As has already been covered in some detail, the 70th Anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, visited by the VBOB in December to Belgium and Luxembourg I wanted to report on a continued representation of the VBOB by my presence at commemorations that continued to be held as VE Day approached in May 2015.
My wife and I returned to Europe (Germany) in April and began activities that were interesting, inspiring with the survivors, but exhausting as well. On 2 April, as agreed to with the Jonastal Foundation ( Ute’s Foundation that continues to research the underground facility that was used to make aircraft parts and also being prepared as Hitler’s bunker once he decided to leave Berlin), that we would meet Petro Mischtschuk who was originally from the Ukraine and was a NAZI prisoner in several concentration camps, finally ending up at Buchenwald when the War ended. He wore his old prisoner uniform that has been mended many times, but Petro wanted to be seen in it anyway. With our car, Ute and I spent the better part of the week with Petro and his friend taking them to scheduled events such as the City Hall in Arnstadt where Petro and I were made honorary citizens of Arnstadt and signed their Gold Book (for VIPs). We attended the service at Ohrdruf Concentration Camp where about five thousand prisoners died or were killed outright by the NAZI SS guards. Then a service at the Jonastal monument to recognize the dead from that underground facility. Joining us for the services was Mayor Durer, who as a small boy in hi village which here now serves as its Mayor, he observed the death march, as prisoners from Ohrdruf, Crawinkel and Esplanfeld , all small camps subordinate to Buchenwald were march towards Buchenwald to be exterminated as the US Forces approached. He recalls seeing a fallen prisoner begging the SS guard to not kill him, but he did anyway with a shot in the back of the head. Mayor Durer recalls all the brutal treatment he observed there in his village of Liebenstein as the prisoners were marched by.
Later in the week we attended a youth seminar held in a housing area but specially arranged so the youths could ask questions of our group that consisted of myself, Petro and Mayor Durer. I especially enjoyed meeting the youths and responding to their questions. The questions were directed more to Wartime experiences. After our week escorting Petro around we attended the commemoration event at Buchenwald, the main concentration camp. There we met our old friends, all survivors, Murrary Goldfinger, Jerry Kielzweski and of course Petro. The service was well attended with several thousand persons, the US Ambassador Mr. Emerson was present as well as the Russian representative. I should mention that the Camp Committee that scheduled events, etc are primarily ardent Communists. In the early days after the DDR or German Democratic Republic came into existence signs were displayed that the Russian Forces had liberated the Camp, soon that did change, but even today there is no display or mention that the US Army liberated the Camp. I was very pleased to meet Goldfinger and Kielzewski again, we have visited Goldfinger who resides in New Jersey.
The commemoration at Buchenwald ended the series of services for a while. However, I located a survivor from the Ukraine who was liberated by my division, 82d Airborne on 2 May 1945 so we had a very great meeting. Unfortunately Nikola is now blind but we immediately became comrades. He had to serve in the Russian Army for six month after the war so he was wearing all his Russian medals. We spent about 4 hours in our meeting and as we departed he still wanted to talk. I thoroughly enjoyed that meeting.
With a small break in late April, the day approached to commemorate VE Day. Our Belgian Army friend Patrick Brion and wife Steffi met us in Kahla where the NAZI Jet fighter aircraft was developed in the Marshal Goring underground facility. Thousands of foreign workers were brought in to work on the project as well as other aircraft parts not as prisoners but paid workers from Slovakia, Spain,Italy, Holland and Germany. They were confined to several camps as were prisoners and had to work under very grueling conditions supervised by the ever present NAZI Guards. Many of these workers died from pneumonia due to their working conditions and poor health care. We made some great friends from Holland, Italy and Slovakia among the relatives of the workers who perished in the camp there. There were several camps located around the city of Kahla and at each former camp site a commemoration service was held. The one that means the most to me was held in Kleinshmidt, where the monument is located by the highway and after the ceremonial speeches were made, we were given a red rose by the children of the village and each child accompanied us to placed the rose on the monument. My very young boy was not sure what he was to do, but I have done it the year before so we had no problem.
I wore my cap with the VBOB insignia so as the press covered the events their photos will show VBOB was present. I should just comment, the US divisions that fought in the Bulge were some of the Divisions that liberated the camps and made it to the Czech border with Patton’s Third US Army, so our VBOB veterans who were there will appreciate this information.
This year, so far Ute and I have been in Germany for 75 days and as you can see we have been very busy. We also continue to do our research on the camps and will be with our German friends later on in Berlin to research WWII underground facilities.
Submitted by Doug Dillard, 82nd Airborne and his wife Ute, Associate
May 24, 2015
l-r John Bowen, Associate; Bob Dole; Mike Levin, 7th Armored Division
Celebrating 70 Years of Victory at the World War II Memorial
by J. David Bailey, 106th Infantry Division, Veterans of the Battle of the Bulge and Member of the Friends of the World War II Memorial.
Seventy years ago our forebears helped save the world from the unspeakable horror of global Fascist domination. American troops along with British, Canadians, Free French and other Allied Soldiers earned the non-ubiquitous title – The Greatest Generation. Across the Free World people took to the streets in celebration of a hard-fought peace.
The War in Europe was over but not without sacrifice. In the end, the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Forest of Belgium and Luxembourg was the costliest action every fought by the U. S. Army, and suffered 80,000 losses between casualties and wounded. Winston Churchill later stated.
“7/r/s is undoubtedly the greatest American Battle of the War and will, I believe, be regarded as an ever-famous American Victory”
On May 8,1945 I was in Bad Ems, Germany and five of my comrades from 106th Infantry Division took off for the nearest tavern to celebrate. We never dreamed that there was a cameraman present from the “Stars and Stripes” and that we would appear on the cover page of their Victory Edition. It was a humbling but gratifying experience for all of us.
Today’s commemoration co-hosted by the Friends of the National Word War II Memorial and the National Park Service was the largest event held at the World War II Memorial since its dedication more than ten years ago. Present was a roster of distinguished guests and representatives from the embassies of nearly 30 European Theatre Allied Nations.
Record numbers of veterans and their families including World War II veterans were present for the occasion.
The event climaxed by “A Victory Capital Flyover” which included 56 World War II aircraft flying in 15 historically sequenced war bird formation overhead. For those of us that witnessed this spectacle it was a moment to always remember.
As we celebrate this landmark occasion let us not simply commemorate history, let us rededicate ourselves to the freedom to which we fought.
In the words of George Washington – “Freedom when it begins to take root, is a plant of
rapid growth.”
In this database, personal memorial pages can be found for the large majority of the about 24,000 American soldiers who are buried or listed at the Walls of the Missing at the overseas American War Cemeteries Ardennes, Henri-Chapelle and Margraten. READ MORE
Thousands of white marble crosses and Stars of David, row after row. This is what one sees when overlooking the American War Cemetery in the town of Margraten, the Netherlands. The markers are testimony to the sacrifices made by many young American men and women for the freedom of Europe during World War II.. Through The Faces of Margraten project in May 2015 the Dutch will pay special tribute to these soldiers by decorating their more than 10,000 graves and names on the Walls of the Missing with personal photos of the soldiers. The project has started a quest to locate more soldiers’ photos. READ MORE
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 1st 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.
In conjunction with Memorial Day, the students and staff of Old Turnpike School in Tewksbury, NJ have planned a day-long celebration to honor the men and women of the Armed Services. The event will begin at 8am with an opening ceremony and conclude at 2:30pm with a closing ceremony. Throughout the day, students and staff will hear first-hand accounts of your experiences.
Plans are moving forward as the celebration date, May 22, 2015, quickly approaches. In order to bring awareness to the sacrifices our service men and women make, Remembrance Day was created to bridge the gap of understanding while connecting in a patriotic manner. While an eighth grade teacher, I created Remembrance Day and ran the program on three occasions: 1999, 2002, 2005. At the height of the event, 75 Veterans attended with a myriad of activity during the day. With that said, my students have expanded the program to include Operation Shoebox, The Wounded Warriors Project, and “Thank You For Your Service Campaign” where students hand a Veteran a band that they wear on their wrist. The following narrative will lay out the program/event in order to bring clarity to the immense scope of the day; it will be broken down into three parts:
Opening Ceremonies: We will kick off the event in the Gym. All attendees will have a seat of honor amidst the band, chorus, Remembrance Wall, and the student body (approx. 400). The band has been working hard too on a few selections, and the chorus has equally prepared a variety of patriot songs. Also, students have prepared short speeches on the meaning of Memorial Day, Operation Shoebox, and Wounded Warriors Project to name a few. Additionally, each grade, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth, will prepare a Remembrance Wall which will include patriotic symbols while incorporating a letter of thanks from every student in the school. In the past, a color guard has attended; however, at this point, one has not been secured.
Classroom Visitation: This is the most important part of the program. In small groups (15), the students will have an opportunity to move from classroom to classroom to visit with a variety of Veterans. There will be approximately six sessions, each session will last 30 minutes. Note: If there are a large number of Veterans, the number of classes you present to will lessen. Within these sessions, the Veterans can share their experiences. In the past, groups of Veterans have presented together while others have done individual presentations. Each Veteran will have a student chaperone to attend to their needs throughout the day, for example, introduce you to the students, be a guide, provide water and food to name a few. During the Classroom Visitation periods, the MTA (Military Transport Association) will have vehicles on site for the students to view. At this point, I have confirmation of one vehicle with the hopes more will RSVP as we get closer to the event. In addition, during past three programs, a helicopter from Picatinny Arsenal has landed on site. My hope is we will be able to secure the helicopter again this year; however, it has been difficult.
Closing Ceremonies: The program will conclude around the flagpole in front of the school. The Veterans will, again, have a seat of honor. After a few short speeches, the boy scouts will lower the Flag and fold it properly. Then, they will hand it to the Veteran who will lay it to rest in a cauldron of fire with a Nine Gun Salute. Taps will then be played. If a helicopter is secured for the event, there will be a “fly over”.
My students have create various social media sites. They are as follows:
Instagram: @otsremembranceday
Snapchat: @remembranceday1
Twitter: @otsPBL2015
Pinterest: @oremembranceday
In order to express France’s eternal gratitude to those who liberated it from oppression from 1944-45, the Consul General of France in Atlanta, Denis Barbet, bestowed the Legion of Honor upon 11 American WWII Veterans, including VBOB members Art Mohor and Phil Pollock, from Georgia on January 27, 2015 in Atlanta, GA.
VBOB member Art Mohor, 94th ID; receiving the Legion of Honor medal from the French Consul General Denis BarbetFrench Consul General Denis Barbet and Art Mohor, 94th ID(l-r) John Mohor, Associate (Art’s son); Art Mohor, 94th ID; Phil Pollock, 87th ID; Duane R. Bruno, Associate/Treasurer
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.
Leonard J. Fazio, 1st Infantry Division
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
My grand parents on Dad side emigrated from Belgium to Chicago, Illinois in the late 1800. Dad was raised and educated in Chicago. During World War One he was in Belgium and was injured in combat near Ypres, Belgium. He worked for various American companies and in the early thirties he met Lawrence Hammond , who invented the Hammond Organ, which were manufactured in Chicago. Dad was asked to become the general manager of Hammond Organ International, responsible for Europe and Africa.
While in Belgium he met Mother, who was born a Belgium and was one of the youngest Belgians decorated by the King of England for act of valor during World War One. Since Mother was born in 1903 and the war ended in 1918, what ever Mother did was within her first fifteen year. I was born an American citizen and registered at the U.S. Embassy in Brussels Belgium on January 24, 1928. I am the oldest of nine (9) children. Of the four boys, Louis (# 5) and Peter (# 6) finished Captains U. S. Air Force, Peter was a F-100 jet fighter pilot. Butch (#9) last I.D. card read Brigadier General Beaudouin de Marcken, he finished as U.S. Ambassador to Madagascar appointed by President George Bush senior.
I was trained as an infantry soldier in the 9th Infantry Division. For us World War Two started on May 10, 1940, when the Germans attacked Belgium. We were in the second line of defense called the K-W line, we had 18 pill boxes ( small concrete bunkers) on the property. At the entrance of the driveway we had a main anchor of the long line of anti tank barriers called the “Cointet Barriers”. The next think we saw were the British Royal Artillery, they installed a Battery of sixteen (16″) inch guns on our lawn. These were monsters, every time they fired we expected the roof of the house to jump off the foundations. Then came the ” French Zouave” these were fearless fighter coming from Algeria. These infantry soldiers came running bare feet, they had fixed bayonets, and were shouting :” Ou sont les boches ?.” = ” Where are the Krauts ?”.
As a young twelve year old these men literally fascinated me. They carried their booth, which were tied by the shoe laces, around their necks; however they also carried a necklace, it was a string with odd brownish and shriveled pieces strung on the string. After a while I asked one of them :”What is this…?” the response was amazing. The proud Zouave pointed to the rubber looking pieces and said : “Every time I kill a German, I cut off his hears, so I can keep track of my kills.” No need to tell you that these men were not ordinary soldiers. Within four days we were forced out of the house and we were on the road towards France. Dad drove a Pontiac and Mother an Opel. We were very lucky, the German “Stukas” did on purpose to strafe the civilian vehicles, this created havoc and stopped all military traffic, the German planes strafed in front or at the back of us, we were never affected.
By the time we arrived in Azy-le-Vif, in central France the Germans caught up with us. We were forced to head back to Belgium. The first night was spent at our grand mother’s house in Buysingen, Belgium. The next morning Dad and I left to see if our home was still intact. We arrived in the woods of the Chateau de l’ Etoile, were we lived, to find the home occupied by the German air force motor pool. The little German Lieutenant stood on the entrance steps to look down on us. He pointed his arm towards the driveway and shouted in German, by the way Dad knew German fluently, “Germany a big country…the United States a small country… Raus…! In other words get the hell out. Dad drove to the U. Embassy in Brussels, Belgium to ask for assistance and be able to reacquire the house. After all America was not at war with the Germans, we were neutral. It took eight days before we ere allowed back in to the rented house.
The lousy krauts had plugged all eleven toilets, defecated in all the beds, urinated all over the house, and broken all our furniture. What a mess. It took two weeks of cleaning and repairing before we children were allowed in the house. Of course as United States citizens we were not harassed by the German, who were not allowed on our property. Obviously all that changed suddenly on December 7, 1941, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and four days later Hitler declared war on the United States. Now we were enemies. It did not take long for the Germans to arrest Dad as he was coming back from work. Luckily the German placed Dad temporarily in a Belgium Gendarme cell.
He Belgian having suffered a great deal during World War One, (Read the book: ” The Rape of Belgium.” Written by Larry Zuckerman. this book has the ISBN – 0-8147-9704-0 ), are very patriotic and anti the German oppression. Two Gendarmes came on bicycle in the dark to notify Mother that her husband would not come home. They told mother to prepare a bundle of warm clothes and some dried food; they also told Mother to enter the Gendarmerie through the back gate, which would be left open for her. At least this way Dad would not be without some change of clothes. Early the next day the Germans moved Dad to the infamous prison of Saint Gilles in Brussels; however when Mother tried to find out where Dad was kept, they refused to answer her questions. Mother knew the stupidity of the German race, which was brainwashed by Hitler, who told every woman that it was her duty to build a large family.
Hitler of course was always looking for more young men to become soldiers. After a whole day searching from one German office to another, Mother got angry and said to the next German paper pusher : ” I am the Mother of Nine (9) children and I wonder what your fuehrer would say if he saw you!” Immediately the German soldier jumped up, he saluted and said ” Nine children ?” “Yes ” said Mother, then the soldier thumbed through a roster and told Mother that Dad was a prisoner at Saint Gilles. A month later was transferred to the Beverloo Camp, which was considered a very lenient camp. While there the Swedish Embassy got a pass for most of the families of the American and British civilian prisoners to once see some members of their family. While Dad was a member of a neutral country he enjoyed the fact that no German was allowed on the property. He was the only person in the village who had a vehicle, which was a small Italian Lancia. Dad and Mother were very patriotic and courageous and obvious took advantage of being protected by the U.S. Government.
On the front door of the house and on the back side window of the car they had a formal affidavit issued by the U.S. Embassy stating that this was property of the U.S. Government. As a result my sister Anne (# 4 ) and I remember very well certain afternoons, when members of the underground would come to the house, they would wait until dark and disappear. We would stay awake and listen, then we heard a plane pass very low over the valley and fly away. We found out after the war that a British plane would come and drop weapons and ammunition over the cow pasture located in the valley. The shipment was hidden and in the next few weeks Dad would deliver them to different underground cells all over Belgium. This of course stopped as soon as the United States became Hitler’s enemy number one. Dad had also built chutes in the rafters of the fourth floor, which was in reality an attic. These were hiding places for allied airmen and other men moving from place to place in their attempt to go through France, cross Spain without being arrested by the Spanish police, who were funded by the German Nazi party, and reach Portugal.
The Portugal people were always ready to help allied airmen get back to England. Dad was weighing 184 pounds when he was arrested the first time, he came home more than two years later weighing 109 pounds. While in the German camps of Tittmoning and Laufen he was never beaten or tortured, the Germans were always afraid of U.S. reprisal; however they did not feed the prisoners, many died of lack of nutrition. The prisoners survived on U.S. special parcels for prisoners and some dry food sent by their families. Mother tried once in a while to send a package of macaroni. One of these packages was never eaten by Dad. Why ?? In Belgium the Italian soldiers were not known for their courage, according to the Belgian the Italian Army had a motto : Fight and run away so as to be able to fight another day !! The Belgians had a pejorative name for Italians, who always waited for the last minute to join the German invaders in 1914 and again in 1940, they were called “Macaronis”. Dad hid the pack of macaroni until the day the Italian Army capitulated, that morning Dad cut up the macaroni in little pieces, he gave them to every prisoner, who stuck the piece on their clothing.
When the German saw this display at roll call, they were furious. It took them a few days to figure out who was the culprit. Dad was punished by being place in an outdoor dark cell for three days with no food and only water to drink. Why was he shipped home ?? As the Germans were wining in Africa, they did not care if American prisoners died in camp; however as the German lost Africa and were not doing well in Italy, the Germans became afraid of reprisals. If a U. S. citizen was ready to die, he or she would be sent home to die. Dad had a kidney removed in 1936, in camp he survive but was not well, this prompted one of the prisoners, namely, Doctor Bobea to tell Dad :” Gus the next time I find out that the Germans have a medical check of the prisoners, I will let you know, you will try not to drink for three days before the test, the last drop of urine will show that your last kidney is deteriorating and the Germans might send you home. The ruse worked. We of course had no idea of this subterfuge. We were at church that Sunday early in November 1943. Note that by respect for any one taken away by the Germans, their seats were never occupied; one has to understand that in Belgium the Churches do not have benches as we have in the States, each individual has his own chair.
This Sunday as always Dad’s chair was empty, Mother was on the next chair and some of the older children, who could walk more than a mile in the cold were also in attendance. During the service a very skinny, hunched, and bearded man, who was wearing a dirty khaki coat came in church and sat in Dad’s chair. Obviously Mother kept her eyes on the altar, while us kids were not that polite, we looked and wonder why this beggar looking fellow would sit on Dad’s chair, when many other chairs were free; within thirty second the hobo looking man took his elbow and shoved it in Mother’s ribs and said in English :” Are you going to kiss me ??” Note that Mother and Father always spoke English amongst themselves. No need to tell you that this was very emotional reunion. Mother did a great deal of sacrifices to get back in half decent health. They resumed their involvement in the ” AL ” = Army of Liberation, which was a well respected underground organization involved in sabotaging the German rail road, the power lines, and communication system, etc… This time Dad was betrayed by a Spanish women working for the Germans. She told the enemy that she had seen Gustave R. de Marcken helping allied airmen escape out of Belgium. The Germans picked up Dad on August 2, 1944. He was condemned to death by firing squad that same evening. However the Germans are very rigid in their bureaucracy, he was scheduled to be executed on September 12, 1944, as far as the Germans are concerned, that order cannot be changed.
So Dad was sent to the infamous prison of Saint Gilles in Brussels, he was on death row in a small one man cell with two other Belgian men, who were also condemned to death for sabotage of German equipment. Dad was again very lucky. The United States troops entered Belgium on September 2, 1944. At two AM the next day the Germans took all the Saint Gilles prisoners, they were about 1,500 women and men all condemned to death, these prisoners were packed up to 108 prisoners per little Belgian Box Cars called 40 and 8. The name of these box cars came about because the Belgian Army had painted on all the RR box cars:” Forty men or eight horses”. Again dad was lucky the Germans had packed his box car with only ninety two (92) prisoners. To compound the luck the three Belgian engineers, ordered by the Germans to conduct this train towards Germany, were all three members of a Flemish underground cell; they knew the Belgian Rail Road system like the back of their hands, the German guards never realize that these three heroes were sabotaging the German orders.
First they leaked out the water out of the steam engine, which force the train to stop to replenish the water tank. Then they told the Germans that one of the wheel bearing was damaged and had to be replaced. During that time they were able to notify their underground headquarters that this train was not a German train but rather a train full of Belgian heroes, as a result the train was never strafed by the P-47 Thunderbolts. Originally what the U.S. History Channel calls the “Belgian Ghost” train, was directed towards Malines, Belgium, from there it was supposed to head for Germany; however the train came smack into the escape route of the German Divisions trying to get out of France. A German General ordered the “Ghost Train” to head back to Brussels, the three train engineers were Flemish speaking Belgians’ who were members of a underground resistance cell, they knew that the train should never end at the Brussels North or South Stations, which had direct tracks towards Germany.
These three heroes manipulated the switches to head the train into the repair shop called ” La Petite Ile.” This shop was known to be a “Cul de sac”, it had a very large turntable capable of redirecting the engines towards the incoming/outgoing track. By the time the German Wehrmacht guards realize the situation, it was too late and they were more interested in saving their own skins than getting the prisoners to Germany. They unhooked the box cars and took off with the flat bed car carrying machine guns. It did not take too long for the prisoners to bust the floors of their box cars and free themselves. They all scattered into Brussels and disappeared. Dad decided to walk back home, roughly fifteen miles through the Soigne Forest. Note that Dad had just gone through exactly one month on death row, he was in a one man cell of the infamous Saint Gilles prison in Brussels. In this little cell the Germans kept three (3) prisoners all of them condemned to death for sabotaging the Nazi armed forces.
Dad was fifty three (53) years old and in very poor heath. By the time he reached roughly two and a half miles from the house, he heard what he thought was a terrible battle, machine gun fire, explosions, etc… Effectively it was not a battle, but rather a beating of the Germans. A long column of German Wehrmacht soldiers were coming from the village of Rixensart and heading for the village of Bierges- lez-Wavre, Belgium. These troops were trying desperately to get back to there father’s land. Their trucks had literally ran out of fuel, they were pulled by beautiful Belgian draft horses, the Germans had stolen from the farms located along their path. Mother, two of my brothers, one sister and I were in the wood, roughly two hundred feet from the road, when suddenly I recognized the sound of U.S. Air Corps P-47 Thunderbolts. Sixteen of them in flights of four came swooping down to strafe the German column.
We ran back home, as we reached the farm yard the P-47 were at tree top level, each plane firing their four 50 caliber machine guns; it was sunny and the sun reflected on the bullets coming out of the machine guns. It was as if copper bars were heading for the ground. The planes flew right over our heads, the noise was unbelievable. Pete and I hugged a large beech tree hoping that the pilots would not mistake us for the lousy krauts. We were so close to the road that we could hear the German soldiers and the horses scream of pain as they were hit by the 50 caliber shells. Obviously after four and a half years of Nazi oppression, hunger, and being scared, all this noise and the trucks full of ammunition exploding were simply music to our ears. During a lull we rushed in the kitchen for more protection. By the way the kitchen was in the cellar,however it could be reached from the out side by means of outside steps, the kitchen also had a window, which was open because it was very warm on that day. We were all in that big kitchen and I will never forget my baby brother “Butch”, who was just four (4) years old at the time, shouting in English :” The next American plane will bring back Daddy.” Difficult to believe, but at exactly the same time the next flight of P-47 passed over the house , Dad came running down the steps. Dad literally fell on the floor of the kitchen, he was green, he looked awful, and he rolled and wiggled in pain.
Poor mother knelt at his side trying to calm him down. We all thought that Dad passing away in front of our eyes. It took months for Dad to slowly recover, his liver had been badly affected and he had to be very careful as to what he was eating. Two days later we were liberated. What a joyful yet scary day!! We children did not know that Mother had made a vow to sew a Unites States Flag, which would fly on the house at liberation. We found out after liberation that at night, when she was sure that the German guard was asleep, she would pull out her little foot pedal activated “Singer” sewing machine and would sew parts of the U.S. Flag, which she would hide under the floor of her bedroom, she had loosen a board in the floor and had a small piece of furniture sitting over the loose board. Mother knew the Flag had thirteen stripes and forty eight stars,(Hawaii and Alaska were not States at that time) however Dad being a prisoner in Germany could not tell Mother that the U.S. Stars were to point up. So I have the only U.S. Flag made during WWII and hidden from the Germans, which has Stars pointing down. What a treasure !!
On 5 September 1944 Mother came back on bicycle, she was all excited. She had heard in the village that the U.S. troops were coming, she rushed home and told me to go in her room, slide a certain piece of furniture aside, lift a floor board and find a U.S. Flag and raise it on the third floor over the front entrance. All of us were so proud to see our Flag on the house for the first time in more than four (4) years. She then quickly went back to Wavre to find the first American soldiers. Within an hour or so she came back in total perspiration, she was pedaling her bicycle as fast as possible. She shouted to me : ” Christian take the Flag down, they are three German tanks at the end of the driveway; luckily for us the driveway was in the woods and was sinuous, the Germans could not see the house from the road. You never saw a skinny sixteen year old climb up three stories as fast as I did. I can tell you that Mother’s Flag was taken down and I did not fold it according to the Flag rules, it was rolled in a ball and shoved under the floor as fast as my two legs could get back in my parents bedroom.
That was a close one !! If the Germans had seen this Flag they would have blown the house down and Mother would have been executed on the spot. In October two (2) Batteries of British Ack-Ack = Anti Aircraft Artillery were moved one in front of out home and the other about a mile at the back of the house. The Battery in front of the house was about fifteen hundred (1,500) feet from our home, this Battery was run by men, while the other Battery was run strictly by British women, who did not know that our home was in the woods. The first morning they fired their three point five (3.5″) inch guns, which have to be cleared every morning, right over the house, what a surprise to suddenly receive a rain of shrapnels. Luckily none of us were injured. Mother took her bicycle and went to see Major John Spence, the commander of the closest Battery, she offered the house as billets for the men. Mother was astonished to see this very young Major pull out his map and very politely say :” Sorry Lady no house is located on my map.”. Mother who was known to be a crack shot and good hunter, was very familiar with maps. She pointed out to the Major that his map was dated 1917 and that her home had been built in 1923. was not there, however I do remember Mother’s comments about her first interaction with Major Spence.
He was most polite, however Mother could read his body English, which said :” This lady does not know what she is talking about. She offering to lodge the men of my battery at her home.” Apparently Major Spence said :” Would you mind if I followed you to the house? He called corporal Ginger and asked him to get the “Jeep” to follow the lady on bicycle. Mother was waiting for the moment he would see the house. It was a huge four (4) story castle with full cellar. Mother always chuckle about John Spence’s reaction when he got out of the “Jeep”. From that day on and until mid December, at six thirty (6:30) AM lorries would come and pick up the day shift of soldiers and at seven fifteen (7:15) AM the lorries (British way to call a truck) would be back in front of the house and the night shift would unload November 1944 saw a great deal of activity. The “V1″ = Buzz bombs were increasingly passing over our area and the two British Royal Ack-Ack batteries were very busy firing their 3.5 inch guns. Christmas eve was very exciting, it was cold, foggy, and very dark, when around six (6) PM we heard a V1 coming at excessively low level, the explosive propulsion device ( It had not engine) was blasting the noise was very unusual. All the British soldiers were shouting :” Get a long the walls…protect yourself…” All occupied rooms has black out curtains so as not to give out our location to the German planes.
We presume, however we will never know, that due to the atmospheric conditions, the freezing mist must have iced up the stubby wings of this unmanned Buzz Bomb. Resulting on the weight of ice forcing the “V1” to slowly propel itself down. My brother Louis jumped on the dining room window sill and placed himself between the curtain and the window pane, while my brother Peter and I ran out the house. Within seconds the “V1” flew at tree top level over the castle and crashed unluckily a half mile down the valley, hitting three (3) little game keeper’s houses, which simply disappeared. We never found a trace of the bodies, which were blown to pieces. When the V1 blew up I saw my brother Pete’s hair go straight in the air; the deflagration was so powerful, it was similar to a sudden wind. We ran back in to the house to find Louis still standing on the windowsill, he was white as a sheet and was covered with glass. The V1 blew many windows that evening. The miracle was to see Louis standing in front of a wide opened space and without a scratch
The news from the battle areas were not encouraging. The von Rundstedt offensive was in full swing, thousands of United States soldiers were severely affected by the intense shelling of Saturday !6 December 1944, these men had lost the ability to speak, they were human zombies, it was so sad to see human bodies both exhausted physically and mentally. The very large “Petit Seminaire” High School in Basse-Wavre, which was only five (5) miles from our home, had sent all their boarding students home and every dorm, class room, and study rooms were full of “Shell Shocked” soldiers. I remember going to Basse-Wavre and not being able to understand the tragic sight. It was awful. At the same time we saw our Ack-Ack batteries dig deep holes and relocate the 3.5 inch guns so that their gun barrels were able to traverse to a level, which would permit them to become anti tank guns.
In other words the allies honestly thought that the Germans were going to cross the Meuse River and head for Brussels and Antwerp. Thanks to the fighting spirit of small teams of United States soldiers, the von Rundstedt Offensive also called the Ardennes Battle or the Battle of the Bulge, by the end of December the German advance was stopped. As an historian I could spend days recounting the exploits of many of these teams; such as such as Lieutenant Lyle Bouch of the 99th Infantry Division, the eighteen men (including Chester Wenc) of the 106th Infantry Division who fought in Spineux, the 82nd Airborne Division ( Including Herbert H. Adams) battle in Cheneux, etc… One should know that I personally disagree with the Washington, DC. “Desk Jockey” who declared in 1945 that the Battle of the Bulge ended on 25 January 1945.
We all know when it started, namely, Saturday December 16, 1944, when the von Rundstedt Offensive started around 5:30 AM. by an intensive shelling of our thinly spread front lines. The end of the Ardennes Battle = Battle of the Bulge was to occur on the day the U.S. Army had pushed the German army back to their original line of attack, which by the way was along and in some place beyond the Siegfried Line, Since I was in Belgium and toured on bicycle most of the Battle Fields and since I know the Belgian language fluently,even to the point that Belgians have a hard time believing that I was born a United States citizen on January 24, 1928, I can assure you that the Battle of the Bulge ended on February eight ( 02/08/1945) 1945, that was the day the last German was pushed out of Belgium and the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg.
World War Two ended on May 8, 1945 or two days short of five (5) years of war for us civilians. Dad returned to the States in November 1945 to restart the Hammond Organ business. At the time one had to turn in his or her passport on arrival and ask to have it back so as to be able to leave the United States. As he asked for his passport Mr. Silverman a typical Washington bureaucrat of the State Department, told Dad that he had been too long out of the States and needed to prove his devotion to Our Country; therefore he had to live at least two years in the States before getting his passport back. Luckily Dad was a good friend of senator Brian McMahon, who accompanied Dad to Mr. Silverman’s office. It should be known that the Senator had a good old Irish temper and his language was full of words usually not used in the company of ladies, The Senator entered the office, slammed his fist on Silverman’s desk and shouted at the top of his lungs : ” Tell me sir what you were doing all through the war, while this man was in concentration camp in Germany and later condemned to death for helping U.S. airmen escape out of Belgium and back to England??.
Let me answer that question for you. You were sitting on your big fat … behind this …… desk doing nothing. Now you get this passport to this hero in two minutes or I will see to it that you are fired.” Dad told us that this bureaucrat only words were ” Yes Senator, Yes sir !” and he handed the passport to Dad. In 1946 Dad built a large manufacturing facility in Bierges. This was an American plant with the very first fluorescent lights in Europe, it consisted of a very modern foundry and a large machine shop, where he manufactured and assembled refrigeration compressors. The name of the company was National Electro Construction, which later sold to Phillips the well know company, whose headquarters are in The Netherlands. Dad would come back to the Unites States at least twice a year. On one of his trips he contacted Mr. Smith the CEO of National Milkers in Des Moines, Iowa and made an agreement to manufacture and sell milking machines in Europe.
Dad built another factory on the outskirts of Wavre, Belgium along the highway leading to Namur. This plant was also called National Electro Construction. In 1952 the U.S. Embassy in Brussels notified Dad that he had been very lucky in WWII, however he was advised to take his family and leave Belgium. At the time the communist regime in Russia was threatening to invade western Europe. Dad decided he had spent too much time behind barbed wires. This was terrible for poor Mother, she would have to leave two daughters, who had married Belgian citizens. In March 1953 the family moved to Lakeville, Connecticut, by June 1953 they had bought a home in Taconic, Connecticut.
By that time the nine children were in or heading for the following: (1) Christian was working as a farm hand in Mill River, Massachusetts. (2) Francoise was married to Ghislain de Halleux, a Belgian Agricultural Engineer, (3) Myriam was married to Jean Moncheur de Rieudotte the youngest mayor of Belgium, (4) Anne was accepted at the University of Connecticut, (5) Louis had been accepted at M.I.T. in Cambridge, MA. (6) Peter had been accepted at M.I.T. in Cambridge, MA. (7) Beatrice was registered Salisbury Regional High School, (8) Jacqueline was registered at the same High School, (9) Baudouin (Butch) was in Brule, Wisconsin completing the eight grade. Dad passed away on March 10 1984 in Taconic, Connecticut Mother passed away on February 6, 1986 in Taconic, Connecticut. Respectfully submitted by Christian W. de Marcken, who has been for the past decade the Secretary & Historian of Chapter XXII, Major Lamar Souter M.D., Central Massachusetts Veterans of the Battle of the Bulge, whose President is Doctor John E. McAuliffe, DDS Ret.
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
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
Chapter XXII was created by Doctor John E. McAuliffe, roughly twenty two years ago. Doctor McAuliffe was a Dentist and has devoted his retirement years to educate the general public not only by writing articles concerning the Fallen Heroes and the Veterans of the Battle of the Bulge: but also in the past twenty and some years he has been the President of Chapter XXII. He has led his team to hold at least three annual formal meetings a year, he planned, and organized special events, which were dedicated to erect Memorial Monuments, such as:
(1) VBOB Monument at the Massachusetts Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Agawam, Massachusetts.
(2) VBOB Monument at the Massachusetts Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Bourne, Massachusetts.
(3) VBOB Monument at College Square in Worcester, Massachusetts.
(4) VBOB Monument at the Massachusetts Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Winchendon, Massachusetts.
(5) VBOB Monument in Honor of the “Wereth Eleven”, who were tortured and massacred by the German SS on Sunday 17 December 1944 in Wereth, Belgium. Monument was inaugurated on August 20, 2006 at the Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Winchendon, Massachusetts.
In the past six months Chapter XXII had:
(1) A regular meeting at the Museum of Fort Devens, in Devens, MA.
(2) A very special meeting at the Winchendon Cemetery initiated by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts State Representative S. Harrington, attended by five State Representatives, the State Commissioner of Veterans Affairs, and all branches of the Services in uniform.
(3) A rededication of the Holy Cross VBOB Monument on November 11, 2014 Attended by six State Representatives, one of whom was a guest speaker, the Navy Commander of the Holy Cross ROTC, also Lt/Colonel Ciro Stefano, Commander of the W.P.I. Army ROTC in Worcester, MA., who was the main guest speaker, and the President of the Holy Cross College and many veterans.
Beside the above the Secretary of Chapter XXII was invited by the Junior Air Force ROTC to participate in five question and answer sessions pertaining to the Battle of the Bulge; each session lasting an hour, these were held at the South High School on Apricot Street in Worcester, MA. On March 4, 2015 Chapter XXII was asked to participate in a question and answer session by the West Boylston Historical Society. twenty eight members asked questions from 7:00 to 8:45 PM. This coming Friday March 20, 2015 Chapter XXII will be at the Fort Devens Museum to answer questions from the students of the eight grade class of the Brookline High School, who will be coming from Brookline, New Hampshire. In the last two years Chapter XXII members have attended ceremonies and High School programs at:
South High in Worcester, MA
Shirley, MA. High School,
Ayer, MA. High School,
Paxton, Ma. Junior High School,
West Boylston, Ma. High School
Littleton High School.
Respectfully submitted. Christian W. de Marcken Associate member # A015390 National VBOB, Associate member Chapter XXII VBOB, As a young U.S. citizen was in Belgium all through WWII, Retired Manufacturing Manager, Tufts University Mechanical Engineer 1960, U.S. Army veteran.
