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[NOTE by the author: This short story, written in somewhat
of a news fashion, presents a factual and informative report
of a mission in France and a description of the events as they
occurred. This was written in a bivouac near Laon, France, on
September 3, 1944.]
Sunday, September 3, 1944, is a day I shall long remember.
Not because England recognized her fifth long anniversary at
war, nor because the American troops had penetrated the interior
of Belgium, but because I spent the most adventurous afternoon
and evening in my life. War stories are rapidly becoming passe,
however, our mission, which then seemed extremely important,
happened something like this.
There were only three of us in our vehicle moving toward the
city of Laon, France, when we stopped momentarily to orient ourselves
in order to find the correct route to our objective. As we were
observing some of the names of the immediate French towns on
our large-scale maps, a middle-aged Frenchman rushed up to our
vehicle and began a rapid conversation in French. We nodded our
heads in the affirmative, holding out our hand at the same time,
in a friendly American-Franco gesture, and, before formalities
could start, he asked if any of us spoke French.
"OUI, MONSIEUR," I answered him and, with his blood
pressure rising above the boiling point, he stammered that he
had seen two German soldiers sleeping in a wheat field approximately
four kilometers (2.5 miles) from our position. After he regained
his breath and limited his speech to normal conversation (which
is difficult for any excited Frenchman), he was able to tell
us his story.
He owned a small farm near Nizy Le Compte. On his usual reconnaissance,
which was this particular afternoon, he noticed that some potatoes
had been taken from his field, besides other vegetables from
the garden adjoining his farm. Realizing the possibility of some
Boches (Germans) being around, he cautiously moved around some
of the shocks of wheat and found two of them sleeping. This had
occurred only a few minutes before he approached us, but, due
to his haste and excitement, it was quite some time before he
was able to relay this information in a way we were able to understand
him. In the meantime, two FFI (Free French Interior), who were
in the near vicinity on reconnaissance duty, were summoned to
aid us in the search for the Boches, and we wasted no time in
mounting our vehicle and chasing them down.
"QUELLE DIRECTION?" I demanded of the excited Frenchman
who had informed us of the Germans, whom I later found to be
a school teacher with a very typical-sounding French name, Monsieur
Eugene Parpaite.
"LA!" The three Frenchmen all pointed in different
directions. This left us somewhat confused, and it was hard for
us to get our bearings.
"JUSQU'A UNE MINUTE!" I shouted to Monsieur Parpaite.
"OU AVEZ-VOUS VU LES BOCHES?" I demanded in quick succession.
He pointed to the right, and Dan Gafford, the driver of our vehicle,
spun the wheel around on a ninety-degree angle and headed towards
a wheat field where the enemy were believed to be hiding.
"VITE! VITE!" Monsieur Le Boeuf, one of the FFI,
shouted, so Dan pressed his foot a little harder on the floor.
The Frenchmen were speaking so rapidly by this time, and their
hands were beating time to every word proceeding from their mouths,
that only an occasional word now and then fitted into my vocabulary.
"PARLEZ LENTEMENT." I remarked, and they were soon
themselves again. We drove nearly four kilometers when Monsieur
Parpaite motioned Dan to slow down. Then, a moment later, in
a whisper, he muttered a brief "ARRETEZ ICI," and our
driver stopped the motor.
"LA!" He pointed to a large straw pile, approximately
250 yards away, and we all checked our weapons again, making
sure there was a round in the chamber. We descended from our
vehicle quickly, with cat-like precision, the only audible noise
being the impact of our feet against the stubbles of straw which
had recently been mowed. At the 225-yard mark we started to separate
two of the FFI going around the left flank, to fire on them from
behind if that were necessary. Dan and I started our advance
directly toward the straw pile, and Mr. Kehoe, the Warrant Officer
with us, and Monsieur Parpaite crept around the right flank to
fire on them from the far side. The two FFI were armed with captured
German rifles, which resembled our American 1903 Springfield,
bolt-action rifle, Dan and I with our .30 caliber carbines,.
Monsieur Parpaite, also with a German rifle, and Mr. Kehoe with
a .45 caliber pistol. Our plan of attack was to encircle them
in order to direct our fire from as many points as possible,
still maintaining the best cover the terrain had to offer us.
By this time, I was able to see someone moving about the straw
pile some 200 yards away, and, from our position, it was difficult
to determine whether they were the object of our search. I didn't
ponder long on the subject, because Monsieur Gerin, the second
of the FFI, leveled his rifle, took a quick aim, and fired a
round. I hit the ground as if I were carrying a pigskin down
the gridiron, and my opponent had downed me with a flying tackle.
Upon falling, I kept my head close to the ground, feet stretched
out as far as possible, my stomach trying to edge a little deeper
into the ground, arms extended, and my carbine working like a
repeater. After rolling over a few times to fake my exact position,
I nearly jumped over Gafford in another short advance. In his
anxiety, Monsieur Parpaite forgot that his German rifle carried
no ammunition, and, in a crouched position, he called over to
me for a few rounds of mine. But our carbines did not fire the
same caliber bullet as his weapon, so I turned my head and told
him to keep crawling on the ground, and to carry on the normal
duties of a potential rifleman, even though his weapon wasn't
loaded. He understood, advanced with his rifle by his side, raising
it frequently to fool the Boches, and managed to protect his
own position as well as the rest of us. Mr. Kehoe, with his pistol,
crept and crawled on the right, far side of Monsieur Parpaite.
Monsieurs Le Boeuf and Gerin were crawling wide around the left
flank, firing between rushes, and hitting the ground systematically.
Dan and I were still heading directly toward the enemy, our distance
being the shortest, as we were creeping and crawling in a straight
line.
A bullet skimmed over our heads, and I let four more rounds
go, keeping in firing cadence with Gafford on my rear right.
We both advanced a few yards and another bullet whizzed over
us. Another loud thud sounded as our stomachs pressed the straw
stubbles again. Our allied friends in arms were closing in on
both flanks, with each short advance bringing forth a series
of rounds, and the Boches could be seen struggling behind their
shelter to keep out of sight. Suddenly I saw a white flag showing
on the right side of the straw pile, and I motioned Monsieur
Gerin to cease firing. We were now within shouting distance and
the Boche, waving the flag of surrender, hesitated to come out,
probably because he had been told by his Nazi leaders that the
Americans only took dead Germans. Monsieur Gerin's rifle barked
again. He had been a prisoner-of-war under the Germans for a
year and bore no sympathy for them. Again I shouted, from my
prone position, to cease firing, as the German was now in full
view, his hands well in the air, waving the proverbial white
flag. Another Boche followed him, arms outstretched in like manner.
I motioned them to come forward, shouting a rasp "KOMMEN'
SIE HIERAUS!" and, to my surprise, a few more Germans filed
out from their fortification. Six of them had now appeared and
Monsieur Gerin held his fire.
"FORWARTS MARCH!" I bellowed in German, remembering,
some of the key phrases our instructors had taught us during
our training periods in England. I also remembered much more
of my childhood Pennsylvania Dutch than I thought I knew, which
seemed to be understood by the captured Boches. Five more of
the enemy emerged from the straw, making a total of eleven. This
surprised us very much since Monsieur Parpaite had seen only
two, according to his story. With a few more motions, and a mixture
of German and Pennsylvania Dutch phrases, I demanded the prisoners
to move in our direction, to prevent any hidden enemy to fire
on us from behind the barrier. This we had learned from the experiences
of other soldiers and from our infantry training tactics taught
us in basic training. All of us were running at full speed now.
Dan and I were still 75 yards away from them, and the others
were still wide on the flanks. As I came within normal speaking
distance, I gave the command "WAFFEN NIEDER!" This
was a very important phrase which I had learned only a few months
ago in England, and they immediately disarmed themselves, placing
their weapons on the ground. Looking over the prisoners, I spied
an unshaven, well-disciplined Boche, standing firmly at attention.
"Where is your weapon?" I demanded in German, as
I surmised he was the ranking non-commissioned officer by his
appearance and poise. He pointed to the ground only a few feet
away. I picked up a rusty P-38 pistol, holding my carbine at
a 180-degree angle to protect myself. All the others had now
reached the scene, Mr. Kehoe encircling the barrier and looking
for more of the enemy who might be hidden in the straw. Monsieur
Le Boeuf, who had crawled wide around the left flank with Monsieur
Gerin, was able to speak the German language like a true native
of the "fatherland", and he ordered them to stand in
a single file with hands remaining above their heads.
Then began a search through their pockets and bags for any
hidden knives or other concealed weapons. I searched the first
prisoner and felt two heavy objects in his coat pocket. They
turned out to be hand grenades, shaped like a narrow two-celled
flashlight with a push-button fuse. My search also brought forth
a pocket knife and compass, besides many pictures of his girl
friend or wife and a few packs of cigarettes. We allowed them
to retain their personal belongings. A thorough search of the
eleven prisoners proved quite successful. A few of the many things
we found included pocket knives, toilet articles, tobacco, pipes,
waters, pictures, pay books, ammunition, hand grenades and cameras.
Their ages ran from 18 to 36, and they repeatedly asserted that
they were not SS troops, whom the French and Allied soldiers
detest more than any other group, since they are known to be
extremely cruel and ruthless. We later found them to be part
of a Panzer Grenadier outfit, whose job it was to knock out Allied
tanks and performing similar duties to that of our tank destroyer
battalions.
A brief interrogation by Monsieur Le Boeuf revealed that ten
of them were Germans, and the other a Yugoslav, none of them
admitting to speak French or English. They had been told that
the Americans took no prisoners alive, which gave them every
reason to hesitate in surrendering a few moments before. One
of them, the eldest and ranking non-commissioned officer, whose
grade was equivalent to that of an American "buck"
sergeant, had been wounded in the leg during the Battle of Soissons
five days prior, and his wound had not been dressed since that
time. An investigation showed a very deep artillery wound in
his right leg, which had begun to swell and fester. A private
among them wore no shoes at all, as he had given his pair to
the wounded sergeant and was forced to walk in his woolen socks.
Further questioning revealed that they had broken away from their
outfit five days ago, their company leaving so fast that many
of them were left to go for themselves, as the Americans were
advancing rapidly from Soissons. They had eaten little or nothing
from that time, stealing potatoes and apples during the night,
avoiding patrols of the FFI and American troops. Their mouths
were parched from thirst, their faces dirty and unshaven, and
their heads and eyes were full of straw and dust.
We lined them up in two files, with the shoeless prisoner
at the rear, and then began a two-mile trudge into the closest
town of Nizy le Compte. Two of us walked on each side with weapons
raised. Mr. Kehoe and the driver following behind, covered them
from the rear. The "man without shoes" showed signs
of pain as he marched along the stony roads, and he was the only
man out of step. All the other prisoners marched a quick pace
of 180 to the minute. Their arms showed signs of fatigue and
Monsieur Le Boeuf gave them a command to walk at ease. Monsieur
Gerin was not in favor of the last command to walk at ease, and
requested Monsieur Le Boeuf to issue another command to elevate
their arms as before. Monsieur Gerin was a hard little guy, as
we would say in our Yankee dialect, and again insisted that the
Germans continue their march with arms raised high above their
heads. But Monsieur Le Boeuf finally convinced him there was
no reason for this. Monsieur Gerin had undoubtedly remembered
his treatment as a prisoner of war under the Germans and was
proud of his booty. All along the road French civilians hissed
and booed the prisoners, and several times it appeared as if
they would rush upon and beat them with clubs and sticks, instead
of only harsh words and threats. Other French civilians shouted
"Vive la France," "Vive L'Amerique," "Victoire,"
and "C'est bon," as we marched our prisoners to the
FFI Headquarters located near the center of town.
Arriving at Nizy le Compte, we were met with an unbelievable
reception from the inhabitants. They became hysterical with joy,
and such sensationalism and mass jubilation I had never seen.
Cries of "Vive la France," and "Vive L'Amerique"
again filled the air as we lined up the prisoners to give them
a little bread, apples, water, and tend the wounded. The civilian
populace was hard to keep back. They showed signs of hatred and
contempt towards their enemy, remembering the ruthless treatment
and severe rationing they had to undergo the past four years.
The Boches had stolen most of their crops, chickens, cows, horses,
eggs, fruit, vegetables, and, in many instances, their clothing.
We did our best to prevent a mass beating of the German prisoners
by the excited, raving French people and they soon began to check
their impulses with intelligent rationalization. Various civilians
suggested that toasts be drunk to this occasion, and they would
not take "no" for an answer. We declared that the prisoners
had to be guarded and that it was out of the question to accompany
them to their homes to drink any toasts or accept their hospitality.
Monsieur Gerin insinuated that unless we accepted these invitations
offered by the enthusiastic civilians, the latter would feel
insulted. They finally agreed to have the FFI guard the prisoners,
while they (the Boches) were being fed, and that we had to go
with the civilians to their "petite maisons" and drink
toasts to our "Victoire." Monsieur Parpaite, since
he had started all of this by accosting our vehicle earlier in
the afternoon, insisted we drink the first toast at his house,
bearing the name "Saint Quentin le Petit," approximately
1/2 kilometer from the center of town. His wife produced a delicious
apple tart, after which she placed a table-full of wine glasses
in front of us. Monsieur Parpaite began uncorking a large bottle
of champagne carrying a Soissons label, and a loud bang resulted
upon opening it, besides a ginger-ale gushing effect which showered
the surface of the table and floor with the liquid. We all laughed
and I wondered how and the dickens I was going to cooperate with
them, since I couldn't even drink their "sweet" cider
standing up. I requested a very small glass, telling them I didn't
indulge, but I ended up talking to myself, because the champagne
ran over the sides of my container.
There were about ten of us drinking the toast. Monsieur Parpaite
raised his glass, all of us in like manner, and in earnest and
deliberate voice he uttered a "Vive la France" and
a "Vive L'Amerique." We all clicked our glasses in
rhythmic style. I glanced around and saw that Monsieur Parpaite
was watching me, so I raised the glass to my lips and allowed
an eye-dropper full of the champagne to settle on my tongue.
It trickled down my throat and I thought someone had shot a stream
of fire down my esophagus. I lowered my glass, awaiting the second
clicking of glasses, and noticed that Mr. Kehoe, on my right,
had nearly inhaled his champagne. Checking the glances of those
around me again, I felt assured that no one was looking and I
slyly poured the contents of my glass into the Warrant Officer's
beside me. Again Monsieur Parpaite expressed his desire of an
early Allied victory, and this time I merely raised my empty
glass as I took part in the toast. After a long exchange of good
wishes and thanks, Monsieur Le Boeuf suggested that a toast be
drunk at his house. He also produced a bottle of champagne, which
he had hidden from the Boches. Similar toasts were drunk, similar
phrases were expressed, and I alternated pouring my wine into
the glasses of Mr. Kehoe and our driver, Dan Gafford, the latter
coming in a close second. This went on and on for about an hour,
each civilian insisting toasts be drunk at his "petite maison",
but we had to put a stop to it or I'd have been reclassified
from an interpreter to a driver. We walked into the center of
town again and noticed that a large sign with the words "Honor
to our Allies" had been hung over the square. Some of the
civilians were still overjoyed and kept shouting the same words
and phrases we heard over and over again all afternoon. The Boches
seemed dumbfounded by the actions and emotions displayed by the
civilians, who were finally being themselves after being held
in subjection over four years under Nazi laws and government.
Out of the noise and cries another sound filled our ears. A civilian
began to play a trumpet in the center of town. I smiled quietly
to myself and thought of Joshua blowing down the walls of Jericho.
Everyone stood at attention, faces and stomachs drawn in, eyes
and glances straight ahead, as the trumpeter played the "March
of Victory," a grand climax to the whole occasion. The musician
grabbed my hand, in token of Allied friendship, and held it until
the last note was played. Everyone shouted a "Vive L'Amerique"
again, and a moment later when everything was quiet, I took a
deep breath of fresh air and bellowed a "Vive la France."
Pandemonium broke loose once more and four years of suppressed
emotions again turned into a minute of hysterical and uncontrolled
shouting from the civilians.
Someone had obtained a camera, and began taking pictures of
the six of us who had captured the Boches. Families and relatives
cluttered around to be photographed with the captors. A Free
French flag was thrust into my hands, and I carried it away for
a souvenir. After the pictures were taken, some American Military
Police, whom we called for, drove up in a jeep and the prisoners
were mounted on a large truck. More of the civilians tried to
persuade us to join them again in a toast, but we explained that
it was necessary to accompany the prisoners to a PW (Prisoner
of War) Camp. A few hurried hand shakes, and we jumped on our
vehicle before they could drag us into their "petites maisons"
again. With a "Bon Voyage" we left Nizy Ie Compte,
knowing that we were a concrete part of something which had drawn
us closer to our goal and destination, and which had also cultivated
many friendships for us and our allies, in addition to the education
we received, as individuals, from this experience.
Our journey back to camp was a happy one. In our hearts we
felt that we had been of service in bringing our long-sought
prayers and hopes of peace a little closer. In our small way,
too, we knew that we had helped to make freedom a forth-coming
attribute towards our cause and, with a prayer on our lips, we
thanked God for his guidance and protection from the hands of
our enemy, in bringing about another successful step towards
our Allied victory.
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