December 1944, the regimental commander, Colonel Jesse L. Gibney, of the 109th was replaced by LTC James Earl Rudder. The 3rd Battalion of the 109th Regiment held a position in Bettendorf, Luxembourg that was part of a 25-mile defensive line in this region of the Ardennes. Each of the three battalions of the 109th had about eight miles to defend. This distance, eight miles, was much too long to be adequately defended by one regiment, particularly in view of the German counterattack that began on 16 December.

In the first two days of the battle, Company I had lost one rifle platoon. Under intense enemy pressure, the 109th was ordered to regroup at Ettelbruck, about two miles further west. Because of heavy losses, the 3rd Battalion had to reorganize into three task forces– L, K and I. Task Force I was commanded by Captain Bruce W. Paul. He replaced First Lieutenant (1LT) Dulac, who was wounded on 2 November. Company I (my dad’s unit) was assigned to this Task Force. 1LT Tropp commanded Task Force K and Captain Fossum commanded Task Force L.

Task Force I took a defensive position about one mile east of Ettelbruck. The weather was so bad that the Allied planes could not support our ground troops. At first the battle went well for the Germans. They pushed the US 1st Army back creating a bulge in the line. This attack became known as the “Battle of the Bulge.”

However, the 110th Infantry Regiment of the 28th Division with 2,000 men stopped four German regiments with over 10,000 men. German Gen. Heinz Kokott later praised the 28th Division for delaying and stopping the German assault.

By 21 December, Company I was down to 50 men from an authorized level of 289. Allied reinforcements were brought in, and the weather cleared. Patton’s 3rd Army moved in to relieve the regiments of the 29th Division. Patton’s army would continue its move north to relieve the city of Bastogne, Belgium that was surrounded and under heavy attack by the Germans.

Relief of the 109th Regiment was completed on 23 December, and the regiment was ordered from Ettelbruck to Moestrof, Luxembourg. The commander of Company I, Captain Paul, was ordered to send a patrol into Moestrof to determine if the enemy was still in the town. The Germans, however, had evacuated the town so it was relatively quiet for the 109th for the next few days. Christmas Day, a Monday, for the regiment was a special day. As reported in Pena’s memories, the troops were served a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

Companies I, J and K of the 109th Regiment were on the move by truck from Moestrof to Sedan, France by way of Libramont, Belgium. My dad’s company (Co. I) arrived in Libramont on 27 December. The picture on the next page was taken in Libramont that day. Five men of Company I are in the photo. My dad is standing and is the first person on the right. Also standing is 1LT William Pena, the first man on the left. Pena was later promoted to Captain and served as the executive officer of Company I.

As previously mentioned, I located Capitan Pena who was then retired from the military and living in Houston, Texas. He sent me a copy of his memories and a picture, but said he did not remember my father, and he did not recall the other soldiers in the photo. In many of the “Care Packages” we sent to him during the war, my grandfather always included a box of cigars. Because of my dad’s cigar habit, he was nicknamed “Churchill” by his Army buddies.

The tide of the Battle of the Bulge turned. The weather cleared, and air support was possible. After leaving Libramont, Belgium, my dad’s unit arrived in Sedan, France, on 3 January 1945.

The Bulge was over for the 109th. The regiment lost 1,174 men of a total authorized level of 3, 257. The Germans, under the command of General Von Rumstead, were unable to advance any further because their major supply route, Bastogne, was now in Allied hands thanks to Patton’s 3rd Army.

My dad’s regiment went on to fight in the battle of the “Colmar Pocket” whose objective was to liberate the city of Colmar, France, a key transportation center. The German army with about 50,000 men occupied the area around Colmar. The attack on Colmar began at 11 PM on 1 February and by 3 AM on 2 February, Company I of the 109th was the first unit to arrive in the city of Colmar. As planned, a French Armored unit then swept through the city and by nightfall on 2 February, Colmar was liberated. There were only 125 Allied casualties because the night offensive caught the Germans off-guard.

A victory celebration took place on 8 February. Company I was chosen to lead the parade through Colmar that was led by LTC James E. Rudder.

Ten days after the parade, LTC Rudder was promoted to Colonel. He was born in 1910. In 1957 he was promoted to Major General in the United States Army Reserves. Rudder died in 1970 and is buried at College Station Cemetery, Brazos County, Texas.

For the distinguished service in the Battle of Colmar, the 109th was awarded the Croix de Guerre (War Cross). The citation was awarded 27 March 1945 by General Charles de Gaulle, the President of the Provisional Government of France.

After the liberation of Colmar, the 109th was moved north 165 miles by motor and rail to Bransfield, Germany, over looking the Olef River, about one-half mile from the city of Schleiden. After numerous patrols toward Schleiden, the 109th discovered the Germans were leaving the city and moving east across the Olef River. They did not realize it, but the shooting war for the 109th Regiment was over.

On 19 March, the regiment was ordered to Koblenz to relieve the 87th Division. The following day the 109th was ordered to Nickenich. At 7 AM on departure day, one company was missing at roll call. It was later learned that the missing company discovered a large cache of fine wine in the cellar of the building to which they were assigned. The company slept very soundly that night.

By 7 April, it was clear to higher HQ that the 28th division would not be needed in the final fighting. On 19 April, the 109th began a 215-mile motor and rail move to an occupation area. The 3rd Battalion of the 109th Regiment was assigned to areas around Frankenthal, about 15-miles north of Ludwigshafen.

A key area of occupation control was the Ludwigshafen-Mannheim Bridge over the Rhine River. (In 1995, my wife and I sailed under this bridge while we were on a Rhine River cruise.) Occupation control of the bridge included German-speaking soldiers from the 109th. My dad, who spoke German with his parents back home, did say he served as an interpreter during the war, and it may have been here where he was involved in this activity.

Company I established a Company Command Post (CCP) in the town of Weidenthal, about 20-miles southwest of Worms. In a letter, Captain Pena informed me that a picture was taken of several men at the CCP. He also said that Captain Bruce W. Paul, commander of Company I, was retired at the rank of colonel and was living in Laguna Hills, California. I contacted Colonel Paul and he sent me a photo of the staff assigned to the CCP. He said the picture was taken in front of the CCP, a home owned by a local doctor. Captain Paul was born in 1922 and died in 2000. He is buried at Fairhaven Memorial Park, Sana Ana, Orange County, California.

The photo sent to me by Captain Paul is the same one my dad brought home from WW II. On the back of my dad’s photo, he wrote the surnames and home state of several CCP staff.

The war in Europe ended on 7 May 1945 (V-E Day) with the surrender of Germany. To determine which of the GIs were going home, a point system, called the Adjusted Service Rating (ASR), was used. Points were given for length of service, time overseas, combat decorations and the number of dependent children. An ASR of 85 or greater meant the soldier would go home.

My dad’s ASR was 86. He was going home!. He arrived in the United States on 6 August and was given a 30-day leave. While on leave, atomic bombs were dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, which lead to Japan’s surrender on 14 August 1945. After his leave, my dad was ordered to the separation center at Fort Indiantown Gap Military Reservation. He was discharged there on 12 September 1945.

My father, Wilmer H. Gretzinger, had survived WW II. He died 18 years later on 30 July 1963. He is buried at Christ Union Cemetery, Bucks County, Trumbauersville, PA.

Summary by:
Richard C. Gretzinger
July 2015

The 809th Field Artillery Battalion was activated and assigned to General George Patton’s 3rd Army. I, Joseph Santropetro, was a PFC serving from July 24_r 1943 to February 28_r 1946; and was attached to the following units. I completed my basic training in Anti-Aircraft on 90mm guns at Camp Edward in Massachusetts. Then, I requested a transfer to the Army Air Force passing the written test and medical exam. A month later I was notified that the Army Air Force did not need an AA or Air Force pilots and there was a need for Heavy Artillery Specialists, My entire Battalion was then transferred ta Camp Butler, North Carolina where we trained to use a 155mm Howitzer gun.

I served in Battery C of the 809th Field Artillery Battalion; our Commanding Officer was a West Point Colonel. The Battalion contained about 1000 men divided into four Batteries. The four Batteries were listed as A, B, C, and D referred to as Able, Baker, Charlie and Dog. There were 16 Howitzer guns in a Battalion, each Battery had four Howitzer guns and four Track Prime Movers. I belonged to Battery C which was made the Registering Gun for the Battalion. The Registering gun would go forward first to obtain the target coordinates needed to coordinate all 16 guns to fire on the targets. I was also a Track Prime Mover driver.

We left USA on a British Ship convoy for England; it took approximately 14 days. Three months later our artillery landed in Southampton, England.   Our equipment was checked and then loaded on a ship to cross the English Channel to France; landing in France on December 18, 1944. We were ordered to go to the First Army in Belgium, We moved out immediately reaching the Germany border Christmas Eve 1944; and began firing on the Germany target on Christmas Day. I remember being in it open field and venturing out in waist-deep mow In front of the registering gun to line up the two aiming stakes used for coordinate calibration that required an adjustment so all the guns could line up simultaneously to fire at the same target The two aiming stakes; were about 100 ft. out, I was standing up driving down the two stakes and “screaming meemies” were landing all around me sinking in the snow. My buddies were trying to alert me but I was so deep in concentration that I did not hear them nor the “meemies” landing all around me, completed my tasked returned crawling or my stomach   I remember another time when the Track Prime Mover I was driving hit a mine and the chain blew; we were OK, exited the vehicle and awaited for another vehicle to move the Registering Gun.

We found ourselves firing in a 360-degree circle, indicating we were in a pocket.   We were aware of Malmedy where 85 captured artillery American soldiers were shot dead after surrendering to Germany forces. The Captain then ordered to pack-up and retreat. Thanks to God, good luck and the Captain, we managed to get out. As we retreated. General Patton’s 3rd Army was coming to help the 101^st Air Borne, also known as “The Band of Brothers”. At Bastogne we were assigned to General Patton’s 3^rd and the 809^th Field Artillery Battalion remained in combat with them up until May 8, 1945, V.E. Day. The 809^th Field Artillery Battalion received three battle stars; THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE, THE BATTLE OF CENTRAL EUROPE, and THE BATTLE OF THE RHINELAND.

After V. E. Day, before the atomic bomb, our Colonel volunteered to go to Japan with his 809^th Battalion. The Battalion was then split up and sent to different outfits. There was a point system that determined the order of which the soldiers could return home first. Soldiers received points for number of System Battle Stars earned, and if they were married or if they had children. While I was waiting to return home I was assigned to the 14^th Infantry. I lived in Augsburg, Munchen, Germany for six months where I worked in a post office. I was finally shipped out on the liberty Ship, New Bern Victory. I arrived in the USA on February 22,1946, and was honorably discharged in Fort Dix February 28,1946.

The 109^th was not a combat unit but it certainly had its rough times as it was near the front most of the War. I should mention that it had 39 officers of which about half were surgeons. There were 40 nurses and 217 enlisted men. The unit was formed and completed basic training at Camp Carson, Colorado in June 1943. It went overseas in April of 1944 and landed on Utah beach in Normandy in1944.

The 109^th Evacuation Hospital was a 400 bed unit, usually housed in tents, and called semi mobile since it could be dismantled, loaded onto trucks, moved, and set up again in a few hours. It was a complete hospital since it had surgical staff and equipment to do any type of surgical procedure necessary in combat. During the invasion of Normandy the hospital had landed on Utah beach and supported Patten’s 3^rd Army as it moved across France.

In the later part of 1944, the front was moving rather fast and the 109th was ordered to move to an area near Boulay, in Alsace-Loraine on December 4^th. The weather had turned very cold so the unit set up in some buildings previous used as a prisoner of war camp hospital. The place looked like a prison, which it was, with barbed wire fences and pillboxes. Pot-bellied stoves made life good and the men got to sleep inside for the first time since landing in Normandy. Causalities were about what had been expected ranging from about 50 to 100 each day.

On the afternoon of December 22th the hospital was notified that it would again support Patten’ 3^rd Army as it moved north to relieve the pressure of the German break through. It was a go, go. Within hours the hospital was retreating back to Metz, where it bivouacked until all of the supporting unit got organized for the Patten’s move north.

On December 28th the 109th moved into some French Military Academy buildings in Montmedy, France. Montmedy was about six miles south of the Belgium border and causalities were very heavy. Other supporting surgical teams were called in to help. Treatment was difficult because of several complicating factors. The ward medics were faced with as many as 40 wounded in each room coming out of anesthesia, the Germans had dropped paratroopers behind the lines, so some of the medics had to do guard duty. Also a number of the enlisted men were called up to serve as first aid men in various infantry units in the area, and there were several heavy snow storms. Because of the heavy casualties, both German and American GI’s had to be placed in the same area and this did not work as one would expect. Regardless of all the problems, nearly 3000 causalities received surgical treatment while at this location with a very low death rate.

On 29 January the 109^th moved to a former Children’s Air and Sun School, Institute de Ode near Sprimont, Belgium, just ten miles from Bastogne. The fighting was over but the results were overwhelming in terms of casualties and equipment. The 109^th admitted more casualties and had the lowest death rate of any Evacuation Hospital in Europe. It received five battle stars. Meritorious Unit Commendation, and European Theater streamer.

I was drafted, trained, supplied, unloaded, then waded ashore at La Harve, France. We walked a few days through rain and snow, into the Ardennes Mountains. The small town of St. Vith was about five miles from where we replaced the 1^st Division on the front lines, on the border between Belgium and Germany. They had been there for several weeks and were well dug in. The gun emplacements for my two Machine Gun crews were each big enough for the crew of five to lie in. If you bent over you could sit up.

The Germans were dug in on the other side of a small valley. We could see them and they could see us. We stayed in our holes most of the time. The artillery barrages would start up every now and then so we didn’t spend too much time on the latrine. About December 13, we began hearing a lot of movement from the Germans, sounding like tank movements. As it turned out, that’s what it was. They also increased the heavy artillery shelling, so we were pinned down.

On the morning of December 16, at daybreak, the Germans came at us with their heavy tanks, called Panzers. We got orders to pull back. We picked up our machine guns and ammunition and took off. Our orders were to reassemble in the town of St. Vith, but the Germans had us cut off. We would go in one direction and we’d run into them. Each time we lost some of our men in the fight. This went on for three days until the morning of December 19. We had spent most of the night in foxholes, which had about a foot of water in them. Every time we tried to get out the artillery would start up.

I sent word to the Company Commander, telling him, “Let’s get out of here while it’s still dark and try to make a break for St. Vith.” The commander said back, “No, let’s wait until daylight.” We knew the Germans were all around us because we could hear them talking. Actually, they weren’t all around us because we were at the edge of the woods. In front of us were open fields and to the left open fields. To our right were heavy woods. We were at the corner of a small gravel road, so we had Germans behind us at to our right. We knew they were there but we didn’t know how many and what equipment they had, except for a few artillery pieces.

We had about one-half of an Infantry Company, but my two machine guns had very little ammunition. The Commander gave orders for the first platoon to start out with my machine guns attached. The rifle platoon got well out into the field when all hell broke loose. The Germans were laying in ambush. They opened up with everything they had, including an 88mm.

I gave orders for the two Machine Gunners to advance across the road to set up on the other ditch bank. It was only a small ditch, but I felt it would give us some protection from where we could return fire. I grabbed some ammunition boxes and pulled the belt out of one of the guns. I put it around my neck (a big mistake) because I only ran about ten feet when a bullet creased the belt and exploded three or four rounds in the belt. The force knocked me flat on my face and my helmet went rolling. The carbine flew out of my hand. It stunned me for a few seconds. When I realized what had happened, I reached for my gun with my left hand at the same instant an artillery shell hit the tree above me and sent shell fragments raining down on me, one hitting my left wrist and another my left leg. I could see what it had done to my wrist but I couldn’t see what it had done to my leg. I felt like it was blown off.

In a few seconds another shell landed and this time quite a few fragments tore into my back, knocking the wind out of me. It also put my lights out. When I came to, someone was rolling me over on my back. It was a soldier from my squad. He asked if I could take the sulfa tablets we had in our first aid kits. I told him, “Yes.” I noticed he was holding one hand up in the air, only there was no hand, it had been blown off at the wrist. He used his remaining hand and took the eight sulfa tablets and put them in my mouth. He took out my canteen, but it was empty. He then took a handful of snow and put it in my mouth. After a good bit of gagging, I chewed them and got them down, which probably saved my life.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day. I saw a few of the guys get hit, wondering if this was “the end” thinking it really was. I noticed the firing stopped and I could hear voices. I realized most of the talking was in German. The few American men still on their feet were rounded up and taken prisoner. I guess I went back to “la la land” because the next voices I heard were German soldiers. One was kneeling beside me to see if I was alive. He asked a question, which I answered in German, which startled him. He called to his buddy in German, “Hey, this one is still alive, let’s take him.” They picked me up and put me into a trailer being pulled by a jeep, ours at that. There were four of us in the trailer, just tossed in. By now it was almost dusk and very cold. The cold weather was probably another factor in saving my life. My wounds were frozen, preventing me from bleeding. The ride in the trailer was extremely painful and cold. My head was resting on the side of the trailer, the wheel covering my face with mud, freezing on my face.

They made a stop to unload one of the guys who had died. We continued on for I don’t know how long because it was dark. We finally stopped and I was taken off the trailer. The next thing I remember was a Medic cutting off my clothes and a Priest was giving me the last rites. That was not too encouraging, but I was glad to get off that steel trailer to receive a little medical attention. I felt blessed to have a Priest pray for me. I again went back to “la la land.”

Whatever was in the shot they gave me must have been strong. When I awoke I heard singing and at the foot of my bed were two angels singing Christmas carols. My first thought was, “Wow, I must be in heaven.” Then I noticed the singing was in German. Reality hit me that I was alive and in a German Field Hospital. The Angels were the German version of Santa Claus, which they call Christmas Angels. A lady and a little girl wore white clothing and had wings on their back. It was Christmas Eve and I now had been unconscious for three days. As I began to take notice of where I was, I realized I was in bed with two German soldiers that were also wounded.

The Christmas Angels were handing out Christmas presents to all the German soldiers. The package contained a bottle of wine and a bag of cookies. When they gave one to me, someone yelled, “No, no, he’s an American.” So I didn’t get a present. I was in a lot of pain and I was hungry because I had nothing to eat for about five or six days.

I began to take stock of my injuries. My left arm was in a huge metal splint (looked like two snow shoes) and this was lying across my stomach. The rest of my body was completely wrapped (sort of like a mummy). I couldn’t move my left leg or my left arm, but my right arm was all right. The bandages were like crepe paper, which is what the Germans used.

The place we were cared for was formerly an Inn that had been converted to a Field Hospital. The beds were mostly the old double beds, each with two or three men to a bed. It didn’t look anything like a hospital. Because I couldn’t get up they gave me a urinal. Surprise! Guess what? They gave me a small can, the size of a can of peanuts. It served the purpose. Soon the lights went out and someone started singing Silent Night in German. Slowly, everyone was singing and I could hear a few English voices. I realized I wasn’t the only American in the Field Hospital. There must have been five or six of us. They sang a few more German songs when the man on my left handed me a cup of his wine. He said, “Schnell,” which meant “quick” and, I did. It was very good. A few minutes later, the guy on my right handed me his cup and said, “Schnell,” and he also gave me a cookie. For the first time since my capture, I felt a glimmer of hope.

Here I was, lying between two of the men that we were shooting at a few hours earlier. What irony, but when the singing started, they became human beings and were perhaps wishing, as I was, to be at home for Christmas. The only difference was that they got the wine and cookies and I didn’t. That brought me back to the real world. When the lights were turned off, I drifted back to sleep, the wine helped, thankfully.

The next day, Christmas day, I finally was given something to eat. It wasn’t turkey and dressing, but it was food. By this time, all my wounds were becoming very painful. There wasn’t much they gave me for pain, no shots every four hours, just some aspirin once in a while. That night we were treated to a bombing raid and for about an hour is was terrifying. You could hear the bombs whistling through the air, and then a loud BOOM and the beds would shake. All the while the German guys were cussing out those damn Americans, because the planes dropping the bombs were of course, American. I had no idea where we were, but I know it was near a large city, and they were bombing the city. Some of the bombs were dropped very close to us. Needless to say, this was a Christmas I’ll never forget.

The next day, they took me, along with the other four or five Americans and loaded us on a bus. We were all on stretchers, which were made of some sort of woven straw. All in all, this entire ordeal was very, very painful, and it was very cold. When the bus came to a stop, I regained consciousness and learned I was now in a “real hospital” with Nuns walking around. I had a hospital bed all to myself. By this time, all of my bandages were soaked with blood and crusted, because they had not been changed since the first night. Cleaning and dressing our wounds was the first order of business for the Nuns, because our wounds were still wrapped in paper. The next morning they took me to the OR where they set and put a plaster cast on my badly shattered left arm. It was a great improvement over the steel splint that had been on my arm.

When I awoke I was back in a room where they also had a very young boy, about 15 or 16. He was a German soldier, a Hitler youth no less. They were the worst kind and as I found out, very anti- American. He kept harassing me until I ran for a Nun or nurse. I told them to get him out of the room, because I was quite helpless and could not defend myself. I didn’t trust him. They gave him hell and moved him to another room. The nurse told me he was mad because he got shot in the butt. I spent the next day there feeling somewhat more comfortable.

I was clean and my arm felt better in the plaster cast. The cast was up to my shoulder and enclosed my hand. It had a hole in the top and bottom and there was a hose about one-half inch in diameter and about three inches long with a safety pin on top and one on the bottom to keep it from coming out. This allowed drainage, which it did a lot. My stay in this comfortable spot was short-lived. The next day I was loaded back into a stretcher and this time I was parked at the train station waiting for them to put me on board.

The train stations in Europe are a bit different than here. They are very large, because the trains go right through the building and you feel like you’re outside. That’s where they parked me. All I had was one Army blanket covering me and it was very cold. I must have been there for about a half hour before they put me on a train car where all the wounded were on stretchers. Some were American and some were German. I had no clue as to where I was going. At least it was somewhat warmer in the car. We were caught in a few bombing raids and one strafing, but our car wasn’t hit. We were on the train for a couple of days until we came to the city of Neubrandenburg, Germany. It’s in the northeast corner of the country, not far from the Polish border and not far from the Baltic Sea. Stalag 2-A was my destination, which was to be my home for the rest of the war. They took me and four other GI’s off the train, all of us on stretchers and put us on a horse drawn wagon with steel wheels. We started moving down a gravel road. It was freezing cold and the jiggling of the wagon made the pain more unbearable. I guess I must have moaned a lot because after a few miles they took me off the wagon. Four German soldiers carried my stretcher on their shoulders. I was very grateful for this and I thanked them in German, which pleased them. They were older men assigned to guard duty at the Prison Camp. They were too old for combat duty.

We got to the camp with its barbed wire enclosure and guard towers with machine guns mounted in them, rows of barracks, on one end of the Camp was the “Hospital-part of the Camp”, and the buildings were the same as the rest, except for the dispensary. There were two doctors, both from Warsaw, Poland; they had both been prisoners for five years. One was a Polish Navy Officer and the younger one was a young resident at the Warsaw University, Dr. Grabowski. They took me right to the dispensary, as they knew I wasn’t in very good condition. The doctor put me beside a heater to thaw me out. He treated my wounds, which by now were infected with gangrene. He did the best he could with the sulfa powder he had to treat me.

After a while they put me in a room in the barracks. The room was small, just big enough for two bunks, about two feet wide and three feet wide, five slats with a mattress filled with straw. The room had bare walls made of “barn wood”, with a small window I couldn’t see out of, but I did get a cold draft from. This was home for the next three months and we all tried to make the best of it. After being put in my bunk, the delousing crew came in, cut off my hair and doused me with powder. Lice were a big problem and this was a normal routine for them. Dr. Grabowski visited me the next day with some good news. He said the gangrene in my arm was so bad he was going to have to amputate it just below the elbow. I was so sick at the time; I didn’t much care what he did so long as it made me feel better. The next few days were a blank. I was out of it with pneumonia. The only thing I remember was being placed in a sitting position by a few men and feeling something jabbing me in the back. I passed out again. They were sticking a syringe into my lungs to drain off the fluid and injecting sulfa powder. They said I was out for three or four days. When I regained consciousness, I noticed I still had my arm and the doctor said he decided to wait a little while longer so I accepted what he said. He told me later the real reason was that he didn’t think I would live through the pneumonia so there wasn’t any point in performing the operation. I pulled through both the pneumonia and the infection. I HAVE NO DOUBT THAT WAS A MIRACLE.

The conditions weren’t too bad once you got used to the straw bed and the cold. The food? Well, that was another matter. Our menu was quite simple. Breakfast was a portion of coffee; made with roasted barley (they didn’t have real coffee). Lunch was a portion of soup, and it was mostly made with green stuff, which looked and tasted like grass. Sometimes the soup had a little barley in it and that was a special treat. For dinner we got a slice of black bread made mostly with sawdust and flour and of course, it was dry. We received one Red Cross parcel per week. It was supposed to be one parcel per man per week, but the Germans only gave us one parcel per ten men a week and they kept the rest. It was divided up by making soup with the can of beans in it and the lemonade powder was used to make a very weak drink and so on. It did help a lot and we were very grateful for it. Our only eating utensils were small cans about the size of a Planter’s peanut can, which we used for our breakfast cup and our lunch soup bowl. We didn’t have forks or spoons and there wasn’t a need for them.

While I was in the little room I had several roommates. One was only there for two days before he died. Another was there about a week and was moved to the big room where most of the ambulatories lived. The small rooms were set aside for the very sick and the higher ranked officers. As soon as the sick felt somewhat stronger, they were moved into the big room. The next one to be moved into my room was an Englishman who had been a prisoner for five years. He had been forced to work in a factory in Poland. The Russian Army came close to the town where he was and the Germans made all of the prisoners walk to our Camp, which was about 100 miles. One morning, some of the men were shot because they didn’t move fast enough for the Germans. My roommate was brought in by truck with a bullet in the back. He was lucky because it passed through him and didn’t hit any vital organs. When they brought him in the room I figured, “well, he won’t last long.” He was tough and after a few days he was feeling much better.

He had some interesting stories to tell and it was nice to have someone to talk to once in a while. He had worked in the same factory for several years, alongside mostly Polish people so he learned the language. He tried to teach me the language, but it was difficult. After only a few days he was moved into the barracks with the other Englishmen. They had us segregated by the Country we were from. There were five buildings in all, in the so-called hospital compound and the dispensary. There was a small shed where the dead were put until burial, which was about every other day. This was a depressing sight because, as you can imagine, there were no funerals. They would just haul the bodies out and dump them in a mass grave.

As you can imagine, for those of us that were bedridden, it was not very comfortable. There were not sheets, just Army blankets. One to lie on and one to cover you. I still had no clothing issued to me. One day I asked a friend (his name was George Wunderlich) who had taken care of me when I was in a bad way, if I could get something to wear. I was hoping to soon be able to get to the bathroom on my own power. George said he would see what he could find and he brought me a pair of long johns (long underwear). I didn’t ask where he found them because I was too grateful to have them. We had one so-called bathroom across the hall from my room, with a few stools and one wall for a urinal. There were no bed pans. I had to get a couple of men to carry me to the bathroom. I was very determined to try to walk, but with one arm in a cast, it wasn’t easy. One day, George brought me what passed as a crutch, about a four foot stick with a Y on the top. I tried to stand, but my left leg didn’t want to work. I kept trying and finally was able to get myself across the hall to the bathroom. That was a great day.

The boredom was setting in and became one of our biggest problems. There was nothing to do. Nothing to read, no radios. I was anxious to get out of my little cell so I would at least have someone to talk to. One day I asked the Doctor if I could be moved. He agreed that perhaps it was time. They moved me into the big room, which was about half of the barracks and had about 30 beds in it. Some patients were bedridden, some were able to get around and there were many with frozen feet that had one or both legs cut off or toes missing. Some were like me, wounded in battle.

There were men from the Air Force. The Ground Forces were well represented due to the Battle of the Bulge. There were about 5000 men in the main compound and about 50 in the hospital compound. I call it a hospital although it was no different from the regular barracks and there was no medical equipment of any kind, no nurse’s aids, no one except the two doctors. A doctor would come into the room once a day to see how we were and to change dressings. The medicine consisted of sulfa powder, aspirin and paper bandages. How any of us were able to recover even a little was by the grace of God and by the skill and patience of the two Doctors.

In early April, we had an influx of new guys coming into the Camp. Almost all of them had frozen feet. The camps they had been in were being closed and they were forced to walk for days at a time. The Russians were closing in from the East and the Americans from the West. Some of the men had been in good health until the long march, which caused them to lose one or both feet due to frost bite. It was sad.

We had no way of knowing what was happening on the outside as we received no mail. We were not allowed to write, except for one short note we could write when we first arrived at the camp to let our loved ones know we were still alive. That was it until we were liberated. The only news we ever received was from the German guards and we didn’t believe anything they told us. They told us it wouldn’t be long until the Americans would be pushed back into the sea. We tried hard not to believe them. On one of the routine checkups of the small cells, one of the guards learned I could speak German. He would visit me for a little while whenever he could. However, he was very careful about what he told me. I got to the point where I could read between the lines and I could tell the war was not going as well as they wanted us to believe. The one thing he told me that was more truth than not was when he said, “You Americans will be sorry you aligned yourself with Russia.” Boy, how true that was.

In early April, the city of Neubrandenburg was bombed day and night by the Allied Air Force. They knocked out the power plant and the water. We had no lights and no water for the bathroom. The last bit of creature comfort was gone. They brought some of the men from the regular compound to dig slit trenches for us. That was our bathroom from then on. There was no water to wash our face. It was bad enough before with cold water, but cold water was better than no water. They did give us water to drink.

I was healing quite well by early April and the doctor took my cast off. It was a big relief, but my arm was totally useless and very painful. I had nothing else to do but to give myself therapy. I tried to exercise as best I could. I had another problem, the latrine was outside and I didn’t have shoes. I asked some of the guys if they could find something to put on my feet. They came up with some slippers. They worked so I could go out to the latrine.

As the war seemed to be getting closer and closer to us our rations began to diminish slowly. We could see all was not well with the mighty Third Reich. We were also nearing starvation, wondering how much longer the war would last and if we could hold out.

One of the items contained in the Red Cross parcel was a small pack of eight cigarettes, which were parceled out each week. It was our money. Nobody smoked the cigarettes as they were valuable to trade the guards for whatever they brought (sneaked) into camp. Food items were the most valuable. They would sneak in food such as turnips, cabbage and other stuff and we would trade them our cigarettes for the food items. It was cut up and made a part of our soup, which helped a lot. Once in a while they would bring a rabbit, all skinned and ready to cook. It would be tossed into the soup. A funny thing about those rabbits, they had long legs and tails. Oh well, they did put a little protein into our diets and helped keep us alive.

One day, about the end of April, we heard some planes overhead. This was a common thing, as they made a lot of bombing runs over us. This particular day, the planes seemed especially low and as they passed over us a shower of leaflets came fluttering down. They were dropped by our planes and the simple message told us to hang on, that the war would soon be over. They were signed by President Harry Truman. That was our first indication that President Franklin D Roosevelt had died. It also gave us a big lift. Until then, we had no knowledge of how the war was progressing.

We knew the Russian Army was closing in from the East because of all the prisoners coming into our camp. Germany was now only about half as big as it had been because the Russians were pushing in from one side and the Americans and British from the other.

On April 28, we began hearing the sound of artillery fire in the distance, from the East. We knew this meant the Russian Army was coming. When the battle got closer, the barracks Commander had the able-bodied men dig trenches alongside the barracks for protection. That night the battle was closer and the shelling was very heavy. We spent most of the night in the trenches, freezing cold. We didn’t have any direct hits, but a lot of near misses. The next morning, all of the German guards were gone.

The camp had two barbed wire fences about four feet apart, all around the camp with a machine gun tower about every fifty feet and guards with rifles and dogs patrolling outside the fence. When we woke up they were all gone. In the distance came the rumble of tanks. The Russians came with tanks, riflemen and men on horseback with sabers. We looked on with amazement. On the front of some of the tanks would be a Russian playing a Concertina and singing as if he were in a bar room. We figured they had already had their ration of Vodka for the day. We later found out the men on horseback were Cossacks. Their sabers were used very effectively. We noticed all of their equipment, tanks, trucks, jeeps, and airplanes were from America. They painted the white stars red. This was the equipment we gave them on our “lend-lease” program over the years, since about 1939.

We felt that now that the war was over we would be going home. However, the Russians took over the German guards’ positions and nothing changed for us, with one difference, they forgot to feed us. A few of our higher-ranking officers got together and went to the Officer of the Guard at the gate and asked for food. They said, “Sure,” and proceeded to round up a cow, drove it into the camp and shot it. They said, “Here you are.” It was skinned, cut up and dropped into the soup kettle along with some potatoes. The next day, we had the first meat meal in six months. Everyone was sick with dysentery. We spent the next day and night on the slit trenches. The poor guys that were still bedridden, well, let’s just say there weren’t enough pans or buckets to handle the situation. When we were able to go inside, we chose not to because we couldn’t stand the smell. Thank God it was the first week of May and was no longer as cold as it had been. It took about a week to get over the dysentery and several men died from it. Needless to say, no more beef stew.

The waiting seemed worse now, because we could not understand why the Russians were not contacting our lines to come for us. They didn’t tell us the war was over on May 7, and we were still there until the middle of May. They ignored our Officers, who kept bugging them to contact our lines to come and get us. Nothing worked. We still didn’t even know the war had ended.

One day they came in with a few trucks and told us they were taking us to more comfortable quarters. That scared us, because the rumors were flying that we were going to Russia. The fact that we had no say in the matter, they just loaded us up onto the trucks and took us to what was a German Air Force Camp. The quarters seemed to be much better, brick buildings with Army cots, a big improvement over the wooden racks with the straw sacks on them. The food was also improved, a little. We were kept there another couple of weeks until; they allowed a Catholic Army Chaplin, from the main compound, to get a driver for a jeep to take the Captain to contact the U.S. Army about our whereabouts. This gave us some hope that our captivity would soon come to an end.

I referred to our captives as the Russians. Actually, they were troops from all over the USSR, which were many countries besides the Russians. Some were a bit unsavory, and hard to figure out. They kept bugging us for cigarettes, which we didn’t have, because the Red Cross parcels stopped coming when the Soviets took over. Anything we had saved from the Germans, such as watches, rings or anything else of value the Ruskies took from us. They kept interrogating us. They would get upset when we wouldn’t tell them anything besides our name, rank and serial number, as we did with the Germans.

They did give us some lighter moments, though, such as every evening at retreat they would lower their flag and march in close ranks about eight or ten abreast around the compound. It was like a circle with a parade ground in the center. While marching they would sing some rousing songs which were very beautiful to hear. When they were through and broke ranks, they would bring out a few concertinas and sing, as well as dance their special dance. I found this quite enjoyable. It would for the moment, make me and the others forget where we were.

Every once in a while one of the Ruskies that had a bit too much Vodka would let go with a burst of his submachine gun. We would all hit the deck. The Ruskies thought that was funny. We did pick up a few Russian words such as, when they bugged us for American we had cigarettes, we learned how to say, “We have no cigarettes.” We would always tack onto the sentence, in English, “you SOB” and of course, smile. Lucky we never had anyone that understood English.

The biggest part of the day was spent looking out of the windows toward the West, searching for any sign of American trucks coming to get us. Finally, one morning around the first of June some loud screams were heard from the guys looking out the windows. They spotted some trucks and other vehicles coming from the West. When the trucks got close enough we could see the white star, we knew they were American. Everyone in the building let out the biggest and longest cheer that you could imagine. This was it. We were finally liberated.

After six and a half months, we were no longer prisoners and no longer under the control of a foreign country. The emotions and feelings we had cannot be described; you had to have been there. To be locked up is one thing, but to be locked up by your country’s enemy is quite another thing. We couldn’t wait to get into the trucks. Those of us that were sick or wounded were put into ambulances. The rest of the men were loaded on the trucks. What a “rag-tag” bunch we were. I still had dirty, unwashed, tattered, long-johns on, which I had been wearing for more than three months.

We left the camp and headed for a small air strip about a half hour away. On the way we passed by one of the famous Concentration Camps with the gas furnaces. Up until that moment we had no idea this was going on. We arrived at the air strip and were put on DC3’s and flown to Paris and driven to the hospital considered Paris’ best medical facility. It had been turned over to the American Army for its soldiers.

On September 8, 2002, my father passed away. He was 85 years old, but forever young at heart. My father was the finest person I have ever known. The first man I ever fell in love with, and still the best. All the qualities of a true gentleman, a true hero, he embodied. He was a caring, quiet, brave, strong, selfless, and a giving man. He was finely tuned, just like the violin he played in his youth. He stood tall and straight and always looked so distinguished and handsome and well-dressed. Growing up, my girlfriends had ‘secret’ crushes on him. My dad taught a daughter how a real gentleman treats a lady. He was a man of faith, and a faithful husband and father. He was talented and a lover of the fine arts. I know I get all of that from him. I am grateful. His smile was beautiful, and had a light of its own – everyone always said that. It was a smile that radiated goodness. He was a successful businessman, treating people fairly and kindly, a success, even though he never really learned the art of the deal. He didn’t care. He could never say no to a request, and sometimes people knowing that, could take advantage. But that was okay because he knew it, and chose to help anyway. Maybe he died on that Sunday because, oh maybe, his wonderful heart just wanted to rest now. Maybe his mission had been completed. He had fought heart disease so valiantly and for so long, much like the way he lived – quietly, strongly, never ever complaining, not giving in but with an inner understanding, and yes, even a kind of acceptance. I know he still wanted life, but it was not to be. And our family misses him beyond any reality we know. Our hearts weep.

This story, his Belgian story, is to honor him. My dad was a disabled World War II Veteran, 1st Infantry Division, PFC., Anti-Tank, fought in D-Day, Northern France, Battle of the Bulge, Rhineland, recipient of the Purple Heart, EAME Service Medal, World War II Victory Medal, Good Conduct Medal.

For all of his life since the Battle of the Bulge, my father had a deep love and respect for the Belgian people. For a couple of months he was with the Meyntjens Family, a relationship that ended up lasting a lifetime and touching many lives. On the outskirts of Antwerp stood three small houses next to one of the bridges by the strategically crucial locks. The Meyntjens lived in one of those houses. There were Mom & Pop, their three daughters, Angeline, Alida, Maria, and little eleven-year-old, Frans. Their oldest child, Peter, in his early twenties, had been taken away by the Nazis. My father had been gravely injured in France, and after being released from a hospital in England, was sent to Antwerp to recuperate. He was to stay for a couple of months guarding those Antwerp locks. He was stationed near the bridge. My father’s leg injury did heal, but he sustained permanent hearing loss that continued to deteriorate to over 90%. When he came home, and for the rest of his life, he wore a hearing aid. It was a large box positioned in a halter that went around his shoulders and his back, and hung in the middle of his chest. The ear mold was connected to a tube which connected to a wire to the hearing aid box. He also relied a lot on lip reading. This old-fashioned hearing aid, and the only model that could even help my dad at all, was his connection to a hearing world. Not ever, ever was there a word of complaint, not ever was there self-pity. I think a lot of men were like that from that Generation. Ordinary people called upon to be extraordinary. The men who really saw the hardest action of the War seemed to remain the quietest about it. No bragging.

During this three month time, my father bonded forever with his Belgian family. The Nazis were all around, always looking for Americans, and so they would regularly have to hide. Mom & Pop (that is what my dad always called them) hid my father in different spaces in their little house, at risk to their own lives. And always around him, staying close, protecting him just the way a little boy would want to do, was Frans – always Frans. The Nazis didn’t give up – bayonets poised, shouting in German, threatening the Belgians, always searching – but they did not find those Americans guarding that bridge. The Meyntjens shared their home, their food, their lives with my father. He was their tall, quiet American. How little Frans loved and clung to him! He wanted to always stay with him; I guess he so missed his big brother. The family didn’t speak English, and my father of course didn’t speak Flemish, but it did not seem to matter. Their understanding of each other was somehow not just about language. It was about the need for family, to feel cared for, to have a little of the gentleness and love left behind at home in America. Frans did learn to say, ‘my brother’, in English to my father. That was enough. Not ever did this family think of themselves. Perhaps Mom and Pop felt that if they couldn’t help their son, they would help another mother’s son. And so my dad became like theirs. How brave they were! No matter what their fear of the Nazis, it never stopped them from watching out for ‘their American’. When my dad did get some free time, he stayed at home with them. He could have, but chose not to go to the local night spots.

So the weeks of guarding the locks and of his own recuperation passed. It had been about three months, and the time had come to go back to the frontlines. My father always told me that that day of leaving his Belgian family was one of the hardest. As the trucks pulled away and my father was looking out from the back of one of them, they began running after him crying aloud and screaming his name over and over. Little Frans kept calling for, ‘my brother, my brother!’. They were losing him. The War went on, and my father was back on the frontlines. When he did get a furlough, he visited. And then the War was finally over. My dad went home to my mother. His ship, the USS Washington, braved a huge and ferocious storm at sea to be one of the first ones home. Its captain did not turn back when other ships decided they would. He said these men had seen the fiercest fighting, and deserved to go home as fast as the ship could take them. They had earned the most battle stars which meant they had earned their place to be the first ‘batch’ home. Their captain said they’d make it, they’d been thru too much not to, and they did – Christmas Eve. My mother had moved back home with her parents for the duration of the War, and on Christmas Eve 1945, the doorbell rang. There stood my father! My aunt screamed out his name, and my father walked thru the hallway, and there he saw my mother. It was a kiss that had been waiting for years to be delivered. He was safely home. Merry Christmas, everyone! And life went on. I was born in 1948, my sister, Donna Lee, in 1958, and my brother, Leonard, was born in 1963.

My father always wanted to go back to Belgium to the Meyntjens to thank them, to see them again. Thru the years, there were cards, letters, and Christmas gifts. I can still remember my Belgian doll they had sent me one year. The families communicated as best as they could. My dad so loved anything Belgian, that when the New York World’s Fair opened in the early 1960’s, we would go as a family every Sunday, and guess where we would always end up? Yes, at the lovely and authentic-looking Belgian Village, sitting at a table on cobblestone streets, and eating of course, Belgian waffles! My father would sit there with his beautiful smile, sheer nostalgia radiating from his face. Sometimes we’d be there and a Belgian band would begin playing. Then you could see tears glisten in his eyes. He felt Belgium’s essence come to him on those happy Sundays. It’s a wonderful family memory. In ways of the heart, he was still theirs.

Finally in 1973, my dad and mother, and another couple, who were their best friends, did just that. My dad felt he had to be there right then; it turned out to be quite prophetic. Their visit was so wonderful, three days of somehow stepping back in time, and yet so enjoying the moment. When they entered their house, my parents were overcome with what they saw. All around and on their walls were pictures of my father and their son, Peter. Nothing had changed, my father was still a part of them. Peter had actually survived the War and the forced labor in Germany, only to die one night while taking a shortcut home. He was walking on the railroad tracks and was killed instantly by an oncoming train. The War was recently over, Peter was 26 years old and home. What tragedy!

Their three day visit was very happy, but sad too. No one had ever forgotten the tall, quiet, calm, young American soldier. But Mom and Pop were gravely ill. Mom was bedridden, and my father knew they were both dying. The whole Meyntjens Family had gathered, grown-up now, the three daughters and dear Frans. My parents got to meet their spouses, and some of their children. The visit was all it should be. Dad had kept his promise to return someday with his wife, Ann. He had been given that last chance, a gift to see their faces again, sit down at their table, and embrace them for the last good-bye. Within just a few days of my parents leaving Belgium, both Mom and Pop passed away. From time to time after my parents came home, my father would send cards to their home hoping to reach someone and hear from one of Mom and Pop’s children. There might be a card – but only sporadically. Then we never heard from them again. My father sadly thought Belgium was gone for him. We thought so too. And life went on.

But we were wrong. Happily, Belgium was still to be a part of our lives. After about 27 years, in late March 2002, just a few months before my father passed away, a phone call. Imagine! Someone named Luc DeRoeck had been searching thru various internet search sites looking for the phone number of the American he had always heard about. He finally found my father thru a service of The New York Times – some kind of computer search site that traces people. Little did he know then that my sister and brother-in-law both work for the newspaper, and had he just looked under our last name, he would have found us quite easily. So Luc located a number of an office where my father had worked, the lovely lady and friend who took the call from him then called my mother, who then called me, and I had the number of a Belgian named, Luc DeRoeck, who was looking for the American soldier named Leo or Leonard. I called. Luc spoke perfect English

Source: http://www.thirteen.org/newyorkwarstories/story.php?id=319

Jerry remembered that while flying towards Utah Beach in Normandy in the very early hours of 6 June 1944, he saw two paratroopers at the door of his plane being sucked out of the plane by the deflagration caused by the exploding German Flack shells = anti aircraft artillery shells. They were never seen again.

At one point during the battle of Saint Mere Eglise on 8 June 1944, an Officer was calling for three men and a Medic to volunteer for a very special mission, Gerard Baszner was chosen not only because he was a Medic, but also because he was small and skinny; the task required a Medic capable of going into the Church tower and climbing out a narrow church window, where the stain glass windows had been before they were blown out during the bombing of the area.

Most people remember seeing pictures of the Sainte Mere Eglise church steeple, where still today a fake U.S. Paratrooper is still hanging by his parachute. Soldier John Steele was injured by the German as he was coming down over Sainte Mere Eglise in Normandy on “D” Day. His parachute unluckily hooked itself to the church steeple.

Gerard Baszner was the Medic who went to the rescue of the paratrooper, who was injured in the hip and the ankle, the injured soldier was dehydrated, Jerry immediately gave him an I.V. ( Intravenous) shot, then he dressed his injuries the best he could and with the help of the other paratroopers cut the parachute lines and brought down soldier John Steele, who survived the ordeal.

Gerard J. Baszner remembers fighting in the Normandy “Edge Rows” These are little fields and pastures surrounded by raised earth, which with time have been covered by bushes and trees, These edge rows were a nightmare for our Infantry and Armored vehicles, they were literally natural anti tank barriers; the Germans could hide machine gun nests and ambush our infantry soldiers. He was going from one injured soldier to another, he was taking care of their injuries, when all of a sudden his patient said: ” Look this German soldier just slit the throat of one of our fallen men and he is pulling a ring off the finger and going through his personal belongings, take my rifle and kill him” Jerry answered :” I cannot fire a weapon, I am a Medic”.

The response of the injured soldier was :” Your job is to save my life ! “Are you going to let this German kill us ?” Jerry realized that he had no choice, he took the rifle and fired three bullets in the German’s chest. Jerry then ran to see what the German was really doing, sure enough he found out that the Kraut had slit the throat of one of our soldiers and had already collected watches, rings, etc.. from dead Americans. Then Gerard Baszner added ” I had no remorse, I had done my duty to protect my injured fellow soldiers.” After the battle of Normandy the 505th P.I.R. was sent back to Nottingham, England for more parachute training. On the second training jump Jerry was badly injured, a knee injury which was serious enough not to allow him to be a paratrooper. He was transferred to the 130th General Hospital, which specialized in treating “Shell Shocked” infantry men.

Before ending the Paratrooper episode, I should mention that the original encounter between Gerard J. Baszner and the 82nd Airborne Officer was at Nottingham, England. Also it should be known that they were two reasons Jerry was injured during his last training jump. First the wind was much too strong and secondly paratrooper always carried excessive loads because they were always landing behind enemy lines. In this case Jerry was carrying extra medical supplies in a special leg bag, unluckily due to the wind and the prop-wash his leg bag wrapped around his leg and when the parachute snapped open all the muscled above and below the knee were stretched and damaged. Jerry was a patient of the 312th General Hospital. As he could not run and kneel he was removed from combat duty and transferred to the “Red Ball Express”. This very large outfit was a transportation unit, created by General George S. Patton, who wanted to give top priority to the transportation of supplies to the front line troops. General Patton wanted to have fuel, ammunition, weapons, and food provided on a twenty four hour per day system. He ordered a circle “Red” steel plate attached to the front of each vehicle assigned to the “Red Ball Express.”

The MP ( Military Police) soldier, assigned to any intersection, was given orders to wave through any vehicle carrying this insignia. Example: If a jeep carrying a General and a “Red Ball Express” truck arrived a the same time a any crossroad, the MP waved the truck to pass first. Gerard Baszner remembered driving a two and half ton truck, he was assigned to move gasoline and ammunition from Omaha Beach to the front lines. One day one of the front wheels of his truck slid off a LST (Landing Ship Tank) ramp, he had to have his truck towed off the ramp. As his knee muscles improved Jerry was reassigned to the 130th General Hospital, which specialized in treating “Shell Shocked” soldiers. He remembered going to Spa and also to Liege to get supplies from the 98th General hospital. The 130th General Hospital was moved to the Mont de la Salle Seminary in Ciney, Belgium, where it stayed until VE Day, which means Victory Day in Europe or 8 May 1945. Because of his experience Jerry was assigned to the operating room and he was also responsible for the central supply of the unit.

Standing (l-r):
Woody Ford, Medic, 107th Evacuation Hosp
Gerard Baszner, Medic, 505th PIR
Rose Dewing-Young, Nurse 130th Gen. Hosp.
John Delmore (Brother was in the 99th Inf. Div.)
Christian W de Marcken in our kitchen in Paxton, MA

Sitting (l-r):
Helen Najarian-Rusz, 59th Evac. Hosp.
Dorothy Taft-Barre, 16th General Hosp
Marjorie Baszner

Submitted by Christian de Marcken, Associate

LAKELAND | Seventy years ago today, 200,000 German soldiers and 1,000 tanks went across a 75-mile stretch of land in Belgium, Luxemburg and France, catching off guard four divisions of the U.S. Army.
by Bill Rufty, The Ledger
read story

click vimeo.com

read story

Gerard (Jerry) Baszner was born in Whitinsville on 8 May 1925. His mother was Aurore M. Lapierre and his father was EdgarP. Baszner, who was the Controller at the Foundry Office of the Whitin Machine Shop, which manufactured textile machinery. Gerard had one brother, who was one year older and one sister ten years younger. Gerard and Marjorie (St. Andre) married on 21 September 1946. They have two daughters, Andrea Mae born in December 1949 and Gail Marie born in October in 1951.

It should be noted that the U.S. Army records are mostly incorrect, they list Gerard J. Baszner as “Gerald J. Baszner.” Marjorie Baszner recalls that young married they could not afford a home, they lived with his parents; they survived on her “Minimum wages” while Jerry was attending the College of Pharmacy at Wentworth Institute in Boston. He pursued a Degree in Pharmacy thanks to the G.I. Bill of Rights. He later transferred to the Boston School of Pharmacy on Beacon Hill. He graduated from the New England College of Pharmacy in 1950.

Gerard was inducted on 20 August 1943 and entered active service on 20 August 1943 at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. From there he was moved to Camp Grant located in Rockford, Illinois; from there he was sent for further training as a Medic, from 7 January to 1 April 1944, at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, DC., where he successfully completed the ” Enlisted Specialist Course for Medical Technician”.  Then he was assigned to a Rep. Dep.,( Replacement Depot.) Unit, which left for England on 29 April 1944. His unit crossed the Atlantic Ocean on the SS Washington.

He was a member of a large group of Medics, who were shipped to England, where the Medics were assigned to various U.S. Army units spread all over England. Finally only six (6) Medics were left of the roughly four hundred who had arrived in Liverpool, England. The handful of Medics were kept busy by performing non medical duties, such as KP (Kitchen Police = Cleaning trays, dishes, pots and pans.) Jerry told his buddy that he had enough of this nonsense and was going to volunteer for the next job, what ever it was. He did not have to wait too long and a call came for a volunteer. At this time it should be noted that Gerard J. Baszner was a very young man, he was not very tall, he could even be called skinny, and he wore glasses.

The sergeant in charge ordered Jerry to gather his gear and get into the back of two and a half ton truck, which the soldiers called “Deuce and a half”. Dusk crept in and the truck drove off to “Who knows where ?” After quite a while the truck stopped and Jerry was told to get off and jump into another truck, again he was not told where he was heading for.

Some time during night the truck stopped in front of an “Orderly room”, which is usually the main office for a Company. A sergeant ordered Jerry off the truck then opened the door of the Orderly Room, and Jerry faced an Officer sleeping at his desk. As he woke up the Officer looked at Gerard Baszner and said :” What are you doing here?”. Jerry responded: ” I do not know Sir, I have no idea where I am Sir.” Gerard was asked if he always wore glasses. His answer was :”Only when I want to seen Sir!” The Officer immediately shouted :” No one in my unit wears glasses.”

At that time Jerry realized he was facing an 82nd Airborne Officer, who then asked him what was his MOS, ( Military Occupational Specialty.) which is the specific number assigned to each and every enlisted man’s  military skill; in this particular case it was the MOS assigned to all “Medics”   When the Officer heard this number, he immediately knew he was talking to a “Medic”. It should be noted that very few Medics volunteered to be paratroopers. The Officer’s next sentence was :” You are now a paratrooper!”.

This of course was not at all what Jerry wanted to hear.  The next morning he was shown how to drop and roll, then ordered on a truck, which had the tail gate open, as the “Deuce and a half reached the speed of five (5) miles per hour, Jerry was ordered to jump off the truck. This went on in increments of five miles. By the time he successfully jumped out at thirty five (35) miles per hour, he was tapped on the shoulder and declared a “Paratrooper”. That was the total extend of Jerry’s ground training. Since he never had any formal training, another paratrooper folded the parachute for him. An ingenious sergeant took some good old American “Duck tape” and taped Jerry’s glasses to his face.

The criss-crossing of the tape only left two (2) little holes through which Jerry could see.  The next he knew was that he was fitted with a parachute and was told to climb in a C-47 “Dakota” twin engine transport plane. Jerry told us that he was scared to death and was not at all ready to jump out of the plane. He was shown how to hook up to the cable stetched along the ceiling of the plane, this would assure that his parachute would be pulled out as soon as he left the C-47. Jerry went on to say that he was more than frightened and was not about to jump out, when the jumpmaster literally kicked him in the butt, and that really hurt, said Jerry. He was thrown out of the twin engine and fainted. He only woke up as he hit the ground.

This very scary training was repeated another time. Again Jerry suffered through the same exercise. He now was officially a Paratrooper/Medic of the 505th PIR = Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division.  His third (3rd) Jump was early morning ( around midnight) over Utah Beach, Normandy on 6 June 1944 also called ” D Day.” Usually the C-47 flew between 600 and 800 feet above ground level; on 6 June 1944 the German “Flack” = anti aircraft artillery at Omaha and Utah beaches were so intense that the C-47 planes were flying at 400 feet. Jumping at that altitude is very dangerous, the parachute has barely enough time to deploy before the paratrooper hits the ground.

This very exceptional story was told to us at 2:00PM on 27 September 2001 by Gerard and his wife Marjorie Baszner, who lived at 100 Benson Road in Whitinsville, Massachusetts, 01588-1202, U.S.A.

Submitted by Christian de Marcken, Associate