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24 March 1945
Korschebroich, Germany
On 5 March 1945, Combat Command "A" [2AD] had passed
between Krefeld and Uerdingen, Germany, having already taken
Munchen-Gladbach. Our command had overran and destroyed thirty-six
88mm dual purpose guns in an area about 2,000 square yards after
having overcome a fanatical defense in the built-up areas southeast
of the city of Krefeld, where the German troops had employed
numerous bazookas and also panzerfausts in very close and desperate
hand-to-hand fighting. Very few prisoners surrendered, leaving
many wounded behind as they withdrew.
CCA Headquarters then assembled in the vicinity of Korschebroich,
where we waited for orders to cross the mighty Rhine River on
the night of 27-28 March, 1945, just south of the town of Wesel.
It was here at Korschebroich while waiting that our GIs found
the underground stored vats of wine. Most everyone dumped their
5-gallon water cans and refilled the jerry cans with the looted
Rhine valley wine. Perhaps the liberated bug juice is what caused
the guy with the Big Hands to settle our own private war right
here. This same time is when our very own Indian from Lake Okeechobee,
Florida, Private Walter Hogan, consumed far too much of the potent
grape juice and became inebriated and out of control. While in
this state of mental impairment, he unwisely decided to wake
up our commander, Brigadier General John H. (PeeWee) Collier,
for an old fashioned GI "piss call" in the middle of
the night. That and the outcome are another worthwhile story
and have been told elsewhere. (See 2AD Bulletin #3, 1985)
The day it happened I was cold sober and seated at the kitchen
table in one of the German apartment-style homes that we had
taken over as our quarters. I had been writing a letter home
to my parents, as was my frequent custom whenever time permitted.
I had the room to myself with a good hot fire in the kitchen
coal-heated cook stove as I sat collecting my thoughts of what
I could get past the censors, as it was always a challenge to
match wits with the brass. The rest of the crew was spread throughout
the house playing cards or loafing, when in walked Private Nelson
Fountain from Wyandotte, Michigan. He was one of our new division
replacements conscripted from the non-descript rear echelon to
fill one of the many vacancies that all of our units had suffered
after the Battle of the Bulge. At the time, he was in his late
thirties, and had not spent any previous time in combat, compared
to those of us in our 20's who had been since the D-Day landings,
making us the veterans and him the rookie.
Fountain had the biggest pair of hands I had ever seen. I
wore a size nine and in comparison he must have worn an extra
large size 12 or 13. I mean he had big hands! Besides having
oversized hands, he had a big mouth to match those baseball-glove-size
hands of his. He also had an irksome habit of talking with his
hands, so that you could not avoid noticing the big mitts. Quite
possibly this was done to impress and intimidate people. Even
sober he was argumentative and obnoxious in discussing any topic
to the point of being belligerent when told to do something.
In addition, because Fountain was near 40 years of age, he had
this habit of calling me "kid" - knowing I was but
22 years old - none of which I appreciated, especially coming
from a newcomer, but I kept my peace and let Veno run the crew
until that day when push came to shove. It had been brewing as
my resentment to his snide remarks and general attitude began
to fester with each passing day. Now it was just a matter of
time until he lit my known short-tempered fuse. The others saw
it coming.
Shortly after this incident, Fountain walked into the kitchen
and I could readily see he had been sucking up too much wine
before lunch and was spoiling for trouble. He had come to the
right place to find it. The time had come to settle up. The situation
had been brewing for a few previous days as his wise-ass remarks
became a daily exercise of his blow-hard summations. The abundance
of wine must have been what was needed to confront me, although
he wasn't too drunk not to know what he was saying or doing.
He came up to the table and started riding my ass regarding
my always writing letters home instead of drinking with him and
the guys. I told him to back off and mind his own damned business,
but he wanted to push it to the edge and continued. I had had
enough of him and his mouth and felt here we go.
My last trip to fist city was almost two years to the date,
when my old First Sergeant Conway invited me "out on to
the green" back behind the Regimental Theatre after sundown
at Camp Crowder, Missouri. Although I was out-weighed by 20 pounds,
I gave as "good" as I got, as the expression goes and
gained his respect!
This time I intended to do much better for myself, because
this time the first punch to be landed would be mine. One more
time I told him to back off, but he responded, "Marsh, what
are you gonna do if I reached over and tore up that sheet of
paper you're writing on?" I told him, "Try it and let's
find out." Hovering over me and without taking his bloodshot
eyes from my face, his right hand reached out and grabbed my
letter from the table.
In his raspy voice, he started to say, "Well, kid there
..." And I never let him finish the sentence as I grabbed
his right hand with my left and smashed him in the mouth with
my right as I rose from the table all in one motion before he
was able to ball up his other fist. I nailed him a solid punch
because I could feel the needles shoot up my arm to my elbow
on impact as bone struck bone. I felt it was the hardest punch
I've ever landed in a fist fight, as it caught him flush on the
jaw. Now I turned loose and continued punching him in the face
and body with both hands as fast as I could throw punches, rocking
him back on his heels, forcing him back onto the hot stove. Hearing
all the racket and curses, Veno, Hull and Donahue came rushing
into the room to separate us and pulled us apart. Looking at
his bloody mouth I learned that with my first punch that I had
split his lips and cracked his lower denture plate. Until then
we did not know he wore a full set of dentures - upper and lower.
From that moment on, his attitude and respect towards me changed
and we never spoke to each other unless absolutely necessary,
if at all. And then never in a friendly vein. Veno got rid of
him shortly after we crossed the Rhine River as the war wound
down and we came off the line forever on April 22nd - our war
had ended. We assembled in Wolfenbuttel and I last saw him there
in May when the war officially ended.
Someone from the Company asked, "Did you notice the size
of that guy's hands?" I answered, "Sure did. Big hands,
big mouth mano, mano, makes no difference and sure as hell doesn't
make him the better man."
Publication or reproduction, in part or whole,
is prohibited without written permission from the author, Don
R. Marsh. All rights remain the sole property of The Marsh Family
Trust.
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