Some Anecdotes from Company B ... PART I

The Impact of War-feelings, Sights, Smells, Ways of Surviving

There are other aspects of war besides those obvious ones of shooting, fighting, marching, digging in, hurting and getting hurt. They have to do with the senses which hit you on all sides, relentlessly, becoming almost a part of your very existence.

What your eyes take in, what your nose smells, what your ears hear, what you feel inside you all come together, they penetrate you completely.

And they become intermingled—the sights, smells, noises or lack of noises, that flush of adrenaline, that tightening up of your insides, the choking feeling on the throat, the tingling feeling on the back of your neck—all come together and become you. A different you than you remember as a kid playing, or as a student studying.

You are something else now. You have been made over—inside and out ... and it worries you at times and at other times it is sort of exciting because you are doing something so different from any other experience of your young life. You are a foot soldier, almost anonymous because you look just like most others around you. You have no special identity. After a while in the war you don't think so much of your appearance, signs of rank or other distinctions—you are one of a group intent on one thing—survival.

Everyone looks tired, so tired that the faces seem like dead masks of fatigue and dirt. Eyes are slits open only enough to see what needs to be seen, ready to close for any precious minutes of rest but quick to open when danger is close. The eyes seem to be suspicious, darting, questioning, always reflecting the ever present fear.

Everyone smells of dry sweat, smoke, dirt, food recently eaten. Getting clean with a shower or bath is rare. I used to use water from my canteen to wash my face once in a while or, if a stream or river or pond were close by, I would use that. I always tried to wash my extra socks to avoid the danger, especially in the cold months, of gangrene which usually began with what we called "trench foot"—your feet would perspire from walking, then you would stop, maybe have to stay in a hole for some time, and your wet feet would develop the scales and cracking which would bring on "trench foot" and possibly gangrene. It was a serious problem for infantry soldiers and many were permanently damaged by it. I would clean my teeth every chance I had—I carried a toothbrush in my pocket, or boot, and brushed dry often, often just with water, and in the winter I would use snow. It all seemed to work—no cavities!

You could always tell who was new to the outfit—clean uniforms, shaven, insignia in place, all the assigned equipment, clean rifle, pack, canteen hung on the belt in the "right" place, a small entrenching tool (shovel or ax or pick), the bayonet still on the belt or pack, first aid kit on the belt and, of course, the useless gas mask over the shoulder.

It wouldn't take long for the clean face to become dirty, drawn and fatigued. The heavy pack cover would disappear as would the shelter half (half of a pup tent, each guy was supposed to carry one half then you would team up with a buddy—that didn't happen once in all the time I was in combat!) the gas mask was soon ripped out of its holding bag and thrown away; we kept the holding bag which was useful for extra ammunition, rations and miscellaneous stuff. It also didn't take long to learn to travel lightly, especially when the weather was warm. In cold months it was smart to carry at least one blanket and wear all the clothes you could manage. Pretty soon it was difficult to recognize the new replacements from the veteran—a status one gained after just a few moments in combat! A few firefights, some artillery attacks, some sleepless days and nights and a replacement became one of the group—smelly, tired, cautious, and a look-alike.

Some "new" guys lasted only for a few hours, or a few days, some were wounded, some killed, some just disappeared, some were captured. Some, sad to say, for reasons only known to themselves, shot themselves—always in the foot as I recall my personal knowledge of such. I remember one in particular. We were on a hill being shot at from above; some guys were hit but we had to get up to some buildings on the hill and get the Germans out of there. We were moving, one by one, keeping up some sporadic fire, toward the Germans—a kind of leap frog movement. There was a new soldier next to me, I had only known him for a few days. I turned to him and said something like, "Let's go!" I barely turned away to get up when a shot went off and this guy was lying there looking at his instep where he had just put his rifle and shot himself. He wanted out. I had to keep the other guys in position, then use one of them to help me get this wounded one under cover in a ditch until a medic could be brought up. I don't, of course, know what finally convinced him to do this to himself ... fear? Anger? We all felt those emotions during combat ... he just decided he couldn't go on I guess. I don't recall that I ever knew his name, but I won't forget what he did, deliberately; he let the rest of his comrades down.

The rest of us then went up that hill and took over the position.

I remember seeing my first dead German soldier—a stiff, grotesque body in that gray uniform lying along a road. I remember—briefly—wondering who he was, what would happen to that body, would his family ever know what happened to him?

As time went on I saw so many dead German, French, and American soldiers, and often, civilians, I guess I became sort of non-interested. There was no alternative—you couldn't linger, couldn't help them. It was different sometimes, especially when one of your buddies died and you were close by—you tried to comfort him if he were dying (you could usually tell) and when he died, if possible, you made sure his identity tags were shown on his chest; sometimes you set up a marker, his rifle or helmet to let the medics know, and the quartermaster gang who followed us, where the bodies were. But most of the time we had to keep moving. There were so many, many soldiers who were killed by artillery or bombs and so dismembered that they couldn't be identified. That is why there are so many listed as Missing in Action and for whom markers in cemeteries over there merely state: UNKNOWN.

There was usually no sound associated with death in combat. Most I saw die so silently—they would sort of collapse when hit by a bullet or when hit by shrapnel. There was no leaping, or the gymnastics stuff one sees in movies. Often you couldn't tell how a soldier died because the bullet or shrapnel would pierce the uniform, making only a very small hole. Sometimes the soldier hit would scream, especially when a grenade would explode on or near him, but, most times, as I recall, even the wounded didn't make sounds. The suddenness and the shock which quickly sets in probably accounts for that. The pain comes later—and so does some screaming, swearing, yelling, and crying.

We used to talk about getting a "million dollar wound"—that was one that wouldn't hurt too much or wouldn't permanently cripple but would be just enough to get one out of combat, at least for a while! Some soldiers actually put their hands up in the air from foxholes hoping to catch a bullet. I thought of doing it a number of times.

We were on top of a mountain in Alsace, near Colmar, and were hit by an artillery barrage—or mortars—the usual daily fare while we were up there. We stayed in our holes, covered in part by logs, to wait out these barrages which would be smashing into the trees above—dangerous stuff because, while the trees gave some protection, they also acted like an instrument spraying the shrapnel down on us—we called them "tree bursts". On one occasion, when a barrage let up, I made the usual check of the guys in their holes which were spread out in a rough line along the ridge. I got to one when another mortar shell hit overhead, the blast knocked me into a foxhole on top of a soldier. I hadn't been hit by anything except the blast but I was afraid the guy below me was out of it. I looked down, he was quiet—a relatively new replacement; I moved off him and he suddenly sat up and found he had gotten a "million dollar wound"—and that is what he yelled out when he discovered a neat hole right through the palm of his hand made by a piece of shrapnel!

I patched him up, called the medic, and watched that soldier gleefully take off down the mountain with the medic. Crazy, but true.

On that same mountain above the village of Kaysersburg and looking down on the city of Colmar (still held by the Germans) dead German soldiers were literally strewn along the ridge when we arrived in January 1945 to relieve the French Morrocan troops who had been in the positions for some time. We found bodies of German soldiers everywhere: the Morrocans had let the Germans come through the wire, apparently deliberately, then killed them with their long knives. That wasn't enough—they had then slit the dead Germans right up the middle of their bodies to more easily search them for valuables; teeth had been knocked out for gold, fingers were cut off for rings. It was horrible to see—and smell. When we relieved those troops they had been without food for some time and were eating their mules which were hanging up from trees when we got there. Mules were used to carry equipment, especially in mountain areas.

The German soldiers had rations which had a heavy odor of sourness—like sauerkraut, cheeses and heavy dark bread—we could actually smell the presence of German soldiers at times, especially in wooded areas. I assume they could smell us too!

In the winter months dead bodies would soon be stiff and turn black—it was horrible to see what had been live, human beings wrapped in their uniforms like so many mummies. It was like seeing discarded men lying there and nobody was about to do anything about it during the fighting. It goes without saying that the scene of dead soldiers who were Americans, our comrades, lying there in similar circumstances was even more devastating.

We were running a series of patrols during the winter of 1944—45 at a place near Ostheim, Germany. We were dug in along a railroad embankment out in a flat area near the town—this was an outpost position meant to keep an eye on the Germans who were nearby and to give us a position from which to do the patrols, hoping to—(we were told) get prisoners and keep the Germans on the alert. It was, like all patrol situations messy, scary and dangerous. We were so keyed up that the slightest sound or sight would get to us. These patrols were all at night. We made one at least each night for a number of nights—always following about the same route. We would leave out positions along the railroad, follow it and a small creek until we reached the edge of town ... the first building we would see was the railroad station, still fairly intact. Usually I had about five or six guys with me, some had been with me on previous patrols, some were relatively newcomers. Because I was the ranking non-com and knew the route after the first night I was most often given the duty each following night—a great privilege.

The American soldiers holding part of Ostheim where we would first approach came to recognize me after the first time or two ... I think we had a password at first, and they would wave me and the patrol through. We would then go into the town proper, which was usually burning in many areas, make further contact with our troops, then push to the far outskirts to see about German action. After that, sometimes with small firefights, we would make our way back the same way we had come. I will never forget the whole business—especially one incident.

One of those nights, as we came to the railroad station, turned around the corner of the building just as I had previously and there, staring me right in my face, only a few feet away in the half-light from the burning buildings, was a German soldier. He looked huge and he had his rifle up to shoot when, in an instant, I noticed something odd about the German—he was dead! In fact, as I got a bit closer I found out he had been dead for a long time. The American soldier who checked us out at that point each night had propped him up, put a rifle in his arms, and waited for me and my patrol to come through ... just to give us a scare! We had a little go-around among us, but our (my) relief overcame my fright.

Years later, in a friendly conversation with my trusted "buddy", "Kov", he admitted that he had done the deed!

I have wondered how to describe the sounds of a heavy enemy barrage of artillery, or mortars, coming in on us. It is fair to say that there is no way to fully describe the utter fury, the terrible rushing of air force aside by the huge, fast-moving shells from German "88's". You just barely (most times) had time to hear them coming in when they exploded on top of you, or close by. You could, sometimes, hear the particular sound of mortars being dropped into the barrels by the Germans when they were not too far away and conditions were otherwise quiet. Mortar shells came in from up high and made a sort of "womp" sound as they hit. You could easily distinguish German machine gun fire from ours—theirs was much faster in terms of rounds fired—a sort concentrated, spread-out burp. Our guns fired at a slower rate—a sort of a slower staccato.

When those "88" shells landed there was a terrible, tearing, smashing sound and a frenzy of light, a blast of shock waves and the smell of cordite. You didn't get just one round—usually there was a barrage lasting minutes? seconds? (seemed like hours). If the shells landed anywhere near you the blasts had the effect of knocking you down, seeming to seek you out, tearing at you, deafening and blinding you. You tried to dig in even deeper into the earth, you huddled within yourself, trying to get yourself rolled up in as small a ball as possible.

When the shelling is over you feel drained, small, utterly beaten. Your ears are ringing, your head is pounding, and you shake uncontrollably. Then you sort of feel your arms, legs, head—is everything still in place, untouched? There is dirt all over you, down your back, in your mouth, in your pockets. The temporary silence is awesome. Then you begin to hear some moans of the wounded, guys start to whisper to each other, "are you okay?", "where is so and so?", lots of swearing and the most heart-rending sound of all, that call, "medic, medic" from all around you.

War, combat, hardens you—psychologically, emotionally, physically. There is a terrific pressure to give in, to want to die, then a surge to survive at any cost. There is also a pressure toward savagery, brutality—killing the enemy is kind of a sport, almost? a game of adventure, a challenge to do the unusual. You feel you possess a force with your weapons, rifle, pistol, knife, grenades, enough to take care of almost anything. It is a feeling of a high and yet it is a feeling of disgust—what have I come to when I can boast of how many men I have killed or maimed.

War is obscene, stupid and unnecessary. I wish it on no one.

STARLIGHT, STARBRIGHT ... .

by Robert Maxwell O'Kane 1988

It was about the middle of March 1945 when we first got some inkling of what we were facing in a few short days. The Siegfried Line was not far away and we knew that this would be a big battle.

The 7th Regiment history book helps place the towns and events in the period of 15 and 16 March. The whole Regiment was on the attack at midnight; we had heavy artillery prior to jumping off. Fighting at night adds to the confusion. We took a place called Medel-sheim by morning.

Later that day, the 16th, we had a rough time in Neu-Altheim. Just after midnight on St. Patrick's Day we took off in the attack again and once again we had searchlights shining off the clouds. It was eerie, and I thought, stupid. The whole ground area was lighted up and we felt like we were easy targets—at least that is the way I remembered it. To complicate matters we had to weave our way through mine fields with the usual casualties.

It was nearly dawn when we finished off the next town. At about dusk we were on some high ground trying to get some rest. We received orders to move and the whole Regiment moved east about 3,000 yards to a place near Rimschweiler; this in preparation to attack the Siegfried Line.

I thought we might get a little rest and started to dig along with the others. I was so tired, dirty and cold that I didn't think I could take another step; I just wanted to crawl into a small hole and try to sleep.

I had barely started to dig when Lt. McDonnell told me to join him at a meeting somewhere close by. I don't remember the name of the place; we met in a house, or the cellar of a house. Colonel Heintges was there, so was Lt. Colonel Wallace and others. I don't remember if our Company commander was there or not; I don't even remember who was the Company commander at the time.

There were maps of the area, emphasizing the Siegfried Line, and talk about the attack which was to take place the next morning. Who would be up front, who in reserve, the support we would have, the usual pep talk about doing the job, and they were all relying on us, et cetera. Then came the scary news of the moment: we were there, representatives from a couple of platoons, to be briefed on patrol action we were to take that night. The Lt. and I were told to pick about six to eight guys, leave our equipment (helmets, packs, extra ammo) and wear only our woolly hats, carry rifles with bayonets and have a radio to take with us. The mission was to try to penetrate the Siegfried Line, to look for "soft" spots, to try to see how strong were the personnel defenses—and to report back in order to help in the plans being made for the major attack the next morning!

We were told that if we couldn't get through the Line then we should get back to our lines prior to 03:00 when heavy artillery fire would be directed on the approaches to the Line and the Line itself. We were also told that the all-out attack would kick off at 05:45.

Reading the history of the Regiment helps to fill in some of the "official" background for these patrols. I quote, "Never before in World War II had the Seventh Infantry been called on to make a major attack with such little preparation and study. In less than twelve hours the 'Cotton Baler' Regiment was called on to go into the attack on the mighty Siegfried Line itself, the vaunted German Westwall which the high command from the United Stated Chief of Staff down to army commanders had been studying for years."

So, there we were—tired, dirty, fed-up GI's asked to try to penetrate the Great Wall, find out all we could about it in the middle of the night, and, if we did get back, we would be able to engage in the all-out push at dawn! Because little planning had been done they expected a few patrols to try to flesh out the plans for the big battle. Looking at the matter now, in 1988, I find it appalling to know that we were probably being told we were expendable; and in the event that we did manage to penetrate the Line, I wonder how soon we would have been wiped out by our own artillery firing down on us around the Line.

Anyway, Lt. McDonnell and I went back to our guys and I was asked by the Lt. (he was relatively new) to pick out six or eight good soldiers to go with us on the patrol. I hated that job. I first picked Sergeant Kovatch, one of the best soldiers I knew in combat, then I picked others I knew had some experience and were dependable ... "Hoss" Dobbins, Burnell, Hinson—the names of the others are not clear to me now; I do remember their faces ... Jennings? Anderson? Talkington?

We got ready and took off through our lines; there was a pass-word but I don't recall it now ... but I do remember the guys asking us where in the hell we thought we were going as we were passed through our lines.

It was dark, no moon but the stars were out. It was rough terrain and we couldn't move very fast. Time was against us. It was taking longer than was estimated to get to the objective. Finally, we could see some part of the Line—pillboxes, barbed wire. We listened, and watched, straining our eyes and ears. It was scary. Not much activity. Time was passing very fast. The Lt. And I decided that the two of us would go forward to see if we could get any more clear information—I don't know now what we expected to get. I think we both felt we had to know at least something more to take back with us. We left the rest of the patrol and told them we would be back quickly and then it would be time to get back to our own lines. We had decided that there was no way we could get through the Line that night. I will never forget crawling those last yards, was it fifty? twenty-five? more? It seemed forever. We got to about twenty yards, close enough to see the fortifications, wire and trenches more clearly. We tried to see if there were any openings a few yards to our left and right. None. We listened to the Germans talking on their phones and heard their radios. Enough. We headed back. It was getting close to the deadline and we didn't want to get caught in our own artillery fire, scheduled for 03:00. It was now close to that. What was the right direction? The compass wouldn't work. Luckily that bright star in the northern sky saved us. We found the Big Dipper and the two stars on its right which point to the North Star (good old Boy Scout training) so we put the North Star at our backs and started to run, walk, stumble back toward our lines. Too late—the artillery started and that heavy stuff was whining right over our heads and thumping into the ground we had just left. Move faster. The guy carrying the radio, also not working, was exhausted and he got rattled. The radio was given to another big guy and we kept going. This was crazy. Make sure we were heading south, keep looking up for that good old North Star at our backs. After what seemed to be a lifetime we made contact with some soldiers in our lines, couldn't remember the password; that was another scare; we just yelled that we were GI's, the patrol coming back. It was touch and go—they wouldn't believe us at first. Who would be dumb enough to be out there at this time. Everyone was on edge, naturally. But we convinced them and this time got through.

We got back, how I still don't know, to the command post just in time to make a brief report of what we had seen and heard. The Lt. and I told Colonel Heintges and Lt. Colonel Wallace the story. It didn't seem to make much difference, as I recall. I think someone said it was a "good job, now get your stuff together and get back to your outfits; we attack at dawn, about an hour from now."

We did. I don't know how but we did. In about an hour we were on our way, back over the same terrain, on the way to attack the Siegfried Line. This time with artillery over our heads heading at the Germans, and not us, with planes overhead strafing, with tanks just behind us in support. As light broke we could see what we had dimly seen just a few hours before—enormous pillboxes, with turrets out of which sprouted machine guns, row after row of barbed wire, connecting trenches among the tank traps and small forts, mine fields discovered only when someone blew up (luckily we had somehow missed them earlier). Now we were under the fire of the Germans' machine guns, 88's, mortars and rifle fire. It was like a bad movie. We stretched over hundreds of yards as we moved forward, sometimes pinned down until our support gave us more cover with fire so we could advance. Then we were in the first trenches, face to face with the Germans. We would be fighting in the Line for the next two days.

The Assault on the German Westwall — The Siegfried Line

by Robert Maxwell O'Kane 1988

It is 18 March 1945. By 03:00 the 7th Infantry Regiment was assembled near Alt-Hornbach, Germany preparing to attack the Siegfried Line.

Major General "Iron Mike" O'Daniel, commander of the 3rd Infantry Division, had ordered the 7th Infantry and the 15th Infantry to attack side by side; the 30th Infantry was to be in reserve.

The 7th Infantry, under Colonel Heintges, was to attack northeast of Rimschweiler where the Siegfried Line was most dense and the 1st Battalion, under Lt. Colonel Wallace would take the lead in the attack.

I was platoon sergeant in Company B, 1st Batallion, 7th Infantry Regiment. I, with about eight other soldiers, had been up all night, the 17th of March, having been out on a reconnaissance patrol trying to penetrate the Siegfried Line. We reached to about twenty yards of the fortifications, found heavy defenses, returned to our lines, reported, and now, without sleep, were told to get ready for the general attack scheduled for 05:45.

The patrol had been an eerie, scary experience. I think most of us assumed we were not expected to return from it. Now we were to begin what can only be described as a completely terrifying, unreal, all-out several days of combat. Looking back, remembering those days, makes my survival, and that of others who survived with me, somehow unbelievable.

But let me use the 7th Infantry History book to set up the overall scene before I attempt to recall my personal feelings, actions and observations. Some of the larger elements of a battle are not known, or seen, or participated in by each Infantry soldier so it is useful to describe the large picture as presented from battle plans. What the battle plans and the histories cannot describe are the personal, individual experiences, the sights, sounds and feelings and hurts of the Infantry soldier. I will come to that.

The History book states: "The Third Infantry Division artillery was to fire harassing, counter-battery, and destructive fires from 03:00 to H-60, then, H-28 to H-Hour, fire heavy preparation fires in the zone of advance. The 10th Field Artillery Battalion and one battery of four M1-12, 155mm assault guns for reduction of pillboxes, were to be in direct support of the Regiment.

Maps of the area were finally received. Study of the Siegfried Line defenses showed that the Seventh Infantry faced the strongest section of the Siegfried Line in the Third Division area. Whereas the fortifications facing the flank units consisted of two rows of "Dragon's Teeth" with three rows of pillboxes between, the defenses facing the Seventh Infantry Regiment comprised three rows of "Dragon's Teeth", with intervening pillboxes spaced in great depth. The assault battalion had to penetrate a row of "Dragon's Teeth", movable blocks and concrete shelters with cupolas northeast of Rimschweiler before hitting a main dense line of "Dragon's Teeth" backed up by an anti-tank ditch. Another line of 2 "Dragon's Teeth" followed the main line and in between the various lines were numerous obstacles consisting of concrete shelters, casements and overhead cables. Pillboxes with automatic weapons were scattered everywhere and gun emplacements, both fixed and mobile, for heavy calibre weapons were placed throughout the area.

Casements in the Zweibrucken defenses were of the "B-Werk" type—massive steel and concrete structures with two turrets, each of which was armed with two machine guns. The "Dragon's Teeth" were concrete tetrahedrons, four feet high and six feet apart. Areas between the "Dragon's Teeth" and the most advanced enemy command posts were obstructed by concertina barbed wire obstacles reinforced with spiral irons sunk into concrete casings. Accessible terrain in front of the "Dragon's Teeth", such as depressions, was covered by the dreaded "S" mines. Barbed wire between pillboxes were strung in an ingenious fashion, covering every route of approach, with openings to lure the inexperienced soldier into death traps. Trip wires were laid in and around concertina obstacles. Leaders wondered how heavily manned the defenses would be.

At 03:00 the artillery opened its harassing fire. At 03:10 the 7th Infantry Commander reported to Division Headquarters by phone that his "Cotton Balers" were to assault, and simply waited for the appointed hour. The troops moved for the line of departure. Veteran "Cotton Balers", there were a few left, noticed nothing unusual to the approach to the jump-off line that night but they experienced a different feeling perhaps. Moving up in the darkness of the night, as the big guns spit red and roared out their thunder, was nothing new to them. They had done it more times than air pilots had flown missions.

During the previous dark nights they had gone to the line of departure on the oceans in small boats to assault hostile shores, they had moved up to assault across defended river lines, to attack so-called impregnable mountain fortresses, to lunge across flat lands covered by murderous fire, to attack of medieval forts, or to strike at the enemy in dense forests. But this was something new. They were to hit the Westwall, or the Siegfried Line, which the Germans repeatedly had said was impregnable, impossible to breach.

At 05:45 as the artillery lifted and jumped 500 yards farther into the "Fatherland", the "Cotton Balers" of the First Battalion jumped off into the attack. The First Battalion forces became subjected to devastating fire of all types, including extremely heavy concentrations of "88" and artillery fire. Company B was the target of withering fire from machine guns and snipers emplaced in pillboxes on both left and right fronts and distances ranging from 50 to 150 yards.

After an all-day battle in the Siegfried Line, and as darkness fell, the enemy launched a series of slashing counter-attacks against the narrow corridor blasted out by the rifle companies of the Regiment. The work of the First Battalion during the early morning darkness and throughout the day was particularly outstanding and was another great accomplishment of the Battalion during the war. Its forward position as plotted on the map was like a big finger pointed into the enemy's lines. By its powerful drive it enabled the Seventh Infantry to once again "stick out like a sore thumb" on the point of the 3rd Infantry Division's "embarrassing bulge".

The First and Third Battalions' forces fought throughout 19 March in the Siegfried Line defenses. Toward nightfall resistance began breaking and the zone of advance was cleared during the night of 19-20 March. The First Battalion assembled in battered, totally destroyed Zweibrucken."

This is the official account of the battle of the Siegfried Line. In itself it is enough to make clear the horrors of war. The graphic descriptions of the conditions of battle, the great lengths that armies go to to kill each other, should be sufficient to make one against war forever. But they don't.

It is when war becomes directly personal, when one can feel, smell, taste and watch that happens in combat that one can say "never again."

I couldn't believe my ears when I was told, as were others with me, on that early morning of 18 March 1945 that we were to get our gear together for the attack to take place in about an hour—how could they expect us to do that when we, about eight of us, had just spent almost all night on patrol out there probing the Siegfried Line, had just returned, exhausted and drained by the experience, almost done in by our own artillery fire ... and now, having reported, we were to join the outfit and go back over the same terrain in the all-out attack. I still don't know how we managed to get ourselves ready—physically and emotionally. What accounts for the ability to do something that you think is just impossible? Was it just obeying orders? Was it part of the job we had become used to? Was it fear of disobeying orders? Was it a sense of loyalty to your buddies? Probably all of those reasons. It certainly wasn't, at least for me, a strong desire to destroy the enemy, or to fly the flag. I guess it was mostly to protect and be protected by my fellow soldiers—to be as sure as was possible that we would survive this crazy business by staying together.

The sound of artillery shells overhead is hard to describe—there is a sort of "whoosh" and "scream" noise as the shells literally split the air. The bigger shells sound a bit like a freight train, moving at a high speed over your head; and then you wait for the "thump" ahead. You learn, fast, when the shells are "outgoing", or friendly, and when they are "incoming", not friendly. To know the difference is important. You learn not to sit too tight when the enemy shelling is pinpointing you; the better thing to do is to move forward toward the enemy. Of course, there are times when you are dug in for defense and you have to dig deep, cover the holes with logs or other stuff, and pray that you won't get a direct hit. You also learn that "friendly" fire is supposed to stay just ahead of you as you advance on the ground; you sort of follow it toward the target. Sometimes, too often, our "friendly" shelling would fall short, they called it "short rounds", mistakes, and the shells would fall on our own infantry soldiers.

The Germans had an artillery weapon called the "88". It was of tremendous velocity, much more than what we had, and it had a distinctive screaming, whining, tearing sound as it came toward you. Time for dunkers was short! Their machine guns had a particular sound, too. They were much faster firing than ours; I recall that we called them "burp guns".

Well, there we were, heading out for the Line, with all hell breaking loose around and over us—and under us. Mines were blowing up all over the place as soldiers stepped on Shu-mines or vehicles ran over Teller mines. It was barely dawn, hard to see. Guys were falling all around; the medics were trying to get to them in the middle of all the shooting.

The worst thing to do was to stop in the open; you were better off to keep moving ahead. The confusion was everywhere. I can't remember how the platoon and the company kept together. As we moved we kept shooting—just shooting at the bunkers and pillboxes ahead of us; that was sometimes useful in forcing the Germans to keep their heads down and not be able to shoot back. It worked sometimes. But they had periscopes in the pillboxes and could fire at us without exposing themselves. We got close to the wire and the tank traps, "Dragon's Teeth", and into some trenches. Tank destroyers (sort of modified tanks) came up accompanied by bulldozers and while the tank destroyers poured shells directly on the defenses (some shells would just bounce off) the bulldozer pushed dirt and debris up over the wire and traps, often exploding mines which were buried, and helping make it a little easier for the Infantry and the tanks to move forward.

As we got into the interlocking trenches which connect the pillboxes we came into hand-to-hand combat with the Germans. We found ourselves in the same trenches with them. The shooting was constant and up close. I remember a turn in one of the trenches behind which some Germans were shooting at us.

Someone, I still don't know who he was, except that he was one of our guys, had a bazooka. I loaded it up for him, connected the wire firing device, stood behind him while he aimed at the turn in the trench, waiting for the Germans to show themselves. I tapped him on the shoulder, the signal he was loaded and ready. The Germans came into view, firing. He let go the bazooka round and it caught the Germans squarely.

We had to get them out of the pillboxes; some of them were two stories deep. That meant going down into the places, throwing grenades ahead, following up with rifle fire. I remember throwing three grenades down one stairway and none of them exploded!

I think it was about mid-day when Lt. McDonnell and I were side by side in one of the trenches. He was in command of the platoon and was trying to round up the guys, check on the wounded, try to get organized. He was a few feet from me when a German rocket killed him. I didn't know him well. He had joined us fairly recently. He was on the patrol with us the night before. He and I had decided to leave the rest of the patrol in a sort of ditch just short of the Siegfried defenses while we crawled forward to see if we could find any more about these defenses. We got close enough to hear the Germans talking on their phones, could see the wire, the pillboxes. We had to scramble back as we were running out of time. (I wrote about the patrol in another place but I wanted to get back to Lt. McDonnell).

It was a nightmare. It seemed to last for days and days; it was only about two and one half days. We were running out of ammo and food. They were having trouble getting stuff up to us. That night, the 18th, under cover of dark, they got close enough with supplies so that we could sneak back to the tank trap area and get food and ammo.

We were under fire all night—mostly rifle and machine guns as I recall. It was dangerous to stand up or try to move from one position to another. A lieutenant, I have forgotten his name, was hit by a bullet in the eye; I thought he was dead but he wasn't—I later learned that he was evacuated.

We had a young lieutenant in the Company who was one of the bravest soldiers I had known. He seemed fearless. He went looking for trouble—as though it was all a game. I remember while we were dug in for a few days, doing night patrols near a place called Ostheim, he would be out in the open with his rifle trying to shoot birds, or buzzards. He was a small guy with a strong North Carolina accent. He had recently received a battlefield commission. This was an honor, but strangely enough an honor often refused by soldiers. This is not to take anything away from those brave men who accepted, but those who did accept had a sad record of not lasting very long in combat. Like many young, new officers, they probably felt extra responsible, a need to "lead", to be out front. Their rate of casualties was high.

This young guy, Will Barbour was his name, was probably just too daring. I remember the night of 18 March in the Line when he was all over the place, trying to direct things, to get supplies, to harass the Germans. I remember someone telling him to keep his head down. He didn't. I was close by when he raised himself over the top of the trench and caught a bullet in the head. He died immediately.

There were wounded around, as well as others who had died. It was hard to get to them with all the stuff flying around and the utter confusion of the situation. Our medics were just great. I remember "Doc" Gover especially. I knew he had been around for a long time and he always seemed to out helping someone. A tall, lanky guy from Kentucky, I believe. He was a brave guy.

Sometime in the middle of all this mess I recall seeing my buddy, Sgt. Kovatch (Kov), go out from a hole and pull a wounded soldier out of the way of an approaching tank. "Kov" was one of the best combat soldiers I knew—I wanted him close by when things got rough.

I had met only one guy from New Hampshire in my outfit. It was just before the time I am writing about. He was a recruit assigned to my outfit. He was from Derry, NH. A very young looking, redhead, slender and kind of shy acting as I recall. We came face to face in the fighting in the Line. I saw him die a few feet from me when he caught German fire directly. I visited his home and talked to some of his relatives a year or two after I returned home. It wasn't pleasant—too sad.

You could smell the cordite from shells, your rifle barrel got so hot from constant firing that you couldn't touch it, you didn't know from one minute to the next, night or day, when the Germans would be on top of you, from all direction, it seemed. I remember the faces of the men—many were strangers to me because the units were all mixed up—faces which were drawn, tired, gaunt AXIS like slits, bloodshot from lack of sleep, a sense of unreality peering out at you from guys who, like me, found all of this beyond our comprehension. Yet there was a sense of energy, of sticking together, of a need to survive. I'll never know how or where that extra something emerged—but it did. By what accident, or happenstance, or strange other reasons, some of us survived I don't know. All of us were in the same general places, facing the same stuff. A matter of inches in terms of where your body was when the enemy was shooting in your direction made the difference often. Experience, knowing about position, being conscious of sounds, sights, of little rises in the ground which would give protection, sometimes of going after the enemy before he could gain an advantage over you—this was sometimes helped by trying to convince yourself that he was just as scared as you. But some other difficult to identify forces were at work in the fight for survival. I don't profess to know what they were. The better men didn't survive any more than the better men died.

I remember the dirt. Debris, sand, mud all seemed to have invaded my inner self. I could feel pieces of stone and concrete from nearby explosions down my back, grating against my skin. I seemed to be sucking in air which was full of smells—of death, gunpowder, of sour black bread which the dead Germans carried as part of their rations, of dust from constant explosions, of oil and gasoline from tanks and bulldozers which kept getting close to us in the Line and of my own smell of sweat, grime. It was like I had read of Dante's Inferno—pure hell.

But it ended. The next city, Zweibruchen, was just ahead of us. We received orders to move away from the horrors of the Siegfried Line, leaving the clean-up to others. We walked into the city which was almost flat from bombing and shelling. We had a short break. It was quiet except for sporadic sniper fire. I, like others there, had a feeling that no more should be asked of us. Wrong.

We were given orders to move to the east. We did, taking small town after town, happily with less resistance.

In a couple of days we got the news that we were heading for another big objective. We were going to cross another of Germany's major defenses—the Rhine River.

That will be the subject of my next narrative.

Robert Maxwell O'Kane |  Foreword |  Dogface Soldier 
Stories Part 1 |  Stories Part 2 |  To A Medic |  Why