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In the cold dampness of April 19, 1944, we disembarked from
the large cargo vessel, the Seatrain Texas, moored in the harbor
of Cardiff, Wales.
After the interminable milling around and being issued the
mandatory traveling menu of Spam and marmalade sandwiches, we
were marched to a nearby train station. This train would introduce
us to the European railway coach system, the compartmentalized
railway coach, something to which we were completely unaccustomed
in the States.
After several hours of travel through the beautiful countryside
of southwest England, we arrived in the village of Chard. We
marched through the village and were all very impressed with
the red tiled roofs that shelter almost every house.
We continued through the village to the outskirts where, on
a hill, we could see the nomenclature of a military establishment.
There were a series of Quonset huts, but there was also a very
sobering sight, a machine gun located in the center of the camp
surrounded by slit trenches. This reminded us of the serious
fact that the British had faced the real possibility of a German
invasion.
British Austerity
Upon entering the Quonset huts we were met with the musty
smell that came from the mattress covers stuffed with straw that
would be our bedding. There was also the cone shaped stove sitting
in a sand box that gave a stinging, eye-burning sensation that
we were familiar with, since we had the same type stove and soft
coal in our huts in Florida.
We were now coming face to face with the cruel fact that the
British had been at war for five long years and the austerity
under which they lived was becoming very apparent. This became
painfully clear at our first meal in the dimly lit mess hall.
The food was not at all what we were accustomed to. We were very
forcefully informed that absolutely no edible food would be thrown
away, in fact there were guards placed at the garbage cans to
assure this. You ate what you were served, period.
It is always amazing how quickly some people come to the forefront.
There was a man by the name of Glenn French who quickly boasted
that he was related to Bing Crosby. Of course this immediately
gave him an elevated stature, which, no doubt was the purpose
of revealing this information.
I had always been fascinated with history and I was taken with
a sense of awe that I was actually in England. Here was this
non-descript eighteen year old from a non-descript small town
in Pennsylvania, where six months earlier this possibility never
crossed my mind, although I would have eagerly sought such an
adventure of actually being in England.
In Basic Training, in the pine and sand of the remote area of
Florida, I began to acquire an almost visceral fear and hatred
of serving and fighting in the Pacific. That is why at Camp Meade
in Maryland, when we were issued our olive drab uniforms, instead
of the khaki issue, I experienced a great sense of relief, even
an eager excitement, that we were certain to head for the European
theatre. Being in England was the fulfillment of that hope and
desire.
The double-decker wooden bunks with mattress covers stuffed with
stale, lumpy straw was part of the initiation to the reality
that we were no longer in that rich, luxurious environment of
the United States. I don't remember the name of that camp in
Chard, but I would call it Camp Austerity, since that is where
I learned the meaning of the word. My admiration of the British
people grew considerably.
Our time at that camp was taken up with road marches and endless
hours of calisthenics. Since Chard was a very rural village,
farm animals seemed to have been given great deference. The roads
were used by the farmers to get their cattle to the pastures
and because of that the roads were freely spattered with manure.
It was tough to retain a straight column and at the same time,
avoid the cattle excrement that so carelessly littered our route
of march. All of that brought great hilarity among the ranks.
It was like marching through a mine field.
I had my own private misadventures in that camp. I was delighted
when I came across a rather recent issue of Time magazine. When
I left the poorly stocked PX with my precious magazine, I immediately
buried my nose in it, oblivious to everything around me. What
a shock when I found myself lying in the bottom of one of those
slit trenches. Utterly humiliated, I crawled out of that hole,
stuck my nose back into the magazine acting as though nothing
had happened, when, low and behold there was the second slit
trench slyly waiting for this unsuspecting reader. To this day,
I don't know whether someone witnessed those spectacular theatrics;
I am praying, no one did.
It was in the camp in Chard where we were introduced to the befuddling
British currency. It took a while for these poor benighted Colonial's
to realize that this was real money and not something left over
from a game of Monopoly. It took a while to get the farthing,
the hapenny, the thrupence, and the full assortment of coinage
memorized, but there was a great sense of satisfaction when this
was finally accomplished.
Camp Stapley and the Infamous Phrase
Our stay in Chard was very brief when one day we were ordered
to gather our gear and mount up on the ubiquitous 6x6, the GI
limousine. We passed by the town of Taunton and found ourselves
in Camp Stapley. Again, our setting was very rural and very hilly,
again surrounded with much cattle fencing and herds of cattle.
This time we were settled in six-man tents, with nothing but
cold, damp grass for the floor. Again, road marches and calisthenics
occupied much of our time. There were also some "night problems."
During the breaks we would lie on our backs and watch German
planes being tracked through the night skies. First, one searchlight
would capture the gleaming object and skew it on its beam of
light, then other searchlights would join in until there was
an entire phalanx of beams transfixing the intruder. That group
would pass it along to the next series of batteries until it
was transferred out of sight. It was remarkable to watch.
We were still dealing with the matter of the austere conditions
to which we were completely unaccustomed. We thought that we
were being starved to death, since we were still used to the
abundance of the meal table in the States.
Camp Stapley had a mess hall that could not serve the entire
camp at one sitting and since there were two companies to feed,
this created a huge problem. It was finally decided to alternate
the feeding of the companies. One day, our company would eat
first, then the other company. This worked well, until the first
Sunday when the other company decided that the procedure was
only in effect on week days. This day, it was our turn to eat
first, but there was the other company bulling its way into the
mess hall ahead of us. This transgression could not be tolerated.
Meal time was becoming like a religious experience. Food was
like a sacrament.
The two companies would converge on the mess hall in the form
of a V. When the transgressors began forcing their way into the
mess hall, there was a huge outcry from our ranks. Things became
very nasty and some men almost came to blows. The vitriolic name
calling escalated. Opposite me, in the opposing ranks, there
was a particularly obnoxious, foul mouthed GI, who seemed to
be the cheer leader for the other side. It was always my nature
to keep out of melees such as we were involved in, but for some
reason, I could no longer restrain myself. In one of my poorer
moments, I blurted out that stupid, inane phrase that was so
common and considered to be the end-all to any argument. I shouted
to my antagonist, "Blow it out your ass!"
Unfortunately, two things converged simultaneously and happened
to be my undoing. First; at that exact moment there was a great
lull in the shouting, whereby my foolish epithet hung in the
air like the Goodyear blimp. Secondly; at the very same moment
I shouted that stupid phrase, Sergeant Smedley happened to step
between me and the object of my scorn. For some reason, although
Sergeant Smedley was championing our company's cause, he thought
my vulgarity was directed at him. Needless to say, the good Sergeant
took strong umbrage at my indiscretion and came stalking over
to me, demanding my name. Despite my feeble protests of innocence,
he ordered me to report to the First Sergeant immediately after
breakfast. I don't know when I enjoyed a breakfast less than
I did that morning.
Smedley's Revenge Backfires
When I left the mess hall, I headed for the First Sergeant's
hut. To wake up a First Sergeant on a Sunday morning can be extremely
hazardous. When I reported to him, his head remained buried in
the pillow and without looking at me, ordered me to report to
the Supply Hut and acquire a pick and shovel and report to another
Sergeant who had evidently been apprised of my transgression.
He was waiting for me and ordered me to dig one of those infamous
6x6x6 holes.
A hole, six feet long, six feet wide and six feet deep and then
cover it up. No doubt, there would be a constant parade of wiseacres
honing their wits on this poor malefactor, this sorry drudge.
Happily, after about three feet of digging and a cascade of insulting
witticisms I fortuitously hit a water line. The Sergeant immediately
panicked and ordered me to cover up the wretched hole. For that
humiliation, Sergeant Smedley would not soon be forgotten or
forgiven.
There was one incident at Camp Stapley that was very memorable
to me. One noon, after returning from the mess hall, I was alone
in the tent. It was Mother's Day. I was overwhelmed with a great
feeling of homesickness, and reflecting on the poor son I had
been and the grief I must have brought to the heart of my Mother,
I broke down and wept. It would be the only time in my, almost
two years overseas that I experienced such intense homesickness.
The Mapstone Family, The Oasis
Our stay at Camp Stapley would also be an abbreviated one
and the convoy of 6x6's would soon have us on our way to our
next camp. We could hardly believe our eyes when we entered the
town of Glastonbury and that our camp was within the town. The
camp was Abbey Park Camp. It was on the very grounds of the historically
famous Glastonbury Cathedral. With my love for history, this
was a God-send. At the first opportunity, I took a tour of the
Abbey grounds and was so moved by my first real encounter with
antiquity.
On occasion, when for some reason, we may have been restricted
to camp, I enjoyed sitting in the door of my tent and sketching
the ruins. What a memorable picture it was to see those venerable
ruins in the month of May, framed by the delicate beauty of the
pink blossoms of the apple orchard that separated our camp from
the cathedral ruins.
The training at Abbey Camp was much more rigorous. Calisthenics
were still an important part of our schedule, but now there was
added another element. Several miles outside of the town, there
was a brick yard and on the grounds there was one of the most
imaginative obstacle courses we had ever run. We took to it immediately.
It was always challenging to see who could get through it first.
Running it became a very competitive sport. But it was still
the forced road marches that were the most demanding. We also
had to check out our gas masks in a small concrete building made
specifically for that purpose.
Sports were also an important part of our daily schedule.
Softball and volleyball were enthusiastically engaged. But in
those spare moments, during breaks, the conversation would return
to the same subject, the Second Front. That is what the cross
Channel invasion of the Continent was referred to, not D-Day,
that came after the invasion occurred.
There was a theatre in the center of town that also served
as the Town Hall. One evening, I was standing in line, waiting
for the theatre to open and there was a young man in front of
me, wearing a uniform. We engaged in conversation, particularly,
he saw me struggle with the currency. He offered his help and
we continued our conversation and sat together through the movie.
Upon parting, he offered to meet me the next evening, which I
eagerly agreed to.
The following evening when we met, he immediately invited
me to his home. His name was David Mapstone. The Mapstone family
lived on a farm at the edge of Glastonbury. It was called Northload
Bridge Farm. That began a very enduring friendship. It was such
a joy to visit with the family. The parents were Horace and Gladys
Mapstone. There was an older sister with Down's Syndrome and
a younger brother, Geoffrey, a very quiet, but bright young lad.
It was with David, that I had my first encounter with an English
bike. It was almost my undoing, never having driven a bike with
hand brakes. The Mapstone's also had two horses and David and
I spend happy hours riding through the lovely countryside of
Somerset. It was also my great delight to visit the PX and purchase
things for the Mapstone family, especially American cigarettes
for Mr. Mapstone. They in turn would permit me to enjoy an evening
meal with the family. What an honor that was and it was there,
again, that I came face to face with the austerity, which to
them was a way of life. It was such a pleasure to be away from
the Spartan military life that we lived, which was camp life.
Sitting in the Mapstone kitchen was such a warm experience,
just listening to the soft, clear accents of the British tongue.
Having lived and been raised in a Pennsylvania German area with
all of the harsher tones, the quiet conversation in that kitchen
was altogether heart-warming.
One evening, Mr. Mapstone entered the kitchen with some alarm.
He said that there were rumors that many American bodies had
been washed up on the shores of Cornwall. It would be decades
later that we would learn of one of the best kept secrets of
the war. There was a practice landing operation in process, when
German E-boats encountered the unescorted landing craft and attacked
at night with catastrophic results. It would also be years later,
when I would find out that one of the casualties of that disaster
was the husband of my wife's closest friend. The irony!
The Cheddar Excursion
One Sunday, we were alerted that there would be a trip to
a place called Cheddar Gorge. A convoy of trucks left and the
trip was not too long. We indeed, entered a gorge. There were
sheer walls of rock and the road wound between them to a small
settlement with businesses crowding both sides of the street.
One of the first things mentioned was that there were caverns
there where were found the first evidence of pre-historic man
in England. It was fascinating, and I purchased two small vases
as keep-sakes. We then heard that there was a place serving strawberries
and cream. The place was soon filled and what a treat that was.
Later, as I wandered among the shops, I overheard someone say
that Cheddar Gorge was the place where Augustus Toplady was when
inspired to write the words to the hymn, Rock of Ages. That really
moved me, and I took a stroll up the winding roadway by myself
and just contemplated what he saw that gave birth to those words.
The story was that he was caught in a heavy rainstorm and took
shelter in a cleft in the massive rock face. That shelter reminded
him of the safety that is found in Christ, and those massive
rocks were likened to how substantial and secure those rocks
are as found in Christ, who Himself, is the Rock, and our Eternal
Shelter.
D-Day, The Great Moment
Then came June 6, 1944: The excitement was monumental! There
was one strong element of disappointment, however. We wondered
how they could have invaded the Continent without us. Our circumstances
where never really explained to us. In our ranks there were men
from a number of different branches of the Army. There were Artillery
men, Cavalry, of course Infantry and also tankers for Armored
units. That explained why there could be such little tactical
training. We were too varied. Nevertheless, we were still offended
that we were not part of the invasion. Little did we know!!!
Of course, as soon as the invasion was announced, we were immediately
restricted to the company area, and it wasn't long before we
were all packed and on 6x6's heading for the South of England,
Southampton to be precise. Of course we were fortified with the
usual menu of Spam and marmalade sandwiches.
During this time, there was an interesting phenomenon that I
observed: At the time, Infantry was considered the lowest form
of life. We in the Infantry were easily recognized by the blue
braid on our overseas caps. Many, who were in the Infantry would
secure caps with other braid so as not to have to admit being
among the blue braided lepers. It was remarkable, that after
the invasion, suddenly the blue braid was much sought after,
even by those in other branches.
On the docks of Southampton we were herded aboard a vessel that
happened to be under the British flag. When we were ushered below
deck to these vast compartments, there were no beds. Finally,
we were shown a stack of hammocks and everyone groaned. The problem
was that it was difficult to stretch them out fully, which would
mean that we would be suspended like a horse shoe. And after
surviving the night when breakfast time came, whether it was
fact or some demented person in uniform, told us that our breakfast
would consist of kidney stew and tea. Of course the crossing
was rather rough and soon many of the men parted company with
their kidney stew and tea.
Omaha Beach
When, in the morning, we were freed to come up on the main
deck, we could scarcely believe our eyes. There, stretched before
us was the coast of France, Omaha Beach. There still seemed to
be a haze hovering over the entire beach front. Finally, with
our full field packs, we were organized on deck in preparation
to be received on the landing craft. This would be entirely different
than what we expected. The landing craft were raised to the level
of the main deck. We would then stand on the railing of the vessel
and jump down into the craft from there. The only difficulty
was that the water was quite rough and with the swaying of the
ship, the landing craft would swing away, five or six feet, and
then come crashing back against the side of the vessel. It was
a perilous moment, to time your jump at the precise moment that
the landing craft struck the vessel, especially being weighed
down with all of our equipment.
When the landing craft had its full compliment of men, it was
lowered into the water. We could only feel for those men who
made the initial landing under the full force of enemy fire in
waters that were probably more treacherous then what we faced.
By this time, the Mulberry's had been put into place. Those were
the docks that had been floated across the Channel and put into
place to receive the men and thousands of tons of supplies needed
to reinforce the troops already engaged. It was another one of
those great moments in my young life, a spine chilling moment
to realize that I was standing on French soil.
Not What We Expected
As we made our way up the draw to the high ground, the sound
of artillery fire was a very sobering sound. For some reason,
a halt was called and we were told that we would be spending
the night in place on the high ground overlooking the beach.
The activity on the beach and leaving the beach was breathtaking.
There was an unending stream of tanks and half-tracks making
their way up from the beach and heading inland. Little did I
realize that those vehicles belonged to the Division that I would
be joining shortly, the 3rd Armored Division.
The next morning, we were moved inland, and came to a large field,
surrounded by the infamous hedgerows. We were ordered to set
up our tents on the perimeter of the fields, under the cover
of the trees that lined the hedgerows.
My first encounter with French civilians was not very uplifting.
There was a circle of six or eight men and women having a conversation.
One of the men had to urinate. He simply turned around and urinated,
never leaving the circle and continued the conversation talking
over his shoulder.
There was not much that we could do except go over our weapons,
clean them and oil them, but there is only so much of that to
be done. This boredom was broken when a rather stubby Colonel
came into our field and gathered us around him. He was with the
29th Division and very proudly told us that it was his men who
had taken the fields where we bivouacked. We were really awe
struck to see what we believed was a real live hero.
Very soon, we were all gathered together and loaded on 6x6's
and taken some distance to fields where supplies were stacked.
Just acres upon acres of supplies. We were told that we would
be unloading the DUK's as they brought loads of all manner of
supplies from the beach. This was wearying, but at least we were
doing something. But then the rains came. And oh, how it rained.
The fields became a quagmire, what with the vehicles churning
up wheel-deep mud. But the work continued. When our work day
ended and we were returned to the bivouac area, we stood there
with the pockets of our raincoats still full of water and surveyed
a rather dismal scene. Everything in our pup tents was soaked.
Our blankets were nothing but a soggy mess and this did not bode
well for a restful night. In addition to that, our tents and
blankets had been invaded by a company of snails. Shaking them
out of our blankets and removing them from our duffel bags and
whatever was stored in the pup tents, occupied us for some wearying
hours.
This was nothing compared to what our comrades engaged in combat
with the enemy must have been going through. We could just imagine
the horror of living in some muddied pit while under enemy fire,
and no possible way to dry out. In a short time, we would join
them in that misery.
We must have been involved with the unloading duty for at least
three days. Mud splattered, soaked and very weary, but we felt
that we were doing a worthwhile duty, so we kept our grumbling
to a minimum. As could have been expected, some of the supplies
that we handled were food rations and there were a few unfortunate
"accidents" where some of the boxes fell, or were somehow
damaged and of course that grieved us in that we had to eat the
food so it would not go to waste.
Finally, A Home!
One Sunday morning, a jeep drove up to the center of the field,
a whistle blew and we were ordered to assemble around the vehicle.
An officer stood up with a clip board in his hand, and when we
were all gathered, he read off four names. Much to my shock and
amazement, my name was among them, considering that there were
at least two hundred men in the assembly. We were ordered to
quickly gather our gear and return to the jeep.
Very quickly, the four of us returned to the vehicle and we were
piled in, clinging to whatever was stable. Since the beachhead
was not that deep, it didn't take long to get to our destination.
For the second time we passed through the rubble that once was
the village of Isigny. We arrived at an area filled with vehicles
all garbed in camouflouge nets. There were mostly tanks and half-tracks.
After we spilled out of the vehicle dragging our gear with us,
we were taken to a tent and very shortly an officer emerged.
It was Captain Leland Cook, commander of "D" Co. He
was a very impressive man and was no nonsense. He told of the
good men that we were replacing and told us that he expected
the very best from us.
From there I was taken to men who were bivouacked around a half-track.
I was introduced to a Sergeant Bill Adcock, squad leader of the
3rd Rifle Squad, 2nd Platoon of Company "D". It was
very sobering when I was told that I was replacing a man by the
name of John Bateman. He was killed in the first action of the
Division. I was assigned to share a pup tent with a man by the
name of Fred Hisler from Moline, Ill. Since I was among the first
replacements, I was quite wary as to how I would be received,
but, fortunately, they accepted me very warmly.
I was now a member of the 36th Armored Infantry Regiment of the
3rd Armored Division. It was a wonderful feeling, finally to
have a home after floundering around in the Replacement Pool.
The new men were soon called down to the Company HQ, where we
were given the auspicious responsibility of digging a company
latrine. This was no hardship at all. All that mattered was that
now I had a home. The squad half-track was D-23. Meaning "D"
Co., 2nd Platoon, 3rd Rifle Squad.
The next morning, we were alerted that there would be religious
services held at a certain time. We were informed as to where
each Chaplain would be located. Since I was Protestant, I went
to the appropriate corner where the Protestant Chaplain would
meet with us. This was an ominous foreboding since religious
services during the week usually preceded battle. I shall never
forget the text that was used; He spoke from the Book of Luke,5;36-39.
It dealt with putting new wine into old wine skins. I am still
baffled as to the pertinence of that Scripture, although, I am
sure, well meaning.
Later in the day, we moved out and fell into line with a convoy
of half-tracks. It was during the time of travel that I began
to learn more about the men and their first combat action. They
spoke about a railroad gun firing from a tunnel near St. Lo.
How accurate this was, I don't know. But it was that alleged
railroad gun that cost John Bateman his life.
The Baptism ... Combat
As darkness came, things became more and more tense since
the volume and nearness of artillery fire indicated that the
forward lines were not too distant. At times such as that, on
that slender beachhead, the congestion was terrible and movement
was at a snail's pace. We finally entered some fields, and tanks
and half-tracks began coiling around the perimeter of the fields.
Everything came to a halt and we dismounted our half-tracks and
I was partnered with an older man. His name was Pop Waters. Suddenly
firing began all around us and we hit the ground. I found myself
lying on the ground by a hedge that bordered a roadway. Men were
running along the roadway and I quickly realized that they were
German soldiers. It was then that some of the tanks opened fire
adding to the confusion of the rifle and machine gun fire. Then
as quickly as it all started, it was over.
Much to our chagrin, we later found out that someone had moved
us into the wrong position, in fact, they had moved us into a
German position. Pop Waters and I then set about digging our
foxhole. The rest of the night was rather quiet, as Pop and I
took turns standing guard. I must admit, that after it was over,
there was a great sense of calm within me.
Pop Waters had acquired the reputation of being quite eccentric.
He was not too favorably disposed to military discipline. He
was not a big man, and his age of the mid-thirties, with a balding
head and a rim of reddish hair, made him very unique. That night
was the first time that I met him and he was the squad BAR man.
By the time, after being wounded, I rejoined the company in the
beginning of September, Pop Waters was the Platoon Sergeant.
By then, he had established himself as one of the foremost combat
leaders in our company. He had combat sense that few men possess,
a sense that seemed to be native to this backwoods farmer from
the Mid-West.
Next morning, as the sun rose, we could see some of the results
from that brief, confused action of the night before. There was
a German tank on a sloping hill, with a crewman of the tank draped
over the barrel of the cannon. An unforgettable sight. Seeing
the setting we were in by daylight, made me marvel that with
all the firing in that brief span of time, there were not more
casualties.
The tanks and infantry formed up in a field that was nearby
a yellow stucco structure, what appeared to be a church building.
We began moving forward, with the tanks firing into the hedgerows
as we approached them. There was a tank with a bulldozer blade
and after some time, that tank pushed an opening through the
hedgerow and then pulled back. Two or three other tanks then
proceeded through the opening and fanned out in the next field.
This was a slow, tedious process, but the only sensible way to
make any progress.
The Face of Death
The Germans seemed to be masters at utilizing every terrain
feature to their advantage, and the hedgerows were prime means
of stopping our advance with their skillfully deployed machine
guns, covered by very accurately used mortars. We infantry, would
take shelter behind the tanks to escape the machine gun fire,
but the mortar rounds were not easily defended against in the
open fields. Their anti-tank guns took a horrible toll of the
tanks.
We progressed very cautiously and very slowly, field by field.
We came to one opening into a rather narrow field and this time,
there were no tanks with us in that field. We could see, that
directly opposite there was a gateway to the next field. I was
with a man by the name of John Kollenberg. We decided to make
a dash across the open field to the next hedgerow. The grass
was about knee high and we were taking fire. About midway across
the field, we saw directly ahead of us, at the base of the next
hedgerow, a German soldier trying to get to his feet. Since there
were two of us, and he was alone, I was sure that we had a prisoner.
But, in a split second, John fired off several rounds, striking
the man.
I was determined on one thing, and that was to get out of
the line of fire and to the shelter of that next hedgerow. The
German soldier that John had struck was directly ahead of me
and I had no choice but to hit the ground right next to him.
Here, next to me was this German soldier. What a terrible moment.
He was moaning quietly and I was sure that he was dying. I was
completely mesmerized with my first encounter with battlefield
death. Lying just a few feet from me, I could see the color slowly
drain from his face. He was gone. Here was a real German soldier,
in three dimensions, right next to me. It troubled me that the
man was not taken prisoner. Those are the split second decisions
that are made on the battlefield that have horrible consequences.
The plodding method of fighting, one field at a time and with
the constant storm of machine gun fire and the deadly accuracy
of their mortars, it seemed that the Germans withheld the bulk
of their artillery fire until the end of the day when the day's
drive came to a halt. Then, watch out, because it will come with
fury.
It was at the end of one such day, after we had caught a particularly
fierce artillery barrage, after it lifted, I went to the next
hedgerow that was at the highest point of the ground we had captured.
I looked over the top and my heart sank when I looked into the
distance and saw, seemingly, hundreds of more hedgerowed fields
just like the several we had taken that one day. I thought to
myself that well never get out of this mess, especially when
we could see our casualties mounting and for such little real
estate.
The Moment of Truth
One day, we were attacking down a very narrow Norman lane.
It was barely wide enough for a Sherman tank. To our left, there
was an embankment, about eight or ten feet high. To the right
of the lane, there was a stone wall, probably no more than three
feet high. Trees lined both sides of the lane and overarching
it, turning it into nothing but a green tunnel. There were at
least five tanks in the column and the infantry was single file,
between the row of tanks and the stone wall. Our 3rd Rifle Squad
was in the lead and I happened to be near the head of the column
with our Platoon Leader, Lt. Shedd.
The column came to a halt and the tank commander of the lead
tank, shouted down to Lt. Shedd, that he would not move the column
until an intersection about 75 yards ahead of us had been checked
out. There was a small brick shed on the right of the intersection.
Since I was right by the Lt., he told me to make my way forward
and check the intersection for enemy vehicles or enemy guns.
I cautiously made my way forward to the intersection, using the
cover of the stone wall, and checked it out as thoroughly as
I could. I saw nothing of enemy vehicles or guns and when I returned
to the head of the column, I reported this to the Lt. He in turn
transmitted the information to the tank commander.
At that instant, a machine gun opened fire from our right front,
spraying the column. At the same moment I saw a flash and a cloud
of dust from beyond the intersection where I just had been. Immediately,
the tank right beside me was struck. It appeared that there was
a man with a Panzerfaust dug into the embankment just beyond
the intersection where I had just been and with the heavy foliage
his position was easily concealed.
The blast was so powerful that it felt as though someone had
slammed me across the front of my body with a 2x4. I knew that
I was hit because my neck and chin were bloody and burnt, and
my field jacket was almost shredded. I made my way to the rear
and, as I passed the men crouched by the stone wall, they all
offered their well wishes and also their condolences. At the
same time, a Medic had seen what happened and made his way forward.
He had me lie down in a ditch and immediately gave me a shot
of morphine. I was soon joined by two badly burned tankers who
were probably the only survivors from the doomed tank.
One of the great dreads that I had was how I might respond when
I might be hit. When I saw some men, who were not that seriously
wounded carry on and cry and curse, I feared that I might respond
the same way. I did not want to disgrace my self, my family or
my God with such conduct. Instead, there was a great sense of
peace as I lay there in that ditch.
Another self-imposed myth that I had been living with was that
I was convinced that my role would always be that of a spectator,
that others would be down on the playing field, while I would
occupy the bleachers. That myth died in that ditch when the fact
hit me, "It happened to me".
The Improbable Had Happened
Because of the congestion in the narrow lane, it took a while
before they were able to bring up a medical half-track. It didn't
take very long before we arrived at a large tent in a pasture
with a huge Red Cross emblazoned in several places. There was
nothing but a grass floor. Quickly, I was x-rayed and, just as
quickly, I found myself on an operating table with a huge greenish
light overhead.
The nurse then began applying the anesthesia and said to me,
"Now tell me all about what happened." Evidently speaking
would hasten the affect of the anesthetic. I began mumbling something,
but the effect of the anesthetic was so pleasant that it was
like the happy hour. It seemed as though I was lying on some
soft velvety whirl pool and I was gently drawn down into unconsciousness.
When I came to, and became lucid enough, I found myself lying
on a litter in the grass, by the wall of the tent. I immediately
checked to see if all of my parts were present and accounted
for. Satisfied that they were, I then noticed that there was
a packet lying on my chest and tied around my neck. It was a
medical packet with all of the necessary information concerning
previous treatment. I noticed too that there were swatches of
bandages from my chin to my crotch which I assumed covered shrapnel
wounds. I noticed there was something inside the packet with
weight, more than paper. Out, into my hand, fell a spent bullet
from either a rifle or a machine gun. What a surprise!
The Blast and The Slug
Sometime later, the doctor came by and knelt in the grass
beside my litter. He asked me some questions as to how I felt
and then I said, "Doctor, there must have been a mistake.
I was hit by a Panzerfaust, not small arms fire." The doctor
replied, "I don't know about that, all I know is I removed
that slug from your lower abdomen."
Can you imagine, lying in a hospital bed for days and even weeks
and contemplating the great improbability of what had happened:
To be hit twice, instantaneously and simultaneously by two different
weapons and still be alive. That was the miracle. I had shrapnel
and burns to my chin. Supposing the blast had been five inches
higher, I could also have been blinded.
Shortly after that, several of us found ourselves lying on our
litters on the tarmac of the landing strip above Omaha Beach.
There, looming over us was a C-47 Hospital plane.
A Chaplain moved among us, kneeling down beside us and praying
over us. How appropriate to be dismissed from that awful Beachhead
with the words of God's Grace ringing in our ears.
END.
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