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| WWII Memoir: The European Theatre |
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I had the privilege of visiting with Paul Childress for the first time in late March 2009. Paul is my grandmother's first cousin and was 86 years old when I visited him. The following memoir, told in his own words, is an honest picture of service. I laughed and cried as I retyped it for him, for inclusion on the Library of Congress website. It's so long I have divided it into two parts, with a link to the 2nd at the end of this one. This blog is dedicated to Paul and to all who have served our country in the armed services. Photos: Paul in 1944 and 2009
World War II
Memories by Paul Childress
Army Life
We were living in Baltimore, MD. I was working for the Glenn L. Martin Aircraft Co., when after one year deferment (because of essential position in warcraft production) I received notice from the Floyd County, VA draft board, to appear for induction into the U.S. military on September 8, 1943. I was placed in enlisted reserves until October 13 to allow time for arrival of our first child. Charles Allan Childress was born September 24, and after release from Johns Hopkins hospital we moved back to the area of Willis, VA, and I reported for active duty at Fort Lee, VA on October 13 into U.S. Army. I was evaluated there and sent to Camp White, Oregon, where I was assigned to 971st Maintenance Engineer Battalion. This was expected to be my military home through army life. Though I was in a noncombatant branch of service, all military personnel were given the same basic training that included all phases of combat. After “settling in” to what was expected to be a period of time long enough for us (GI’s) to have our families move near the Camp, I had Anna and Allan move to Medford where they would remain until I was shipped out. We rented a house there on Effie Street with another couple that also had a baby. Most of the nights when I had no military duties I went to our “new” home on Medford to spend the night. The same situation existed for weekends and I had no problems getting a pass for them.
I will never forget my experience on the rifle range while trying to qualify as “marksman” with the M1 Rifle. Most of the GI’s at least made the minimum score on their first day on the range, and the ones that failed had to return continually until they made the required score. I was on my third trial on the range and still could not make the minimum. My instructors were irked with me and told me I was just “goofing off.” I became so disgusted I watched for an opportunity to switch rifles with the GI next to me, and when the moment came I took advantage of it. With the other rifle I hit the bull’s eye one hundred ninety-seven times out of a possible tow hundred, at three hundred yards. This score qualified me as an expert rifleman. In reviewing my score my instructor remarked, “see there I told you, you were just “goofing off,” to which I replied, “My rifle is worn out. When you weren’t looking I switched rifles and if remember you couldn’t hit the target with my worn out rifle. The officer informed me I would be issued a replacement weapon, but that did not happen, and I carried that clunker into combat.
While in training at Camp White, Oregon I developed an eye infection (in tear duct) that would not heal. At this time we were informed time was near when we would be shipped out for overseas duty, and if we had family nearby, we had better have them back home A.S.A.P. I was eligible for furlough at this time, so I applied for it so I could take Anna and Allan back home to Willis, VA. While on the leave my infection got worse and I was in desperate need of medical attention. Military personnel were not allowed to get treatment from civilian providers. I would therefore have to go to the nearest military medical facility that was located at Staunton, VA. My brother Bill was also at home on military leave at the same time, and he went with me to the GI hospital in Staunton, VA. The hospital staff there checked out my military unit and found out that it was on high alert for shipping out to South Pacific Theatre of operations and I would have to return to it at once. Therefore I was given quick temporary treatment, pain relievers and a quick release so I could be on my way back to Camp White. Even though my leave had been extended my company had left the U.S. by the time I returned, and transferred my records to another Engineer Maintenance Company. When the doctors there examined me they sent me to Hoff General (Military) Hospital in Santa Barbara, California to have surgery on the infected tear duct.
Before I was released from the hospital my second maintenance Engineer Company shipped out and I was left behind in the hospital. I was still in the hospital when the “D” Day invasion occurred in Europe. I was in the hospital for a month while being treated with the new Sulfa drugs and Penicillin. I had an allergic reaction to the Sulfa drug and that caused even more time to be spent in Hoff General Hospital. The antibiotic failed and the doctors finally agreed surgery was the only remaining option.
During the time I was in Hoff General I met some guys who helped relieve the boredom among us. The most memorable one was Sanford Lyall from Laurel Springs, NC. (His father was a Cherokee Indian and his mother was white.) Each morning as doctors were making their rounds, checking their patients, Lyall would put on his long expressionless face, and when the doctors came into view they would see him curled into fetal position, with his arms and hands wrapped around his head, and occasionally glancing at the ceiling as if it were about to fall on him. The doctors would seem puzzled, and would huddle together whispering and occasionally glancing at Lyall. When they left the ward and were out of hearing range Lyall would burst out into a good hearty laugh. He told this tale about his first furlough home: when he returned to his military unit with a bandaged hand, he was asked the expected question, “How did you hurt your hand?”, to which he replied, “There were fourteen members of my family at the dinner table, and there were fifteen pork chops on the platter, and after each plate was served there was one pork chop remaining on the platter. Everyone had almost finished eating and as we were talking there was an electric power failure and the notion struck me to grab that last pork chop; when I did so, thirteen forks hit me in the back of my hand.”
Another one of the patients told us the story of him being struck on a girl who lived with her grandmother near his home; the grandmother didn’t want her grandchild seeing this G.I., and she didn’t hesitate in making her demands known. Then came the time when the G.I. and the girl sneaked a meeting and thought they were safe from Grandma until they suddenly realized Grandma had gotten wise and was headed toward them (as the G.I. described it) with her skirt pulled up about three inches above her ankles, dust a-flying, smoke a-rolling, brain in neutral, tongue in high gear, shouting as she came near, “I’ve told you as nice as I know how; stay away from my grandchild. This time you are going to get a piece of my mind.” The G.I. replied, “I’d rather you didn’t do that”; to which Grandma replied, “and WHY not?” (G.I.) “Do you think you can spare it? (piece of her mind); I’d hate to disfurnish you, you know.”
After my release from Hoff General I was placed in Special Forces in Camp Roberts, California. While in that outfit I got word from home, Allan had pneumonia, and I applied through the Red Cross for an emergency leave to go home to see him. My dad was working through the Floyd County (Va.) Red Cross chapter to get verification of my sick son to justify my request for military leave. The woman in charge of the Red Cross chapter in that area had a longstanding dislike for my dad, and she was defiant about helping my cause. She informed Dad, “all soldiers cannot go home every time some family member gets sick.” Dad replied, “I guess not, but I read in the newspaper last week, President Roosevelt’s son got to fly home from overseas, on a military plane and at taxpayers’ expense, to see his sick dog.”
I didn’t get the leave and was soon transferred to the 65th infantry division in Camp Shelby, Miss. At that time every possible soldier was being transferred into combat units. While in training at Camp Shelby, I got acquainted with the guys who would be fighting with me in Europe a few weeks later. Two of my new acquaintances were Stosh (Polish name for Stanley) Swintkowski from Wilmington, Delaware and Edgar Dowdy from Eugene, Oregon. The three of us became close friends and we were together so much we were given the name “Three Musketeers.” This situation prompted our Platoon officer to assign us the position B.A.R. team, (Browning automatic rifle, a type of machine gun). I was given the position of “gunner.” Stosh was my “observer and directed my fire. Dowdy was the “ammunition bearer.” From this time until the end of the war the three of us stayed close together.
I suppose one of my most memorable G.I.’s was Lowrey Harsila from Fitchburg, Mass. In civilian life his occupation was sparring partner for professional boxers. He was a handsome guy of Finnish descent, blond wavy hair, bright blue eyes, tall (6’+?), wide shoulders, narrow hips, and so muscular he looked like a professional boxer. He had a hard time staying away from beer and very often would come into the barracks “saturated” (as he called it). He had formed the habit of waking me up when he came into the barracks, inebriated after tanking up on beer that he got at the base P.X. His method of waking me was always the same, shaking me and calling (in “slaughtered English”) “hey Chirus, Chirus, wake up, whatcha doing? Sleeping?” C: “I was until some DRUNK woke me up.” H: “Some drunk woke you up, now who would do such a thing as that?” C: You would, Harsila, you’re DRUNK.” H: “I’M DRUNK? How dizya knoo?” C: Your breath smells like a brewery and that nose is lit up like a neon sign.” H: I’ve got halitosis?” C: “Yes, you’ve got halitosis, and you’ve got it bad.” H: Well, it’s better to have halitosis than no breath at all.” C: That depends on whom we’re talking about.” H: “We’re talking about someone?” C: Yes, Harsila, we’re talking about YOU.” H: “Chirus, thaz not nizze to talk about anyone. Chirus, lez zing a lill zong. Lez zing ‘When my mare has turned to silver, will you still be horsin’ aroun.” C: “I don’t know any of your bar-room swill, name one that’s familiar.” H: Lezz zing, ‘Let the rest of the world roll by.” That would sometimes be followed by “I’m alone because I love you.” Sometimes he would sing a solo (which he was was) “When the Doctors Operated on Papa, They Opened Mama’s Male.” Harsila had a great tenor voice, a great sense of humor and everyone enjoyed him when he was sober. Sober or not, he was always considerate of others, and I never knew of him being belligerent or repugnant. He had lost several of his teeth in his profession. Therefore when he was inebriated and dentures were missing he could really slaughter his speech. This “waking up Childress” became such a habit with Harsila (for the short time we spent in Camp Shelby), it became an expected occurrence. Quite often one of our barracks comrades would (before falling asleep) make the remark “I just saw Harsila tanking up on beer at the P.X. again. If I’m asleep when he comes in, wake me up. I don’t want to miss “the show” when he wakes up Childress tonight.” He and I would entertain our barracks buddies with our conversations, usually once weekly. It wasn’t a planned thing, but a habit for Harsila. Once I switched beds with one of the other barracks group and when Harsila woke the wrong guy it was nothing short of hilarious when one of the other guys told him I had been transferred out to some other unit. He eventually found me of course, and the show was back on the road as usual. When we finally got him into bed, his last words (before falling asleep) were, “Wake me up when the war is over.” I often wondered about Harsila. After we returned to the U.S. I tried on several occasions to contact him through the mail service, but railed to ever get a reply. Stosh and Dowdy were in contact with me for several years after we returned to civilian life, but we eventually lost contact many years ago.
Our division (65th Infantry) was shipped to European Theatre of operations in January 1945 where we would be placed on detached service with the armored divisions for the final push through Germany. We went to France on the troop ship “LeJeune,” the ship that was originally a German troop carrier that got trapped in a neutral port (Sweden I think) by the British Fleet. The German Crew scuttled the ship before they abandoned it, and we weren’t told how it got into hands of the U.S.A. where it was refurbished into a Troop Carrier for our country. It was a modern fast ship for that era, however it took two weeks for us to reach our destination (LeHavre, France) because we were traveling in a convoy of slower vessels that were loaded with supplies for our armed forces. That was my first ocean voyage, and I (as all landlubbers) got so seasick we thought we would die. That was the description of seasickness that hasn’t changed over the years. I overheard one such G.I. say, “If we are sinking, I’ll be glad when she hits bottom.” If sinking had ever become a reality the loss of lives would have been disastrous, because most of our preservers were worn out, they were a waist worn inflatable rubber type with a heavy fabric web covering. The frayed condition of the covering revealed deterioration of the rubber inner tube, which was to be inflated by the wearer, in time of need. There was a small canister of c/o 2 attached that was to be activated by a quick opening valve.
We arrived at port of debarkation (LeFavre, France), late evening, January 21, 1945. It was near midnight before we were finally loaded onto the open-air stake body trucks and on our way to a tent camp staging area. There were several of the “tent” camps that were used as staging areas when new arrival military units would await arrival of their military supplies. It was daybreak before we reached our destination, Camp Lucky Strike. To this day, I remember that ride as the most miserable ride of my life. The weather was very cold, and there was no canvas cover over us or on the sides. We stood up packed tightly together, consistently moving around to prevent anyone from getting frost bite from being at the outer edge too long. The center of the group was the most desirable spot where the other guys’ bodies were as a shield. The roads were war torn, narrow and full of “pot holes,” and when we began unloading we looked and felt like anything except a fighting force. Those camps were hastily erected, located miles apart and far from civilian targets. It was a wet season at that time and the fields where the staging areas were located were like an unending MUD hole. Those tents were really cold, and we slept on the folding army cots. We quickly found out the canvas under us wasn’t meant to meet the need of a mattress. There was no such thing as anyone sleeping in comfort even though we slept in our winter clothes, and everyone had two blankets. At first opportunity, I went to our mess hall searching for empty cardboard boxes before they were taken out of camp. I was fortunate enough to find enough to serve as a mattress for my cot. I folded these boxes as flat as possible, took every piece of my clothes and bath towels (2) and even every sock and handkerchief, folded them as flat as possible on top of the cardboard, then wrapped it all with my shelter half (my part of a two-man canvas tent that had the name “pup tent”). We kept our field jackets nearby, and began improvising pillows by rolling the jackets into a roll, trying it together with the sleeves. That solved my sleeping misery, and I slept in comfort as long as we remained in Camp Lucky Strike. We were now into the “roughing it” tactics we experienced in training. Our steel helmets were our “wash basins” and we heated water by inverting the helmet, placing it on a small metal support rack with enough space underneath for the “sterno” canned heat. The fuel in those cans was like a very thick ointment, transparent blue in color and produced a very hot flame. At that time the American armed forces were deployed over most of the world and the job of keeping them all supplied was astronomical. Therefore rations were sometimes a little bit short. This was the case at Lucky Strike. We weren’t starving, but food was rationed when necessary and was expected even though it was for a short period of time. We were served two meals daily, but sometimes there was only one baked potato for some of the last guys in the chow (meal) line. (That was because the cooks that served us would at times misjudge the serving amounts and would run low on food before all were fed.)
Of course everyone was restricted to camp and there were guards surrounding the area to prevent anyone from leaving or any unauthorized entry. The low food situation (and Camp boredom) sparked the ambition of the “Three Musketeers,” and we decided to try our luck at sneaking out of the camp (after dark), and scouting the possibility of bartering cigarettes for food. (We had heard cigarettes were better than money at that place and time.) We had plenty of cigarettes because neither of us smoked and we were issued one carton weekly. We had saved our supply for such an occasion as this. We did sneak out and went to the nearest village on this scouting venture. We quickly learned our information was correct, and our venture was successful. We bartered cigarettes for potatoes, French bread, cider, eggs, and sometimes jelly. Neither of us spoke French, but we were fortunate enough to meet with French people that had enough knowledge of English to solve our handicap of understanding. When we had all the “goodies” we could carry we headed back to Camp, each of us with those long loaves of French bread tied in vertical position under our field jackets. Our field jackets were extra large so they could always be worn over all other clothing, even the heaviest winter wear. They also had a strong draw cord sewn into the waist so they could be tightened to adjust to “fit all.” When we arrived at the camp border one of us would go ahead and clear the way for us to enter. He would give the password to the guard, explain our “mission” and bribe him (with a loaf of bread) not to “see” us. The word of our venture got passed around and sometimes we would find the same GI on guard when we returned. Therefore going out of and back into camp was no problem. The success of our first “barter trip” gave us the incentive to keep it going. Since our tent group was enjoying the “goodies” we brought into out tent on return, it was easy to get cooperative favors from our tent officer. One night we failed to make it back to our unit before revelry. (The night had become so dark our vision failed us enough so as to prevent us finding our land marks.) Therefore we had to wait until daybreak began lighting our way. In revelry that morning our platoon officer reported, “all men present and accounted for,” and after breakfast, he went to Regimental Headquarters and got permission to take our group on a march into the nearby village (aprox. three miles away). The real purpose of the march was to look for the Three Musketeers, Childress, Stosh and Dowdy. However just as they were ready to leave we showed up with our usual load of “goodies” for our gang.
The third night in Camp Lucky Strike, I was first in our tent to realize we were hearing the drone of an aircraft that was a bit different from any we had heard. I made the remark, “I wonder if that’s a German plane, it doesn’t have the sound of an American plane.” I was far from being serious in making that remark, but we learned (when morning came) there really was a German plane over our camp during the night. From that night until we left that camp the German plane “visit” was an expected occurrence and we gave it the name “bed check Charlie.” We always remained in “black out” after dark and we made no effort to shoot down the plane, hoping to give the impression that camp was deserted.
General Dwight Eisenhower visited us at Camp Lucky Strike in February 1945, and on March 2 General George S. Patton arrived and welcomed us into the Third Army and assigned us to the Sixth Armored Division. Our supplies and orders came soon and we then headed for the battlefront. Bu this time most of France had been retaken and most of France’s railway service was now usable. Now for the first time since we arrived on foreign soil, we would have transportation other than our open trucks. Our “luxury coaches” were the popular “forty and eight” (40 men and 8 horses). Those railcars were also open sides, but did have a roof overhead. Our “seats” were a thick straw floor, but this time we could at least lie down and go to sleep, (being extra careful not to step on anyone in case you got up). We were two days and one night on those “forty and eight” rail cars, after which we rode our trucks as usual when not fighting. We had some light fighting in France, and the city of Metz was our biggest battle in that country. During the battle for Metz I observed the silhouette of a man on the pre-dawn horizon, running and carrying what could have been a small machine gun. I quickly got in position and hailed the man, and got when a surprise when he revealed he was a French civilian, and had a violin (in a case) that he wanted to trade for cigarettes. I gave him a pack of cigarettes for the violin, tossed it onto one of our trucks and forgot about it.
After we had gained control of Metz, we continued to move on toward the Siegfried line at the German border. There had been a lull in battle for several days and we were now seeing warm sunny days. This gave us great opportunity to get a shower bath for a change. We were all anxious for a real bath, the “bird baths” had been our only option far too long. Our quartermaster corps had set up a field shower facility on the Moseille River a few miles from Metz. These showers were set up in huge tents, and floors were like pallets used at loading docks. Our “dressing rooms” were the wide open spaces, and walkways were the same type pallets as shower floor. There were no showerheads, but there was a maze of overhead pipes with small holes that gave the same results of a very heavy rainstorm. Portable generators powered the pumps to draw water from the river and gasoline fired boilers heated it. The shower tents were large enough to accommodate a company of men simultaneously. Routine Military procedures are each individual person knows their exact place in assembly. Each person is to get familiar with the person on each side of himself, and in cases where one is missing their space is to be left vacant. Therefore the officer in charge can instantly see if anyone is missing and account for any “empty” space. We each took our clean uniforms and bath supplies from our trucks, assembled ourselves (leaving extra room for each one to leave clothing while we were in the shower) in usual fashion and began undressing to go into the shower tent. While in this procedure we realized we had an audience. There were several French women that had parked their bicycles on a hillside road about two hundred fifty yards from, and approximately thirty feet higher elevation than our position. We didn’t let their presence bother us, even though we knew we were being observed. When our unit left the scene the women were still there observing as usual, only this time they had grown in number as to when we first saw them.
France wasn’t fully cleared at this time and we were very near the time when we would make the final drive through Germany. After several light battles in France we were on trucks at dusk one evening moving closer to the German border when suddenly a German fighter plane came into view directly behind the truck in which I was riding. I was near the cab of the truck and realized time was too short to wait to get off the truck at the back gate. Therefore I went over the side rail and jumped clear of the vehicle. We were on a narrow unpaved road and there was a steep bank that I landed on. I was not prepared for this and when I hit the ground it felt as if I broke every bone in my right leg, and surely my ankle was crushed. However, it turned out I just had a very severe sprain. Those heavy tightly laced combat boots were worth their weight this time. I could have been crippled for life. We were surprised that plane did not strafe us because it was in excellent position to do so. The fighting was beginning to get heavier and the decision was made to stash all excess baggage and personal items in expectation of heavier battles. I had an ankle swollen out of my shoe and there were two other guys with minor injuries, so the three of us were left behind to guard the temporarily stored excess baggage. We unloaded the vehicles in a deserted large French barn, and used the nearby house as our living quarters between guard shifts. We were there so long we began to wonder if our unit had forgotten us or lost the way back to us. Our food rations were now very low, and I decided to go in search of help. I found a piece of board which I used to improvise a crutch and went hobbling toward the main road which seemed to be miles away, but was most like to be little more than two miles. The road where we were staying was a narrow country road and unpaved. We saw no traffic and saw only three people other than ourselves during our stay in this place. The road I went to looking for help was not a main artery, but there was regular traffic on it. However, I sat down and waited until I saw a vehicle bearing the Red Cross sign. I then stepped out and flagged it down. The driver turned out to be a nice French lady and she spoke perfect English. I told her our story, she took me back to the farm post and a few hours later arrived at our door with lots of good food. She brought enough to keep us well until our military unit came to get us. Soon we were at the Siegfried Line, the border between France and Germany. Getting through that barrier was really a hard nut to crack. The steel reinforced concrete barriers were given the name “Dragon’s Teeth.” They were deeply imbedded into the earth and the portion that was above ground was in varied heights and positioned in such a manner, tanks would become trapped in attempt to go through. Blasting the way through was a hard time consuming job, but our bombs, artillery shells and demolition crews got the job done. The “Dragon’s Teeth” were not the only problem we had on that Siegfried line. It was also fortified with bunkers that were given the name “Pill Boxes.” These were constructed of same materials as the “Dragon’s Teeth,” steel reinforced concrete. These “Pill Boxes” were large enough and so well built a gun crew could remain inside very long periods of time without exiting. The “pillboxes,” like the “Dragon’s teeth” were deeply imbedded into the earth and had well designed slits for firing guns. I never heard of one of those pillboxes being burst open, but many were blasted out of the ground. There was an occasion when our forces had blasted one of them out and their gun crew was still inside. We made effort to get the crew to come out and surrender, but they refused. One of our officers called for a heavy maintenance truck that came with an arc welder and began welding the steel door shut. The crew inside realized what was about to take place and they quickly opened the door and surrendered. Our first MAJOR battle was waiting for us after breaking through that line, Saarlautern, Germany, the most fought over city of WWII had changed hands several times, now we would take it for the last time. It was then and there we (our unit) learned of weapons we had never before heard of. The “Screaming Meanie” was strictly a nerve shattering physiological weapon and effective for some people in driving them berserk for short periods of time. The next puzzling sound was that of a very rapid-firing machine gun. That weapon had the nickname “Burp Gun.” It sounded like a four-cylinder motorcycle, full throttle and without a muffler. It was so fast you could hardly touch the trigger and release it quickly enough to prevent firing at least eight to ten shots. This battle gave me the opportunity I needed to SWAP OFF the worn out rifle I had from the beginning of my Army Life. I picked up the rifle of a fallen comrade and threw my old worn out piece under the tread of one of our biggest tanks.
We were the “Spearhead” through Germany and as we cleared the way through we kept on going deeper into enemy territory, leaving mopping up operations for on coming infantry units. After our breakthrough at Saarlautern we were moving faster than we had anticipated, and enemy resistance was beginning to show signs of weakening. As we continued to advance into Germany there was light resistance for two or three days but some occasions of sniper fire. We hadn’t had visual contact with the enemy for about three days before coming to the Saar River and found the bridge had been blown up by the retreating Army to slow up our advancement. We “holed up” in a small deserted village near the Riverbank to wait for our combat Engineers to get a pontoon bridge across for us. There was a similar village on the opposite side of the river and we suspected there were German troops “holed up” in that village, however we had been unable to verify our suspicion and as well as we could determine that village was also deserted. The second day after being “holed up,” one of our groups while patrolling the River bank, found out the hard way that Germans were indeed in that village. The quickly emerged in force and opened fire on our patrol, and began throwing “potato mashers” (hand grenades that were attached to a hollow wooden handle with a small cord form the firing pin to a metal ring around the thrower’s finger. It looked like a potato masher, hence the name). Our patrol was pinned down in wide open view and desperately in need of help. It was a bad decision for that patrol to have ventured that near without more caution and backup support. However the situation now existed and someone had to go for help.
Danny Shea was the smallest guy there and he volunteered to make a dash to summon help. While in the prone position he wiggled out of everything he could leave behind, and then began running as fast as possible, diving onto the ground occasionally (faking having been hit). He would lay motionless for a few moments to divert the enemy, and then dash out again. He made the task fine, got on the field phone and called in field artillery. That got our men out of there, however there was one casualty, a thirty-seven year old guy by the name of Stalburg had been hit in the chest by a thirty caliber projectile. I went to him and stayed with him until the ambulance got there to take him to the field hospital for emergency treatment and hope they could stabilize him for the trip back to the main hospital in France. I was surprised that he remained conscious and talked to me during the time we were waiting. I took a look at his wound, and noticed the hole made by the projectile in his chest was thirty caliber in size, but where it went out in the back the hole was the size of a large hen egg, and froth was forming there indicating his lungs were punctured. He was still conscious when the ambulance left with him, but I have always wondered about the outcome for him. After the war, Danny Shea was awarded a medal for his Bravery in action.
We remained in that village until the way of crossing was in place, however we were now alert to the danger across that river and we placed heavier guard at every strategic place. On a day soon after the fight, we suddenly were alerted to rapid gunfire coming from the German side of the River. When we looked to see what their target might be we saw one of our guys on the upgrade street in front of our quarters, pushing a small keg of wine on a wheelbarrow. His clothing was in a matter of disarray and his staggering walk indicated he was about as drunk as he could get and be able to stand. He had found a hidden keg of wine in one of the houses he was raiding and since he couldn’t drink it all at once he found the wheelbarrow and looted the keg of wine. When he sobered up we pointed out the bullet holes in the concrete wall opposite where he was walking while the Germans were shooting at him. He just chewed his fingernails and kept saying, “OH JESUS.”
After we crossed the River we discovered the Germans had vacated that village during the night and we were surprised not to encounter resistance. We eventually came to the Rhine River and found the bridge had been blown up and our combat engineers were busy trying to build a pontoon bridge for our forces to cross. On several attempts their work was hit by the German eighty-eight artillery fire and it was evident all efforts to get our forces across would be useless under the murderous accuracy of those eighty-eight shells. Darkness was coming on and the Engineers filled the area with artificial smoke. This smoke and darkness was effective in covering the work of getting the bridge completed and I was riding on the third truck that crossed. Little did I consider the possibility, my brother Bill’s combat engineers outfit were the ones building the bridge that we had just crossed, and in the limited vision of darkness and smoke we could not see each other even though we were close enough to have touched hands when I passed by. Bill was on guard at the bridge entrance at the time we went through. We found this out only after the war ended and Bill’s commanding officer located me and brought him to see me in Enns, Austria.
Sometime after crossing the Rhine River we were in a deserted village in the battle zone and while flushing one of the houses for enemy troops I heard a shot fired from the second floor of the house. I made a dash to check it out and met Luther Stump on his way down, holding his left hand with his right. Blood was pouring and two fingers were dangling with only a bit of skin holding them to his hand. I shouted “Stump, what happened?” His answer was ,”I accidentally shot myself.” His explanation didn’t satisfy the officer in charge, and Stump was sent to the hospital with instructions for him to court-martialed. It was not unusual for soldiers to wound themselves in order to get away from the fighting zone.
We were now on the move again and fighting was getting weaker it seemed by the day. One day when things seemed exceptionally quiet for a war zone one of our sergeants asked me to keep an eye out for him while he and his buddy took a nap under a bridge nearby. I answered him with, “We are all just as tired and sleepy as you, so let’s make a deal, I will look out for you if you will do the same for me and we will draw straws to see who goes first.” My reply brought on an argument and reached the point where he told me to take off my glasses, which I quickly did, jerking them off and tossing them into the nearby grass. Before we tangled, Harsila was on the road above us and in a flash he was between us with these words, “Childress, get yourself another one, this one’s mine. I have wanted to give him an attitude adjustment ever since Camp Shelby,” then wham; one punch and the show was over.
As we continued moving on into Germany the “Ghost Towns” became to be taken for granted. We always stayed long enough to “skim” the area looking for enemy soldiers and raiding the properties looking for loot. Such was the case on the occasion when only three of us were near our fighting equipment when a German fighter plane came into view. One of our commanders shouted at me, “MAN THAT EQUIPMENT,” pointing to a pair of twin fifty caliber guns mounted on top of one of our trucks. While making a dash for the “crow’s nest” (gunner’s position) I shouted back, “I’ve never fired one of these.” His snappy reply was, ”Learn quick.” By this time I was in the Crow’s Nest, quickly slamming the bolts and opening fire at the oncoming plane. The twin-fifty’s were filling the space between that plane and me. My tracers were hitting the mark and I was seeing one third of the projectiles, since the magazines were packed with every third round being a tracer, the other two were, armor piercing and incendiary. The pilot must have decided to get no closer to the fire and when he made a left bank turn it exposed the full bottom of the plane and I filled it with those 50 cal. Projectiles. To my amazement and disappointment the plane flew on over the horizon. My ego got some boost when within seconds after the plane disappeared we observed thick black smoke on the horizon at the place the plane went out of sight.
From that point the next two days were easy going and we had experienced very little enemy activity. We eventually came to a halt on a hill overlooking a village that was little more than a mile ahead in our planned path through Germany. It was relatively quiet, and we were enjoying a short rest. Several of our tanks were nearby, with engines shut down while we were all resting and talking. All tanks had their hatches open and operators were standing in the tank with their upper bodies exposed above the hatch. Suddenly one of our tank Commander’s head seemed to explode; a sniper’s bullet had hit the mark. There was a wooded area near us and the sniper had to have been in that wooded area. Immediately all guns targeted those woods and by the time they quit firing that forest looked like toothpick rubble. We then got back into battle gear and continued our push through Germany. We lost several men in that village we had been observing, however the battle only lasted a few hours.
We soon came to the crossing of the Danube River. Here the Germans had gotten ready for us and the insuing battle was fierce and deadly. This proved to be the greatest loss of our original Company than any of the other battles we had experienced. Pre-dawn was the time of choice for us to launch an offensive, and our crossing of the river went well in the darkness of very early dawn. However when we had gotten onto the opposite shore, we had not moved any further than a hundred yards before the enemy launched an attack. Their weapons were mostly rifle and machine gunfire. There was no artillery or mortar shelling being used by either side, but small arms fire was very heavy. We were on our bellies, crawling toward the enemy when a bullet from the German side struck the firing pin of a grenade that Sergeant Michael Evans had attached to the lapel of his field jacket. Realizing he had only seconds to get rid of the spewing grenade before it exploded, he quickly saw there was no place to throw it except into a group of us. Therefore he rolled into a fetal position around the grenade to prevent anyone else from getting hurt. I have never forgotten what my friend’s body looked like after that explosion. Another one of our company to lose his life there was Fred Willis. He crawled ahead of us without realizing it and when he realized the situation he began crawling back to our position. One of our men saw the form of a soldier, coming from the enemy position, and not realizing it was one of our own, shot Willis in the head, killing him instantly. The GI who fired that shot was one of the twin brothers who trained with us in Camp Shelby, and was well acquainted with Willis. When he saw what had happened he went out of control. In the predawn hours when visibility is limited and under the anxiety and stress of battle anything can happen in a flash. The last I heard of the GI who shot Willis, he was in treatment for psychosis. Six members of our original Stateside Company died in that battle. Of course there were several more that died with them, but they were from other military units and recently were assigned to fight with our detachment. Therefore there had been no occasion for us to get acquainted, thus we were like strangers fighting for the same cause.
After the Danube fight we seemed to have found our advancement to be easier. There was less enemy resistance and we were moving faster than expected. These armored fighting units were planned to run a pattern resembling the figure eight in the spearhead through Germany. Therefore there were designated places and time frames in which these units would meet or crisscross in an effort to keep the pattern as much as possible. Our unit decided to take a short cut and go through Muhlhousen hoping to speed up our advancement. (We had gotten a message it had been cleared, however that was not the case.) There was a large cemetery before entering the City, and suddenly there were German soldiers everywhere. They seemed to be rising from the graves because there were so many using gravestones as shields. We did not need to be told what to do here, the house-to-house fight was on, not so much as open space fighting, but more looking out for sniper fire. There I took a P-38 pistol from a German officer that was starting to take aim at one of our officers when he saw the three of us (B.A.R. Team) headed toward him. He lowered his weapon and dashed into a nearby house, with the three of us in hot pursuit. The woman of the house tried to delay us by denying there was a German soldier in her house. While Stosh was dealing with her, Dowdy and I rushed on upstairs after the German Officer. He had stripped off some of his uniform and was in the process of changing into civilian clothes, or looking for a hiding place. I quickly grabbed the P-38 weapon and kept it as a war trophy.
After the house fighting ended we went ot secure a bridge across the street from us, for our advancing military use. Some of our Company guys had gotten there and found the bridge to be “Booby trapped,” fully loaded with TNT and ready to blow. It was now late evening and beginning to get dark. While our demolition crew was removing the explosives (by light of our vehicle headlights) I suddenly saw the silhouette of a man about seventy five yards below us running toward the bridge. In the shadows it looked as if he had one of those “potato masher” grenades in his hand. Some of the other guys saw him about the same time as I and for the first time ever I took aim on a potential person. (I targeted his upper leg, hoping to stop him without killing him.) However some of the other guys opened fire about the same time, and the man went down, but there was no way of knowing which one of us scored a hit. We did know if he had hit the bridge with that grenade the loss of American lives and equipment would have been great, plus the fact the loss of that bridge would have been a bad setback for use by our on-coming military units. Further along we encountered a German Army unit with some tanks and heavy armament, at which time some of our guys were captured and we in turn had captured some of their men. I was guarding some of these captured P.O.W.’s in some kind of vacated factory, when I realized one of the prisoners was watching my every move. I then began staring at him, and he suddenly asked in perfect English, “Do you know me?” I answered, “No, I don’t; am I supposed to?” His answer was, “No, I don’t know you either, but I was just wondering, since we don’t know each other, and neither of us hs done anything to hurt the other; why are we trying to kill each other?” My reply was, “That question has been asked ever since wars began; and I have never heard an answer for it.” We worked out a prisoner exchange with the German force and the prisoner I had the conversation with was I the exchange and I never heard of him again.
Sometime later there was a lull in battle and our outfit was scheduled to get a relief force to take our place so we could go back into France for a break, new clothes, good showers, good hot regular meals and much needed rest. We were all in need of all this, and just couldn’t wait for it to happen. It seemed we could not get a better time to take a few days out of it for these purposes. Under the cover of darkness we proceeded to exchange places with the “Green troops” (no battle experience) that were relieving us. A short time after midnight all details were complete and now our outfit was on the way back into France. A few miles away from the front lines, we halted and took a vote on the question: Do we want to spend the night here, sleep late tomorrow morning, have hot a hot breakfast and then continue our trip back to France, or do we want to keep on traveling now? Everyone voted to stop for the night, and continue our journey the next day. We preferred to travel in daylight so we could see the scenery and observe the marks of war as we traveled. Everything was going well up to finishing the hot breakfast we had dreamed about for so long. While we were eating, our officers came running into our chow (meal) lines, knocking our food out of our hands shouting, “Drop your chow and grab your guns, we’ve been counterattacked.” As fast as possible we were on our way back to the two villages we had just turned over to the “Green” troops. The Germans must have known about our switch of troops and took advantage of the opportunity to over-run the Green troops. When we arrived to take up the fight we discovered we had no heavy fighting equipment. The tanks, artillery pieces and big guns that we left with the new troops were not to be found or were destroyed by the German Army. With only small arms equipment to fight with we were useless against the many German Panzer (tanks). We called for air support and within an hour we saw our fighter planes come onto the scene. There were only four as we could observe from our hilltop position. There were p-47’s and p-51’s in clock formation diving at the enemy tanks. What a relief to see the tide of battle turning to favor us. When the first U.S. plane dived near the ground we observed a stream of fire emerge from underneath the wings. I couldn’t help shouting, “OH MY GOODNESS” they got him with the first round. The words had barely left my lots when we saw that same plane was not on the tail of the first and he likewise displayed a blaze of fire as he made the dive and climbed back up only to dive again at those Panzer units. Those planes kept perfect clock formation like 12, 3, 6, 9 and in a circular spiral pattern like a corkscrew. We learned later, the fire that worried us was something new for our fighter planes. Rockets had been attacked to the underneath side of the wings and they proved themselves that day. After the first four planes spent all their ammunition they tipped their wings at us and flew out of sight. When the first four planes had flown out of sight, four more fully loaded planes came onto the scene and they took over the attack where the first four left. The fighter pilots kept up this routine until every one of those tanks was knocked out of the fight. The pilots had done their work well and to our amazement, didn’t lose a plane.
Now the fight was up to us and we lost no time in getting at it. Sniper fire was our worst enemy now. There was an occasion in that battle (I was not in position where I could see it) when a German sniper that was hiding behind a chimney on a roof cut down a very young American foot soldier with a “Burp” gun. One of the downed soldier’s nearby buddies caught sight of the sniper who fired the gun, and he in turn cut down the sniper with a sub-machine gun and kept on firing his weapon into the sniper’s body until the magazine of his weapon was empty. He then grabbed the body of his fallen companion, placed him in his arms and was last seen by the observer, sitting on the ground with his dead friend on his lap, rocking back and forth, crying like a child. The two villages were between us and the Panzer tanks that our planes had just knocked out. The knocked out tanks were scattered over an open field that I would guess to be forty (or more) acres. There were seventeen of those tanks knocked out by our planes, most of them burning (of the fuel and oil the Panzer had in it) and there were dead bodies everywhere. This is where I got my second war trophy, I took a Lugar pistol and its holster from the body of a German soldier that was lying beside one of the knocked out Panzer tanks. Try to imagine what the muck was like here, many acres of ground, pulverized by the ravages of recent battle. Now imagine the many things that were mixed into the soil, radiator coolant, gasoline (burning), blood, body waste, and the odor of burning flesh. That was an experience I never forgot.
A B.A.R. team is supposed to remain close to each other at all times and instantly be ready to provide covering fire for our troops and defense against the enemy. In most of our battles the three of us fought side by side, using our rifles and took turns carrying the heavy B.A.R. That was the situation in our fight to regain the village of Struth. That particular fight did not require a machine gun set up. WWII in Europe was truly a mechanized war, from our unit. We fought until we were sure it was time to move on in pursuit of the enemy, and then rode our war vehicles until we came to enemy activity. Where there was a call for machine gun set up we did it above ground and for short periods of time. The location of a machine gun team (when fighting) was referred to as a machine gun “nest.” The location of these “nests” got priority attention from the enemy, and every effort was made (by opposing force) to knock them out A.S.A.P. We were told the average life of a machine gunner in that place and time was nine minutes when in action. At night our team always set up the B.A.R. at selected spots and we took a triangle position with our backs toward each other, so we would have three-way surveillance.After the fight at Struth we met very little resistance. We didn’t encounter much of anything other than small arms fire. I don’t remember firing a shot from there to war’s end. We didn’t get another chance to get a break from action until we met the Russian Army at the Enns River, in Enns, Austria, and end the war . . .
Continue to Final Part
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| To add a comment to "WWII Memoir: The European Theatre" |
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| May 26, 2009 |
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| May 26, 2009 |
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| Thanks for sharing, Kathy. It's so important that these stories are told and written down. What an amazing and humble man. What an honor to meet him. |
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| May 26, 2009 |
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Please look up www.witness-to-war.org and tell Paul about that site also. A man named Tom Beaty (tom@witness-to-war.org) is trying to preserve such stories and he can also send things on to the Library of Congress when necessary. I contributed a lot of my dad's WWII writings and photos to both that site and to the Library of Congress.
BTW, on June 4 at 6:30p EDT Tom will be interviewed (briefly) by Katie Couric close to the end of a TV show and he tells about getting the website started. I'm sorry that I don't remember now which channel and I accidentally deleted the message with that info! But you might want to try to tune in. Perhaps the station is mentioned on the website??? |
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| May 27, 2009 |
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Holy cow, that is long! Well, I'll star it now (out of gratitude to you for posting it Kathy, and gratitude to Paul for serving!!) and hopefully I'll get to read it at some point later! |
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| May 29, 2009 |
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Thank you, Darlene! Indeed these are important stories to preserve to our history!
Thank you, Barb! that site looks great, and I will refer back to your link should I decide to do some other postings!
Mike, my HIndu friend ("holy cow"), thank you the star! This is definitely not a blog-sized post, but one I thought some would enjoy, should they have an hour to devote. It really is a fascinating read! |
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| May 31, 2009 |
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Wow.... and Amen. |
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| June 28, 2009 |
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