Some Anecdotes from Company B ... PART II

The Rhine River

by Robert Maxwell O'Kane 1988

After the Siegfried Line we headed east—the next big target we were told would be the crossing of the Rhine River, reputedly the last natural barrier for the Germans as we moved steadily into Germany.

In the period 21-22 March 1945 our Battalion, the First, cleared six towns without firing a shot—places called Bathweiler, Reifenberg, Schmitt-Hausen, Herschberg, Schauerberg and Hoheinod, according to the Regimental history book. I don't remember any of them; of course, I do vaguely remember the relief we felt at not being shot at for a few days and the times we were able to slip into barns and sheds (usually attached to the houses in these kinds of villages) and find some eggs, some chickens, sometimes some milk from a survivor cow!

We moved to an assembly area—a place named Frankenstein. Spent a day cleaning our equipment, going to religious service in the field and trying to rest up a bit.

My Division, the Third, was assigned the mission of crossing the Rhine at a point between Mannheim and Worms. We had the usual buildup—review of our earlier training in river crossing, how to manage and use the assault boats, how to carry them, some information as to where, when and how we would attack, how much artillery support we would have, some idea of the opposition across the River, et cetera. I am not sure how much of this stuff really sinks in, especially after you have had some previous battle experience. The new guys were, of course, nervous and rightfully so. The older guys were more quiet, reserved, almost resigned to the stuff that was going to happen—and scared, too, I think I felt some sense of security, for some reason. Probably the experiences I had gotten made me sort of more sure of myself but part of it was the feeling that there wasn't much I could do to change things. You sort of adopted a sense of fatalism—and yet you continued to use all of your earlier experience, your mind and heart to talk yourself into the possibility of making it once again.

The next day we moved closer to the River to a place called Frankenthal.

The First and Third Battalions were ordered to cross the River by assault boats. Baker Company, my outfit, was in the First Battalion. Our major objective was to capture all of the town of Sandhofen on the other side of the River.

Each soldier carried one type "K" and one type "D" rations ("K" were good—chocolate bar, concentrated cheese, crackers, gum, as I recall; "D" were canned foods—hash, beans and hot dogs, e.g.—or was it the reverse?). Anyway, we carried the two types—one was a snack type, the other was more solid food. We also carried four bandoleers of ammunition across our shoulders (a bandoleer held six clips of 8 rounds each)—these in addition to the usual six or eight clips on out belts; we also carried four grenades, three fragmentary, one white phosphorous; also some rifle grenades which were fired from the MT rifles most of us carried. You had a grenade launcher device which fitted into the muzzle of the rifle. You then attach the grenade and fired the rifle—it gave you some distance but most of the time we avoided using them—too heavy and too much trouble. We often threw them away. We of course also carried our weapons, the MI I mentioned, was about nine pounds in weight, plus a bayonet and the usual small pack with miscellaneous stuff in it , and a canteen, a knife, a small shovel or pick for digging, a half tent (often thrown away) and a blanket, always a blanket until the weather got too warm. Add to this description the weight of the uniform—heavy woolen shirt, trousers, boots, a jacket and a helmet liner over which you surely kept your steel helmet. That was the stuff of the foot soldier's load going into battle.

Even though the equipment, in general, was thought to be useful it could, and did sometimes become so heavy and awkward that we threw away some of it—not ammunition usually but things like packs, gas masks, tent shelters.

The Rhine at the place we crossed was 984 feet in width, 17 feet deep. The land approaching the River was quite flat. The river banks were built up by formations of stones on both sides and ridges along each bank were raised to, as I recall, about ten feet or so.

The 7th Infantry was given the toughest mission because we were to attack on the exposed right flank of the 3rd Division. Sometimes it wasn't advantageous to be recognized as an experienced, tough outfit! I can't prove this, but I heard enough and saw enough, to convince me that the reason our Regiment and Battalion were so often picked to take the lead in a battle was that our commanding officers asked for the privilege! Some privilege! I should add that I had great respect for the commanding officers of the 3rd Division, the 7th Infantry and the 1st Battalion—General "Iron Mike" O'Daniel, Colonel Heintges, and Lt. Colonel Wallace. A little more about them in another story perhaps.

On the night of 25 March 1945, at 22:00 hours, we began to get shelled by the Germans. They knew we were there getting ready to cross, of course. In fact, days earlier when we were being told how secret our moves were we would listen to "Axis Sally" on German radio broadcasting to us our locations, what our plans were, and the usual about how we must miss our families, and girlfriends, wives and friends back home! She was sometimes our best source of information! And she played good American music.

Anyway, the barrage hit our area. Boats were hit, guys were killed or wounded while we grouped there waiting for the order to go.

Ten thousand rounds of artillery were fired over our heads at the Germans across the River in preparation. You would think that such a concentration would take care of any enemy over there. It didn't. They, as we anticipated, had dug in, and were taking advantages offered by the houses, barns, cellars, churches, et cetera in the town.

The order to go came about one-thirty on the morning.

It didn't seem to make sense, nothing did in the war, for us to be so exposed, getting shelled and machine gunned, to be picking up these heavy assault boats, about twelve guys to a boat, as I recall, and carrying them over the raised river bank, putting them in the water so we could get across and engage the Germans so we could take a town called Sandhofen. The boats were heavy. They had outboard motors and, believe it or not, a sailor on board to run the things! I heard later that they were special Navy or Coast Guard guys. The dumb motor wouldn't start on our boat and that poor sailor was trying hard to get rolling. All this time we were getting more shelling, mortar fire and rifle and machine gun fire. Guys were getting hit all around. We finally got moving. Tracers were coming right at us—they seemed eerie as they came at you in the night, seeking you out. I think the tracers (bullets which glowed and helped you to see where you were shooting) were actually one in five or six rounds in a clip.

The noise was deafening. The water was black and the current was giving us trouble. More were hit—boats and men. I remember the feeling of trying to somehow shrink within myself, make myself smaller, and so present a smaller target. Didn't work, of course. I still wonder how anyone survived the crossing, or escaped getting wounded. Many of us did make it.

We finally hit the other bank and rushed to get out of the boat and up the bank—the point was to get away from the river as soon as possible because the Germans were still aiming the heavy stuff on the river—we had to move toward them as fast as possible, to engage them so we could get some control of their heavy guns, the tanks and the infantry in the houses. The worst thing to do, as I learned, was to stay put in such an attack. You were then a sitting duck, as they say. So, as crazy as it may seem, the best thing to do was to attack.

One of my platoon got shot as we moved side by side. He was hit in the thigh by a bullet. I pulled him down into a hole, a crater, put a tourniquet on him, spread some sulphur on the wound, and left him for the medics who would be following. I went on with the rest of the group. That soldier's name was Thornburg. He rejoined the outfit months later when we were in Occupation on Germany. He reminded me of the incident. He reminded me again when we met in North Carolina at his brother's home—this was about 1970.

I often wondered about the wounded we had to leave behind. They had to be terrified, hurting of course, and wondering what was going to happen to them. Some were killed by artillery fire while lying there waiting for help, some died of their wounds before help could get to them. A large number, fortunately, were found, helped and taken to hospitals back of the lines. If the wounds were not serious enough to badly disable, most of the wounded were sent back to their outfits. Some soldiers were wounded as many as seven or eight times.

Well, we pushed across the field approaching the town. It was still dark, of course. The only light was furnished by artillery, bursts of phosphorous shells, tracer bullets and the burning buildings in Sandhofen right in front of us now. We tried to regroup, to get our respective squads and platoons together. We did this by yelling, by hand signals, by physically going after guys scattered around and directing them to a point or, as sometimes happened, one of us would start running toward a target and the others would follow. It wasn't organized, certainly not by the book stuff. It generally worked though, especially when you knew each other and could anticipate, expect from one another.

As we moved we kept up a steady fire from our rifles, Browning automatic rifles (called BAR for short and usually had one to each squad—I always gave it to the biggest, strongest soldier in my platoon, it was heavy!) and light machine guns, carried by one soldier sometimes. When we were in situations where we were sort of stopped, or in defensive positions, the BARs were set up in place, on a tripod; light machine guns, on a tripod, were also used this way. In attacks, like this one, the BAR man held the weapon in his hands, supported by a sling over his shoulder, and fired from the hip. Good machine gunners—a soldier named Smith, "Smitty", was in our platoon and he really knew how to hold a hot machine gun in his arms with a piece of blanket, or canvas over the barrel, while he moved to the attack, firing. Sort of like the movies—I remember him doing this more than once with a belt of ammo over his shoulder. I don't remember what happened to "Smitty." I think he made it through the war.

We finally got into the center of the town at about five in the morning. German tanks were in the streets shooting directly at us. It was street to street, house to house fighting. Hand grenades were very useful. Smoke, fire, dust covered everything. We had to literally search out every building in our sector—the cellars, the attics, the barns, the churches, especially steeples where German snipers were.

I remember some brave actions there. A soldier went out in the street where we were held up by a tank. He had a bazooka (a tube-like weapon which fired small rockets) and he got the German tank shooting at us. His name was Firestone. I recall that he was a redhead, slender, sort of old (probably around thirty) and maybe a farmer in civilian life. Then there was Mike Pindyski, a short, stocky guy. He worked in the steel (or coal?) mines in Pennsylvania. He went into a house where we had trouble and killed two Germans with grenades and captured three more. I can still see him. They were good tough soldiers.

We fought all day in Sandhofen. All the time we were fighting we were catching heavy artillery and "88" fire from the Germans. The wounded and dead were everywhere. When our medics tried to reach some wounded GI's the Germans shot at them with machine guns. Some German medics went out of a house to help the wounded American. The Germans stopped firing while the German medics put the GI on a stretcher. The medics then stood up and the German gunners opened fire on them, killing them!

It was a long day—from about midnight till evening, just one day but it was brutal. The Regiment lost 32 killed, 10 missing and 136 wounded. We didn't know how many Germans were lost—the number had to be high—but they retreated and took some of their wounded and dead with them. The records show that we also captured 657 Germans in the area. That was a very high number. We had begun to notice the increase in the number who were surrendering. They showed discouragement and they looked as worn out as we did—or worse.

The town was cleared enough for the mop-up gangs to come in. We moved on. I remember that we took over some houses on the eastern edge of the town to get some rest. German civilians were huddled, as usual, in the cellars and the white sheets were quickly hung out of all the bedroom windows. The house my group took over had a family hiding downstairs. They were frightened, of course. I think they always felt that we were monsters and were to kill them. It took a little time to reassure them. On this occasion a couple of us joined the family (husband, wife, small children, some teenagers and, I guess, grandparents) in listening to the radio, American music, German propaganda, the BBC. They were cooking rabbit for their meal. They invited me have some. I tried it—hated it—went back to my familiar rations.

We were promised a couple of days rest. That was a sure warning to us that something else was ahead.

That something, we heard about it in a few days, was the assault on the ancient city of Nurnberg. More about that in another story.

The Battle of Nurnberg

by Robert Maxwell O'Kane 1988

We had left the Rhine River behind us and moved east—sometimes by marching, sometimes by riding trucks or tanks. It was like leap-frogging, we would walk for some miles then trucks and tanks would pick us up and deliver us down the road a few fast miles (if it was quiet enough) then the vehicles would go back and do the same with others.

It was becoming clear that we were now chasing the Germans more than ever before—they were not as strong or organized and had been taking a terrible beating for some time. They were still dangerous and good soldiers but, with some exceptions, the Nurnberg business, for example, they were getting weaker.

We went through places called Lorsch, east of Worms, and many other small towns with only little action. In Lorsch we had a brief rest, then joined the rest of the Division in a place called Winket.

On 29 and 30 March we moved toward the Main River and reached Trennfurt at 09:00 on 30 March. We then went north and crossed the Main on foot bridges put in place by the engineers. No opposition here—we already had a bridgehead on the other side.

We had a fight in Eschau during the night—it lasted until next morning. The history book records thirteen casualties in the Battalion and says that we inflicted heavy damage to the Germans, taking thirty-two prisoners. A series of fights for towns followed in the first two weeks of April.

We were now moving southeast toward the city Hitler had selected to be the shrine of the Nazi Party. It had become the capital of the Third Reich even more than Berlin. It had been turned into a center for war—a sort of last stand place. More about the city later.

We crossed still another river, again by footbridges, sort of quickly assembled pontoon type affairs. This is about 16 April. Our whole Division was on line for the coming battle for Nurnburg along with some of the 42nd Rainbow Division.

My Battalion was in reserve this time (the 16th) "cleaning up" places approaching Nurnburg. I remember Erlangen especially. It was, I later learned, a town of hospitals and a university. We had some fighting in the streets. I recall setting up a couple of machine guns in one street to cover the length of it in front of us while we began to clear the houses, barns and other buildings. We were shocked at what we found in some of the buildings, especially in the cellars. They had been used as little concentration camps, filled with prisoners who had been captive for several years, as we discovered. We broke down doors to release them. It was an awful and sad sight. They looked like death—dirty beyond description, smelling of decay and filth, skin like stretched masks over protruding bones, dressed, such as they were, in striped prison uniforms. They were of several different nationalities. They were overjoyed to see American soldiers—they told us that they had somehow heard that we might be coming. I remember some of them hugging me, trying to kiss me. I must admit that I was revolted by the smell and looks of these poor people. But it was good to be able to free them. They didn't look human. That's a terrible thing to say but I did think that way at the time. They had been absolutely degraded, had been reduced to this condition by their captors. They asked us for guns so they could shoot their guards—several of whom we had captured, most had fled. I think we did give them some weapons from the guards—I think they did shoot some, I really don't remember in detail as we had to keep moving and watching out for more of the enemy. Anyway, it was a sight I shall never forget when I think of war and what it does to people—tries to reduce them to animals, no, not animals, but something non-human. If everybody could have shared that particular time, or seen the larger concentration camps, I am sure that war would be closer to abolition. The Germans had many such small "camps" scattered around which were not as well known as Dachau or Aushwitz, but they were pretty terrible.

We left Erlanger after "cleaning up" and moved to Wetzendorf to get ready to assault Nurnberg.

The attack took off at 13:00 hours (I rely here as in other places, on the History book of the Regiment for accuracy in time, places and dates).

The small arms, rifle, machine gun and panzerfausts (sort of like our bazookas) was heavy and progress was slow. The River Regnits ran through Nurnberg and presented another barrier for us. The Germans had a good set-up here using every building along the streets in this big city. Piles of rubble were also used as sort of bunkers for their weapons. It was house-to-house, room by room often. We finally reached a main avenue, it was called Johannis Strasse—I remember it very well as we spent a long time along it fighting. At first it appeared to be quiet as we looked down that long avenue toward the old city walls. My company commander told me to take my group down the street to "check it out". He said that reports were that it was clear but he wanted to make sure before the rest of the Company moved. I didn't like the order—I think he didn't have good information and I think he wasn't ready to move anyway. I always had a suspicion about "quiet" areas and "just checking it out" many times turned out to be anything but quiet.

This proved to be no exception.

We advanced a block or two, as I recall, before we caught lots of machine gun fire and rifle fire. It came from windows, doorways, piles of rubble, rooftops. We moved very slowly.

We reached a major intersection where the main street branched out in two directions; the Germans seemed most heavily entrenched on the right side of the street, at the intersection. We had to get across to engage them. That was a mess. They had direct lines of fire for their weapons straight down the street, covering the way we had to cross. I sent my guys, one by one, across while the rest of us kept firing at the Germans trying to keep their heads down. It helped a little. When some of my guys got across they would pick up the fire. One of my guys, relatively new, took a long time, it seemed, to get going. His name was Bain. He finally got all his stuff together and started to run. It was almost tragic, but it was funny, too, especially now. The Germans were firing right at us and here was Bain running as fast as he could, with all his heavy equipment, holding on to his steel helmet. He dropped something, ammo I think, and in the midst of all the machine gun fire he stooped down to pick up what he had dropped. We were all yelling at him to get going. He did—and he made it to the other side without a scratch! I learned that he died recently.

We finally made it across—I think without a casualty. Then we got into a real mess the next day or two: room by room, floor by floor, building by building again. We fought across roof tops, down back alleys, we fought for several hours in a cemetery, using headstones as barricades, just as the Germans were doing a few yards from us.

I sent a messenger back to the Company Commander for help in clearing out what he had said was a "quiet" Section. I don't know how long it was before we got some relief—too long at any rate.

Some familiar faces were close by—that was always a help. To see Kovatch, Dobbins, Hinson, Anderson, Dillon and a few others who had been together for a while by now. There was a new replacement there, a big, sort of fat guy, a sergeant from some other outfit with, he said, some previous combat experience. He was a curious guy, kind of cocky. While there was a small lull he kept putting his head out of a second story window. I warned him to watch it—the snipers were just waiting for such a shot. He kind of ignored me, saying he knew his way around, or words to that effect. He caught a bullet in his upper arm. We lost the use of him; he had to be evacuated. The next time I saw him, his name was Jackson, was at our Company reunion in Kentucky in 1979 or 1980. There he was, bigger than ever, a farmer from Indiana. He introduced me to his wife, rolled up his sleeve, and showed me the old wound from Nurnberg, 1945. He remembered that I had told him to watch himself that day—and he told me he had told his wife that I had warned him. She said he never did listen to advice. Jackson died last year.

The fighting went on for two days. Some of the details have become fuzzy. I don't, for example, remember sleeping or eating in those two days—but I must have. I can't remember who was with us, except for the several names I mentioned earlier. I don't remember when it was night, or when it was day—but I know that there were two of each in that battle. Eating during combat was a curious thing. I remember one time when we were in a fight, were pinned down and couldn't move. We had to wait so I pulled out some rations and ate away at them while hunkered down on the side of a hill—then we attacked. But I don't remember eating in the fighting at Nurnberg. Did I brush my teeth? I always carried a brush with me and would sometimes walk along a road brushing my teeth. When did we sleep in those two days? Sometimes I could sleep standing up. I don't remember sleeping in those two days.

Words came to us that the city police of Nurnberg had joined the German soldiers and the SS troops in the city to fight us. We got some help from tank destroyers which blasted the places where they were holed up. They, many of them, surrendered.

Every time I turned around some guy was missing—or a new face would appear somewhere. Sometimes in the confusion a soldier from another unit altogether would turn up and join us until he could locate his own unit.

The 20th of April was Hitler's birthday. Nurnberg was choice of city to be the Nazi Shrine. Each German, according to the Regimental History, was pledged to kill at least one American soldier on this special day for Hitler. I am glad I didn't know about this at the time—though I don't know what difference it would have made, they were always trying to kill us!

The resistance was over in the city outside the old walls early on the 20th of April. Now we were right up against the massive walls of the old, inner city. The Germans had retreated behind those walls and promised to stay there till the end. We couldn't do much against those walls—and the large gateways were heavily manned by the Germans. We pulled back a bit so that huge assault guns could be brought up to fire point blank at the walls. Before they fired a loud speaker was set up and this message was sent to the defending Germans: "Your city is completely surrounded and the old city has been entered in several places. People in the occupied part of the city are being treated humanely. Your unconditional surrender will be accepted under the following conditions: Raise white flags over the buildings and open all entrances to the inner city. Otherwise you will be destroyed. We will not wait, so act quickly."

The Germans paid no attention. That is when the assault guns opened fire with about twenty rounds of huge shells. The effect on the old walls was slight. We watched the explosions almost bounce off, getting no more than chips. But the scare effect was enough. The Germans guarding the area had enough. They retreated or gave up. We then went into the old city through gateways.

Resistance officially ended on 20 April 1945 at 14:00 hours.

I turn again to the 7th Infantry History book because it describes Nurnberg's significance. "Nurnberg, the most German of all cities', was in American hands ... located in the district of Franconia, Bavaria. The river Regnitz, a tributary of the main, divided the city into two parts. The 500,000 people who had once lived in the city were occupied in toy manufacture and fancy ivory and woodwork. Because of the unimpaired medieval aspect of the city and because Hitler admired Wagner who had composed many of his musical works there, Nurnberg was selected to be the shrine of the Nazi Party. It became a distribution center for Nazi laws and propaganda. It was to a Nazi congress meeting there that Hitler once said, "Germany never will be conquered—either from without or within." On 20 April 1945 American 'doughboys' saw nothing but destruction in Nurnberg which was a complete ruin, and smoldering from fires. The culture was gone."

A parade was arranged in the Adolph Hitler Plaza to celebrate the victory in this ancient city. Representatives were selected from each of the units that fought to be at the parade—the rest of us were still "mopping up" in side streets, and suburbs. This was Hitler's birthday and that coupled with the victory in this famous city was, I guess, reason enough for celebration.

My unit was still on patrol action—there were still pockets of German resistance in the city even though the parade was going on. These patrols were tough because you knew that you had gotten through another big fight and now you were out there waiting for that sniper, or for some Germans who had sworn to die before giving up. I'll close this story by repeating a paragraph from the history book—then I'll tell you what really happened on about our last day in Nurnberg.

The History says: "The 7th Infantry continued to occupy the western half of Nurnberg until 23 April. Continuous patrols were conducted between the units, and the troops rested. Little trouble was experienced in the beaten city. However at 20:30 on the 21st the 1st Battalion (mine) reported that one of its patrols had been fired on by snipers. The patrol (mine) then flushed out four SS troops who were caught and questioned. The Germans then attempted an escape. While running they were fired upon by the patrol and all four were killed. At noontime on the 22nd the 1st Battalion reported an SS captain had been captured that morning and also killed when he attempted to escape."

So the History says, but that report is wrong in one serious way. I was there—this was one of my patrols. We did get four or five SS troops who had been hiding in some rubble of destroyed buildings. I left them with one of our soldiers, on a bridge over the Regnitz River while the rest of us went on searching for more snipers ... we heard shots from the bridge, hurried back to find that this character we had left to guard the prisoners had been deliberately shooting them and letting the bodies fall into the river! I remember going after him—I was ready to shoot him—for doing what he had done. He said, with no proof, that he thought they might be trying to get away, or something like that. I turned him in. I don't know what happened to him—I don't recall ever seeing him again. We lost the chance to question what could have been important sources when he killed those SS troops. I had met a few other "bad" soldiers like that one—fortunately they were few and far between.

Footnotes: In 1964 I revisited Nurnberg with the family while I was working in Europe. I remember standing at an intersection on Johannis Strasse, the very place I had fought in 1945. I was trying to explain this to my four sons, ages 4 to 9. They couldn't understand what this meant to me, and my attempts to tell them that "their Dad had stood here in a fight, et cetera," made no sense to them. My reminiscing was cut short when one of the boys (I won't fix blame) suddenly brought everything into focus; he asked if we could get some ice cream now? Out of the mouths of babes! I learned something there. There is no point in trying, or wanting, to ask someone to share the personal experiences of war, except those who were there. These stories are meant only as my personal thoughts, not necessarily to be understood, just possibly a means to allow me to let loose to someone so that a glimmer of what happened might come through.

A Memorable "Hot Foot"

by Robert "Bob" S. Appel

The exact time-frame of this action escapes my memory, although I feel reasonably sure it was sometime between November 5 and 15, 1943 when the Third Division was poised to make its attack on Mignano. This town was situated in the wide gap of mountains where the Germans had established their Barbara Line.

As a communications and defensive center, it was of tremendous value to the Germans. We needed to gain the mountains on the flanks before the gap could be patrolled.

General Truscott sent the 30th Infantry, which had been in reserve, after Mount Rotundo and Mount Lungo on the northwest. Our 7th Infantry was to attack Mount Camino and Mount La Di Fensa to the southwest.

As a light machine gunner replacement in Company "B", I was about to experience my most unusual happening this particular day.

We were laying down cover-fire for several advance patrols. My crew buddy, "Murphy", was incessantly firing away toward an area where we believed some Germans were entrenched. When all of a sudden "Murph" fell back from the gun hollering, "I'm hit and my foot is burning up." As I was moving to take over the gun, the order to cease-fire came down the trail and my heart did a double leap for joy. I knew that I had just averted a similar fate had the situation demanded more fire power. However, in the subsequent exchange of fire to follow the result could have been more than a "burning foot" ... it could have been fatal!

As we dropped back to rejoin the Company, "Murph" was extremely anxious to remove his shoe to see what was causing his foot to burn. When he removed his shoe and sock, everything seemed to be normal. The sock was in one piece and there was no sign of blood or broken skin. But his foot was reddish looking and still feeling hot! Taking his bayonet in hand, he began probing the sole of his shoe only to dig out a 30 caliber casing embedded smack dab in the middle of his shoe's sole!

It was then that we came to understand the origin and reality of this once mysterious "hot-foot".

A Medic—Cabbages—A Cheeky Story and Fun and games with Grenades ...

by Jack "Doc" Gover

I spent six weeks of Advanced Infantry training in North Africa before shipping to Italy. It was rough toward the end of training—25 miles of forced marching in the desert ...

Spent quite a while in Italy-Naples, pup tents in the orchards of Naples ... Repple/Depple then on to Southern France. Little to report there that I can print!

Early in France and as a Medic now we were crossing a huge field with no cover; white phosphorous smoke covered the area, real dense. One of the boys was hit pretty bad; I worked on him for quite a while.

I kept looking around—not a person in sight anywhere. I heard small arms fire in the distance so I decided to head for that area. I walked for about forty yards toward a small ridge. It was smoky and I saw just ahead about ten or twelve German helmets and what looked like rifles looking straight at me. No where to go. I knew they would cut me to pieces if I tried to run. So I put my thumbs in my suspenders and walked toward them, expecting to either be captured or shot.

What a relief when I neared the mounds in that smoke: the "helmets" were cabbage heads, and the "rifles" were garden stakes! Oh well, I was lucky.

Besides dragging fellows back to our lines who were hit over the ridge in "No Man's Land", and trying to patch up human bodies ravaged by shrapnel, machine guns, mortars and rifle fire, et cetera, a brighter side existed—even not too bright.

In the St. Die area, a new 2nd Lieutenant (Licht) was behind a tree yelling at the troops ... with his .45 blazing he was yelling, "Boys, I'll draw their fire, you kill them." After a few rounds he stuck his head around a tree and a German rifle slug cut a gash from his cheek to his ear. He rolled on his back and fired a round or two from his .45 straight up into the air! I patched him up and he headed toward the rear, one hand on his cheek, the other holding his .45, saying, "I'll see you tomorrow, Boys."

I didn't see him again until after the war, in Hersfeld when I walked into Regimental Headquarters to see him sitting there at a desk, sporting that Big Scar across his cheek.

Another fun thing for amusement (by some) was to take the powder out of grenades and dropping them under some unsuspecting guys' feet. Barbour and Camp were well known for that. I can attest to that "fun" as Barbour tossed one in my foxhole a time or two.

I wish I could write a book of all my experiences. Though I can't remember all, many, many stand out in my mind. The ravaged bodies of so many ... the dying men I spent time with drawing their last breaths ... it was tough on a 19-20 year old. It has made a better person of me.

I dare not mention names for fear I would leave out a deserving soldier. However, I wish I knew what happened to my friend, "Goon" Roberts. He was a great Combat Soldier from California.

All Combat Soldiers were great men!

Mortality at Anzio and Mules in the Vosges

by Daniel Parisi

The night following our fatal initial attack on Anzio twenty-four of us made it back to our own lines after being trapped behind German lines for a full day. After wading through the Mussolini Canal, I finally came to an abandoned farm with haystacks scattered around—and GI's lying around the haystacks. Being completely exhausted, I lay down among them and went to sleep. When I awoke at sunrise I found myself completely alone ... every other soldier in that field was dead.

In the Vosges Mountains Battalion Headquarters was set up at dusk at the foot of the place we were to call "Goon Mountain." All Company runners were told to contact our individual Company Commanders and deliver instructions from Battalion. Company B was somewhere on top of the mountain but I had no idea where. There was a heavy snow fall so I was told to follow telephone communication lines and they would lead directly to Company B. Needless to say, half way up the mountain the 'phone lines' disappeared in the snow! I continued to climb in what I assumed was the proper direction and finally reached a flat plateau. Here I found barbed wire strung and looking directly at me were three pack mules, definitely not Company B! I then heard German voices talking and laughing. I thoroughly believe I set a speed record reversing my field and sliding and running back down "Goon Mountain" ... and back to Battalion. Of course mission was certainly not accomplished that night!

A Sad Loss — A Comic Form of Relief

by Tom Carr

I can recall many happenings during combat but most aren't too interesting. One does stand out ... Benedict and I and a medic were bringing some twenty-six recruits up to the front one night about 11:00 hours. We had gotten up to within fifty yards from where two or three tanks were sitting. The Germans threw a couple of mortars when one of the tanks cranked up. Benedict and one of the recruits were out ahead some seven or eight yards. The first mortar hit right on Benedict and one of the recruits and blew the recruit on my left and me to the ground. I burned all over. We stayed down and the medic went up to check Benedict and the recruit. The recruit next to me was hollering "Help", that he was hit in the stomach and could feel the blood. The recruits back of us were little shadows running back across the 600 yards of clearing that we had just crossed. The medic said lets check these guys first. He found that some were dead and came back to check the recruit. He rolled him over and opened his pants. He checked him and I heard him tell the recruit that he was o.k., that he had just pissed on himself. With this, the recruit jumped up, buttoned his pants and started back across the opening. I told my people that there were dead soldiers out there ... I was told to get some sleep. I did but there was a 4.2 mortar just outside that fired off a round about every 20 minutes. This was the first night in the area of the Siegfried Line. The loss of Benedict hurt. I got to know him pretty well while in Belleville.

Another little story. The night we jumped into Germany and "Hoss" and Benedict got caught in a mine field and finally, daylight time, started feeling their way out. "Hoss" picked up a .45 lying around. They thought they were still in a friendly area and they saw a soldier sitting at his machine gun sort of dozing. "Hoss" said, "Hey Joe!" When he looked up they saw it was a German. "Hoss" said later he fired about five rounds from that .45 and it quit so he threw the .45 at the German and he and Benedict started to run. The German started running after them. "Hoss" said that after running a little while he heard "Kov" holler at them. "Kov" told them to quit running—that German was trying to give up!

Kovatch's American Army Stalag—Sort Of

by Steve "Kov" Kovatch

About fifty years ago, as we were approaching Berchtesgaden, one of the Battalion staff drove up in a cloud of dust and yells, "Get in" to me and the guy with me—can't remember who that was. We got in the vehicle and away we went into a nearby city, set up a .30 machine gun at an intersection that looked important, and the officer took off to the rear. We stayed there for several hours until the Regiment came up and asked who we were? He seemed to know about us being there, so after I.D.ing us he took us back to the Company and that was when we entered the German Army camp—a nice layout. When the Krauts found out that we were there they surrendered in large numbers—I didn't know there were that many Krauts in the whole world—and they were in this camp as our prisoners ... we being about a squad!

My memory is worth a million bucks ... too bad I can't market it. The first morning we were there we had all these prisoners yelling at us for something to eat. I don't think we had a can of beans to feed ourselves. There were several of the Germans who spoke English so I went with them to the kitchen ... needless to say there wasn't anything but a sack of potatoes there. By this time I was feeling pretty brave and I yelled out to the Germans, "Where is your commanding officer?" They pointed to a building not far off and then they took off running the other way. Anyway, I had bluffed my way this far so I stomped into that building. I found a high-ranking General on an army cot with a pretty young gal—a German Army female. I stood right there until both got dressed—which really pissed them off—bad.

The General got a couple of cooks rounded up and they made a hell of a big pot of soup—then I went back to the safety of our group.

How the hell we ever lived to twenty-three years of age is beyond me.

About this same time some of us were on a roadblock together with guys from the Battle Patrol ... we were told to hold back the Free French troops who were mad as hell because we were guarding the only remaining route over a bridge leading up to Hitler's Eagle Nest—all other bridges were blown. I never did find out what happened to all those Kraut prisoners—or the French soldiers we refused to let pass.

Note:I can attest to "Kov's" remembrances of the German Army camp—and the roadblock where we were ordered to keep the French forces from passing through to Hitler's Eagle Nest; I was with "Kov" and others in both places. I know he will forgive my intrusion into his stories so I do so only to fill out some more details. I remember very well wondering what we would do (only a few of us) with all those German prisoners in that camp. I also remember the problem of food, feeding and finally getting German cooks busy. I do not remember "Kov's" experience with that German officer and lady friend, I wasn't lucky? enough to be with "Kov" when he took charge! I would add one incident: we captured several nice Mercedes sedans ... I took off for a short ride in one and was stopped by some Colonel who demanded to know what did I think I was doing? It seemed obvious to me. He took the sedan for himself ... I reverted to my usual mode of transportation—walking.

As to the roadblock ... I believe what "Kov" was referring to was the one we set up (about a squad, plus some guys from Battle Patrol, with orders to secure the remaining open Bridge leading up to Hitler's place. We were told to keep the Free French under General LeClerc from passing. I remember we had a .30MG, rifles, a bazooka, I think, and General LeClerc came up on his jeep demanding to allow passage of his troops. He was denied and demanded to see General "Iron Mike" O'Daniel ... shortly O'Daniel came up and repeated the orders given to us to stop the French.

— Robert Maxwell "Okie" O'Kane

A Night Before Christmas

by Robert Maxwell O'Kane

The history book of the 7th Infantry Regiment makes no reference to Christmas, 1944.

Rather, in clipped, precise military language, one reads these kinds of statements:

In the period of 21 and 22 December the First Battalion was relieved of its Rhine River positions in Strasbourg and moved to the fringe of the 'Colmar Pocket'. Company B established a road block near Ostheim, Germany with an outpost about 1000 yards east. Patrols were conducted daily and nightly. The patrols were set up to try to make contact with the enemy, to try and get prisoners. Sometimes they failed to contact the enemy, but quite often enemy were encountered and pitched battles resulted."

So much for the official history of late December 1944.

But there is more.

On Christmas Eve one of those patrols was out seeking contact with the Germans who were still in control of nearby villages. The main goal was to try to get some prisoners for questioning.

It was cold, but there was no snow; a raw, starless, moonless night. This was about the fourth or fifth night of patrolling for this group of about ten soldiers. The terrain was fairly well-known. The mission had barely started when the patrol came under sporadic mortar fire. A barn nearby offered some temporary shelter but it was clear that it was a good target for enemy fire and that the thing to do was to get out and look for open ground, use it for protection, and get back to friendly lines quickly. Orders were given: move quickly, singly, in a given direction and re-group some two hundred yards beyond by the railroad station.

Wire fences obstructed the movement at one point. Two soldiers were to hold up the strands to allow each of the others to crawl through. The next to last man to start through suddenly, silently drops and there is the almost simultaneous sound of a rifle shot. The source can't be located in that split second of terror. The men move out as instructed.

The patrol leader checks the fallen soldier. He is dead. A quick search is made of his clothing for personal effects. A wallet is found containing pictures of a young woman, other people, some notes, addresses. The dog tags? Take them or leave them for identification when he is found? Leave them. We can't take him back with us.

A bit later contact is made with some medics and they are told where he is.

Who was he? The face now dead, looked only vaguely familiar. He was a recent addition to the platoon. So many replacements lately made it almost impossible to get to know, really know, anyone until he had survived at least a couple of weeks. Those who did survive did know each other. It was a survival game based not so much on the usual idea of friendship but more on the idea of an ally for mutual survival. It was a close and necessary alliance—sometimes ending up in a friendship. The dead soldier was obviously not to be a survivor. Who was he? A later check with others in the platoon, and a second look at his wallet, revealed him to be a just-arrived replacement. He was a Staff Sergeant. He was from Dallas. He was young—as was most everyone else there. He had a family. His first name was John, middle initial E, last name Thurmond. That is all we knew. Infantry soldiers traveled light.

He is not mentioned in the historical account of late December 1944—it is described as a time of "defensive positions" in the book.

He was the only soldier in the entire Regiment who died, so silently, from a bullet fired from somewhere by someone unknown to any of us, which found just him on The Night Before Christmas.

I remember this vividly. I was his patrol leader.

The walkin'ust Dead Man

by Pfc. Herald A. Demaree, Jr.

Company B had cleared and secured a small town and two squads were sent out to scout and outpost a wooded ridge a mile or more from the town. A shallow, brush-filled ravine led from the town up to the edge of the timber along the ridge. I was first scout for the squad on the right and moved along a wagon road about 25 yards from the ravine. A half mile out of town a German machine gun opened up with a burst at the squad to my left, hitting several of them. I hit the ground in the 'shelter' of a shallow wagon rut which gave little, it any, real cover. At the burst of machine gun fire I saw several Germans running down the ravine toward us. I began shooting at them, firing several shots from the same position (breaking one of my rules of only two shots and then move). The Germans broke off their advance and the machine gun had stopped firing. Then I noticed a German working his way through the trees about 500 yards away on the ridge. He seemed to be trying to flank our position. As I lowered my head an inch or so to line up my sights on him, a bullet hit the front of my helmet, going through my helmet liner and leaving a streak on my wool knit cap. As my head went back from the blow, I knew a sniper still had me in his sights and, if he had their new (10 round) semi-automatic rifle, needed only to squeeze the trigger again if he thought he had missed. As my head came forward I pushed my rifle forward, dropped my head down where I could see the ravine and lay still. After several minutes with no shots heard, I was about ready to make a dash for some better cover in the ravine, when I heard one of our tanks coming up the road from the town. The captain had asked the tank crew to give cover for the litter bearers while they recovered my body. When the tank stopped beside me, I jumped up, ran behind it and on into the ravine. I met the Captain there, he just shook his head and said "Demaree, you're the walkin'ust dead man I've ever seen!" He had heard the bullet hit, saw my head go back with a two inch exit hole in the center of the back side of my helmet and was convinced I was dead. I told him I had hoped the German sniper was convinced also and would not waste another shot that might have exposed his position to our fire.

He told me to head back for town, that the other platoon would clear the ridge and the company would assemble back in town for the night. At the edge of town I met a new 2nd Lt. who said "get back up there on the line, soldier; you're no better than any one else!" I told him the others didn't have a hole in their helmet and turned mine around so he could see the exit hole in its back side. He just spun and headed back to town without a word, getting there way ahead of me. I was issued a new helmet by the Captain, because he didn't want anyone else seeing the hole.

Almost 50 years later, at a Company B reunion in Williamsburg I learned more of what really happened and how my quick action may have saved several men in the squad to my left, and maybe more. Willis Daniel was with the squad to the left of the ravine and he asked if I remembered the time I caught a bullet through my helmet. I said yes I did remember that day very well. He said he had a question about that action. "Usually when a German machine gun opened up it took several minutes for anyone to return fire because they were all ducking for cover, but with the short burst from machine gun, someone on my side of the ravine returned fire immediately and the machine gun stopped so they were able to get the wounded and themselves under cover. Did I know who was shooting at the Germans?" I said "that was me." It seems my shots were carrying through and past the Germans I was shooting at and into the machine gun position, knocking it out. Except for the one shot that went through my helmet the Germans did not fire after I began shooting!

Robert Maxwell O'Kane |  Foreword |  Dogface Soldier 
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