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THE DIVISION IS INACTIVATED
In a formal ceremony in the caserne in Aalen, Germany at noon
on Friday, November 9, 1945, Major General Robert W. Grow cased
the Division's standards and reported to Major General Withers
A. Burress, commander of VI Corps, that the Division and its
component units were inactivated effective 10 November 1945 in
accordance with instructions contained in General Orders No.
652, Headquarters Seventh Army/Western Military District, dated
25 October 1945.
About one hundred men and officers participated in the solemn
final ceremony conducted in a drizzling rain. The group included
four officers from the original officer cadre of the Division:
Lt. Col. Andrew Barr, Chief of Staff; Lt. Col. Jack A. Boulger,
G-l; Lt. Col. Wesley A. Sweat, G-3; and Major Charles H. Kapes,
Provost Marshal. The positions indicated were those held at the
date of inactivation.
COLOGNE CEREMONY WITH MAJ. GEN COLLINS
COLOGNE: March 11, 1945 - The American flag went up over this
battered city on the Rhine today. At a ceremony attended by officers
and men of the First Army's crack VII Corps, the 3rd Armored,
104th and 8th Infantry Divisions, Major General J. Lawton Collins
officially raised the Stars and Stripes on a flagstaff at Cologne's
well-kept sportsplatz.
The General addressed representative officers and men of his
assault corps. He reviewed the history of their combat actions
from the victory at Cherbourg and the great defensive fight at
Mortain, to the taking of Namur and Liege, the Siegfried crossings,
the successful storming of Aachen, and now the swift drive to
Cologne and the Rhine.
"At this time," the General said, "we pause to
remember those men who gave their lives so that we might be here."
And the General continued to speak, but somehow you found yourself
looking at his audience. Here were the spearhead tankers of Major
General Maurice Rose's 3rd Armored Division, their faces carefully
scrubbed and their uniforms clean for the occasion. They'd been
powder burned and deaf with concussion not so long ago. And there
were Major General Terry Allen's "Timberwolves," sitting
at strained attention. They were the very Joes who had come bowling
through this sportsplatz, shooting from the hip with M-l's and
BAR'S. Beside them, wearing the golden arrow of the 8th Infantry,
other soldiers who had taken a large part in the victory held
their breaths to hear General Collins speak. Some of them still
wore bandages. The nets were on their helmets. Their rifles were
slung.
Overhead, a flight of P-47's wheeled in the grey sky. The always
incredibly beautiful American flag fluttered higher - finally
strained free in the wet wind of Germany.
The band struck up the Star Spangled Banner and there was a gust
of sound as all of these fighting men rose to the salute. They
saluted the flag and the band sang out, and then the band whispered
to silence. And there was silence.
It was all over. The flag had been raised. The ceremony was done.
The men who filed out of these stands would be forever proud
to tell of the day General Collins raised the American flag in
Cologne. Some of them might even forget a very important detail.
The flag was raised in Cologne because the men who attended this
celebration came blasting down the plains of western Germany,
in the sweat and the dust and the fear of battle, with the Thunderbolts
overhead, the tanks and guns to left and right. They came shooting
and they took this city and they held it. Then the men of the
VII Corps, the 3rd Armored Division, the 104th Infantry Division,
and the 8th Infantry Division, cleaned up and sat at attention
to watch the official raising of the American flag on the Rhine.
DIVISION PATCH
The shoulder patch insignia of the 3rd Armored Division has
a distinct heraldic meaning and a proud history in its mixture
of form, color, and symbols. The basic pattern is that of three
interlaced torques, no one of which would be sufficient without
the other two. Combined to form a single triangle, the device
indicates integrity and esprit de corps.
The predominating colors of the armored force patch, yellow,
red and blue, are those of the basic arms: Cavalry, Field Artillery,
and Infantry - all of which are components of the present integrated
armored command and progenitors of the present armored force.
The super-imposed black symbols have a more modern meaning: the
tank track for mobility and armor protection, the cannon for
fire power, and the bolt of lightning to designate shock action.
The arabic numeral "3" is, of course, a division
designation. The basic design and combination of colors are taken
from the original insignia of World War I Tank Corps, plus that
of various infantry-tank organizations; and the superimposed
symbols from that of the old 7th Cavalry Brigade (Mechanized).
Most modern component of the 3rd Armored Division patch is
the SPEARHEAD flash which was authorized by Major General Maurice
Rose after his division had brilliantly led many of the First
Army's drives in France, Belgium, and Germany during 1944 and
1945.
COMPOSITION OF THE SPEARHEAD DIVISION
The 3rd Armored Division, one of America's largest tank outfits,
was designed and trained for all-out attack. It was the spearhead
of the First Army's brilliant VII Corps from the St. Lo-Perriers
breakthrough, in Normandy, to the Elbe River in central Germany.
The 3rd was a workhorse unit and it saw heavy combat all the
way. The division raced from the Seine to the Siegfried in 18
days, halting long enough to team up with the 1st Infantry Division
and completely destroy a German corps at Mons, Belgium. First
through the Westwall in force, and first to take a German town,
the "Spearhead" enjoyed a brilliant reputation among
men who knew the real front.
The 3rd Armored Division fought through the entire Ardennes struggle
and, almost before the echoes of that bitter winter campaign
were memories, was back in the Rhineland, driving for Cologne.
Foremost in the sweep to isolate Germany's rich, industrial Ruhr,
during the last phases of the war in the west, the 3rd was still
fighting, still battering forward, when an army order halted
its columns on the Elbe River. The "Spearhead" was
fact as well as soubriquet. Its mission was twofold: first, to
pierce enemy frontline defences, and second, to race amok, cutting
the German supply and communications channels, the organization
of reserve forces, and the very will to fight. How well the big
steel striking force accomplished this task is stated in the
day by day history of the western front. In action, the 3rd Armored
Division usually hit the enemy with multiple spearhead columns.
Two combat commands, "A" and "B", organized
into task forces were committed on line, with a reserve group,
actually a third combat command, held in abeyance slightly to
the rear. Division Headquarters Forward Echelon travelled immediately
behind the two primary battering rams, and elements of Trains,
which included Supply, Maintenance, Medical, and Division Rear
Echelon, moved in that order.
Actually, because of the nature of armored warfare, every
man in the division saw something of action during the long drives.
Supply trains were ambushed during their important trips back
and forth over the roads of conquest; command post soldiers found
themselves battling bypassed Nazi troops; and rear echelon maintenance
men helped to round up prisoners of war.
Theoretically each of the spearheads were of the same basic
composition. Due to a changing situation in action, this was
not always the case, but deviation was the exception and not
the rule.
Reconnaissance elements in light tanks and armored cars invariably
rode the point of the attack until opposition was encountered.
Tanks and infantry, always well supported by artillery, tank-destroyers,
anti-aircraft units and engineers supplied the Sunday punch.
Communications were maintained by signal men well to the front,
and medical corps detachments also travelled with the probing
spearheads in order to hasten evacuation of the wounded.
Driving immediately behind these forward elements was the
command post, often within small arms range of the enemy; the
heavy artillery, represented by attached 155mm self-propelled
units; and the division reserve ready to go into action on call.
Division Trains were at the haft of the spearhead. Here were
the administrators, the supply, maintenance and medical headquarters
which catered to frontline elements.
In action, this entire phalanx of power was highly mobile
and fluid of composition. Thus, reserve forces could be, and
were, rushed into the line when it appeared that one of the primary
combat commands was weakening, or needed a rest. Similarly, attached
units - artillery, infantry, or air support - might be incorporated
on short notice. The "Spearhead" at war was self-supporting,
extremely fast, and packed an incredible wallop in fire power.
POST-WAR LETTER FROM LT. GEN. J. LAWTON COLLINS
DATED 21 MAY 1945:
FROM: HEADQUARTERS VII CORPS
OFFICE OF THE COMMANDING GENERAL
TO: Brigadier General Doyle 0. Hickey
3rd Armored, Division, APO 253
Dear General Hickey:
With the relief of the 3rd Armored Division from the VII Corps,
I wish to express again, in writing, to you and to the officers
and men of your splendid division, my appreciation for the great
contribution made by the 3rd Armored Division to the success
of the VII Corps in its operations in Germany, particularly during
the closing phases of the war.
Following the severe fighting in the Ardennes, in which the
3rd Armored had played a great part first in checking and then
expelling von Rundstedt's forces from the "Bulge,"
the division was shifted back to its old battle ground, Stolberg,
and prepared for the crossing of the Roer River. As soon as the
8th and 104th Infantry Divisions had established a bridgehead
over the Roer, the 3rd Armored was placed in action on the morning
of 26 February to spearhead the attack of the corps on Cologne.
With characteristic dash and vigor, the division broke through
the initial resistance and raced eastward. In two days it had
forced the difficult crossing of the Erft River and swung across
the northern end of the formidable Vorgebirge, whose hill masses,
pitted with a succession of open lignite mines and studded, with
slag, heaps, made maneuver very difficult. The key road and communications
center of Stommein was seized to sever the enemy forces in the
northern part of the Cologne plain between the Erft and the Rhine.
Pressing the attack to the northeast, elements of the division
reached the Rhine River in the vicinity of Worringen on 4 March,
and in an irresistible drive were the first troops to enter Cologne
on 5 March. Within two days all enemy resistance within the division
sector, both in the city and on the plain to the north, had been
eliminated.
After a brief interlude along the west bank of the Rhine,
the division moved across the river into the expanding Remagen
Bridgehead, prepared to launch the last great offensive in the
west. On 25 March, the division attacked east again through the
1st and 104th Infantry Divisions, brushing aside the initial
resistance and pressing forward through the hilly and wooded
area of the watershed between the Sieg and Wied Rivers. Although
enemy resistance was sharp and unrelenting and the terrain continued
to be difficult, the division seized Altenkirchen and quickly
forced a crossing of the Dill River in the vicinity of Herborn,
and then captured Marburg, cutting enemy communications in the
Lahn River valley.
Then began one of the most important and dramatic maneuvers
of the entire campaign in Europe, the envelopment of the vital
Ruhr industrial area. Commencing on 29 March, the "Spearhead"
Division in an unprecedented drive advanced ninety road miles
to the north in one 24-hour period, the greatest advance by any
division against opposition in the entire war. As it neared its
objective, Paderborn, the division became heavily engaged and
fought its way through fanatic resistance of enemy troops from
the SS Panzer Replacement Training Center. Continuing onward,
while repelling counter-attacks from all sides, the division
captured Paderbom on 1 April.
On this same day, Task Force Kane advanced to the west and
made contact with elements of the 2nd Armored Division at Lippstadt,
thereby cutting off the enemy troops in the Ruhr. In eight days
the division had made a spectacular advance of almost two hundred
miles and had swung the hammer that forged more than half of
the ring around the 300,000 enemy troops encircled in the Ruhr
Pocket. The speed, dash, and daring of the commanders and men
of all ranks made this operation a model military classic.
Unfortunately, we had a terrible price to pay for this victory
in the death of one the greatest of all division commanders,
your gallant leader, Major General Maurice Rose, who was killed
in action 30 March at the head of one of his task forces near
Paderborn.
The envelopment of the Ruhr spelled the doom of Germany, but
some stiff fighting had to be done before a link-up could be
made with the Russian forces advancing from the east. Crossing
the Weser River in the vicinity of Odelsheim, on 5 April, the
3rd Armored Division resumed its relentless pursuit of the disintegrating
German forces with another stirring enveloping maneuver, this
time around the Harz Mountains. The key towns of Duderstadt,
Nordhausen and Sangerhausen fell in rapid succession as the division
drove to the northeast on Dessau. Despite stiffening resistance
and enemy counter-attacks with fresh troops, Kothen was captured,
and on 23 April the city of Dessau on the Elbe was cleared of
the last German resistance west of the Mulde River.
It is with great regret that VII Corps bids adieu to its spearhead
division. Since the days of the St. Lo-Marigny breakthrough,
your division has led most of the great offensives of this corps
in the pursuit across France and Belgium; at Mons, Namur, Liege,
and through the Siegfried Line and into Germany; in the Ardennes
Counteroffensive; in the drive from the Roer to the Rhine; and
in the last great envelopments of the Ruhr and the Harz Mountains.
The division's splendid performance in each operation is a lasting
tribute to the leadership and devotion to duty of the officers
and men of your command. The wonderful fighting spirit, the dash
and daring of the "Spearhead" Division has carried
all before it. The VII Corps is proud of the 3rd Armored Division
and its great accomplishments. The entire staff and corps troops
join me in wishing you all the very best of luck.
Sincerely yours,
J. LAWTON COLLINS
Lieutenant General, U. S. Army
[A Letter Receipt]
GENERAL ROSE MEMORIAL HOSPITAL ASSOCIATION
700 Broadway
Denver 3, Colorado
Phone: Tabor 5397
SEP 7 1945
Received of Colonel John A. Smith, Jr., and First Sergeant J.O.
Atherton the sum of $30,000.00 representing the combined contributions
of the officers and men of the Third Armored Division to the
General Rose Memorial Hospital.
[Signed]
Ben M. Blumberg
Secretary
THE SPEARHEAD'S MEDICS
Up in the line of battle, where every man's soul was bared
to the eye of his neighbor, the muddy Joes who made the world's
headlines were fond of their medical aid men. It was a mutual
liking, born of blood and flaming action across the face of battered
Europe. When the first American paratroopers cascaded down dark
skies to the fields of Normandy, the medics were with them. The
tanks that blasted through that bitter line at Perriers-St. Lo,
in the great breakthrough, carried armored infantry - and medics.
It was the same story in every campaign. Whenever the line flamed
into crashing action, the soldiers of the red cross, without
arms of any kind, advanced shoulder to shoulder with GI-Joes
of America. If there's raw gallantry in the bayonet charge of
infantry or the hell-for-leather dash of tanks, what can we say
of these men who travelled into the same hell of fire and flying
steel without protection of any kind saving the often disregarded
red cross arm band and helmet marking? The 45th Armored Medical
Battalion was part of the 3rd Armored Division. In addition,
each line company of the armor, the infantry and the other arms
and services, had medical sections of their own. Of these brave
men, many were killed in action. Others were wounded, but not
one shirked duty or failed to respond promptly in the awful clutch
of mobile warfare. The Joes of the red cross dispensed life in
the middle of death and destruction. It wasn't fashionable to
make wise cracks about "pill-rollers" up where the
slugs were flying. You blessed them instead.
Re-print of "YANK" Magazine Article
December 3, 1944
"THE SPEARHEAD'S TD's"
By Sgt. Frank Woolner
Combat correspondent, 3AD HQ
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Inside Germany - There was moonlight. The air was cold
and fresh, and it reminded you of winter time at home. There
was the same curved bowl of blue-green sky, the same stars winking
frostily. The ground crunched pleasantly under your feet, and
the apple trees which covered this little clearing might have
been growing in old New England. You walked in memory at this
moment, almost expecting to jump a woodcock in the half light.
The clear cold was soothing after the raw weather, but it linked
a bitter chain of circumstances which added up to the soldier's
ever-present pang of loneliness.
This wasn't New England. On the horizon was a steady flickering,
like heat lightning, only it was cold-white, and the thunder
came jumping back in spasmodic crumps of sound. You looked more
closely through the little orchard now, and you could see the
backdrop of war. Tank destroyers crouched in the gloom, low-slung
silhouettes with impossibly long guns jutting from their angular
turrets. Even as you watched the big steel machines, they opened
fire, first one and then another, in a succession of ear-splitting
blasts. The rippling spout of white flame seemed to imprint itself
on your eyes after it had been dissipated to drifting smoke.
Your ears sang with the reverberations of the big 90mm guns;
and the loneliness suddenly was gone - the present had reasserted
itself.
This was Germany in the winter of 1944, and here was a platoon
of a Tank Destroyer Battalion, attached to the 3rd Armored Division.
There was a guy sitting here on the trunk of an apple tree which
had been toppled by enemy fire. His name was Cpl. George Harland,
and his home was in Housatonic, Massachusetts. George had evidently
been lost in nostalgia, too, because he said, " Nice night
for fox hunting, isn't it? "
And because you used to hunt foxes on nights like these, over
the same choppy hills of New England, you slipped into a perfect
understanding with this guy who was a gunner of a deadly war
machine.
"Anything doing?" you asked, sitting down on the
apple log.
"Not much. We're firing indirect and reaching out pretty
far. That last serenade registered at nearly maximum range. There
hasn't been much incoming mail. Got a few rounds from a Jerry
railway gun last night, but I think the Thunderbolts got him."
Harland is an easy going Joe. His blue eyes are gentle and
he speaks slowly, without using profanity. He doesn't talk about
the scores of German vehicles he has blasted into rust-colored
junk, or about the Mark-V that nearly left him at Fromental forever.
Veterans don't boast about these things. They say mildly, "Nothing
much doing," but if you sit around and bat the breeze, high
adventure inadvertently creeps into the conversation. Steel and
fire and death are the hallmarks of the armored forces, but the
tankers and tank destroyers of our Army like to forget that.
They'd rather talk about football back in '39, or what the Dodgers
are doing-or how foxhounds might run a red fox on a night when
moonlight etches run-down apple trees with silver. In a way this
is as it should be. The tired guys who man our weapons are fighting
for such privileges.
Here, beyond the Siegfried Line, these big tank destroyers
were dropping shells up to maximum range from their reeking muzzles.
In one twelve-hour period a platoon of the weapons had fired
480 rounds. They were M-36s equipped with a 90mm gun - four to
a platoon, fast and maneuverable, each packing a wallop sufficient
to sieve the heaviest tank in the world.
Jerry had reason to dislike these TDs. Led by a 27-year-old
Lt. Colonel, Wilbur E. Showalter, of Kingman, Kansas, the battalion
had harried Jerry across France and Belgium, wrecking his armor
and self-propelled guns at ranges of anything from 25 yards to
sight distance. They'd waylaid the panzers time and again, ambushed
German motorized columns, played havoc with the enemy at countless
load blocks from Perriers to Aachen. Now, when the American drive
paused temporarily, to bring up supplies and to straighten the
line before launching that all-out attack which would mean "
Germany Kaput," these identical tank destroyers dropped
back and supported the artillery as though they had been just
waiting for this moment. It was hard on Jerry, but it wasn't
news. Tank destroyers have always been a bitter pill for supermen
to swallow.
This battalion came ashore in Normandy with the 3rd Armored
Division, and went into action at St. Jean de Daye, France, in
time to help smash a German counter-attack which was designed
to reach the sea at Isigny. The 3rd became famous as an outfit
that helped to spearhead the entire United States First Army
forces from the breakthrough sector of Perriers-St. Lo to the
Siegfried Line, making the most spectacular advance of the western
campaign in an 18-day dash from the Seine to the German border.
The Tank Destroyer Battalion was there in the dust and grime
of that long attack. It shared the 3rd Armored Division's well-earned
sobriquet: "The Spearhead."
A tank destroyer is a big vehicle. It looks like an underselling,
angular tank, and it weighs 32 tons on the prowl. If you haven't
studied your silhouettes, well, you might take it for a German
panzerwagon. The gun is exceptionally long; and there, in fact,
is the explanation of so much weight on a relatively thin-skinned
vehicle - that wicked shooting iron and the counterbalance which
allows smooth tracking.
The TD is not a tank. It has an open turret and a thin skin,
in comparison to the hide of a Sherman or Mark-V. Fast, and extremely
maneuverable, the M-36 can outslug any tank in the world, but
in a duel with armor it would fare very badly. This sounds like
a contradictory statement, but it isn't. While the heavy 90mm
weapon of the TD will destroy anything on wheels or tracks, it
must do so from a concealed position or suffer the consequences
of a hit which would certainly pierce its inadequate armor. The
motto of Tank-Destroyer Command is: " Seek-Strike-Destroy."
Officers of this new branch of the Service add: "But never
duel!"
TDs stalk their game like the black panther, which is their shoulder
flash, and direct fire against enemy armor, which is the primary
mission of these bulky looking but deceptively fast vehicles.
They are, however, versatile, and may be used in other capacities.
Here in this little orchard, under a pale winter moon, the
men who helped to bring the blitz back to Germany were practicing
one of those secondary roles - that of indirect fire in support
of field artillery. After the hectic, never-ending attack across
France and Belgium, it was tame pursuit.
The billowing, acrid dust of France was in the nostrils of
these men. Imprinted on their souls were the night marches and
the slashing, triple-pronged attacks where tank and tank destroyer
slugged it out at negligible range. They'd strewn the rust-colored
carcasses of Hitler's panzer armies all along the road from Normandy
to the Siegfried Line. They'd dueled with enemy armor in violation
of every principle set down by tank destroyer command - because
it was necessary, and because many things were done that way
in order to further the rapid drive at all costs.
Naturally, there were casualties. One does not engage and
defeat the Wehrmacht's elite without paying a price. They'd killed
the enemy, and the enemy had struck back savagely even as he
died. These campaign-toughened TD troopers remembered their dead.
You can see that memory in the face of a seasoned soldier. It
is in his mind, in his' tired eyes. You can easily note the transition
in such a man from a relatively soft spirit of competition to
quiet hate. A veteran knows no wave of sympathy as the bullet
strikes home or the shell smashes a vehicle and its occupants
to blood and tangled metal. It's kill or be killed. Death to
the enemy, and elation as he falls.
There were things you couldn't forget. Like the dead in the
ditches of Normandy, or the flaming action at Ranes and Fromental.
Here, while British forces drove south to clamp shut the Argentan-Falaise
pocket, 3rd Armored Division troops cut to the very center of
the Nazi elite elements under von Kluge. The TDs fought gun to
gun with heavily armored panzers. A Sergeant Commander named
Juno met two of these wickedly efficient enemy vehicles at a
bend in the road - smashed them both into smoking junk before
they could lay on his thin-skinned destroyer. Then, when the
wounded enemy soldiers cried for help, Juno left the safety of
his destroyer to aid them. He was killed immediately in the explosion
of burning ammunition.
It was the law of speed and hot steel in France. It was running
vehicles beyond all the applied principles of maintenance, whipping
them forward and praying' that they would hold up under the strain.
They held. The engineering wizardry of Detroit made that hell-for-leather
drive possible, and its very speed insured success. German forces
were caught off balance and their storied organization disrupted
completely. At Mons, in Belgium, an estimated 40,000 Wehrmacht
troops were killed or made prisoner by the American 3rd Armored
and 1st Infantry Divisions. One platoon of tank-destroyers, on
road-block in that anoint city of battle, destroyed twenty German
vehicles in a six-hour period. Sgt. Muriel F. Lehman, of Marissa,
Ill., accounted for most of them, he and Sgt. Arthur Parnell,
of Boston, Massachusetts, with their respective crews.
Mons may well have been the beginning of Germany's modern
twilight of the gods. The thousands of troops killed and captured
here had been counted upon to hold the Siegfried Line. They met
the American "Spearhead" instead; part of them blundered
into the tank destroyers of Lehman's platoon. There was a vicious
battle in the narrow streets. Tank destroyer guns sent bolts
of livid flame lashing into armored halftracks and dual purpose
anti-aircraft guns. Cpl. Frank Karpinski of Scranton, Pa., leaned
on his panoramic sight and destroyed two vehicles with one projectile.
A column of flame, mushrooming out of the dark target, disclosed
the German crewmen twisting and struggling in the fire like puppets
on strings.
When dismounted German troops fired from a building nearby,
Cpl. Jack Moriarity, of Arlington, Mass., set the place aflame
with his 50 caliber gun. When the score was totted up it revealed
the fact that Hitler had lost twenty armored vehicles, plus crews,
and an undisclosed number of dismounted troops to one platoon
of tank-destroyers. There were no TD casualties.
A German officer, wounded in the action, told Sgt. Lehman,
"You Americans don't know how to fight. All you want to
do is slaughter us."
"You're damned right," Lehman growled, "I learned
the trade from your panzers in Normandy."
It was hard to become excited over indirect firing after the
sort of action this group had been through. Although German artillery
registered frequently on their positions, it wasn't hot, flashing
action of the "Spearhead "in attack. Men ducked into
their foxholes now, and cursed the artillery, but they came out
again soon and laughed at the inaccuracy of the Jerry gunners.
It wasn't like that at Fromental, in France.
There was no laughter at all in Fromental, but there was plenty
of blood and sorrow. There was a little 2nd Lieutenant there,
named Richard Ferchaud, from Baton Rouge, La. They remembered
him all right. Because the tank destroyer men were all older
than the little Lieutenant, they called him "Junior."
After he led them in action they changed the name; it became
"Little Blood and Guts." Ferchaud challenged a Mark-V
at Fromental and lost a TD in the action. He lost part of, his
jaw, too, and went to the rear gamely trying to persuade a medic
to release him. He was all right, he said. The men say that he
certainly was all right! The Mark-V is still at Fromental, incidentally;
it is rusty and blackened, with a big ragged hole in its four-inch
frontal armor.
There were lots of things like that. Men and events you'd
never forget if you lived for the duration plus eternity. The
" Spearhead!" burning towns in the summer darkness.
Road blocks, and Jerries trailing back with their hands behind
their heads. Dead Jerries, like green wax in Madame Tussaud's
chamber of horrors. And our own dead. The big guy with the tattoo
marking on his neck; it said " Cut on the dotted line."
A sniper killed him at Liege. The men of his crew hunted down
that sniper - a very unlucky superman.
The tank destroyers had come a long way since the surf of
Normandy had baptized their Spinning wheels and tracks. New replacements
laced the outfit together, but a majority of the old men remained.
They were, you thought, all like Harland, more or less.
Harland still sat on the apple log, frowning when the whiplash
concussion of the 90's interrupted his speech. He said again:
"Nothing much doing," and added, "I wish we'd
attack and get it over with."
His platoon had just finished winging 480 big 90mm shells
on the way to disrupt German communication lines, but he didn't
think that was very spectacular.
You walked away presently, through the little orchard of apple
trees, back to the road and a waiting Jeep. Your-feet crunched
deep in the frosty ground, and the moon was so bright that it
cast a shadow before you. The big guns of war flickered and thundered,
but it was mostly in the distance and, like George Harland, your
thoughts again slipped into the groove of nostalgia. Perhaps
he was right. It would be fine to get going - to get it over
with and to go home.
What a night to run a pack of Walkers on a big dog fox.
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Re-print of "YANK" Magazine Article
September 22, 1944
"TEXAS TANKER"
By Sgt. Frank Woolner
Combat correspondent, 3AD HQ
Beyond the Siegfried Line in Germany - Here in the
mud and wind of approaching autumn, in a town which is clamorous
with the crump of enemy mortars and the sigh of our own shells
passing overhead, elements of an elite American unit, the 3rd
Armored "Spearhead" Division, were poised, waiting
for the word which would send them slashing into greater Germany.
In the new attack, tankers of this big striking force would have
one regret: that S/Sgt. Lafayette G. Pool, lanky, one-time golden
glove champion, from Sinton, Texas, could not be there to lead
the assault.
In an armored division which earned the name "Spearhead"
the hard way, battling through France and Belgium, Pool distinguished
himself for all time. When he was wounded recently, his commanding
officer, Lt. Colonel Walter B. Richardson, of Beaumont, Texas,
said: "Pool is the tanker of tankers; he can never be replaced
in this regiment." The Colonel had good reason to make such
a statement.
During the great armored drives of the American First Army
across Europe in the summer offensive of 1944, S/Sgt. Pool led
his task force in 21 full scale attacks! He is definitely credited
with 258 enemy vehicles destroyed, 250 German prisoners of war
taken, and over 1,000 dead before the guns of his Sherman tank,
IN THE MOOD.
On a windy hill in the Siegfried Line recently, Pool cheated
death again, but in the action he was wounded and so sent back
to convalesce. His record, however, stands. He is America's first
ace of tankers. He is a soldier's soldier. I heard Pool's story
from a man of the old crew, a man who had been there when the
final shell struck his tank. In an anvil clash of sound, a pungent,
dark explosion laced with sparks. Jerry finally broke up the
team of American kids who had harried him across a continent.
It was a lucky shot for Jerry.
We were sitting around in the wet darkness, batting the breeze
as all GI's do in moments of relaxation, and listening to Jerry's
mortar fire punch the ground. A thin spatter of rain beat on
the tarp over our heads. It was doughboy weather, mean and muddy.
The big medium tank crouched in the muck, its long 76mm gun peering
around the corner, daring Jerry to come on.
This was a road block of the 3rd Armored Division. There was
a screen of armored infantry out in front -- brave men in wet
foxholes. The doughs were old hands at this game -- you couldn't
see them and, excepting by accident, you couldn't hit them; they
were too well dug in for that. But let Jerry attack and they'd
be there all right, savoring the terrible exultation of the soldier
who has suffered much and who hates the guts of his enemy.
The doughs were a first line of resistance. Road blocking
tanks, like this one, were a second. An armored attack here would
be suicide for the enemy. Jerry knew it. He kept his panzers
in leash and waited nervously. He lashed out with mortar and
artillery, but he kept his head down too. Normandy, France and
Belgium had taught the Kraut a lesson. Guys from Fifth Avenue
to the Loop and west to Sunset Boulevard had punched the arrogance
off his face. The "Spearhead" had burned him and smashed
him and ground him into the dust halfway across a continent.
Now, like a condemned murderer. Jerry waited.
Our armor waited too, but it was a different kind of waiting;
it was maintenance and supplies piling up. It was the collection
of gasoline and ammunition -- all the stuff which would decide
for all time whether Jerry was a superman and the Yanks, military
idiots. Our armor waited like a boxer who impatiently flexes
his muscles a moment before the bell.
There was one man on guard in the road-blocking tank: the
rest of the crew sat around under the tarpaulin drinking hot
Nescafe, and cursing each other amiably. It was dark, but you
could see the guard in the turret, raincoat buttoned tight. He
looked statue-like until he moved, slowly, like a mechanical
man, to gaze carefully into the murky distance.
Cpl. Wilbert "Red" Richards, a pint-sized GI from
Cumberland, Maryland, rubbed his eyes and wondered irritably
"when the hell we're going to start moving."
Pfc. Bert Close, a thin, studious young man from Portland,
Oregon, grinned and said: "Eisenhower's waiting for old
Pool to get back. Can't spearhead without Pool."
We'd heard a lot about Pool. In the armored forces there aren't
many aces because everything works as a team. It's infantry-tank-artillery-airplane,
and everyone slugging shoulder to shoulder with the next guy.
"How about this guy. Pool?" we asked. "Was
he finally killed ?"
"Killed!" shouted three voices in unison. "There
ain't a Jerry shell in the world that could kill Pool or any
of his crew. The best those squareheads could do was to wound
him in the leg. He'll be back, and then God help the panzers!"
"What was he like?" we inquired.
The redhead, Richard, sat up and squinted his eyes. He passed
a hand through his flaming red hair and scratched his scalp reflectively.
"I was Pool's driver," he said, "and I guess I
knew him as well as anybody in the regiment. He was a tall, skinny
guy with a bent schnozzle. He got that in the golden gloves.
"Know what he used to call me? Baby! Imagine that! But
he knew I could drive that old tank. He used to sit up there
in the turret -- you could tell Pool anywhere by the way he sat
up there, more out than in. He rode that tank like a Texas bronc.
Well, he used to sit up there and give us orders through the
intercom phone just as cool and calm as though the big show were
a maneuver. All Pool wanted was to get out ahead of the other
tanks so he could kill more Jerries.
"You know we had three tanks. Lost the first at La Forge,
when a bazooka round hit us. The second got straddled with bombs
at Fromentel. Pool just got to hating the Germans a little more,
if that could be possible.
"Of course the crew's all broken up now. Pool went back
with that leg wound, and so did Oller. Boggs' eyes were irritated
by dust, and he's in a rest camp. That leaves Close and me. We
don't get no rest at all, do we Bert?"
Faint skylight flickered on Close's glasses. He said, dryly:
"Ten minutes after Red left Pool's tank he was driving another
one up front. The Colonel said: "Richards, you want to go
back?" That dope said: "No Sir, Give me and Close another
tank to drive." The Colonel did just that. I was assistant
driver -- what could I do?" You could see that Close hadn't
wanted to do anything.
I think Pool would've gone back himself if the medics hadn't
held him down," Richards chuckled. "He hated Germans,
and he thought that he could lick 'em all. The guys used to draw
straws to see who'd lead the spearhead. Pool would have none
of that. He'd just say, "Ah'm leadin' this time," in
his old Texas drawl -- and stand there, grinning, while we cussed
him out.
"But we'd go along just the same. By God, I think we
were more scared of Pool than of Jerry!"
"Remember," he turned to Close, forgetting us entirely
in the way of men who have waded through hell together, "Remember
the day ....."
So we just sat back in the wet darkness, with the rain on
the tarp and the mortar fire for background, and listened.
When the division -- it was the "Bayou Blitz" then
-- was activated at Camp Beauregard, Louisiana, back in 1941,
Pool, a skinny kid from Texas, was right there in ranks. He came
from the old 40th Armored Regiment, medium tanks, which was tamed
for its cadres, and he was a rugged Joe. He was over six feet
tall, wiry, with the sloping shoulders of a boxer and a twisted
nose to remind him of the golden gloves. There was the beginnings
of a legend about Pool even then. He'd won the sectional 165-pound
crown at New Orleans, Louisiana, that year, but turned down an
offer to go on to Chicago and the national final Golden Gloves
tournament. The reason? Pool was a tanker first and a boxer second;
his outfit had just been allotted a few of the latest medium
tanks!
In action, as in the ring, Pool punched hard and accurately.
He hated German theory and believed that he could beat the Wehrmacht,
gun to gun, and man for man. He wanted the tough assignments.
He asked for the dubious honor of leading those powerful armored
attacks which knifed through the Nazi legions during our summer
offensive.
Pool's crew was ideal for the task. Besides Richards and Close,
there was Cpl. Willis Oller of Morrisonville, Illinois, gunner,
and T/5 Del Boggs, of Lancaster, Ohio, the loader. Boggs fought
with a special fury; he'd had a brother killed in the war. Oller,
gunner of IN THE MOOD, is alleged to have seen all of Normandy,
France, Belgium, and the Siegfried Line through the sights of
his gun. He was very quick and alert. Richards recalled a night
when the spearhead had driven deep into German lines from Origny,
in France. It had become quite dark when the order finally came
to halt and coil. Pool opened his mouth to say-" Driver,
halt," but found himself looking at a big Jerry dual purpose
AA gun in the gloom ahead. He said: "Gunner, fire!"
And Oller, with his eye perpetually pressed into the sight, squarely
holed the enemy weapon before its crew could recognize the American
tank.
Night actions were commonplace to the crew of IN THE MOOD.
At Colombrier, in France, Pool's leading tank almost collided
with a Jerry Mark-V Panther, pride of the Wehrmacht. The Panther
fired twice, and missed. Pool's single projectile tore the turret
off the big German vehicle. Again, at Couptrain, the armored
column reached its daily objective deep in the night. Besieged
on all sides, unable to send help forward, Colonel Richardson
listened to the radio report of the battle from Pool's vehicle.
He heard the Sergeant say joyously: "I ain't got the heart
to kill 'em ....." And then, over the airwaves came the
mad rattle of the .30 caliber bow gun. And again the fighting
Sergeant's voice "Watch them bastards run. Give it to 'em.
Close!" Surrounded by dismounted enemy troops, Pool and
his crew fought steadily until morning brought reinforcements.
The amazing score compiled by the Texas tanker and his gang
is fully authenticated. At Namur, Belgium, they knocked out a
record twenty-four-hour bag of one self-propelled sturmgeschutz
gun and fifteen other enemy vehicles. It was great stuff for
Pool. He was proving to himself, and to the world, that the American
soldier is more than a match for Hitler's "supermen."
Again, at Dison, in Belgium, as the spearhead neared the great
city of Liege, Pool distinguished himself. Acting as platoon
leader, he characteristically decided to use one tank, his own,
to clean out an annoying pocket of resistance on the left flank
of the route they were travelling. After finding and destroying
six armored infantry vehicles, Pool discovered that the head
of his column had been fired upon by a German Panther tank. Hurriedly
he gave orders to his driver to regain the column. Upon arriving
at the scene of action he immediately observed the enemy tank,
gave a single estimate of range to Oller. The gunner fired one
armor-piercing projectile at 1,500 yards to destroy the Panther.
The column went forward again. Pool at his accustomed place in
the lead.
Although Lafe Pool lost two tanks to enemy action, he remained
as nerveless as a mechanical man. The crew drew added confidence
from his bearing under fire and as a result they worked beautifully
together. From the day of the great breakthrough in Normandy,
they had smashed the Wehrmacht before them, burned its vehicles,
decimated its troops. These men seemed impervious to German shells.
Twenty-one times they had led the irresistible drive of the American
armor and remained unscathed in this most hazardous task of total
war. Now, after crossing France and Belgium, smashing the famous
outer fortifications of the Siegfried Line, and taking part in
the action which resulted in the capture of the first Germon
town to fall to U. S. forces, Pool and his crew turned their
faces toward greater Germany and the last round.
The town was Munsterbusch, south of Aachen. Desperately, as
the westwall crumbled into ruin, Panther tanks of the Reich came
out to duel with Shermans of the 3rd Armored "Spearhead"
Division.
Pool's tank, strangely enough, was working as flank guard
of the task force that day. Watchers, including his Colonel,
who also rode in a tank, saw the bright, lance-shaft of German
tracer hit the turret of IN THE MOOD.
The big Sherman faltered. Inside, Pool said calmly, "Back
up. Baby." And, as Richards backed the tank slowly, the
second shell hit them well forward.
To Close, Oller, Boggs and Richards, there was only the space-filling,
bell-sound of the hit, the acid stench of powder and the shower
of sparks. They didn't know that Pool had been thrown clear,
his leg bleeding profusely from a splinter wound. Richards continued
to back the tank, carrying out his last order from the Sergeant.
Colonel Richardson saw the IN THE MOOD slowly reach a cut
bank, tilt, and with the agonizing slowness of a nightmare, topple
almost upside down.
At that moment Oller felt the hot blood on his legs and knew
that he had been wounded. Richards, Boggs, and Close were unhurt.
All four men crawled out of their tank. Medical aid men had already
reached Pool, now two of them came forward to attend to Oller.
Pool cursed the Germans bitterly as the aid men bandaged his
wound. As they placed him on a litter, he twisted suddenly and
said: "Somebody take care of my tank."
Exit, for the time being, Lafe Pool, ace of American tankers.
He thought he could beat Jerry. He did. He proved it so often
that the record is an almost unbelievable document of total victory.
In the arena of armored warfare, S/Sgt. Lafayette Pool, Golden
Glover from Sinton, Texas, bowed out at a climactic moment. From
the beaches of Normandy to the dragons teeth of the Siegfried
Line, he had been the point of the "Spearhead."
THE SPEARHEAD STUKAS
[author not identified]
That's what the doughboys and tankers of the 3rd Armored Division
called them. Actually it was a term of endearment, because the
men of the "Spearhead" knew and appreciated the worth
of artillery liaison aircraft over the blazing front line.
It wasn't a spectacular job. The pilot sat up front and attended
to the business of flying. Behind him, the observer, an experienced
artilleryman, studied the ground and compared it with his 1/25,000
map. There was constant radio communication with Division Artillery,
somewhere below and to the rear. Liaison pilots and observers
were workmen. There was little glory attached to the service
-- certainly none of the glitter and dash of pursuit or the Jove-like
power of heavy bombardment. They didn't go home after completing
a certain number of missions. Instead, they flew right out of
one campaign and into another. Except for the complete adoration
of ground forces, who had seen Cub observers direct withering
counter-battery on enemy big guns, the reward was small.
Surveillance of scheduled shoots and the registration of counter-battery
was the aerial observer's bread and butter, but quite often he
was called upon to direct close support fire. In the bocage country
of Normandy, where high ground was at a premium of blood, the
Cubs were a God-send. Their appearance over the battle zone was
a matter of vast satisfaction to Allied ground troops and a constant
source of irritation to the enemy. German soldiers knew that
the cost of poor camouflage discipline was always detection by
the Cubs and a subsequent rain of American high explosives. There
was nothing that Jerry could do about it; when he counter-attacked
the American line, the flying observers brought down a barrage
of hot steel.
When the Germans attempted to knock Fortresses and Liberators
out of formation, ever-present Cubs put the finger on one flak
position after another -- and "the finger" meant an
immediate counter-battery. Sometimes the enemy was goaded to
a boiling rage and then he sent over a flight of precious fighters
to neutralize the irritation. A Luftwaffe pilot who bailed out
of a smashed ME-109 over Hastenrath, Germany, admitted that his
mission had been to strafe the landing strips of liaison aircraft.
That day, seventeen enemy fighters were shot down by anti-aircraft
while attempting to carry out like sorties.
There was plenty of danger in artillery flying. Flak and small
arms was part of it; enemy planes were big poison. When a Focke-Wulf
190 popped out of the clouds or zoomed from the deck in a vicious
attack, your Cub pilot might only rely on a minimum of evasive
action to keep his dog-tags together. In comparison with a fighter,
light plane speed was a joke. There was no armor plate to deflect
machine-gun slugs and cannon fire, no high speed to elude attack.
Cub pilots were probably more respectful of their own artillery
arching through the air on the way to enemy positions than they
were of flak or Nazi fighters. Captain Francis P. Farrel, Division
Air Officer, and a famous "Spearhead" pilot, was killed
in action when his L-4 was destroyed by an American shell over
Stolberg, Germany. Lt. Thomas Turner, a redheaded veteran of
Africa and Sicily, as well as the western European campaign,
barely escaped a like fate when a 105mm projectile passed completely
through the stabilizer and rudder of his aircraft without detonating!
These were the unfortunate accidents of war which were almost
impossible to prevent under combat conditions.
There was no blemish of temperament about the little L-4 Cubs.
They paced the attacking Spearheads day after day. Whenever the
armor coiled, the small planes landed to refuel with regular
gasoline before resuming aerial reconnaissance. The work was
done from altitudes of 2,000 to 3,000 feet over the lines, but
a low ceiling often forced the tiny machines much lower. Regardless
of the weather, if there was any visibility at all, the Cubs
went up.
Each artillery battalion of the "Spearhead" Division,
along with the headquarters commanded by Colonel Frederic J.
Brown, operated a pair of these small, but indispensable airplanes.
They kept a constant vigil on the front line, and there was very
little "incoming mail" when the " "Stukas"
were flying.
[Remembrance Poem]
NOR ANY WORD
by Alan Burr
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God raise them high, that in the mold and clay,
As black and moldered sheaves, repose this while;
That were in life all-wild, high hued and gay,
Within their vein and stem; which now lie vile
In death. Maybe we the proper quittance, then -
Build we aloft some shape in stone: some pride,
To seat remembrance in the thoughts of men,
And honor these who poured out youth - who died.
There is no measure, no device of hand,
For us who live where sun can kiss our eyes;
Nor aught of any voice for all who stand
Beholden to these few; except that lies
Within the reaches of our hearts, unheard,
And will abide no name, nor any word.
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BRIGADIER GENERAL ALVAN C. GILLEM, JR., beloved first
commander oi the 3rd Armored Division, came up through the ranks
to become one of America's most notable Armored Force officers.
He called the 3rd his "Always Dependable" division,
and he helped instill, by word and deed, the fiercely proud esprit
de corps which lingered with the new "Spearhead" long
after he, General Gillem, had been promoted to higher command.
The 3rd Armored Division was led by another famous commander
on the flaming western front of Europe, but among those of its
troops who had come the whole long way, from activation at Camp
Beauregard in 1941 to the road blocks of Dessau, Germany, in
1945, the memory of General Gillem, and his administration of
a hard hitting young division in its early training, remained
forever clear and brilliantly etched.
MAJOR GENERAL LEROY H. WATSON, CG of the 3rd Armored
Division throughout much of its formative training in the United
States and in England, also led the command in Normandy before
he was transferred to the 12th Army Group on August 6, 1944.
General Watson was one of the original officer cadre of the 3rd,
serving first as commanding officer of the 40th Armored Regiment.
He was later given command of Combat Command "A", and
became a Brigadier General at that time. In August, 1942, General
Watson became CG of the 3rd Armored Division while it was training
in the Mojave Desert. He became a Major General on September
9, 1942.
[Battle of Mons]
LIKE A BUNCH OF DUCKS
By Sgt. Frank Woolner
Combat correspondent, 3AD HQ
"The army would be better off," said Pvt. Ed 'Father
Dooligan' Dowling proudly, "if there were no non-coms or
officers at all - like our crew." He gestured grandly about
the circle; there were Pvt. Walter Stockowski, Pvt. Victor Doe,
Pvt. Tom Escamilla, Pvt. 'Wee Willie' Willis, and T/5. Otto Reicharbt.
"What about T/5 Reicharbt?" the war correspondent asked.
"Do you call him a no-corn?" Dowling roared, "Him
that is our driver and should by all rights be busted back to
a civilian ?"
Otto chuckled at this sally. The war correspondent wanted to
hear about an action at Mons.
"Say that the army let us down," Dowling exclaimed
sadly. "Three times we asked for help, and three times did
those scissorbills forget to send us help."
"So?"
"So we had to kill off all the Krauts ourselves! Here was
our little 57mm gun sitting in the valley on a road block. Here
was a million Jerries trying to bust through our lines and get
back to Hitler. First they sent an armored half-track . . . "
"The half-track wasn't the worst of it," 'Wee Willie'
interrupted. "Just as we'd started a good argument about
nothing in particular, Escamilla sings out 'More Jerries coming!'
And we all got back to our guns."
"They came right over the skyline," Reicharbt said,
"in single file as though they were on parade. That fooled
us for a minute. I remember Doe saying, 'Those guys must be prisoners
of war on the way back to the collecting point.'"
Dowling was puzzled. He put his glasses on the column. "Prisoners,
me eye!" he yelled. "They're carrying machine guns!"
The 57mm gun went into immediate action, Stockowski and Doe pouring
high explosive shells into the marching troops. 'Wee Willie'
Willis flopped down behind his fifty, and 'Father Dooligan' zeroed
the air-cooled .30 caliber machine gun.
"They were like a bunch of ducks," Dowling exclaimed.
"The dumb bastards kept marching forward while we mowed
them down. Finally they scattered and began to work us over with
small arms. More troops came over the hill and we thought they'd
flank.us. That's when we sent back for help."
"There wasn't any help," Doe said, "The whole
'Spearhead' Division was up against the same situation. So we
just kept pouring it into those Krauts. Willis burned up 600
rounds of .50 caliber ammunition and 'Father Dooligan' put 1300
through the .30. I don't think I'll tell you how many shells
we used in the 57 - the supply officer would have kittens!"
"But you stopped the attack, didn't you?" the war correspondent
said.
"Sure we stopped it," Dowling agreed. "We got
a half-track and more than 250 Kraut troops."
"Without any help," 'Wee Willie' added.
"Without any help at all, at all," echoed 'Father Dooligan',
and that turned out to be a good thing too - for had they sent
us some goofy officer or non-com we'd all have been killed! But
anyway," he chuckled, "tell em that the army let us
down. And be sure to mention that there isn't a non-com in the
crew. Get away Reicharbt, you model-T disgrace to our purity!"
UNCLE SAM BECKONED
[author not identified]
-- and you came! Maybe you didn't want to but you did. Then
it wasn't long before you weren't Mr. John Doe anymore, but Pvt.
John Doe. One balmy day you had received that letter that starts:
"Greetings" and you went down to take a physical -
with your fingers crossed. It wasn't very tough. If you could
SEE the "Doc" at five paces, and were WARM, then you
were in, or at least on your way to an induction center.
What a send-off the gang gave you. Were they celebrating the
fact that you were going or that they weren't? You wondered about
it. Anyway you bid your best girl goodbye and boarded a bus headed
for the great unknown.
On arriving at the "center" the first thing they made
you do was strip down to one step past your unmentionables. Then
you got a real physical. When those boys were through with you
they knew your very thoughts for the last ten years and whether
your great-grandmother had freckles or not.
You passed, and they led you outside with the others. One of
those fellows in the brown suits lined you all up, made you wave
your right arm and mumble, after him, a lot of words that ended
with, "I do"! Then your troubles began in earnest.
You learned which was your right foot and that for some reason
you were to always use it before you did the left one. You learned
to wave your right arm at anybody who had any of that brass stuff
on their shoulders, but not the guys with stripes on their arms.
They made you answer questions by the dozens to see if you had
an I. Q. Whatever that is. Doctors appeared on the scene again
and they put so many shots into your arms that you felt like
a pincushion. It would be SOME bug that could live in you after
all that stuff they pumped in.
You were a soldier now, so you must look the part. You were issued
every item of clothing from undies to neckties and if they fit
you they took 'em back. They hung like a tent, and there were
forty-seven tags on each piece. As the weeks passed you worked
and ate and slept. Worked, took ten-minute breaks, ate and slept.
Then you saw the reason for the oversize clothes. They fit you
now! Rather - you fit them. Unc was making a man of, you.
Life - army life - went on. Drill, K. P., guard duty and marching.
You learned a lot of things. How to peel potatoes, how to shine
shoes, and you learned how to make a bed that would have your
mother green with envy. You worked and you dreamed. Dreamed of
your girl, the next furlough, the duration over, and you dreamed
of PFC stripes.
Weeks became months and you learned to beat - You take it from
there, "You've had it!"
PARIS PASS
[author not identified]
Remember ...
... the " City of Light"? You came in by way of
the "Gare du Nord " and found yourself in the center
of the most unusual city you had ever been in. You expected a
lot in the way of fun and excitement here. You were not disappointed!
Whether you came for wine, women, song or scenery, you got it
in huge doses.
Remember "les Femmes"? Who could forget them! The shop
girls, the girl you "just happened to meet" on the
Metro, the one who showed you the way to the "Rainbow Club,"
and last (but not least) the "Zig-Zig" gals! After
months in mud and battle you KNEW they were the most beautiful
in the world.
One reason you came in was to get away from the army for a few
days. Well. you didn't do it. It seemed like there were a million
GI's in town. Especially around the Rainbow Red Cross Club that
you made your headquarters.
There was the sidewalk cafe. Ten to a block. You sat there with
your drink, rested your weary dogs and ogled the passing gals.
The gendarmes, who were dressed like a doorman at the Waldorf
and who took twenty minutes to tell you the way to the next corner.
And the bicycles -- Seemed like everybody rode 'em! The stuff
they could carry on one of the darned things. That bicycle-taxi
was the deal though. You paid a small fortune to take your girl
riding in one of them and got the thrill of your life. She had
to hold on to something and you were nearest. Wheee!
Remember those long loaves of bread that everybody was taking
somewhere. Boy, what a "hot dog" one would make!
That first cigarette butt you tossed away. How the people dove
for it, and you almost had to quell a riot. You bought some "feelthy
peekchures" (for a buddy of course) and ten to one you found
out later that the top one wasn't so bad, but the rest- well,
they were shots of statues or the like.
You went to the Folies-Bergeres (if you could get a ticket),
to the "Lido" or Moulin Rouge. And there was always
Pigalle, the Broadway of Paris. We called it "Pig-alley."
That GI night club out there wasn't half bad, and a guy paid
four bucks for his champagne instead of ten. And the floor show.
One didn't get his money's worth because the gals "took
it off" before a fellow had a chance to request it at the
top of his lungs, like we do here in America.
Or maybe you were the literary type. You just came in to take
in the culture. Well, there was plenty of that too. We all saw
the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, with its grave of the
Unknown Soldier, and Notre-Dame, and we all promenaded up the
Champs Elysees - No! Not! The lady said that you pronounce it
"Shawn-zay-lee-zay."
If you were interested in Art you had to hurry to take in even
a small part of what there was to be seen. You saw the art galleries
such as the "Rodin" and the "Louvre." Or
you took trips to the studios of famous painters thru the Red
Cross.
We saw the Conciergerie, Les Invalides, Place de l'Opera, le
Madaline, Montmartre, the Pantheon. Place de la Concorde, Place
Vendome, the Rue de la Paix. and the beautiful white Sacre Coeur
on its hill top. Of course you remember them. They were all part
of a"PARIS PASS"!
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