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OBJECTIVE COMPLETED
by
Richard F. Seiverling
Headquarters (Rear Echelon) and Service Company, 3AD
Published in 1947 in "Spearhead Journey", a booklet of memoirs and poems by the author.

 

[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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