In 1999, not long after my mother’s death, my brothers and I found a box of letters with a note on top in my mother’s handwriting: “Letters to a War Bride.” The box held a collection of nearly all the letters my father wrote to her during his 20 months in Europe during and after World War II. That discovery led to a quest to uncover his wartime history which would culminate in a book I published in 2015 called “Letters to a War Bride”. My father was Captain Robert James McKay Jr. and he was Battalion Surgeon for the 275^th Engineer Combat Battalion of the 75^th Infantry Division. They landed at Le Havre in early December, 1944, and soon were thrown into the Battle of the Bulge on the northern flank. Here is an excerpt, from Christmas week, 1944.

23 Dec 1944 . . . We are in a country village [Chardeneux] so small that there is not even a store. It makes the last one practically seem like a city. I can’t say I mind though, because it just makes it that much less a probable target. The Medical Detachment is set up in a small barn. We have a central part with a clear floor about thirty by fourteen feet. On one side is straw stacked from the floor up with several levels on which the men can sleep. On the other side we are separated by an eighteen-inch stone and brick wall, which separates us from the stable where the cows are. Over the cows is a hayloft, which is reached by a ladder from our central part of the barn. We have rather a dim electric light (twenty five watt bulb), but our Coleman lantern gives off a pretty good light. We have our trailer with us, containing most of our supplies. Fletcher and Mirando sleep on the truck some distance away.

The old Belgian whose barn we are using is friendly and hospitable as anything. Unfortunately he only possesses a three-room house (all small) or we could have a real inside dispensary. However, the boys can go in and warm up from time to time.

Chardeneux remains a small village to this day. I spent a magical month in 2014 tracing the places and people my father encountered 69 years earlier. When I visited Chardeneux, it was clear that the whole village knows well the story of Christmas 1944, when every building in town housed soldiers of the 275^th.

Christmas Eve!

It is a beautiful, clear, cold day. We have been watching the U.S. Army Air Force’s Christmas present to the German People go over and believe me, no one is unhappy about it. When you get over here and undergo the discomfort and unpleasantness of what this war has forced upon us and think of how different it is at home, you really boil. You feel that truly nothing is too bad to wish on the people who have wished this on us. I’m sure that the cold and discomfort of a winter campaign are going to make the fighting just that much more vicious. From our standpoint it is a good thing, because we have been, if anything, too easy on them.

The family whose barn we are using have invited us in to share their warm front room with them. It is certainly appreciated, because it does give us a chance to get really warm now and then. The family is farmers. There are the father, mother, and eighteen year old daughter. They are very nice, simple, straightforward, hardworking people, who are scared stiff of the war and the Germans. I can’t say that I blame them. . . .

Christmas Day, 1944

Dearest Liz: Well, Christmas Day turned out to be another beautiful clear day. Your husband, contrarily, has been in a terrible humor all day. I suspect that it’s because he is upset and fed up that he is not with you. Also there is a certain amount of nervous strain connected with this war business. . . .

The war is funny. The destruction of war is as remarkable in its absence as in its presence. The impression we have at home of a countryside completely laid waste is not true at all. There is always a great deal more time and space where it is safe than there is where it is not. . . .

Our Belgian farmer continues to be very cooperative and hospitable. Most of us are sleeping on the floor of his two small front rooms. . . . All the boys are impressed with how hard the daughter, Angéle, works.

The farmer and his wife and other old people in the town have never seen a typewriter and are now busy watching Hanna type out a requisition on it. . . .

I had hoped to meet Angéle on my visit. A Belgian friend helped me search, found the family, and the two of us paid them a visit on a lovely April evening. Unfortunately, Angéle died in 2012, but her son Marc Breda was there, living in the house where my father and his comrades once stayed. The barn my father described has been converted into a community café, but retains the original structure. Marc called Suzanne, a longtime friend of his mother, who joined us at the barn/café. Suzanne was only eight at Christmas in 1944. She remembers the chocolate the soldiers gave the children, which was momentous because they had not seen chocolate since the Germans invaded in May of 1940. And she remembers the room in her house where no civilians were allowed, which must have served as battalion headquarters that week. Small children at the time, Suzanne and a friend were able to sneak a peek and saw the walls lined with maps.

Marc disappeared into the house and emerged with a framed photo of his mother as a young woman, and another of her in later years tending sheep. As I read them the description my father had written of Angéle, Marc and Suzanne confirmed her sunny disposition, which she retained all her life. I was thrilled to make this connection to my father, sitting in the barn/café and easily able to picture it as it was, with stacks of hay filling one end and cows just on the other side of the wall.

26 December, 1944 . . . It is now nine o’clock and I have been going continuously since about seven thirty this morning. I organized an SOP (standard operating procedure). . . . Afterward I had sick call. Then went up to the front lines to see how the aid men were doing in the companies. . . . Getting back here was like getting completely out of the war. We really have it made where we are. . . .

The whole aid station gang has been watching Angéle all evening. She is spinning wool yarn with which she knits herself socks and sweaters. She has also knitted herself a dress!

A few days later, the 275^th departed Chardeneux and moved to La Forge, close to the front line between Grandmenil and Hotton. On the 28^th, the battalion suffered its first casualties, three men who were killed by a German machine gun while laying mines. The 275^th and the rest of the 75^th Division fought their way east from Grandmenil to Vielsalm and then on to Commanster.

Through my father’s letters, his memories, and my own research, I was able to trace his activities throughout the 20 months he was in Europe. I’d love to hear from anyone connected with the 75^th Division, particularly the 275^th Engineer Combat Battalion. I’m sure you’d be interested in “Letters to a War Bride”, available on Amazon and elsewhere. Check it out at www.letterstoawarbride.com

“Your mission is to enter this territory, which may be infested with the enemy, and see that the tanks get their gas, ammo, rations and water. It is imperative that they get it tonight, because a counterattack is expected tomorrow morning.” And with these few words, the Colonel had dismissed me, and I was on the way, with four trucks, into the blackness of a sporadically-lit sky, filled with the blasting roars and unknown terrors that accompany the front line.

Service Company again would brave the dangers, which even Armored Vehicles would hesitate to encounter. Two and a half ton GMC trucks laden with precious supplies for the tankers were driven by unsung heroes, and their only comfort was an assistant who carried a machine gun, and was later seared to death.

Traveling on a dirt road under blackout conditions; training eyes on the vehicle in front; watching every spot of moving brush; and depending on the leader, who is going into territory he has never seen before in his life. A map was the only guide, but it was too dark to see it, and I could not chance showing a flicker of light. Depending on memory, not only as to where the roads were, and which turn to take, but also where the tanks were located according to the last report.

A Heinie burp gun goes off. It sounds close. Yes, darn close. If anything else can be heard, it’s the pulling back of belts as each man becomes more alert and strains his eyes even more.

“Halt!” A figure with drawn rifle jumps out into the center of the road. Next, came a screaming of brakes, and the cursing of the drivers. Thank God, it’s a doughboy. “Give the password”, ask him if he has seen any tanks. The directions he gives are not the same we had received. But they could have moved—they’re always moving.

I’ll have to chance it. Can’t afford to take a cumbersome truck through unexplored fields. “Joe, come with me. We’ll take a recon on foot.”

Stumbling along in the blackness, it seems like miles. Is that the outline of a tank? Maybe it’s just a bush. Always seems like one in this damn darkness. “Sure, Joe, that’s a 76mm sticking out. Better holler out, or they’ll mow us down.”

“Baker Company?” “Who goes?” comes the reply. We answer.

“Goddamn, you guys, always coming around in the middle of the night!” We know he doesn’t mean half the profanity that’s thrown our way—it’s the strain. Anyway, we are so happy to have found him.

I doubt the Battle of the Bulge could take a back seat in the military career of any soldier. Being a part of this battle was the most memorable event of my military career. It came at Christmas time in 1944 and was Hitler’s final offensive of the war. After it, the Germans were on defense, fighting and withdrawing deeper into their homeland.

Hitler’s plan was to come out of the Ardennes in a swift move, break through the Allies line, turn north and capture Antwerp. This would cut off the English Army from that of the American one. The Ardennes is an area where Germany and Belgium join along the Our River. Luxembourg and Belgium are to the south, and Aachen, Germany to the north.

Somehow, Hitler thought he might take Antwerp and negotiate some kind of peace. We had our gasoline stored at Liege, one of the German’s main objectives. Hitler thought that by making such a wedge in our lines he could create another Dunkirk. The battle started on December 16. I remember most the cold and snow. The temperature was about 10 degrees above zero. We did not have air support for several days because our air force was “souped in” over in England. General Eisenhower had not expected a German offensive in this area, so many of the units there were unseasoned. One needs to understand the terrain of this area to properly imagine the battlefield. The terrain consists of forested hills, steep twisting valleys, rushing streams, and tiny quaint villages. There are few good or straight roads.

During the Battle of the Bulge, we were rushed to defend St. Vith, Belgium. I have always thought St. Vith was the most important town, even more so than Bastogne. In stopping the Germans at St Vith, we had denied them an important objective. If the Germans had a chance of success, it had to come in a lightning thrust. There was no room in their game plan for delay, and yet we stalled them.

Harrison Salisbury, writing in History of World War II, noted: “All but cut off, the Americans failed to yield St. Vith on the right shoulder of the German breakthrough. The Germans drastically needed to overrun St Vith because it guarded the Allies’ oil and gasoline supplies. In their quick strike the Nazis couldn’t carry enough fuel on their own to fight a long battle. Unable to take St Vith, the Germans finally split their force and went around, which brought them to the crossroads town of Bastogne.”

Bastogne was due west of us. The Germans encircled Bastogne and had it besieged when Patton and his Third Army arrived from the South on a dead run. But oddly it was the 101st Airborne Division, fighting a ground war, arrived first by an hour or so and beat the large German Panzer force of General Heinrich Von Luttwitz. Patton’s forces came right behind them. Later, Von Luttwitz wrote, “II still don’t understand how General Patton and the airborne leaders moved so many men and so much equipment as far as they did in no more time than they had.”

Eisenhower was quick to realize that this was a major German offensive. “Tell George to send two divisions (of his 3rd Army),” Eisenhower told Omar Bradley. At that moment, Patton was poised to strike into Germany’s coal bin, the Saar. Patton’s Army was intact, not having been shot up like the First Army, whose infantry, armor and artillery had really been hit hard. Discounting Patton, the only reserves that Ike had other than troops in England, which were too far away to be a factor, were the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions that were recovering from earlier fighting in camps located around Rheims. Both airborne divisions were told to move out and fight as foot soldiers. Meeting with Patton, Bradley and Jacob Devers, Eisenhower asked how soon Patton could wheel his army 90 degrees and strike north into the southern flank of the Bulge? “Two days, “Patton answered. “Sure you don’t need three?” asked Ike. “Not my style,” said Patton. ”Me and my men can do anything, even change direction. But,getting on with it is what we do best. ” With a salute, he was gone.

There are many things I recall about the Battle of the Bulge. One thing was that our Christmas presents were either lost or confiscated by the Germans. Another thing I remember is the severe cold that never rose above 10 degrees. We had fur-lined combat boots, which made your feet sweat. Often the perspiration froze and caused trench foot disease. Because my group was equipped with armored vehicles, we could remove our damp socks and dry them on warm equipment. The infantry outside did not have this luxury. Instead, they would sometimes take off their wet socks and wrap them around their waists or shoulders, hoping to get them dry. We had many cases where the nails would turn blue and then the feet white as trench foot set in. A number of men lost their toes, feet up to the ankles as a result.

Not only were we fighting seasoned German troops, but adverse weather. In hot weather, at least you usually got cool nights. But in ten-degree day temperature, the nights are even colder. The ground was frozen, so you can imagine how tough it was to dig foxholes for protection. Luckily, we had armored cars, so during the Battle of the Bulge, I recall we slept under our vehicles. But we just couldn’t get warm. And the snow! One could have made a small fortune selling sunglasses because the glare on the endless snow was unbelievable.

I really didn’t realize we had a segregated army until I got in combat. The blacks in our area were mostly in the transportation corps. This was what we called the Red Ball Express, which hauled endless loads of ammo, food, supplies, etc. Why the name? The maps were poor and printed in the metric system. So we devised a system of painting red dots on poles, trees and landmarks for them to follow. That is how the name Red Ball Express came about. There were many heroes among those black fellows driving, hauling and fighting. At St. Vith, they got out of their trucks and fought side-by-side with us.

At the Bulge we also had to worry about English-speaking German troops who dressed in captured American uniforms. They infiltrated our lines, cut phone lines, turned road signs the wrong way, directed American columns down the wrong road, and used other ruses to disrupt us. These counterfeit troops were the idea of SS Colonel Otto Skorzeny and the undertaking was designated Operation Grief .At the time, the Allies called Skorzeny “the most dangerous man in Europe”. Their activities got so bad that MPs were stopping everyone and asking them questions that they believed only real Americans would know. Two of the questions were: “How many home runs did Babe Ruth hit?” and “What’s the capital of Maryland?” A correspondent said “Baltimore” and was waved on before he could correct himself However, MPs locked up Brigadier Bruce Clark, of the 7th Armored briefly because he kept insisting the Chicago Cubs were in the American League. The German infiltrators dressed in American uniforms were eventually all captured and shot. Wearing an enemy uniform is considered spying and totally against the rules of war. Once a soldier takes off his uniform to avoid discovery, he loses his rights as a prisoner of war under the Rules of the Geneva Convention.

One tragedy of this battle was the massacre of 140 Americans at Malmedy, just up the road from St Vith. The men, all of Battery· B, 285th, Field Artillery Observation Battalion, ran into a tank column commanded by SS Colonel Joachim Peiper. Not equipped to fight, the spotters surrendered. Suddenly, several German machine guns opened up, massacring the men standing there with their hands in the air. Some of the Americans survived by feigning death.

Both Peiper and Skorzeny survived the war. Peiper was convicted of war crimes and sentenced to death, but the conviction was later commuted to life in prison. He was eventually released. Skorzeny was tried by a military court and acquitted. The massacre at Malmedy had a sobering effect on the American troops. Until that time, none of us were particularly mad at the Germans. They were doing their jobs and we were doing ours. But after Malmedy, there was a change in the attitude and behavior of our soldiers. It was hard to hold back some of our guys when they encountered prisoners.

When the Germans went on the surprise offensive even airborne troops were rushed into the breech. Private First Class Kurt Gabel of the 17th Airborne was fighting near the village of Houffalize when he saw two medics shot as they crawled forward in the snow to try and drag a wounded American to safety. Gabel, born in Germany but raised in California, was guarding a half dozen German POWs nearby when he witnessed the shooting. He promptly herded his German prisoners ahead of him at gunpoint to use as a shield while he rescued the three fallen Americans.

“That’s not in the Geneva Convention Rules, ” yelled his lieutenant from behind a fallen tree. “Neither is shooting medics, ” retorted PFC Gabel.

There was no further firing as Gabel proceeded forward. Speaking in German and holding his rifle steady, Gabel had his POWs carry the two medics and one fallen infantryman to safety.

One of my good friends was Captain Barrett Dillow, who commanded Company “C” of the 24th. He was one of the best, most fearless men I met during my time in the service. Wounded three times, he was awarded two Silver Stars, two Bronze Stars and a Distinguished Service Cross.

As we were leaving the Ardennes Forest, Barrett was shot through the stomach. He sent for me and I arrived to see him bandaged from his hips to his armpits. “You are lucky, Barrett, because they. will send you stateside to recover. By time you’re well, the war will be over, ” I told him. He gave me a wan smile, saying, “maybe, Gus, maybe.” A day or so later, I looked up from my armored car and there stood Dillow. He had gone AWOL (Absent Without Leave) from the hospital and rejoined us. “Barrett, what are you doing here? You had a ticket home, ” I said in astonishment. Dillow answered, “Gus, I had to come look after you. Those fellows on the other side are tough soldiers and mean! You are still green. ”

I left for Europe from Boston two days after my 19th birthday on February 25, 1944. We set sail off the coast of New England and my young mind raced with manifestations of the old world waiting for me across the pond. Like the very ship I sailed on, I seemed calm and steady on the surface but had propellers of nervous excitement violently churning below. I had never lived outside my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky, and the thought of leaving the only place I had ever known was already intimidating enough without adding to it the thought of war.

After seven days at sea, we landed safety in the British Isles (at the Firth of Clyde in Scotland) and from there we took a train to Solihull, England. Then off to Northwich, England where I did my initial training. My training involved learning how to maneuver a ’45 Harley because I was a ‘lightweight’. I remember the roars of our military-issue Harley motorcycles competing with the bed check Charlies (German bombers) that flew over the English terrain during the late afternoons. Over the next year and a half, I took in enough sights and sounds to last a lifetime- including landing on the Normandy beaches (Operation Cobra, 26Jul1944), to the Cotentin Peninsula, to Brittany (Brest Peninsula), through Paris and Northern France to Neufchatel (near Bastogne) and then the Battle of the Bulge. I was attached to the First Army in the Cotentin Peninsula and the Third Army while in the Battle of the Bulge—and both Armies saw plenty of action.

Even with all my military accolades (including the Bronze Star), the fondest memories I have from my time at war stem from the two quiet months I spent living with a family in the small Belgian town of Gouvy during the fall of 1944. As part of a unit assigned to guard the divisional food ration depot of Gouvy, I handled police duties as well as kept traffic flowing through the town. I stayed in the home of a local family called the Lallemands. I will never forget the kindness shown to me by Joseph and Ida Lallemand and their daughter Gabriella.

They put me up on the third floor of their flat in the middle of the town and I eased into their home like a long-lost American family member. They cooked me meals and embraced like as one of their own. Occasionally I would escort Gabriella to her various social functions and would fraternize with her friends and my fellow US soldiers in the houses of the local townspeople. We were embraced more as acquaintances rather than soldiers … Foreign law enforcers tor a community that had never really needed policing in the first place. The father, Joseph, ran a sort of bistro outside of the building and was popular among the townspeople. He took a liking to me and was happy when I would take Gabriella out for the night. I believe he secretly wanted me to marry her, but my role was reserved to that of a guardian… A big brother to the young 14 year old girl growing up war-exposed and restless, in what should have been the sleepiest of small towns.

I remember eating wild boar from the neighboring Ardennes Mountains, expertly prepared by local chef, and drinking Belgian beer with Gabby’s friends and my fellow soldiers as we sang songs into the autumn night. The best times were the accidental moments when they forgot we were strangers and we forgot we were, too.

Like me, the Lallemand family was Catholic and attended mass on a regular basis. I would go to church with Gabby and felt comforted by the fact that the mass was the same in Belgium as it was in the United States. We may not have shared a language, but we knew how to follow the Latin proceedings of a Catholic service. If nothing else, this bit of familiarity would set my 19-yea-old mind at ease, if only for an hour of the day.

On the chilly nights during that autumn of 1944, the cold air would creep into my room on the third floor of the home, Gabriella or Maria would be bring me a hot brick from the fireplace wrapped in a towel to put in my bed. These little comforts made me feel at home and homesick, all at the same time. I truly was lucky to find a peaceful refuge during these violent times in Europe.

After one of those chilly nights in Gouvy, I awoke to new orders that we had to leave. My time in Gouvy had come to an end and as we were on the German-Belgian border, we had to evacuate in such a manner that the Germans could not get access to any of the rations that had been stationed with us. We were ordered to destroy all the rations in Gouvy. It was indeed devastating, but necessary in such a violent time. After leaving Gouvy, I was sent to Bastogne, Belgium. This was the location of the 8th Corp Headquarters before, during and after the Battle of the Bulge. I was sent to various roads around the Bulge area and patrolled for enemy soldiers dressed as GI’s. They would speak English and drive captured Gl vehicles. I would also direct traffic for military vehicles making their way through the town. I received my Bronze Star Medal Citation for withstanding enemy artillery fire and blizzard weather to insure the safe and speedy movement of essential traffic through the besieged town of Bastogne.

After Bastogne we crossed the Rhine river and liberated the Ohrdruf concentration camp. We pressed across Germany, continuing to guard large concentrations of POWS. I was in the town of Zeulenroda, Germany when the war ended. I made one trip back to Gouvy before leaving to go home. I had left a duffle bag of items in my old room on the day we had evacuated. I hoped to retrieve it and catch up with the Lallemand family. When I arrived at my former home, I was informed by Mr. Lallemand that Gabriella was off to school and that my belongings had been burned, along with other items, so as not to be seen as a threat to the Germans who had taken over. I thanked Mr. and Mrs. Lallemand for all the kindness they had shown me, and hopped a train to Marseille, France. Marseille would be the last city I would see in Europe.

NOTE: George Merz continued to correspond with the Lallemands for many years after the war. He still keeps in touch with Gabriella’s son (who lives in the Briton Peninsula). Currently, George lives in Louisville, Kentucky and has a family of seven children and 12 grandchildren—one of whom is named Gabriella.

Exactly 70 years later (December 2014), while participating at the commemoration of the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium and Luxembourg, George returned to Gouvy for the first time since he left Europe after the War.

He and his grandson Steve visited the exhibition of the local tourist information center, trying to discover any souvenirs of his time in Gouvy. He was very surprised to find a photo of him and three of his fellow soldiers, standing at the remainders of a V1 rocket. He shared his personal story about the Lallemand family with the staff of the tourist information center. They were very grateful to George and his family for visiting and sharing his story.

submitted by Patrick Brion, Associate, Belgium

I am a World War II Army veteran who served in Europe from the Cherbourg peninsula beach landing near Saint-Lo France, to the Battle of the Bulge.

So to get to my story: our artillery training in Fort Bliss, Texas was completed in 1943. Now that our training was completed, we were transported to Camp Myles Standish in Massachusetts by troop train. The troop train ride was quite a long and exhausting ride from El Paso, Texas. I will never forget we were nearing the end of our transport from Texas. It was very late. I was seated at a window seat and in the distance I could see a bright, light on the horizon. Soon we came to a platform dock at the train station in Alliance that was very brightly lit. When the train stopped and we left the train, we were greeted with coffee, donuts and sandwiches by a group of women who told us that they were Gold Star Mothers, wives and others. There was plenty of food and we ate until we all had our fill. After we were finished eating, they told us to take anything that was leftover with us. While we were leaving, they were telling us, “God’s blessings”, and “We have lots of love and pride for you soldiers”. This send off was something that I have never forgotten over all of these years. It meant so much to me and all of the troops on the train.

I am now ninety-one years old, and I can remember and still see that shining light shining ever so bright for us on the horizon. About fifteen years ago, I wrote to the Alliance mayor and this wife of this ever-meaningful event on that evening in 1943. They were very happy to hear the story and they even called to talk with me one Sunday. During our conversation, they mentioned that the platform in Alliance had just been replaced.

So in closing “THANK YOU ALL” and God bless all for the wonderful welcome that the community of Alliance gave to the troops who were heading overseas to fight for our country.