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CHAPTER 1
A DAY IN JUNE
Notice to Registrant to Appear for Physical Examination
Local Board No. 1, Kent County, 534 Houseman Bldg., Grand Rapids,
Michigan, 4\24\41, Draft Lottery #1662.
You are hereby directed to report to Drs. McDonald and Shepard
at Lowell, Michigan for physical examination at 9 A.M. on 4/30/41.
Failure to do so is an act punishable by imprisonment and fine
and may also result in your losing valuable rights and your immediate
induction into military service.
Signed: J.M. Rau
Member of Local Board
Local Board No.1, Kent County, etc., etc., June 9, 1941.
Order to Report for Induction
From: The President of the United States
To: Manuel Arthur Baker
Order No. 1662
Greetings:
Having submitted yourself to a Local Board composed of your
neighbors for the purpose of determining your availability for
training and service in the armed forces of the United States,
you are hereby notified you have been selected for service in
the Army.
You will ,therefore, report to the Local Board named above
at Room 211, Y.M.C.A., Library Street, Grand Rapids at 6:45 PM
on the 20th day of June, 1941.
This Local Board will furnish transportation of the service
for which you have been selected. You will there be examined
and if then selected for training and service, you will then
be inducted into the stated branch of service.
If you are not accepted you will be furnished transportation
to the place where you reported. Willful failure to report promptly
to this Local Board at the hour and on the day named in this
notice is a violation of the Selective Service and Training Act
of 1940 and subjects the violator to fine and imprisonment. Bring
with you sufficient clothing for 3 days. You must keep this form
and bring it with you when you report to your Local Board.
Signed: J.M. Rau
Member of Local Board
These orders to report for physical examination and induction
were the dramatic culmination for me of the National Selective
Service and Training Act passed the previous summer by a Congress
belatedly alarmed by the unprecedented speed and relative ease
with which Hitler's armored columns had overrun and subjugated
first Poland and then Belgium, Holland and most of France and
now stood poised on the shores of the English Channel, staring
hungrily across the water at the beleaguered green island that
was England.
I became a player in these cosmic events when, on a brilliantly
beautiful October day in 1940, I, along with hundreds of other
young men, registered for the draft at the Post Office in Comstock
Park, Michigan. Few of the registrants exhibited any great concern
about the possibility of being drafted; my own view was that,
with so many millions of men registering, my chances of being
drafted were remote; it would take the notoriously inefficient
Federal bureaucracy months and months to set up the draft machinery
and, most important to me, even if drafted, I would have to serve
only one year. I could tolerate the military life for 12 months,
I was sure.
I was astonished when the draft mechanism actually creaked into
motion by February of 1941 and began the induction of thousands
of men. A close friend, one of the group of five of us who spent
lots of time together, was among the first to go. I would be
the second. Four of the group of five would serve eventually,
one to become a prisoner of the Germans for six months.
I dutifully reported to the civilian doctors for my physical
as ordered and soon after received my draft card: I - A, "subject
to the draft". The armed services were now devouring draftees
at a voracious rate - thousands a month. The chance that I would
be ''selected" were now not as remote as I had thought But
twenty-one-year-olds are the most optimistic of creatures. With
little concern for the immediate future, I enthusiastically pursued
a truly happy and carefree life. I had a well-paying job at the
General Motors Stamping Plant in Grand Rapids, boarded with a
caring and accommodating sister and brother-in-law, drove a nice
car, suffered no lack of female companionship and enjoyed friends
and life to the fullest. Glorious days, indeed!
The “Greetings" from the President ended any uncertainty
regarding my immediate future. Ironically, the mailing date,
June 9, was one day before my 22nd birthday. Happy Birthday,
citizen! Because the Local Board, in their infinite wisdom, had
deemed it fit to provide me with less than a 10-day notice of
my imminent incarceration, I scurried about getting my affairs
in order - to my employer to get a one year leave of absence
(I was assured by G.M. that Federal law guaranteed my job when
I returned) - and partying. One of those parties was at the American
Legion Post in Comstock Park where the WWI vets hosted a nice
dinner and drinks for the local inductees. There were 6 or 7
of us. I don't remember the exact number, most of whom I knew
only by sight or not at all. One, named Kilzewski, I knew only
casually but enough to know he was a fine young man. We were
given gifts of fountain pens and stationary, I remember. A gracious
gesture. The precious days evaporated like rain in the desert,
soon, too soon. On the appointed day, at the appointed time I
drove to the YMCA building in Grand Rapids accompanied by my
sister and her husband and a girlfriend. My brother-in-law would
care for my beloved automobile during my brief absence. We joined
a crowd of young men, their relatives and friends milling about
in front of the building, all as clueless about the system as
I was. Eventually all "inductees" were escorted into
the building and lined up in the hall near Room 211. In single
file we walked into the room and presented our induction notice
to the Local Board official sitting at a desk. He looked through
his list of names, found mine, made a notation and instructed
me to wait in the park directly across the street for our transportation
to arrive. Outside, I discovered several of my friends had driven
in to assist in a proper send-off.
The building on one side of the YMCA was the Grand Rapids Public
Library; on the other was the Library Bar and Grill, to which
we repaired, taking seats at the front window from where we would
be able to see the arrival of our transportation. Refreshments
flowed freely in an atmosphere of conviviality and friendship,
knowing my time was short. The arrival of the bus was the occasion
for one last hurried drink before we all trooped across to the
park where we exchanged kisses (with my girlfriend and sister)
and handshakes and expressions of bravado among the men. The
last moments were tinged with just a little sadness. A man in
an Army uniform - he may have been an officer but I'm now unsure
- ascended the park band stage and announced to all present that
the "inductees" would travel as far as Kalamazoo that
evening and that we would be allowed to call home that night
if we so desired. We were ordered to board which caused another
flurry of kisses, handshakes and general uproar.
The Greyhound hadn't appeared large enough to hold all of us
but it did. I found a seat next to Kilzewski and our journey
into an alien world began. The early stages of our 45-50 mile
trip to Kalamazoo were boisterous in the extreme because so many
of us had imbibed rather freely before boarding but, as the miles
disappeared behind us, the celebratory mood faded and we became
quiet, each man solemnly contemplating what the future held for
him. The only incident I remember occurring on the trip was one
fella, full of beer, demanding to be let off the bus so he could
urinate. The Army escort refused so the man opened his fly and
threatened to urinate on the floor of the bus. We all set up
a plea to let the man off and the escort relented.
Arriving in Kalamazoo, the driver pulled up in front of the Burdick
Hotel which surprised many of us. The Burdick was a first-class
hotel and we were going to stay there? Hey! Maybe this Army wasn't
so bad! We were met on the sidewalk outside the hotel by several
enlisted men (I didn't know the term "enlisted men"
then, but I was sure they weren't officers because at least one
wore stripes), where a head count was taken. There were about
35 of us, as I recall. Names were checked off the list as each
man answered when his name was called out. We were informed we
would we would have breakfast at the hotel at 6 AM next morning;
we would have a physical exam by Army doctors and then taken
to Camp Custer in Battle Creek, Michigan, an hour's drive away.
We were sternly informed that we were still civilians but anyone
who did not answer roll call at 6AM would be dealt with severely.
They herded us into the hotel lobby where we were assigned two
men to a room. I have no recollection of the man I shared a room
with. Some of the men immediately went out to explore the town.
I was content to stay in the room and ponder the morrow. I distinctly
remember being awakened a couple of times during the night by
loud voices in the hallway.
We were awakened at about 5:30 the next morning by loud pounding
on the door and a classic Army bellow to fall out for breakfast
at 6. My only recollection of the meal is that it took place
in the hotel dining room. After the meal we were led to a large
room in the lower level of the hotel where several Army doctors
(I'm unsure of the number) confronted us with orders to strip
off all our clothes. It was a scene to be repeated many times
in my service days: Lots of naked men being relentlessly poked,
prodded, pounded and embarrassed in a very impersonal manner
by Army medics. My part in this particular episode was concluded
when the doctor handed me a form he had signed and stamped "Accepted"
with instructions to give it to the sergeant. The sergeant, he
explained, was the man with stripes on his sleeves who accepted
my stamped form with a huge grin and orders to proceed to an
adjoining room and wait there with the men who had already completed
their physicals. When the examinations were concluded it became
clear that, of the Comstock Park group of men, only Kilzewski
and I had been accepted for service, a total surprise to me for
they had been mostly farm boys, strong and healthy - looking.
They never rejoined us and were sent home, I suppose. And others,
too, apparently. Our group was now reduced to about 27 or 28
men.
Now came the most solemn moment of the entire process: we were
sworn into the service of the United States Army, sworn to defend
our country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Although
no American service man was under fire anywhere in the world
at that moment, accepting the responsibility, at age 22, of the
defense of the U.S. was more than I really cared to contemplate.
I remember thinking: I hope the Army has a really good training
program!
From that moment on, we were addressed as "privates".
Then it was back on the bus and on the road to Camp Custer. This
allowed me some time to muse about some aspects of the induction
process we had endured to this point which puzzled me: 1) Why
were we subjected to two physical examinations, one by civilian
doctors and one by Army medics? The Army obviously had stricter
physical standards than the civilian doctors, as they had rejected
several of our group who had been passed by the civilians. A
more efficient system would be to eliminate the civilian doctors
from the process since the Army docs had the final say, anyway.
And 2) Why weren't we given an earlier departure time from Grand
Rapids and bussed directly to Camp Custer for examination and
swearing in, eliminating the expense of the night at the hotel?
I was unaware that this was only the first of so many instances
I would encounter illustrating the military services total lack
of business acumen.
My recollections of the time we spent at Custer are hazy, at
best, probably because so much happened so fast. We stood in
long lines for issues of clothing, khaki, everything from socks
and handkerchiefs (they were white) to ties and shoes. The method
used to fit shoes - theses were the classic Army shoes, over
the ankle - was crude but proved to be very successful for me.
Stand on the right foot; pick up a pail of sand with your right
hand. Your foot was measured by hand. Repeat with the left foot
and hand. I never had a foot blister while I was in uniform.
Surprisingly, the other clothing generally fit well on me, also.
Custer was a busy place. Draftees from all over the state of
Michigan went through this base. Moving large groups of men from
one place to another was an exercise in frustration for the men
in charge as we had no concept of close order drill, marching
in formation. We were kept busy for at least 3 days but the details
escape me. But I do have vivid memories of two things that occurred
here: I met a man who would become my best friend during our
service days, a friendship we would maintain for nearly 50 years.
And Hitler made a fateful, fatal decision that assured the ultimate
defeat of Nazi Germany: he invaded the Soviet Union.
It was probably on the third day at Custer, at our 6 AM formation,
when the sergeant ordered all men whose last name began with
"A, B or C" to step forward. I thought I was being
promoted. But no, we were marched (I use the term loosely) off
to the kitchen for KP duty. I don't recall all the duties I was
assigned but one of them was mopping the kitchen floor for which
exercise I was paired up with Otto Buehler. Otto was not a physically
imposing man; about 5 feet 7 or 8 inches tall, slight (about
140 pounds), blonde. His movements gave the impression of being
slightly uncoordinated. He leaned forward when he walked or marched
to the point where he seemed in imminent danger of falling on
his face. His demeanor was that of a shy person: soft-spoken,
low profile, quiet. He was 5 years older than I. His home was
Battle Creek, just down the road from camp, where he was employed
by the city school system. Two individuals could hardly be more
different in appearance and personality than Otto and me. I was
6 feet, 160, brown hair and eyes, tanned, and, not brash but
certainly not shy. We seemed, at that time, to have only one
thing in common: we were both caught up in a somewhat intimidating
situation not of our own making, without a friend in sight. Anyone
with whom we could share our mutual uncertainties would do as
a friend, at least for the moment. We began to share as much
time together as we could. It would be much, much later before
I realized how badly and unfairly I had misjudged Otto Buehler.
I am embarrassed and chagrined that I cannot recall with certainty
how many days we spent at Camp Custer but I think I can safely
say it was no more than 4 days. Custer's primary reason for being
at that time was to process new men, get them into G.I. clothing,
make them look, partially, at least, like soldiers and move them
out. And they seemed to be doing a very efficient job of it.
At any rate, after breakfast on about the fourth day, we were
unceremoniously loaded aboard passenger cars at the post railroad
station with our pitifully few belongings, we were pulled out
onto the main line and we were off to we-knew-not-where.
CHAPTER 2
BAYOU BLITZ
My newfound friend, Otto, and I found seats in one of the
cars. Everyone was asking the same question: where are we going?
The answer would soon be forthcoming. We had all observed a group
of soldiers, wearing brightly colored shoulder patches unlike
anything we had seen on the post, standing on the platform. One
of them now entered our car and announced that he was "Sgt
-------" and he was our car commander. He was an Army recruiting
poster soldier: about 25, tall, handsome, blonde, wearing a small
mustache and dressed in a sharply creased uniform that fit him
perfectly. His military bearing was flawless. And he was wearing
that colorful shoulder patch. It was triangular in shape, divided
into three equally sized fields of color - red, blue and yellow.
Emblazoned across the width of the patch was what appeared to
be a tank track with a cannon barrel diagonally imposed across
it. There was one numeral in the design - a "3".
In response to a barrage of questions, the sergeant informed
us we were now assigned to the 3rd Armored Division and we were
en route to our post - Camp Polk, Louisiana. Two thoughts immediately
came to my mind: an armored division had to be a better assignment
than an infantry division. My knowledge of the infantry was limited
to what I had read about the First World War, which was enough
to earn my distaste; my knowledge of tanks was non-existent but
surely they had to be more fun than infantry. The second thought
was that Louisiana in June meant hot weather and swamps, but
I had never been there so it would be another adventure in this
military odyssey.
I can't recall how many cars made up our train. Various sources
indicate there were over 1000 of us so there would have been
a good number of cars. A baggage car had been roughly converted
into a kitchen car manned by Army cooks. We were served hot food
at breakfast and dinner but cold sandwiches for lunch.
Our journey was a slow one but, on my part, hardly boring. Troop
trains apparently had no priority; our train was shunted onto
sidings just to allow freight trains to pass. I have no recollection
of how many days and nights we spent on the trip but I would
guess it required at least two days and a night, perhaps more.
Nor can I recall if the cars were Pullmans. Perhaps we slept
in our seats. But I distinctly remember our arrival at what was
to be our new home. As the train backed into the platform, a
military band greeted us with great enthusiasm. I felt this was
an encouraging sign - somebody was glad to see us. We assembled
on the platform, placed our luggage in a pile and boarded what
looked to me like new trucks that delivered us to a "mess
hall" (learned the term later) where we had a hot meal.
From there it was to the showers then assigned a cot in a barracks.
Before we had time to relax, we were subjected to a quick physical
inspection, and then informed we were free until the next morning.
My first night at Camp Polk must have been uneventful for I have
no recollection of it; but the next day was a most crucial one,
the significance of which I would not realize for many, many
months. After the morning routine of reveille, roll call and
breakfast, we were marched to the entrance of a long, one-story
building where a soldier outside the entrance informed us we
were there to be assigned to the various units that made up the
3rd Armored Division. The routine was simple: he yelled out "first
5 men, report inside to the 36th" or “next 7 men,
report to the 32nd". I was in a group told to report to
the 54th. Inside were desks lined up on each side of the center
isle. Each desk had a unit number prominently displayed on it:
36th Armored Infantry, 32nd Armored Regiment, 54th Armored Field
Artillery, etc. At each desk sat an officer and an enlisted man
armed with a typewriter. I don't recall the processing routine
but when it was concluded, we reported outside to a sergeant
proclaiming "all 54th men over here". When all the
men had been processed and he had gathered all the men he would
get this day, the sergeant got us into some semblance of a formation
and marched us off into the depths of Camp Polk, to Tent City.
Polk was a new post, carved out of the pinewoods and red clay
and was still a work in progress. Our barracks were not finished
yet. Instead, we were to be quartered in 8-man pyramidal tents
until some future date. There was only one building, freshly
built and painted, sporting a sign reading: 54th Armored Field
Artillery Battalion Headquarters. We were permitted to fall out
in the shade of the building while the sergeant went inside.
He periodically reappeared and called out the names of several
men who then entered the building. As had happened earlier at
the initial assignment process, Otto Buehler's name and mine
were called out for the same group. Inside, we were informed
we were assigned to Service Battery, file folders were given
to a corporal and our group of perhaps 75 men was marched off
past rows of tents to one with a sign proclaiming it to be the
abode of "Battery Commander, Service Btry, 54th A. F. A.
Bn.". Another wait, this time in the sun, until a tall man,
early thirties with a lot of stripes on each arm, came out to
inform us he was First Sergeant Monahan and "I'm your new
daddy. I'm going to make soldiers out of you." Blunt and
brief. We were assigned tents. Otto and I were not in the same
tent but, at least, we were still in the same battery.
There was much to ponder about all the events that had transpired
in the past 10 days and I devoted what little spare time we had
contemplating these events. How did I wind up in the artillery?
I had thought an armored division was all tanks but I hadn't
seen one yet. What did a Service Battery do? I hadn't yet learned
there were 5 other batteries in the 54th: Hq., A, B, C, and D.
I was not conscious of the part sheer chance was playing, and
would continue to play, in determining my fate during the combat
days that lay in the future.
In the course of the next few days we were issued various types
of field equipment - a web belt and the equipment to hang on
it, at this stage just a canteen and first-aid pack; a mess kit,
canvas leggings, a "mussette" bag which was a small
canvas back pack, work clothes which consisted of blue denim
pants, a jacket of the same material and a broad-brimmed floppy
hat, also of denim. And two items the Army considered crucial
to our survival in its system: a field manual and dog tags. The
manual became the least used of all items issued to us. A quick
glance through and put aside. The dog tags were to be our constant
companions until the day of discharge - 24 hours a day.
The order of the day was basic training - 13 weeks of it, and
that's how it was, at the start. The routine was pretty simple:
Up at 5:30 AM, fall out for reveille formation where a head count
was taken; breakfast at 6 (each battery did have a new mess hall);
if you felt ill or indisposed, you had to report to the first
sergeant by 7 AM and, if he was convinced you needed medical
attention, he put you on sick call and sent you to the dispensary
where you could recite your complaint to the medics. For all
practical purposes, we were only allowed to be sick at 7 AM;
getting to see a medic at any other time was virtually impossible.
But the sick call routine was one that I would later use, when
I had more experience in Army routine, to avoid duties or escape
from the post.
At 7 AM, we fell out in formation in the battery street where
we were divided up into small groups. Each group was placed in
charge of a non-commissioned officer - a corporal or sergeant.
It was the non-coms task to teach us close-order drill, marching
in unison as a group and obeying commands of the non-com in charge.
It is the fundamental skill each soldier must have if the Army
is to move large groups of men from point to point with any degree
of alacrity and precision. The most elementary moves were introduced
first but even these resulted in such absolute chaos that, except
for the wrath of the non-com, it would have been laughable. Because
the battery area was mostly just raw, red dirt with little grass,
there was no decent place to accommodate the numerous marching
groups who often ran into each other because of their inability
to maneuver sharply. Nevertheless, Service Battery would have
become a very good close order drill unit had all members stayed
in the program a bit longer but that didn't happen, a point I
will dwell upon shortly.
I personally enjoyed close order drill with a well-trained unit,
especially in the very few instances when we marched to a military
band. But the other routine of basic training - road marches
- afforded no pleasure at all. And road marching was an almost
daily event. We formed up after breakfast in fatigue clothes
with canvas leggings, pistol belt and canteen, carrying a rubber
raincoat in the mussette bag on our back. We were broken in (or
broken down) slowly, starting with three-milers and working up
to ten-milers or, occasionally, longer. When a rain shower was
encountered, we were ordered to put on our rain coats but, when
the sun returned, it was common place that the non-com in charge
would fail to order us to remove the rain coats, forcing us to
march in the hot Louisiana summer sun wearing a garment that
was heavy and unbreathing until we were drenched with sweat.
It was an intentional torture and we hated it. In fairness, however,
it must be said that the non-coms didn't remove theirs, either.
A word must be said about the non-commissioned officers in Service
Battery. They were all "regular Army", that is, they
were enlisted men rather than draftees and most of them had been
in the service for at least a year or more. They had all been
in the 2nd Armored Division, one of only two armored divisions
in the peacetime Army and a time when promotions were not easy
to obtain. The buck sergeants and corporals in our battery I
assume had, most of them, been corporals and privates first-class
or plain buck-privates before being sent as cadremen to the 3rd
A.D. They were competent enough as drill instructors and at stripping
an '03 rifle but their sudden acquisition of a degree of authority
over a bunch of raw recruits was an experience they gloried in.
Some of them strutted, taunted, ranted and threatened in manners
that were pitifully juvenile. One of them admitted to having
only a third grade education and he was particularly adept at
making life miserable for any college graduate in our group.
But, for the most part, they were good soldiers and decent people.
The food in the mess hall was acceptable, even good at times,
after we became accustomed to the seasonings favored by our Georgia
mess sergeant. And it was plentiful. With the road marches, the
calisthenics every morning and the drilling, we were always busy
and always hungry.
The only permanent buildings in the Battery were the mess hall,
the latrine and the day room, the latter intended as a place
where we could go on our off-duty hours and relax. It was equipped
with a table, a few chairs and a radio. Day rooms were never
very popular at any of the posts where I was stationed although
they usually provided a quiet place in which to write a letter.
There was a Battalion chapel and a large post theater where,
if you weren't intimidated by the long lines, we could watch
a movie for, I believe, 25 cents. Division Headquarters was,
of course, in a permanent building as was a visitor’s center
and post recreation center. Later in our stay at Polk, young
ladies from the surrounding area were brought in for dances at
the recreation center.
The 3rd Armored Division history, "Spearhead in the West"
states that 7000 draftees were in Camp Polk and that the camp
was 97% complete by the end of June, 1941. This does not correlate
with my memory at all. I feel certain that Service Battery remained
in tents through July and possibly into September. And a photo
in the history book showing the division's "first mounted
review" clearly indicates there were far fewer than 7000
men on the field. I participated in that review, which I'm certain
was in early July, and my recollection of the number of men involved
coincides closely with those in the photo - perhaps 2500-3000.
In July, 1941, the 3rd Armored Division was a small but rapidly
growing, young, untrained, under-equipped military organization.
The few vehicles we had consisted mostly of "peeps"
(we quickly learned that what was called a "Jeep" in
other outfits was a "peep" in the armored forces) and
6x6 trucks with a sprinkling of a wondrous new vehicle called
a "halftrack" and, in the tank regiments, a few, very
few, light tanks. These tanks, in the eyes of newly-minted soldiers,
were terrifying, indestructible weapons of war. In truth, they
were sadly under-gunned, thin-skinned pieces of junk that Hitler's
panzers would have eaten for lunch. The United States Army Ordinance
people, or whoever was responsible for designing and developing
the tanks we were to take into battle, have a heavy burden to
bear in view of the thousands of American men who died unnecessarily
in tanks seriously, yes - even criminally, short of fire power
and thickness of armor. By fall of 1941, with the example of
the German Blitzkrieg of Europe to study, everyone in the chain
of command should have recognized that the tanks coming off American
production lines and newer models taking shape on the drawing
boards were already obsolete but the deficiencies were never
completely corrected. Our tankers were doomed to take the battlefield
in inferior equipment.
I cannot recall the names of any of the Battery officers in the
early days - Service Battery would have at least 8 commanding
officers before my days in the outfit were over - but I easily
recall one Captain who commanded us during my first sojourn in
Camp Polk, June to mid-November. His name was Tockstein, a small
man whose uniform always seemed too big for him. He led us in
calisthenics every morning from an elevated platform. One morning,
while he was vigorously exhorting us to greater effort in a session
of "Jumping Jacks", he suddenly disappeared. In his
enthusiasm, he had jumped off the rear of the platform, to the
great, but subdued, hilarity of the men.
On another occasion, he was reviewing the troops shortly after
a new batch of recruits had joined the Battery. As he slowly
passed through the ranks, he stopped in front of a new kid from
Chicago. Harold VanderVelde was a huge Hollander, well over 6
feet tall, 220 pounds without an ounce of fat, hands the size
of hams. Uniform of the day was fatigues and Harold's sleeves
ended 6 inches above his wrists, his pant legs even farther above
his ankles. The Captain looked him up and down several times
then, suddenly, stepped forward, gripped the top of the man's
fatigues at the throat and ripped them open, sending buttons
flying. "Sergeant, see that this man gets a uniform that
fits him", he ordered. "Captain", the sergeant
replied, "he's already wearing the largest pair of fatigues
the Army has!"
Our Battalion Commander was, I believe, a Major Berry, a fine
officer who would later lead another artillery battalion in the
division into combat. The Division Commander was Brigadier General
Alvan Gillem, who would not remain long with us. In a rapidly
expanding army, general officers were promoted quickly and moved
often.
The nearest town to the camp was Leesville, just a few miles
outside the gate. A sign at the city limits said its 1936 population
was 3591 but, by the summer of 1941, with all the construction
workers and service people a new military post attracted, Leesville
was considerably larger - perhaps 10,000. The post ran a bus
service into town, free, as I recall, but it was hardly worth
the effort. What few attractions it offered - mostly bars and
dance halls - were crowded with brawling soldiers. Soldiers everywhere
and the civilians, understandably, were not always friendly.
Their once-tranquil existence had been rudely uprooted by the
military.
Gambling, among other things, is a long-standing tradition in
the Army that we were to confront on our first payday. At that
time, the troops were paid at noon on the first day of each month
and given the rest of the day off. A private's pay was $21 a
month but, after the premium for our $10,000 life insurance policy
was deducted (mine was $6, it varied with the individual's age),
what remained was a pitifully small amount. (I never understood
how the Army could force us to pay for our insurance when, without
our permission, the Army would put our lives at risk.) Our pay,
insignificant though it was, attracted the cadremen like a dog
on a bone. Crap games organized by old timers, sprung up everywhere.
Eventually, one of the sergeants came into our tent and tried
to persuade any of all of us to roll the dice. We all refused
but he was persistent, sure we were all suckers to be taken by
the old Army sergeant. Finally, a fella named Greiner, who was
sitting on his cot trying to write a letter, agreed to play awhile
if it would get the sergeant to move on. The sergeant practically
drooled over the prospect of picking this chicken. But when Griener
pulled off his shirt before taking up the dice, I thought perhaps
this game might have a different outcome than the sergeant anticipated.
It was a short encounter; I believe Griener made ever point and
didn't relinquish the dice until the sergeant was broke. Then
Griener sent him on his way. He had a letter to finish.
We later went to the orderly room and sneaked a look at Griener's
personnel file. He was from Detroit and listed his occupation
as "professional gambler". Detroit is directly across
the river from Windsor, Canada, where gambling was legal. No
one invited him to gamble with them again.
By late July, 1941, our firing batteries had already been out
on the artillery firing range and lobbed a few rounds through
the World War 1 75-millimeter cannon they were equipped with
but their training had to be halted because the summer Louisiana
maneuvers were being conducted on the Camp Polk Military Reservation
by divisions farther along in their training than the 3rd A.D.
We were excited to learn the two artillery battalions in the
division, the 54th and the 67th, would move to Camp Shelby, Mississippi,
to resume our training. Moving 1500 or so men and probably 400
vehicles a distance of several hundred miles would be a learning
experience for all concerned. The move started in very early
August and consumed two days, with an overnight bivouac in Natchez,
Mississippi. It was marred by a tragic incident. The 54th suffered
its first casualty when a motorcycle rider from Headquarters
Battery skidded on wet pavement and under the wheels of one of
our trucks.
Camp Shelby was about 25 miles south of Hattiesberg, Mississippi,
and I recall Otto and I went there once. But further recollections
are few - our routine while there, how long we stayed, our return
trip - all very vague and, therefore, I'm sure, uneventful. But
the Louisiana maneuvers were of two weeks duration, I believe,
so our stay at Shelby was probably for a period of three or four
weeks.
But I distinctly recall how our lives changed upon our return
to Polk. We moved into brand new barracks, we had a Battery Headquarters
building. More draftees awaited the Battalion; we were becoming
a robust unit. Men were needed to operate every facet of a maturing
outfit - more truck drivers, more clerk-typists, more medics,
and more men for every need. Basic training was over! Men were
assigned to the various Sections - Rations, Ammunition, Motor
Pool, Gasoline, Battery Headquarters, etc. Buehler went to the
Gas Section. I drew no assignment. I had no civilian skill the
Army could utilize, although that criteria didn't seem to hold
in many cases, such as assigning a man with two college degrees
as a peep driver - so I just bounced around. KP, guard duty,
road marches - Oh, did I do lots of road marches!! - I even learned,
along with a few other misfits, how to dismantle a 75-mm. howitzer,
for heaven's sake! But, sometime in late September or early October,
that changed. Soon after our arrival in Camp Polk, all draftees
had taken a seemingly meaningless test called an "aptitude
test". When ordered to report to the Battery Orderly Room,
the First Sergeant informed me I was to report to a Sergeant
D'Amico at Battalion Headquarters at 0800 the next day. He would
answer no questions about the assignment.
Sergeant D'Amico was a genuine, one-of -a-kind character. He
carried the stripes of a Technical Sergeant, he was much older
than any other enlisted man I had encountered - must have been
35-38 years old and had probably been in the Army ten or more
years. His uniform seemed too large, he shuffled when he walked,
he was a very unmilitary looking guy, but he was Army all the
way. And he was a radioman - he was, in fact, the Battalion Communications
Sergeant. Gathered in the room were men from every battery in
the 54th, some batteries with several men present; I, alone,
represented Service Battery. D'Amico informed us that our aptitude
tests indicated we would all make good radio operators and, if
that was true, he was the man who would transform us from civilian
misfits to military radiomen of the first order.
None of us had any concept of what was expected of us. If you
could talk on a telephone, surely we could easily become radio
operators. How much training could that take? Just show us how
to turn the thing on and we were ready. Without any concept of
what was entailed, I was pleased to have this assignment. There
were less than two dozen of us from the whole battalion in the
room so being a radioman seemed to be a more exclusive assignment
than being a truck driver and going to radio school would get
me out of sight of the First Sergeant and, hopefully, relieved
from participating in all those road marches.
The schooling would be long and arduous, the job, in combat,
would test my mental and physical endurance to the limit, the
responsibility of being the Battery Commander's radio operator
would weigh heavily upon me but I never regretted being selected
for the job. I loved it.
It's puzzling to me that I remember so little of those weeks
of attendance at D'Amico's school; I only remember them as a
pleasant interlude in my military odyssey. The type of equipment
we used, the depth of instruction, that all escapes me. I recall
we went to school 5 days a week and I came to know Sgt. D’Amico,
despite his gruff exterior, as a very warm, intelligent man whose
mission in life was to produce good radiomen for the Army. He
nurtured all of his students intensely, almost affectionately
(he addressed all his student as "Mate"). I quickly
grew to admire his skill as a radioman and teacher but I never
felt he saw me as anything but another student eager to learn.
Two years later I was shocked to learn he saw me in an entirely
different light.
Whenever we had a free weekend, Buehler and I usually bugged
out of camp, provided we had the funds to do so. The division
ran convoys of trucks, loaded with G.I.'s, into Lake Charles,
Louisiana and Beaumont, Texas. We tried both of those towns and
also hitchhiked our way to New Orleans, which was a fun town
if the fleet wasn't in. One of the breweries - Jax, I think -
opened up its tap room free to service men for a few hours a
day. With the fleet in, the combination of a room jammed with
soldiers and sailors and free beer usually led to fights, in
which case the management threw us all out and closed the tap
room.
We endured numerous overnight bivouacs in the pinewoods of Louisiana.
At first, we marched out of camp to the bivouac area carrying
"full field equipment" which included extra socks,
pistol belt, first aid kit, snake bite kit (oh yes!), mess kit,
canteen and cup, water purification pills, rain coat and shelter
half, the latter being one-half of a pup tent. For shelter, it
was necessary to button it together with the shelter half of
another soldier to make a tent. We had not yet been issued personal
weapons so we didn't have them to carry. Later, we were carried
farther afield in trucks for bivouacs, sometimes spending two
nights in the field. To me, these were not always unpleasant
experiences, except when it rained, as it often did. We quickly
learned how to trench around our tents to keep our bedding dry.
Some of our cooks accompanied us on these excursions in their
kitchen truck that was equipped with gasoline-fired stoves. The
food served up was OK, but, contrary to popular opinion, food
cooked in the open did not taste better than the food cooked
in the mess hall. There were gas-fired immersion heaters placed
in 50-gallon GI cans to heat water for washing our mess kits.
Snakes were plentiful in that part of Louisiana, the poisonous
varieties being the pretty coral snake, the dangerous-looking
water moccasin and the noisy timber rattler. During my days in
Polk, I know of only one Service Battery man who was bitten,
in his case, by a coral snake. The medics treated him on the
scene, and then transported him to the post hospital. He was
pretty sick but fully recovered.
By the first of November, 1941, my life in the military was humming
along smoothly. I had become fully acclimated to the routine,
certain that I could handle anything the Army handed out during
the remaining 8 months of my "sentence". I was anticipating,
with pleasure, spending my first winter without snow. The weather
was getting cooler and, in anticipation of some cold nights on
winter bivouacs, I had purchased a bedroll at enormous expense
- $9, I think - which would, over the years, become my most precious
possession.
But unforeseen changes were in store for me. At school one day
early in November, D'Amico announced that certain students in
the class had been chosen to attend the Armored Forces Radio
School for fourteen weeks at Ft. Knox, Kentucky. I was one of
those on the list. Not all his students made the list - probably
half a dozen were omitted. I realized then that D'Amico's school
was merely a screening process to determine who among us were
worthy of advanced training. I was delighted at the prospect
of a new adventure in a part of the country I had never seen,
a new challenge. I was ready.
CHAPTER 3
DIT-DAH SCHOOL
We boarded the train in Leesville sometime in mid-November
but memories of our journey northward escape me. I can only recall
being surprised at the number of men boarding for the trip. I
believe there were three cars of us. Would-be radiomen from every
unit in the 3rd Armored Division were present. It would have
been at least a two-day trip, perhaps longer.
Ft. Knox was an old post, having been built before WWI, but was
rapidly expanding to accommodate new trainees. All its heat and
hot water were derived from coal, giving the post a grimy appearance
in comparison with Polk's pristine countenance. The old portion
of the post was made up of brick buildings but we were assigned
to relatively newer wooden barracks. Our accommodations were
more crowded then we were accustomed to in Polk, the cots separated
by hardly more space than necessary to walk between them. The
cot on one side of mine was occupied by a big man from "B"
Battery of the 54th, Bill Gossett, a fellow student from D'Amico's
school, with whom I had a nodding acquaintance and with whom
I would become fast friends. We were not assigned quarters by
units so our barracks held men from several units in the Division,
providing us with an opportunity to make friends with many men
from throughout the Division. Some would remain "radio friends"
for many more years.
But we were there to become "radio operators, high speed"
so, after a day of two of orientation, we were assigned classes.
Because of the sheer numbers of students, the school operated
two shifts a day. I drew the night class, as did Gossett and
another "B" Battery man, Dan Cooper, a man of sterling
character with whom I would become good friends for many years.
Our class started at 1 pm and ended about 9 PM, if memory serves.
There were about 35 men in the class who would fall out in front
of the barracks to be marched off to class by Sgt. "Gummy",
so called, behind his back, because he didn't have a tooth in
his head. He always wore riding breeches and riding boots. About
40 years old, he was a cavalryman from way back. Our first few
days of class were given over to learning the basics of voice
radio: network discipline - every radio network had a Net Control
Station (NCS), usually the operator for the highest-ranking officer
on the network. An operator with a message for any station on
the network first had to obtain permission from the NCS to send
the message; network procedure - the "over and out"
thing; communications security - never transmit an officer's
name or rank over the air (they all had a code word or number),
etc. The emphasis was on brevity - keeping the transmissions
short. The lessons were easy enough that no one had any difficulty
grasping them.
Then we came into class one afternoon to find at each student's
place a note pad, a pencil, a set of headphones and a telegraph
key - the serious stuff. We were about to be immersed in the
intricacies of learning the Morse Code. Those of us from the
54th F.A. had had a brief introduction to this at D'Amico's school
but it was obvious from their reaction, most of the others were
totally unfamiliar with Morse Code. And so it began - the monotonously
repetitious grind of learning a new language. Through the headphones
we heard, hour after hour, a recording of the characters of the
alphabet. We were allowed a badly needed break every hour; this
was brain-numbing stuff. We were all anxious to try sending code
with the key and, when finally permitted, discovered it, too,
would require weeks of practice before we attained any proficiency
at it. Every student was certain his technique with the key was,
by far, the best in the class but we soon learned that what the
sender thought was a smooth, rhythmical, rapid transmission was
often almost illegible to the receiving operator. As the weeks
passed, some students were dismissed from class and sent back
to their unit in Polk; they simply lacked the sense of rhythm
necessary to assimilate the new language. All of Sgt. D'Amico's
students survived the course.
Weary of the monotony of the classroom, we were delighted when
informed we were about to get some field experience. We were
divided into teams of three men each, loaded on the back of trucks
and distributed at various locations around the post and vicinity.
Each team had a receiver, a transmitter and a hand-cranked generator.
One of my team members was Bill Gosset, the other man I don't
remember. We were dropped off in the woods beside a dirt road
about a mile from busy Highway 31-W that ran past the post. We
opened up the network and began exchanging the messages that
the school had prepared in advance for each team (all to be sent
in "C.W.”, by key, not voice). It required only two
men to operate each station, one to send and receive and the
other to crank the generator. After each man had had a couple
of turns at each position, it became a little boring. With time
remaining before the designated pick up time, we turned our thoughts
to obtaining some beer to liven up the remaining time. It was
decided one man would walk up to the main highway and get some
beer. With the other two men's donation in my pocket, I made
the trip. There were no "6 packs" and few cans in those
times, so here I was walking back down the busy highway with
a large paper sack full of long neck beer bottles in each arm
when a Cadillac sedan painted Army green approached me. As it
neared me, I was petrified to see it was displaying a two-star
flag - and the commanding general of Ft. Knox was in the back
seat! Aware that saluting the general was mandatory, I struggled
to put down the sacks and perform the ritual but the car was
past before I could accomplish it. Certainly he would back up
and chew me out for not saluting and then, discovering the beer,
have me thrown into the guardhouse for the rest of my natural
life. The brake lights never came on. We truly enjoyed that beer.
A passing grade for the course required the ability to send and
receive 12 words a minute. It should be noted that, in Army radio
parlance, a "word" was always a 5-letter group - LXCTR,
for instance, was a word. The reason for this standard, I suppose,
was that the encoding device used by the Army transposed any
"clear language" message into five letter groups for
transmission security. Twelve words per minute, then, required
sending or copying only 60 characters per minute, not a difficult
standard by any measure and most of the students who survived
the course easily exceeded the standard. Perhaps a third of the
class, myself included, learned to legibly transmit and copy
20 words a minute
Two events occurred while we were at Ft. Knox that would have
enormous impact upon my life: the Japs bombed the American fleet
at Pearl Harbor and I met the woman who would become my wife.
December 7, 1941, was a Sunday. I was sitting on my bunk writing
a letter when word of the bombing came over the radio in the
barracks. It was greeted by most of us with disbelief but the
announcer kept repeating, "This is real, this is real! The
Japs have destroyed the fleet at Pearl Harbor!" And the
graphic description of the scene certainly seemed real enough.
With the acceptance of the fact that we were at war came the
stunning realization that any hope of discharge from the military
when our year was up had been blown out of the water along with
the ships at Pearl Harbor. We were in for the duration, as we
were informed at reveille the next morning.
The Army's reaction was immediate. All leaves were canceled;
all men were ordered to return to the post; ammunition was issued
to all men on guard duty; admission to the post was restricted.
I recall being on a detail cutting brush (radio school students
alone must have cleared hundreds of acres of brush during our
stay) one cold morning in mid-December and was shocked to see
an MP, toting a .45 caliber pistol, escorting my brother-in-law
toward us. I had to assure and reassure the MP that Phil was
who he said he was. He and my sister, accompanied by one of my
girl friends, had decided to surprise me and drive down from
Michigan to visit. At least part, and perhaps all, of the 1st
Armored Division was at Knox at the time and the time they spent
in the field was multiplied immediately. But our school routine
remained the same - no increased hours, no increase in intensity,
but, I for one, applied myself a little more religiously to the
schooling. It seemed now that I might have to use this stuff
in combat, a possibility that had never occurred to me before.
My future wife was named Juanita Kelsey. She lived in Louisville,
some 30 miles northeast of Ft. Knox. Despite the fact that Louisville
had endured the escapades of Ft. Knox soldiers for many years,
it was still a good "soldier town" whose people were
friendly. Gossett and I had visited it a few times but had made
no acquaintances among the female population. One of the fella's
in my class was Howard Mann whose home was in Louisville and
had known Juanita many years, had, in fact, lived in the same
block with her at one time. They had dated casually a few times.
Mann was a wild man who liked to live on the edge, but a generous
and likable character. He kept a huge 1940 Buick Roadmaster automobile,
which belonged to his father, on the post and drove it like a
maniac. Early in January, 1942, Mann invited me and another fella
in the class, Don Castle, a Chicago boy, on a date with him and
his girl and two other female acquaintances of his. That Saturday
night in Louisville, we met Juanita and a lifelong friend of
hers named Mickey. Don wound up with Juanita, I with Mickey,
who was a very sweet, charming Southern lady but I was strongly
attracted to Juanita Kelsey. In the weeks that followed, Don
had a distinct advantage as we competed for her attention - he
owned a car and it was on the post.
Don's love of gambling eventually led to his defeat in the competition.
He had a date with Juanita but had lost all his money in a crap
game. He tried to borrow money from our classmates without success.
Obviously, I wouldn't lend him money to keep a date with "my
girl" but he approached me with a proposition: an impartial
friend would deal each of us one hand of 5-card poker. If he
won, I would lend him the money to keep his date; if I won, he
would lend me his car, I would keep the date and he would drop
his pursuit of Juanita. I won. It worked out perfectly. At this
writing, I have been married to Juanita for 53 years.
The students in my class had Saturday and Sunday nights off,
but, with classes running until 9 PM, it was impossible to get
into Louisville before 10 PM, rather late to begin a date. And
skipping class to get an earlier start, or for any reason, was
severely dealt with. Only one excuse was acceptable: you were
ill, sick enough to require attention from the medics. To see
the medics, you first had to get permission from the First Sergeant,
who was a tough old cookie. If you could convince him, he would
put you on "Sick Call", entitling you to report to
the dispensary with your ailment. Sick call was immediately after
noon chow for my class; reporting to the dispensary followed
at about 2 PM, as I recall.
Nearing the end of our 14 weeks of schooling, Mann and I desperately
wanted to get off early on a Friday afternoon so we could pick
up Juanita and Mann's girl as they got off work and have a big
night. The obstacle we faced in the scheme was getting past the
First Sergeant and getting on Sick Call. Mann was a born salesman,
glib enough to pull it off; I was not certain I could fake an
illness well enough to convince the Top Kick. But I found the
solution to my dilemma in the latrine immediately after noon
chow. My friend Dan Cooper was having one of his sudden, unpredictable
nosebleeds. Standing with his head thrown back, he pressed a
well-bloodied handkerchief to his nose. Handing him my own clean
handkerchief, I said, "Here Dan, you could use a fresh one
". He gratefully accepted it; I grabbed the crimson one
from him and hurried to the Orderly Room with it pressed to my
nose. The First Sergeant took one look and was convinced: "Get
over to the dispensary!", he ordered. I happily complied,
stuffing the bloody handkerchief into a pocket as I did so. I
knew I could never convince the medics I had a genuine nosebleed;
there would be no blood in my nostrils. So I had to conjure up
another reason for being there. At the dispensary I met up with
Mann. I have forgotten what exotic disease he had dreamed up
for the sergeant but, he, too, had to have a more routine ailment
for the medics. "I'm going to say I'm constipated",
he decided. Me, too. When our turn came, the medic poured each
of us a large dose of castor oil. I hesitated over mine long
enough for the medic to turn his back and then I poured the laxative
down the sink. I thought Mann had disposed of his dose in some
surreptitious manner, also, but, it developed, he had drunk it
down.
Because we had no pass to leave the post, we had to take a narrow,
bumpy, back-woods trail, the location of which was not widely
known, and was unguarded, out to the main road. We picked up
the girls, much to their surprise, and spent the evening dining
and visiting the more popular nightspots around town. But, Mann's
frequent visits to the men's room finally attracted my attention
and he confessed he had actually drunk the castor oil. We told
the story to the ladies who thoroughly enjoyed the humor - and
Mann' s embarrassment.
Shortly before graduation day, an interesting insight into how
the war was progressing for the U.S. in March of 1942 was afforded
us. Immediately following breakfast, we were ordered to fall
out in the company street. Here, a Lt. Colonel wearing an Army
Air Corps insignia addressed us. He stated that the Air Corps
was desperate for radio operators and any one in the class who
would transfer to the Air Corps would be guaranteed a Staff Sergeants
rating. The flyboys were virtually the only branch of the military
doing any offensive fighting at the time. It was an enticing
offer but there certainly was no stampede to join up, although
he may have had a few takers, I don't remember. As for me, if
I were to do any fighting, it would be with the 3rd Armored Division.
(As an aside, the Air Corps' operators were required to obtain
a speed of only 8 words a minute, a painfully slow pace).
On March 13, 1942, Radio Operator's Class #17 graduated. I was
immediately awarded a Military Occupation Specialty (MOS) number
of 766 - Radio Operator, High Speed. It sounded nice but it didn't
make me another penny in pay. (Looking at my graduation certificate
now I see it was awarded to "Private First Class Manuel
Baker" so I must have been promoted from private before
going to Knox. I had forgotten. I think PFC's made about $5 a
month more than privates. ) Preparations for the return trip
to Camp Polk began immediately. We turned in equipment issued
to us at Knox - I had to return the gloves issued me in January,
finally, after I had stood many formations in the cold without
them - one morning at 14 degrees!
The exact date we began our return journey escapes me but it
was probably March 15 or 16. We were trucked to Elizabethtown,
Ky., the nearest train station. Overcoats were the uniform of
the day because the ride on the back of the trucks would be cold.
At the train station, we waited for the train - and we waited
and waited. The station was separated from the town by a shallow
river about 40 yards wide. A bridge across the stream was adjacent
to one end of the station platform but a soldier guarded the
bridge - we were not allowed in town. The sign in front of a
tavern at the far end of the bridge beckoned my friend Gossett
like a red flag to a bull. We had enough time to concoct a scheme:
we wiggled out a window in the men's room in the station, slid
down the bank to the water's edge, sneaked under the bridge where
we removed our shoes and socks, folded our overcoats into a compact
carrying package, rolled up our pants legs, slung our shoes over
our shoulder and waded across the river under the bridge. Safely
ensconced in the tavern, we began downing beer as fast as we
could and Gosset, who liked bourbon but drank anything alcoholic,
ordered several half-pints of whiskey. I have no recall of how
long we were in the barroom but our enjoyable escapade was interrupted
by a train whistle. A look out the front door revealed the engine
coupled to the cars and obviously ready to steam out. We took
off running across the bridge, coattails flying. We jumped aboard
the last coach as it pulled out of the station. A second lieutenant
standing at the door helped us get aboard, then asked "You
soldiers have any whiskey?" "No whiskey, Sir"
was Gosset's reply, though I could hear the half-pints rattling
in his overcoat pockets as he jumped on board. We got away with
it.
We developed a routine that satisfied our alcoholic appetites
on the journey south: whenever the train stopped, which was often,
and there was a tavern within sight, the fella's pressed money
upon me and I made a re-supply run. Several times, with the train
gathering speed, Gosset, an enormously powerful man, had to grab
me by the collar and lift me aboard the observation platform
on the last coach. I think I ran half the distance from Knox
to Polk. We must have been allowed to leave the train occasionally,
though, as I have snapshots of 8 of the fella's from my class
drinking beer on the street in front of a bar in Shreveport,
Louisiana.
Radio school was an exhilarating experience for me. It was intellectually
challenging, equivalent to learning a foreign language in 14
weeks but with the added burden of doing it the Army Way. I came
away with the conviction I had learned a skill that would contribute
to the defeat of our enemies on the battlefield. I was no longer
a lost soul; school had given me a purpose for the duration of
my service. And I had made friends with many very fine men, men
it was a privilege to call friend.
CHAPTER 4
SERIOUS SOLDIERING
The 3rd Armored Division I returned to in March, 1942, was
dramatically different from the outfit I had left four months
previously in many ways - in numbers, in composition and in intensity,
from Service Battery to the 54th FA Battalion, on up to the division
level. It was larger, at authorized strength, probably 12,000
men. The Division I had left in the fall had been, I thought,
just a bit disorganized, with no real sense of urgency. It was
training soldiers for a future war. This new Division was tightly
wound; it hummed with energy. Its eye was dead on its target:
training men for the war we were now engaged in. The Division
had just been designated a "Heavy Armored Division",
along with the 1st and 2nd Armored Divisions; all future Armored
Divisions would be "Light Armored Divisions", fewer
men, fewer tanks. My battalion had been reorganized. In November
it had consisted of 6 batteries – Hq., Service, and 4 firing
batteries - A, B, C, and D - each firing battery having four
guns. The new 54th had only three firing batteries but each battery
had 6 guns. Gone were the WWI towed 75mm cannons; in their place
were 105mm cannons mounted in halftracks, the muzzles projecting
forward over the hood of the vehicle, a design that quickly proved
unacceptable. The weight of the gun was all on the front wheels;
when the vehicle encountered soft ground - and Louisiana abounded
in soft ground - it promptly became mired down. This so-called
"combat vehicle" couldn't operate in soft ground and
it could not negotiate sand, as we would soon learn. But, if
the war was to be fought on paved roads, we were in good shape.
It was inconceivable that America's resources and time were being
squandered in prodigious amounts to put such worthless equipment
in the field.
A third artillery battalion had been added to the Division -
the 391st. Added to the 54th and 67th, the 3rd AD now had 54
105mm cannon to support it's forward elements, a formidable amount
of firepower, indeed. And, although not an integral part of the
Division, the 703rd Tank Destroyer Battalion was attached to
the 3rd AD. From its beginnings until the end of the war, the
703rd would spend all but 10 days of its existence with us, an
accepted and welcome addition to our mission.
Other units throughout the Division were reorganized, I'm sure,
but I have no knowledge of those changes, only that the new medium
tanks issued to our Armored Regiments were a classic example
of the inept planning and design being foisted upon combat units
training for war by the overpaid numbskulls in Washington. I
have forgotten the model number and name of this monstrosity,
probably because it's so forgettable a piece of equipment. The
woefully inadequate 75mm gun was mounted on the left front quadrant
of the tank, not in a turret. The gun tube could be raised and
lowered quickly but it could not be traversed from side to side
without moving the tank! Some of these death traps actually were
committed to combat, not with American forces, thankfully, but
with the British troops in North Africa, poor souls, where Rommel
ate them for breakfast.
Back in Service Battery I saw many new faces and didn't see some
I was looking for. The Battery had received a large contingent
of troops in February, most, but not all, of them from New York,
New Jersey and the New England states. And some of the men who
had arrived in Polk with me had been transferred out to form
the 703rd and some had gone as part of the cadre to start the
5th Armored Division. But my old friend, Otto Buehler, was still
around and sporting the double stripes of a corporal in the Gasoline
Section. All of my old friends, it seemed, were wearing more
stripes than me. And there was a new rating I hadn't seen at
Knox - Technician in grades 3, 4, and 5. A T-5 wore the two stripes
of a corporal with the letter "T" under them. It carried
the same pay as a corporal but not the authority. It went to
halftrack drivers, some mechanics, some truck drivers, some cooks,
etc. T-4's wore the 3 stripes of a sergeant with the "T"
under them and received sergeants pay. Most of these, as I remember,
were awarded to more skilled mechanics, at least in Service Battery.
The T-3 rating duplicated the stripes of a staff sergeant but
I can recall no one wearing them in the Battery. I felt a little
naked with my single stripe among the more senior men but I was
happy to be back with the Battery.
Among the new faces was the Battery Commander, a Captain named
Harold Davitt, to whom I reported upon my return. He was a slender,
tall man with a fair complexion and blond hair. He had a pleasant,
though not commanding, presence. Obviously intelligent, he impressed
me as being a little uncomfortable in the military. Probably
got his captaincy as a Reserve Officer from his college ROTC
days. He had an easy manner and I liked him instantly. He informed
me I would be his radio operator henceforth, if I could cut it.
I felt the urge to tell him he had just inherited the best-damned
radio operator in the Division but, with admirable rectitude,
I resisted the impulse. He had no choice, anyway; I was the only
CW radio operator in the Battery.
As the Battery Commander's radio operator, I was assigned to
his section, Headquarters Section of Service Battery, which included
the B.C., of course, the First Sergeant whose name I can't recall,
the Battery Clerk, a New York fella named Irving Klein, a peep
driver (they changed frequently), a halftrack driver, a Battery
scout and a .50 caliber machine-gunner, all of whom would be
assigned later. The B.C.'s halftrack would eventually go into
combat with a crew of 5 but none of the others were assigned
yet.
The men who joined the Battery in February were, as I have said,
Easterners, for the most part. They were a species of men I had
never encountered before. They were loud, brash, in-your-face
confrontational, and often obnoxious. They took some getting
used to. There had been a number of fights between them and some
of the Midwest and Southern guys in the first few weeks after
their arrival, but an undeclared truce seemed to exist by the
time I came back upon the scene. With a few exceptions, as was
true with groups of men from any section of the country, they
were good men who would do an outstanding job in the Battery
when they accepted the fact that they would not be allowed to
run the Battery. I became staunch friends with many of them and
valued their friendship.
Otto Buehler and I renewed our association promptly. We made
an occasional foray into Leesburg and DeRidder, a larger town
south of camp but more distant than Leesburg. We hitchhiked to
New Orleans one weekend and had the unusual experience of being
picked up on the return trip by a full Colonel of the 3rd AD,
driving a big Packard. I kept in touch with Bill Gosset, my radio
school buddy in "B" Battery, drinking many a beer with
him at the PX. He accompanied Buehler and I into Leesburg several
times, also.
My arrival seemed to coincide with the scheduling of many "field
problems", wherein we rambled down the narrow roads and
through the woods and swamps in a wide area around the post,
the purpose for which was not always clear to me but it involved
radio work for which I had trained so I was happy. Thus began
my love affair with the vehicle known as the halftrack. If Army
Ordinance designers were often inept, they struck gold with the
halftrack. The original concept was as a lightly armored - 1/4
inch thick - troop carrier to transport infantrymen to the scene
of battle, and it was used for that purpose, but many other innovative
uses were found for it. We hauled ammunition of all varieties
with it; we pulled anti-tank guns with it; it found use as radio
cars, as in my case. And I suppose there were other applications
in various units. It was a very versatile vehicle.
The halftrack had wheels in front, like a truck, but tracks in
the rear, which gave it excellent traction and flotation. It
could successfully negotiate ground where tanks went. It was
open topped with sides extending up about 36 to 40 inches above
the tracks. Those used to transport infantry had a door out the
rear; mine didn’t. Behind the driver's and passenger's
seats, padded benches extended along the length of the vehicle
on each side. A heavy armored plate could be lowered from the
horizontal position to cover the windshield. There were viewing
ports in the plate for the driver and front seat passenger. The
two doors - driver's side and passenger's side - had hinged flaps
that could be swung up and locked into position for full protection
from small arms fire. Each of these flaps had a viewing port
with small plates that could be slid down and locked in place
to cover the ports. And they were convertibles! Metal bows could
be fitted in place over which a form-fitted, heavy canvas cover
could be strapped to provide protection from the elements and,
in my case, prevent the light, which I used at night to copy
messages, from escaping. Zippered flaps were provided at strategic
points in the cover to allow firing of a machine-gun without
removal of the canvas top.
A heavy steel track ran completely around the inside of the vehicle
at the upper edge of the armor plate. A wheeled carriage could
be clamped to the track and on the carriage a .30 caliber machine
gun could be mounted. A sturdy pedestal welded to the floor of
the halftrack near the midpoint provided a mount for the heavy
machine-gun, the .50 caliber. This mounting method proved unsatisfactory
and would soon be modified.
I would travel many thousands of miles in halftracks before my
service days were over and only once did we encounter any serious
mechanical trouble. They proved to be rugged, reliable machines
of war that served their purpose admirably.
By the spring of 1942, rumors were circulating that the 3rd was
about to move. It was obvious a change was imminent: the brand
new 7th AD had moved into Camp Polk, housed in tents, some of
which were in Service Battery's area. There wasn't room for two
armored divisions in the area. The rumors proved to be true;
word came down about the last of April that the "Bayou Blitz"
Division would move to CALIFORNIA!! And the 54th Armored Field
Artillery would lead the way.
But before I close the Camp Polk portion of this narrative, I
must recite an episode that I failed to include earlier. In the
fall of 1941, probably September, those of us who had arrived
at Polk in June were granted a furlough of, I think, 10 days.
We were not all allowed to leave at the same time but a graduated
schedule of departure times was worked out. Burhler and I were
going at the same time, along with many other fella's. Transportation
was a problem. There were only two choices: the bus or the train.
We had heard bad things about the bus service and the train would
take almost 2 1/2 day to get us to Chicago. Five days of travel
time for a 10-day furlough didn't appeal to us but what else
could we do? The answer came one evening in DeRidder where Buehler
and I had gone to check out the action. As we walked down the
sidewalk, we approached a taxicab parked at the curb, the driver
leaning languidly against the fender. He asked if we were looking
for a cab. I said, "Sure". "Where do you want
to go?" " To Michigan", I replied in jest. To
my surprise, instead of just waving us off, he showed interest.
After considerable time spent checking train fares and other
costs, we arrived at a deal: the cab company would furnish the
cab and driver for a round trip to Grand Rapids for the same
cost as the train fare provided we supplied 5 passengers, paid
for the gas and furnished the driver a place to stay in Michigan.
A phone call to my sister produced the response "Bring him
along. We'll put him up". We recruited 3 other Michigan
fella's in Service Battery who had furlough dates that coincided
with ours - Elliot Green, Red Gutzmer and Charlie Gorsuch - and
cemented the deal. At the appointed time the cab picked us up
at the post and we were off to set a new speed record between
Louisiana and Michigan. The drivers name was Bob, last name I
don't recall, but we soon nicknamed him "Bullet Bob"
for his speed demon way of driving. In Mississippi we nearly
collided with a wagonload of cotton crossing the road.
The cab was a 1940 Ford, a nice enough car but it burned oil
by the gallon, literally. We developed a routine of pulling into
a filling station and telling the attendant "Check the gas
and fill it up with oil". We all took turns driving and
arrived in Michigan in good time. We dropped the others off at
a central point - Kalamazoo, I believe it was - then Bob and
I continued to my home. It was a great time at home. I introduced
Bob to one of my old girl friends and we saw little of him until
it was time to return to Polk. The return trip was equally rapid
but incident-free; we had completed a 2200-mile trip by taxicab,
a first for Camp Polk. The cab company was so pleased; they bought
a nine-passenger Packard to keep up with demand.
As an aside, I am the only survivor of the five of us who made
that trip together.
CHAPTER 5
DESERT WARRIORS
CALIFORNIA!! The news sent us all into flights of fancy. Hello,
Los Angeles! Hello Hollywood! Goodbye Leesburg and DeRidder!
Goodbye to the pinewoods, the swamps, the snakes and occasional
alligator. Bright lights, here we come! We'd all be movie stars.
We were to take everything with us - all equipment, all vehicles,
all personnel. We were to leave behind only empty barracks and
buildings. The 54th would leave about mid-May, followed a month
later by the rest of the Division. Why that choice was made is
a mystery to me to this day but we enthusiastically embraced
it. We were ready for a change in station.
Those two or three weeks between the day of announcement and
the day of departure must have been hectic ones but I have little
clear memory of them. I recall attending at least two orientation
assemblies at the post theater intended to impress us with the
enormity of the task we faced in moving 750 men and approximately
250 vehicles nearly 2000 miles across the country and the changes
in training conditions we would face in California. It was described
as a tankers training paradise with thousands of square miles
of open space. The weather was summed up succinctly in three
words: hot, dry and dusty. And I recall distinctly the word of
our Battery Commander, Captain Davitt when he addressed us one
morning shortly before our departure: "California is where
we will separate the men from the boys." He was proven right.
Our train, as we pulled out of Camp Polk fully loaded, was a
sight to behold. I can find no record of the exact number of
cars but it surely was over 50. There were flat cars, boxcars,
baggage cars and sleeping cars. A complete field kitchen was
set up in one boxcar and we were fed 3 meals a day, although
lunch was usually just a sandwich. We would be on the road at
least 3 nights so we had Pullman cars, a new experience for most
of us. None of the cars were air-conditioned, of course; in fact,
some of the cars were so old and decrepit the windows wouldn't
open. But, even in the cars in which windows could be opened,
it was a trade off: open the windows and suffer exposure to the
smoke and cinders of the steam engines or close them and endure
the heat.
We were allowed free run of the passenger cars, except for the
officers' car, and we moved around a lot and we had no duties
but one. Each flatcar was under guard at all times, a guard for
each car. A guard shift in daylight hours was a pleasant diversion.
The scenery could be observed on both sides better than from
the coaches and, during the infrequent occasions when the train
stopped in a town, the guard could converse close up with the
townspeople who inevitably gathered trackside. The nighttime
obliterated the scenery, of course, but in its place was the
starry wonder of the vast western sky. In the coaches, it seemed
that some officer in the Battalion was always walking through
but, on the flatcars, you had to be alert for only one - the
Officer of the Day. The only drawback was the smoke and cinders.
We observed the cactus with curiosity; surprised at the varieties
we could spot. We beheld the sight of the first palm trees in
wonder. The greasewood and tumbleweeds of west Texas told us
we were approaching desert country. New Mexico looked the same
as west Texas and Arizona looked the same as New Mexico. I was
disappointed when it was announced we had crossed into California;
it looked the same as Arizona. No magical transformation, just
more desert. As promised - thousands of square miles of open
space.
Our terminus was Indio, in the Imperial Valley of California.
A pretty little town about to be buried under an avalanche of
khaki and O.D. Unloading the cars, in which we all participated,
generated great clouds of dust, which the hot wind blew over
the town. But all proceeded in good order and soon we had our
vehicles back with our duffle bags stowed away and our column,
over 10 miles long, headed out of town on a blacktop road toward
our destination. The road climbed at a gentle angle to a level
about 1500 feet above the valley floor to what we came to learn
was the "high desert". When the road leveled out, we
were all amazed at how far we could see. In the pinewoods of
Louisiana, line of sight was limited to about a quarter mile;
here we often could see 20 miles in any direction. Lots of room
to maneuver! The desert floor was covered with low-growing, sturdy
shrubs, later identified as greasewood. An occasional scrawny
tree made its lonely appearance. When the column stopped, I was
surprised to see the soil was more gravel than sand. Didn't look
at all like pictures I had seen of the Sahara Desert. Low-lying
slab-sided mountains of rock were scattered around in seemingly
random fashion. The sky was cloudless.
Awed though we were by the grand vistas spread before us, it
was the heat that demanded, and got, our attention. In the months
ahead, we would learn to accommodate it, to live with it, but
I don't believe anyone learned to like it. There were no cloudy
days - partly cloudy was the best we could hope for. During daylight
hours the sun was ever-present, omnipotent, merciless. That golden
orb spread its suffocating blanket indiscriminately over all
things, great and small. There was virtually no shade unless
it was man-made. The only relief was nightfall when, because
of the low humidity - 15 to 20% - the air became blessedly cool;
a blanket felt good before dawn.
We had evidence of the sun's power very quickly. Several vehicles
dropped out of the column when their engines stopped due to vapor
locked fuel systems. They waited for the maintenance crews trailing
the column. We rolled through a town called Desert Center, a
fanciful name for it certainly wasn't in the center of the Mojave
Desert, and kept going - and kept going, until I was sure we
were back in Arizona. But, at last, we came to the site of our
new home; we knew it was our new home for there was a sign stuck
in the sand several hundred yards off the road that read simply
" 54th Armored Field Artillery Battalion." Nothing
else - absolutely nothing else! Not a tent, not a building, not
another human being in sight. On the horizon was a low range
of mountains, which we later learned were the Old Woman Mountains.
We probably spent our first night in the desert sleeping in pup
tents, although I'm not sure. But I distinctly recall the labor
required to erect the tent city necessary to quarter the men,
the kitchen, the B.C.'s Command Post. We erected 5-man pyramidal
tents for the men, a distasteful chore because of the heat. It
required that two men be under the canvas to put up the center
pole. The heat was so suffocating the men could stay under there
only a very few minutes. The only thermometers available were
medical thermometers, which pegged out at 115 degrees. Under
the canvas, they always pegged out. We took turns putting up
the center poles. Besides erecting tents, we dug latrines and
garbage pits; we unloaded truckloads of folding canvas cots and
various items of office equipment and furniture, all the bare
essentials required to exist in this inferno. Because our own
Engineer Battalion, the 23rd, was still back in Louisiana, a
civilian showed up with a bulldozer and cleared greasewood and
other growth for our Battery street and motor park.
In good order, we soon had a functional Service Battery area
set up - but without electricity. We would prevail for the duration
of our stay in the desert without electricity. The Maintenance
Sections had generators to power their welders and a few power-driven
tools but that was all. And we had no showers; we spong-bathed
with cold water until our Engineer Battalion arrived with the
remainder of the Division sometime in early July. They then tapped
into the Los Angeles aqueduct that carried water from the Colorado
River to the city on the Pacific Ocean. The shower point was
about a mile from our position and the water was cold but it
was a welcome addition to our living conditions. Usually we walked
to the showers, although trucks were available to take us, at
times. If we walked, by the time we returned, we didn't feel
refreshed or particularly clean.
The camp routine seldom varied: fall out at 6 each morning, police
up the area, shave and wash up using your helmet as a wash basin
- cold water, of course, grab your mess kit and canteen cup and
go to the kitchen tent, return to your tent with coffee and a
mess kit full of food, wash your mess gear in the hot water provided
at the kitchen tent and, at the whistle, fall out again. At this
point, the various Sections marched off to their jobs: Maintenance,
Rations, Gasoline, etc. And that was my problem - in camp, I
had no "job", leaving me exposed for assignment according
to the whims of the First Sergeant. Fortunately, because of my
T5 rating, I was exempt from KP duty, but he felt no qualms assigning
me to guard duty, either walking a post or as Corporal of the
Guard, not bad duty in the cool of the night but a real hardship
under the blazing sun. It soon became evident, when guards started
passing out from the heat, that walking a post for two hours
at a time without shade was more punishment than most of them
could handle so, early in our desert sojourn, the daylight shifts
were designated as "fire watch'" shifts and the guards
were allowed to seek shade beside a tent or wherever they could
find it on their post.
At that point, the men had not been issued a personal weapon,
a situation which would soon change, so all machine-guns, bazookas
and personal side arms were kept in a tent presided over by the
Battery armorer, a fellow from Buffalo, New York, named Eddie
Gajewski who was also one of three Ammo. Sgt's in the Battery.
I was sometimes assigned to help Eddie clean the guns, a job
I didn't mind at all. He was one of the good guys
In addition to being eternally vigilant against the ravages of
the overpowering sun, there were two other dangers we had to
avoid: rattlesnakes and scorpions. They were in virtually unlimited
numbers. In making a trip to the shower point, it wasn't unusual
to encounter six or more snakes. The scorpions were harder to
spot but we soon learned to turn our shoes over and shake them
vigorously each morning to rid them of any creatures that might
have sought shelter in them from the evening coolness. Scorpions
stung a few men but, contrary to our beliefs, their sting is
rarely fatal. One fella in my tent was stung; it was painful
and left a large brown spot on his skin for some time but there
were no serious consequences.
My own experience with scorpions happened while I was in the
Battalion dentist's chair, having a tooth filled. There was no
electricity, remember, so he used a foot-powered drill, An assistant
pumped a treadle machine that drove the drill at a slow - and
painful - speed. During the procedure, the drill rotation began
to slow perceptibly until the exasperated dentist yelled at the
assistant. The kid had become mesmerized watching a 5-inch long
scorpion walk across the tent floor. (I carried that same filling
in my mouth for over 50 years.)
Water, of course, was a primary concern to us desert dwellers.
In camp, there were no restrictions on water use. It came to
us in 5-gallon GI cans. We used it in prodigious amounts. We
soon discovered that a closed can of water left out in the sun
for a few hours would get reasonably warm, not hot, but warm
enough to ease the pain of shaving somewhat. That same can, left
open in the sun, remained cool because the evaporation rate was
so great. In front of the kitchen tent hung a large bag, called
a Lister bag, which held probably 25 gallons of water. The bag
had a dispensing spout at the bottom. It was here we were to
get our drinking water, although the water had had no special
treatment from any other water we had access to. Mounted beside
the bag was a salt tablet dispenser. We were ordered to swallow
a given number of these tablets each day to replace the salt
we lost through sweating. But, compared to Louisiana, we didn't
seem to sweat much here, despite the fierce heat. The humidity
was so low that sweat evaporated before it could gather in drops
large enough to run down the skin. Sweat formed only where an
object of clothing was snug to the skin - the headband of our
helmet liners and under the belt, for instance.
For recreation, there were liberal weekend passes. The Battery
ran truck convoys to Indio, a nice little town, which we could
explore or scatter to points south, east and north. Hitchhiking
was generally easy; those West Coast drivers were very accommodating
to men in uniform, especially those they encountered in the middle
of Hades. Otto and I went to Mexicali, Mexico, to LA, Hollywood,
Banning, and places in between. A couple of times convoys took
us to swim in the Salton Sea, a body of water so salty one could
almost walk on it and too warm to be refreshing. A fresh-water
shower afterwards was imperative or the salt would leave a white
residue on the skin. More to my liking was swimming in the Colorado
River's cool, fresh water at Parker, Arizona.
Some California citizens invited groups of soldiers to their
homes to enjoy their pools and hospitality where they fed us
and entertained us royally. I attended at least two of these
parties, enjoying the generosity and genuine friendliness of
the hosts. Later, when the entire Division was in camp, Hollywood
personalities came out to entertain us. Two I remember were Dinah
Shore and Red Skelton.
Bars, of course, were always an attraction to men in uniform.
We seemed to bring an unquenchable thirst with us from the desert.
At one bar in Indio, right across the street from the park where
the trucks let us off, the bartender started opening up quart
bottles of beer and lining them up on the bar as soon as he saw
the trucks drive up. The first quart we simply inhaled. Gone.
Delicious. Forget the dust, the heat, the wind, and the snakes.
Let's party!
Our move to California seemed to trigger another round of changes
in command in the 54th and in Service Battery. The Battalion
Commander, Lt. Col. Fredrick Brown, was promoted to Colonel and
named Division Artillery Commander. He returned to Polk and was
replaced by Lt. Col. Robert Moore, a graduate of the University
of Florida. Moore proved to be a fine officer with a great sense
of humor. He would be wounded and evacuated out in combat, an
incident in which I would be involved.
As for Captain Davitt, his prediction that the desert would separate
the men from the boys proved prophetic. He was one of the boys.
Davitt was the kind of man who never tanned. He burned, peeled
and burned and peeled again. We called him "Pinky"
behind his back. He was sent to the hospital and we never saw
him again. This happened so soon after our arrival in the desert
he never went into the field with us where conditions were really
rough. Just as well; he never would have made it in the field.
Davitt's departure started a revolving door syndrome for the
Battery. I cannot recount the number officers who entered and
exited that door, some for as briefly as one week. One was only
a second lieutenant. I would guess there were four BC's, or acting
BC's, after Davitt's departure in a two month's period.
Our salvation came in the person of First Lieutenant Bill Goza.
Not impressive physically - about 5 feet, 9 inches, and no more
than 160 pounds - he carried an air of authority in his military
bearing and mannerisms. He was inheriting a unit that was dispirited,
to say the least, after a succession of commanders who couldn't
command. Discipline was lax, several men were over the hill,
and morale was in a general state of disarray. I wasn't sure
he was the man to shape up the Battery. He quickly proved me
wrong. He was decisive, firm and fair. He handed out praise and
punishment with equal abandon. He impressed most of us with his
enthusiasm and dedication to the job. I'm uncertain where he
had served before coming to Service Battery but I later learned
we were his first field command. How fortunate for us. In a few
short weeks under his leadership, he transformed the Battery
into a prideful, sharp, smoothly functioning military unit. The
men felt that, at last, we were an integral part of the 54th
Armored Field Artillery Battalion instead of the dumping grounds
for less than competent, misfit field officers.
Bill Goza, like the Battalion Commander, Moore, was a graduate
of the University of Florida law school, in fact, they may have
been classmates. I mention this fact because it would have a
bearing on future events of great impact on the Battery and me.
Goza and I hit it off immediately and we would become very good
friends, despite the differences in rank. We had several things
in common. He was only 2 years older than me. We both abhorred
indecisiveness and adhered to the philosophy of "Do something,
even if it is wrong". We both enjoyed competition and testing
our limits. (Despite his size, or lack thereof, he had played
football in college.) With his sense of humor and ready smile,
I found him a joy to be around. He soon showed great respect
for my ability as a radioman and I returned that feeling with
regard to his leadership qualities. We would spend many hours
together in the field and I enjoyed being in his Section.
Of course, it's easy to like an officer who gives you a promotion.
The other batteries in the Battalion each had a Communication
Sergeant who, besides being a radio operator, was in charge of
the other operators in his battery. The position carried the
rank of T4 - three stripes with the letter "T" under
it. In Service Battery, I was that man. I was in charge, theoretically,
of three other operators in the Battery, yet I wore only the
rank, and received the pay, of T5. I had called this discrepancy
to the attention of any of our previous Battery Commanders who
stuck around longer than a week, always with the same result:
No reply at all or "The Army Table of Organization (TO)
does not provide for a higher rating for your position."
But, before I could even broach the subject with Goza, he called
me to his tent and questioned me about it. He confirmed that
I had the rank called for in the TO but, he allowed, that wasn't
fair; another example of Service Battery getting the short end
of the stick. He casually looked over the list of ratings in
the Battery and said "Battalion Maintenance Section has
too many ratings." He pulled a T4 rating from one of the
mechanics and gave it to me! What a guy! Some months later, Goza
would break me back to a T5 because I broke the rules and it
really hurt him to do so.
I have failed to note that the California training area was officially
known as the Desert Training Center and was under the command
of Major General George S. Patton, a name unknown to most of
the enlisted men but one with which we would soon become familiar.
I would have a close encounter with him in the days to come.
Some 300,000 men would train here before the war's end but the
3rd AD was the first full division to utilize its spaces. Only
a couple of tank battalions of the 1st Cavalry Division preceded
us.
The men of the 54th having proven that soldiers could survive
in the desert hell, the rest of the Division packed up and headed
west. Our Division history says 30 trains were needed to accomplish
the move. They did not detrain at Indio, as we had, but at a
place east of us known as Frieda. Frieda was no more than a weathered
sign and two or three decrepit, abandoned shacks. With the entire
Division assembled again, our Headquarters became known as Camp
Young.
After an appropriate settling in and organizational period, the
entire Division was plunged vigorously into field training. Those
involving the entire Division usually took one of two forms:
3-day maneuvers, or problems, or 10-day problems. Then there
was something called a "Command Post Exercise" or CPX,
in which only the commanding officers, and their Sections, of
each unit down to Company, Battery and Troop, took to the field
for two and three-day exercises. I was never certain of the tactical
purpose of these jaunts, which were so very numerous, but it
provided the need for a lot of radio work so I did find some
satisfaction in them, miserable though the conditions were.
Living conditions in camp, though far from comfortable, were
luxurious compared to life in the field. First, there was the
inferno generated by the merciless sun to contend with. It was
life without shade for we traveled under combat conditions that
meant all canvas down and, on the halftrack, the armor down over
the windshield and the flaps up on the doors. After a few hours
under the broiling sun, the armor plate became too hot to touch
without pain. We lost several tanks when they caught fire after
the gasoline boiled in their tanks. The uniform was always O.D.
colored coverall and, by order of General Patton, all buttons
would be buttoned, including the top one and no sleeves would
be rolled up, the object being, I guess, to inflict as much punishment
as possible upon the men. After eight or ten hours of this unrelenting
heat, one's thinking became fuzzy, mirages appeared on the horizon
and the warm water in the canteen no longer slaked a raging thirst.
Only the promise of sunset sustained us through the tortuous
day.
The dust was another annoying factor. The great, towering clouds
of it generated by 400 tanks and several thousand other vehicles
churning up the sand could be seen for many miles and took on
a perverse form of beauty as it was carved by the desert wind.
There was no escape from it. We were issued goggles but nothing
to protect our lungs. We had to devise our own protection, if
we wanted any, usually a damped handkerchief tied over the nose,
but there was no real defense against it. It penetrated and infiltrated
everywhere - hair, mouth, clothing, all vehicle equipment, the
musset bags in which we carried spare clothing and shaving equipment,
my radios, and all weapons. IT WAS EVERYWHERE! The Battery Commander's
halftrack normally led the column of Service Battery vehicles
so its occupants were spared the curse of having to eat another
vehicle's dust but those vehicles following us had to leave long
intervals between them to avoid rear-end collisions.
Water was a constant concern. In the field, it was rationed.
I can't recall the exact amount we were allowed but I think it
was a gallon per day per man. This had to do us for all purposes
- drinking, personal hygiene, any cooking we might do and for
the vehicle. If the radiator boiled over, any water necessary
to refill it came from our rations. To supplement the water,
we were issued large cans of grapefruit juice. Several times
I chose to shave in grapefruit juice to preserve my precious
water. Most of us had discovered and purchased an ingenious invention
called a desert water bag. It was simply a bag made of burlap
material with a valve at the bottom to drink from. The bag held
about two quarts of water that soaked through the burlap in tiny
amounts sufficient to keep the outside of the bag damp. The evaporation
of the water from the outer surface of the bag kept the water
in the bag surprisingly cool. The evaporation loss deterred most
of us from utilizing them in the field but, in base camp, where
water was not rationed, they hung everywhere in the men's tents.
Taking a drink of water out of a desert water bag became known
as "a short snort of desert ale". (As an aside, and
to illustrate the versatility of the bags, men on guard duty
were allowed to carry them with them - a concession to the high
temperatures. When I drew guard duty, I filled mine up with beer
if the so-called "PX tent" had any for sale, which
wasn't often. The Officer of the Day never caught on, although
I regretted the loss of some of the beer through evaporation.)
As for food in the field, when the entire Division was engaged,
our kitchen truck accompanied us and we ate the same rations
we ate in camp, but, when out on a CPX with few men involved,
we were on our own. I can't seem to recall being issued any field
rations; perhaps the Army hadn't developed any at that time;
what I do recall, vividly, is sardines, dozens - no, hundreds
- of cans of sardines, more than we could possibly eat, even
if we liked them. We called them "Desert Trout". When
all available storage area in the halftrack was full of cans
of sardines, we buried the rest. If those fish could take root
and grow, the California desert would be a forest of sardine
trees today.
Another food item issued, though never in numbers comparable
to the sardines, was canned turkey. It was packed in flat, oval
shaped cans and it was delicious. Upon our departure from the
desert, I put a can of it in my duffel bag and vowed to eat it
the day the war was over. And I did!
A third item that was especially welcome in the diet was gallon
cans of peaches in heavy, sweet syrup. Ah, they were tasty at
the end of a hot, dusty day. And therein lies a tale:
By the time of this incident, the BC's halftrack crew had begun
to solidify. Three of the five men who would take the vehicle
into combat were aboard. Goza had selected as his driver a man
from one of the Ammo Sections. Clarence DeHaven was about as
fine a representative of what is good about the human race as
one could expect to encounter. A farm boy from Indiana, he was
a lean 175 pounds, big through the chest and broad of shoulder.
His nose was too long and his front teeth too big but he had
a killer smile and an outgoing personality that made him a winner.
He had that earthiness about him that those who till the soil
for a living always seem to have. To him, patriotism was a sacred
covenant; friendship was forever; loyalty to one's self, friends
and country was a given. DeHaven was the kind of guy you wanted
beside you in a fight, certain he would stay the course with
resolute courage. We were to become very fast friends. I never
had a more valued one. His name will be mentioned often in this
narrative.
The third member was our .50 caliber machine-gunner, Maximillian
Davila, known throughout the Battalion as Pancho. He was a Puerto
Rican kid from New York City. Pancho was about two years younger
than I but he was very immature for his age. A fun loving fella,
he spoke with a decided Spanish accent. He would later prove
to be the fastest man in a foot race in the Battalion. It was
hard to dislike Pancho because of his exuberant personality,
but his childish antics could be irritating.
Prior to the CPX being discussed, the entire Division had been
struck with an epidemic of yellow jaundice (isn't it called hepatitis
now?). The skin turned yellow, the eyeballs turned yellow, the
victim felt lethargic, not well. The only treatment, apparently,
was rest. Patients were sent to a hotel-hospital on the beach
in Santa Monica, lavished with good food, clean sheets and entertained
by Hollywood starlets. Every GI's dream! I wanted desperately
to get the disease; I even stopped drinking beer in the hope
it would happen, to no avail, but DeHaven got it and was evacuated.
The casualties were so heavy that, for this particular CPX, our
new First Sergeant, Albert Tennis, was driving the halftrack.
Only he, Pancho and I were in the halftrack, with Goza out front
in his peep.
It was an ironclad rule in the Division that, when a vehicle
stopped for the night, the driver would immediately perform "first
echelon" maintenance on the vehicle, including, among other
things, greasing it thoroughly. This was a belittling exercise
for a First Sergeant, but he dutifully started working on it
while Pancho and I opened up cans of food for a meal. Pancho
opened a large can of peaches and took a long swig of the syrup
just as Tennis was getting under the track with a grease gun
in his hands. "Save me some of those peaches, hear?"
he told us. Yeah, sure. I had some radio traffic to deal with
which occupied me for some time. Presently, Tennis came out from
under the track, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. He was tired
and hot. "Where are those peaches?" he asked. I glanced
around and spotted the can sitting on the hood of the vehicle.
I pointed. "Hell, the peaches are all gone but there is
some juice left," he said with irritation. He lifted the
can and took a drink that he instantly spit out in a great burst
of spray and the yell of a banshee. "Pancho! Where is that
black s.o.b?! I'll cut his heart out!” With that, Pancho
took off running across the desert with Tennis in hot pursuit.
Only his swiftness afoot saved him, for Tennis surely would have,
at least, maimed him for life.
It seemed that Pancho, childlike, had eaten all the peaches in
the can. Bad boy. But, he compounded his mistake by urinating
in the can and then setting it on the hood of the track! With
a hundred thousand square miles of desert to urinate in, he used
the can as a urinal! Pancho spent the night alone in the dark,
wisely afraid to face Tennis's wrath, should he come back to
the track. Periodically, he would call to me, "Is he asleep
yet?" Even after Tennis had zonked out, I always said "No".
Let him stay out there and contemplate the error of his ways.
He came in after daylight but only when he was sure the Battery
Commander was present. Pancho escaped physical harm but Tennis
put him on every dirty detail that came along for weeks after.
My personal encounter with George Patton, mentioned earlier,
occurred on another CPX shortly after the one just related. Again,
because of the inroads jaundice had made on our personnel, we
had a new driver, one Benny Ollinger, a Jewish boy from New York
City, who was an accomplished driver but was perpetually in disfavor
with most officers and some of the higher ranked enlisted men
because of his undisguised dislike of authority. He saluted officers
only when forced to; he questioned every order from a sergeant.
He stayed with the Battery until the end of the war because he
was tough and he could drive anything but he never advanced beyond
the rank of private, which satisfied Benny.
Benny and I were the only crewmen on this particular exercise.
Goza rode in his peep with his driver and peep machine-gunner.
He had ordered Benny to stop and stay in position while he went
ahead in his peep for whatever reason he had. Radio traffic was
heavy as we sat in the sun being thoroughly broiled. Benny, I
think, was sleeping. My seat in the halftrack was directly behind
the driver's seat on the longitudinal bench on that side, putting
my back to the armored side of the track. Busy with the radio,
I heard a vehicle drive up close to us and stop. I assumed it
was Lt. Goza returning. Then somebody pounded on the driver's
door. I heard Benny slide up the plate that covered the porthole
in his door. Then a squeaky voice said, “Soldier, what's
the tactical situation at the moment?" Can't be Goza, must
be some 90-day wonder right out of OCS showing his authority
by asking stupid questions. After a pause, Benny said "S-------,
I don't know". The squeaky voice said, "You wear the
uniform of the Unites States Army. It's your duty to know."
No reply from Benny. Then, "Where is your commanding officer?"
"He's out there in the sagebrush somewhere," replied
Benny. I could hear the sounds of heavy breathing from our visitor,
then, "Do you know who I am?" Benny: "I don't
know your name but I know you have two stars," It took me
a second to digest that information. Good Lord! It must be the
Division commander. I turned in my seat and rose up enough to
see over the side of the track. It wasn't the Division commander;
worse, it was Patton in all his glory - pearl-handled revolvers,
lacquered helmet, riding breeches, leather puttees, and, at the
moment, purple face. He was so furious he couldn't talk. He stammered
a few sounds, spittle flying out of his mouth. I truly expected
him to draw a revolver, aim it through the porthole in the door
and shoot Benny on the spot. But, looking totally frustrated,
he spun on his heel, strode back to his command car and drove
off in a cloud of dust. Benny hadn't even said "Sir"
to a Major General.
I told Benny both of us would spend the rest of our lives in
Leavenworth if Patton found Goza. "He'll never find him
out there," was Benny's thought. "But he must have
noted the unit number on the bumper, he can track us down with
that," was my thought. Benny was right; we never heard a
word about it.
Returning to camp after a few days in the field was always a
blessed event. Cold showers, clean clothes, hot food, cots to
sleep on. A relative heaven. After returning from one particularly
hot, dusty and strenuous 10-day maneuver, the Battalion Commander,
Lt. Col. Moore, announced that there would be free beer at the
PX tent after evening chow. Buehler and I joined my friend from
radio school, Bill Gosset, at the end of a long line of would-be
imbibers, canteen cups in hand. After a long wait, we obtained
our cup of beer and promptly returned to the end of the line
for a refill. We had nearly reached the head of the line when
it was announced there was no more beer. An uproar ensued. We
could see a keg of beer resting enticingly on a bed of ice at
the bottom of a three-foot-deep pit back of the counter. "That
is for the officers," we were told. The protests were loud
and long but the end result was obvious. Exasperated, Gosset
said to Buehler and me, "Keep his attention," meaning
the sergeant who had been drawing the beer. He jumped down into
the pit, picked up the 31-gallon keg of beer and heaved it out
the back of the tent. Following it up, he began rolling it across
the sand as fast as possible to get it away from the crowded
tent. We joined him, as did others who had witnessed the "rescue".
Suddenly, we were challenged by a guard: "Who goes there?"
"The 54th and a keg of beer!" "Pass". We
were on our way again. I can't truthfully say how far we rolled
that keg but I suppose it was 500 yards or so, collecting quite
a crowd en route. We knocked the bung out and enjoyed a shower
of foam from the well -shook-up beer. The party was progressing
nicely when a pair of headlights suddenly illuminated the scene.
It was a peep full of MPs. GIs scattered in all directions but
Gosset and I were caught, along with about a dozen others. Buehler
escaped. Our names and units were taken by the MPs, the keg and
remaining beer was confiscated and we were turned loose.
The next morning, at reveille, I was ordered to report to the
Battalion Commander at 0830. I joined the other miscreants at
the appointed time outside his tent. When my turn came, I stood
before him, saluted and said, "T4 Baker, Service Battery,
Sir, reporting as ordered." He pounded a hand down on his
desk and yelled, "I knew there would be somebody from Service
Battery in on this! I walked down your Battery street the other
day and I saw one fella trying to throw another fella over a
tent. What is it with you people? Must be you don't have enough
to do; you shouldn't have that much energy left over." Then,
more quietly, "I wish my other batteries had as much spirit."
Col. Moore had a great sense of humor and I think he secretly
admired the caper we had pulled. But he knew we had to be punished
as an example to the rest of the Battalion. I can honestly say
I don't recall what the punishment handed out was, so it must
have been minimal.
This was only one of many adventures I would share with Bill
Gosset. Just knowing this man was an adventure in itself. He
was an enormously powerful man who had worked as a roughneck
in the Texas oil fields. I recall an incident in Leesville, Louisiana,
which involved a taxi driver. There was a dispute about the fare
and the driver pushed me in the chest. Gosset grabbed him by
the front of his shirt with one hand and lifted him off the ground.
"Don't push my little buddy," he said. He was a congenial,
fun-loving guy and generous to a fault. He lived for today and
believed in living it to the fullest. He loved eating, drinking,
gambling and women, in no particular order. His favorite, and
most astonishing, stunt was to walk into a barroom and bet he
could drink two bottles of beer at one time without touching
the bottles with his hands. He would bet any amount the bar patrons
would go for. He would ask the bartender to uncap two bottles
and set them on the bar so the bottles were touching. Then, with
his hands clasped behind his back, he would get his mouth over
the necks of the two bottles, grip them in his teeth, tilt them
up and swallow all the beer in the bottles! Amazing! Just lifting
two full bottles with the teeth is difficult enough. Drinking
24 ounces of beer without pausing for breath is impossible for
most mortals but I saw Gosset do it several times. He never lost
the bet on those occasions.
He was easily bored. We were sitting in a booth in Leesville
bar filled with soldiers on another occasion. Suddenly he said
"It's too quiet in here," and he stuck out his leg
and tripped a soldier going past the booth. Started a hell of
a fight.
At one point, Buehler, Gosset and I received 3-day passes and
we hitchhiked to Los Angeles, a truly great town for service
men. The three of us were cruising down the sidewalk, looking
for excitement with no immediate prospects, when we approached
an intersection. Traffic going our direction was stopped for
a red light. In the line of cars was a Ford Model "T "touring
car, about a 1923, top down and with two spare tires in the back
seat. Gosset thought that was just what we needed to properly
see L.A. "Want to sell it?" he hollered at the driver.
The light turned green. "See you on the other side of the
intersection," he answered. We bought the thing! I don't
recall the price but it couldn't have been much for we didn't
have much. Money was the only thing that changed hands - no title,
no bill of sale, nothing.
What a great weekend we had! We drove all over LA, Santa Monica,
and Hollywood. The old car was quite an attention-getter and
it ran great. At one point, we were stopped by a motorcycle cop.
There was some discussion about the spare tires (national tire
rationing was in force), and the windshield frame was without
glass. He gave us no ticket, but his advice to us was: “Park
it." Later, a police car tried to pull us over for some
offense but Gosset drove the thing down a convenient railroad
track. The cop didn't follow.
We had thoroughly expected the old car would quit on us long
before we had to return to the desert, but to our pleasant surprise
it ran beautifully so we decided to take it as far as it would
go into the desert. At Indio, we stopped to gas up. In reply
to the attendant’s question, we told him we were headed
for Camp Young. He was astonished. "If you are crazy enough
to try to drive that thing out there, I'm crazy enough to give
you the gas," and he did. Pulling up the long grade to the
high desert, the wooden floorboards over the exhaust manifold
caught fire. We threw them overboard. Gosset lighted his cigarettes
on the cherry red manifold. We had a flat tire on the rear and
discovered we had no jack so Gosset picked up the rear end while
we changed tires. Our faithful old steed took us all the way
to camp, where we arrived after midnight.
In view of all the punishment the old Ford had absorbed and kept
on running, we thought it must be indestructible but the desert
sun proved it's undoing. One after another, all the tires blew
out just sitting in the Battery parking area. That didn't deter
us, however. We drove it, without tires, across the desert to
the shower point, sand flying madly from the wheels. It was a
beautiful machine, destined to meet a cruel fate, which will
be detailed later.
On another occasional, Buehler and I tried to hitch hike to LA
on a weekend pass, but the Division had just been paid and there
were more soldiers on the road trying to get to LA than the sparse
traffic could accommodate. Noting that no one was trying to hitchhike
east, we crossed the road and quickly caught a ride as far as
Blythe, California. Our earlier observation that no soldiers
were traveling east proved faulty. Blythe was full of soldiers,
all of whom had arrived before us and had almost literally bought
out everything in town. There was no ice cream, no magazines
or newspapers. Soft drinks were hard to find and only one bar
in town had beer left and it was so jammed with GI's it was almost
impossible to get inside. Frustrated, we wandered down a quiet
side street where we found a service station that had a cooler
full of soft drinks. While sipping, we chatted with the attendant,
asking him who owned the classy-looking, red, 1930 Ford roadster
parked behind the station. He did. We began negotiations and
bought the car for $60, nearly all the money we had. Again, no
papers changed hands. He handed us the keys and we drove off.
We momentarily contemplated driving to Phoenix but, with both
money and time critically short, we decided against it and returned
to camp. The little car provided us fine transportation for the
duration of our California stay and, Buehler being in the Gas
Section, we always had a full tank when we left camp. And its
fate would be kinder than that of the other member of our fleet.
Sometime in August, I believe, Buehler took over the Gas Section
and was promoted to sergeant. The original sergeant, Eldon Sharp,
had applied for Officer Candidate School and been accepted. Buehler
got his job and Sharp was shipped off to Ft. Knox. At some point
in his schooling, he heard the 3rd Armored Division was being
shipped overseas and he went over the hill and returned to the
Battery. He was busted back to a Private and rejoined the Gas
Section where he worked faithfully under Buehler's command.
Two more memories of our desert sojourn occur to me: Part of
our training required every man and officer to complete a course
wherein he fired a .30 caliber machine-gun from a moving halftrack
at pop-up targets on the course. After all members of Headquarter
Section had qualified on the course, Goza assigned DeHaven and
me as driver and machine-gun instructor in his halftrack to qualify
the rest of the men and officers in the Battery. Every day, 5
days a week, for almost the entire month of July (except when
we were out on a CPX, of course) the two of us spent 7 or 8 hours
a day in the infernal heat, running the same course with a machine-gun
hammering in our ears. To say we knew every rut, bump and curve
on the course is a gross understatement.
We were honored one day to have two brand new Second Lieutenants,
fresh out of OCS and just assigned to Service Battery, show up
at the course. Neither DeHaven nor I had ever seen them before.
One of them mounted up in the track and, as I had been doing
for weeks previously, I began my instructions about the handling
of the machine-gun and the safety precautions when firing live
ammunition. Before I could finish, he interrupted: "Soldier,
I am an officer of the United States Army. I don't need your
instructions on how to operate a .30 caliber machine-gun. Now,
let's go." DeHaven looked up at me and winked. I knew what
was coming. He gunned the halftrack with all the speed she could
muster; he hit every bump, every rut and took every curve at
30 miles an hour. The Lieutenant hung on for dear life, yelling,
"Stop! Stop!" "Can't, Sir,” Dehaven replied.
We finished the course; the lieutenant never got off a shot.
I informed him he had failed to qualify and he had two choices:
he could attempt another run now or wait for another day. He
was furious, knowing full well he had been had. He demanded our
names and stated he would report our disrespect to the Battery
Commander. Which I am sure he did but we never heard a word from
Goza.
The other officer observed all of this and tried hard to cover
a smile. At his turn, he listened politely to my instructions,
we ran the course at the usual pace and he qualified easily.
General Patton demonstrated his arrogance and distain for the
common soldiers under his command late in our desert stay, probably
early September. He ordered that a "shoot-off " be
held between the three artillery battalions in the Division -
the 54th, 67th and 391st. The details escape me but I distinctly
recall that every man in every battalion was to attend, not just
the gun crews and firing officers, but everybody. We arrived
at the appointed place prior to the appointed time, stood in
formation in the sizzling sun for about 45 minutes before "God"
Patton deigned to put in an appearance. Did he stand in the sun
with the rest of us to observe the contest? Of course not! He
mounted a platform with generous shade provided by a canvas tarp
and played the part of the King surveying his domain and his
serfs. We were allowed to be seated in the sand, still in ranks,
but without shade or water for more than 2 hours in the merciless
heat. Dozens of men in the assembled throng passed out. Uncharacteristically,
Patton allowed the Medics to take the stricken men to the First
Aid tent that had been set up for just such an eventuality. The
man was a glory-grabbing, pretentious brute.
We had no way of knowing it, of course, but we were being trained
and conditioned to participate in a planned invasion of North
Africa by American forces, set for November of that year, 1942,
an invasion in which Patton was to be a major player. He desperately
wanted the 3rd Armored Division under his command in combat,
we later learned, but circumstances prevented it. Later, with
all the shifting scenarios in the European campaigns, he attempted
several times to have our Division placed under his command but
never succeeded. How blessedly fortunate for the men of the 3rd!
In mid-August, command of the Division changed hands; Brigadier
General LeRoy Watson took over. Those of us in the ranks knew
nothing of the man, but he would lead us into combat in Europe,
although not very far.
In late September, the entire Division took to the field for
an exhausting two weeks of dust, sun, snakes and heat. We criss-crossed
several times the vast expanse of desert between Desert Center
and Needles, putting hundreds of miles under our tracks. (Nearly
50 years later, while visiting in Southern California. I read
with amusement - and some consternation - that a California National
Guard tank unit would try something never before accomplished:
they would attempt to cross 60 [that’s 60!] miles of desert
in their tanks!! And their tanks were air-conditioned!! Spare
me!!)
Immediately after completion of the maneuvers, rumors began to
circulate. The 6th Armored Division was on its way to the Desert
Training Center and the 3rd would utilize their trains to ship
east. This time, the rumors were true. Our destination was to
be Camp Pickett, Virginia. Never heard of it. OK, but the interesting
part was that "delay en route" furloughs were available.
Such furloughs were offered only when a unit was moving from
one post to another. By accepting, the soldier became responsible
for transporting himself between the old and new posts, was given
part (or was it all?) of the money the government would have
spent on his transportation had he accompanied his unit and a
furlough of stated duration plus a given number of travel days.
Buehler and I applied immediately and were granted leave time
- two weeks, I believe, plus five or six days of travel time.
We intended to hitchhike home to Michigan, but were fortunate
enough to make better connections. Kenny Kretchman, in Service
Battery, was from our area of Michigan. He was married and his
wife had followed him to the desert in their 1939 Pontiac. We
agreed to share car expenses for the coast-to-coast trip. We
recruited one more member, Carl Peapenberg, a guy from Wisconsin
who would go as far as Chicago with us.
But Buehler and I found we had one more detail to perform. The
B.C. called us before him and gave us an order to get rid of
"those --------- cars in the parking area" before we
left. The Ford roadster was no problem. We sold it to a soldier
in the 1st Cavalry. But the Model T was unmarketable - no tires.
Then Buehler had a brilliant thought: maybe one of our tank regiments
would like to have it for cannon practice. It would be more than
a month before the Division loaded up for departure. Our inquiries
met with quick success. We drove it to the tank company, gave
it an affectionate pat on the fender and handed over the keys.
As so many of us would do, Old Lizzy gave her life for her country.
As the sun we had learned to accommodate, after a fashion, sank
over the western horizon in another of those glorious displays
of color on our last duty day, we bade farewell to the stern
desert we had never beaten but grudgingly admired and admitted
was as fine an environment for training as an armored man could
ever have, mounted our civilian steed and turned east.
CHAPTER 6
DODGING THE BULLET
A transcontinental automobile trip in 1942 was an adventure,
not one that everyone had experienced. Detroit's products were,
for the most part, up to the task if properly maintained and
driven, but were primitive in creature comforts when compared
to present day cars. The only concession to boredom was a radio
- no air conditioning or stereo tape players, no ergonomically
engineered seats, just basic transportation. Since all those
things hadn't been invented, we didn't know what we were missing.
We were blissfully, happily on our way to homes 2000 miles distant.
In addition to the mechanical risks, there were other hazards
to contend with. A national 35-mile-per-hour speed limit was
in effect and tires were rationed. Kretchman had several retreaded
tires on his car that would cause us some grief. The retreading
process had flaws and motorists used retreaded tires only when
they couldn't get new ones. Because our journey east required
that we cross over the Rocky Mountains, the stress applied to
the retreads by the sharp, downhill curves proved their undoing,
loosening the treads that eventually came off entirely. Twice
in our trip, we had to stop and have the treads vulcanized back
on. The speed limit was no hindrance in the wide-open spaces
of the deserts of Arizona, New Mexico and western Oklahoma. We
rolled on at 55 to 60 miles an hour but, in the more populated
areas, we adhered more closely to the law.
We picked up U.S. Route 66 at Needles, California, and followed
it all the way to Chicago. There were no transcontinental Interstate
highways then. Every hamlet and village, every town and city,
with the attendant traffic lights and speed limits, had to be
contended with. Nevertheless, we were satisfied we had made good
progress the first night, until, just before dawn in Arizona,
we stopped for breakfast at a tiny, isolated restaurant and gas
station and found, sitting at the counter, two of our friends
from Service Battery! They were hitchhiking home to Wisconsin
and had beaten us to the spot.
The only mechanical problem we encountered was having a tie rod
end replaced in Oklahoma City, a delay that cost us half a day.
In Chicago, we dropped off Peapenberg and proceeded on to Kretchman's
home in Benton Harbor. How Buehler and I each got home from there,
I do not recall, nor do I remember the plan for reuniting, when
our furlough time was up, for the remainder of our trip to Virginia.
But, too soon, we were driving east again, en route to our new
military home. The only incident I recall occurred when Buehler
took the wheel during the hours of darkness one night. We carefully
indicated our intended route on the map for his edification for
he was a notoriously poor map-reader. To no avail we awoke at
6 AM in the little town of Bluefield, West Virginia, which was
not on the route we intended to follow. Buehler had gotten lost
and we needed gas. No stations were open so we found a restaurant
for breakfast. Bluefield was a coal-mining town and the people
were very friendly. Many had ground-in coal dust in the pores
of their skin. At the gas station, we were informed we had to
have gas ration coupons to purchase gas. We spent another hour
or two waiting for the Ration Board to open for business, at
which time we were given enough coupons to buy the gas we needed
to take us to Camp Pickett. I relate this incident only because
it affected the life of one of our real good friends in the Battery.
Several months later, seeking a town to go to that wouldn't be
full of soldiers, we thought of Bluefield. With two friends,
Henry Meier and Casey Baarendse, both Wisconsin fella's, we took
the train there, where we met four girls. We returned to Bluefield
whenever we could get off. Baarendse would return there from
the service and marry his girl.
Camp Pickett was my least favorite garrison. It was dark, dank,
rainy and cold, conditions these desert soldiers hadn't seen
in many months. I shivered the whole time there. The camp was
just outside the town of Blackstone, which had little to offer
to men in uniform. Buehler and I made a trip to Richmond, which
was OK, but it wasn't LA. We liked Bluefield better.
The obvious inadequacies of Camp Pickett as a training facility
for an armored division - the area was heavily populated, inferior
firing ranges, mountainous terrain which rendered division-sized
maneuvers almost impossible - led the men in the ranks to the
conclusion we were in a staging area for overseas shipment, a
logical thought in view of the tough physical condition and keen
fighting edge we had acquired in a summer in the Mojave. I thought
then that any additional training we might endure would add little
to our fighting ability. In retrospect, I was only partially
right. Our stay in Pickett turned out to be beneficial in one
large aspect: the firing batteries received new guns, self-propelled
105mm guns mounted on tank chassis, beautifully designed and
manufactured weapons which performed superbly in combat, a far
cry from the disastrous halftrack units.
The camp's shortcomings did not eliminate the universally hated
road marches. Several times a week, those of us who had no assigned
job that required our daily presence, marched up and down the
mountain roads, exercises in total boredom. And the CPX's continued
with regularity, affording Hq. Section with some relief from
the depressing tedium of days on the post. We were subjected
to numerous "full field inspections", in which we laid
out for inspection every item of clothing or equipment issued
to each individual by the Army. Each item was checked against
a list to ascertain if each man had a complete inventory. Any
shortages were remedied with new issue; any overage was confiscated,
a lesson we learned well and overages at inspection time became
non-existent from that point. The frequency and thoroughness
of these inspections indicated to us that we were, indeed, being
prepared for overseas movement. But where? In October, 1942,
American forces were engaged only in the South Pacific in terrain
totally unsuited for armored warfare. With our desert training,
were we headed for North Africa to assist the British? Not impossible
but not likely.
On November 8,1942, came the news that American forces had invaded
the northwest coast of North Africa, some 1200 miles west of
British troops fighting in Egypt. I reasoned that, although we
had not been utilized in the invasion operation, we were destined
to be in the vanguard of reinforcements to the theater of action.
Staging activities continued unabated at Pickett but, still,
we did not move out. After several long weeks of anticipation
and uncertainty, the staging activities ceased; the unofficial
word was that we were no longer scheduled for overseas movement.
We learned that General Patton was in North Africa and, rumor
had it, he had wanted the 3rd Armored Division as part of his
invasion force. Denied that, he had asked for the 54th Armored
Field Artillery Battalion only, also denied. I credited our commanding
general, Watson, with preventing our division from being fed
into the North African meat grinder. Over forty years later I
learned I had given him much too much credit. We missed the action
solely because of a lack of shipping. German submarines were
exacting a terrible toll on Allied shipping in the Atlantic at
the time; by the time shipping was available, the presence of
another armored division there was unnecessary.
It was during that period of uncertainty after the announcement
of the invasion that I took an action that was foolish in the
extreme. Sure that we would soon be on the high seas bound for
combat, I went over the hill. I wanted to see my family once
more before we left. Immediately after duty hours one afternoon,
I took off hitchhiking. I don't recall how far I had traveled
but, sometime during the night, I realized I had made a foolish
mistake. I headed back to camp and arrived about 30 minutes after
reveille. I had been noted as AWOL. Ordered to report to Lt.
Goza, I was a miserable specimen of humanity as I dragged myself
before him and saluted. Goza was an officer I greatly admired
and respected, who had treated me with equal respect and fairness.
I had failed to justify his respect and kindness. He asked why
I had missed reveille; I told him the truth. His disappointment
in me was obvious. I was given a choice of a courts martial or
reduction in rank. I took the reduction in rank. I was a T-5
again, a rank I would carry for the duration of my military service.
Liberation from the depressing confines of Camp Pickett came
in mid-January, 1943, with the movement of the entire division
to Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania.
CHAPTER 7
HAPPY DAYS
If it is possible for a devout civilian to enjoy a stay at
any military post, Indiantown Gap was that post. My recollections
of the move are vague but I'm sure we didn't drive; we went by
train and I'm reasonably sure we left most of our vehicles behind.
But the memory of the sharp, biting cold and the snow on the
ground - almost welcome after the bleakness and dampness of Virginia
- is distinct. Indiantown Gap Military Reservation was a former
Pennsylvania National Guard post, beautifully laid out amid the
gently rolling hills of eastern Pennsylvania, about 30 miles
northeast of Harrisburg. Even covered with a blanket of snow
it was a pretty sight. The barracks were clean and well maintained.
We quickly settled into the garrison, which was to be our home
for the next 8 months.
The contrasts between "The Gap" and the other posts
we had occupied were many and distinct. While it wasn't as new
as Polk or as vast in training area as the desert, it was a huge
reservation with fine firing ranges for all weapons. The climate,
for a Yankee, was more agreeable than any we had encountered
previously. And destinations for weekend passes were unlimited
and near by. All the fella's from the northeast region were ecstatic
- because home was only a weekend pass away!
It soon became evident the Army hadn't moved us here to enjoy
the scenery and weekend passes. A training regimen was imposed
designed to remove the rust acquired in Pickett from our fighting
edge. Road marches, happily missing in California (mile runs
with back pack before breakfast were substituted, a fact I failed
to relate earlier) were emphasized. Lt. Goza, in fact, posted
a chart in the orderly room showing the mileage each soldier
in the Battery had accumulated. Had a prize been offered, Hq.
Section would have won it easily. No other Section came close.
Orders came down from the War Department that every man in every
combat unit would complete a 25-mile hike before going overseas.
On a bitter cold day in late February, the entire 54th F A Bn.,
including cooks and clerks, hit the road carrying full field
equipment, including his weapon. I was extremely lucky in this
regard: my personal weapon was a Colt .45 automatic pistol, weighing
about 2 pounds. Pancho also carried the same; DeHaven lugged
his rifle, but Irving Klein, the Battery Clerk, a small Jewish
kid from New York City also in Hq. Section, carried a Thompson
submachine-gun, a 10-pound dead weight.
An ambulance trailed the column, picking up the dropouts. At
chow time, our kitchen truck appeared and we enjoyed a hot meal
and lots of coffee. Lt. Goza froze his upper lip but refused
medical attention; he kept on trucking. By the time we reached
the 20-mile mark, the column was noticeably thinner and shorter.
Many of those who had avoided the hikes all these months because
they had "a regular job" couldn't go on but Pancho,
DeHaven and Baker trudged on, exalting in the knowledge that
all the past drudgery in the Louisiana swamps and the Virginia
hills would see us to the finish line. Klein, though, who had
avoided most of the hiking, was in distress. I took the Thompson
from him and we all encouraged him to keep up with us to avoid
having to repeat the hike at a later date, the fate of all those
who dropped out. He finished the course but DeHaven and I had
to support him, literally, the last mile.
It was a grueling physical ordeal, performed, theoretically,
at the military pace of 4 miles per hour with a 10-minute break
every hour, but the pace fell off somewhat after about 15 miles.
It truly made an Army cot inviting at the end of that day. Two
of the men, after a shower and chow, took off for a dance at
the Post Recreation Center! Show offs! The purpose of the entire
exercise was to demonstrate the degree of physical stamina in
the outfit, I guess, but the ability to complete long road marches
surely was unimportant - we in the Artillery and never had to
walk a foot in combat
We ran infiltration courses in which we crawled through mud under
barbed wire while live machine-gun bullets were fired over our
heads, World War I style. Every man was to qualify on the small
arms range with his personal weapon and both the .30 caliber
and .50 caliber machine-guns. Despite the orders, I know several
men in the Battery failed to qualify. For a change, my lack of
a "regular job" afforded me some fun. I went out on
the range frequently and qualified on every weapon. My worst
effort was on the pistol range - my own personal weapon, but
that deficiency would be remedied before the summer was over.
My best score was with the Thompson submachine-gun. In fact,
I was rated the second best shot in the entire battalion. I narrowly
missed becoming the Battalion champion when I lost in a shoot-out
with a former St. Louis cop from "B" Battery.
An amusing incident happened on the range one day. A busload
of politicians, senators, I think, came up from Washington to
observe our training methods. After watching the firing for a
short time, they all wanted to fire the Tommy gun. Despite the
warning that the muzzle of the gun tended to climb quickly if
long bursts were fired, each one proceeded to rip off an entire
magazine of ammo in one burst with all rounds except the first
one or two whistling off into the sky. They loved it.
With the advent of warm weather, there were lifesaving instructions
at a lake on the post. Jump into the water with all equipment
on, including weapon, and swim, if you could. No problem for
me; I was a strong swimmer. Then there was chemical warfare training
in which we were subjected to a whiff of mustard gas and, with
gas masks in place, passed through a building filled with chlorine
gas. Later, I was selected for further training as Service Battery
Chemical Warfare NCO. A great honor!
Another dubious "honor" bestowed upon me was attending
Close Combat school with the intent that I would learn a dozen
or so ways to silently kill the enemy and, in turn, teach the
methods to the Battery. It didn't work that way. I attended with
the representatives from the other batteries - Bill Gosset was
"B" Battery's rep. The instructor was a master of the
art. Four or five of us would go after him at once; he put all
of us on our backs. In theory, a lightweight, like me, could
use an opponent’s superior weight and strength as weapons
against him but I never mastered the art. Larger men consistently
bested me. I finished the course but the Brass must have soured
on the whole idea for none of us were ever directed to pass on
our "expertise" to our units.
It was a busy time with some interesting highlights but, mostly
it was boring repetition. DeHaven and I found a simple way to
escape the boredom and experience some freedom off the post.
We went joy riding in the Battery Commander's halftrack! It began
when the Division Communications Officer concocted an exercise
to test the long distance capabilities of our radios. We had
communicated over long distances in the California desert over
pretty flat land; I guess the thought was to see how reliable
our radios were over distance in the hills of Pennsylvania. The
plan was to spread the radio vehicles out over a distance of
about 60 miles and set up a network. Only the driver, the operator
and his relief operator, if he was fortunate enough to have one,
were to participate - no officer, no NCO. What a deal! To drive
the halftrack out of the motor pool and off the post, we first
had to obtain a trip ticket, signed by the B.C. or the first
sergeant, which we then presented to the Motor Pool Sergeant.
First Sergeant Tennis, not too quick mentally, signed the ticket,
admitting he had never heard of a "radio distance check".
DeHaven and I thoroughly enjoyed our drive in the country but,
from the Division's standpoint, there must have been some problems
for the exercise was repeated several times over a period of
two weeks, each time requiring Tennis to sign a trip ticket for
the purpose of "radio distance check". When the Division
exercises ceased, it was a simple matter, if we became bored
or wanted to escape some onerous duty, to dupe Tennis into signing
a trip ticket for "radio distance check", fill the
track with gas and depart the military scene for pleasanter parts.
At first, we just took Pancho along but, as the adventures increased
in frequency, the word leaked out and others sneaked aboard.
We were flirting with disaster but we never were caught.
We visited all the towns in the vicinity - Lebanon, Reading,
Pottsville, others, mostly small towns. We stopped at many taverns
and slaked our thirst. One time, a cop came into the bar and
asked if we were driving "that thing" (an obvious choice
since we were the only soldiers in the place) parked on the street
in front of the door. He ordered us to get it off the street.
Another time, half drunk, we drove the halftrack onto a golf
course. The grounds keeper, roaring mad, came after us and ordered
us off his course. We gave him a bad time - there were five of
us - and he promised to call Division headquarters and report
us. As the lead culprit, if our duplicity was discovered, I was
concerned he would fulfill his threat but we heard nothing.
More needs to be said here about our first sergeant, Albert Tennis,
a man I had already come to despise - and I would have to tolerate
him for another two years. What unit he had served in before
he came to Service Battery, I do not know, but I'm sure it wasn't
in the 54th. He just showed up one day in the desert as our First
Sergeant. He was the type of individual I had come to associate
with a Regular Army man and I assumed he had been in the Army
some time and risen in rank, but research 40 years later revealed
Tennis had enlisted only a few months before I was drafted. So
how did he get to be First Sergeant so quickly? Certainly not
because of his smarts. He was from a small town in Texas and
gave every indication of having had limited schooling - 8th grade,
perhaps, no more. I considered his mental capacity to be below
average - he had great difficulty pronouncing names of more than
one syllable until he became familiar with them, his spelling
was atrocious, his penmanship nearly illegible although he could
type with some agility. What he lacked in mental acuity he more
than compensated for with cunning. He wielded his lofty authority
with glee, like a man who had never been shown, or earned, any
respect before the Army. Any sense of fairness was often, although
not always, lacking. He played favorites routinely, lavishing
privileges and favors upon them while those on his "list",
and I was one of them, could expect weekend duty regularly. At
one point, I had had weekend duty two consecutive weeks and learned
I was assigned duty for the third time. I stormed into the orderly
room and confronted Tennis in a loud and belligerent manner,
demanding a weekend pass. Not one to suffer challenges to his
authority lightly, the argument escalated rapidly, causing Lt.
Goza to stick his head out of his office door to ascertain the
cause of the disturbance. After Tennis recited his version of
the event, Goza said " Baker, in my office", before
I could defend myself. In his office, he lectured me on the inappropriateness
of questioning the First Sergeant's authority, and then calmly
wrote out a weekend pass for me, signing it himself. With a wink,
he said, " Try to stay out of his way".
Physically, Tennis was about average weight and height but I
never saw him challenge another man to a fight; he always hid
behind his stripes. I suspected he was a coward and my suspicions
proved correct at least once in combat. He was heartily disliked
by most of the men in the Battery. I have long puzzled over Tennis's
dislike for me and can only conclude it was because I was a radio
operator. He could drive any vehicle, he could cook, he understood
auto mechanics, he could disassemble and reassemble any weapon
with the best of them, and he could do anything any other enlisted
man could do. But he couldn't operate a radio. Morse Code mystified
him. He seemed awestruck that people could communicate through
dits and dahs, like it was some sort of magic. I was the only
C.W. operator in the Battery and, since I understood it and he
didn't, I must have a superior intellect, a situation that made
him uncomfortable. My conflict with Tennis would continue unabated
until we were committed to combat where it would suddenly vanish.
I believe the Battery Commander told Tennis I was untouchable,
that the B.C. alone would issue my orders. I was relieved to
be out from under Tennis's heel.
I must comment about the glaring inequities in the Army's treatment
of single and married soldiers. Married men were exempt from
any weekend duties. They were free to leave the post from Friday
evening until Monday morning, even if their wives were back home
in Wisconsin or Michigan or Illinois. Even if they stayed in
camp, they were free from duty. They were married! As our stay
in Indiantown Gap stretched on, more and more men married, thus
reducing the pool of single men available for weekend duty. This
grossly unfair rule prevailed even when we went overseas, when
no wives accompanied their husbands! And after the fighting was
over, marital status again was a factor in determining which
soldiers went home first. So unjust!
Interspersed in our training routine at Indiantown Gap were several
events that had profound effect on my future. In the spring of
1943, Juanita and a friend traveled from Louisville to Columbus,
Ohio, to meet me and spend a couple of days. It was here I gave
her an engagement ring. So good to see her.
Out of the blue, I was approached by Battalion Headquarters to
consider applying for Officers Candidate School. I was dumbfounded,
but I had no desire to become an officer. I liked what I was
doing.
The real shocker came shortly after I was ordered to report to
the Battalion Commander, Lt. Col. Moore. He informed me that,
with the Division preparing for movement overseas, the Battalion
was transferring out a few men who were too old to go along.
One of those men was my old mentor, Sgt. D'Amico, Battalion Communication.
Sgt. Moore stated that D'Amico had recommended me as his replacement!
It took a few moments for me to grasp what he was saying. They
wanted to make me a Tech. Sergeant! A totally unexpected honor!
Out of my amazed brain a question came: Would I have to transfer
to Headquarters Battery? Of course. Pausing only a few seconds,
my answer was "no". Shaking his head, Moore said, "Baker,
you are a damned fool. Now get out of here!” It was a dream
job but not so difficult to turn down. First, I would have to
leave all my friends in Service Battery, and second, I didn't
care for the fact that I would have to operate under the noses
of all the brass in Headquarters Battery - and there were many,
not all of them good officers, either.
Other incidents were less profound but fun. I received a furlough
and departed Harrisburg on the train but it traveled so painfully
slow, I got off soon and began hitchhiking. I made good progress
but, about 3 AM, I was stranded in a small town in northern Ohio
somewhere. Standing under a streetlight to advertise that I was
a military man in uniform, I thumbed the only approaching car
I had seen for some time. It stopped. It was the latest edition
of the Lincoln Zyphyr, a 12-cylinder beauty and behind the wheel
was an equally beautiful young woman. I was amazed a woman alone
would stop in the middle of the night to pick up a hitchhiker,
even a soldier. The first thing she said was " What happens
to a soldier in uniform if he is caught speeding?" (Remember,
there was a national 35 mph speed limit). "Nothing, usually",
I answered. "Your drive," she said, "I have to
be in Detroit by 8 AM ". We made it, no questions asked.
Never had I driven such a machine and it would be many years
before I would enjoy the privilege again.
Another fun time was the wedding of our Battery Commander, Bill
Goza, at the 54th F.A. chapel on the post. Without Goza's knowledge,
Poncho, DeHaven and I decorated the halftrack with colored chalk
and streamer, loaded the .30 caliber machine-gun with blank ammunition
and, when the newlyweds exited the chapel and passed under the
arched, crossed swords of his fellow officers, we hustled them
into the track and drove them around the Battery and Battalion
areas, blasting away with the blanks. Goza loved it but his bride
was less thrilled.
But it was in June, perhaps July, 1943, that the most striking
change occurred in Service Battery during our entire stay in
Pennsylvania: We had a change in Commanding Officers. I had known
for some time that Goza was unhappy, justifiably, I thought,
that he was the only Battery Commander in the 54th without Captain's
bars. I knew he had spoken to the Battalion Commander about it
at least twice, without success. Goza had taken over a bedraggled,
poorly led unit and, by sheer dint of boundless energy, courageous
leadership and discipline, transformed it into a capable, smoothly
functioning part of the 3rd Armored Division. He deserved promotion
to captain. But, totally unexpectedly by most of the men, at
reveille one morning, he announced he was transferring out to
the paratroops. He told us how much he had enjoyed serving with
us, wished us luck, saluted and walked away. It would be 41 years
later, when I met him at a Division reunion, that I would get
an explanation from him.
It seems that Goza and the Battalion Commander, Lt. Col. Moore,
were classmates in law school at the University of Florida. Goza
passed the final exam but, according to Goza, Moore flunked it.
Goza believed Moore resented him for that. When Goza pushed Moore
for a reason why he wasn't being promoted, Moore flatly told
him, "As long as you are under my command, you'll never
be anything but a First Lieutenant". With that, Goza asked
for a transfer. Told that transfers were available only to the
paratroops, he took it, but never served with them. He wound
up in the Adjutant Generals office in the 20th Armored Division
and never got overseas. And he was never promoted to Captain.
The man whose orders we would follow for the duration of the
war was Captain Ernest P. Robuck, like Goza, a native Floridian
and a graduate of the University of Florida, but there the similarities
ended. Robuck was older than Goza by 8 or 10 years; he was a
calm, deliberate, soft-spoken man as compared to Goza's excitability,
not given to high-flown rhetoric. Although he would arouse no
great feelings of like or dislike among most of the men, his
astute handling of any situation earned their respect. He rarely
dispensed praise; he expected every man under his command to
do a top job. He would prove to be a fine leader in combat with
absolutely unflappable courage under fire.
The Battery was fortunate to have Robuck lead us in combat but
I will always speculate how Goza's very different leadership
style might have affected our lives had he stayed with us. The
end results probably would have been unchanged for he was a very
competent leader and I feel certain he would have responded to
battle with great élan. Life might have been a little
more exciting under Goza - and a little more dangerous.
I immediately noticed that Robuck carried a custom-made .45-caliber
automatic pistol. Discreet inquiries elicited the information
that he had once been pistol-shooting champion of the Southeast
U.S. When time was available, he gave me some tips on using the
weapon more effectively, tips that improved my marksmanship significantly.
With his permission, I could get ammunition from the Battery
Armorer, oranges from the kitchen, go into the hills and blow
oranges out of trees. Great fun.
By mid-June, the signs that we were scheduled for overseas movement
soon were undeniable. "Shakedown inspections", in which
we displayed for inspection every item of clothing or equipment
we possessed, became frequent. Lists of items we would not be
permitted to take overseas were posted. Any civilian possessions
were to be sent home. Our training continued with emphasis on
physical conditioning - push-ups, sit-ups, a five-mile march
with full field equipment in 60 minutes, etc. Weapons training,
from our 105mm cannons to the M-1 rifle, intensified.
Still, we found time for recreation. Deciding we couldn't leave
the U.S. without seeing New York City, Buehler and I spent a
weekend there. We rode the elevators to the top of the Empire
State Building, then the tallest structure in the world, took
a boat ride around Manhattan Island, blew a months pay staying
one night at the Hotel Pennsylvania, where we visited the Rainbow
Room and danced to the music of a big band, the name of which,
oddly, I don't recall. We met two girls one of whom I escorted,
in the wee hours, by subway to her home in Flushing. It was my
first ride on the subway and I had difficulty finding my way
back.
I don't recall when, if ever, we were informed of the date and
destination of our next move but we were warned not to discuss
any camp activities with civilians. It was a secret, a secret
impossible to keep. By August 1, many wives, sweethearts, parents
and other relatives had descended on the post and its vicinity
to say farewell to their men in uniform.
By that time, virtually all field training had ceased (even radio
distance checks!) to concentrate on maintenance of vehicles and
other preparations for departure. All vehicles were checked for
mechanical soundness, cleaned, made to look sharp. We had not
been advised that our vehicles would go with us but, with all
the attention being lavished on them, it seemed obvious we would
be reunited with them overseas somewhere. Accordingly, we stuffed
their storage spaces with items were not permitted to openly
take with us. Knives, extra socks and other excess clothing (we
all had some, despite the shakedown inspections), any number
of items we thought might make us more comfortable in the field
or more efficient in combat - every man had his own ideas about
it. I resisted the temptation to stash in our halftrack the can
of turkey I had brought from the desert in anticipation of eating
the day the war was over. It went into my barracks bag.
We never saw those vehicles again; we were issued new ones at
our destination. I have long wondered about the surprise the
eventual recipients of our stuffed vehicles must have felt when
they discovered the wonders we had bestowed upon them!
Speculation as to our destination was rife in the Battalion and
Division but logic dictated Europe. We were on the East coast;
although some unattached tank battalions had been used in the
Pacific theatre, the terrain there was simple unsuited for armored
warfare, for which we were trained; and America's war priority
was on the European theatre. That's where we would go.
On August 26 and 27, 1943, the entire personnel, nearly 12,000
men, of the 3rd Armored Division were transported by train to
Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, a staging area for the port of New York
Kilmer was equipped to handle large masses of men headed out
of the United States. The mess halls were of enormous size. The
Division history says we spent 8 days at the post but my recollection
of the time spent are vague. I recall a continuation of the series
of "shots" we had been receiving for the past several
months; lectures on censorship, security and other subjects;
indoctrination films and several physical inspections. We were
given passes to the surrounding areas, including New York City,
which only whetted our appetites for more but, suddenly, all
the gates were slammed shut, outgoing phone calls were prohibited
and, for the first time, our outgoing mail was censored, a condition
we would endure for more than two years. We learned these restrictions
indicated we would ship out within 48 hours.
One of my operators, Joe Dominguez, lived in Bayonne, N.J., practically
outside the camp gates. Joe was a very personable young man,
what is now known as "street wise" and very resourceful.
He was determined to get home one more time. He spent hours reconnoitering
the camp. He came to me and said "Bake, I'm going home tonight.
Do you want to go with me?" He had found a section of fence
in a remote area of the camp that could be crawled under. After
bed check, we sneaked out of the barracks, under the fence and
into Bayonne. He didn't go home. He called a girl he knew, she
brought a friend and we partied long into the night. Our last
outing in the United States was a huge success. We returned to
our barracks undetected. Had we been caught, the consequences
might have been severe, but Joe said " What's the worst
thing they can do to us? Send us overseas?!"
On September 4, 1943, the Division boarded trains for transportation
to New York harbor. The docks were jammed with soldiers standing
in impossibly long lines. Each man carried everything he owned,
personal and government issued, in a bulging barracks bag and
carried his personal weapon - rifle, Tommy gun or pistol. On
each man's helmet was chalked a number. Movement toward the big
ship we could see moored alongside the long dock was painfully
slow but, eventually we could see a name on the stern: Capetown
Castle. She flew the British flag. At the foot of the gangplank,
when we finally reached it, a last name was called out, the man
answered with his first name and then struggled up the ramp with
his heavy load. On board, we were directed to a "berthing
area", where we would sleep during the voyage.
Service Battery's berthing area was deep in the bowels of the
ship, the third deck down. It was a large open area, displaying
hundreds of hammocks slung in two layers, one above the other
but offsetting, so that a man falling out of the upper hammock
probably would not fall on the man sleeping below. There was
no storage area for our barracks bags; we placed them wherever
we found room that made it very difficult to move about the area.
We learned there were about 5000 of us on board what must have
been, before the war, a very beautiful passenger ship. The rest
of the 3rd Armored Division was aboard two other ships, the John
Erickson and the Shawnee.
This was all an exciting adventure for most of us as we had never
been aboard so large a ship (she was about 800 feet long) or
crossed an ocean. In the ensuing days we would explore every
foot of the ship in the areas we were allowed to enter. One of
the first things we learned was that we would eat only two meals
a day because that was all the galley could produce for so large
a group. The information was greeted with much grumbling but
events would serve to lessen the disappointment: the food was
not very appetizing and seasickness would curb, or eliminate,
the appetite of a large percentage of the men.
We ate our evening meal while the ship was still tied up at the
dock and, from the deck, admired the brilliantly lit city skyline,
blissfully unaware these were the last outdoor lights we would
see for more than two years.
On the morning of September 5,1943, we felt an unfamiliar rumble
on the deck beneath our feet. The ship's engines had started!
Tugboats appeared, lines were cast off and, amid great blasts
from the ship's horn; she was nudged away from the dock and into
the river. Slowly, ponderously, she steamed down river toward
the open ocean. Every G.I. aboard lined the rails to witness
the magnificent sight of the great city sliding by, each of us
filled with unabashed excitement. Then, coming up on the port
side, we could see the great lady, that enduring symbol of American
freedom, the Stature of Liberty. Standing at the stern rail,
Otto Buehler and I, with thousands of other American soldiers,
kept our eyes pinned on Liberty as she slowly receded into the
gray haze on the horizon. The buzz of excitement had subsided
into a contemplative quiet as each man examined his innermost
thoughts. Upon those disappearing shores we were leaving everything
most precious in our young lives - family, friends, girlfriends
or wives, social and cultural attachments - the hopes and dreams
which, in the unquenchable enthusiasm of youth, we knew we would
attain. These we were forsaking for an uncertain destiny in a
foreign land, an unfair exchange we had no desire to make. My
own deepest thought was the certainty that, on those shores,
I was leaving my youth forever. Should I return, after even the
briefest exposure to combat, I would have surrendered every fragment
of my youth; inevitably, I would have reached manhood.
The somber mood of the men receded with about the same speed
as the New York skyline and the buzz of conversation again pervaded
the ship. There was much conjecture about our destination, still
unannounced, but logic easily produced an answer. We were crossing
the Atlantic so our destination must be Europe or Africa. No
American forces were engaged in Africa, so we must be en route
to Europe where our men were fighting only in Italy. But Italy
offered little terrain favorable to engagement by armored divisions;
therefore, we were on our way to England to await the invasion
of France. This was confirmed a few days later by the distribution
to the troops of booklets outlining the behavior expected of
American troops in Great Britain.
We quickly became accustomed to the daily routine aboard ship.
The two meals a day consumed hours of time in waiting (the morning
meal was invariably fried fish and tea!). Without fail, there
was a daily lifeboat drill. Life preservers were to be worn at
all times but it was impossible to sleep in a hammock with the
contraption on so, no one did. I used mine as a pillow. Personal
hygiene was to be rigorously followed - meaning we shaved every
day. Only salt water was available for shaves and showers, making
shaving a painful endeavor. Toilet facilities were inadequate
in number, necessitating long waits for shaving and showering.
Despite the time spent in lines and on lifeboat drills, we found
ourselves with many idle hours on our hands. The ship quickly
became a floating gambling casino. Card games and crap games
were 24-hour a day pastimes for those so inclined. Since neither
of us gambled, Otto and I explored the ship. But, as did most
of the GI's on board, we spent most of our leisure time on deck,
watching the ever-changing sea and observing the other ships
in our convoy.
In the fall of 1943, the winner of the Battle of the Atlantic
had not yet been determined. The great ocean was still infested
with Hitler's submarine "Wolfpacks", still sending
thousands of tons of Allied shipping beneath the waves. The submarine
threat necessitated the convoy method of transporting men and
material between America and her allies. Merchantmen and troop
ships were gathered into groups of a dozen or more, and herded
across the ocean under guard of warships and, as far as possible,
aircraft. Our convoy consisted of some two dozen ships escorted
by a battleship, plowing resolutely along in the middle of the
pack and several, perhaps 4 or 5, destroyers, those nimble greyhounds
of the Fleet, which constantly surged ahead, behind, around and
through the convoy, seeking contact with any enemy. Their vigilance
was rewarded on at least one occasion when they fired "ash cans" (depth charges) off to the starboard side of the
convoy. The eruptions of water which resulted were impressive
but no debris was sighted and apparently no ship was targeted.
For about the first three days we were treated to the sight of
an occasional American bomber overhead but we soon progressed
beyond their flying range.
My favorite pastime was reading the messages which passed between
the convoy commander - the battleship - and the other ships.
The entire convoy was under radio silence so these messages were
passed by signal lamp whose operators used Morse Code. Making
the transition from an audible signal to a visual one took me
a few hours but I could soon read them easily. "You are
making smoke!" would be the trite command to the vessel
puffing out too much smoke from his stack, which could betray
us to any hunting submarine. Or " To all ships: prepare
for a 25-degree change in course to port at 1310 hours."
A standard maneuver in convoy sailing was to zigzag frequently
to confuse any lurking submarine; to avoid collisions, all ships
had to change course at precisely the same moment, thus the message.
The messages I read were mostly of a routine nature and I learned
little new but it was entertaining and it kept my practice of
Morse Code sharp and added to my knowledge of military communications.
Otto and I spent many hours at the bow of the ship watching the
flying fish stirred up by the ship's passage and the groups of
dolphins that seemed to delight in pacing alongside the boat.
Otto could tolerate this pastime only when the sea was relatively
calm; he was much more susceptible to seasickness than I. Even
gentle swells could impart a wide range of motion to the bow
and stern of the ship and the day a crewman told me the waves
were 25 to 30 feet from trough to tip, my stay at the bow was
rather brief, also. The mid-point of the deck moved up and down
the least but, in heavy weather, there was really no refuge to
be had anywhere on the ship. Seasickness affected a great many
of the men, probably more than 50%, and a few suffered all the
way across, but most of us had acquired our sea legs by the fourth
day out. I only missed one meal. Couldn't stand the thought of
fried fish one windy morning. The Capetown Castle was a sturdy
vessel and withstood the vagaries of the weather better than
the men.
On September 8, our third day at sea, came an electrifying announcement:
Italy had surrendered to the Allies! The moment of exhilaration
passed quickly, however, when we realized the German army still
controlled the country and little had changed.
Estimating the speed of the convoy was beyond the ken of us landlubbers
but, because it was it was matched to the speed of the slowest
ship in the convoy, it was necessarily slow, indeed. Bulletins
were occasionally posted on the board informing us of the miles,
in nautical terms, we had progressed in the past 24 hours but
an estimate of our arrival date in port was never forthcoming.
The routine, mostly boring, days dragged on.
From what we could observe, the majority of the ships in the
convoy were oil tankers, loaded to capacity, wallowing laboriously
through the heavy seas. The United States was the Number One
oil producer in the world in 1943 and the primary source of that
product for our Allies. The oil accompanying us was destined
for use by American and British forces in Europe and English
industrial and civilian use. (Later, we could only smile and
shake our head when some irate Englishman, smothering in the
crush of American G.I.'s pouring into their island, accused us
of coming "over here and using up all of our petrol").
Some of the tankers, we later learned, proceeded, at great risk,
to the Arctic port to Murmansk in the Soviet Union.
Boring the days may have been but we were never allowed to forget
how exposed was our position out there on that great ocean. The
life boat drills, the life jackets, the radio silence, the occasional
mad dash and depth charging by the destroyer escorts, the strictly
enforced admonition "There will be no smoking on deck after
dark", and ship's garbage being dumped overboard only after
dark. Great danger still lurked in those dark waters. But it
never found us.
There were a few menial jobs in the ship's galley filled by G.I.'s
on a rotating, once-only, basis. Dumping the garbage overboard
was one of them. When these men reported the garbage they had
dumped contained the heads of chickens, ducks and, occasionally,
turkeys, it generated some discontent among the enlisted men.
Since our menu boasted only fried fish, kidney stew and several
unrecognizable dishes, it was evident the officers were eating
better than we were. In garrison, any difference in the quality
of food served enlisted men and officers was unimportant; ours
was almost invariably very good. But here, given the generally
unappetizing quality and poor preparation of our two daily meals,
any difference, real or perceived, caused some grumbling.
When, unexpectedly, an American PBY flying boat appeared overhead,
we became excited. We were within flying range of land! A day
later, B-24 bombers looked us over. On September 14, 1943, we
spotted a vague, purple smug ahead on the horizon. It soon took
on the image of land, sweet, green earth, proclaimed by a crewmember
to be the coast of Ireland. By afternoon, the convoy hove to
in the Irish Sea, off the port of Liverpool, England. Without
ceremony, our escorting warships went their way. The merchantmen
slowly made their way through the submarine nets guarding the
harbor but the Capetown Castle and one other troop ship, the
John Errickson, remained firmly anchored offshore. Sorely disappointed,
thoroughly sick of our crowded ship, we could only gaze longingly
at the beckoning terra firma as darkness descended on the European
continent. Our proximity to the danger of war was impressed upon
us when we suddenly realized the shore and the city were totally
dark - there was not a single point of light to be seen. England
was blacked out. We had seen the last night-light we would see
for nearly two years.
CHAPTER 8
INVASION --- OF ENGLAND
The next day, September 15, 1943, it was the Capetown Castle's turn to slowly rumble through the submarine nets and be gently nudged up to a dock in Liverpool. Every soldier on board wanted, of course, to be on the dockside of the ship; the crush was enormous but Otto and I held our places at the rail. Dry land never looked so good to our water-weary eyes. Our attention was drawn first to the people on the dock far below us - some civilians, some in uniforms we could only surmise were British Army, certainly not American. Even as the ship was being tied up, shouted exchanges began between those on the ship and those on the dock. The only "English" English we had ever heard spoken was the Hollywood variety, which, we quickly learned, had no resemblance to the language we heard on the Liverpool docks. Packages of cigarettes and oranges were dropped down, and strange English coins were tossed up.
The city before us bore impressive marks of the savagery the German Air Force had inflicted upon the British in the four years of war these stouthearted people had already endured. There was no rubble to be seen, but the numerous vacant lots in the midst of congested streets was a powerful reminder that our location was within easy reach of Hitler's bombs. Numerous barrage balloons strained at their tethers as they floated above the city. I, and I'm sure many others among us, felt a shiver of apprehension at sight of those empty lots.
The possibility that it took longer to unload the ship in Liverpool than it did to load it in New York is unlikely; I suppose it only seemed that way but, eventually, we were off the ship, marching up the dock to the railroad station. The sight of the small, unique railroad cars brought chuckles from the men; we promptly named them " Toonerville Trolleys", probably the name applied to them by all the American soldiers who had preceded us to this island. Carrying the same equipment and luggage we had carried aboard in New York, we took our assigned places in the coaches. After the usual interminable wait we had come to expect in the moving of masses of men, our train chuffed out of the station into the by now totally dark city and countryside. The speed at which we traveled was surprising - and gratifying. The darkness offered nothing of interest for us and most of us dozed off to awaken when the train slowed purposefully and pulled into a station. Still in darkness, we stumbled out onto the platform where we were informed we in the town of Gillingham and trucks would take us to our quarters. We climbed up into the familiar 6x6 trucks, which rumbled through the small village to deposit us at a structure, which appeared to have been a large stable at one time. Otto and I were assigned to the second floor. I don't recall much about the accommodations, only that they were meager - but welcome. Sleeping on a bare floor would have been preferable to another night in a hammock. The first day of the nine months the 3rd Armored Division was to spend in England was, thankfully, over.
We had little time to explore and get acquainted with Gillingham; our stay was inexplicably brief, perhaps 3 weeks or less. I do recall our first payday in England was in Gillingham. That would be October 1st and it was an amusing event. We had all been given conversion charts detailing the value of the English pound against the dollar. We were to be paid in pounds. As each man reported to the pay table, he had to tell the paymaster exactly how many pounds, shillings, sixpence and pence he was due. If a trooper couldn't state the amount correctly, he was turned away and received his pay only when he had learned the conversion correctly. A very adept and effective plan.
Memory fails me completely in regard to the details of the move from Gillingham to our next encampment, Frome. The method of transportation, whether by train or truck; the date; the distance traveled, I can't remember but a glance at a map of England indicates the distance between the two towns was small - perhaps 50 miles - so I would assume we traveled by Army truck. The town of Frome was small, perhaps 20,000 inhabitants, and, as were most English towns, of ancient origins (some grave markers in the local cemeteries, I later found, dated back to the 13th century). It lay in a shallow, pretty valley in the county of Somerset, in southwest England. There were still a few thatched-roofed homes in the area but most of them had "gone modern" with tile, slate or shingled roofs.
For our stay in the area, Service Battery was divided into two sections and two camps, on opposite sides of the town. My Section, Hqs. Section, was assigned to the camp at the "White House", so-called because of a large, imposing stone house, painted white, which dominated the site upon which it stood, near the top of a gentle slope about a mile above the town center. Most of Service Battery's officers lived here, as did all of "B" Battery's, the other Battery with whom we shared the camp. Otto's Gasoline Section was in the "White House" group, which meant we maintained our close relationship. The area around the big house was crowded with Quonset huts that could hold about a dozen men each and usually held more. They were cold, crowded and drafty. My section was assigned to one of them but, fortunately, we were quartered in one only long enough to acquire a distinct dislike for it before being allowed to move into the only permanent building on the site, as I recall, besides the White House. It was a long, about 40 feet, single story glazed block structure, well constructed with plenty of windows, sitting just inside the gate to the fenced in area. Each long side was jammed with double-decker bunks; the building accommodated 32 to 34 men. Between the rows, at each end of the building, was a coal stove, which would have adequately heated the structure, had the supply of coal been sufficient, which it was not. Coal was a rationed commodity in England, even for the Americans. This presented a serious threat to our comfort in the cold English winter, a problem we partially solved with typical Yankee ingenuity - we stole coal from the camp of British soldiers not far from town.
Our "settling in" period was hectic. Almost immediately we were issued new vehicles (farewell, old Springfield, faithful steed of California, Virginia and Pennsylvania days, with your old crew's personal gear secreted aboard), from peeps to M-7 self-propelled cannons; and new weapons, from machine-guns to bazookas, and ammunition for all. Quickly, the old routine was resurrected: road marches down picturesque English roads, calisthenics and the dreaded CPX’s. For lack of a parade ground, we were spared close order drills.
Otto had to locate the truck head for gas supplies, the other section leaders for rations and ammunition. One of the largest problems in all this truck and halftrack movement was the fact that all vehicles had to travel on the left hand side of the road, a gut-wrenching departure from habits we had known most of our lives. There were many nerve-racking experiences but I can recall no serious incident involving Service Battery drivers. Another factor was the width of most of our vehicles. English roads were narrow with narrow shoulders, often hemmed in with stone fences, making the passing of vehicles going opposite directions precarious. Several times, when proceeding through the older sections of villages, our halftrack would knock flowerpots from windowsills of the buildings on either side of the road. Tanks, of course, couldn't move through such streets at all; they had to bypass through farmer's fields, causing the least amount of damage possible in the process. Nevertheless, Uncle Sam's bill for liability must have been enormous.
The numerous Command Post Exercises and the less frequent maneuvers for larger units, up to, and including, Division, all took place on the Salisbury Plain, near, naturally, the city of Salisbury. This area must have been the largest open area on the entire island which, probably, is why we were stationed nearby. Armored division training demands large open areas. Given the density of the population, even in those long-ago days, I assume the British government had moved many farmers and families from the area long before our arrival to provide sufficient training space for their own armored units. The Salisbury Plain was the site of the most mysterious, and certainly one of the oldest, structures on the British Isles - Stonehenge. There, in the center of the Plain, this ungainly monument stood in all its haughty grandeur, defying reason. All units had orders to stay at least a half mile away from it to eliminate the possibility any ground rumblings caused by our wheels and treads would disturb it's tranquil equilibrium.
It was through our frequent forays on the Plain that I began to take the measure of the man who would lead the Battery into combat. When Captain Robuck took over command of the Battery in Indiantown Gap, the Division was already in the preliminary stages of preparation for overseas movement and most field exercises had been curtailed, which would account for my inability to recall a single instance of being in the field with him there. A few road marches, yes, but no field exercises. So these exercises were the first opportunity the crew of Springfield had to observe and analyze the Battery's Commanding Officer in the field. The relationship between an officer and the men in his Section changed dramatically from garrison to field conditions. The enlisted men were convinced that, in garrison, the officers lived under conditions far superior to theirs - more money, better food, no standing in lines, comfortable quarters, liquor rations, access to transportation, more time off - those things which make life in the military tolerable. But in the field, those advantages suddenly became less pronounced. Officers ate the same food as their men, and, under the Officer's Code of Conduct, were to eat only after all enlisted men had been fed, (although many officers ignored this concept) slept on the ground or improvised, as did the men; endured the discomforts of inclement weather. Living in the field was equally harsh, regardless of rank. The officer retained his authority but his diminished privileges removed a source of universal irritation among the men under his command.
It soon became apparent to his crew that Robuck was, or would soon be, an accomplished field soldier. He shrugged off bad weather; he simply protected himself with the appropriate clothing and ignored it. His decisiveness and self-confidence was reassuring; he quickly appraised any problem, made his decision and moved on. He ate the same field rations we did and made no comment, good or bad. He was a completely focused leader who never displayed even the slightest semblance of doubt that he, and his men, would accomplish their assigned mission. We agreed: Robuck was a leader.
Captain Ernest P. Robuck apparently was born into a family of some wealth. I formed this conclusion from chats with him during several visits to his Florida home some 30 years after the war. He showed me pictures of himself as a member of the University of Florida polo team during his college years. It is my understanding that team members had to furnish their own ponies, indicating to me that his family had resources. After the war, he and a brother went into the retail lumber business and, at one time, owned at least 5 lumberyards. When I asked how he came to command Service Battery, he told this story:
Early in the war, or perhaps, even before the U.S. was attacked, he was teaching ROTC at his alma mater but, as the fighting escalated and more and more American forces became involved, he felt he should be doing more and asked for a combat command. He was offered several desk jobs but refused them. Determined, he contacted a colonel friend stationed in Washington and stated his wish to be assigned to a combat unit. Eventually, his friend succeeded. Robuck reported to the 3rd Armored Division.
But life in England was not just dreary grinds on the Salisbury Plain. Frome offered a social life for enterprising soldiers. The town had a fine quota of pubs, a couple of dance halls and several restaurants, although I never ate in any of them. And, because so many Englishmen were serving in the military, a goodly number of women of suitable age. I was fortunate enough to meet a young lady for whom I developed a great deal of affection. Her name was Jean Walker-Grant and I came to know her through my old "B" Battery radio school friend, Bill Gosset. As his Battery and part of mine were both quartered at the White House, we made frequent forays into town together. One night, when I happened not to be with him, he met two young ladies and made a date with them for a few nights hence and promised to bring a friend. Me. On the appointed night, we met them in a pub. Gosset had informed me he wanted the tall girl - I can't remember her name. I think he made a poor choice. Jean was a very petite brunette of 18 or 19. She was not beautiful in the classic sense but she was very pretty, and perky, with a lovely complexion, soft, glowing brown eyes. She had a quick smile, an outgoing personality and exuded an electric energy. She had an insatiable curiosity for anything and everything American. We became, to use the modern idiom, an item.
I can no longer recall what job Jean worked at, but she lived with her sister and brother-in-law and brother in a neat little house on a narrow road just at the edge of town, not more than a mile or so from our camp. I became a frequent visitor to their home, bringing them whatever gifts I could scrounge: tea from our kitchen (the Ration Section brought in hundreds of pounds of the stuff but few of us drank it; the cooks were glad to get rid of it and the English were very happy to get it. Tea was rationed to civilians, so, although American style tea was deemed inferior to English tea, they accepted it with gratitude); an occasional can of Spam - again, an item not immensely popular with the men, but considered a delicacy by the English (because some Mess Sergeants refused to accept their entire allotment of Spam, at least two men I knew in the Ration Section were getting rich selling the unwanted stuff on the black market). Sugar was harder to get but I managed a pound or two now and then. These small gifts were received with such effusive thanks by these gentle folks, who had endured very strict rationing for four years, I was embarrassed. They strove diligently to give something in return but their resources were pitifully thin. A home cooked meal, perhaps, consisting mostly of vegetables from their garden and a piece of fish, but welcome, nevertheless. The gift I valued above all others, though, was something the Army had never supplied: a bath in a bathtub. The water heater was fired by natural gas, also rationed. It had a meter into which coins had to be fed to produce a flame. Inside the tub, 6 inches up from the bottom, a red line was drawn around the tub. This was the "fill line". The tub was not to be filled above that line with hot or cold water - government orders. Even water was rationed.
The four of us spent as much time together as we could. The women had daytime jobs, as did we, but nights and weekends they were free. Gosset and I could usually get off on weekends unless we were in the field. But we were not allowed into town every night; in fact, most of the enlisted men were restricted to camp every other night The reason for the restrictions: a Transportation unit of black soldiers was stationed near Frome, also, and they had free access to the town on the alternate nights. The Army of World War II was segregated and the brass feared sharing of social life between whites and blacks would lead to less than civilized behavior, given the volume of beer soldiers of both races were capable of consuming at every opportunity. No black soldiers were assigned to combat units; they were given jobs in Port Battalions and Transportation Units, usually well out of combat zones. There were a few black combat units but these units were composed strictly of volunteer black troops. I believe the 3rd Armored teamed only once with black combat soldiers: driving on the city of Cologne, we had the support of a battalion - or perhaps a regiment - of them. They were good. They committed themselves forcefully.
I still view with consternation the long-standing complaints of black troops who fought in Vietnam, who argue, indignantly, that they bore a proportionately larger share of casualties than white soldiers. The bodies littering the battlefields of World War II were white bodies almost exclusively. Short memories!
Dating activities in England had its restrictions. We had no transportation, of course, although a few taxis were available, so you walked with your date to the scene of whatever entertainment was available. As a history buff, I toured the local cemeteries with Jean. The age of some grave markers was awesome - 1320, 1483, etc. After dark, there was the one movie house, a restaurant, the weekend dance or the pubs. A popular diversion was to buy take out (I can't remember the English expression) "fish and chips" (the buyer had to furnish a newspaper to wrap them in - paper was rationed, too) take them to a pub and devour them with "bitter". The fish place and the pubs did huge volumes of business.
The English pub is an institution without a counterpart in the U.S. Pubs played an integral role in the social life of nearly all Englishmen. A pint of two on a regular basis was an accepted, normal part of their lives, even for children. I saw kids as young as 12 having a draught. The country pubs had not changed much, I assume, in hundreds of years. Many of them drew the beer directly from large wooden kegs lined up behind the bar, served at room temperature, which took some getting used to for a Yank. Others, especially in the towns, utilized the "Beer engine", the long levers lined up along the bar, to pump the beer from kegs under the bar into the glass. There were several styles of beer: bitter, mild, pale ale, (usually in bottles only) and others. Half and half was half a glass of bitter topped off with mild. All English beer was of the ale style and had little carbonization; didn't carry the foamy head we were used to. But I soon acquired a taste for it.
Liquor was another story. It was rationed and each pub's ration was delivered one day a week. I never developed a taste for hard liquor and always drank beer if it was available, but those for whom liquor was the drink of choice soon learned what day each pub received its ration for the week and tried to be there that evening. Even when the pub had an adequate supply of booze, the barkeep would become irritated when a Yank ordered repeated shots of liquor. "You cawn't have whiskey all the time, you know!" was a frequent cry. He wanted to save some for his civilian friends.
Pubs kept strange hours, by law, I suppose. Most opened about 10 AM, closed at noon, reopened again about 3 and ended the day about 9 or 9:30 PM. We dreaded the cry of " Time, please. Time, gentlemen, please", meaning we had time for one more drink. But we nearly always managed to keep the beer flowing for another half hour or so. Most pub keepers were very amicable folks.
I mentioned taxicabs a moment ago. I must relate the fun we had with the drivers. British cars, and cabs, were small by American standards. It was extremely difficult to cram four passengers in them, but we usually succeeded. Upon arriving at our destination, usually a pub in the country, three men would get out and go around to the rear of the vehicle while the other guy paid the driver. Before he could drive away, we would lift the rear wheels off the ground and roar in delight when he furiously spun the wheels. The driver seldom saw the humor in the act.
There were buses in town, too, but they were off the streets early in the evening. Most of them were powered with charcoal - that's right, charcoal. They had an upright burner on the rear bumper, similar in size to about a 50 gallon water heater. Several times I saw the bus going up the hill beside our barracks stop in the road, the driver throw in a couple of buckets of charcoal and go on. I don't know how it worked.
Bicycles were a prime mode of transportation over there for the civilians. Some of our men, who had a relationship with a woman, borrowed her bicycle at the end of the evening and rode it back to camp. One such fella was a goofy character named John Costea, from Detroit. He came in late one winter night, turned on all the lights in the barracks - it was after "lights out" - fired up one of the stoves and began frying bacon, which he had filched from the kitchen, right on the stove top. His appetite satisfied, he announced he would put on a bicycle riding demonstration for our edification. All we wanted to do was get some sleep but John was not easily deterred. Bringing in his bicycle and dressed only in a pair of shorts, he rode the bike to the end of the building, banging into the door at that end, dismounted, turned the bike around, got aboard and rode to the other end, slamming into the door there, all the while extolling his expertise as a rider. This continued for some time, during which he brushed against the hot stove and burned his thigh. All our threats, our pleadings, were unavailing; John kept riding and bumping. But, suddenly, as John approached our end of the barracks at warp speed, someone yanked the door open. John and the bike hurtled down two steps, past the guard at the gate, who tried in vain to stop him, out onto the road and all the way down the hill into the center of Frome. Shortly thereafter, Capt. Robuck received a call from the town constabulary, informing him they had arrested one of his men, wearing only shorts and a bicycle. I don't recall John's punishment - whatever it was, he took it unflinchingly; four years in the Army and he never rose above the rank of private - but the incident was referred to thereafter as the night John went over the hill in his shorts.
One of the more unusual duties I drew in Frome was accompanying a British policeman - a "Bobby", no less - as an American M.P. one evening. He was a stern looking man, wearing the tall hat we'd all seen in the movies, but a very genial fellow. It happened to be a "black" night and, as we toured the pubs, I was terrified I would see Jean drinking beer with one of them in a pub. I saw several women, acquaintances of friends in the Battery, dating black soldiers but not Jean, nor Gosset's girl.
The only problems we encountered were soldiers urinating in the gutters. We'd see a stream of liquid running down the gutter and find a GI at the source - and, once a British trooper. Most pubs had no public toilets in them. Patrons were to use the public toilets located at intervals on the streets, but some "ugly Americans" found that too time consuming - it took them away from the bar too long. We'd get their unit number and their officers would be notified next day. I enjoyed the duty.
Sometime during that winter, Otto and I received a pass of sufficient length - can't remember exactly - to allow us to take a trip to Scotland. We chose Glasgow as our destination. We rode the train to London, and then changed to another train for Glasgow. It was called the "Flying Scot" and it lived up to its name admirably. It screamed through the countryside at speeds over 80 miles an hour. We descended to the platform in the city sometime after midnight and were greeted in a shocking manner by a 10 or 12-year-old boy who tugged at my sleeve and asked: "Hey, Yank! Do you want to get your nuts cr-r-r ocked?" A ten-year-old pimp! He was hard to discourage; didn't want to take "no" for an answer.
We got a room through the Red Cross, slept some and, next morning, set out to see the town. We ate our meals in restaurants and, although the menu was limited, the food available was hearty and well prepared. When we visited our first pub, as a joke and in an effort to get an irate response from the bartender, I ordered whiskey. "What'll you have, Yank? A single or double?", he asked. No shortage of whiskey in Scotland. They obviously weren't sending it all south to the English.
We had a very pleasant stay. The Scots were very friendly to Americans. We particularly enjoyed their expressive language. "Aye, and it pays to keep your bonny eyes a wee bit open" is one expression I remember. It was a pleasant interlude, away from the military life for a short time.
I have neglected to mention that, almost as soon as we had completed the move to Frome, Service Battery suffered a grievous loss: Our cooks were shanghaied to cook for the officers. Service Battery cooks were acknowledged to be the best in the Battalion. Losing them meant we had to eat with "B" Battery whose cooks were almost universally known as the worst in the Battalion, maybe in the Division. It was not a move calculated to improve Service Battery morale.
One day Clarence DeHaven said to me: “Bake, a letter from home says my brother, Homer, is now in England and they named a place where they think he may be stationed. Do you think we could pull the old radio distance check trick again and look for him?" Convinced that 1st Sgt. Tennis had not gotten any smarter, we decided to try it. It worked, just as it had in Pennsylvania. We had to exercise a little more caution, such as parking the halftrack behind the pub rather than on the street in front, because the island was crawling with MP's. Every time DeHaven got a lead concerning his brother's station, we'd head out again but, although we saw a lot of pretty British scenery, we never found him.
Our training continued relentlessly. Hq. Section spent countless days on the Salisbury Plain, few of them pleasant from the standpoint of weather. I have never experience heavier, thicker frosts than those in England on the Plain. Unless it was raining, we slept under the sky and awoke in the morning to a white blanket of frost on every item, including our bedroll. I didn't know such cold air could hold so much moisture. The cold seemed to penetrate every fiber of one's body and, with little sun, there was no rapid warming of the air temperature. Although we cursed the weather roundly, we knew we were gaining valuable experience in learning to cope under combat conditions with adverse climatic conditions. Those in the Battery whose duties kept them out of the field had to learn those same lessons in actual combat.
The most memorable - perhaps the only memorable - day I experienced on the Plain was the day we met two men who were players on the world stage and whose names and exploits would become prominent in world history. Those men were Dwight Eisenhower and Bernard Montgomery, the British Field Marshal. We had completed a two or three-day, full-scale division maneuver and were anxious to return to the relative comfort of our quarters. We had been warned that one of the two men might appear to observe our exercise but we had seen neither of them. Instead of returning to camp, we were ordered to assemble with the rest of the division in a remote corner of the Plain. There, on a raised wooden platform, stood both men. We dismounted from our vehicles and formed ranks in front of the platform. Eisenhower spoke first, mouthing platitudes, mostly, then introduced the Hero Of Alemain, FIELD MARSHALL SIR BERNARD LAW MONTGOMERY! Monty was about as impressive, physically, as Patton: a small man, short in stature, with a high-pitched voice. But he did wear a jaunty beret which, I thought, gave him a sartorial edge over Patton. He gave a rousing talk, in the subdued British manner, but the only remark I remember is his tag line: "We shall go across the water and have a go at the blighters". And all the time, we thought we were going over there to kick their ass!
Montgomery then descended from the platform and walked through the ranks of the assembled men. He came right down my row, walking quite briskly and making an occasional comment to a man here and there. As he passed in front of me, I gained a clear impression of his size - small. His command tactics in the forthcoming Normandy campaign would cause Americans much frustration and cost the lives, unnecessarily, of many 3rd Armored men.
As winter waned, preparations for combat reached fever pitch. One example: every weapon in the Battery had to be test fired. As there was no firing range available, the testing would take place at the ocean shore. The Battery Armorer, Sgt Eddie Gajewski, needed two men to assist him. I volunteered. We loaded a 2 1\2 ton truck with weapons, ammunition, rations for two days and our sleeping bags and motored of for the shore - near Land's End, I believe. We had a circus. No officers accompanied us and the test firing area was virtually deserted. We blasted away with reckless abandon - pistols, rifles (3 types), Tommy guns, machine-guns (2 calibers), and bazookas. There were no targets; the object of the exercise was to insure each weapon functioned properly. If not, we repaired it. We expended thousands of rounds out over the ocean in the direction of Ireland. The number of guns to be tested was such that, we had to restrict our antics if we were to finish the job in the time allotted. I particularly enjoyed firing the bazookas. Because of the projectile's size, trail of fire and smoke, it could be followed easily until it plummeted into the ocean. We ate our field rations and slept that night in the back of the truck. We completed the testing the following morning and headed back to camp. With ammo left over, the two of us riding in the rear of the truck startled the population by firing Tommy-gun bursts into farmer's haystacks near the road. The locals must have thought the Germans had landed.
I volunteered for that detail but I was assigned another one which caused me some concern. The exercise: jump off the rear of a truck moving at 25 miles per hour down a black top road. Me? Why? For what purpose? Mine not to reason why. Orders from Army. OK. On the appointed day, a British "lorry" pulled into camp and two British COMMANDOS (that’s Commandos, for heaven's sake!) got out. They assembled out little group - there were about 15 of us from all over the Battalion, including about 4 fellow radio operators - and explained the technique needed to execute the maneuver with a minimum number of broken bones. We were given elbow and kneepads and, of course, we would wear our steel helmets. The instructors demonstrated the landing technique - flex the knees and roll, much, I assume, as paratroopers are taught to land from a jump. We practiced flexing and rolling. Surviving the jump, we were told, necessitated that the "jumpee" press his back firmly against the back of the truck cab, run at top speed to the end of the truck bed and leap into space with all the height and distance he could muster.
Despite the commandos abundance of self-confidence (they had performed the stunt many times without serious injury, they maintained), and assurances that we could do it, I perceived one large obstacle: I stood very close to 6-feet-tall and that truck carried a canvas cover that couldn't have been more than 5 feet, 6 inches high. We wouldn't be able to stand up and get a good running start. No problem, they laughed. (Hey, they were both shorter than I!). They demonstrated. The truck rolled down the road toward where we stood and, as it passed us, that little Limey came flying out, hit the pavement and rolled gracefully right back up onto his feet. Smiling all the time. They changed places and the other guy executed the stunt with equal aplomb. Demonstration time was over. I couldn't think of any excuse which would get me out of it without exhibiting my abject cowardice so, I did it. Everybody did. Nobody wanted to chicken out in front of his friends and these two Limeys. My exit wasn't pretty but, despite the hampering low canvas cover, I escaped with only a few scrapes and bruises. No one was seriously hurt - a sprained ankle the worst, I think. We were all extremely pleased with ourselves. We had committed ourselves well and could now brag to the others in our outfit how tough we were.
The purpose of such training escapes me. It was difficult to foresee a situation in which such experience might be of value to us and, of course, we never used it. We were never asked to teach the technique to any others in the unit. A waste of time and resources. I've often wondered how many men suffered serious injury undergoing this training. I gained one benefit: self-confidence. I hadn't chickened out.
An event which had a significant affect on my immediate future occurred in November, 1943. I was told, that day, to report to the Battery Commander at the White House. When I presented myself in front of his desk, Captain Robuck got right to the point of the meeting. "I have come to realize that you have no relief operator while every other C.W. operator in the Battalion has one", he stated. I was stunned by his perception. I had broached the subject to the four previous B.C.'s for whom I had operated - none had asked me - and had received blank stares, no expressions of concern. The Army's famous Table of Organization (TO) provided no relief operator for my position. Therefore, no relief man would be provided. But here was an officer astute enough to recognize an inherent weakness in this omission. When committed to combat, I would be the only operator in the Battalion never permitted to sleep. Totally ludicrous! Having received negative - or no - answers on four previous attempts to obtain a solution, I had never approached Robuck about it. Now, he was ready to face the problem. We had a rather free-ranging discussion, during which he asked me what qualifications I would accept in a relief man. I had only one: if he graduated from an Army radio school, I'll take him.
Several days later, I was again ordered to the orderly room. Robuck introduced me to Pvt. Roy Root, a small, very nervous kid. The Captain explained he had gone to the Replacement Depot, perused the files of all the men there awaiting assignment for one who had radio training. Root was the man. I was very pleased with the development and never would have asked how we could use him if the TO didn't allow a relief operator but Robuck volunteered the information. The TO called for a .30 caliber machine-gunner in the B.C.'s halftrack, Springfield. Although that vehicle mounted no .30 caliber gun, Root would be carried on the roster as a gunner but would act as my relief. A classic Army solution to a typical Army mistake. Relief was mine, in more ways than one.
Root was, indeed a kid - barely 18 years old, a very frightened kid, too. He was a native Californian, from the Santa Clara area, had had 12 weeks of basic training, 10 weeks of radio school then shipped overseas as a replacement The Army's replacement system was a degrading, demoralizing process. In contrast to my military experience - I had been in the service 2 1\2 years, all in the same unit - any friendships Root formed in basic training were ended when he alone in his group was sent off to radio school. Only two men from his radio class had arrived in England with him. Now he was separated from them and thrust into another situation in which he saw not one familiar face. He was the rookie in a veteran outfit. He was a very subdued young man. He was unaware of it, of course, but Robuck may have saved his life. Root could very easily have been assigned to an infantry outfit as a rifleman, despite his radio training. The Captain ordered Sgt. Tennis to make room for Root in my barracks. And so, I became responsible for this young soldier.
Emotionally, Roy was in a deplorable state when he joined Service Battery. Despite my constant reassurances, he was dogged for weeks by apprehension for his future. He desperately wanted to be accepted in the Battery and sometimes tried too hard for approval. I spent many hours in the halftrack with him, going over the equipment and talking with him, trying to calm him down. He was a smart kid, a quick learner but possessed of a nervous, excitable personality that no amount of coaching on my part could alter. I soon satisfied myself that his radio skills were adequate. A few trips out on the Salisbury Plain would improve them immeasurably. Roy was now a member of the B.C.'s halftrack crew - DeHaven, Pancho, Root and myself. One more man would be added prior to our commitment to combat.
I have failed to mention, I believe, that every vehicle in the Division had a name stenciled on its side in white letters. This had been ordered in the Desert, I think. In the 54th Armored Field Artillery Battalion, the names were restricted to those whose first letter was the same as the first letter of the Battery in which the vehicle was used. Headquarters Battery vehicles names began with an "H", A's began with an "A", B's with a "B", C's with a "C" and ours began with an "S". Robuck's halftrack was named "Springfield”. Our big wrecker truck was called "Samson".
Another indication that our training days were numbered occurred in early spring, March, probably. It was an exercise designed to make the Germans think the invasion of France was imminent. For a short period of time - 24, 36, 48 hours - every C.W. radio set in the Army in England filled the air with vast amounts of radio traffic, such as normally happened when masses of men were on the move, or preparing to do so. The messages were all encrypted, of course, and completely false, furnished to us by the Division Signal Officer. Then, suddenly, the flow stopped and complete silence fell upon the island for a period of a few hours or a few days before the same process was repeated. The radio vehicles never left the motor parks. I sincerely doubt the exercise caused the Germans any anxiety. Any fool knew that when we began our move to the seaports, strict radio silence would be imposed upon us.
I was grateful then for Root's presence to spell me on the network. He had plenty of opportunity to practice his skills. But it was our driver and my good friend, Clarence DeHaven, who showed his true colors at this time. Although he had no part to play in this charade - parked vehicles require no driver - he spent many long night hours in the halftrack with me, just keeping me company during the quiet hours. We talked extensively about our role in the coming battles, how we would confront our fears, speculating about our chances to survive the conflict. This, totally without comprehension of the horrors that lay ahead.
It was during these conversations that we seriously analyzed our fellow Springfield crewmates. Pancho, our machine-gunner, was a little immature for his age but an excellent gunner whom we felt could be depended upon in a tight spot. That speculation proved correct. Root, we both agreed, was much too flighty, too nervous, to be relied upon in a fight. That, too, proved to be correct. Robuck we had no qualms about. He had our trust, in any circumstance. Even that lofty appraisal proved insufficient praise. Each of us reassured the other that we knew he could be relied upon when the chips were down. Bravado, perhaps, but we agreed we should each watch the others back and not rely too much on the other guys. And we did. There was rarely a time, in a dangerous situation, when Clarence and I both slept at the same time.
Shortly after the assimilation of Root into our crew, the fifth member was added. He was not a newcomer to the Battery; he had been with us for at least 18 months. The only job I remember him having was Mail Clerk. His name was Joe King. The guy was 38 years old in the spring of 1944! The oldest enlisted man in the Battalion! He had always traveled in one of the trucks before, with Klein, the Battery Clerk, I believe. Joe's military bearing was non-existent. His uniform hung on his short and squatty frame like a tent. He was bow-legged enough to be a cowboy but, in fact, was from Philadelphia. Joe was an affable guy but eccentric. He had never married. He had delusions of glory on the battlefield and maintained his expertise could be better utilized as an officer in an infantry outfit. In combat, he wore his full canteen at all times, "like infantrymen do". The rest of us had our canteens strewed about the vehicle, "like tankers do". Joe had two passions: horseracing and rye whiskey, both in very short supply in the European Theatre of Operations (ETO). He subscribed to the Daily Racing Form which, when delivered to him in England, was at least a month old and, on the continent, sometimes 3 months old. Nevertheless, Joe made his daily picks from the Form, wrote them down and gave the picks to me to keep until the next issue arrived, at which time he eagerly compared his picks to the actual results of races which had been run at least a month previously. His luck, or lack thereof, had pronounced affects on his mood. A string of losing picks made him morose for days while a few winners had him as happy as a kid at Christmas.
I never ascertained why the Old Man assigned Joe to Springfield and I can't, to this day, fathom his decision. I had no objection (it wouldn't have influenced his decision if I had) but DeHaven and I agreed Joe would neither help nor hinder us in combat. But he did provide some much needed moments of levity occasionally.
And so the men who would crew and fight Springfield for 11 months of combat, from the sand of Omaha Beach to the muddy banks of the Elbe River in Germany, had been selected and trained (except for Joe King!). And an All-American crew we were, too: Robuck from Florida, DeHaven from Indiana, Root from California, Pancho from New York City, Joe from Philly and Baker, from Michigan. These were the men with whom I would spent 24 hours every day, rarely out of their sight. We helped and encouraged each other in facing the ever-present dangers and hardships we would have to endure for so long. We protected and cared for each other at all times. We shared everything - food, cigarettes, clothing, booze, even letters from home. We trusted each other with our lives. The enlisted men became brothers. This was our family.
As winter waned, the intensity of our training increased. We endured an incessant series of orientation lectures on aircraft recognition, camouflage, waterproofing, chemical warfare and other subjects beyond recall. By day, we witnessed the awesome sight of thousands of American fighters and bombers winging toward the continent, intent upon the destruction of German airfields, cities and other targets. The high-flying heavy bombers left beautiful, lacy vapor trails in their wake. At night, the British bombers filled the air with the rumble of their engines. While the Germans were being hammered, only rarely did their aircraft intrude over English soil. Bath, about 10 miles north of Frome, was the only sizable town near us and, occasionally, we could see searchlights there pierce the black night sky, seeking to pin a German intruder in the blinding light. When that happened, rarely, a torrent of anti-aircraft fire erupted in a brilliant display of fireworks. But never did we see a plane shot down.
In late May, we began the tedious job of "waterproofing" all of our vehicles. The purpose of this exercise was to apply the waterproofing material in a manner which would permit the vehicle to operate in water 5 feet, or more, deep. Basically, each crew was responsible for their own vehicle. The material was a putty-like dough which we applied to all electrical parts. A long, metal pipe was attached to the carburetor air intake to provide vital air for the engine. It took the five of us several days to complete this operation to the satisfaction on the Battalion Motor Officer.
May was probably the nicest month, from a weather standpoint, we had seen on the island and many of us wondered why the invasion wasn't proceeding. But the familiar departure routine continued, with one big difference: each vehicle was combat loaded. We were issued a full complement of ammunition for all weapons aboard, including personal weapons. Field rations were stowed aboard; all the clothing we were officially allowed to carry had to stowed in the small mussette bags - no barracks bags allowed - but most of us stuffed extra socks and underwear in hiding places in the halftrack. We knew this halftrack would stay with us.
The pace of preparations became frantic with Captain Robuck and Sgt Tennis always finding something else that had to be prepared for the move. Our departure date was June 1, 1944. Although it was supposed to be a secret, just as in Indiantown Gap, we left our camp in Frome with a large audience of civilians, mostly female. Despite the adrenaline and excitement generated by the knowledge that, after three years of hard training, we were within days of closing with our enemy, many of us were touched with sadness, too. We had lived among these stouthearted people for nearly nine months and had formed deep friendships with many of them. Leaving touched our hearts, and theirs, too, I'm sure.
With a great rumbling of engines and clanking of tracks, we wheeled out of Frome and turned south, congesting the narrow roads with our mighty armored columns for miles. I recall not how far we traveled but our assigned bivouac area was in a woods somewhere between Frome and Weymouth, where we were destined to stay for many boring, interminably long days. We pitched and slept in our pup tents; the cools set up the kitchen truck - at least, we had our own cooks back! - and prepared three hot meals a day. A rule, which we would unfailingly observe for the next 11 months, was established: each vehicle would be guarded 24 hours a day. Some one in the crew must be awake at all times. Each crew worked out it's own guard schedule.
With no official schedule of duties, time dragged. We cleaned and oiled all weapons, and then cleaned and oiled them again, and again. We repeatedly checked our equipment. We watched the planes going over and coming back. We waited for word of action. And we waited some more. We hungered for news. That miracle of modern communication, the transistor, had not been invented yet in 1944; so portable radios were a novelty requiring a large and heavy battery. No one in the Battery had one (we would "liberate" some later on the continent), but one of my receivers, the AM model, could be tuned to a low-end frequency of about 1200 kilocycles, enabling me to pick up commercial stations operating in the 1200 to 1500 kilocycle range. I readily picked up the BBC signal. Our halftrack became a popular gathering place whenever the BBC news broadcast was on the air.
A description of that halftrack which would be our home for the next 11 months might be helpful in understanding how we lived and fought in the field. As stated previously, a halftrack had wheels in the front and tracks in the back, a very efficient and practical combination for the job we had to do. It was lightly armored, sufficient to withstand almost all small arms fire. The interior compartment was a rectangular box about 10 feet long and 5 or 6 feet wide. The driver's seat was located behind the steering wheel, of course, with another seat beside it with all the transmission, four-wheel drive and front-end winch gearshift levers in between them. Directly over the passenger-side seat was the circular mount, about 4 feet in diameter, for the .50 caliber machine-gun, a vast improvement over the mount in previous models. The gun was mounted to the track on a wheeled carriage that allowed the gunner, standing up in the seat and in the center of the circular mount, to easily changed his field of fire in any direction. Directly behind the driver my AM radio transmitter was mounted in a transverse position. Due to the absence of transistors, this transmitter was a bulky object, about 24 inches wide, perhaps 30 inches tall and about 8 inches thick. It operated with vacuum tubes the size of a soda pop bottle. Under ideal weather conditions, it boasted a range of 90 miles, but 60 miles was a more practical figure. It was a very dependable unit which would cause me grief only one time.
Directly above the transmitter, in a bracket of its own, the AM receiver was mounted. It was capable of receiving signals in a range from 1200 kilocycles up to *****: I don't remember! Both of these units were protected from the weather by waterproof zippered covers. Beside the transmitter, a 4-foot long metal pipe was welded to the floor in an upright position. On top of the pipe was a large insulator to which was mounted a 10 or 12-foot long whip antennae. Whenever we were on the move, I tied the antennae down with the tip pointing to the rear. This AM transmitter was designed primarily as a C.W. rig, to be used to transmit dits and dahs with a telegraph key strapped to the operator's thigh with spring cuff. By removing the front panel, changing the taps on the coil and re-tuning the transmitter, a laborious and time-consuming process, it could be configured to transmit voice messages, at great sacrifice in range capability. Fortunately, it would be necessary for me to make this switch but once in combat but doing so influenced the outcome of a battle.
From the two front-facing seats, a lightly padded bench seat extended to the rear of the box on each side of the vehicle. I sat next to the AM radio, naturally; directly across the aisle, behind the front passenger seat, was my FM set. Frequency modulation was the newest innovation in communications at that time. It offered one big advantage over CW: the transmissions were virtually static-free, but its limitations were rather severe: the signal was virtually line of sight; hills, trees, buildings tended to distort or block the signal and, in the Army model we had, it had a short range - about 15 miles. It was capable of voice transmission only, making it very simple to operate. If you could talk on a telephone, you could operate the 508. There were a few procedure rules to learn and follow, of course, but probably half the peeps in the Army carried a 508.
The FM receiver could be tuned to any FM frequency by merely turning a dial but the transmitter was crystal-controlled, requiring different crystal for the various frequency ranges. The crystals were thin, gray wafers mounted in a frame and could be easily slipped into and out of the transmitter, much as circuit boards are in modern electronics. The use of crystals gave the brass a very easy method of controlling radio traffic on any frequency: operators were issued crystals for only the frequencies authorized to use. The logic had merit, but the inability to transmit on a certain frequency in a dangerous situation we found ourselves in two months later could have had disastrous consequences.
All my radio equipment operated off the vehicle battery, of course, and, because of their power demands, it was necessary to run the halftrack's engine occasionally when we were stationary. I had often mused how wasteful it was to run this powerful engine just to maintain the energy level in the battery. This thought obviously occurred to someone in authority up the line for, just a short time before our departure from Frome, our mechanics installed under the hood of Springfield a gasoline-powered, one cylinder generator which quickly earned the nickname" Little Joe". I thought it a brilliant idea, but, in combat, it had some faults no one had foreseen.
Radio message security was a primary concern in a combat unit and procedures and devices were developed to insure it. When using voice, the operator was never permitted to use an individual's rank or name. Each officer was assigned a code name or number. Robuck's number was "8". Messages sent by Morse Code were not secure; anyone who could read Morse could read the message if it was sent in the "clear" - not encrypted. The method we used in the field to encrypt, laughable by today's standards, was cumbersome, very slow and the source of much irritation. Every vehicle with a CW set carried an encryption machine. It was a small metal box, perhaps 8x10x4 inches. The heart of the mechanism was a steel rod on which were strung metal disks, about 3 or 4 inches in diameter, in such a manner that the disks could rotate on the rod. Letters and numerals were stamped on the edge of each disk. The disks were to be set to a new combination of numbers and letters given to us by Division Hq. each day (theoretically). In addition to the disks, the box contained a small typewriter keyboard. Given a message to send ("Ration trucks on the way"), I typed the message into the machine which spit out a tape on which was printed the encrypted message, always in five letter groups. Even numbers were converted to letters. I then sent these five letter groups to the designated individual - to his operator, actually. The receiving operator copied the message as sent, then reversed the process and his machine printed the message in plain English on a tape, which he pasted to a message form, or, more commonly, hand printed on the form and destroyed the tape.
The elapsed time between encryption and decryption was 30 minutes or more, depending upon the length of the message, but the agonizingly slow process was roundly condemned by all. When at all possible, urgent messages were sent by voice radio, sometimes risking interception by the enemy. I quickly learned that if I began copying a CW message sent in the "clear", in Morse Code but not encrypted, some vitally important and urgent information was forthcoming. It happened only twice in combat.
It was impressed upon us how important to the war effort it was for us to protect the encryption machine from capture. If capture appeared imminent, we were to destroy it by use of a thermite grenade or run over it with the tracks on the vehicle. I never had to make the choice.
There were 3 radio-related items I would have upon my person at all times, once committed to combat: a pencil, a message book, which fit snugly in a shirt pocket, and a luminous-dial wrist watch provided by the Army since I was required to sign and note the time received on each message copied.
Roy Root normally tended the FM set when we were on the move but there were few times when one operator couldn't handle both sets.
The FM set utilized a built-in speaker; the AM unit was equipped with both a separate speaker and headphones. I preferred to use the speaker but there were some circumstances which dictated the use of the headphones. In night bivouac, when the rest of the crew was trying to get some sleep, the beeping of the speaker could be disturbing, so I used the phones; on some of those fierce attacks we made, we could be miles out in front of the infantry with our flanks exposed if we paused for a few hours at night. The squawking of the speaker could attract the attention of any roving Krauts in the area so; again, I used the phones. But, mostly, I used the phones when there was a lot of static in the air. It was easier for me pick the signal out of the clutter with the phones.
But the use of the phones exacted a price: with the stations in the network spread out, as we often were, over a 40 or 50 mile area, it was necessary to keep the volume of the receiver advanced enough to pick up a weak signal from the more distant transmitters. Then a transmitter a mile or so distant would come on the air with an earsplitting shriek!! Goodbye, eardrums! Hello tinnitus!
! I have suffered with ringing and chirping in my ears for 55 years. The Army, in fact, took note of my impaired hearing when processing me for discharge and offered a pension, which I refused.
On the front bumper was mounted a powerful hydraulic winch, it's spool wound with heavy steel cable. It would have been an invaluable aid in extricating Springfield, or another vehicle, from soft terrain but we never had cause to use it. On the left fender was strapped our folded, voluminous vehicle camouflage net and several metal telescopic poles, intended to break up the outline of the vehicle under the net and aid the crew whenever it was necessary to enter or leave the halftrack. It was a cumbersome device, difficult to deploy because it eagerly caught on every projection and corner and the re-folding process necessary for storage when traveling was time consuming. Nevertheless, we used it frequently, particularly in our early days of combat.
The opposite fender was the storage place for the heavy canvas "convertible" top for our steed and the metal support bows which, when properly installed, allowed the canvas to be stretched tightly, providing the crew with a confined but waterproof shelter. It had zippered flaps in all the necessary places.
Across the width of the vehicle, just above the windshield, ran an angle-iron metal rack which accommodated 10 or 12 metal boxes of belted .50 caliber ammunition, about 3000 rounds, in all. A bracket on the machine-gun accepted a full box of ammo; it was only necessary to feed the end of the belt into the gun, yank the operating handle one time and let'er rip.
Just ahead of each door a bracket held a 5-gallon can of water - precious stuff. I'm certain we carried more than 10 gallons of water, but I don't recall where it was stored. Under the doors holders provided storage for two shovels, an ax and a pick ax. On each side, on the outside, extending from the door to the rear of the vehicle, were long storage racks designed, primarily, to contain land mines. We carried about 12 of these, as I recall, and used the rest of the racks for miscellaneous items.
Across the rear end of Springfield, we had had our shop fabricate and install a rack with open sides and top but a solid floor, large enough to store the precious bedrolls of nine men - us five crew members, the Captain, his peep driver, the Battery Scout, Pat Lanza and the 1st Sgt. We called it the back porch.
Inside the vehicle, in the crew area, there were several storage compartments, one of which contained carefully packaged extra tubes for my radios, another held a supply of grenades, about 12 fragmentation type and several Thermite grenades which, when ignited, would melt and burn through the hardest metal. Their intended use was to destroy any vital equipment we might be forced to surrender - the engine of the halftrack, my radios, etc. Under the floor was a built-in ammunition well, unneeded for that purpose because of the add-on racks we had, so we used it to store things like the hated gas masks.
The armament we carried was quite impressive. DeHaven, the driver, was issued a WW1 Springfield bolt-action rifle, slow firing but highly accurate in the right hands. The rest of the crew all had pistols, including Robuck, whose peep mounted a .30 caliber machine-gun, ammunition for which, about 3000 rounds, was stored in our halftrack. The major piece was the .50 caliber but, in addition to the grenades and the land mines, we carried a bazooka and 10 or 12 rockets for it. It was a cumbersome weapon, requiring two men to fire with any rapidity and not very accurate but, in close, it could stop nearly anything. Each of us had fired about 3 bazooka rounds in training. Robuck's peep driver, a kid named Mason at the time, I believe, was armed with a Tommy gun.
Given the job Service Battery had been trained to do - we delivered supplies, for heaven's sake - I considered our weaponry inventory somewhat excessive but, nevertheless, found it comforting, on those long drives when we left the infantry far behind, to know that we were equipped to defend ourselves.
I should have mentioned that the backrest for each of the bench seats in the halftrack was actually a self-sealing 30-gallon gas tank, giving us a total capacity of 60 gallons. Averaging about 4 or 5 miles to the gallon, we had a cruising range of 250-300 miles. We carried no other gas.
That, then, is as good a description I can give of the machine we would ride to victory over the entrenched enemy awaiting us just across the Channel. It would prove to be a faithful steed, indeed.
And, so, we waited. The air activity increased apace. On the night of June 5- 6, 1944, The sound of airplanes passing overhead was incessant and at dawn, against a gray sky, the P-47 and P-51 fighter-bombers, the underside of their wings painted with the broad, white "invasion stripes", hurried in an endless stream toward France. We could distinguish the low, persistent rumble of massive explosions on some distant shore. Naval gunfire! Bombs! The long-awaited invasion of Fortress Europa had begun!
Logic dictated that the 3rd Armored Division would not be committed in the initial stages of the invasion. To be effective, an armored division must have sufficient room to maneuver. Surely, that room would not be available in the first few days; nevertheless, we felt we would rather be in action than idling our time away in the woods. Some independent tank battalions were sent in very early but their mission was primarily to act as artillery and assist the infantry in the fighting in the impenetrable hedgerows. Had the fighting succeeded as planned, the needed real estate would have been taken by about D + 10, but nothing in the Normandy campaign went according to plan.
With few assigned duties, after morning roll call, we had many long hours to fill. Each additional day of inactivity, of uncertainty, of waiting, served to stir the mix of emotions seething in every man's mind. We were within hearing distance of the enemy we had been trained to kill. The killing had begun in Normandy. Soon, very soon, we would be fed into the maw of that fiery furnace raging just across the water, asked to prove ourselves, green and inexperienced, in mortal combat against a veteran force of professional soldiers. Every quiet day we spent in those serene woods was preserving the lives of hundreds of 3rd Armored men, and that was reassuring. But, we were thoroughly weary of training; it was time we were tested, as soldiers, as men, time to justify all the training; time, it seemed, to face our enemy. Time to kill.
The usual reaction to this emotional tug of war was a facade of bravado. We knew we were well trained; we had been led, or misled, to believe our equipment was all superior to anything the enemy had, but, mostly, we were so very young, so very sure of our ability to fight and survive. And bravado was so much a better choice than the opposite reaction: morose depression. Although a few men - perhaps those most insightful - exhibited its signs, it didn't fit the personalities of many of us.
June the 10th, my 25th birthday, came and went, June 15, June 17, and still we looked out of our leafy canopy at gloomy English skies. I wandered over to "B" Battery and talked to my radio school friends, Gosset and Cooper, both experiencing the mixed emotions of the rest of us. Dan Cooper, the quiet, introspective man, was calmly confident but fatalistic. Yes, we could all be killed; it was war. Bill Gosset, the Texas roughneck, swore there was no Kraut alive who could kill him. He promised to kick some ass.
Mercifully, neither man was aware he would soon experience the vicious pain of German steel, one of them fatally.
On the morning of June 18, we received word to be ready to move on two hours notice. We could have moved in 15 minutes: fill in the garbage pits, the latrine trenches, fold the tents, and let’s go. Some units of the 3rd moved out but not the 54th. The dawning of the next day saw the advent of heavy rain and high winds, which effectively canceled all cross-Channel shipping - the surf on the Normandy beaches was just too rough to allow debarkation. The exact date of our departure for the port of Weymouth escapes me but it was probably June 21. The storms had subsided somewhat by then and we moved out.
It puzzles and irritates me that I cannot clearly remember the dates and times of some of the most momentous moments of my life, but some have slipped irretrievably into the darkest recesses of my brain. I cannot recall the date we broke camp, how long we waited to load on the ship, when we departed the port or how long the cross-Channel voyage required. But some scenes are vividly inscribed on my memory.
The loading process at Weymouth was total bedlam. Despite the best efforts of scores of MP's, military traffic was gridlocked in the port. We had been assigned LST (Landing Ship, Tank) 374 (now how can I remember that?), one of a large number of such ships which lay in a row along the docks, her enormous bow doors open, beckoning us into her massive belly. After hours of shouting, cursing, arm waving and frustration, we finally earned our turn. Each vehicle had to be backed into the ship, making for a laborious, time-consuming process. But with almost mathematical precision, virtually every square foot of space on the two decks was crammed with vehicles. Since the Battery Commander's vehicle would be the first off the ship in Normandy, Springfield was the last vehicle to board. DeHaven put us in place perfectly with one try.
We joined the other Service Battery members on the top deck. (Don’t recall if there were vehicles and personnel from other batteries aboard 374) to vent our nervousness and observe the endless stream of vehicles being swallowed by the other ships. It was an awesome sight but one we wished ended, now. Cast off! Full speed ahead! Look out, Krauts, here we come!
One of the shipboard places I had to explore was the radio shack. The operator sat at a large table in a comfortable chair, facing an array of transmitters and receivers for both CW and voice. A chromed faucet protruding from a bulkhead dispensed - unbelievable! - HOT COFFEE! Many times in the immediate future I would have occasion to dream of this lucky kids' layout. I should have joined the Navy.
The time of our departure from Weymouth I simply cannot recall, whether it we morning, noon or night. I suspect it was in the early morning darkness; though I have no recall of the ship moving out of the harbor, I have a vivid mental picture of the impressive sight our flotilla made when assembled in the open water. It afforded me a moment of great pride to witness this panoramic display of America's military might, mostly last’s with a sprinkling of cargo ships, each vessel flying a barrage balloon on a long cable.
The water was surprisingly smooth, given the stormy weather which had prevailed so recently. For this we were grateful, as the round bottomed, shallow draft LST's were notoriously unstable in rough seas. Every man was on deck and our last sight of the green fields of England fading over the stern was followed by a long period of silent reflection, more immediate, more profound than any we had experienced on our Atlantic crossing. Never before in our young lives had we faced mortal danger such as we approached now. In the foreign land just over the horizon were desperate men, acknowledged masters of the art of war, who had to kill us to preserve their own lives. Each of us stole glances at the other men and wondered "How many of us will survive? Who will die? Will I be one of the unlucky ones?” With the eternal optimism of youth, each, I'm sure, believed profoundly in his own immortality. My own predominate thought was that I must endure whatever we faced with manly courage - I MUST NOT FAIL THE TEAM!
I was startled out of my ruminations by the sudden realization that the deck under out feet was no longer vibrating -- the engines had stopped! The ship began to lose way and fall out of position in the convoy. The signal lamps began flashing: "You are out of position". "Mechanical problem". "How long to repair?" "Unknown". The convoy continued on without us. LST 374 bobbed around all alone in the U-boat infested English Channel. Instructions were issued to man the guns of all the vehicles on deck. Anxious eyes peered into the sky and over the water. What a choice target we were! Soon, we could distinguish the approaching sound of an engine under full throttle. Bolts were racked in machine-guns; the Navy crew swung the tube of the 5 inch deck gun toward the sound, then the shouted command "Hold your fire, it's friendly". The tiny object on the water rapidly developed into the shape of a PT boat which immediately began describing large circles around us at high speed. We all relaxed a little, unsure how much protection so small a boat could provide but relieved we were no longer alone. I cannot relate how much time elapsed before we felt the deck vibrations again and got under way, accompanied by our friendly protector but, when we again had the convoy in sight, I recall very well the act of respect performed by the PT boat crew: they pulled up close to our ship near the bow, throttled back their engine and saluted, holding the salute until the entire ship had passed.
CHAPTER 9
BLOODY SPEARHEAD
Approaching Omaha Beach on June 23, 1944, evidence of the violence that had occurred there just 17 days before was everywhere. The shattered remains of dozens of ships of various sizes and types, already showing rust, protruded from the shallow waters; portions of the "Mulberry" dock system, destroyed by the storms which had kept the 3rd Armored Division bivouacked in England for days, constituted navigational hazards in shallower water. The beach itself apparently had been very lightly inhabited; what few homes there were had been reduced to rubble; engineer troops had smoothed access roads inland through ground thoroughly churned up by bombs and shells.
Our LST ran her bow up on the sand of Omaha Red Easy beach, opened her bow doors and Captain Robuck's halftrack rolled off into water puddles no more than ankle deep, followed in orderly fashion by the rest of the Battery. Now we could see close up what an impossibly costly exercise an amphibious invasion could be. Some of the immensely strong big gun emplacements had taken innumerable direct hits from naval guns without being penetrated. Others had been blown apart by direct bomb hits. Most had been neutralized with infantry tactics - flamethrowers and grenades. The blasted hulks of every type of war machine familiar to me were strewn about the sand on every side, mute testimony to the savagery of the battle between men for a few yards of sand that had occurred here just a few days before. The concept, and the cost in human lives, of assaulting so heavily defended a position was impossible for me to grasp. Where did those men get the courage, the guts, and the will to accomplish such impossible deeds?
The waters off Omaha Beach, in either direction, were cluttered with anchored ships carrying supplies for troops already ashore. Because docking facilities were non-existent, Army amphibious trucks shuttled between ship and shore in endless numbers, delivering the thousands of tons of supplies necessary to sate the insatiable appetite of a military force of 400,000 men. These fat targets appeared nearly defenseless, with the exception of a few anti-aircraft batteries near the beach and an occasional flight of P-51's, but the German Air Force and Navy were no shows. We had been told to expect little or no enemy air activity and to fire at planes only if the anti-aircraft crews opened up first, but there were many nervous fingers on triggers when any plane appeared. But there were no untoward incidents while we were on the beach.
Forming up to move inland to our assembly area, we could hear the constant rumble of artillery fire ahead and an occasional round from a naval vessel behind us. The naval fire was our introduction to the sound of friendly artillery rounds passing overhead: A distinct rustling sound which, in the months ahead, would become a very comforting sound, indeed.
The Normandy beachhead on June 23 was approximately 7 miles deep at it deepest point and some 20 miles long, so, even at the deepest point, the entire beachhead was within range of German light artillery - 105 mm. As "Springfield" led our long column inland along the French road, we gaped at the continuous numbers of twisted, tortured remains, the detritus of war, machines which had been driven and crewed to that spot by human beings, men of a different country and culture, to be sure, but men like us, whose fate was obvious. Both the American and the German crewmen had died violently on foreign soil.
No amount of training can condition the human mind to accept the thought that suddenly occurred to me as the scenes of brutal devastation continued to unroll: there are half a million Germans out there and they are all going to do their absolute best to kill me. Violent death, in a foreign country. All of my life to this point had been prologue; from this moment on, I stood exposed, naked in a world of such unimaginable, such unspeakable violence. I couldn't truly grasp it. We were not out on maneuvers; this was not a game. This was real - men were being killed at a horrible rate. And I was part of it. Suddenly, my life had been reduced to its lowest, its basest dimension: Kill or be killed. The future was now, this minute, the minute that could be my last. Life, even in this hellhole of war, suddenly became much, much sweeter and precious.
Our assigned area was inland some distance, a measure I can no longer recollect with certainty but probably about three miles. Hundreds of ships were belching up thousands of troops; finding room for all of us on the beachhead must have been a monumental headache for someone. We noted immediately a feature of the Norman landscape that had not been mentioned to us - hedgerows. Not the pretty, low-growing, shaped hedgerows Americans are familiar with; these were like nothing we had ever seen. Normandy farm fields were small - I seriously doubt any were larger than 5 acres. Their method of "fencing" these fields was unique, developed over the centuries, I suppose. A row of dirt 3 to 4 feet high and at least as thick at the bottom formed each side of the field. On top of the row of dirt was planted shrubs and small trees. Total height of the obstacle often reached 8 feet. A man could confidently walk on one side of the hedge knowing he was invisible to, and protected from attack by, anyone on the opposite side.
The rows of fields did not have a common hedge between them. There was a lane between them formed by the hedgerows, permitting access to fields on either side of the lane. These unique hedgerows provided perfect features for defense. Each field became a battleground. There was only one way into each field and the Germans had only to cover the opening to exact an enormous price in lives and blood for even a small gain. And there were thousands of these tiny fields. Of all the possible invasion sites on the entire French coast, the geography made the Normandy coast the easiest, by far, to defend. The German high command must have been delighted.
The abject failure of the Allied High Command to inform the combat units destined to fight in Normandy of the horrendous nature of the formidable defensive geography they would confront and to devise, and train the troops in the use of, equipment to help overcome this lethal situation, is still a mystery to me, despite 50 years of reading and research. To say they didn't know, didn't recognize the hedgerows for what they were, is to credit Military Intelligence with greater stupidity than even they deserve. With all the resources available to them - aerial photography, spies, the French Underground, etc. - they had to know. Which leaves only one conclusion: through the process of some convoluted thinking, they feared devising equipment and training men for fighting in hedgerow country would risk revealing the invasion site to the enemy. This from the same group of men who successfully fooled the Germans into believing the then- nonexistent US Third Army was assembling on the English coast for an invasion of the French Pas de Calais area! These "thinkers", then, casually condemned hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unprepared men to death trying to root the Germans out of those hedgerows in the name of secrecy. That is murder, not military expediency, but murder. The life saving device, invented out of desperation, by combat GI's, not some desk jockey in the Pentagon, the device which finally got us out of the beachhead, was so innocuous in appearance the German High Command wouldn't have figured out what it was intended for if Eisenhower had mailed one to Hitler. If ever there was an oxymoron, Military Intelligence is one.
When we reached our assigned area, we initiated a procedure for getting our unit off the road which we would utilize countless times in the long, hard campaigning that lay ahead - "coiling". The Battery Commanders vehicle, peep or halftrack, depending upon which one he happened to be riding in, left the road, proceeded through the opening in the field, circled the entire perimeter of the field and parked just inside the opening. All vehicles followed in precisely the same manner. If the field was sizable, all vehicles could park, properly spaced, closely parallel to the hedgerow, secure, on one side, from artillery shells or bombs. Smaller fields necessitated some vehicles park in the more exposed center of the area. In this manner, all vehicles were in position to move out quickly, without confusion, still in their proper place in the column.
When all the vehicles had been parked in this first area, without an order being given, every man began, with great energy and enthusiasm, to perform a chore which, until now, had been heartily disliked and often slighted: digging a foxhole. A deep, deep foxhole. The mounds of excavated dirt grew with great rapidity, some to monstrous proportions. The ceaseless crashing of those cannon ahead of us lent emphasis to the realization that we were in the killing zone.
With the security of a hole close at hand, we applied ourselves to the job of removing the water proofing material and equipment from our vehicles, flinching at every unfamiliar sound. Removing it required much less time than applying it had. The entire waterproofing exercise had been an expensive and unnecessary program for troops coming over the beaches as late as the 3rd Armored did.
All vehicles had to be camouflaged, meaning each vehicle had to wrestle with the large, unwieldy camouflage nets. When these housekeeping chores had been completed, Springfield's crew had nothing to do. The radio networks were not open. We had food (field rations), water, gasoline and ammunition of all kinds to last for several days so the Sections responsible for procuring those items were also idle. Gathering in large groups was, wisely, prohibited, but small groups of men gathered and lively discussions of our situation and our observations on what we had observed en route inland from the beach followed. It was a time, for most of us, of nervous tension, when we would have welcomed doing some of our familiar tasks to relieve the tension. It was a time to start getting used to the sounds of war.
Apparently, no fresh food had been brought with us for the kitchen truck did not operate, but Springfield was loaded with field rations. We had "K" rations which were packaged in a waterproof paper container about the size of two cartons of cigarettes. There were cartons for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Each contained individual portions of concentrated or dehydrated or canned food, or all three. It was loaded with calories. There was synthetic orange or lemon juice powder (the only way to supply us with vitamin C in those days), a can, about the size of today's tuna fish can, of a meat product - my favorite was egg yolks and chopped pork. No wonder I've had to have coronary by-pass surgery!), a big, thick, delicious bar of bitter sweet chocolate, so thick you had to gnaw it to eat it, the latest food innovation of the day, the always welcome Nestlé’s instant coffee and various other food stuffs that I no longer recall, all of it edible, some of it very tasty. It could be eaten cold, didn't require heating, but we heated it when we had the facilities to do so. The only items found in every carton: instant coffee and a package of 5 cigarettes. Neither Pancho nor I smoked. I usually gave my cigarettes to DeHaven; Pancho gave his away also.
Forty-two years later, Clarence DeHaven would die of lung cancer. I have suffered pangs of guilt to think that I contributed to this fine man's death with what I thought, at the time, was a generous act.
As for clothing, we wore the standard Army-issue wool winter uniform, for the weather was cool and rainy. It is possible we even wore neckties when we landed in France, for I can remember jokes going around about the 3rd Armored Division having the best-dressed corpses on the battlefield, but if so, we soon abandoned them. We wore, under orders, the cumbersome canvas leggings, the purpose for which I never divined. And, of course, the "pot", or steel helmet over the light weight helmet liner. No grumbling here - everyone wore them without urging, although this would change as time passed. In addition to his personal weapon, each man wore a pistol belt to which was attached extra clips of ammunition for his weapon, a first-aid kit and his canteen with cup. Over his shoulder, in a canvas bag, each man carried a gas mask. It was an extremely awkward piece of equipment to carry; it was impossible to sit down without first removing it from the shoulder; it was bulky and seemingly always hindering free movements. It took about three days for the men to become utterly weary of the thing and soon most of us had stashed them away in our vehicle somewhere and moved around openly without them. There was no word of reproach from our officers; they had dispensed with them, too.
One of the most indelible memories I have of campaigning is of our first night in the killing zone. An unimpeachable, strictly enforced order was that at least one man in each vehicle crew must be awake and alert at all times. With five of us in Springfield's crew, we decided on two-hour shifts. As the light faded from the cloudy sky and the P51's and P47's headed for England and clean sheets, warm food and cold beer, we experienced, with profound trepidation, the first of what would be an almost nightly encounter for the duration, with "Bed Check Charlie", a German plane, or planes, which flew over the area. The tactics varied somewhat but, generally, in the first pass, flares were dropped; on a second run, anti-personnel bombs came whispering down. At times, no bombs followed the flare. The plane was probably taking pictures of the area then. Usually, Charlie had a peculiar rhythm to the engine and became easy to identify.
Charlie's appearance was always greeted with a fabulous display of gunfire from the ground troops. Thousands of guns of all calibers pointed skyward and let loose, even though the plane was unseen. The geyser of tracer bullets fired off traced truly beautiful patterns in the black sky, like a stream of neon water being sprayed from a garden hose. But war had not canceled the law of gravity. Every piece of steel that screamed skyward returned to earth somewhere with lethal velocity. We soon learned to take cover. My favorite place was under the halftrack. No one in our crew ever wasted ammunition on this moronic manner but, with the rapid buildup of forces in the beachhead, the volume of gunfire escalated rapidly, so much so that soon orders came down that only anti-aircraft crews would fire on enemy planes after dark. More injuries were being inflicted by friendly fire than by enemy bombs.
When DeHaven roused me to relieve him on guard duty, the night was pitch black and the pyrotechnics of early evening had long subsided. He commented there had been some small arms firing during his watch that he attributed to nervous trigger fingers firing at sounds. Having slept little myself, I could verify the firing incidents. To avoid the possibility of drawing fire by moving around, I forsook the traditional Army practice of "walking your post", found a comfortable spot in which to stand (I didn't want to risk falling asleep by sitting down) and settled in. We had had no formal instructions about German tactics - did they favor night attacks? - but we knew them to be very aggressive soldiers and I figured we should be ready for any thing. I unbuttoned the flap on my pistol holster and waited. The sky was lit frequently by flickers of artillery fire; occasionally I heard the sound of small arms firing but nothing close by. There was the low murmur of conversation when the guard changed on the vehicle next to ours. Checking the time on my wristwatch, I suddenly became conscious of how bright the luminous dial on the watch was in the dark of night. Sure that some marauding Kraut would spot it and use it as a target, I quickly removed it and placed it in my pocket. In a very short time these nervous fears would seem laughable but they were very real then.
Having survived the night of the great unknowns, I felt much more confident and reassured the next morning to the point where I allowed myself to believe this war was survivable. And I could see my feelings reflected in the face of my comrades.
The days soon became routine. With no radio duties, I had an opportunity to explore the vicinity of our bivouac. Although the signs of ferocious combat were easily discernible, I found no German souvenirs. We had been warned to expect that everything the enemy left behind was booby trapped, so when I spotted a coo-coo clock wedged in the crotch of a tree, I left it strictly alone. I located Otto Buehler and his Gas Section just a couple of fields down from our position and chatted with him whenever he was available. Otto had, I believe, five 6x6 trucks to accomplish his job; each truck with at least a two-man crew - the driver and an assistant driver who doubled as the .50 caliber gunner in those trucks which were equipped with the ring-mounted machine-gun. I don't believe all of his trucks had guns. There may have been a third man in each crew to help load and unload all those 5-gallon cans in which the gas was carried, but I'm not sure about that.
Otto had a couple of loud, tough-talking drivers in his crew, each of whom loomed over him, physically, but, despite his diminutive size and low-key style, he handled them adroitly and, because of the courage, determination, and stamina he displayed throughout our combat days, they soon became fiercely loyal to him, performing a very tough, dangerous and vital job almost flawlessly.
Although most of the Battalion vehicles remained idle in the assembly area, there were enough peeps and light trucks moving around on various errands to require Otto to take a truck and refuel them occasionally. That was the system: vehicles in need of gas didn't come to him; he led his trucks to each Battery and replenished their needs. I quickly came to realize that, once we broke out of the beachhead area, I probably wouldn't see much of him. And that proved to be true.
On June 26, one gun section from "B" Battery fired the first combat rounds for the Battalion - and perhaps for the entire Division, as far as I know - when it was sent forward to fire some support for the 30th Infantry division. But the war really began for the 3rd A.D. on June 29,1944. The entire Division was not yet ashore - the last unit came in on July 4 - but one of our Combat Commands, "A" (CCA), was ordered to assist the 29th Infantry Division in eliminating an enemy salient of some 3000 yards on their front. The tiny French town of Villiards-Fossard was in the salient. There were no more than a half dozen buildings in the town (I would return there 42 years later and it hadn't grown a bit), but two paved roads intersected there and he who possessed the town controlled the roads. At 0945 a coordinated infantry-tank assault was launched, supported by heavy, heavy artillery fire. The 29th was a veteran outfit, having landed on D-Day, but the green troops in the 3rd Armored paid dearly for their inexperience. After the objective was taken on the second day, our losses were counted: 31 tanks, 12 other vehicles, 351 men, a horrendous price for an encounter which even our Division history describes as "insignificant". The costly learning process had begun.
June 29 was also the day I began to contribute to the winning of this bloody struggle, by using the skills acquired in three years of training: All division radio networks opened at 0730. Truthfully, I was delighted to have meaningful work to do. Without the radios, I had no duties to perform, nothing to contribute. I felt in the way; I was just taking up space. Now, I was back in my element, doing what I knew I was good at, brimming with confidence. Although most of the messages coming over the net were administrative matters - truck head for rations at *****, gasoline depot at ******, etc. - and not strategically important, they relieved the boredom I was beginning to feel.
Actually, the 32 or 33 days the Battalion spent in the beach head were routine rather than exciting for HQ Section. The weather was cold, dark, and rainy with only a few days of sunshine interspersed. No enemy shell fell in our area that I can recall. Except for the nightly forays by Bed Check Charlie, who spared us his attention, our crew never felt threatened. But there were several moments that remain vividly in my mind.
Late in June, we had gotten used to the sound of our heavy artillery rounds passing over our heads - a very distinct rustling sound - so we were all paralyzed with fear for just an instant one day at what we heard: an indescribable noise, approaching a roar, perhaps; one we had not heard before. When we recovered our senses, we hit our foxholes. The sound ceased, but was repeated several times that day and on other occasions. We finally learned the sounds originated with a battleship lying off shore, firing its 16-inch guns in support of ground troops operating ahead of us. The projectile weighed 2,000 pounds and must have made an impression on the Germans on the receiving end, although we couldn't hear the explosion.
On or about July 21, an amusing incident occurred. I could hear shouting in the distance that seemed to be coming progressively closer to our position, as though a warning was being passed along. Soon, I could distinguish the word "GAS, GAS", repeated over and over in a frantic voice. Pandemonium broke loose in the area. The hated, and long-discarded, gas mask suddenly became a soldier's most precious possession. But where was it? Articles and items came flying out of the vehicles as crewmembers frantically sought to discover where they had stashed the masks. Relying upon my training as Battery Chemical Warfare NCO, I cautiously sniffed the air but could detect no gas odors. Again, no gas odors. False alarm. But my reassurances didn't allay the panic. Two men came to me, gasping and clutching their throats, exclaiming, "I've been gassed!" I was astonished anyone remembered I was the Gas NCO; it had been so long ago. Eventually, of course, the hubbub subsided but the rediscovered masks remained close at hand for some time to come.
Each artillery battalion in the division (there were three) was equipped with two Piper Cub airplanes, designated by the Army as L-4's. These were single-engine, high-wing, two-seater planes manned by a pilot and an artillery observer. They were used, and very successfully so, for flying above, or close to, enemy lines to spot targets for the guns, ours and those of any artillery unit which might be supporting us. They were slow speed crafts but ideal for the purpose intended. One of our air observers, Lt. Barnes, became the Battalions first casualty, on June 29, when he was shot in the leg by small arms fire when the plane flew too low and too far forward. He wasn't seriously hurt and soon returned to duty. But the incident revealed a weakness in the use of the planes: no protection for the crew. The Maintenance Battalion remedied that by welding armor plate beneath the crew compartments.
There was often a cat and mouse game between the Cubs and German fighter planes but, unless the German could sneak up on the Cub unobserved, the Cub usually evaded the fighter by diving for the deck and wrapping itself around the trees but I seem to recall that we lost one plane to German fighter before the war was over. The greater danger was from enemy artillery when the planes were on the ground. The German ground troops hated and feared the Cubs because of their ability to spot targets over a large area, as compared to an observer on the ground, and they shelled the airstrips at every opportunity, with some success.
Many factors determined the final outcome of the battle for the hedgerow country of Normandy, of course - control of the air, the massive amount of artillery fire the American units could bring to bear, etc. - but the conceived on-the-spot invention of the hedgerow cutter was the key to effective use of tanks and the saving of hundreds of lives. The nature of the hedgerow made tanks impotent. If the tank tried to ram through it, the tank merely climbed up until it was nearly vertical, exposing its belly with its very thin armor of less than a half inch. It could charge through the opening in the field with the certainty the Germans had it covered with an anti-tank gun or infantrymen with Panzerfausts - the deadly German version of our bazooka. Either maneuver was futile and often fatal. Tankdozers - tanks with bulldozer blades attached to the front - were tried with some success but their numbers were limited because of limited availability of the hydraulic mechanisms required and the man-hours required to install them. But, finally, someone in the beachhead, and I've seen at least three different men from three different outfits credited with the idea over the years, came up with a simple, effective, cheap, easy to install, hedgerow cutter. It was basically a fork-like device with long, sharp tines projecting out from the lower front of the tank which, when rammed into the row, very effectively sheared off the roots of the shrubs and trees growing on the ridge of dirt. Without pause, the tank could continue into the field, carrying the section of hedgerow with it. Ironically, many of these devices were constructed from the steel of thousands of underwater obstacles placed in shallow water off the beach by the Germans to impale our landing craft. A monumental effort by the Division's Maintenance Battalion got the needed number of tanks equipped with these ingenious, lifesaving contraptions. Even our own self-propelled artillery carriages were so equipped.
I have returned to Normandy several times, the last time in 1986, and the holes our tanks punched in those brutal hedgerows are still visible.
On July 6, at approximately 1430 hours, an event occurred which I, fortunately, didn't witness but I had a first-hand account from the principal involved, Marlin Winkleman. Winkleman drove a halftrack in the Ammo Section, hauling principally 105mm ammunition. To increase their load capacity for each trip back to the Ammo dump, these halftracks all pulled an armored trailer. I'm uncertain how many rounds this arrangement permitted but certainly must have been well over a hundred rounds. Marlin's crew was up with one of the gun batteries with a full load, standing by to replenish the gun crews ammo stock when needed. Some one in his crew started a cooking fire using the standard WWII armored division method: scoop out a shallow depression in the dirt, fill it with gasoline and touch it off. One problem: the camouflage net over the halftrack caught fire! Everything went. The projectiles weren't fused so they wouldn't explode unless super-heated, but the powder in the cartridges cooked off first and hurled projectiles, parts of the halftrack and trailer and the men's personal possessions to all points of the compass. There were no casualties, fortunately (all foxholes were crowded in short order), a big factor that figured in the investigation that followed. The crew escaped punishment, I believe, although they threatened to take the cost of the destroyed equipment out of Marlin's Technician 5th Grade pay of $58 a month!
The days and weeks of July wore on, any advancing of the front lines in the difficult terrain continuing to extract a heavy price in tanks and infantry for even the smallest gain. The cannons of the 54th pounded away at the enemy almost without interruption in support of our troops - 3645 rounds on July 8, 1560 on July 11 were typical days. With excruciating slowness the American section of the beach head expanded, necessitating several moves by our gun batteries and Service Battery; moves from one scene of devastation to another. Men and equipment continued to pour in over the beaches behind us.
Although progress in the American sector was painfully slow, we were, at least, making some progress. But on the British and Canadian front to the east of us, under Field Marshall Montgomery, there was no progress in the taking of Caen. As his troops had stormed the beaches, Montgomery had bragged "We shall be rattling about in Caen in 24 hours" yet, 24 days - even 50 days - later, he still hadn't taken the town even though the terrain in his area was much more suitable for armored operation than at Omaha Beach. Montgomery was possessed of an insufferable, stubborn arrogance that, at times, tested Eisenhower's patience. He would fight awhile, then stop to "tidy up the battlefield". He would take Caen only after the Americans broke out of the beachhead and put so much pressure on the flank of the Germans defending Caen they withdrew to avoid being encircled.
But no one in the 54th was concerned about Montgomery; we had our own problems. These are some of the entries in the 54th Armored Field Artillery Battalion "Unit Journal", an almost minute-by-minute diary of the Battalion's movements and actions: 8 July,1944 - 0015 hrs. Serv. Btry arrived at T5373. 2300 hrs. Hq. and firing batteries moved across bridgehead at Airel. 1750: Pvt Robert Bisel wounded by enemy artillery fire. Evac to 24th Evac Hospital. 1720 hrs. C Btry Exec vehicle damaged by shellfire. 1730 hrs. Eight aid men sent to 36th Infantry. (The 36th Infantry Regiment was the 3rd A.D.'s own armored infantry). 2100 hrs. Serv. Btry in position at T 4675 11 July 1944. 0650 hrs. Bn. alerted to possible enemy counterattack and penetration of position. Anti-tank and defensive positions set up and manned. 0750 hrs. Hq. and Service Btrys areas shelled. No casualties. 0820 hrs. Hq. and Serv. Btrys areas shelled. Pvt. McAnany wounded and evac. 6 vehicles damaged and disabled - repairing commenced. 2400 hrs. Enemy counterattack repulsed by strong anti-tank action and air support by fighter-bombers. (I have several comments about that last entry. I. Yes, the Krauts did fight at night, a question I had asked myself the first night in Normandy. 2. I don't remember this incident, at all. It's possible the Serv. Btry. referred to encompassed only the Ammo halftracks that were with the guns. My Section may have been in another area, further back. 3. If our dive-bombers came in at midnight, it was the only time in the war. I find this hard to believe.) 17 July 1817 hrs. Serv. Btry moved forward to T 4675. 19 July 2250 hrs. Enemy planes overhead, No attack on Bn area, planes fired on by AAA. 23 July. 2120 hrs. One FW-190 over area, shot down by AAA. (the 190 was a German fighter plane).
By the end of the third week in July, the Omaha Beachhead was straining at the seams with men and equipment. Vehicles were jammed together virtually bumper to bumper, making a juicy target for German artillery and planes. Why the rear areas weren't barraged and bombed is a mystery to me. The enemy must have been encountering a shortage of artillery shells and expended what they had on our front lines. But it was perfectly obvious what the options were: We had to bust out of the area or the high command had to stop pushing men into it. The choice was soon evident. Rumors of a BIG attack began to circulate. Starting about July 21, we received a series of "2 hour alerts", meaning be ready to move out on a 2-hour notice. Each notice would then be canceled for 24 hours. One of these days - - - - - .
It was during this alert period, about 24 July, I believe, that I received a welcome and unexpected visit from one of my radio school days friends, Dan Cooper, operator for the B Battery Commander, Capt. John Watson, called Big John or, more often, Meathead, behind his back, by his men. I noted quickly Dan was not his usual jovial self; he was solemn, obviously concerned. Understandable, of course, the mounting of a big attack against a skillful, stubborn, dug-in enemy should be a time of concern for all involved. But I was astounded when Dan said "Bake, I'm not going to make it through this attack". This steady, intelligent man, not given to irrational fears, this devoutly religious man was saying he was going to be killed in the next few days. I tried, diligently, to allay his convictions but he was adamant. He said, "Meat head is going to get us all killed". Dan, unfortunately, did not have the confidence in his Captain's leadership I had in mine. When we shook hands and said goodbye after almost 2 hours, I had the spooky feeling that maybe Dan was right.
He was. I never saw this fine human being again. On or about August 4, after the breakout, Watson pulled his halftrack into a patch of woods for a short time, contrary to military doctrine which dictates staying out of wooded tracts when in enemy artillery range unless you have a heavily covered foxhole. An artillery shell burst in the tree branches over his head and Dan was struck in the head with shrapnel. He was seriously wounded but was evacuated and eventually returned to the US but with the mind of a small child. He had to learn to speak and read all over again at an agonizingly slow pace. In an effort to improve his ability to learn, he underwent brain surgery at the University of Michigan. He died on the table.
John Watson, himself, would die from enemy artillery fire in October or November of 1944, in Germany. I am unaware of the circumstances of his death, whether the result of some equally foolish action on his part or not.
At 1150 hours on July 24, we received notice that the breakout attempt would begin at 1300 with a massive bombing of enemy lines in front of our Corps, the VII. But the heavy clouds and rain that had plagues our entire operation continued unabated, the limited visibility making accurate bombing impossible. Another delay. But, by 0930 the next day, the clouds had thinned enough to allow the planes to do their work. Never in the history of warfare had such a gargantuan expenditure of air power been used in the assistance of ground operations. And we had a front row seat. The Army Air Corp must have sent over every airplane it had in England. There was some of every type. It started with the fighter-bombers, the P47's and P51's; followed immediately by the twin-engine B26 medium bombers. Next, never before used in such close support of ground troops, came the seemingly endless procession of the heavies - B17's and B24's. Their progress against the sky was an awesome, majestic thing to watch. Slowly, inexorably, with a thunderous roar of engines, they proceeded to the drop zone with perfect, regimented precision. The tons of bombs cascaded from their bellies like a steel curtain; then, with almost regal disdain, they turned for home. By all accounts, there were 1800 to 2000 of the big boys, and, although I didn't witness it, reports were that several were shot down. Our Section was perhaps 3 miles from the bomb area but the impact of the thousands of explosives was so severe as to make the ground tremble under our feet. I recall standing on my toes because standing flat-footed caused my teeth to rattle. A huge pall of smoke soon obscured the target area causing some bombardiers to drop their eggs blindly, some falling in the positions of American troops, resulting in severe casualties among the infantrymen of the 30th Division. Major General McNair, sent over as an observer by Washington, was among the dead.
When the last plane had turned toward the Channel, we expected orders, at any moment, to move out on the attack. Nothing. At 1700, the alert was canceled until 0700, July 26, at which time a one hour alert was imposed. At 0930, that was changed to a 15 minute alert. We mounted up. At 1855 the two-hour alert was re-imposed and would remain so all that night. The 54th's part in this epic event would not begin until the following day, July 27.
One might expect, as I did, that the Army in this situation would throw its greatest exploitation force, the armored division, into the battle the moment the last bomb fell. But that was not the way the Army handled its armor in WWII. They developed their tactics using a football team analogy: The infantry divisions were the big, beefy linemen who moved the enemy aside and opened a hole for the ball carrier, the armored divisions, whose job it was to hit the hole, get into the enemy's rear, raise havoc with his lines of communications and supply, exert great pressure on his flank, force him to retreat or, if possible, encircle him. An armored division was a self-contained, miniature, but powerful, army in itself. It had it's own tanks, infantry, artillery and supporting units - maintenance, supply, communications and medical. It was truly a potent force to be reckoned with. And the 3rd Armored Division was one of the two most powerful armored divisions the Army had.
At the time of the Normandy invasion, there were 16 armored divisions in the Army lineup. Only two of those were "heavy" armored divisions - the 2nd and 3rd. All others were classified as "light". I am unsure of the classification of the 1st Armored but an authoritative source, (Death Traps by Belton Cooper), states it, too, was in the light category. Various historians have stated different reasons to explain why only two divisions of the 16 had the extra muscle of the heavy armored division; the one which seems most logical to me is the one which says, when the decision was made to organize all armored divisions as light divisions, the 2nd and 3rd were too far along in their training to make the switch effectively. This still doesn't explain why the 1st, which had been in training longer than any of us, became a light division. Perhaps Cooper is mistaken in this regard.
The difference in the organizational charts of heavy and light divisions is significant. The light divisions had approximately 11,000 men and 168 medium tanks - the M4 Sherman, while we had about 13,500 men and 232 medium tanks. Each division also had a number of light tanks but, because of their uselessness as a battle tank, they were used primarily as reconnaissance vehicles. The 3rd Armored had permanently attached to it the 703rd Tank Destroyer Bn., the 486th Anti-aircraft Bn. and a battalion of self-propelled 155mm guns - the 991st, if memory serves. These attached troops gave the division a total strength of about 17,000 men and 4,200 vehicles. Had the entire division gotten on the road, in normal march order interval, it would have stretched 150 miles from end to end. This was a division that carried enormous firepower into a battle. This division, about to plunge into the hellhole which was St. Lo, would become the cutting edge, the big hammer, the heavyweight, for the premier VII Corps of the First Army, the Corps and Army to which Eisenhower would assign the toughest objectives in the European campaign.
When deployed in battle, the 3rd Armored Division moved out with two "Combat Commands" (CC"A" and CC"B") abreast and one in reserve (CC"R"). Each combat command consisted of an armored reconnaissance company, two tank battalions, an armored infantry battalion, an armored field artillery battalion, an armored combat engineer company, an ordinance maintenance company, a medical company and a supply company. In addition, each combat command had an allotment of tank destroyer and anti-aircraft troops. The roles of the combat commands were interchangeable; CCA might be in reserve with CCR in the line or all three might be in the line, depending upon the circumstances. The combat commands themselves were divided into task forces, usually two. During daylight hours, each task force had available four P47 fighter-bombers under the direct control of an Air Force liaison officer who rode in the lead halftrack with the task force commander. We soon came to cherish these stubby, sturdy planes with their 500-pound bombs which did such a magnificent job of protecting our exposed flanks when we penetrated deep in the enemy's rear.
The front of the division could vary from a few hundred yards to as much as 20 miles, depending upon the terrain and the mission. We carried enough fuel, food, ammunition and other supplies to sustain ourselves for about 3 days. Our mission was to drive as rapidly as possible to our objective; leaving any resistance we couldn't quickly overcome to be cleaned up by the infantry divisions coming up in the next few hours or few days. These bypassed "hot spots" often became major concerns for Otto Buehler's Gas trucks or the Ammo sections when they had to travel the road back for supplies.
Although the infantry divisions had no tanks of their own, to my knowledge, they usually had tank battalions assigned to them. These battalions were not an integral, organic part of any division; they were used wherever needed. This arrangement had one glaring weakness: the tank battalions had had no training in working with infantry; the lack of smooth coordination between the two units often resulted less than effective operations, at the least, or unnecessary losses, at the worst. The 3rd Armored Division, on the other hand, with an entire regiment of infantry in its organizational chart, had developed that coordination to a science. We would team up with some of America's best infantry divisions - the 1st, the 9th, the 30th, to name a few, - in future crucial battles.
At 0700, 27 July, the Battalion moved out. The bombed area resembled a moonscape; the city of St. Lo was 90% destroyed; the roads and the entire landscape were so pitted as to be almost impassable, even for tracked vehicles. To my great surprise, we learned from the infantry troops we were passing through that enough German soldiers had survived the unprecedented storm of bombs that had been unleashed upon them to put up stiff resistance. How incomprehensible, that a human being could survive such a pounding at all and still retain enough spirit to mount a defense! Such was the quality of the men we must destroy.
Once clear of the rubble of the bombed area, we made good progress and remained in action until 2300 hours when we bivouacked and set up defensive positions for the night. The Battalion had suffered no casualties that day. 28 July was a repetition of the previous day. The column moved forward, then stopped, and moved forward again. When the retreating Germans turned to fight, we could hear the crashing of tank fire and the roar of our own cannons. The Battery Commanders Section tagged along at the rear of the column, alert for air attacks (which didn't materialize in daylight) and sniper fire from bypassed Krauts. That night, while in bivouac, part of the Battalion area was hit by anti-personnel bombs; one man was killed and four wounded.
The next 6 weeks would be days of almost constant movement; days of some confusion; days melding together to the extent that, now, it's difficult to distinguish one from another. Yet, they were days of enormous historical significance. The 3rd Armored Division would be instrumental in the destruction and defeat of a large part of German 7th Army, driving the enemy through 3 countries and bringing the war to the threshold of Hitler's homeland. I have vivid memories of some of those days and, with the aid of the 54th Armored Field Artillery Battalion's Unit Journal, I will endeavor to reconstruct others.
First, an attempt should be made to put the lie to the gross misrepresentation of history that has persisted for more than 50 years: General George S. Patton and his mighty Third Army did not achieve the breakout from the Normandy beachhead. Patton's army was not committed to action until August 1,1944. On that date the First Army, led by the VII Corps and the 2nd and 3rd Armored Divisions, was deep in the German's rear, inflicting great punishment upon all in their path. When turned loose, Patton's armor did make some spectacular advances, but that was because the First Army's hard fought gains had drawn all of Hitler's combat forces to our front. General Omar Bradley, in his book a General's Life, states that Eisenhower, when informed that Patton was advancing 40 or 50 miles a day, replied "Great. But let's see what he does when he meets some resistance".
On August 4, Service Battery suffered it's first Killed in Action when Eddie Novak, a Sergeant in the Bn. Maintenance Section, went down when we were hit by a swarm of "Screaming Meemies", German rockets. The only dead bodies I had seen up to this point all wore German uniforms; now, the full meaning of war was brought home. People you knew, people you liked and called friend, die.
August 7,1944, became a day on which the entire battle for Normandy was decided. The 54th was part of CCB, the leading elements of which had taken the town of Mortain on August 6. Hq. Section was tagging along far in the rear, accompanied by our usual retinue - Btry Supply section, Btry Maintenance section, the kitchen truck and any sections - the Rations section or the Gas section - which had picked up a full load and traveled with us while waiting for orders to move up and re-supply the rest of the Battalion. After clearing Mortain, the entire Combat Command had pressed eastward in an attempt to encircle the German VII Army - all, that is, except the "trains", composed of the service components, like my Battery, of the line units in the Combat Command. Just after dark, we received orders to coil off the road in the vicinity of Mortain and wait for further orders. We bivouacked in a sizable field (the farm fields in this region were larger. Vestiges of the Normandy hedgerows still remained but they were not as formidable as those in the beachhead area).
Surprisingly, we remained in the area all night. Daylight of the 7th revealed a heavy ground fog. We soon became aware of the strangely muffled sounds of battle near us - cannon fire, probably tanks, the sound of vehicles not familiar to us, then the unmistakable ripping noise of German machine-guns and Burp guns. My god! We were in the front lines! Hitler, in his unpredictable manner, had ordered a counterattack and had chosen Mortain as the place. A glance at the map of France will reveal his purpose. The objective was to break through our position and re-capture the town of Avranches, on the coast. If successful, the move would cut the supply lines for the Third Army and some of the First Army and threaten all the troops still in the beachhead area. When the strength of the German attack became apparent, CCB reversed course and came roaring back to shore up the defenses. We were then attached to the 30th Infantry Division which had taken part in the capture of Mortain but had remained behind to mop up in the area.
Much of the ground was soft and even swampy, making it difficult for our tanks to maneuver, whereas the Kraut tanks, because of their wider tracks, seemed to be able to move about easily. For 5 days, extremely heavy fighting ensued, with the outcome in doubt. As for Service Battery, we prepared to fight. We had dug foxholes the previous evening; we checked our 50-caliber machine-gun and ammunition broke out the bazooka and rounds for it, loaded our pockets with hand grenades, prepared to deploy our land mines but Captain Robuck deferred that. Because of the muffling effect the fog had on sounds, we couldn't ascertain from which direction the main attack was coming. The kitchen truck pulled a 57mm anti-tank gun. Robuck placed that where it could cover most of the field. We got into our holes and waited for what was to come. Slowly, the fog dissipated and by midmorning had disappeared completely. Clearly, the fighting was moving north of our position. We had been on the periphery of a savage struggle and had not seen an enemy soldier or vehicle or fired a shot. Miraculous! As I recall, word came later that day that the road was clear and we pulled out of there and left the fighting to those equipped to do it.
The battle around Mortain has been given scant attention by historians but it was a key to the whole Normandy campaign and as bloody a fight as any of the many in which the 3rd Armored Division would participate. Ironically, the Unit Journal treats the event lightly: " --- the enemy attempted a breakthrough at Mortain, headed for Avaranches. This unit was not affected, however, having been given another mission - the closing of the Falaise gap from the south".
I no longer can recall the exact date of the incident I am about to relate but it probably occurred in the first week of August, during the great flurry of action following the breakout. It was near the town of Garrone, I seem to recall. Robuck was leading our column up a blacktop road when I received a message that ordered our entire column off the road to permit another armored unit to pass through on their way up to assist our combat elements in a developing fight ahead. We followed our usual procedure of coiling in fields off the highway. We were still waiting for the reinforcing units to appear when a farm wife emerged from a nearby home and approached "Springfield". She began jabbering excitedly, in French, of course. I had studied the French language for two years in high school, doing very well in the class, but, until recently, had had little opportunity to use it; consequently any skill I had achieved in the language had deteriorated badly. DeHaven kept asking "What's she saying, Bake?” I replied that, as near as I could tell, she said there were six Germans under the large tree in the wheat field across the road. DeHaven, ever gung-ho, said "Any two Yanks can take six Krauts anytime, Bake. Let's go get'em". He picked up his rifle, told Pancho to cover us with the .50 caliber and, leaving Root to man the radios, we crossed the road. It should be noted here that the French word for Six is "Six", pronounced "Cease" while their word for ten is Dix", pronounced "Deece".
The wheat in the field was tall, well above the knees and was nearly ripe. The large tree she referred to was an apple, showing a good crop of green fruit. We had proceeded but a few yards into the field when a group of German soldiers rose up out of the wheat near the tree. More than six, easily! I knew immediately that I had mistaken the woman's "deece" for "cease". Two of us against ten of them! And I had only a pistol! Anticipating a hail of bullets coming our way, I was stunned when the entire group turned and ran for the hedgerow, perhaps 25 or 30 yards away. DeHaven fired his rifle once but no one went down. We set out in rapid pursuit. There were two small openings, some distance apart, in the hedgerow. The Krauts split into two groups, most of them heading for the opening on the right, three of four going to the left. DeHaven chased those on the right; I pounded after those on the left. At the hedge, it suddenly occurred to me that going through that hole could cost me my life; those Krauts would be waiting on the other side, their weapons trained on the opening. Even with all the emotions tumbling through my mind, my brain recorded the distant sound of running water. There must be a creek beyond the hedgerow. As I hesitated with indecision, another member of the Battery came charging up, having heard DeHaven's shot. Harry Kochan was from Saginaw, Michigan. And Harry Kochan was carrying a Tommy gun, the ideal weapon for this situation. I told him "You have the Tommy gun, Harry; you go through first and I'll try to cover you". No deal. "OK, take my pistol and give me the Tommy gun and I'll go first". Uh-Uh. To hell with it! With my pistol in my hand, I dove through the hedge head first, expecting I knew not what. I was surprised to discover myself sliding down a brush-covered slope toward a creek. I managed to hang on to my pistol and get my feet pointed down hill; I slid into the creek with water just over my ankles. Relieved I was still alive, I surveyed my surroundings. The shallow creek was about 7 or 8 feet wide at that point; the opposite bank was 2 to 3 feet high - - and standing there, looking down at me, was the biggest German soldier I had ever seen or imagined! With his steel helmet and long overcoat and his position on the bank above me, he appeared to me to be ten feet tall. But he had his hands up! He had no weapon visible but he had a small, round object clutched in his right hand, an object that could easily have been a German concussion grenade. And both his coat pockets seemed stuffed with objects about the same size. Fear and indecision immobilized me: Was the grenade in his hand armed? I couldn't remember how their concussion grenade worked. If he dropped it, I'd never get out of the creek in time to avoid the explosion. Where were the other Krauts? I finally got my act together and motioned for him to back up away from the bank to give me room to climb out. He didn't move; he talked. Conversation was not what I wanted. After repeated gestures with my gun, he got the message. I climbed out of the creek, turned him around and searched him. The round object in his hand was a green apple! And his pockets were full of the same commodity. He had no weapon. Shorn of his coat and helmet, I could see he was very young, surely no more than 18. And obviously pleased to be taken prisoner.
He and his comrades had probably been cut off from his unit and were living off the land. Green the apples might be but they provided sustenance to a hungry young man. I marched my prisoner back over the route I had come. The road was now clogged with vehicles moving up and we had to wait a few moments to cross. The unit on the road was the 5th Armored Division, fresh off the boat. And they were wearing ties! They stared at me and the German with fascination, so I put on an act for them. I was the tough, combat-wise veteran who had just bested one of the best Hitler had to offer. When one of them hollered to ask if he was "SS". I just nonchalantly waved it off. They had no way of knowing this was the closest I had been to a live Kraut.
After crossing the road and entering our area, I was approached by one of our officers, 1st Lt. Sam Couch. Couch's presence in Service Battery was a mystery to me then and still is to this day. I don't know where he came from or when he joined the Battery. He was not on the Personnel roster for the Battery for December, 1943, in England, for I have the roster. I first recall him in the Normandy beachhead. Couch was not a brave man. Few of us were, truthfully, but his behavior bordered on cowardice. He dug the deepest foxholes in the Battery - and many of them. If the column paused for just the shortest time on the road, Sam started digging. Before we reached the German border, our crew was calling him "Foxhole Sam" in his presence. His name will be mentioned again later in this narrative.
Couch stopped me and said "Corporal, I'll take charge of the prisoner". The man evoked such revulsion in me that I nearly lost it. I swung my .45 to point right into his face and replied "You'll ------, too, Sam. I'm turning him in myself". I handed the kid over to Robuck who ordered his peep driver to take him back to the nearest PW cage. Mine was the only prisoner Service Battery took that day. I can remember thinking that I had now repaid the Army for the cost of my training. Now, because we outnumbered the Germans, if every American soldier took one German prisoner, the war would be over.
While the trains and elements of Service Battery were engaged at Mortain, the rest of the 3rd Armored Division had charged ahead and spearheaded the drive to bag the German 7th Army by linking up with the British and Canadians near the town of Falaise. Because he feared exactly what was now happening, encirclement, von Kluge had reduced his forces before Caen to the point where Montgomery considered it an acceptable risk to advance, which he did, with Eisenhower urging him on, and pointed south toward Falaise. American forces fighting up from the south succeeded in reaching their assigned positions and were ordered to hold at that point to avoid the risk of an exchange of fire between them and the British purportedly approaching from the north. But Montgomery, with his penchant for caution and complaining his forces were greatly outnumbered, was, predictably, behind schedule. Meanwhile, the German army was retreating at maximum speed across the front of the American troops. They were pounded without mercy and non-stop with every weapon in the American arsenal, including dive-bombers. Tank battled tank, often at ranges of 25 yards. What would have, and should have, been a total defeat for the entire German 7th Army became something less than that because of Montgomery's ineffective leadership.
My Section was some 8 to 10 miles from the scene but friends who participated in the slaughter found it difficult to describe the carnage inflicted upon the Germans.
Shortly after August 9, 1944, we learned our Division Commander, Major General Leroy Watson, had been relieved of his command. No explanation for this action was offered at the time and none of my research in the intervening years has produced any. Eisenhower failed to mention it in his book, Crusade in Europe; our own Division history mentions it only in passing. Bradley states in his book that Lt. General Joe Collins, the dynamic leader of Bradley's VII Corps, informed him, Bradley, of his intentions to replace Watson. Bradley indicates he disagreed with Collins but declined to interfere with Collins' decision, nor did he expound on the reasons for Collins' dissatisfaction. Although Watson had been our Division commander for two years, I, personally, had formed no strong feelings, of any kind, about the man. We never saw him except in formal reviews. He seemed aloof, not the kind of officer you could expect to see walking down the Battery street. His efforts at motivation were, in my opinion, abysmal. His written attempt at cheer leading, a copy of which each man in the Division received as he boarded the LST in England, was juvenile in the extreme: "Teamwork will win - - - - hit the German hard - - - fight, fight, fight - - - ". He failed to mention Mother and apple pie. In fairness to the man, he was later given command of an infantry division and, apparently, performed satisfactorily.
Our new commander was Major General Maurice Rose, a soldier who understood the difference between commanding and leading. This man led, an admirable attribute that would later cost him his life. Rose was the son of a Denver rabbi and had a distinguished record as a combat command commander with the 2nd Armored Division in both Africa and France. He had all the attributes necessary for a great armored commander: infinite knowledge of armored tactics, innovative thinking, the ability to create a stout sense of loyalty among all his men and steely-eyed courage, to mention only a few of the qualities he brought to the Division. I saw the man only once, and that from a distance of several hundred yards, yet I felt I knew him. He reflected great credit to the 3rd Armored Division and to our country.
On August 16, a fella named Swayze, from HQ. Battery, with whom I had gone to radio school, was killed in the Falaise battle when the Forward Observer (FO) tank (there were several in HQ. Battery for that purpose) in which he operated was knocked out by anti-tank fire and burned.
At least two Service Battery members were wounded in August. Benny Futch, in one of the Ammo Sections, I believe, was lightly wounded but soon returned to the Battery. The Bn. Ammo Officer, 1st Lt. Lyle Van de Walker was shot through the ankle by a Kraut soldier hiding under a truck. He never returned to the Battery.
By 1700 hours August 18, the Falaise battle was essentially over, the mopping up operations left to the infantry. Our Division was pulled back a short distance and promised a 48-hour period of maintenance and rest. (This established a practice which would continue for 8 more months: a "rest area" was anyplace out of range of small arms fire but within easy range of artillery shells.) The weather had improved greatly with sunny skies and warm temperatures. The crews could grease and clean up their vehicles without contending with mud. After the first priority, vehicle maintenance, had been accomplished, Springfield's crew turned to cleaning up their long-unwashed persons. From some ruined house, Joe King had scavenged a large cooking pot in which we could heat water over our hole-in-the-ground gasoline fire. The luxury of a hot water shave was much appreciated. We stripped and removed as much of the accumulated dirt and stink as we could with a washcloth. Most appreciated, though, was the fact that our kitchen truck was in operation and hot food was available three times a day. The Mess Sergeant, named Vanought, was a master with powdered eggs; he could make this formerly despised item taste like a fresh egg omelet. And the coffee! Gallons of it.
Greatly refreshed, and contemplating what the Germans might have left to throw at us, we picked up our tracks shortly after noon on August 21, pointed east. The route we would follow had previously been partially cleared by Third Army units of any Krauts who had not been committed to the Falaise battle. By 2200 hours, when we bivouacked, we had traveled 91 miles. Long marches of this nature just added to the workload of our Gas, Rations and Ammo Sections. The truck heads for these supplies did not move up every time the lead elements did, so a march of 90 miles added a total of 180 extra miles to every round trip they had to make. Otto Buehler and his Gas Section were especially burdened by these movements. None of the 200 or so vehicles in the 54th were engineered for maximum gas mileage and satisfying their insatiable appetite for gasoline was an almost impossible job at times. Although I seldom saw Otto, and then only briefly, his fatigue showed in his face. I felt truly sorry for him.
By 2100 hours on the night of August 25, we were on the banks of the Seine River, near Melun, some 20 miles south of Paris, another 75 miles from our position of August 21. We were out of Normandy, in good tank country and our forward elements were already across the river, driving east. But before we leave the battle of Normandy behind, I want to relate two more incidents that occurred to me there.
The exact date escapes me but we had pulled into a bivouac area late one afternoon and told we would, in all likelihood, remain there for the night. After preparing the usual nighttime defenses, DeHaven and I surveyed the area. Directly across the road from our position was a farmhouse into which, we could observe, a few G.I.s were drifting. Assigning Root to handle the radios, DeHaven and I walked over to the deserted house. Inside the barn we found a sizable gathering of 3rd A.D. soldiers quaffing copious quantities of hard Normandy cider from a large wooden cask. We promptly joined in. We found it's quality so good, I returned to the halftrack, dumped the water out of a 5-gallon can, carried it to the barn and filled it with the good stuff. By the time we returned to the Battery, well after dark, DeHaven and I were in such a state of inebriation that, between the two of us, we could barely manage to carry our can of cider. It was then I committed a stupid, drunken error that contradicted all my training and could easily have cost me my life.
Craving sleep, I unrolled my bedroll, not up close to the halftrack, but some distance from it, perhaps 15 feet, in the standing wheat that covered the field. Dangerous? You bet! I could easily have been run over by any one of the vehicles that drove into or out of the field without use of headlights that dark night. I escaped that fate, in part, probably, because of a German pilot who was trying to kill us all. Sometime during the night I was roused from a drunken stupor by Roy Root shaking my shoulder. "Bake, they are bombing down the road! You better get in your hole". I angrily told him to "let those guys down the road worry about it", and went back to sleep. How much time elapsed I don't know, but I was next awakened by a thunderous explosion that shook the ground on which I lay and a geyser of flames which lit up the night sky. Blue balls of flames danced all over the field. We had been bombed. Instantly sober, I dove under the halftrack. Shortly, we heard voices calling "We need help over here!" Springfield's whole crew ran across the field, skirting a big bomb crater. One of the crewmembers, John Kowal, of the big wrecker truck had been buried in his foxhole when a bomb struck on the opposite side of the hedgerow from his hole, rolling it over him. We dug him out, filthy dirty but unhurt. At daylight, we determined two bombs had been dropped in our field, 500 pounders, judging from the size of the casing fragments we found. Fragments sheared off limbs from a large maple tree, one of them about 6 inches in diameter, as easily as a chain saw. The rain-softened ground probably saved my life, allowing the bomb to penetrate deeply before detonating, thus funneling most of the force upward, rather than out.
Also in Normandy another incident occurred which involved Captain Robuck and a sudden, although temporary, change in my relationship to him. It was raining heavily, and had been for several days, when we pulled into a field to bivouac for the night. Because of the wet weather, we had been operating with the canvas up on Springfield to protect the radio equipment. What little sleep I had gotten since the break out had been taken in the halftrack because of the bad weather but sleeping comfortably in the vehicle was impossible because the restricted space would not permit stretching out fully. Despite the rain, I determined I would put up a pup tent and try to catch some quality rest, stretched out. Root helped me put up the tent, then retired to Springfield to take his shift on the radios. I looked around for something with which to cover the sodden ground before unrolling my bedroll. The field we were in had grown a crop of wheat that had been cut and shocked. Every tent which had been erected in the field was sporting a thick layer of wheat under the bedrolls, including the First Sergeant's and Robucks. I quickly scoured the field for shocks of wheat, found two and, with one under each arm, was returning to my tent with visions of sweet sleep when I encountered Robuck in front of his tent. Normally, this was no cause for trepidation as I had great respect for the man and enjoyed what I felt was a good relationship with him. But he stopped me. "What are you doing with that wheat, Cpl. Baker?” "I intend to spread it in my tent, Sir". "If you use this wheat for bedding, what are these people going to eat this winter? Put it back". I was astounded. Gesturing around at the other tents, I said "But, Sir ------ !" He interrupted, angrily, "Put it back - - now!" I put it back - and got very little rest in cramped quarters with three other guys in the halftrack.
Robuck's actions were a mystery to me at the time; they were so uncharacteristic of him that I was concerned that I had committed some offense which displeased him, something which would cause permanent harm to our smoothly working commanding officer - enlisted man relationship. Those fears were unjustified. His attitude toward me was perfectly normal the next day. But months later, in Germany, abrupt, and unexplained, changes in his demeanor toward me would occur as temporary aberrations. I was too cowardly to broach the subject to him at the several meetings we had long after the war.
One more incident in Normandy comes to mind, the exact date of which I do not recall - early August, most likely. Because the action was so fluid with task forces fanning out to the east, northeast and southeast, there was great danger of being bombed and strafed by our own air forces. In anticipation of this possibility, each vehicle had been issued a large, foldable, florescent panel, about 2x6 feet, which we displayed prominently on the bedroll rack on the rear of Springfield. On the day in question, we had pulled into a field where we promptly dug foxholes and prepared for any eventuality. Word soon was passed that we might be there for the night so small cooking fires were started, faces were washed in helmets filled with cold water; one man was even having his hair trimmed by the Battery's unofficial barber. Then it happened. A flight of British Hurricane fighters came over our position, looked us over, wheeled around and dove on us, unleashing a barrage of rockets. Every one hit the nearest hole. I landed in a hole with Root; DeHaven was several holes down. Somebody screamed in pain. Through the smoke of the explosions, the planes could be seen climbing our, turning and preparing to expend their remaining rockets on us. Pancho's nerves deserted him; he leaped out of his hole to start running along the hedgerow. I yelled at him to get down and tried to trip him as he raced by. He was mindlessly terrified. DeHaven heard me yelling, saw the danger Pancho was exposing himself to and acted. He laid a perfect tackle on Pancho and dragged him into his hole just as the British made their second run. When we were certain the Limeys were headed for home, we all ran to find the guy who was still screaming for help. It was the barber. He had flopped into his foxhole with his scissors in his hand and the fall had driven the blades into his chest. The medics soon arrived and patched him up. He was evacuated but soon returned to the Battery. I believe he was the only casualty, although some vehicles were damaged. The .50 caliber ammo rack on Springfield was torn partially off and a can of ammo damaged. We were very, very lucky.
CHAPTER 10
TOUR DE FRANCE - - AND BELGIUM
On August 26,1944, we crossed the Seine River on a pontoon bridge. The enlisted men in my section were all thoroughly disgusted that we hadn't been allowed to march into Paris. By standing up on the halftrack, we could see the tallest buildings of the city. The Germans had declared it an open city. It was like ripe fruit, waiting to be picked, but the High Command ordered hands off. French troops were to be allowed to make the grand entrance. The nearest French troops were 36 hours behind us - the French 2nd Armored Division, I believe.
Once across the river, it was a new war. Because all the bridges were destroyed, enemy forces were given time to bring up reinforcements and regroup while our engineers put new bridges across. As our five armored columns swung northeast, the leading elements met resistance almost immediately. But the weather now was hot, dry and dusty, and we no longer had to contend with thick hedgerows, so our tanks, despite their many deficiencies in fighting qualities, could give a better account of themselves. After stiff fighting, several holes were punched through the German lines and the Division poured through. On the 27th, we crossed the historic Marne River where the French and British stopped the German advance toward Paris in WWI. We slept a few hours one night at the edge of a woods at Chateau-Theirry, another WWI battlefield where the fathers of some of us had fought in commendable fashion some 26 years before. Undulations in the fields marked the location of the trenches of that battle and shell craters were still visible in the forest. I can still visualize in my mind the German plane that scouted our position that night. The moon was so bright and it flew so low the German crosses under its wings were easily visible. It dropped neither flares nor bombs.
By midnight of August 28, we had traveled 90 miles since crossing the Seine. We were rolling again. In the village of Brainse, near Soissons, at 2030 hours that day, B Battery of the 54th encountered a train, just pulling out of the station, loaded with 4 Tiger tanks on flat cars and about 20 other freight cars, including a caboose with four 20mm anti-aircraft guns mounted on the top. The German tanks were manned and immediately took the column under fire, knocking out the lead tank in the column. Someone quickly put a round through the locomotive's boiler that blew up and stopped the train. B Battery fired a total of 91 105mm rounds, knocking out all four Tiger tanks and setting the entire train afire. B Battery suffered no casualties. Other task forces of the 3rd A.D. destroyed two more trains that day.
Our objective for August 29 was Sedan and, against moderate resistance, some advance elements were 30 miles into the drive by 1300 hours when new orders arrived at Division Headquarters: Change your axis of advance from due east to north; strike for Mons, Belgium. What followed was an incredible feat of military skill and precision. Word had to be passed to every unit by radio; those elements engaged with the enemy would expose their flanks to the enemy when diverting from east to north. By 1430 hours, or 90 minutes later, the entire Division had made the move and was again attacking. (Months later, in the Ardennes campaign, Patton would brag that he redirected the attack of 3 divisions in 24 hours - and everyone applauded.) A glance at the map of France will reveal the strategy in the order to advance on Mons with all possible speed. The Canadian and British armies, after frustrating weeks at Caen, were driving up the coast of France on a wide front. Conceding the fight for the Channel ports, the Germans were withdrawing their forces to the east in search of better defensive positions, perhaps as far as their vaunted Siegfried Line. The city of Mons was the hub of a large road network. Armored and mechanized columns wishing to move rapidly would, almost certainly, pass through the city. The 3rd A.D. had been ordered to get there first and cut off their escape route. It would be a close race.
For some time, our stalwart driver, Clarence DeHaven, had been fretting that he was missing all the action. He had heard stories of all the hair-raising encounters the Ammo, Gas and Rations sections had to deal with when, on their long trips back to the truck heads, they were ambushed by by-passed enemy units. He decided to ask the Battery Commander if he could swap places with a driver in one of those sections for a short time. He preferred the Gas Section but they drove trucks, as did the Rations Section, while he was qualified as a halftrack driver only. That left only the Ammo Section. Robuck gave his permission, if Clarence could find someone to swap with. The deal was for 10 days only, I believe. Clarence made a swap with a weary Ammo driver, Al Kenworthy, and happily departed, eager to see war at its ugliest, unaware he would miss some of the hottest action our little section would encounter in combat.
Clipping off 40 or 50 miles a day in a virtual rout, our column hammered north. By nightfall on August 31, we were just a few miles south of the Belgian border. In those 31 days the Battalion suffered 48 casualties - 5 officers, 43 enlisted men - punished German forces with 26,079 rounds of 105's and traveled 512 miles. A large portion of France had been cleared of the Boche. Another country to conquer lay just over the border.
The Division, closely supported by the 1st Infantry Division, launched a 6-column drive towards Mons on Sept. 1. Our leading elements crossed into Belgium at 1600 hours Sept. 2, against stubborn rear-guard action and by nightfall was on the objective - the high ground west of Mons. We coiled in a field some 3 or 4 miles south of Mons for the night. We had orders to put up camouflage nets and we all dug in. The early evening air was soon filled with the sounds of a battle neither of the opponents expected. Tank cannons thundered, field artillery added their authoritative voices to the serenade. Soon, the yammering of machine-guns signaled that the fighting had closed to short range. The B.C. supervised the establishment of a roadblock consisting of a quadruple .50 caliber A.A. halftrack, several other halftracks with .50 calibers and a couple of guys dug in with bazookas, on the highway near our position. Miraculously, we were undisturbed most of the night, until just before dawn, a German halftrack, loaded with troops, charged down the road into the roadblock and was quickly riddled with bullets in a spectacular display of firepower. As the sky brightened, we were subjected to a short barrage of mortar rounds. All landed in open areas, inflicting no casualties or damage. I hated mortars. Unlike artillery rounds, they didn't signal their arrival with whistles or screams; they were just, suddenly, there, exploding and killing. In instances when the enemy position was close enough, one could here a distinctive cough sound as the shell exited the tube.
At dawn, Robuck climbed into his peep and took off up the road without indicating where he was going or for how long. Although the unmistakable sounds of battle could still be clearly heard, the fighting didn't seem to be any closer to our position than the previous night and our area had returned to quiet. I told Joe King it might be a good time to make some coffee; he agreed and started a gasoline fire (at a safe distance from the camouflage net), and began boiling coffee. Suddenly, he ducked under the net and huddled close to the vehicle, exclaiming he had been shot at. I convinced him he was mistaken and he resumed his job. But I watched him and, shortly, observed a bullet kick up dirt not far from his feet. And almost immediately after, one of the men enlarging his foxhole had the shovel shot out of his hands. Snipers! Some 600 or 700 yards north of us was a one-street settlement of no more than 10 buildings on a road that intersected the highway up which we had traveled. The shots appeared to be coming from that direction. The corporal in charge of the A.A. vehicles attached to us directed the crew of the gun that had manned the roadblock to proceed to the village and flush out the snipers. On a whim, I jumped in the passenger seat beside the driver. Aware of the limited usefulness of a .45 caliber pistol in this situation, I pulled the drive'rs Tommy gun out of its rack. Because the windshield and other accouterments would not allow the gun muzzles to be depressed to the horizontal position with the vehicle going forward, the crew elected to back down the street. With the driver slowly backing the vehicle down the street, the gunner swept the street and buildings with a hail of steel. The buildings were all constructed of stone or masonry so the slugs didn't penetrate, only knocked chips and chunks out of the exterior walls and blew out windows. But several of the buildings had thatched roofs and the tracer bullets promptly set them ablaze. As the fire spread, the driver paused to see who ran out into the street. A few civilians bolted from doorways but no snipers. Then one of the most fearsome apparitions I have ever witnessed appeared on the scene: a large bull, complete with great curving horns, blood flowing in copious amounts from his nose and exploding in a scarlet mist as he exhaled, came charging down the street at us. The totally demented animal had apparently been chained with a ring in his nose which tore out in his efforts to free himself from his burning quarters. The gunner was indecisive about shooting the animal but desisted. Blind with fear, the bull nearly collided with our vehicle. The snipers escaped our wrath but our area received no more sniper fire that day.
I had only just returned to Springfield when Robuck's peep raced into the area, skidded to a halt. The B.C. wasn't in it. His driver, Barney Rapp, a fella from Detroit, yelled that Robuck wanted us to bring the halftrack forward immediately. "Don't fool around with folding up the net. Just dump it and come on!” he ordered. We hastily threw equipment into the vehicle and followed Rapp out to the road. He led us up the highway for some distance, perhaps two miles, then into a sugar beet field. We climbed up the reverse slope of a ridge, at right angles to the road, which dominated the area. On top of the ridge was an assortment of Service Battery men and vehicles. The kitchen truck was there. They pulled a 57mm anti-tank gun and it obviously had been in action. The muzzle was pointing down the forward slope of the hill toward a 2 or 3-acre patch of woods. Empty shell casings had been tossed aside. There was an M4 tank that, I was informed, was one of the Battalion's F.O. tanks that had been sent back to Service Battery for unspecified repairs. It was manned by men from our Battalion Maintenance Section. It carried no ammo for the 75mm cannon but the .30 and .50 caliber machine-guns were operable. A halftrack from the Maintenance Section was also present. The dominant presence, however, was a halftrack from the 486th Anti-aircraft Bn., this one mounting twin .50 calibers and a 37mm cannon. There may have been other vehicles there but I no longer recall their numbers or types. With the arrival of Springfield's crew, our numbers on the ridge were approximately 45 or 50 men.
The situation was this: in the woods at the foot of the slope, some 600 yards distant, was a group of German paratroopers, variously estimated to number 200 to 400 men. The true number was never ascertained but, like all men facing combat, we were certain we were outnumbered. To our left about a quarter mile, the main highway cut through the ridge. Beyond the highway was flatter, open country and from the advantage of our height, we could see numerous firefights being fought. There was no front line; it was simply a melee. As disorganized groups of Krauts blundered into our columns, little battles broke out.
To our right, perhaps 100 yards, was a railroad track running parallel with the highway. After cutting through the ridge, the track ran on a high embankment through the valley immediately in front of us. How the fight with the paratroopers developed in the beginning, I'm unsure but there had been sporadic fighting since dawn. The Germans, trying to escape to the east, had gotten themselves into an untenable situation. Denied the high ground, they would have to climb the embankment and cross the track without benefit of cover to proceed east. Our machine-guns made that exercise prohibitive. Outflanking our position by road was not an option: it was now crowded with men and vehicles of the 1st Infantry. At the base of the slope, a hedgerow ran parallel to the ridge from part way up the railroad embankment to the road. But this was not a "Normandy" type hedgerow with the thick earthen base; it was shrubbery planted in the earth. It afforded concealment but little protection from weapons fire. It was intended to keep livestock from wandering but, apparently, the field we were in had not been used as pasture for some time as the hedge was thin enough in most places to allow a man to easily slip through. Near the railroad track an opening in the hedge, of perhaps 20 feet, permitted the passage of farm equipment.
Before the arrival of Springfield's crew, the paratroopers had mounted several attempts to capture the ridge by charging up the slope. Fortunately, they possessed only small arms - no mortars, Panzerfaust or heavy machine-guns - and had been driven back by our stalwart defenders. Henry Miltenberger, who commanded the 57mm gun, and his crew had fired all their ammo, including armor piercing. The A.A. gun had contributed mightily to the defense but it was low on ammo, now. As we arrived, the Krauts were hidden in the woods, apparently regrouping for another charge. Captain Robuck, fearing his troops couldn't repel another charge, wanted artillery support for his position, but the radio in his peep wasn't equipped to contact the Bn. Fire Direction Center (F.D.C.), so he had sent for Springfield. When he informed me we were going to" fire a mission", I was terror-stricken. FIRE A MISSION? When that subject was covered in radio school, I promptly went to sleep. Fire a mission? I was not in a firing battery! I was in Service Battery, for heaven's sake. My immediate reaction was to tell myself "Baker, you are in big trouble!"
The FM radio in the halftrack could not be used to contact the FDC; like Robuck's, it lacked the proper crystal. The only alternative was to convert my C.W. set from its usual C.W. code configuration to voice through a laborious, time-consuming procedure. When I explained this to Robuck, I got a cold stare and a remark plainly indicating I was wasting valuable time. Although I understood the procedure thoroughly, I had practiced it hardly at all. Under ideal circumstances, the changeover would consume 8 to 10 minutes; I had just begun work when the Krauts launched another attack up the hill, instantly creating an environment not conducive to careful, unhurried work. Our .50 calibers opened up, including Pancho firing right over my head, the hot brass empties cascading down the back of my neck. I looked up just in time to see a 37mm shell take the head off a charging paratrooper. It was difficult to concentrate.
How long was required to make the changeover, I have no idea, but by the time I told the Captain I was ready, the fighting had again subsided and the Krauts had again retreated to the cover of the woods. Robuck told me to get the FDC on the radio. I did. I recall the ensuing conversation distinctly. "This is 8; (Robuck's code number) I have a fire mission". There were a few seconds of stunned silence on the other end; then, their mike still open, uproarious laughter came over the speaker. "Listen to this, fellas! Service Battery has a fire mission!" One for the book. I repeated the call. After struggling to restrain their mirth, they asked for map coordinates. Robuck gave them to me; I relayed them. Again, silence. Then "Check those coordinates". I looked at Robuck. He nodded. I radioed, "Coordinates correct as given". Another pause. Then "Do you have a foxhole handy?" "Why?" We hadn't had time to dig holes. "If those coordinates are correct, the target is exactly 7 miles from these guns (Robuck knew, as did I, that 7 miles was the maximum range for a 105 and each of those tubes had fired at least 100,000 rounds by this time.) We can't guarantee their accuracy." Robuck said, " Tell them to proceed with the mission." All six guns of B Battery were assigned the mission. We learned later that B Battery was 7 miles ahead of us and the guns had to be turned 180 degrees to register on the target. The plan was to fire one "sensing" round of smoke; the Battery would be laid on the sensing corrections we gave them and all six guns would give us a "two minute concentration of H.E." (high explosive rounds). Despite the fact that some small arms rounds were flying in our direction, Robuck climbed up on the hood of Springfield and ordered me to stand up and help him spot the smoke round. I had planned to crouch down in the halftrack with my helmet pulled down around my ankles, taking as much protection as the armor plate offered, but I reluctantly obeyed, to the extent of exposing only my helmet and eyes above the sides of the vehicle. "On the way" came from the speaker. "Let's see,” Robuck calmly observed,"7 miles or about 20 seconds. Be alert, Baker." Right, Captain! Then, we heard that baby coming - going to land right in the halftrack, no doubt about it. It provoked a very helpless feeling. But, to my vast relief, it landed short and to the left of the patch of woods. No trouble spotting the huge burst of white smoke. I relayed Robuck's corrections in yardage. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I had about 30 seconds to live - vaporized by "friendly fire”. The ensuing barrage was awesome - and gruesome - to see. With all the shrieks and whistle and roar of an onrushing locomotive, a curtain of steel and explosives descended on that little patch of woods. The accuracy was uncanny; the results decisive. Smoke, dirt, trees and bodies erupted into the air until it was obvious no living thing any longer existed in the impact area. But still the projectiles rained down. Two minutes? Had to be five; had to be. Finally, mercifully, it was over. The sudden silence was stunning. Without orders, the three of four G.I.'s from the 1st Infantry Division (I never learned how they came to be upon the scene) charged down the hill, followed by some of our men. They rounded up 20 or 30 survivors and described a scene of total devastation. I had no desire to view the carnage at close range.
Official documents credit Service Battery with taking 145 prisoners in defense of that ridge in a Belgium sugar beet field. Those same documents state the official number of rounds fired in our support in that 2-minute exercise. Many guesses were postulated that day regarding the number of rounds; the highest estimate I remember was 60. The official number: 110. That's an average of 9 and a fraction rounds per minute, per gun. The guns were designed to fire a maximum of 5 rounds per minute; a good crew - and ours were very good - could do 10 rounds on a hot mission. The cannoneers loved those 2-minute concentration missions; it became a contest to see which section could fire the most rounds in the allotted time.
While our guys were mopping up in the woods, I made a mistake that came - literally - within 2 or 3 inches of costing me my life. Standing in the halftrack, engrossed in what was happening in the woods, I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my right eye. I turned toward the railroad tracks; the movement was a Kraut paratrooper sneaking through low brush along the embankment, intent on escaping over the ridge. He was carrying a Schmeizer machine pistol. Properly, I should have told Pancho to nail him with the .50 caliber, but, knowing he was out of effective range of my pistol, I, nevertheless, pulled it and punched out a round, just to hurry the guy along. I had never fired my personal sidearm at the enemy before and I got a terrific rush out of it, momentarily. But this guy was a pro. With a look that I interpreted as contempt for an amateur, he stopped, quickly raised his burp gun to his shoulder and squeezed off a 3-round burst that passed under my chin so closely I could hear the snapping and feel the breeze of the bullets as they passed, singing their song of death.
Although the Battle of Mons would rage for another 24 hours for the 3rd Armored Division, for Hq. Section of Service Battery, it was virtually over. Our Division history states that the action at Mons would have a profound effect on future battles of the entire First Army. An estimated 30,000 German troops, attempting a mass retreat to the fortifications of the Siegfried Line, collided with the 3rd Armored at Mons and were cut to pieces, then further mauled by the following 1st Infantry Division. Disorganized, their communications shattered, attacked by air and on the ground, this massive force blundered into our roadblocks in the early morning hours of September 3 and was completely decimated. As a result, the vaunted fortifications of the Siegfried Line never received a full complement of defenders.
Mons, astride the shortest route back to the German border, seemed to have a fatal fascination for the massed forces. All that day, all night and into the next morning German troops poured into our roadblocks and were slaughtered or captured. The Division took 10,000 prisoners; the 1st Infantry another 17,000. Three of our prisoners were generals. One stated he had been told he had a 15-mile wide "door" to escape through at Mons but the 3rd Armored had slammed that door hard. Prisoners were so numerous we had no way to handle them; we disarmed them and sent them walking back down the road to the rear. I still have a U.S. $1 bill I took from a paratrooper in the beet field. He said "I have a brother in Chicago".
From our position on the ridge, we had a panoramic view of the German debacle as it unfolded that day, a sight not often afforded to anyone. I longed for a movie camera but had not even a simple box camera.
More than 40 years later, I would learn, from material obtained from the National Archives, that 12 men from Service Battery were awarded the Bronze Star for actions on that ridge; three of them were from Hq. Section: Captain Robuck and his peep driver, Barney Rapp and our cowardly 1st Sergeant, Tennis. I certainly never felt that I did anything during the war to merit an award for bravery but if Tennis was on that hill that day, he was in his foxhole so deep I never saw him.
When DeHaven returned from his "furlough" we, of course, recited all the action we had seen at Mons. He refused to believe us until Robuck confirmed it. His time spent driving for the Ammo Section had been dull and uneventful. Kenworthy, on the other hand, was glad to get back to his old job.
By 0900 hours the next morning, Sept.4, Major General "Lightning Joe" Collins, commanding general of the VII corps, always alert for an opportunity to exploit the enemy's weakness, sensed that the situation had stabilized enough for the 1st I.D. to handle it and ordered the 3rd A.D. to spearhead straight east at all speed. Objective: the city of Namur. The Task Force to which we were assigned traveled a road that paralleled the north bank of the Meuse River. Striking with lightening speed, a small task force reached Namur by mid-afternoon but the large number of German troops the task force had bypassed dug in and set up road blocks, bringing the main column to a halt overnight after we had traveled about 35 miles.
Those 35 miles had brought a dramatic change in the terrain. The relatively flat fields, nearly ideal for offensive tank warfare, had given way to heavily wooded hills with deep ravines, very good defensive country. But the Krauts seemed unable to deal with the power and swiftness of our advance. Resistance was present nearly everywhere but most of it was brushed aside and left for the following infantry to clean up. Namur fell; Charleroi and Huy were taken; we were at he gates of Liege. The Belgium civilians went nuts; traversing through even small villages was slowed by the crowds in the street. We were given wine, champagne, flowers, apples, cheese - they were delirious with joy. If the column didn't stop, they attempted to toss items into the halftrack. Flying apples became a hazard. Our exhausted bodies were rejuvenated somewhat by the sheer joy and exuberance displayed by these kind people upon their deliverance.
The men of the 3rd Armored Division had been fighting and moving almost constantly for 5 weeks. The days between our crossing of the Seine River and eventual crossing of the German border became, and still are, a blur in my mind, the names of the innumerable small villages and towns we passed through beyond recall. But from Mons to the German border, I can clearly recall two incidents that occurred, one a light-hearted caper, the other tragic. With the column so much on the move, it was nearly impossible for the cooks to set up the kitchen truck long enough to prepare hot food; we had been on a steady diet of field rations for over a month. We availed ourselves of any opportunity to raid an abandoned garden for potatoes or carrots or onions - whatever - and put Joe King to cooking them for the crew. Anything for a little variety in our diet. Heading east from Mons, the Meuse River was almost constantly in sight on our right. The river gave DeHaven an idea. When the column stopped while some obstacle was cleared up ahead, he grabbed several German "potato masher" grenades which we had collected along the way, saying "Come on, Bake. Let's go fishing." A couple of blasts of German gunpowder brought a variety of stunned fish to the surface. We collected a couple of helmets-full and managed to get them cleaned, fried and eaten before they spoiled. Excellent.
The area around Charleroi was mining country - coal, I think, although I'm not sure. It was a sizable city and the Krauts put up a determined fight for it. While our hard-working combat elements were settling the issue, our column stopped and pulled off the road. One of the men in the wrecker crew, John Kowal, was from Pennsylvania coal country; he offered the opinion that where there were mines, there were showers. The possibility of showering our weary, smelly bodies for the first time since England was enthusiastically endorsed. Towel and soap in hand, I joined a group of men heading for the nearest mine head. There were many large slag heaps, some old enough to have grown a solid cover of brush and small trees. We were wending our way through these mounds when we heard a rifle shot ahead of us. Taking cover, we heard the cry of "Sniper!" A 3rd Armored man, not from the 54th, had taken a shot through the head. Showers forgotten, we began a hunt for the killer. When we closed in on him, he surrendered without firing a shot. A G.I. carrying a Tommy gun, again not a 54th man, offered to take him back to the column and turn him in. As they disappeared behind the first slagheap, a burst of gunfire ripped the air. The G.I. returned, shrugged and said, "Tried to escape". It was a most enjoyable cold shower.
Liege, Belgium, was big enough to be called a city but our spearheading pincer movement completely surprised the German defenders and the city fell with relatively little fighting. One German general was killed when he tried to run a roadblock, another was captured. The attack continued up the easily defended wooded, narrow valleys of the Ardennes region of Belgium, but only occasionally was determined resistance encountered. Verviers fell and the tanks kept driving for the border of Germany. In desperation, the enemy used every device they could to slow our armor and infantry and hard fighting ensued but, on September 11, the town of Eupen was in the bag. Although a Belgian town, there were no joyous crowds in the streets to greet us in Eupen. At various times in history, as borders changes were caused by war, the town had been both German and Belgian. The people we encountered were sullen; white sheets hung from many windows to indicate surrender. Some street signs were in the German language. Just ahead, foreign invaders would cross onto German soil for the first time since Napoleon. The barbarians, in the person of the 3rd Armored Division, were at Hitler's gate.
Random thoughts, memories and reminiscences relative to our 6-week rampage through France and Belgium:
From St. Lo to the German border, the Division had covered hundreds of miles. (I have seen the correct figure somewhere but am unable to unearth it now. I believe it was 450 miles.) Given the disorganized state of the Kraut defenses in many instances, the speed and effectiveness of our pursuit was limited mostly by the extent to which our supply lines could deliver the enormous quantities of material required to keep an armored division moving and winning. The 54th Armored Field Artillery Battalion, due entirely to the tenacious determination of its Service Battery's truck and halftrack drivers, received the share of those precious supplies it needed to continue the pursuit. The burden fell mostly on the Gasoline and Ammo Sections and, to a somewhat lesser extent, the Rations Section. When the long drives consumed 40 or 50 miles a day, the distances to the various supply points in the rear increased dramatically.
The men in Otto Buehler's Gas Section were the point men, the key element, in the strenuous, dirty and dangerous job of keeping the vehicles of the Battalion rolling forward those long weeks. I saw little of Otto in that period but he occasionally accompanied the truck that came around to drop off cans of gasoline for Springfield. He seemed always in a state of exhaustion; with his small frame encased in too-large clothes and his shambling gait, he presented the figure of a soldier on the verge of collapse. Had I not known him so well, his appearance would have caused me some concern, but this man was no weakling. He would endure, I knew, but, nevertheless, I felt great sympathy for my friend.
Somewhere in France, Otto's astuteness resulted in a coup that made his impossible job somewhat easier. I cannot recall all the details, if I ever knew them, but this is pretty close. Sometime after the breakout from beachhead, on one of the countless round trips he made to the truck head, he encountered a peep abandoned in a roadside ditch. Stopping to investigate, he discovered it was undamaged but the engine refused to start. Otto hooked a tow chain to it and brought it back to our Battery Maintenance Section where our old Bluefield, West Virginia, buddy, Henry Meier, was a sergeant. Hank got the thing running for him and Otto had his own private wheels! That nimble little vehicle proved invaluable for him when he was searching for a truck head whose location he was unsure of. He didn't have to lead his convoy of trucks down blind alleys; he could scout them out with the peep. Otto's free ride would end shortly after we entered Germany but it served him well for many weeks.
The fact that the German army used a considerable amount of horse-drawn artillery astonished me. Here was a military force that had invented blitzkrieg tactics and conquered most of Europe using it, yet still retained and utilized some outdated elements of a WWI army. One tactic that our gun batteries used against the horse-drawn units was the firing of white phosphorous shells. The white-hot chemical sprayed a large area, guaranteed to stampede the horses and severely burn anything it touched. In France, dead horses were quickly butchered by the civilians; the meat had long been accepted as a staple in the diet.
A scene often repeated in newly taken towns and cities was the civilian treatment of French citizens who had collaborated with the German occupying forces. The known, or suspected, collaborators were quickly rounded up, usually in the town square. The males were marched off to some unknown fate; women were stripped, their head shaved and black Nazi swastikas painted on front and rear of their bodies. They were then forced to run through the streets of the town.
Because of almost constant movement, our kitchen truck seldom had the time necessary to set up and prepare hot meals so we were forced to rely upon combat rations for sustenance. Most of them were quite palatable but a steady diet of cold food soon became wearisome. Seeking a way to heat them, we began to collect a variety of kitchen utensils from destroyed or deserted homes along the way - kettles, frying pans, coffee pot, etc. With these, if the column stopped even briefly - ten of fifteen minutes was enough - we could quickly build a hot gasoline fire and heat the stews, soups and canned meats. Joe King was our cook. We had liberated a huge, hand-held, gasoline fired blowtorch that threw a flame like a military flamethrower. It boiled a quart of water in less than 3 minutes.
The problem with our collection was finding a place to store it. There was little unused space in the halftrack so we used wire or string to hang them over the side of the halftrack where they rattled and banged and quickly collected dust but, with a quick rinse, they were serviceable again.
The floor of the bedroll rack at the rear of the vehicle quickly accumulated a thick layer of dust and, over time, grass and weed seeds drifted in and eventually sprouted. DeHaven, a farm boy, was quite proud of his crop. Our method of storing our utensils and the crop of green we sported eventually led to a humorous encounter. Captain Robuck had never objected to the appearance of his halftrack but one day, just before the Mons battle when the Captain had gone ahead in his peep, we encountered our Battalion Commander, Lt. Col. Moore, sitting in his peep along the side of the road, checking the column of vehicles as they passed. When we drew abreast of him, he signaled DeHaven to stop. Walking slowly around the entire vehicle with a discerning eye, an expression of annoyance came over his face. Addressing the whole crew, he said, "You look like a bunch of gypsies! Get those pots out of sight. And DeHaven, mow the back porch!” You could always depend on Moore for pithy remarks.
The same mobile warfare which denied us hot meals from the kitchen truck also virtually eliminated work for the Battalion Wire Section whose job was stringing phone wires. The burden of providing vital means of communications then fell upon the radio operators in the Battalion and Division. The networks I worked never closed for even a moment from June 29, when I first logged on in Normandy, until late September when we were inside Germany. All radios had to be monitored 24 hours a day. In theory, this presented no hardship for Roy Root and I. Two operators meant 12-hour shifts for each, but the practicalities of the situation distorted the picture. Although his operating skills were more than adequate, Root's extreme youth, combined with his nervous, excitable temperament, never instilled in me the rock-solid confidence in his steadfastness under duress I needed to comfortably allow him to share equal time at the key. Ego played no part in my decision to take on the larger share of the duty. I viewed it as a matter of survival, for myself, for Roy, for Hq. Section, perhaps the entire Battalion. One wrong keystroke, one flaw in copying or deciphering a message, could result in, at best, a delay in sending or receiving a message or, at worst, a catastrophe. Roy's demeanor under fire at Mons confirmed my judgment. His hands shook so badly, had he attempted to transmit, the best operator in the Division would have been unable to read him.
Lack of sleep soon became a major problem for me, one I tried to alleviate, in dangerous situations, by putting Roy on duty for brief periods with instructions to wake me if our call letters were called. If I was anything less than completely exhausted, the squawking of any call letters on the network coming over the speaker would awaken me - three years of training would not allow me to ignore them. Use of the headphones would have eliminated the squawking but I refused to allow Roy to use them for the very legitimate reason that he would have handled the call himself, rather than awaken me and, perhaps, screwed it up.
When fatigue and sleeplessness rendered my mind unable to function further without sleep, training and my sub-conscious came to my aid. The Grand Plan for radio security had dictated that call letters for each station be changed every day but, with the entire Division on the move and stretched out over hundreds of miles of roads, it quickly became impossible to hand-deliver new call signs to each operator every day. As a result, we often retained the same call letters for two weeks or more at a time. Those letters soon became inscribed in my brain so firmly I could sleep beside the radio and the squawking would not awaken me unless my call sign was transmitted. I didn't employ this trick often, usually managing to get enough sleep to prevent my mind from crashing, but it apparently worked well as I never received an inquiry from the Net Control Station as to why I had failed to answer a call. I did, however, miss a couple of CQ ("All Stations") calls and I was questioned about that. My subconscious didn't recognize "CQ".
Many times, as I labored through those long nights, I shook my head in wonder at the shallowness of the thinking of those War Department desk commandos in Washington who, long ago, had decreed that my job did not warrant a relief operator!
Fatigue and exhaustion were the constant companions of our combat elements who pushed the retreating Krauts with unrelenting fury. Their exploits were heroic beyond belief, their losses equally noteworthy. It was their efforts that won the 3rd Armored Division the nickname "The Spearhead Division". Every time VII Corps sent down a new battle plan, it invariably said " **** and the 3rd Armored Division shall spearhead the attack”. Some war correspondent picked up on it and named us the Spearhead Division. The name stuck. Although every armored division adopted a nickname, only the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Armoreds' sobriquets are officially recognized by the Army.
I also recall that, not long after we landed in Normandy, I received a letter from Juanita informing me that she had joined the Women's Army Corps (WAC's). She had five brothers in the service at the time and felt she could better serve the cause in uniform than as a civilian. Women in the Army was a foreign concept to me but I knew she would be good at whatever she tried.
Today, more than a half century later, I still regard the French and Belgian people with a good deal of warmth and affection. Despite the great pain and destruction we caused in our efforts to liberate them from Nazi rule, they were almost universally grateful to us for their restored freedom. One scene, repeated over and over as we rolled into small towns, was the sight of the citizens digging in their yards to present us with champagne and wine which they had buried four years previous to keep it from German hands. And their gratitude was no short-lived thing: twice, in the intervening years, I have returned to France and Belgium with other 3rd Armored vets to retrace our battle routes and found those citizens have not forgotten us. We are still heroes to them.
CHAPTER 11
HELLO, ADOLPH!
At 1451, September 12, 1944, the battle-weary leading elements of the 3rd Armored Division rolled across the border into the German town of Roetgen, the first Allied soldiers to step on German soil and the first foreign invaders in over 100 years. Early the next afternoon, the 54th would become the first Allied Field Artillery unit to enter Germany. Hitler's front porch was filling up with uninvited guests.
The vaunted Siegfried Line now confronted us. A beautifully designed and carefully constructed, in depth, line of concrete pill boxes, bunkers and gun emplacements fronted by a thick line of heavily mined concrete "dragon's teeth" tank traps, it extended for miles in a north and south direction and, in places, was 20 miles deep. Bone tired, gritty eyed, seemingly with nothing left to give, the men of the Spearhead Division reach inside themselves and found the will to make a lunge at this unimpeachable barrier. The battle for the first line of defenses would be won by a terrible cost in blood and machines and a fortuitous gift from German farmers. While one task force was being slaughtered at one point of attack, another found a place where the dragon's teeth had been filled in with dirt to allow the passage of farm equipment from field to field. Our tanks sped across and proved to be the deciding factor in the fight. This lucky break, plus the fact that the fortifications were undermanned and undergunned because of the German debacle at Mons, turned an impossible task into an extremely difficult, but possible, one. The outer defenses were breached, but other lines of these same fortifications would consume the blood and lives of hundreds of fighting men and influence our battles for the next three months.
The strain of six weeks of unrelenting combat and constant movement was everywhere evident, including, finally, our supply lines. The monumental task of providing the enormous quantities of material needed for our marauding armies had, at last, overcome the valiant efforts of the supply troops. So thoroughly had the Germans destroyed all port facilities, all supplies were still coming in over Normandy beaches. Supply depots could not be moved forward as rapidly as the combat elements advanced, resulting in increasingly lengthy round trips of hundreds of miles for Service Battery's Gas, Rations, Water and Ammo Sections. Vehicles were breaking down for lack of maintenance. Orders came down to conserve gasoline and ammo. Reports of the quantities of these items on hand were to be submitted to higher headquarters each day. Because our headlong advances had been brought up short by the stubborn defenses of the Siegfried Line, our gasoline consumption was down considerably from our glory days, but Otto's crew still had to work furiously to meet even our diminished needs. Because Springfield was the Battery Commander's vehicle, Otto supplied us with all the fuel we needed before he serviced the other Batteries. With just a modicum of conservation effort, supplies were adequate for our needs, it developed, thanks to the frantic non-stop efforts of Otto's men.
I still have a copy of a message I copied on Sept. 17, 1944, which says, "'Somewhere in Germany' cannot, repeat cannot, be written in letters home, Army advises." The order was a little late; everyone who had found time to write home had told the folks we were in Germany. Shortly after that came the famous "non-fraternization" order. Our only contact with German civilians was to be only for official Army business. It was almost universally ignored.
Our uninterrupted string of winning battles across France and Belgium had generated hope and some talk among the most optimistic among us that we could win the war and be home by Christmas. The stubborn, organized resistance the Germans threw at us on their own turf quickly obliterated that hope but the consensus of opinion was that, although Christmas may have been too optimistic, the Krauts couldn't possibly hold out for more than 4 months. We had mauled them fiercely and the Russian were inflicting terrible damage to them on the Eastern front. They couldn't last much longer. Blissfully, we were unaware of the ordeals this war and the Germans still had in store for us.
By the end of September 1944, most of Service Battery was encamped in a large field a half-mile east of the town of Walheim, some twenty miles inside Germany. A hard fight was developing for the city of Aachen, on our northern flank. The city was the largest one yet to be subjected to ground attack but the 3rd Armored was involved only peripherally, with the bulk of the work of taking the city falling to the veteran 1st Infantry Division. Our Division's assignment was the city of Stolberg and the so-called "Stolberg Corridor". No other assignment in the entire war would demand so much of the Division's time, material and blood as Stolberg. Snuggled closely behind the second line of defense of the Siegfried Line, the surrounding terrain was ideal for defense; the enemy held the high ground and fought bitterly for every position. The battered 3rd Armored Division, with barely 100 operable tanks and drastically short of men, gamely hurled itself at the enemy again and again with little to show for its efforts except extensive casualties.
Material from the Archives documents one incident illustrative of the bloody nature of the fighting. After repeated efforts to take a hilltop position held by the Germans, one company of our 36th Armored Infantry Regiment was down to 17 effective men. A truck arrived carrying 9 replacement soldiers, most of whom had never seen combat. The 26 men were again sent up the hill. Only 2 of the new men came back down alive. One engagement and the combat experience, and the lives of 7 men were over.
But for the fortunate ones at Walheim, life began to resemble a vacation in the country. With no frequent "March Order" to be heard, the kitchen truck was set up and hot meals again became our daily regimen. After remaining in the same position for a week, telephone lines were strung and the radio network was placed on a regular schedule - 7 AM to, usually, 9 PM. Such luxury, to be able to climb into the old bedroll and get solid sleep each night! We washed out dirty bodies and dirtier clothes. DeHaven greased the halftrack and performed other "first echelon" maintenance. Life returned to about as normal as it can be in the field. And some long-awaited mail arrived, giving Joe King something to do and making him happy.
But we received an almost daily reminder that there was a war on - German artillery fire. In the beginning it was light field artillery fire - 75mm or slightly larger. It seemed to be random, unobserved fire, as opposed to observed fire. (Observed fire was easy to identify: the first round would be off the target; over, perhaps; the observer sent back a correction to the gun; the next round might be short. But, you were "bracketed". LOOK OUT! Your position was covered and the next round might be a barrage. An appropriate time to change positions, if possible.) One of our 6x6 trucks was demolished by a direct hit with two men wounded. Our halftrack, sitting in an open field, was exposed and, when tending the radios, I always had the armor up on the sides of the vehicle and the armor down over the windshield. During a pause in one particularly heavy shelling, the door of the track opened and Captain Robuck stuck his head in. "Cpl. Baker", he said, "we are going to send in a 'shell rep'". (A "shelling report" involved determining, if possible, the direction from which the shell came, time of flight, if possible, the width and depth of the hole caused by the explosion of the projectile and relaying all this information to the FDC in the hope of getting some counter-battery fire on the enemy gun.) Reluctantly, I got out and stood with him beside the halftrack, waiting for the next round to come in. It was a short wait. We heard it coming, the unmistakable sound of "incoming mail". After 3 months of combat, we had been under enough enemy shellfire that I could guess, from the sound of the incoming projectile, where it would land, within about 50 yards. This baby was going to be close! I had to exert every ounce of will power to stifle my instinct to dive under the track for shelter. Only my unimpeachable determination to never exhibit any signs of cowardice before this man who had so calmly demonstrated his own indomitable courage at Mons kept me standing in place beside him.
With a blinding flash and deafening roar, the shell exploded in the rain-softened ground some 60 yards from us, showering us with dirt but, thankfully, no steel. Quickly, Robuck strode to the hole, tape measure in hand. We measured the width, I knelt in the depression, still smoking and smelling of cordite, holding the end of the tape to get the depth. He jotted down the information on a message blank (I've forgotten the exact measurements but it was probably 6-7 feet across and 3-4 feet deep), handed it to me and instructed me to get it to the FDC. I headed back toward the halftrack but he stopped me. "Use the phone". "I have Hq. Battery on the radio, Sir; they can relay it to the FDC,” I told him. "Use the phone, Baker," he ordered in a manner which brooked no dissent.
The geographical locations of Robuck's CP and his halftrack at that particular moment are an anomaly that, now, I am completely unable to understand or explain. Invariably, Springfield was parked very close to the place or building in which the Captain established his CP. In this instance, the CP was located in a stone farmhouse near the main road that bisected the field in which we were bivouacked, but Springfield sat near a tree line in the field some 200 yards distant. This could not have happened, yet I know it did because the event that followed is indelibly inscribed in my mind. The phone Robuck ordered me to use, you see, was in the farmhouse, 200 yards away, across an open field about to be mercilessly blasted, I was certain, by an enemy barrage. I promptly set a new world's record for the 200 yard dash, an unnecessary effort, it turned out, for no more rounds came in for some time. Why did I do it? Because I had no choice - no one refused Robuck's orders with impunity and because I knew, without doubt, that, had he chosen to send in the shell rep himself, he would have strolled, nonchalantly, across that open space and picked a few dandelions along the way. The man knew no fear.
Why did he do it? I haven't a clue, to this day. One of my life's enduring mysteries.
Other memories of our stay in that field: It was here that Robuck exhibited another of those uncharacteristic flaws in his relationship toward me, similar to the incident back in France. As noted earlier, the network didn't open until 0700 each morning and it became my habit to sleep until about 0645. One morning I was awakened by someone striking me on the soles of my feet, through my bedroll, with what felt like a sturdy stick. A glance at my watch indicated 0600. What clown was responsible for disturbing my sleep? Furious, I finally focused my eyes on my tormentor. The clown was Robuck - and he was carrying a stick. "Get up, Baker", he ordered. " The network doesn't open until 0700, Captain." "I know what time the network opens. I said get up!" I got up. The Captain, the cooks and I were the only human beings awake at that hour in the entire encampment And for several days, Robuck checked on me at 0600 to be certain I was awake and up. I had no duties until 0700 but I was up at 0600 - because the Captain said so. Just as abruptly, he again ignored my sleeping habits - I could have stayed in the sack until 10 AM, as long as Roy was on the radios.
The large field in which we were bivouacked sloped gently from west to east down to a small creek, which ran generally in a south to north direction, then rose abruptly to a tree line above the creek. The main, blacktopped east-west road bisected the field, running atop an embankment that was the approach to the bridge that crossed the creek. At its highest point, the road surface was perhaps 20 feet higher than the surface of the field. While tending the radios one fine fall day, I suddenly became aware I was hearing, faintly, the characteristic ripping sound of German heavy machine-guns firing but was, initially, unable to distinguish from what direction the sound was coming. Rapidly, the sound of firing increased in volume and I realized I was hearing the guns of a Kraut aircraft, probably strafing, and coming in my direction. I worked the bolt of the .50 caliber and waited. Suddenly, over the tree line came an American P-51 fighter and glued to his tail was the source of the machine-gun fire I had heard: a German ME-109 fighter, with guns blazing. Clear of the trees, the P-51 immediately dropped down below tree level, just a few feet above the ground, his maneuver matched by his dogged pursuer. Unable to get in a shot without endangering our plane, I watched in fascination as the Yank pilot, his attention distracted, no doubt, by the enemy shells searching for him, tried desperately and belatedly, to bring the nose of his plane up enough to clear the road embankment which had suddenly appeared in his path. He only partially succeeded. The belly of his plane whacked into the top edge of the embankment, breaking the plane into several pieces with the largest portion of the fuselage cart wheeling over the road. The ME-109 was luckier; he escaped unharmed.
Unwilling to risk leaving the radios unattended (Roy and Pancho were off skylarking around somewhere at the moment), I had to await a report from some of the men who had gathered around at the site of the crash. Miraculously, the pilot, a kid of about 20, they said, escaped with a broken nose and broken ankle as his only serious injuries. A very fortunate young man. I've always wondered how he got himself into such a predicament.
One of the lighter moments of this period occurred when we were offered the opportunity to enjoy, for only the second time since we had left camp in England, a shower - but this time with hot water! Happy days! Corps engineers had set up a shower point beside a small stream in a town just ahead of our position - Korneilimunster, I believe it was. In small groups of 15 to 20 men, we were trucked in for this treat. Hq. Section, except for Roy Root, whom I detailed to cover the radios, all went on the same truck. At the site, we were told we would be issued clean uniforms, in exchange, piece for piece, for dirty ones turned in. More than 100 men were suddenly very naked after removing the filthy clothing worn for nearly four months. The shower point was right in the middle of the town and many German civilians were observing the scene from the bridge nearby. Undeterred, we stood in line to exchange our clothing before proceeding to the showers. We had progressed nearly to the head of line, anticipating claiming the precious clean apparel, when we heard the dreaded sound, - incoming enemy artillery rounds. Dropping our clothing, DeHaven and I sprinted for the river and dove into the cold water (this was about Oct. 1, remember), and hugged the bank. The round exploded harmlessly beyond us in an open field. We waited. The next one was even further away. We were safe, it was unobserved fire. We retrieved our clothing and got into line again. We no longer had an audience on the bridge.
Another mystery involving airplanes: while working the radios, a C-47, the twin-engine work horse cargo plane of the Army, came chugging over, very low at about 1000 feet, heading due east. In less than 2 minutes he would be over enemy territory, alone, where he had no business being. His fate was ordained. I watched as he was quickly shot down in flames after taking no evasive action whatever. Why?
With our advances against the Germans being measured in yards, rather then the miles of our glory days of August and early September, the Brass apparently felt it was time to provide more substantial quarters for those troops not in the front lines. We were ordered to pull back into Walheim, a welcome move as the weather had turned rainy and cold much of the time. The exact date is lost to memory but it would probably have been about the first week in October 1944. Our designated quarters was a brick building which probably had had some commercial use at one time. It was a long building, perhaps 50-60 feet long but narrow - one room wide. It was single-story except at the east end which had a single room on the second floor. It was on the north side of the east-west highway, the last structure on the east side of the town. It stood close to the road with only two huge maple trees separating it from the edge of the pavement. A narrow dirt road crossed the main highway at this point.
Springfield's crew - DeHaven, Pancho, Joe King, Root and I - were assigned to the room on the second floor which was of sufficient size to accommodate all of our bedrolls when rolled out. We were delighted. Robuck established his CP in the room directly under ours. All the rooms in the building were occupied by others in Headquarters Section - Sgt. Tennis, Pat Lanza, Irving Klein, etc. - and others in the Battery.
One of our first jobs was to dig a latrine in back of the building. This one was a "straddle trench", a name that fully describes its utility. To spare the German citizenry exposure to our bare behinds, we erected canvas walls around it. Not a thing of beauty but very serviceable. Bring your own toilet paper.
After a brief settling in period, life took up a rather pleasant routine for most of Service Battery. The static nature the war had suddenly developed gave Otto Buehler's road-weary Gas Section well-deserved relief from the drudgery they had endured for the past two months. I even began to see Otto occasionally at chow. He was thin almost to the point of emaciation; his manner rather subdued but relishing the prospect of spending less time on the road. The Ammo Section still carried a heavy load, however. Although the warnings about unessential expenditure of artillery rounds helped reduce usage, the nearly static nature of the campaign tended to call for more artillery fire to help reduce strong points. So their labors continued unabated. But for the rest of us, life was more than a little tolerable. A movie projector appeared with a few films; a small building was utilized as a theater; and a few men at a time were allowed to view the pictures. It was an enjoyable interlude until everyone had seen each film several times; no new films appeared and attendance dropped dramatically.
One thing hadn't changed since our bivouacked days in the field: the sporadic shelling. It was completely unpredictable. Every other day; every third day; three days in succession, perhaps. There was one significant change: a big voice had been added to the choir. It was at least a 155mm gun (later proven to be at least 200mm.). We could actually hear this gunfire but the rounds consistently passed over us, exploding to our rear. We soon disregarded it as a threat to us and reserved our attention for the lighter stuff that probed our immediate area. It puzzled me why, since the sound of the big gun's firing could easily be heard, our observers couldn't spot its location and lay some counter-battery fire on it.
Determined to show them up, several times I climbed to the roof of our CP building with Robuck's binoculars, waiting for it to fire. I was never able to spot a muzzle flash or a puff of smoke. And the rounds continued to pass over us.
October 22, 1944 - day that will live in infamy, in my mind, forever. No human being ever witnessed a day of greater beauty: a brilliant blue sky; a benign golden autumn sun; the maple trees exploding in colors the brilliance of which is seen only in the northern climes. A day to live for. But it was a day that would deal heavily in death. Permit me to set the scene:
We had finished noon chow, washed our mess gear and retired to our second-floor retreat for quiet time, hoping the 1st Sergeant wouldn't find some "make work" for us to do. We were all vulnerable. Springfield was in the Battalion shop, set up in a building directly across the road from the CP, for the routine maintenance ordered for all vehicles in the Battalion - badly needed, belated maintenance, to be sure. I had checked out of the network the day before (or perhaps two days before?), stating the reason. All messages were coming in by phone line. So DeHaven had no halftrack to drive, Root and I had no radios to operate and Pancho had no machine-gun to man. Joe King would take care of any mail that came in.
The Battery Commander, Capt. Robuck, had invited the Battalion Commander, Lt. Col. Moore, to have lunch with him at his CP. The previous day, Robuck had dispatched Pancho and Root to scour the countryside for fresh vegetables and "greens" for the lunch. Whatever was collected was given to the cooks to be prepared for today. The Colonel had arrived as scheduled; in fact, we could hear the murmur of their conversation just below us in the CP.
Eventually, aware of Sgt. Tennis' proclivity for finding work for idle hands, we decided it was time to scatter. DeHaven said, "I guess I'll go across the street to the shop and see how Springfield is coming." I decided to go with him. To understand the sequence of events that follow, it is necessary to explain the physical layout of part of the building we were in. The stairs to the ground floor terminated in the room next to the room in which Robuck had established his CP. At the foot of the stairs was a door to the left that led directly to the road; a door to the right led outside to the backyard. I followed DeHaven down the stairs where he turned left to go across the road to the shop. It was my intent to follow him but I suddenly felt the need to avail myself of the latrine facilities in the rear. "I'll be along in a minute, Clarence," I told him and turned right, through the door. We kept a roll of toilet paper stashed next to the door and I took it with me. I had been engaged in this most necessary but most undignified of human functions for several minutes when I heard the familiar "thuung" of the big gun firing. Duck, you guys back there! In seconds, the sound of the approaching projectile told me this one wasn't going over; it was going to be close. Too close. I struggled to get to my feet but pants around my ankle made speed impossible. Awful close! The straddle trench was far too narrow to get into. I was dead. I knew it. This Kraut steel was coming into the latrine with me. It came screaming down, there was a nanosecond of silence, then a horrifying explosion. But I was alive! Unhurt. Where had it struck? Clothing finally adjusted, I ran out of the latrine to see an enormous column of black smoke rising in the air just across the road. Our building obscured my view of the exact point of impact, but I knew it could only be the Battalion shop. And DeHaven was in there!
My run toward the rear door pulled up short when a wild man rounded the rear corner of the building. He was scrambling on all fours, like a dog; he was without his helmet, with eyes staring wider than I thought was humanly possible. Seeing me, he got to his feet and shrank back up against the building, all without uttering a sound. He was a stranger to me, from another division. I could discern no indication of injury. I spoke to him and shook him by the shoulders until his eyes finally focused on me. Suddenly, the strength drained out of him and he sank to the ground, back against the wall. He spoke not a word. I concluded he had been near the point of impact and the concussion of the explosion had knocked him senseless.
I left him there. The shortest distance to the shop was through the CP building and I ran through the back door. The room at that point was about 20 feet wide. As I entered from the rear, someone was standing, silhouetted, in the open front door, looking our into the road. I recall shouting something at him - probably "get the hell out of my way" - and was gathering myself to knock him out into the street, when another shell came screaming in, landing on the blacktop road, not more than 25 feet away. The figure in the doorway crumpled and fell outside. He had been hit. Exiting the door, I stood over him and was astonished to discover the injured man was our Battalion Commander, Lt. Col. Moore. Blood was seeping out of both legs of his trousers but there were no large holes in the fabric so I knew he had not been hit with large pieces of shrapnel. The huge maple tree just outside the door had absorbed most of the blast and saved his life. I started to drag him inside the building but he insisted he wasn't badly hurt and urged me to get across the road to the shop. I did, promptly.
The thick smoke, the dust and the debris inside the shop building made movement hazardous. There was a huge hole in the roof through which smoke and dust were pouring. Unable to see, I stumbled around, calling Clarence's name, trying to locate the source of the cry for help I could hear. My foot encountered something soft and large. I knelt down and realized I had stumbled on a body. Was it Clarence? Looking closely, I could distinguish the features of his face; it wasn't Clarence. It was everybody's friend, Whitey Gartside, a jolly giant of a man from Illinois and one of the shop mechanics. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, very dead. I continued on, feeling my way. I found Springfield. I searched around it, under it, and in it, but no Clarence. The vehicle seemed to have escaped major damage. I found another mechanic, Ken Kretchman, quietly sitting on the floor, a huge piece of flesh torn from one leg. He was losing blood and weakening rapidly. Kenny had a football player build and outweighed me by at least 25 pounds but I managed to get him on my back and staggered out of the building and across the road with him, where I deposited him in the basement under the CP. A total of at least three shells had exploded in the vicinity by this time and there were a number of wounded in the cellar and a couple of medics - and a couple of uninjured men who should have been out helping find the wounded.
When I returned to the shop, the smoke had cleared somewhat, enough to permit a more thorough search of the debris. A number of men had gathered now and we teamed up to carry out any of the wounded that couldn't move under their own power. At least one more round - and possibly more, I cannot clearly recall - crashed into the road while we were inside, shrapnel rattling off the wall of the building. I felt reasonably safe inside the shop - the chances of another shell hitting the building were almost non-existent - but those trips across the road were hairy. I cannot recall how many men we carried out of the shattered building (strangely, I couldn't remember the next day when questioned by one of our officers), nor who participated in the rescue effort. But, satisfied all the wounded had been removed to safety, and concerned that DeHaven was not among them, I finally ventured outside the shop to survey the carnage in the vicinity. Directly across the road from me was a peep, the left front wheel nudging the wall of the CP building. I hadn't noticed it previously. Crossing over, it was obvious the vehicle had received the full blast of one of the shells. The driver had been blown out on the ground; he had been nearly severed in half at the waist. His passenger was a bloody mess; his upper torso leaned into the driver's seat with one arm draped over the steering wheel. I was sure he was dead until I saw a slight movement in one hand. I turned toward the CP to get help and saw Captain Lubin, the Battalion dentist, coming out the door. I said, "this man is still alive, Doc. Help me get him inside." When he walked up, I noticed the front of his uniform was smeared with blood; he had obviously been involved with the wounded. He was crying. He looked at the man, looked at me and cried "I'm a dentist; what can I do?" Movement of the man's hand ceased; he had died while we looked on. Neither of the men was from the 3rd A.D.
The road had taken on the aspect of a junkyard with at least a half-dozen damaged or temporarily abandoned vehicles on it within my sight. There were several shell holes in the pavement. I walked back along it for about a half-mile to the aid station where I was informed that DeHaven had been processed through there and taken by ambulance to a hospital further back. He had been hit hard, I was told. It would be a week or two before I learned his fate.
That October day would be the costliest day of the war for Service Battery. We had two dead - Gartside and a kid named Sherrard, also in Battalion Maintenance Section. We suffered 9 wounded men, including DeHaven. Only two of them would be returned to duty. The Battalion lost its commanding officer. Col. Moore was evacuated and never returned. Later we learned that, among other injuries, shrapnel had blown off his kneecap. I would see him in the 1970's at a 3rd Armored reunion in Milwaukee. He walked with a cane but was his same old exuberant self. He was temporarily replaced by one of his former aids, a Major in Bn. Hqs named Sink. His permanent replacement, Lt. Col. Mont Hubbard, came to us from the 58th Armored Field Artillery Bn., an unattached unit that had fired some support for our division in the past. We promptly named him "Mother Hubbard". I never got to know the man although he obviously was a competent artilleryman or he would have been replaced.
It was my sad duty to gather DeHaven's belongings together for shipment to his family. Losing the friend I had trained with for so long, had traveled so many miles with in two different halftracks in five different countries, the staunch ally I could always depend on, depressed me. Not knowing his state of health was an added burden. Robuck would have to select a new driver, now, adding to my concerns. I knew we would never get one as competent, as reliable, as good as DeHaven. I was wrong.
I don't know the total number of casualties for all units that day as a result of the German barrage, but it must have considerable. The area impacted was extensive, covering at least 1/4 of a mile of the busy road that, obviously, was the target. Injuries from shrapnel were always serious due to the jagged, irregularly shaped nature of it. The medics always preferred to treat bullet wounds, usually less damaging because of the smooth, symmetrical shape of the projectile.
Robuck's actions that afternoon have never been clear in my mind, then or now. I recall seeing him in the cellar at one time, checking on the wounded, but his uniform, as usual, was neat and clean. A man with his proven courage surely assisted in evacuating hurt men from the shambles of the building but I did not see him. The only other Service Battery officer in the vicinity of the CP was Lt. Rorus, the Bn. Motor Officer. I'm uncertain if he was in the shop at the time of the shelling; if so, he was unhurt for he took an active part in the rescue effort. I'm mystified that I can't recall Robuck's actions.
Some 40 years later, I would learn, while visiting with Robuck at his home in Florida, that John Rorus had recommended me for a Bronze Star medal for evacuating wounded while under enemy fire, a revelation that truly astonished me. I had never felt I did anything deserving of special recognition. Robuck felt the recommendation was never acted on at Battalion Hqs. because of the turmoil caused by the lose of the Battalion Commander. Robuck then tried to give me one of the two Bronze Star medals he had received but, of course, I refused to accept it. I suggested that, if he truly believed I earned the medal, he should write the Pentagon and, as my former commanding officer, so state. The Army often awarded medals many years after the event. In another of his strange quirks of behavior, he never wrote the letter.
In subsequent visits, over the years, he always brought up the subject but I always refused. Years later, I would receive one of his medals in the mail with a letter begging me to accept it, saying "you will make an old man happy". I couldn't refuse his plea.
Our halftrack, Springfield, had survived with only minor damage. A little refurbishing and it was ready to continue the fight.
Eventually - about 3 weeks, I believe - we learned that DeHaven was in a hospital in Eupen, Belgium, some 25-30 miles in the rear. I asked Robuck for permission to use his peep to go back there. He said, "Take my driver, too." Four of us made the trip - Barney Rapp, the driver, Eddie Gajewski, an Ammo Sergeant (don’t know why he was there) and another man whom I cannot recall. We found the hospital alright - not a field hospital but a civilian establishment taken over by the military. And we found DeHaven. He was encased, literally, from head to foot in bandages. His surgeon told me they counted 92 holes in him! One kidney had been ripped out; shrapnel had gone through one knee; several ribs were broken and both lungs had been injured. Although it was hidden by the bandages, the nurse said he had suffered serious powder burns on his face. The tip of one finger was missing; his left arm was broken and a piece of shrapnel had grazed his penis, still visibly swollen. (Always the optimist, Clarence said "if it stays like that, Bake, I'm going to make a lot of girls happy when I get home!)
The man was absolutely overjoyed to see us. We talked. Understandably, the moments after the impact of the shell were confused in his mind but he said the Medics had gotten to him almost immediately - how they had gotten there so fast we couldn't explain. After pulling him from the building, they laid him on the ground just outside for whatever reason. Because of the injury to his arm, he couldn't lay his forearm down flat; from his elbow to his fingers, it stuck up in the air. When the next round exploded in the road (that would be the one which struck Col. Moore), a piece of shrapnel took off the tip of one finger.
I asked Clarence if there was anything he wanted. He said, "I sure would like a glass of cold beer, Bake." At that moment, I would have struggled mightily to fill any of his wishes, no matter how extreme. But a cold beer? No problem. I drove the peep down the street until I spotted a beer garden. Emptying the contents of the peeps five-gallon water can into the gutter, I carried it into the bar with me. When I entered, all the patrons in the place got up and walked out. OK. The rules of the game had been established. To them, I was the enemy; conversely, then, they were my enemies. I could act like a conqueror. Placing the can on the bar, I told the bartender, in English, to fill it up. He indicated, in German, he didn't understand. I tried French. He didn't understand. More motions. He still didn't understand. Certain he understood English, I pulled my .45 pistol, cocked it and stuck it in his face and told him "Fill it up. If you don't, I'll shoot off your left ear, then your right ear and, if you still refuse, I'll blow your + * ^ # @ ~ HEAD OFF!" With alacrity, he grabbed the can and started filling under the threatening muzzle of my pistol. I stomped out without making any offer to pay him. Another small victory for the Allies.
Curiously, back at the hospital, no one questioned me about the need for a five-gallon water can in the place. They apparently weren't accustomed to the antics of field soldiers. Clarence took only a few sips of his beer but the rest of us had a pretty good party going in short order. There were two other patients in the room with him, one of them a wounded German soldier. He began calling out in German, repeating the same words over and over. Barney Rapp, who spoke fluent German, said he was calling for the nurse to shave him. DeHaven said "Give me your knife, Bake, and push my bed over there beside him. I'll shave the S.O.B.!”
Eventually, it came time for us to leave. With several gallons of beer left, we went into a ward and began pouring beer for any patient who asked for it. Suddenly a nurse appeared, demanding, "What are you doing? These men are all stomach patients!" You could have fooled me. They all seemed to enjoy it.
Saying good-bye to Clarence DeHaven was a tough, emotional trial. Despite his bravado, I wasn't certain he would survive. His surgeon was non-committal. Was this the last time I would ever see this faithful friend whom I loved like a brother? It was the low point of my wartime emotional experiences. But the story has a relatively happy ending. Clarence spent nearly two years in V.A. hospitals but lived to have a fruitful life. He was declared 100% disabled but had a thriving little business selling lubricants and other supplies to farmers in his neighborhood. He married a hometown girl and had three daughters and numerous grandchildren, whom he adored, and he, in turn, was adored. His face bore blue burn marks and he combed small pieces of shrapnel out of his hair for the rest of his life. He was never bitter about his experience. He died in his 70's of lung cancer, causing me great feelings of guilt because of the cigarettes I gave him during our combat days together. I visited him two weeks before his death; he, timidly, asked me to be one of his pallbearers. I told him if he expected me to carry his butt for 5 miles as I had during the 25-mile road march in Pennsylvania, he was mistaken. He replied, "No, the cemetery is just across the road." We embraced, one last time. Two weeks later, I helped lay this finest of men to rest.
With Springfield repaired and declared ready to roll, Robuck ended the suspense for his crew and selected a replacement for DeHaven. He tapped Frank DiNapoli, a Brooklyn boy who had himself just returned from the hospital for treatment of injuries suffered in Belgium on Sept. 2, just outside of Mons. Frank had driven a halftrack in the Ammo Section but that job was no longer open. He was fortunate to have been returned to his old outfit instead of going through a replacement depot where he might have gone to another division. And Hq. Section was fortunate, also, for Frank was a superlative individual. He was a quiet, soft-spoken man, unlike so many of the others in the Battery from that area. In an unusual twist, his brother, Bill, (younger, I think) was also in Service Battery. They were very close and one of the first questions Frank asked when he reported in was "Have you seen Bill? How is Bill?"
Surely, I must have made inquiries of Frank as to his injuries but I am at a loss to recall that information. They could not have been extensive, since he had been absent only about 6 weeks and he showed no indications of having been wounded. He was openly uncomfortable about becoming the BC's driver, saying he'd rather be back in the Ammo Section, but we reassured him that Robuck was a very fair man and, if he did his job, he had nothing to worry about.
Frank proved himself to be quietly capable in every way - an excellent driver, calm in all situations, deliberate in every thing he did, dependable (we could rest easy, knowing Frank would not fall asleep while on guard), honest, truthful - all of DeHaven's attributes wrapped up in a different body but without Clarence's forcefulness. Frank was not a leader but no one was a more faithful follower. I would spend more days in combat with this man than I did with DeHaven but the bond between us, while deep, never rang with the resonance of that between DeHaven and me. I would develop great respect for Frank as a soldier and deep affection for him as a man and a friend but the feelings were just short of those I felt for DeHaven.
And Frank was over-awed by the radios in the track, seemingly unable to comprehend the concept of Morse Code. Consequently, he attributed to Root and me magical powers and super-intelligence that, of course, we did not possess. His sense of wonder soon abated but his respect for our ability to communicate using dits and dahs never waned.
The episode of the deadly, big German cannon would continue for several weeks, although its shells never impacted again in our immediate area, most of them passing over us by large margins. But, eventually, the location of the gun was spotted and every artillery piece we had in range - approaching 100 pieces - zeroed in on it and blasted away in concert, thoroughly pulverizing it for all time. Well done.
October faded into November and we were grateful to have shelter inside, as the weather was consistently cold and wet. Our troops on the front lines must have been truly miserable. Mud, for them, became an adversary, as well. The most exciting thing that happened in Service Battery, that I remember, was the day a flight of P-38 fighter-bombers came over our area. In an unusual occurrence, they were jumped by a few German fighters. The P-38s immediately jettisoned their bombs and extra gas tanks which exploded in a great blast of noise and roaring flames. Fortunately, no one was hurt. The P-38s promptly drove off the enemy planes with no apparent casualties on either side.
We had to contend with a few buzz bombs chugging over harmlessly to us and occasional visits from Bed Check Charlie and his anti-personnel bombs, but nothing troublesome. The radio nets were still open every day but, with telephone lines stretched everywhere, traffic was slow except when enemy artillery rounds cut the lines; then we would be busy again until the wiremen strung new lines. With the halftrack parked next to the CP beside the road, I was working the radio one day when I noted with astonishment a Red Cross truck coming down the highway toward me. I sang out "Hot doughnuts coming up, fella's!" and men began to spill out of buildings onto the edge of the road. We flagged them down and indicated where they could park the truck while making doughnuts. The two American women were indignant: "These doughnuts are for combat troops! We are looking for the ---------- ", mentioning some outfit we had never heard of. We derisively informed them that if they drove about 3 more miles up the road they would be handing out their doughnuts to the Germans. Lost, they turned around and drove back in the direction from which they had come. The only treat we received was the sight of an American woman, the first in many months.
On November 23, the Army performed a prodigious feat of logistics by providing every man in the European Theater of Operations with a Thanksgiving dinner, complete with turkey and dressing, the finest meal, by far, we had had since June 1, when we broke camp in Frome.
November eased by, boring and monotonous. We had been in Walheim now for 2 months, the longest stay in one area since we left England. Except for the occasional stray round of enemy artillery, life was pretty easy. We complained (to ourselves) about our cold quarters - there was no heat in the building at all - but we acknowledged how lucky we were to be in Service Battery in an artillery outfit, inside and dry, while the combat elements of the 3rd Armored Division were dying in the mud and cold just a short distance away.
It was late in November, I believe, when Otto Buehler lost his peep to "higher authority". Tires for all wheeled vehicles had become in very short supply, particularly for the peep because, I suppose, there were so many of them and they invariably traveled more miles than other vehicle types. They were everywhere and always in motion. Some officer in the battalion - he would have to have been a captain or higher - must have been in dire straits for tires for his peep and learned about Otto's unauthorized vehicle. Otto found himself with a peep without tires. Grounded. And just a few weeks before we found ourselves involved in a fight when access to a peep would have made his job so much easier. Unfortunately, he never found another one he could commandeer.
In my memory, our next move took place some time earlier but the Unit Journal unequivocally states the Bn. Trains moved to the city of Stolberg on December 8,1944. The town, the capture of which had cost the 3rd Armored Division and the 104th Infantry Division so dearly, was, in my opinion, surprisingly intact. I had expected nothing but piles of rubble but a large proportion of the buildings were serviceable. Many of the civilian population had remained or returned.
Hq. Section was quartered in a large, three-story brick building with numerous large holes in the roof. German civilians (whom we were not supposed to talk to) told us it had been an orphanage before the war descended on the town. We had a large room on the ground floor, just down the hall from the room Robuck took as his CP. Most of the glass was broken out of the windows, but we hung blankets over them to keep out the cold wind. We were quite comfortable. The weather can only be described as miserable. The rain was almost incessant; roadside ditches were overflowing; gutters were full. There were a few troops living in the field in the vicinity and they engineered some ingenious devices to help make their foxholes livable. Directly across the street from the orphanage was a sawmill, not operating, of course, but with lumber found there, some GI's built elaborate structures in the field in their search for protection from the elements. I recall seeing one with electric lights! A bicycle wheel, with tin cans attached at intervals around the circumference of the wheel, was placed into position so that rainwater coursing in a stream down a hill struck the cans and turned the wheel which, in turn, spun a small generator normally used to provide the electricity for a bicycle headlight. They had harnessed the very element that made life so miserable in the field to add a tough of comfort in an environment so devoid of comfort. Admirable.
We had only just settled into our new position when an interesting development took place in the sawmill across the street from us. Two large Army tractor-trailer rigs pulled up, one carrying what looked like a gun carriage, the other the barrel of the largest caliber I had ever seen. The carriage was winched off to the ground and positioned where the officer in charge directed. An ungainly machine picked up the barrel and screwed it in place on the gun carriage. Voila! A 9-inch howitzer! The thing could throw a heavy projectile more than 15 miles.
Fortunately for us - and the enemy, too, I suppose - their ammunition was rationed to, I think, 5 rounds per day. The first time it fired, it blew out all the remaining glass in every window for a quarter mile around. Tiles rattled off the roof. The blast was deafening. They were a laid back bunch of fellows and we persuaded them to give us warning before they fired the thing. Springfield was parked on the street in front of the orphanage, about 40 yards from the gun. Sitting in it, tending the radios, the blast when they fired rocked the halftrack back and forth pretty good.
Battery Maintenance Section must have had time on their hands for they cobbled up a gasoline engine-driven generator system for the Battery Commander that provided him with power to light up his quarters in a minimal, but welcome, way. With my very limited knowledge of electricity and the help and advise of Root and Pancho, we contrived to hook into the generator for our own use. I cadged the wire from the fella's in Battery Maintenance who had rigged the generator for Robuck; the fixture and bulb we scavenged in the building. We had light! If Robuck ever notice, he made no mention of it. We were living high.
There was a small steel-making factory just a few blocks down the street from the orphanage. They must have specialized in boilerplate and heavy stuff; there were large, thick slabs of the stuff laying around. The factory included a rather elaborate chemistry laboratory. Not content with facing death any moment from enemy artillery, Root and Pancho spent many hours goofing around in the lab, trying to blow themselves up. They concocted some vile potions but survived the experience.
Always in a desperate search for some way to make our poorly armored tanks less vulnerable to the potent cannons carried by Kraut tanks, the Division Maintenance Battalion devised an experiment: they welded 2 inch thick steel plate to the front of one of our M-4s using 4 inch spacers. Into the 4 inch space between the plate and the front of the tank, they poured reinforced concrete, resulting in this configuration: 2 inches of boiler plate, 4 inches of concrete and 4 inches of armor plate. In it's next engagement, the tank took a head-on shot from the 88 mm cannon of a Pz V German tank. The projectile penetrated into the interior of the tank and disabled the transmission, forcing the crew to abandon it.
December 16, 1944, was an unusual day, although it started out as strictly routine. Tending the radios, as usual (even though radio traffic was slow, because phone lines were everywhere; the radios still had to be manned. It's where I did most of my letter writing.), I had the top up because of the rainy weather. I suddenly became aware of airplanes passing overhead. Ours, of course; we seldom heard from the Luftwaffe in the daytime. But the engines sounded somewhat different so I unzipped some canvas and was stunned to see dozens of Kraut planes flying west. Obviously, we weren't the target but, nevertheless, I readied the .50 caliber. This might get interesting, if some of them came over a little lower. Which is exactly what happened. Several flights of ME-109's and FW-190's came over at about 2000 feet. I started banging away, as did other gunners in the vicinity. (I loved shooting at their planes; they rarely fired back!) And they kept coming. The racket brought Pancho out - he wanted in on the fun - but he had no more success than the rest of us. I didn't see a single plane go down.
The unusual air activity continued most of the day; by nightfall, rumors were rampant: the Germans had launched a big offensive against the Third Army; they had broken through against the British - or was it the Ninth Army? An indication that something big was imminent came when the Net Control Operator informed us the net would revert to a 24-hour a day schedule until further notice. Root and I were back in the harness.
The next day, the 17th, was more of the same. At 0300 hours I received a message to be on the alert for German paratroopers thought to have been dropped in the area. None were spotted. Under dreary skies, the parade of enemy planes continued without, as far as I could see, opposition from Allied planes. The 18th was the same: cloudy, cold and dreary; enemy planes flying over, unaffected by ground fire. At 1300 hours, a new password was distributed; the old one had been compromised. Division Hq. informed us that the Germans had launched a major offensive in the Ardennes region of Belgium, in an area we had fought through just 3 months previously, with their objective being, apparently, Liege.
At 1300 hours, December 19, 1944, I copied the message from Division Hq.: "Be prepared to move anytime after 1700 today." (I still have my copy of that message). Earlier that day the cannon crew in the sawmill must have gotten word to get out for, in a mad rush of activity, they dismantled their weapon, loaded up and headed back down the road to the west like the German army was marching down Stolberg's main street.
At 1715 that afternoon, as darkness closed in, the 3rd Armored Division picked up its tracks and clanked back over those same roads we had wrested from the enemy so recently. No, we wouldn't be home for Christmas.
CHAPTER 12
MISSION IMPOSSIBLE -- WINTER WAR
The events of the night of December 19/20, 1944, would be indelibly imprinted in the minds of any who participated - and most of the 3rd Armored Division men did. The chaos was absolute. With thousands of vehicles from our Division, in addition to thousands from other units, all endeavoring to deploy, at top speed, to the scene of the German attack, all forbidden to use the vehicle headlights, the results were inevitable: traffic jams of gigantic proportions. Fog formed to add to the difficulty. At one point during the night, Robuck had gone ahead in his peep when our column, with Springfield now in the lead, was halted by an MP to allow a tank unit onto the road. For several hours, until Robuck returned, Frank could only follow the twin blue flames of the exhaust of the tank ahead of us. Progress was painfully slow, more stop than go. We had no maps. We only knew we were to assemble in the vicinity of the town of Hotton in Belgium. Neither Frank nor I got any sleep; Frank drove, of course, and, with radio again the only means of communication, I was busy working the sets. Root, Pancho and Joe King benefited from short naps.
We arrived at our assigned assembly area at about 10:30 hours December 20, to find a battle going on for possession of Hotton. Elements of our 36th Armored Infantry Regiment had reached the town at about the same time as a small task force of German infantry and at least two tanks. Hearing the sound of battle, Robuck stopped the column and proceeded to drive cautiously toward the town. The fog, still with us, limited visibility to less than 50 yards. He quickly returned, stating the infantry had called for tank support but might not be able to hold until help arrived. If not, they would fall back and take up positions on the bank of a small river (the Ourthe, I believe) that ran past the edge of the town. He ordered us to dismount our machine-gun, take our bazooka and all ammunition and dig in along the bank of the river to support the 36th, should they have to fall back. We quickly dug holes, which promptly began to fill with water. I left Root on the radios; Joe King would man the .50 with Pancho. Frank and I would handle the bazooka.
The wait was maddening. The fog muffled the sounds but we could hear plenty of small arms fire and the occasional boom of a tank cannon. But, after what seemed an eternity, we heard the welcome sound of tank engines approaching from our rear. A platoon of M-4s roared past. A spirited fight of perhaps 20 minutes ensued with one Kraut tank knocked out and the town cleared of the enemy. We saw no Germans and fired no shots.
This encounter was a precursor of conditions which would prevail for most of the next 6 weeks: foul weather which limited visibility and our air support; fluid situations which initiated battles neither side had planned; constant movement; too few resources - particularly in the first 10 days - of men and weapons to get the job done. The Ardennes battle would be a struggle of monumental proportions, savage in the extreme, with the entire campaign in the west in jeopardy. Hardship and deprivation were the standards for those who survived.
How to describe a period which offered so much confusion; almost constant movement; much of it seemingly aimless; an abundance of rumors and few hard facts; American fighting men, most of them green to combat but some veterans of war, throwing down their arms and fleeing before the advancing German juggernaut; where a pitifully few battle hardened divisions, including ours, were thrown into the breech to plug the holes left by the retreating units; where, for the first time in its battle experience, the 3rd Armored Division was outnumbered by the enemy (at one time, we were assigned to hold a line 20 miles long against 100,000 attacking Germans!). All this in weather which encompassed all elements: fog; snow approaching 12 inches in depth at times; cold ranging down to zero; hilly, heavily forested terrain with few useable roads. It made for an interesting campaign.
Even now, 55 years later, having lived through the action and read countless accounts of the campaign, I cannot relate, in chronological order, events I experienced. The movements were too frequent, the days and nights too long, the exhaustion too complete, the cold too pervasive to induce coherent memory. I shall relate the events I remember with no promise of chronological accuracy.
Allied Supreme Headquarters, meaning Eisenhower and his staff, his Army Group commanders, his Army commanders and even the Corps commanders, were caught flat-footed by the German thrust, despite their protestations to the contrary. They knew Hitler had assembled a powerful reserve armored and infantry force, utilizing every man and machine he could muster in the west, and was preparing to strike somewhere. These dangerous reserves were identified as the 5th and 6th Panzer Armies. But, by late November, military intelligence had lost track of the location of one of those Armies. They found it early on the morning of December 16, 1944, when both those Armies struck through the Ardennes region of Belgium. Despite reports pouring in describing the overwhelming numbers and the quality of the men (many were the hated SS units) and equipment employed in the strike force, Hq., alleging a belief that the Ardennes attack was merely a feint, with the real offensive to come elsewhere, chose to regard it as a local action which could be contained by troops in the area. It wasn't until the afternoon of December 18, with German spearheads smashing deep into Belgium, destroying all attempts to stop them, that the Brass realized the gravity of the situation and took measures to counteract them. Eventually, overwhelming numbers would be brought to bear and the German offensive would be stopped far short of its goals, but the first 10 days or so were touch and go.
Snow began falling heavily the night of December 20 and continued for several days. The hills of the Ardennes were blanketed in white - and the roads became very slippery. The slippery conditions were an obvious hindrance to vehicular movement for the opposing forces, but it placed an added burden on the 3rd AD. The tanks of other armored divisions which were soon thrown into the battle - specifically, the 5th ant 7th - were equipped with the newest tracks, without pads, whereas our division's tanks sported the older tracks, with thick rubber pads. It quickly became apparent that the padless steel tracks were nearly useless on the slippery inclines; I can't recount the number of tanks we saw lying in ravines where they rested after crashing down through the trees on the wooded hillside. The rubber pads on our old tanks afforded some degree of traction in most situations, a fact soon recognized by the Corps commander. As a consequence, the 3rd Armored Division was assigned the toughest areas to attack or defend - the hilliest and the most slippery. It was circumstances such as this which accounted for the fact that our Division suffered more battlefield deaths than any other armored division in WWII, despite the fact that both the 1st and 2nd Armored saw more time in combat than we did.
Christmas day, 1944, was not a day of joy in the Ardennes. There was no hot turkey dinner this day, nor hot food of any kind for most of us. I have several memories of the day. The sun rose! For the first time since leaving Germany! We would see those friendly, badly needed P-47's over our heads today - a spirit-lifting thought. I sought out the kitchen truck, hoping to find a hot cup of real coffee. What they offered was cold cereal and powdered milk. They were out of coffee and had insufficient clean water to reconstitute the milk. Our supply lines were in disarray with marauding German tanks cutting many roads. Our halftrack crew soon ran out of all the field rations we had been issued and had to rely on the cans - mostly canned cheese - which we had disdainfully tossed into an empty ammo well in the floor of the halftrack.
A few days previously, C Battery of the 54th had been assigned to Task Force Hogan, ordered to blunt a German spearhead that was threatening to outflank us. In short order, the task force found itself surrounded and set up a defensive perimeter in the small town of Marcouray. By a freak of geography - Springfield was sitting at the peak of one of the highest hills around - I became the only operator in the entire Division with radio contact with the cut-off unit. A message from Div. Hq. asked me to confirm that I was in contact with Hogan. Very shortly, a peep came flying up the hill, sliding to a stop beside my vehicle. In it, beside the driver, was a full colonel, who turned out to be the Division Commanders chief of staff, and his aide, a major. The colonel wrote out a message inquiring of Hogan's needs. I asked "In the clear, Sir?" "No" was the reply. Laboriously, I encrypted the message and sent it. When, at last, the reply started coming in and I began copying, the major kept asking "What's he saying, what's he saying?" The colonel pulled the major away from the door of the halftrack, telling him "Let the man do his job!"
Hogan, of course, needed everything: ammo, water, gasoline, food, but, mostly, he asked for blood plasma and bandages. He had several badly wounded men who needed supplies. One of our gun batteries tried to fire the medical supplies in artillery shells but the effort failed. Most of the shells landed outside their small perimeter and, of those that reached them, most of the supplies were destroyed on impact. Airdrops were ordered but those too, failed to impact the area. On Christmas day, Hogan was ordered to destroy his equipment and march out. A man from the Medics volunteered to stay with the men who were too badly wounded to walk. At dark, the infiltration began. At 0700 hours, they reached an American outpost. They had walked through 20 miles of enemy territory and had not lost a man.
The Ardennes battle was a fight for possession of the road network. Because the hilly, heavily wooded terrain afforded only a limited number of serviceable roads, the force holding the crucial road junctions controlled the flow of all mechanized and armored traffic. One such junction was the one at Manhay, a tiny Belgian town of no military significance - except for the road junction. It had to be held if the German advance was to be slowed. The sections which normally traveled in the Battery Commander's convoy were dispatched, late one bitterly cold afternoon, to take up positions at the Manhay crossroads, ostensibly to back up whatever line unit had the prime defense responsibility. (I no longer recall who they were; we weren't there long enough to get real friendly with them.) Robuck set up his CP in a farmhouse that had a large walled-in courtyard. Springfield and a several other vehicles parked inside this courtyard. In total, Service Battery had, I believe, 4 halftracks and possibly 8 or 9 trucks at the site. Most, possibly all, were equipped with .50 caliber machine-guns; the halftracks also had bazookas. Only Springfield parked inside the courtyard; Robuck placed the other halftracks in strategic positions on the road.
I was alone in the halftrack, the rest of the crew having gone into the farmhouse. I had the canvas up for two reasons: (1) it was fully dark and I needed to use a flashlight to copy messages and (2) in a futile effort to ward off the cold, I had unzipped the canvas over the .50 caliber and would have to only flip the canvas aside to put the gun into action. Because of the uncertainty of our situation, we had not put up any camouflage nets. Radio traffic was heavy although little of it was directed at me. Sitting there, hunched up from the cold, I heard footsteps approaching, squeaking in the snow. They approached the passenger side door. I slipped my pistol out of its holster and cocked it. Suddenly, the door was yanked open and I stuck the barrel of the gun into the face that appeared in the doorway. Tense as I was, I don't understand why I didn't fire but I hesitated long enough for the figure to holler "82nd! 82nd!". There were two of them. They had been cut off from their unit and had hidden in the woods for two days with little or nothing to eat. They were very cold and very hungry. I gave them each a couple of K rations, which we could ill afford to spare, but these guys were pretty sad sacks. They were anxious to find their unit; I pointed out the road we had come up on, warning them it might no longer be in friendly hands. They disappeared in the night.
I could only transmit on one or two frequencies with the voice-only set in the track but the receiver could pick up a wide range of frequencies. And all transmissions were "in the clear", just like talking on the telephone, whereas all transmissions on the C.W. set were encrypted, revealing nothing unless I copied them and ran them through the encryption machine. I began listening to various frequencies on the voice receiver, hoping to learn something relevant to our particular situation. One frequency seemed to be the one used by the "other guys" we were supposed to be backing up. I heard one transmission: "three big boys coming through.” “Big boys” was a term often applied to our M-4 tanks. Great! They would be a welcome addition to our puny contingent. Presently: "They are not ours! They are Jerries! Jerries coming at you!" Gunfire erupted. I stuck my head up through the canvas at the .50 caliber position. The sky was alive with tracer bullets, seeming to originate about a half-mile from us. I could distinguish tank cannon fire and a few bazooka rounds. Shortly an authoritative voice ordered all units to fall back along the road leading east from the crossroads. That was the road we were on. Robuck and the crew appeared about this time. I informed him of what I had overheard. He sent his peep driver, Barney Rapp, to warn the rest of our men to be ready to move at anytime. We listened to the sounds of the battle, steadily progressing towards us. We had no means of communicating with the beleaguered units, a common and frustrating problem on the battlefield. "Let's go,” Robuck finally ordered and we swung west, the retinue falling in behind us.
I cannot even estimate how far we traveled in our ignominious, but well advised retreat before Robuck led us off the road to a stone farmhouse with a thatched roof standing by itself in a small, snow covered field. The sky had cleared, the temperature had plummeted and the moon had risen; this abandoned house looked like a snug harbor for our weary crew. As usual, the BC, the First Sergeant, the Scout Corporal and a few other hangers-on took over the ground floor while the rest of the Section was relegated to the second floor. I chose to remain with the radios so I asked the other crew members to carry my bedroll up with them and stake out a spot for me to lay down whenever I felt it safe to allow Root to relieve me.
With our lives out of any immediate danger, everyone's priority became shelter. Preferably warm shelter, and the little farmhouse became crowded with other members of the Battery seeking even a modicum of protection from the cold in this unheated building. It had become a routine practice for the Springfield crew to regard the radioman as the mandated vehicle guard - Robuck had never objected - even though, with the canvas up and the armor plate up on the doors to block the wind, I had only a very restricted view of the landscape through the windshield. So, there I was in a setting to delight the heart of any artist - a huge moon shining down on a thatched roof cottage in a field of diamonds created by the moonlight on the snow. And I was freezing to death. Surrounded by armor plate and with the temperature in the 10-15 degree range, it was akin to working inside an ice cube. Brutal. But the worst was yet to come.
Working the radios, I suddenly became aware of a yellow glow coming through the windshield. What was this? Before I could act, the air was rent with the shouts and cries of several voices. I caught the word "Fire!” Piling out, the source of the yellow light became readily apparent: the thatched roof of the farmhouse was afire! Men were streaming wildly out the front door, including my crew, each one carrying his own sleeping bag. Thoroughly alarmed, I asked Pancho if they had left my bag up there. "No," he said, "I threw it out the window." I hotfooted around to the back of the house; fearful some of the hot embers that were now floating down would damage it. My fears were unfounded; my most precious possession was undamaged and I quickly returned it to the halftrack.
Every man on the scene knew what was going to happen next: the glow of the growing fire would draw the immediate attention of German artillery. We had to move - and fast. Which is exactly what Robuck ordered. We vacated the area under full throttle. Perhaps a mile down the road, we heard the first rounds come in, and then a barrage of explosions as the Krauts employed at least 3 guns to sweep the area. Too late.
Safely out of the bull's eye, and unable to locate any suitable shelter, the BC pulled us off into a field where we spent the night under the most miserable conditions imaginable. With 5 of us in the vehicle, there was no room for anyone to lay down. The warmest spot was on the hood of the halftrack. The exhaust of the one-cylinder "Little Joe" generator installed under the hood in England was so loud as to bring protests from anyone trying to sleep in the neighborhood, including the BC. The power requirements of the big old radio were quite severe and it was necessary to re-charge the track battery periodically. I used the "Little Joe" whenever we were parked in the daytime but ran the vehicle engine for the re-charging at night. Running the engine created a lot of heat that warmed the armor-plated hood very nicely. By unanimous agreement, our driver was to have first claim on the hood as his sleeping spot, and Frank usually availed himself of the privilege but, in these dire circumstances, he offered to share his domain with others. Two men, if they coordinated their movements, could share the space on the hood. They worked out a rotation schedule whereby every man - not to include me; I knew I would get no sleep that night - would spend some time getting his backside warmed. Sometime during that night, Pancho, having exhausted his time on the hood, crawled into the halftrack and seemed to fall asleep. Sometime later, I heard him softly sobbing. When I inquired, he said he thought his feet were frozen. I instructed him to remove his boots. An inspection showed no sign of frostbite but they were, unquestionably, very cold. By moving people and objects around, we made room for him to recline with his feet in my lap. I spent the rest of the night massaging his feet to restore some of the heat he had lost.
On December 22, 1944, (this was before the incident related above) I received a call from the operator for the BC of C Battery (we soon learned to recognize the "fist" of most operators on the network and knew the identity of the sender before we received the signature of the originator). As I began copying the message, I was startled by two things: he started off sending a string of numbers - very unusual to begin a message with numbers and, two, his message was "in the clear" - not encrypted. Anyone who could read Morse Code could read the message. A serious breech of radio security. I soon perceived the numbers were map coordinates, six of them. The numbers were followed by "enemy vehicles and troops on road and vicinity". I grabbed Robuck's map and checked out the coordinates. We were less than 2 miles from one of the indicated danger spots. The BC had just gone ahead in his peep to scout the route but a few blasts on the horn and some wild arm waving brought him back promptly. He reversed the column and got us out of there. The radio had saved us from a catastrophe.
The most memorable of all my experiences during the so-called Battle of the Bulge (we called it the Bitter Battle for Billets) came in January 1945, not long after the Manhay incident. A hard push by our combat elements had regained control of the crossroads and my Section was billeted some two or three miles from the town. It was very cold; the snow was deep. It was not a fit place to fight a war. Barney Rapp, Robuck's peep driver pulled up to the halftrack one day and astonished me by saying, "Hey, Baker, I just saw your brother just a few miles up the road". I knew my oldest brother, Duane, father of two kids, had been drafted, but, the last time I had heard from him, or about him, he was still in the States. I told Barney so. He kept insisting; I kept denying. But when he said, "All right, his name is Duane." I had to believe him. I asked him for specific directions then went to Robuck, told him what Rapp had said and asked for use of his peep. I expected him to tell me to have Rapp drive me there but he just nodded his head and said, "Take off".
I no longer recall how or where I obtained it but when I departed, I had a full bottle of cognac with me. Following Barney's directions. I soon found my brother's outfit, a 155mm howitzer battalion. I was horrified to find they were bivouacked in a thick woods where an artillery tree burst would have devastating effects. I located Duane without difficulty and we had a joyful reunion. I wanted to take him back to my outfit for awhile but he wasn't permitted to leave the area, so we tramped to a far corner of their encampment area where we hoped to be undisturbed by officers, sat down in a snow bank and consumed the bottle of cognac. Duane told me they had left England on Christmas day; this was their first commitment in a combat area. They were so green they could not distinguish incoming shells from outgoing rounds. Duane felt it was a rather slip-shod outfit. Their training had not been rigorous, their officers were borderline incompetent (their bivouac position seemed to verify that observation) and he recited various other shortcomings he had observed. Duane had also been trained as a radio operator, with a 6-week schooling, as compared to my 14 weeks, but he was assigned to the wire section. He never operated a radio in his service days. I was cognizant, again, of how fortunate I was. Although I was drafted early, I was in a battle tested Division of which I was very proud.
When the cognac bottle was empty, I prepared to leave. I advised my brother to either dig a foxhole out in the open or put a strong cover over his hole in the woods. I promised I would return the next day, which I did. I brought him a blanket - he had only one, and no sleeping bag - long underwear, extra socks and a few other items he lacked. I had to believe his commanding officer was incompetent. Any officer who would allow his men to enter combat in winter weather with only one blanker was unfit to lead.
It was with great reluctance that I bid goodbye to this dear brother. His unit appeared to be completely unprepared for combat and I feared a stupid mistake by his superiors could cost him his life. I knew that I too might die but not because of poor leadership.
Duane would survive the war but I would not see him again for nearly 18 months when he returned home after serving in the army of occupation. Nearly half a million Americans participated in the Ardennes battle; the odds against two brothers in different units meeting in that maelstrom must have been astronomical. But it happened and was one of the few pleasurable moments I experienced in combat.
Many years later, I would learn that Duane, with two children, could have served his time in the U.S. but he told the authorities. "I have a brother over there somewhere; I want to go over and help him."
One of the best-liked officers in the Battalion was a lieutenant named Kellock. He was a forward observer, but by about Christmas time he had been on the job almost constantly and was bone weary with nerves about to snap. They sent him back to Service Battery to let him escape the heat of battle for a few days of rest. He rode in Springfield with us. I can't recall how long he had been with us, although I'm certain it was no more than 3 days, when I received, at 0300 hours, a message ordering Kellock to rejoin Hq. Battery for F.O. duty again. With great regret, I woke this fine officer and man and showed him the message (a copy of which I still have). Good soldier that he was, he shook himself awake and wearily headed off to duty. I'm delighted to say Lt. Kellock survived the war and we met repeatedly at 3rd Armored reunions.
By the first week in February 1945, the German spearheads had been contained and the Brass planned and ordered an offensive aimed at trapping most of the enemy forces in the salient. Abominable weather conditions and fierce enemy resistance threw the time table off enough to thwart the noble objectives but, while suffering heavy casualties themselves, American troops forced the Germans to retreat in nearly all sectors; we destroyed many of their units in the process. After two weeks of some of the most savage fighting of the entire campaign, with most objectives met, the 3rd Armored Division was relieved from the line and sent to a "rest area" near Barvaux, Belgium. The amenities were sparse but seemed luxurious to the men who had seen almost constant battle for nearly 6 weeks. There was time to clean up, write letters, perform some maintenance work on our steel steeds and catch up on sleep. For our battered Division, the Ardennes campaign was over.
In early February, after a massive infusion of equipment and men to replace our considerable loses, march orders came down for the Spearhead Division: we were headed back to Germany. We rumbled out onto the roads and headed east. Our return journey was much more orderly and pleasant than that of the chaotic night of December 19. Service Battery was assigned billets in the small town of Breinig, just a few miles from Stolberg, site of our last abode in Germany.
Random thoughts and reminiscences about the Ardennes battles: To this day, I ponder the question of how men, on both sides, could generate the will and the fortitude to fight under the conditions that prevailed. How do men come to possess such courage? In my job in Service Battery, I was seldom exposed to small arms fire; I rarely saw an armed German soldier; still we suffered terribly. What must the conditions have been like for the men in our combat units? In addition to the brutal weather, they had to face a fanatical enemy intent on killing anything in his path. Our own 36th Armored Infantry Regiment lost several men who froze to death in their foxholes when pinned down by enemy fire, unable to move. With the ground frozen, digging a foxhole was almost impossible. The infantry was issued blocks of TNT that were used to blast through the frozen crust. In many ways, the conditions in Belgium resembled those endured by our fighting men in the South Pacific. Their weather was always a factor; the terrain difficult and favorable for defense; the enemy as fanatical as any on earth. And they had to contend with formidable weather conditions every day of the year; we had only about 4 months of winter fighting. And yet those Marines, soldiers and sailors prevailed, suffered and pressed on to victory. I've always had nothing but admiration for them - always been grateful I didn't have to fight in that theater of operations.
One cold, brilliantly clear day, a few of us, including my old friend, Hank Meier, were enjoying following the progress of a dog fight between our own P-51's and German fighters almost directly overhead. We could see the puffs of smoke as their machine-guns fired - a genuine melee. Hank was carrying his M-1 rifle across his chest, in the port arms position. Suddenly a .50 caliber bullet struck the fore grip of the rifle, shattering the wood, knocking Hank on his butt. Had the projectile not struck the rifle, it surely would have inflicted a severe wound in Hank's chest. Lucky man.
In at least two instances, we moved right in with Belgian families, one a farm family, the other a city family. I was struck, then, and still remember with fondness, how warm and friendly they were toward us. Our stay, in both cases, was no longer than 2 days, but for that length of time, a gang of dirty, bone-weary soldiers cluttered up their homes. Their hospitality was impeccable. At the farm, we would have been happy to sleep in the barn - which, by the way, was attached to the house - but our hosts wouldn't hear of it. We slept on the kitchen floor, next to a large, efficient stove. Ah, the wonderful, life-giving heat! They were the only days during the entire campaign I was warm.
The Army's failure to foresee, and provide equipment for, winter war is inexcusable; yes, even criminal. Two examples: white camouflage clothing for our infantrymen for fighting in snow conditions and overshoes. German infantrymen attacking with the armored spearheads in the Ardennes wore white camouflage clothing; our troops had none. Those men fortunate enough to obtain them used household sheets to improvise a camouflage effect. Those without them were at a distinct disadvantage, needlessly costing many American lives.
Lack of overshoes was a source of much discontent and anger in the course of the Ardennes fighting. All troops wore standard combat boots which readily absorbed water that, in turn, froze in the severe nighttime temperatures, effectively encasing the feet in blocks of ice, producing countless cases of frostbite and trench foot. Overshoes would have eliminated this needless pain and the need for thousands of replacements.
The growlings of discontent became howls of rage when it became apparent that a sizable supply of the much needed overshoes was reaching the European Theater but were being short stopped by supply troops far to the rear. The Port Battalion men got theirs when they unloaded them from the ships; the railroad crews helped themselves; the truck drivers and helpers who transported them to the forward-most depots all had dry feet. Hospital personnel got theirs. If there were any left over, give them to the combat elements. But there were none left over. The system was corrupt - and the combat troops suffered because of it. The officers whose duty it was to oversee the equitable distribution of critical items, from Eisenhower on down, failed miserably, through either incompetence or indifference
It gave me great pleasure when, in early April of 1945, with winter long past, the Battery Supply Sergeant handed me a pair of overshoes, I threw them back at him and told him what he could do with them.
CHAPTER 13
TARGET: COLOGNE
Our sojourn in Breinig lasted longer than the Brass had planned, I think. More about that in a moment. As usual, Hq. Section was billeted on the second floor of a home with Robuck's CP on the ground floor. Our accommodations were more than adequate. Our kitchen crew was back in full operation. Best of all, the weather had warmed and some bare ground could be seen. Spring was approaching. Life was good.
Even as the Ardennes was being cleaned up, VII Corps was plotting the strategy for an armored drive on the big city of Cologne. The main natural obstacle was the Roer River, the west bank of which we controlled in our area. Unfortunately, the dam upstream from us was still in German hands. The river was full and fast from snow melt but, when the Krauts opened the gates on the dam, the river suddenly became more than a 1/2 mile wide. Forcing a crossing under those circumstances was impossible, unthinkable. We would have to wait for the water to subside. We contented ourselves with thunderous barrages of artillery fire on the enemy positions.
It was here we were introduced to the new age of aviation warfare. On a pretty, early March day, sitting in the halftrack working the radios, I heard the sound of long bursts of machine-gun fire to the rear of our position. The sound kept growing closer; I knew a low-flying enemy plane was in the vicinity. Manning the gun, I soon spotted a German fighter coming directly at me, low and very fast. I was preparing to unload a belt on him when I saw the plane had no propeller. "Some one has shot off his propeller" was my thought. I held my fire; he was going to crash in the vicinity. He didn't. He just disappeared, faster than any airplane I had ever seen. Later that day, I learned I had just seen my first jet propelled airplane - and it had German crosses on it, not the American star.
That plane, or one like it, returned almost daily, trying to bomb a huge gasoline storage area far to our rear. He made our P-51's look antiquated. They couldn't compete in this game of speed. We would have further encounters with Hitler's latest surprise.
It was reassuring to read in the Stars and Stripes newspaper that we shouldn't be concerned about the Kraut jets: "We have more, and better jets, back in the States!"
By the end of February, the Army had time to assess American losses in the Ardennes campaign. They were of monumental proportions with the infantry, as always, taking the worst hit. The Brass was horrified to learn there were not enough replacements in the pipeline to replace those losses. Their solution was simple, if laughable. I copied the message: all line units were to canvas their command for volunteers to transfer to the infantry; if insufficient numbers volunteered, each units commanding officer was to designate all "unessential personnel" as infantry replacements. When I handed the message to the Captain, he displayed more irritation than I'd ever seen him show. "Those @#^~! will never get any of my men!” He jumped in his peep and headed for Battalion Headquarters. The other BC's in the Battalion must have reacted the same way, for I didn't hear of anyone being shipped out to the infantry. Robuck, in fact, never asked for volunteers.
Actually, there was one volunteer: our own Joe King. Joe fancied himself as a top-notch soldier, always prepared for battle. He always carried a full canteen on his belt and berated the rest of us in the crew for not wearing ours. When he heard about the message I had copied, he declared: "I know infantry tactics. I'm going to Bn. Hq. and tell them I'll volunteer if they will make me a major." He was dead serious. We played along with him, encouraging him to go for it, knowing the infantry wouldn't accept a 40-year-old man as a private, let alone make him an officer. I can't recall if he actually made the trip; if he did, he was turned down for he served out the war with my crew.
It was about this time that the Battery gained a new member. His name was Ned Arceneaux, a warrant officer and a Cajun from Louisiana. He replaced a warrant officer in Bn. Supply Section who was promoted to 2nd Lt. Ned came to us from VII Corps Hq. where his duties included being "captured enemy materiel officer." He catalogued anything captured from the Krauts by Corps troops; anything that could be used by troops in the field was put to use; he supervised the disposal of anything else.
It is my guess that Ned screwed up in some way at Corps Hq. and was transferred out. How else to explain the transfer of a man, who rubbed elbows with Major General J. Lawton Collins, the Corps commander, being sent down, not to division level, not to regimental or battalion level, but to battery level? Ned was a good guy, tall, slender, energetic, a very good soldier. I liked him immediately. For some reason, Robuck assigned him to ride with us in Springfield, although the man he replaced never had. The Battery Commander introduced him to the crew. When he had stowed his gear, he asked, " Where is the booze?" We don't have any. "You don't have any? How can you fight a war without booze?" It's hard, but we managed. He vowed to correct this deplorable situation, and soon.
And he did. A few days after arriving, he asked Robuck for permission to take his peep and driver for a few hours and headed back to VII Corps Hq. He returned with the peep loaded down with wine, cognac, vodka, and tins of Argentine beef - he even had some cigars. The vodka had been captured from the Russians by the Krauts and we took it from them. Ned threw a case of vodka and some wine and cognac into the halftrack. Periodically, when supplies ran low, if the situation permitted it, he would make a trip to replenish our supply. Joe King probably didn't draw a sober breath from that day to the end of the fighting. He sprawled in the back of the vehicle, sucking on a bottle of vodka. Fortunately, he had no daily duties - except to cook for the crew when we were on the move - so we let him enjoy himself.
In the misty half light of a cold February 26 dawn, the mighty steel cutting edge of the First Army rumbled out of bivouac and crossed the Roer River, courtesy of the 84th Infantry Division which had forced a crossing a few days earlier and, with help from the 8th Infantry Division, had expanded the bridgehead large enough to accommodate an armored division. Advancing in two columns, our Spearheads crushed through the initial resistance and began rolling. This was not the Ardennes with its ice and snow and bitter cold; this was mindful of our glory days across France and Belgium - the roadsides littered with dead Germans and the debris of battle, the knocked out vehicles, the burning, smoking towns; the signature of an rampaging armored division on the loose. The fighting at times was fierce with the enemy employing their usual efficient use of mines and anti-tank guns. But it was obvious the Germans had no reserves to throw into the battle after being bled dry in the Ardennes and by midday of the 27th, our leading elements were at the Erft Canal, the last natural barrier before Cologne, just 9 miles away. From here, our attached 155mm howitzer outfit began throwing shells into the city.
By 2130 hours on February 27, 1945, elements of our 36th Armored Infantry Regiment had crossed the Canal at two points. Under heavy artillery and mortar fire, a bridge was erected across the water and the bridgehead was steadily expanded. Conscious of the dire threat to its largest westernmost city, but without sufficient reserve troops to stop it, the German high command sent over the remnants of its depleted Luftwaffe. All night long the planes crisscrossed the area, unloading their whistling messengers of death. They concentrated on our artillery positions but the damage inflicted was surprisingly light and the cannonading continued throughout the night. With the 99th Infantry Division and the 4th Cavalry Group attached, the armor broke out of the bridgehead and quickly took the hills east of the canal from which the enemy artillery had been shelling the area.
The terrain west of Cologne, over which we had to attack, was a gently rolling plain, dotted with small towns, each fiercely defended. The entire city was surrounded by anti-aircraft gun emplacements utilizing the deadly 88mm dual-purpose guns. With their muzzles depressed, their gunners extracted a fearful toll upon our charging tanks. John O'Brien, a platoon commander in the 32nd Armored Regiment, spoke of his company losing 17 tanks in covering less than 7 miles. While our spearheads were slugging their way forward, a 4-man patrol of our 83rd Recon. Bn. sneaked through enemy positions and, at 0420 hours on March 4, 1945, stood on the banks of the Rhine, Germany's sacred river.
By twilight of March 4, the suburbs of the big city had been cleared of resistance; the Spearhead Division stood poised to slam a steel wedge into the heart of Cologne. At 0710 hours, March 5, Col. Leander Doan's crack Task Force X entered the city from the northwest. Heavy fighting continued through the day with furious tank and anti-tank battles on nearly every corner. The Krauts, with their usual efficiency, used tanks, 88mm's, Panzerfausts (their one-shot bazooka) and small arms in contesting every building. Cologne, the largest German city taken by American or British forces, had been subjected to numerous 1000-plane air raids which, together with our artillery, had reduced portions of the city into piles of rubble, ideal places for enemy snipers to ply their trade. All this time, the Germans were desperately trying to ferry as many of their beaten troops across the river as possible; our artillery and strafing planes wrecked havoc upon their boats and vessels, killing hundreds of men.
Our Infantry Regiment, the 36th, backed by our tanks, cleared the area around the famous Cologne Cathedral on March 6 and reached the banks of the Rhine. In a fierce exchange of fire, filmed in its entirety by Army photographers, two Spearhead tanks battled, and knocked out, a big German Panther tank which burned in spectacular fashion right in front of the cathedral plaza, but only after first knocking out one of the Sherman’s and killing 3 of the crewmen. Ironically, today there is a McDonald's Hamburger store at almost the exact spot where the Panther burned.
By nightfall of March 7,1945, the 3rd Armored Division, supported by the 8th and 104th Infantry Divisions, had cleared this great German city, a seat of German culture and religion, a focal point of power, the natural nerve center of Nazi communications with western Europe, of all organized resistance. Crippled though it may have been by Allied air power, it's physical conquest by American ground forces was a great defeat for Hitler.
Any action I witnessed of the battle for the city I observed from the window of a second floor room in a home in Stolmeln, a suburb of Cologne. The house sat on a slight rise of ground and afforded a good view of most of the city. We had a front row seat to some of the action.
I have neglected to relate an incident that occurred on our column's approach to Stolmeln. We were proceeding at a slow pace, surely no more than 20 miles per hour on a blacktop road, when Springfield threw a track, the only mechanical failure I can recall with this dependable steed. Robuck mounted his peep and led the column on east while we waited, helpless, for the Battery Maintenance Section vehicle, which always trailed the column to assist any stragglers, to come up. They had had to stop to repair a broken down truck, creating a long gap in the column. When the last vehicle in the moving column drove out of sight up the road, we sat alone, exposed, on the road. Almost immediately, we came under fire from the deep woods that closely bordered the road. Pancho opened up on the unseen enemy with the .50 caliber, raking the woods with heavy bursts. Between bursts, the Krauts fired back. At last, the Maintenance halftrack appeared. As casually as though he were back in Camp Polk, my old friend, Sgt. Henry Meier walked up to Springfield, surveyed the damage and confidently declared, "We can fix that." With an assortment of tools, he and two other mechanics set about getting the track back on. Even though the Maintenance halftrack machine-gunner joined Pancho in hammering the woods, German rounds still peppered the side of our vehicle, fortunately, on the side opposite that which Henry and his men were working on. I pleaded with Henry to speed up the work "before we all get killed". In dead seriousness, he looked up at me and said, "You wouldn't let them shoot me, would you, Bake?" Henry Meier could always find humor in any situation. We were soon on our way with no casualties.
How I became involved in the incident I am about to relate, I no longer remember, but the details of the event are crystal clear in my memory. Three of us in a peep - probably Robuck’s, but I'm not certain, nor do I recall the names of the other two miscreants involved - decided to investigate the accuracy of a rumor that said there was a distillery full of schnapps on the river bank. We proceeded cautiously along a debris-littered street that the map said ended at the river where the rumored distillery stood. The city had not been cleared and the sound of small arms firing was prevalent everywhere. Spotting a movement along the sidewalk ahead, the guy in the rear seat swung the .30 caliber machine-gun in that direction. Three figures had emerged from a doorway. We quickly recognized an American uniform. He was from our 36th Infantry Regiment; he had a bottle of booze in his hand and a German fraulein on each arm. He was obviously drunk and had the contented look of a man whose long-denied sexual passions had been requited. Waving the bottle, he encouraged us with a gleeful shout: "Go get ‘em, fella’s!"
At a point about two blocks from the river, we encountered heavy mortar fire. Professional soldiers that they are, the Germans knew the distillery would draw their enemy to it like a powerful magnet and they had set up a mortar position across the river which gave them perfect observation of the street we were on. We abandoned the peep between two buildings and ran from doorway to doorway down the street, dodging mortar bursts. The building, which housed the distillery, was ancient by any standards. The river ran against one wall, a wall that must have been 6 feet thick. The roof must have been of similar dimensions as we could hear mortar shell exploding on it occasionally with little affect. The floor was stone and it was slick with spilled schnapps. There were numerous, huge wooden casks, each dispensing gallons of golden liquid to satisfy the thirst of the hordes of men who crowded the place. These were men who, for seven long, unrelenting months, had fought a cruel, debilitating, relentless war against a clever, determined enemy. Now, they celebrated the conquest of one of that enemy's grandest, most prized cities. They celebrated the approaching end of the greatest conflict man had ever engaged in. They got drunk. Among these warriors, I felt unworthy, uncomfortable. I had seen so little combat. But, after a few snorts, the feeling passed.
How long we stayed in the distillery, I cannot recall, but, eventually, we departed. With complete disregard for the Kraut mortars, which were still in action, we staggered down the street to where we had stashed the peep. We each carried a canteen full of the stuff. The spoils of war.
While the 3rd Armored, with the staunch support of the 8th and 104th Infantry divisions, was mopping up in Cologne, an event of monumental importance occurred some 30 miles south of us. When advance elements of the 9th Armored Division reached the banks of the Rhine River in the vicinity of the town of Remagen, they discovered a railroad bridge still standing, only partially damaged by a botched demolition attempt by the German engineers. When the news reached Gen. Bradley at 12th Army Group headquarters, he ordered the commanders in the area to push all possible resources (meaning men and vehicles) across the span as quickly as possible. Recognizing their mistake as a possibly fatal one, the Krauts immediately launched fierce counterattacks and massive artillery barrages in a vain attempt to drop the bridge into the water and halt the buildup on the eastern shore. They called in large numbers of jet planes to bomb the structure; they floated mines downstream to blow it up. All in vain. America's might continued to stream across the last great natural barrier to Germany's heartland. Eventually, the cumulative effect of the shelling and vibrations from the vehicular traffic crossing it caused the great web of steel to plunge into the cold water of the Rhine but, by that time, American engineers had completed at least two pontoon bridges across the stream and more would be quickly added.
This colossal blunder on the enemy's part unquestionably saved the lives of the hundreds of American G.I.'s who would have died forcing a crossing of the defended river and shortened the war by several weeks with, again, a great savings in lives. Hitler, delusional as he was, must have realized that, with Americans across the Rhine in force in the west and the Russians pounding on his door from the east, his military situation was untenable. Germany was defeated. It remained only for the Germans to admit it.
CHAPTER 14
THE KILL
They didn't, of course, for several more weeks. Which meant that the 3rd Armored Division, after a few days of rest, vehicle maintenance and re-supply, would again be plunged into the maelstrom of armored combat. The orders came March 20th: move south to the bridgehead area, cross to the eastern side of the river and await further orders. On March 23, Hq. Section, Service Battery, led the rest of the battery across a pontoon bridge at the town of Honnef. Our crossing was uncontested by either German artillery or planes. We observed several Luftwaffe jet fighters in the area but the massed American anti-aircraft guns apparently posed too big a threat to the fighters, although a flight of three of them made feints realistic enough to have me with one foot up on the side of the halftrack, thinking what a cold swim it was going to be to shore if they attacked.
Honnef was a badly battered town with few inhabitable buildings but, scouting around in his peep, Robuck found an unscathed, comfortable looking house right on the eastern bank of the river. The occupants were a man and his wife, both in their fifties, who, when ordered out, vehemently protested. He was a doctor, he said, a civilian, and we had no authority to order him out of his home. The muzzle of a Tommy gun in his ribs convinced him this was an argument he couldn't win. When we refused to allow him to take his car, parked in a garage under the house, with him, he erupted in anger and strode off in a towering rage, promising to return and reclaim his home.
A tour of the house confirmed that he was, indeed, a doctor: medical instruments, medical books and patient's records indicated he practiced at home. It also revealed he was a dedicated, died-in-the-wool Nazi. His framed National Socialist Party (Nazi) certificate, dated in 1939 and signed by the great one, Hitler himself, hung on a wall. The cabinet of his console-type radio had a swastika molded into it. Many household items displayed swastikas.
The house displayed all the trappings of a wealthy family - lavishly and expensively furnished. In the basement we found a well-stocked wine cellar: there must have been about 100 bottles. After the Captain made his selection, we stocked Springfield with as many bottles as we could safely store away, about 18, as I recall. Then, under Robuck's watchful eye, we began, diligently, an effort to consume the rest. It was wine with breakfast, wine with lunch and wine with dinner. Man, we were living the good life!
The "good life" lasted about 24 hours. The Kraut doctor returned accompanied by a major of the American Civil Government Department, who calmly explained that, as a medical doctor, the Nazi was essential to the civilians in the area who needed his medical expertise. We had unjustly ejected him from his home, depriving him of his equipment, medications and records. The grinning, triumphant German could only just contain his glee when the major directed us to turn the house over to the doctor. Accepting the decision, Robuck told the major we would be out in an hour. This remark had Frank DiNapoli and I staring at each other, wondering what Robuck was up to; we could have been out and on the road in 15 minutes.
When the major and the Kraut had departed, Robuck got into his peep and, saying he would search for another site for his CP., drove off. We understood that, without ever mentioning it, he had just given us free rein to deliver whatever punishment we, as patriotic Americans, felt the arrogant Nazi bastard deserved. With great energy, enthusiasm and creativity, we proceeded to thoroughly wreck the place. All medical equipment and records went into the river. Some smaller pieces of furniture found a like fate. Larger pieces, including his console radio, we smashed, using the ax from the halftrack. We axed his pictures, the cabinets. We smashed everything in the place, including his Nazi party certificate (wish I had kept it; it would have made a nice souvenir). We drained the car's radiator and poured many pounds of Rhine river sand into the gas tank. Unable to find suitable containers, we put every bottle of wine from the cellar into the halftrack where they rolled around on the floor with, surprisingly, no breakage as we moved to our next bivouac area where we gave away the bottles that we didn't have room to safely store.
When Robuck returned he, wisely, did not enter the house, only asking if the section was ready to move. We rolled, leaving the carnage behind. The Kraut doctor had won a hollow victory. He was reduced to living the same life style as his less privileged townsmen.
The Remagen bridgehead had taken on some semblance of the Normandy beachhead just prior to the breakout: men and machines were packed in everywhere, all seeking shelter from elements - all except the fighting men of the justly famous 1st Infantry Division and the equally hardworking 104th Infantry Division who had been given the job of widening the bridgehead. The place Robuck had found for Springfield's crew was on the top floor of a 3-story building some distance from our previous luxurious accommodations. Other men from our Battery had claimed most of the available space by removing all furniture that would go through the door. There was room for only about three of Springfield's crew to spread their bedrolls. We could acquire the room we needed by removing the largest of the few pieces of furniture still in the room: an upright piano and a bulky floor cabinet. Silently thanking the planners in Washington for including an ax with every halftrack, we set to work. In our expert hands, the cabinet was soon reduced to pieces small enough to be pitched out the window. The piano was a different matter. Solidly built and extremely heavy, it defied our initial efforts but, with determination and unity and several hours of labor, we won the battle and someone's prized instrument had taken the plunge from the third floor window. Our roommates became grumpy about the welter of wood chips we had generated so we had to clean them up too.
Our stay in Honnef was brief. On the morning of March 24, 1945, our orders came down from First Army Headquarters. General Eisenhower had stated that Germany had two hearts. One was Berlin; the other was the mighty industrial center, the Ruhr valley. The most difficult of military maneuvers, double encirclement, was to be attempted; the objective: the Ruhr. This great undertaking was assigned to the First Army's crack VII Corps and, as they had so often in the past, the orders stated "the 3rd Armored Division shall spearhead the attack". We would swing the southern half of the padlock; the Ninth Army would send the 2nd Armored Division down from the north. The 3rd Armored Division was about to make history. In briefings given every man in the Division, we were told that, if successful, the encirclement would trap about 100,000 German troops.
At 0400 hours on March 25, in the cold, misty darkness of a German night, the mighty steel fighting force rolled out of bivouac on a mission everyone of us felt certain was the final act of the long, bloody struggle on the European continent. The immediate heavy resistance encountered did not alter our mood. Pushing always forward, our combat elements made 12 miles in the first 24 hours. Fighting was equally hard on the 26th but our unrelenting pressure paid off; on the morning or the 27th, first one task force, then another broke loose and all combat commands began to roll. The rolling, forested German hills echoed with the thunder of gunfire as town after town fell to our rampaging tankers. March 27th and 28th were days reminiscent of the fast action in France and Belgium. So many towns were captured; their names can no longer be remembered. Except one: Altenkirchen.
Altenkirchen was the most destroyed town I observed in the entire war. It had been headquarters for the German 7th Army and, as such, received the attention of both American and British air power. No buildings remained standing. The entire city was block after block of rubble, mountains of rubble. Why we had to traverse through the town, I don't know. I can't recall the geography, but something must have dictated our passage through it, rather than around it. At any rate, two roads had been bulldozed through the town, one east and west, one north and south. A colossal traffic jam ensued at the intersection of these two roads. Robuck had gone ahead in his peep, leaving Springfield to lead the Service Battery column. We had inched out way ahead to the point where we were the fifth or sixth vehicles from the intersection, where an MP was striving mightily, but failing, to keep traffic moving, when we heard the familiar sound of an approaching enemy shell. Before we could move, it landed, with unerring precision, exactly on the intersection, vaporizing the MP. The echoes of the explosion had just died when we heard the unmistakable sound of an incoming barrage. Crews abandoned their vehicles and sought shelter amid the great piles of bricks. Feverishly throwing bricks with both hands, I made a small depression into which I pressed my sweating body. Shells came crashing in, filling the air with deadly shrapnel and pieces of bricks. When the shelling paused, I raised my head and shouted out the names of our crewmembers. All accounted for - except Joe King. When he again failed to answer to his name, I jumped up and looked in the halftrack. There was Joe, sucking on a bottle of vodka, the stuff Ned Arceneaux supplied us with. I snatched the bottle away from him and managed to drag his drunken body out of the vehicle and into the shallow depression with me before the next volley arrived. At the next pause, Joe, only somewhat sobered, stood up and surveyed the scene. None of the vehicles between us and the intersection had been hit. A command car was closest to the intersection. Joe remarked that we had to get the hell off the intersection or we would all be killed. Right, Joe. "I'll get that command car moved," he said and strode off. I hollered at him to come back. He ignored me. I watched him approach the command car, point into a pile of ruble and heard him say, in a very authoritative voice: "Major, I command you to move this vehicle! Now!" The major and his driver meekly mounted up and drove across the intersection. We all "got the hell out of there" promptly.
Service Battery suffered no casualties and no vehicle was seriously damaged, miraculously. Joe had no memory of the event. When I later told him what had happened, he excitedly demanded I recommend him for a medal, at least the Silver Star. I replied that, instead of a medal, I should recommend a court-martial for being drink on duty.
After four days of tough, exhausting combat, the 3rd Armored Division received new orders, shortly after midnight March 29,1945. We were to swing north and proceed to the town of Paderborn at all possible speed. The move to the north was successfully completed and, with it, the German left flank had been turned, spelling almost certain defeat for enemy forces in the developing pocket. March 29th was a history-and headline-making day - and the 3rd Armored Division was doing all the making. "Speed" being the operative word, our armored spearheads bypassed any town where resistance was encountered, traveling cross-country much of the time. The rapidity of our advance caught many German defenders by surprise, just as in France and Belgium, and towns began to fall to our combat elements like dominoes. By midnight of the 29th, the Division had advanced 90 miles, the greatest one-day advance against resistance in armored warfare.
My most distinct memory of that memorable day is trying to get a few minutes sleep during a pause in the advance in the early evening of the day. Something held up the point elements - whether a roadblock, mine fields or a bridge out, I never knew - but it gave us an opportunity to try to get a little sleep. Our column had stopped at the edge of a small town and, looking for a place where we could stretch out with our bedrolls, we spotted a building, which turned out to be a flourmill just a stone's throw away. Scouting it out to be sure no Kraut soldiers were inside, we spread our bedrolls and promptly dozed off. Deep sleep was impossible because of the roar of our cannons, apparently firing on the obstacle holding up our advance. How long we may have slept, I cannot say, but we were all startled to discover, at daylight, that those of us who had spent any time in the flourmill were covered with a fine dusting of flour, shaken from the beams in the building by the incessant pounding of our guns.
March 30th would not be a repeat of March 29th. Resistance increased markedly with the appearance of the latest in new German equipment and fresh, well-trained troops. I don't know about other units in the Division but the men in the 54th had not been told that our objective, Paderborn, was the "Fort Knox" of Germany where German panzer forces were trained. Here, just a few miles from the city, SS officers and their students, manning the latest in German battle tanks, rolled out to demonstrate their mastery of blitzkrieg tactics. They were accompanied by hundreds of Hitler Jugend boys, some as young as 10 or 12. They had an inexhaustible supply of the ungainly-looking but lethal Panzerfaust tank-killer bazookas. Our attack ground forward but the cost was excruciating. Marauding Kraut tanks ripped into our columns again and again, spreading flaming death everywhere. Just six miles from the city he and his men had been ordered to take, our commanding general, Major General Maurice Rose, riding, as usual, close to the point of a task force, was killed by burp-gun fire. He didn't live to see the finish of what surely was his Division's greatest accomplishment.
By sheer weight of numbers, not superior armor, the resistance was overcome and the 3rd Armored Division stood at the gates of Paderborn. But where was the force from the Ninth Army that was to meet us here and slam the door on the encircled Germans in the Ruhr? We had learned the northern half of the steel wall was to be forged by the 2nd Armored Division. I had been given their Division radio frequency and instructed to listen for their signal whenever I could. I did, at last, pick up their signals but they were weak, some 30-40 miles away, I estimated. On April 1st, while the clearing of the city was still proceeding, a task force was sent west to link up with the 2nd Armored. This was accomplished at Lippstadt, some 15 miles west of Paderborn. General Modl's German Army Group B was trapped. It would takes several weeks of hard fighting to clean up the pocket but, when it was finally accomplished, the prisoner count was, not 100,000 as we had been told to expect, but 375,000! The largest bag of prisoners by any army in the entire war.
Fittingly, the First Army named the encircled area the Rose Pocket.
Although there was little rest for the combat elements of the Division, Hq. Section of Service Battery was granted a few days when Robuck established his CP in a comfortable house on the outskirts of the city. Because the town was still not free of enemy troops, we had to be particularly alert and watchful, particularly at night. .
Springfield was parked, as usual, close to the CP. Because I shouldered the bulk of the radio duties, I had ample opportunities to observe the street scene. One of the episodes I observed occurred in front of the house we occupied: Robuck trading openly with town civilians. He traded coffee, cigarettes and candy for whatever the citizens had to offer: an egg, bread, butter. And he did it openly. The enlisted men had long disregarded the "non-fraternization" order but our actions were surreptitious. Officers, I assumed, did the same but here was our commanding officer blatantly flaunting the rules. Very uncharacteristic of the man.
On a particularly pretty spring day, while on the radio, I heard the familiar rattle of anti-aircraft fire marching rapidly in my direction. The threat from the virtually non-existent German Air Force was so negligible that we seldom put up the camouflage net, so I could freely swing the .50 caliber. The fighter plane approached from the rear, easily within range of my big machine-gun. I opened up on him, trying to track him as he flew past, but the rolling carriage gun mount hung up on the track. I gripped the front portion of the ring with my left hand and, with my right, gave a mighty heave on the gun, which rolled forward quickly, pinching my left hand. I swing the muzzle to the rapidly disappearing plane and gave him a few departing bursts, all without apparent affect. Only when the action was over did I notice the bleeding from my left hand. The gun mount had rolled up on my thumb and mangled it pretty badly. Robuck, who had come outside to investigate the firing, ordered me to get medical attention for it. Root took over the radios and I walked to the aid station where Sgt. Chambers cleaned and dressed the injury. He asked how I got it and, when I explained, he said, since I had received the wound while in action against the enemy, I was eligible for the Purple Heart. I recall telling him to forget it; the enemy didn't cause the injury; my own stupidity did. Oh, how I would come to regret that flippancy later!
It was during our brief stay at Paderborn that I saw my old friend, Otto Buehler, for the first time since the attack started back near the Rhine River. He was hollow-eyed and even thinner than usual, the picture of exhaustion. Rapid advances such as we had just made, forced Otto's Gas Section to work ceaselessly night and day, if the ravenous appetite for fuel of all the Battalion's vehicles was to be satisfied. How well their dedication and sacrifice of sleep and energy succeeded is documented by the fact that no 54th vehicle lacked for gas during the advance. The large number of Kraut troops bypassed by the Spearhead were a constant problem for Otto and other supply convoys making the round trips from the front to the truck heads. Otto had one truck shot up and abandoned - with no casualties, fortunately - before the Brass ordered armored escorts for supply convoys. Although only armored cars and light tanks were available for escort duty, they were enough to discourage attacks by lightly-armed roving bands of German soldiers. For supplying an item so vital to us - what good is an armored division that is immobile? - the heroic efforts of men like Otto went largely unnoticed.
On April 5, 1945, after a short pause to catch its breath, the battered Spearhead Division cranked up its engines, turned its face to the east and headed for - - Berlin. The way home lay to the east and that's where we headed. This war was nearly over. Given the havoc and destruction delivered upon its armed forces since July, Germany certainly could not continue to fight much longer. The next twenty days were days of confusion and action that were then, and still are, in my mind. I shall relate the few pertinent facts of this last great drive that are still in my memory.
The attack progressed rapidly, with town after town falling to our armor and infantry. Despite the enormity of the defeats they had suffered, the Germans were the consummate soldiers and, although the resistance was not of the quality previously encountered, and expected, they exhibited no sign of panic or chaos. Their defenses, when they chose to employ them, were expertly designed and executed with fanatic determination. Overcoming these strongpoints often required many hours of fierce fighting and cost the lives of many American men, losses seemingly more tragic than usual as they occurred while Germany was convulsing in death.
We all knew something was foul about the city of Nordhausen for, as we approached within a half-mile of the town, a putrid odor permeated the air. The source of the odor, we soon discovered, was a slave labor camp at the edge of the town. This was not one of the "death camps" in which healthy people were killed simply because they were on someone's list for eradication. This was a labor camp where the inmates were literally worked and starved to death. Some were German citizens who were "enemies of the state"; some were French, Poles, Russians, and other nationalities forced into laboring for the Germans. There were hundreds, perhaps a thousand, decomposing bodies on the ground or in the barracks; some clothed in prison garb, some naked, all grotesque in death. Those not dead were mere skeletons in deplorable condition, living among the dead and filth of the unkempt camp. Most of the still living were beyond hope; even with the skilled medical care our medics could provide, they could not survive.
Their place of employment, and their place of death, was the rocket assembly factory found to exist deep underground in the hills surrounding the town. Here, in large underground rooms, were assembled the V-1 "buzz bomb" with which we were so familiar and the radically new V-2 rocket that had been bombarding London of late. They looked like shiny 50-foot cigars with fins. The prisoners' workday began at 4 AM, we learned, and often continued to midnight, everyday. All this on about 4 ounces of bread and a little thin soup each day. The corpses of those who died at the work site were dragged into the compound and left to rot in the sun.
I went into the camp but did not stay long. It was a depressing experience. My old friend, Bill Gossett, later told me he witnessed the killing of one of the civilian guards by the inmates. Although it took some time and many participants because of their weakened condition, they beat him to death with a three-legged stool while American soldiers stood by and permitted it.
It would become customary for German civilians, when post-war investigations of death camps were underway, to say they didn't know such things were going on in their country. Such was the cry with the civilians in Nordhausen. Impossible, of course, the odor alone was something that couldn't be ignored. Our now commanding general, General Hickey, had all the citizens rounded up and forced to march through the camp to witness the atrocities they had ignored. Heil Hitler!
Further down the road was the town of Sangerhausen. The town had been rapidly cleared of the enemy and our column had halted in the town, probably because of a traffic jam. A three-story building stood close to the road and G.I.'s were streaming out of it carrying cardboard boxes. I hollered at one of them, inquiring what they had found. "P-38 pistols, brand new in boxes. On the third floor." I had been on the lookout for a good German pistol since Normandy and had never collected one. And here was a warehouse full! I told Roy Root to go in there and get us a couple of boxes. Reluctantly, he entered the building. I'm uncertain what caused his reluctance but he didn't stay long. He came back empty handed. I was furious. "What happened? Why didn't you get the pistols?" "It was dark in there," was his reply. Of course it was! The windows were blacked out and there was no electricity. He could have taken his flashlight or busted out a window. But before I could make the dash myself, the column moved out and I had missed the big chance.
At one point in those last few days of combat, we coiled off the road, expecting to be there at least 24 hours while our engineers replaced a blown bridge across a river ahead. This was a very pretty part of the German countryside with rolling hills, mostly heavily wooded. We had seen a few small deer in the vicinity and the prospect of fresh meat was tantalizing. When Karl Peipenberg, the Wisconsin fella who had been one of our group when we made the car journey from California to Virginia in 1942, came by and suggested we do some deer hunting, I agreed. He carried an M-1 rifle and I grabbed a German bolt action Mauser rifle I had picked up somewhere. Scouting the area, we found an elaborate tree stand in a big oak tree. Just the thing. We climbed up. We found comfortable seats from which we could each survey a large area. Trees hadn't leafed out yet but a substantial number of brown oak leaves still clung to the branches. Sitting quietly, we presently heard dry leaves stirring on the forest floor. Alert, we tracked the sound. A German soldier in uniform, suddenly stepped into the clearing not thirty yards away. He appeared to be unarmed and didn't see us. Training our weapons on him, we called out. Startled, he looked up; instantly his hands went up in surrender. We quickly ascertained he spoke no English. We motioned for him to turn around to determine if he had any weapons on his back. He apparently feared we intended to shoot him in the back for he fell on his knees and began pleading. With some difficulty, we made him understand he was to sit down at the base of the tree we were in and keep quiet. He sat, alright, but he seemed unable to stop jabbering. Peapenberg, a dedicated deer hunter in civilian life, became exasperated at the Krauts constant talking, as it would keep the deer away. "I'm going to shoot the S.O.B.," he exclaimed. Fearful that he meant it, I cautioned him not to shoot an unarmed man and he finally cooled down. Unable to staunch the flow of words, we gave up and took him in. We had Barney Rapp instruct him in German to sit by the side of the road with his hands up and someone would pick him up. He did, and they did. His war was over. He was one happy Kraut.
A short time later, one of those small deer jumped across the road in front of the column and made for the woods across a small field. At least three .50 calibers opened up and chopped that poor animal into mincemeat.
And I remember Kothen. Our Spearheads were hammering Dessau, on the Elbe River, into submission; Russian long range artillery was throwing an occasional shell onto the west bank of the Elbe; the link-up of American and Russian forces, severing the German nation, was only a few hours away. We had already put a sizable task force across the river. The thrust line on Robuck's battle map pointed directly to Berlin, some sixty miles away. Then, new orders came down: the task force was withdrawn to the west side of the river; we were to stand in place. Headquarters Section's place was the city of Kothen. Ensconced in a comfortable house, we waited for the blessings of peace to descend upon us. That would take a while, but things were looking better. Standing in place, with a river between us and a decimated enemy whose fate now rested in the hands of the merciless Russians, was infinitely better than fighting, killing and dying.
There was a sizable military airfield at Kothen, apparently a training base for Luftwaffe pilots. Several destroyed German fighter planes littered the field and, to our astonishment, there were at least three planes, Messerschmitt ME-109's, in operable condition. In short order, one of the more adventurous men in the 486th A.A. Bn. had one of them revved up and taxiing around the field. After a little ground practice, he was convinced he could fly the thing but his more astute comrades pointed out that, even if he succeeded in taking off, he would surely be quickly shot down by ground fire, perhaps even by his own outfit. Reason prevailed, in this instance.
The base apparently taught students in every phase of military aviation: flying, communications, photography, etc. There were numerous large classrooms. In the radio room, I found a very nice battery operated, commercial band radio with the Luftwaffe insignia on it. I liberated it. It was basically civilian radio issued to the German Air Force. Which is the only reason I still have it today. In the mustering out process still to come, many officers got a gleam in their eye when they saw me with it but I pointed out it was merely a civilian radio with a Luftwaffe insignia, not a military radio, which was illegal to possess.
Springfield was parked in a small grove of trees next to the CP. With our battle days apparently over, we had time (and orders) to clean up our equipment. Trying to sort out the mess that had accumulated in Springfield during our long days of campaigning, my baleful glare fell upon a mirror, which had long been a source of irritation to me. It was rather large, perhaps 18 inches by 26 or 30 inches surrounded by an ornate frame. Robuck had picked it up somewhere in France, taken a liking to it, brought it to the halftrack and instructed me that I, personally, was responsible for its safe keeping. The blasted thing was constantly in the way and several times narrowly escaped breakage. The Captain had never asked about it. Emotion overcame reason and I smashed hated thing against a tree. Fear of discovery was to be a concern for several weeks.
On April 25, 1945, the 9th Infantry Division relieved the 3rd Armored Division. Germany was broken. The men of the Spearhead Division had experienced their last day of combat in the Second World War. We were ordered to move back. Fearful that Robuck would see the shattered mirror remnants if he came back into the grove, I asked Frank DiNapoli to drive the halftrack up to the front door of the CP. The Captain led the column up the road several miles and stopped. We waited. The column didn't move. After a long wait, we were ordered to return to our place of departure. Back to the site of the broken mirror! We parked in exactly the same spot as previously. Again, Robuck didn't enter the grove. I can no longer recall how long we remained there but the Captain never asked me about the mirror. He had forgotten he had it. My fears were groundless.
After a day or two to let the traffic congestion on the roads clear, we again received "March order". In smart fashion, we moved quickly north some 60-70 miles to a town called, appropriately, Burg. It was barely that, a small village, very old, surrounded by rich-looking farm land. I have never revisited Burg but I was surprised, when traveling the nearby Autobahn with a 3rd Armored Division tour group in 1986, to see a prominent road sign with directions to Burg. The town must have grown significantly in the intervening years to warrant that kind of attention.
For his CP, Robuck chose a large stone house with a large yard, all surrounded with a brick wall right in the town. As usual, my Section was allotted a small room on the second floor. The house also boasted a large basement. Some members of the Battery were also quartered in the CP, in other rooms and in the basement. The rest found shelter in nearby houses, the German tenants, if necessary, ejected into the street. It was a very comfortable, very satisfactory, situation to occupy while we awaited development of decisions regarding our future. The war against Japan had still to be won. We were powerless to influence the decision; we could only wait.
And the silence was deafening. For the first time in 11 months we were out of earshot of artillery. A quiet reminder of what civilian life had been like.
There was an anomaly about Burg: it was a small town with a sizable railroad freight yard There were quite a number of cars in the yard, both boxcars and tank cars. I have no information as to whether members of our Battery broke into any of the boxcars, although it could easily have happened, but I can verify that it was quickly ascertained that at least some of the tankers contained an industrial alcohol product used for, among other things, fueling the pesky buzz bombs. Experimenting with the materials at hand, it was discovered that a little of the "buzz bomb juice" mixed with a lot of reconstituted lemon juice powder made a barely palatable, but potent, drink. Five-gallon water cans were quickly emptied and refilled with Hitler's finest. It was party time.
Springfield was parked inside the enclosure at the entrance to the CP. For a few days, the radio nets were open only from about 7 AM to 7 PM, then, with phone lines strung, closed down completely. Our duties were very light, consisting mainly of cleaning up our vehicles and gear and weapons. We all helped Frank DiNapoli spruce up Springfield. Poncho field stripped the .50 caliber. We discarded much of the equipment we had collected to make life somewhat more comfortable in the field. We were assured that the kitchen would be in service continually now, so the precious pots and pans were thrown out, as was the enormous blowtorch we had acquired somewhere and used to heat coffee fast. Hot meals forever! We were in heaven.
Security precautions were still in force. A guard had to be on duty during nighttime hours outside any building that housed Service Battery personnel. The post for the CP guard was just outside the gate. Guard duty was not onerous or frequent - 2 hours at a time, perhaps every third or fourth day for the CP crew. The Officer of the Day checked occasionally to make certain all guards were awake but he disregarded the spit and polish regulations of garrison. These were all combat vets - and they carried live ammo!
In a few short days it was learned that there was a "displaced persons" camp in the area, guarded, after a fashion, by men from an infantry outfit, the identity of which I can no longer recall. Those being guarded were mostly of East European nationalities - Poles, Russians, Finns, etc. - of every age and gender. Apparently, it was not difficult to spirit women out of the camp and into the quarters of the troops where generous amounts of buzz bomb juice were consumed, cigarettes, candy and other food items were lavished upon the women in exchange for sexual favors. (I can truthfully say I was never party to these shenanigans for two reasons: [1] the state of the health of these women was questionable; exposure to a venereal disease which might compromise any chance of going home was not worth the risk and [2], had I so desired to participate, Hq. Section was always under the watchful eye of the Battery Commander, making any liaison difficult).
The risks did not deter many of the men, however. It became S.O.P. for the guard on duty at each abode just before dawn to usher the women out and on their way to the camp. If the officers knew, they never interfered.
I have forgotten to relate an incident that occurred one day on one of those wild dashes in Germany in early April. We were trailing one of the task forces on a black top road at a rapid pace. Robuck was preparing to go up toward the point in his peep, as he often did. Ordinarily, he just took off, usually without putting anyone in charge in his absence. He must have felt, on this occasion, that his absence would be prolonged enough to require putting someone in charge of the Battery. Inexplicably, he chose Lt. Couch, the same Foxhole Sam I'd had a run in with back in France. In the presence of Frank DiNapoli and myself, Robuck briefed Couch on what was expected of him, carefully pointing out that, several miles further up the road, we would encounter a fork in the road. He emphasized, repeatedly, that the column was to follow the right fork. Couch proudly mounted up in Springfield and, like Caesar at the head of his legions, commanded the column forward. All proceeded smoothly until we approached the fork in the road. Sam instructed Frank to take the left fork. Frank replied that the Captain instructions were to take the right fork. Sam was adamant. Take the left fork. I objected, repeating Frank's argument, to no avail. We took the left fork. After proceeding perhaps a mile or so, the distinct sound of tank cannon fire could be heard ahead of us. I mentioned it to Sam. "Forward" was his reply. Then we could distinguish the sound of machine-gun fire. We crested a small rise in the road; below us, in the valley some 500 or 600 yards ahead of us, a fire fight was in progress between about 5 M-4's and at least 3 German tanks. This was no place for a thin-skinned halftrack and a column of trucks! Now Sam conceded he had made a mistake and we had to get the hell out of there. Turning a column of vehicles around on a narrow road while tank cannon fire rumbles around you is not a simple task but it was accomplished in good order and we hastened back along the road. Presently, I spotted a peep coming at us at full speed. Had to be the Captain. It was. I had never seen Robuck lose his temper or swear but he emphatically broke his record that day. He was furious with Couch. An indication of his true state of mind is the fact that he dressed down a subordinate officer in the presence of enlisted men. A first class dressing down, too! Couch could only stammer a few "Yes Sirs" and "No Sirs" offering no defense for an indefensible, arrogant blunder.
How Sam Couch ever became an officer; how, after becoming one, he was promoted to 1st Lt.; why Robuck, a highly competent officer and soldier who demanded the same from those under his command, kept this poor specimen of military stupidity in the Battery, are all mysteries to me.
May 7,1945. At reveille formation that morning, it was announced that Germany had signed an Allied surrender document. The war was over! At last, at long last, nearly four years after being drafted (for one year of service!), after nearly 11 months of combat, the reality existed that I might actually return to the United States, marry Juanita and settle down in Michigan. Could it be true? Of course! What could possibly interfere now?
Well, there was the "point system". We all knew the military brass was developing a point system for determining who would be returned back home for discharge, who would remain in the army of occupation, who would be sent to the Pacific Theater to fight the Japs. The plan had not been announced but none of that concerned me. With my length of time in the service, two years overseas and 11 months of combat, I would be eligible for discharge under any possible system. I'd be on the first boat home, bet on it.
May 7th was a day to celebrate. All non-essential duties were suspended for the day. I remembered the can of turkey that I had carefully marshaled across 2 continents, an ocean and 5 countries for nearly 3 years in anticipation of this very day. The can was showing its age with dents and rust spots. With the halftrack crew gathered around, I opened it with great ceremony. We uncorked the bottle of red wine we had looted from the good doctor in Honnef. We ate and drank with relish; a wonderful moment of togetherness and promises fulfilled. We had suffered; we had persevered; we had left our youth on the battlefields of Europe but we had won! The damned war was over!
Robuck invited all officers in the Battalion to his CP to celebrate. The officers, of course, received a monthly whiskey ration and we observed them entering the door to the CP, each carrying a bottle, some carrying more than one. Well, we could party, too. Most of the enlisted men repaired to the basement to imbibe that potent mixture of buzz bomb juice and lemon juice, along with a few bottles of various beverages "liberated" by some of the men. The party progressed nicely, although I drank sparingly of the buzz bomb mix because I disliked the taste. The basement became filled with raucous voices, loud enough to bring 1st Sgt. Tennis down with a message from the Battery Commander: keep it down. Ten minutes after he retreated, the noise level was exceeding the previous level. This time Captain Robuck, followed closely by Tennis, appeared at the foot of the stairs. When no one called "Attention", Tennis roared the command. Quiet descended on the room. In his quiet, but authoritative voice, Robuck stated his demands: with so many Battalion officers on the floor above, he wanted more discipline in this room; keep it down. One of the most inebriated men in the basement crowd was a Staff Sergeant named Oscar Ward. Sober, he was a decent fella; drunk, he took on a new personality: mean, pugnacious, foul-mouthed. He carried an unusual German Lugar pistol with an extremely long barrel in a shoulder holster. Before Robuck could finish his orders, Ward stepped forward, pulled the pistol from its holster and rammed the barrel deep into the Captain's belly. With a demented grin on his face, he said "you s.o.b. I'm going to shoot you loose from your back bone". And he meant it. At that point, I would not have given 5 cents for the Captain's life. Although I was armed and would have risked my life for this man who had prove himself to be a very proficient and courageous commander, it never occurred to me to draw my weapon and act to rescue the Captain from his predicament. I was mesmerized by this tableau. Fortunately, Robuck, as usual, knew how to solve the problem. Without breaking eye contact with Ward, he said to Tennis "Sgt, put this man under arrest." Carefully, Tennis reached around Robuck and seized the muzzle of the gun. I am certain that, had Robuck broken eye contact with Ward at that critical moment, Ward would have killed him.
For most of the men present, it was their first exposure to a display of Captain Ernest P. Robuck's personal courage under duress. We in Hq. Section had witnessed it before.
Ward was court-martialed. I am not sure I ever heard the sentence.
Two other events are clear in this old man's memory: The entire Battery was unexpectedly called into formation one day, falling in the street. Robuck appeared with Barney Rapp, his peep driver and interpreter and a young German woman. The Captain announced that the woman claimed she had been raped by one of the men in the Battery. She would walk through the ranks and identify the rapist. The slow procession began with Rapp occasionally murmuring something in her ear. She failed to identify anyone. The formation was dismissed. I cornered the grinning Rapp, a member of my Section whom I had known for almost 3 years, and asked him what he had said to the woman. He would only say: "She didn't identify anyone, did she?" Barney was one of the good guys.
The other incident was more meaningful, more shocking, more personal. The long -awaited point system had been announced. I had glanced through it in the "Stars and Stripes" newspaper that we were now getting occasionally. It really held little interest for me; I was going home; I would qualify under any possible system devised. But "the system" was the talk of the Battery. I was asked several times how many points I had. "Plenty", I answered to all. I didn't even know how many was required for discharge! Later, in the evening, I encountered Otto Buehler and was puzzled by the morose look on his face. The conversation went something like this: "What's wrong, Otto?" " The point system, that's what's wrong!" "What do you mean?" "My god, Bake, haven't you read it? We don't have enough points to go home!" Unbelievable! The fighting was over and, now, Otto had lost his marbles! He urged me to check it out and do some figuring. "You'll see!” He was right! Those with 85 or more points would go home for discharge; those with less would be retained for occupation duty or sent to the Pacific! I had 83 points, the same number as Otto had. It was impossible to grasp: 4 years in the Army; 2 years overseas; 11 months of combat and that wasn't enough! They wanted more from us?
This plan was as flawed as most plans the Army claimed was impartial. I can no longer recall the point values of each category but it was something on this order: points for each month of service; twice that number for each month overseas; points for medals earned (5, I think); points for each campaign participated in (5); and the kicker: 5 points extra if you were married! When my anger had subsided, which wasn't soon, I began looking for a way to beat he system. Only one possibility came to mind. I sought out Sgt. Chambers in the Medical Detachment, the guy who had treated my mangled thumb when I crunched it with the gun mount in Paderborn and who offered to get me a Purple Heart. A medal was worth 5 points! I needed it. Chambers, decent, honest man that he was, confessed he had no memory of the incident - understandable, considering the number of severe wounds treated by the Medics. How would he remember a busted thumb?
But justice would prevail. The murmur of discontent over the point system which rumbled through the E.T.O. soon escalated into a roar as thousands of men who felt, as did I, they were getting shafted, expressed their disgust in no uncertain terms. Although the War Department denied the howls of rage had any influence on their decision, the four campaigns credited to the First Army were changed to five campaigns. Another 5 points! I had enough! Otto had enough! Thousands more men now had enough points to make them eligible for discharge. We - were - going - home!!
No poor words of mine can possibly describe the soaring spirits, the exhilarating sense of freedom, the enormous mental relief these two events - the cessation of fighting and the announcement of the point system - afforded those of us who were now eligible for home and discharge. That for which we had longed and yearned for so long - out of danger, out of uniform and home again - that impossible dream, would soon come true. None of the days of waiting and frustration, the bungling Army bureaucracy, the plodding paper work - none of these would succeed in diminishing our new-found optimism and hope.
Everyone in Hq. Section, except Roy Root, had the points needed for this promised journey to freedom. Roy was destined for the Army of Occupation. Most of the men in Service Battery had been together since Camp Polk; probably 80% of the Battery had enough points. Only those who had joined us as replacements, such as Roy, would be left behind.
Our sojourn in Burg was not an extended one but I have no idea just when we departed this pretty little town. Our destination was Langen, a town a few miles south of Frankfurt, a journey of considerable length, probably 200 miles. The start of this march was inauspicious, to say the least. We had proceeded only a short distance when the column stopped: traffic snarl. We waited. Exasperated, Robuck walked up the road and conversed with someone in the unit ahead of us. It was a warm day and, when he returned to his peep, he retrieved his canteen, which he had stored in the rear of the peep. (We were no longer required to wear the canteen, except on guard duty, and everyone had found a spot to store his.) He took a big swig - and instantly spewed it out. The look of disbelief on his face was amusing. He stared at the canteen; he looked in the back of the peep, saw two more canteens and realized he had picked up the wrong one. It was full of buzz bomb juice! Barney Rapp, his peep driver and Pat Lanza, the scout corporal who road in the rear of the Captain's peep, had both placed their canteens there, along with Robuck’s. The Old Man had picked up one of theirs; which one didn't matter; they were both full of juice.
Robuck ordered Sgt. Tennis to examine the canteen of every man in the column and empty all that didn't contain water. I was in the clear, as was the rest of Springfield's crew, but Tennis dumped a lot of canteens that day. What the Old Man didn't know was that many of the 5-gallon water cans also were full of juice.
I have no recall of the road march other than the preceding incident. But I do recall having a feeling of great satisfaction that, for the first time since the previous December, when we were ordered into the Bulge campaign, we were traveling west - toward home. There were no more German offensives to deal with.
Langen was a small town, very pleasant. Service Battery took over an entire street of newer homes in a pre-war development. Very comfortable homes. General Eisenhower had moved his SHAEF headquarters from Paris to Frankfurt. The assignment for the 3rd Armored Division was to throw three concentric rings around the city and screen all road movements in and out. There were rumors that Nazi fanatics would try to assassinate the General. SHAEF Hqs., itself, was surrounded by a high, barbed wire topped fence. The compound was guarded by the 82nd Airborne.
Guard duty was light. A couple of men walked post on the Battery street at night. I was never assigned to any of the highway checkpoints. There was at least one warehouse in town that was guarded at all times and I drew that duty once. Posted on the door of the locked warehouse was a large sign warning: "The contents of this warehouse is poison!" The wording was a dead give away alerting any old soldier, like me, that there was something inside worth hiding from the troops. My intuition proved correct. The place was broken into several nights later and the contents pillaged. The contents? American whiskey! I can remember the brand: Rittenhouse Square. So much for Army "intelligence".
One delightful feature of Langen was an Olympic sized swimming pool that Army engineers had refurbished and opened for use of the troops. We learned that tryouts for the 1936 Berlin Olympic games had been held there. I spent as much time at the pool as I could. It had a 12-meter diving platform that intimidated many of the men but about a dozen of us thoroughly enjoyed taking the plunge.
Our duties were very light. We went through the motions of cleaning up our already clean equipment; we were expected to be clean-shaven and to wear clean clothes; we had calisthenics every morning, but road marches were not imposed. Our duties were garrison duties without the combat training exercises.
Service Battery's cooks had always been first-class but the quality of meals improved as more fresh supplies became available. There was no fresh milk, butter, eggs, etc., but fresh meat was a welcome change and the occasional fresh vegetables were a treat. And, periodically, the Battery had a beer party. Life was getting better.
The Frankfurt area offered another diversion, also, a diversion we hadn't experienced for nearly 2 years. SHAEF Hq. had a complement of WAC’s, women in uniform. American women! Living, breathing, gum-chewing, perfumed American women. The Battalion ran truck convoys into Frankfurt a couple of times a week, dumping off hundreds of spit-shined, love starved G.I.'s at the compound gates. I made the trip several times; a date with a WAC, under the conditions prevailing, was something I'll never forget.
We were allowed inside the compound perimeter; we could talk to any women who would talk to us, but we were not allowed into their quarters, of course. If a woman agreed to a date, the uniqueness of the date began. To leave the compound, the woman had to have an armed escort! The guard at the gate made every man show a loaded weapon. Frankfurt had been severely bombed and much of the city was heaps of rubble. Gunshots occasionally echoed through the night air, hence, the reason for the armed escort order. But the presence of a loaded gun is hardly conducive to a romantic atmosphere. And there was only one place in the city where a man could take his date. The Army had converted a former beer hall into the military version of a nightclub. It was a huge room, accommodating hundreds; there was a dance floor and an orchestra of German musicians dressed in tuxedoes. The German waiters were similarly dressed. The lighting was poor, the acoustics abominable but there was plenty of German beer. (Beer was such an important part of German culture that they continued to brew very good beer in the worst of times.) Women were outnumbered, of course, by about 50 to 1. And all those men were armed - and getting drunk. Rifles were stacked in corners; Tommy guns hung from the backs of chairs. If your table was located remote from the bar and you placed an order with the waiter, it might never arrive. As the waiter, tray loaded down with several orders, threaded his way across the room, thirsty G.I.'s would jump up and grab a mug or two off his tray. Fistfights frequently broke out because of the beer hijacking. And fights occurred between men of different divisions, arguing over who won the war. But no one picked up a weapon and threatened to shoot. Not a shot was fired during my visits. Amazing.
Without privacy, and there was absolutely none, romance had little chance to flower. A good-night kiss was the best one could hope for. But it was great fun for all and a welcome interlude in the lives of men who had seen few moments of fun in the previous 11 months.
Shortly, the Army revealed its game plan for its forces in the ETO. The 3rd Armored Division was designated as part of the Army of Occupation. Those veterans with enough points would be transferred to other divisions bound for the US and decommissioning. Low point men from those units would go to divisions destined for occupation duty. While we waited impatiently for this plan to creak into motion, we lived day to day in Langen. Again, I was one of the "unemployed" in the Battery. With all radio networks shut down - I had sent and received my last dit-dah. I had no daily duty to perform. Only the men whose jobs involved supplying the daily needs of a garrison force - gasoline, water, rations, clothing distribution, etc. - were "employed" and had daily duties.
So, the latent animosity between 1st Sgt. Tennis and myself resurfaced. He endeavored to think up duties for me - the dirtier the better, and I devised strategies to avoid him at all times. Meal times were especially difficult. If his frustrations at being unable to find me overwhelmed him, he would trap me at chow time. But his ego usually compelled him to eat "early chow", reserved for the privileged few; if I ate among the last at "regular chow time”, I usually avoided him. If he caught up with me, it was either Corporal of the Guard or Charge of Quarters; that's about all he could hand me.
Albert Tennis has been dead many years at this writing and I wish I could find it in my heart to say something complimentary about the man. But I can't. He was an ignorant, cowardly, miserable specimen of a human being.
I didn't miss many meals during this period. My weight ballooned from my fighting weight of 150 pounds to almost 180. About all I did was eat and sleep. Ah! The good life.
I am distressed that I remember so little about my departure from Service Battery and the 3rd Armored Division. The Battery and the people in it had been my family and home for 4 years. I was enormously proud to have been a member of, and contributed something to, each of them. Leaving them was a momentous day in my life, and yet I have few memories of the event. I was notified I would transfer to the 6th Armored Division, which was returning to the States. I said good by to, and collected addresses for, my Service Battery friends, some of them so dear to me. I sought out Bill Gossett in B Battery to shake his hand. I went to the Motor Pool and, with undisguised sadness, gave Springfield, the most reliable of steeds, an affectionate farewell pat. I do not recall my final salute to Captain Robuck although, because of my respect for him, I surely did so. Nor do I recall clearly the men from the Battery who accompanied me to the 6th. Pancho and Joe Dominguez I remember; Otto Buehler, I think, but, strangely, I'm not certain this best of all friends went with us.
The date of our departure, which should have been burned into my memory, also eludes me - late June, early July, perhaps. Our "going home" unit was Hq. Battery of the 231st Armored F.A. Bn., 6th A.D,. located at Aschaffenburg, a city east of Frankfurt about 25 miles. The commanding officer was Captain Mueller, or Moeller; I don't recall which. He exuded personality - all nasty. It was immediately apparent he disliked soldiers from the 3rd A.D., or, probably, any other unit. His 1st Sgt. echoed the line. We were in enemy territory.
We had to remove our 3rd A.D. patches and sew on the 6th A.D. patch, which irritated us to no end. But wearing the patch did not make us members of the 6th in the eyes of the Captain, the 1st Sgt. and other non-coms. We were stuck on every dirty detail that came along, regardless of rank. A sergeant from our old A Battery walked guard while privates who were long-time members of the 231st lay in their bunks. K.P. duty in this battery was done by prisoners of war, so we avoided that, but I walked guard at lest 5 nights every week. I considered volunteering for occupation duty just so I could get back to the 54th.
I had seen Joe Dominguez put his wiles and good looks to good use to meet women back in the States but how he ensnared two young, very attractive German girls who, apparently, had resisted the advances of hundreds of American solders, mystifies me. He only told me he had met them, been in their homes, and wanted me to go with him to meet them. They were two delightful women, 20-22 years old, both living with their parents. The families were both bitter about the disrespectful treatment they had received at the hands of the German soldiers in the area. Because of the scarcity of food for the civilian population, they lived on a subsistence diet and, because they seemed to be decent people, exhibiting no sign that they were ever-rabid Nazi's, we tried to help them as much as we could. We had no friends in the kitchen of this decidedly unfriendly outfit who would slip us coffee or canned Spam but we had cigarettes, an occasional candy bar and sugar we stole off the tables in the mess hall.
Because both Joe and I were on guard duty so many nights, we had to sneak out to see our friends during the day. Language was a big barrier. We spent a lot of time trying to teach the girls English; they, trying to teach us a few words of German. It was fun - a pleasant interlude away from the military life for a few hours.
By the end of July, I was thoroughly unhappy with almost continual guard duty so, when the 1st Sgt. came around asking who wanted to go to England for ten days, I quickly signed up. I had no real desire to return across the channel but anything was better than the guard ordeal. Before leaving Service Battery we had been issued new Class A uniforms, which I now donned, complete with the hated 6th Armored patch, and, on August 3, 1945, we departed by train for Etretat, just north of Le Havre, on the Channel coast. This was a journey of several hundred miles and must have taken at least two days, given the condition of the over-taxed rail system, but I have no recollection of the trip. The trip across to Southampton was by ferryboat and, unlike the only other occasion I had crossed this water, uneventful.
Ours was a large group of men from many different divisions. A Staff Sgt. from some infantry division had been given custody of all the individual travel papers and now he handed them out, reminding us to be back on this spot in 10 days. My papers gave my destination as Glasgow, Scotland, but I had no intentions of traveling there. I caught a train for Frome. Arriving, I walked out to the house where my former girlfriend, Jean Walker-Grant, had lived with her sister, brother-in-law and brother. She was there. I had not notified her of my coming; she was astonished and, apparently, delighted to see me. The rest of the family seemed genuinely glad to see me and insisted I stay with them, which I did, for a few nights, sleeping on a cot in brother Jeff's bedroom, before moving to the hotel in town.
Life in England was still pretty austere; all the shortages we had encountered here the year before still existed but a cheerful atmosphere of satisfaction and optimism prevailed. These sturdy people had defied and beaten one of the most ruthless tyrants the world had ever seen; they had faith in a promising future.
Jean and I walked all over the town, revisiting all the places where we had spent so many pleasant hours - the pubs, the dance hall, the fish-and-chips places. We walked up the hill to our old camp area, now occupied by British troops. We took the train down to Bristol on the coast for one day. Jean worked but we had the evenings and the weekend to enjoy.
The time flew all too quickly; I had to return to Germany. Parting from this wonderful girl was bittersweet. She was everything a man could want in a companion: intelligent, pretty, vivacious, humorous, practical and hare-brained at the same time - so much fun to be with. Had I asked, I'm certain to this day, she would have married me. But my true love was waiting for me at home. Farewell, Jean; I do hope life has been kind and joyful to you.
On the return trip, our train stopped at the station in Paris. I made a decision that nearly had catastrophic consequences for me: I got off the train. I went "over the hill”. I decided that, since I was here, I would not leave Europe without seeing Paris. We had been relegated to viewing the city from afar in July 1944, while we waited almost 2 days for the French 2nd Armored Division to catch up and march into the town. I had to see some of Paris, close up.
I went to the Sgt. of the 69th Infantry Division who had all the travel papers and told him I wanted mine. "Why?" I told him I was getting off the train and why. His exact words: "Well, wait a minute, I'll go with you." He hadn't seen Paris either!
I seem to recall we stayed in Paris a week. The Army had several locations in town where a G.I. could get a cot to sleep in and hot meals. We needed money only for booze and transportation around town - busses and subway. American money was of premium value and I had kept three dollar bills with me. The French invasion franc was accepted reluctantly, but bartering was an accepted measure of exchange. We learned, when we went to the Red Cross building to shower, we were given a small bar of American soap. We kept going through the line, collecting bars of soap, until they recognized our scam and cut us off. The soap could be traded easily in any bar.
The Army SOS (Service of Supply) had a huge depot in Paris. In a fenced and guarded enclosure were numerous tents storing large amounts of used clothing that had been turned in exchange for new items. After being run off a couple of times, we finally convinced a kid on guard duty to allow us inside. He apparently felt the clothing had no value. (He was probably right; the Army, faced with disposing of enormous quantities of used clothing, almost surely gave it away or destroyed it.) We grabbed up armloads of field jackets and shirts - combat boots would have been better but were too heavy and bulky - and escaped from the compound.
Inquiries indicated that the greatest black market activities were centered around the Pig Alley area. We went there after dark. We had discovered that many of the items we had stolen were, truly, virtually worthless - ripped, torn, shredded, worn out - so nighttime transactions seem indicated. The man with me, whose name I no longer recall, had a .25 caliber pistol which bolstered our courage when we saw the type of individuals were had to deal with. They were some of the most evil-looking men I had ever seen. Many were Algerians. Several of them carried knives with wavy blades in their waistbands. Nobody trusted anybody. When we dealt, we displayed the pistol openly to discourage any attempt to attack us and steal our merchandise. It was scary. When we made a trade, we took off at top speed as soon as we got the money, certain they would come looking for us when they got the merchandise in the light and discovered it was worthless.
Eventually, we exhausted all means of obtaining money and we, in turn, were exhausted. We had seen Paris. At the train station, we parted; my partner in crime had to catch a train going south; I would go east. I arrived at Aschaffenburg in the middle of the night, found the house I was quartered in, found my bunk - and found someone sleeping in it. Utterly exhausted and in no mood to suffer fools, I pulled the guy out of bed, crawled in and died, despite his vehement protests. When I awoke the next morning, I looked at the men getting dressed around me and didn't recognize a single face! None of them was wearing a 6th A.D. patch! I didn't recognize the patch they wore. Shocked, I asked about the 6th. Where were they? One man said they left for the States! Shaken to the core and cursing my stupidity in jeopardizing my chance to return to the States for a fling in Paris, I hurried down to the bridge over the Main River which was guarded 24 hours a day by an MP. I asked him if he knew where the 6th was. "I don't know where they are today but yesterday they were bivouacked at the airport, staging to go home," he stated. With cold fear clutching my heart, I hitched a ride to the airport. With indescribable relief, I found the blessed 6th A.D. packing up for the long journey to the States. With mixed emotions, I proceeded to the orderly tent to report in. I was over the hill and I would be punished but I hadn't missed the boat home either. The 1st Sgt. had few words for me: “Report to the Captain". The Captain expressed his uncomplimentary opinion of me in explicit terms, concluding with "If we weren't leaving tomorrow, I'd court-martial your sad ass. When we arrive at the port of embarkation, you will carry every officer’s baggage on board." I had escaped alive, I had seen Paris, and I was going home!
CHAPTER 15
FAREWELL TO ARMS
Our train trip to the French coast was by, not passenger coaches, but cattle cars and boxcars, each with a thick layer of straw on the floor where we unrolled our bedrolls or spread blankets to sleep. Army kitchens were set up along the tracks to provide hot meals and facilities for washing up although, in most cases, the stops were too brief for anything but a hurried meal. Someone discovered a valve on the side of the locomotive from which hot water could be drawn whenever the train stopped, which was frequently and often for no apparent reason. We'd run up to the engine and fill our steel helmets with hot water with which to wash and shave. The engineer would cuss us out in French, saying the loss of hot water deprived his engine of power, something it sadly lacked as our progress was painfully slow.
There were hordes of people along the tracks, all eager to barter with us. The most sought after of their offerings was wine and champagne; one man did a brisk business with fresh honey. We offered cigarettes and candy.
Our destination was one of the tent-city processing centers, all named after a brand of cigarettes, set up near the French port of La Havre. "Camp Lucky Strike" was a miserable hellhole whose principle reason for being seemed to be shaking down returning vets of their war souvenirs. It was staffed by unfeeling, grouchy officers, all of whom, I felt, had never seen a day of combat and were disgruntled that they were not on the high point list. We were fed, we used the shower facilities and, if needed, given minimum medical care, all grudgingly. But the attention of the camp personnel focused almost entirely on the contents of our barracks bags. We had to lay out their contents repeatedly for inspection. The clothing content drew only perfunctory interest - we could have been grossly over or under standard issue and draw no comment - but it was almost impossible for them to keep their greedy hands off the war booty. The only things I carried which were attractive to them was a Schmeizer machine-pistol and the Luftwaffe radio I'd acquired in Kothen. An officer - I don't recall his grade - grabbed both of them on the first inspection, saying the pistol was illegal contraband because it fired full-automatic and the radio was a military radio and on the prohibited list. I demonstrated that the radio received only civilian frequencies, not military, and was military only in that it had the Luftwaffe insignia. He reluctantly allowed it. As for the Schmeizer, I told him I had modified it so it would fire only semi-automatic (I hadn't but I knew he was totally ignorant of German weaponry). But words were useless; he wanted the gun and he got it. He was a despicable human being and a poor excuse for an officer. I hope some superior officer took it away from him.
Our stay at Lucky Strike was mercifully short - two days, I believe - after which we were trucked to the dock area of La Havre. There, the heavenly chariot that would carry us across the Atlantic Ocean to the United States of America was tied up. Her name was "Kingston Victory". She was about 1/3 the length of the Capetown Castle, the ship we had taken from New York two years previously. I recall telling one fella that I had seen bigger garbage scows on Lake Michigan. None of us were disappointed; I would have taken a raft if it were heading west.
Remembering Capt. Mueller's (or Moeller) vow that I would carry all officers’ baggage on board as punishment for my transgressions, I made a conscious effort to become inconspicuous. Throughout the interminably long process of getting us aboard, I expected the 1st Sgt. to come looking for me. Didn't happen. Standing at the foot of the gangplank, he merely checked me off his list and waved me aboard when I called out my name. As with the incident with Robuck's mirror, my fears were ungrounded. The date was September 11, 1945.
As ships go, the Kingston Victory was plain vanilla. One of Henry Kaiser's shipbuilding production line products, she was a cargo ship refitted to accommodate (just barely!) troops. Sleeping accommodations were stacks of narrow, one man bunks - and there were only enough bunks for 1/2 of the men aboard. Two men were assigned to each bunk and it was their problem to adopt a sleeping schedule acceptable to each. My partner was a 6th A.D. man; I don't recall the details of our schedule but I have no recollection of sleep deprivation on the trip. I left more than my prize Schmeizer machine pistol at Lucky Strike; I also left, with more emotion than I care to admit, my most prized possession: my old sleeping bag which I had had since our 1942 days in Camp Polk. I seriously wanted to keep it as a souvenir; it had served me faithfully and well, affording comfort in its warmth when there was little comfort to be found, but no civilian, unexposed to the hardships of combat, would understand how any self-respecting human being could crawl into so filthy a bag. Without a sleeping bag, it is doubtful I slept on the ship's deck.
Some things about this ocean voyage were similar to those on our eastbound trip and some were vastly different. We had two meals a day, same as our first trip; we spent many hours on deck, clad always in the bulky life preserver. We watched the ocean; we explored the ship. What was different? When we gazed over the rail at the sea, all we saw was the sea - the vast, restless, empty sea. We saw no lumbering tankers, no pugnacious battleships and no destroyers slicing through the waves, searching for a contact. There was no zigzagging course, no signal lamps to read, no submarine threat. Smoking was permitted on deck during hours of darkness. PEACE! It was wonderful.
On about our fifth day at sea, it was announced that our destination was the port of Boston. Nearly every man aboard had assumed we would put in at New York but to say we were disappointed would be an exaggeration. Any port on the East Coast was acceptable to us - any port. But it would have been nice to say "Hello, how are you?" to that grand lady in New York harbor to whom we had waved our anxious goodbye's just two years previously.
Each morning the ship's position was posted, indicating the distance remaining to our destination. The ship's captain started a contest to determine who could guess the distance before it was posted each morning. I don't recall if there were any winners or prizes but it was an intriguing game. After the seventh day at sea, the highest points on the ship became popular gathering places - everyone wanted to be first to spot landfall. The building anticipation climaxed on the morning of September 20 when the smudge on the horizon proved to be the Massachusetts shore. Anticipation turned to excitement as the ship entered the harbor. Our welcoming committee consisted of one fireboat with siren blaring and water spouting. No bands, no crowds. We couldn't care less. (The lament of Vietnam vets about having no parades and no bands when they returned generates no sympathy from me.)
With the ship tied up to the dock, the desire to get ashore, to touch the long dreamed about soil of our homeland was overpowering and some unruliness surfaced when the delay became unduly long. Eventually, however, the exodus began and the long anticipated moment arrived. Some kissed the ground; some exalted; everybody grinned like kids at Christmas. Home! We were home! Hard to believe. My two years and 16 days of overseas duty were over.
We were trucked to Camp Miles Standish - not a long ride, as I recall, and one which we thoroughly enjoyed. We had forgotten so much about America: How wide the streets and roads were; how numerous, and large, the cars were; the traffic lights; so many things. At Standish we were assigned sleeping quarters and mess halls. We quickly learned we were no heroes in the eyes of the station compliment personnel; we were marks to be taken.
Pancho had won considerable money playing craps on board ship (that was another thing which was the same on both ships) and had given me $500 to keep for him, with the admonition not to give it back to him until we landed, no matter how much he might beg for it. He did beg and I refused but now, safely ashore, I gave him back his money - a very considerable amount for those days. He buttoned it into a shirt pocket, removed his clothing and headed for a fresh water shower, along with nearly everyone else in the barracks. When he returned, his money was gone; his clothes had been rifled, as had those of some of the others in the barracks. Pancho was stricken; he had planned to use the money to get married, he said. I accompanied him to see a Captain who was in charge. He merely shrugged; "happens all the time. You should have safeguarded your money". No sympathy, no help. Welcome home!
In the mess halls was an abundance of fresh fruit, fresh meat, and sweet fresh milk - all the foods we had been deprived of for two years. At the PX I inhaled a quart of ice cream, them slowly and with great relish, ate another quart. If the food was a treat for the stomach, everything else was a feast for the eyes. Such a bewildering array of items was displayed at the PX! It must have been difficult for State-side O.K.’s, surrounded with such abundance, to realize there was a war on. And the clerks! Most of them civilian women dressed, to our starved eyes, prettily enough to be going on a date.
But it was nightfall that brought home to us the true realization of the dark world we had inhabited and which we had so recently left. Dazzling, wildly colored lights everywhere! They shone from homes and apartment windows, store windows, bars, busses, cars; blinking lights, colored lights, lights which spelled out words; lights which beckoned the weary, the thirsty, the hungry. Lights everywhere. America was the land of light. America, the land that had not tasted war, was ablaze at night. We had lived with blackouts for so long; we had forgotten how our homeland looked at night. It was beautiful, so very beautiful.
Memory fails again in regard to the length of our stay at Standish, but it wasn't long, surely no longer than two days. The main purpose of the post seemed to be to sort out who was going where for discharge and to verify that every man had his allotted issue of clothing. I was destined to travel to Ft. Sheridan, near Chicago; Joe Dominguez and Pancho were to go to New Jersey. It was a truly sorrowful goodbye for me. Pancho and I had been crewmates in the Battery Commander's halftrack for three years; Joe was one of my operators and a true friend in every respect. But, sad though it was, in our youthful exuberance, we all thought we would see each other again in the future. It was not to be. Extensive efforts over many years have failed to locate either of the two.
Marched to the railroad siding, the group bound for Ft. Sheridan discovered our days of moving about in cattle cars were over. We had coaches, the big American coaches, so unlike the English railroad carriages. The journey to Illinois must have taken at least two days but I'm certain we had no Pullman cars, although that was no handicap for combat veterans. We had learned to sleep anywhere. There were MP's on the train to handle any contingencies but they turned out to be pretty good Joes. We were ordered to remain on the train unless otherwise directed but, each time the train stopped at a station, we'd pile off with little resistance from the MP’s, sometimes just for exercise, sometimes to hit a nearby bar.
We arrived at Ft. Sheridan, with no one being arrested, to find it inundated with returned veterans awaiting processing and discharge. There was no place to put us. After spending hours and hours marching from place to place on the post, the decision was made to give each of us a 10-day furlough and turn us loose. We received a partial pay and headed for home. I made my way to the train station and spent many more hours waiting for a train to Grand Rapids. GRAND RAPIDS! The name sounded strange on my lips. From the Grand Rapids station, I took a cab to the home of my dear sister, Ethel, and genial brother-in-law, Phil. I arrived at about 4 AM. The door was unlocked, as I knew it would be (this was 1945, don't forget!), and I went directly to their bedroom and woke them up. Their reaction was bewilderment, then surprise, and then joy. They had known I was coming, of course, but had no idea when I would arrive.
The sensations I felt being home again are beyond the ability of my limited vocabulary to adequately describe. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. The trees and the grass; the streets and the roads; the sights were the same; what had changed was my freedom to plan my day; to go where I wanted to go, do what I wanted to do; dress as I wanted to dress. All the blessed freedoms I had been denied for four years were exquisitely mine to enjoy. I would obey only one more order from the United States Army: report to Ft. Sheridan for discharge.
Those 10 days at home were a whirl of activity. I saw my father and younger brother (my mother had died in 1931), aunts and uncles, old friends who had escaped the draft (not many - the others were still in the service); ate home-cooked food and enjoyed myself immensely. Borrowing my brother-in-law's' car, I reported to Ft. Sheridan on time.
The post was still brimming to capacity but we shuffled from one location to another - we weren't asked to march in formation! - in the processing routine, spending hours standing in line at each station. I have only two recollections of the two or three days it took to complete the process: There was a number of German PW's engaged in keeping the post neat. They swept, they raked, they emptied trash bins. Standing in line, bored and lost in thought, I saw a PW suddenly fall and sprawl flat on the ground. A soldier from the 82nd Airborne Division stood over him, quietly muttering something. I never learned exactly what happened but I assume he said or did something the Airborne guy objected to.
Part of the process was a hearing test. After taking it, the major in charge made a notation on my records, handed them to me and instructed me to get in the line he indicated. I asked why. He said my hearing was defective (no surprise; too many hours wearing those headphones); the line was where I could sign up for a pension. I looked at the line. It was huge; would take hours to navigate it. I told the major I'd pass on the pension; just sign the record. He did.
At last, after 4 years, 3 months and 13 days, I had the prized "Ruptured Duck" insignia, signifying a discharged soldier, sown on my uniform. My military career was over; I had attained, once again, the glorious rank of civilian. I was free. The date: October 3, 1945.
I headed for Memphis, Tennessee, where Juanita was stationed in the WACS. Women in the Army could be discharged to marry a discharged soldier. She was given a furlough. We drove to her parents’ home in Louisville, Kentucky, where we were married - at a USO club, witnessed by people we had never met before. The date: October 10, 1945.
Mission accomplished !! |