Gene Brissey - Wartime Autobiography

A Devil in Baggy Pants

-or-

"What Did You Do In the War, Daddy?"

by Eugene L. Brissey

INTRODUCTION

On March 23, 1943, the United States had been at war approximately fifteen months. This fact is not of particular significance, but the fact that I was 18 years old on that date was of great significance to me. I was not old enough to vote; I didn't know I was allowed to protest the war, instigate riots and participate in other such excitement, but I knew I was old enough to go into the service. So, like the typical all-American-boy, I registered for the draft.

I could have avoided being drafted by joining the Navy, or joining anything else for that matter. However, I decided to wait for the draft. One thing for sure I did not want to go into the Navy. Didn't like those stupid-looking bell-bottom Navy uniforms.

Not many weeks passed before I received a letter inviting me to come join the troops. That letter follows this introduction and started me on the way to the 517th Parachute Infantry Regiment. The road to the Troopers was not exactly straight; in fact, I almost landed in the Navy.

When I was called for induction into the service, the men at the Induction Center looked me over and decided that I was a good Sailor prospect. I heard them say Navy and saw the man raise a big Navy stamp to stamp Navy on my papers. Although I knew that they thought they were doing me a favor, I said, "No! Please don't put me in the Navy." Those guys looked at me as though I had two heads (both empty) and went into a conference. Soon they had reached a decision and mumbled something about me just being 18 a little while, so I could have my wish -- the Army. They no doubt decided that anyone dumb enough to prefer the Army over the Navy would probably fall overboard and drown anyway.

There I was, 227 feet (more or less) above sea level with both feet on the ground, with only a few buttons to unbutton, and had never heard of a parachute -- especially one that wouldn't open. For me, they all opened and became, along with my jump boots and jump suit and many other things, fond memories of a great experience. Others, too, have memories, or at least had knowledge of the United States Paratroopers of World War Two. It is well known that Hitler knew we were there, and reports indicate that he called us, "Those Devils in Baggy Pants."

Now, many years later, I'm writing a few of the highlights of my adventures in the Paratroopers. What I write here is for my three wonderful daughters, Denise, Lisa and Gisele. Though I have only covered about ten percent of the thrills, miseries, and other aspects of my 28-month military career, you darling girls will have part of the answer, should you ever ask, "What did you do in the war, Daddy?"

FORT THOMAS KENTUCKY

June 1943

Dressed in the last set of civilian clothes that I would be wearing for a long time. I joined the group aboard the bus for Fort Thomas, Kentucky. Fort Thomas was the reception center where all local recruits were given their first taste of Army life. I didn't exactly join the group -- we were all more or less shoved in like a bunch of Army mules. We didn't mind too much, after all we were chosen by our friends and neighbors, so we had to show them that we appreciated their kindness, intelligence, and ability to select the best.

As the bus rolled into Fort Thomas, I began to have doubts about Army life. One of the first things that caught my overawed eyes was a group of soldiers picking up paper and any other objects which were not a part of the scenery. This was not so bad really, but those guys with the guns, who were guarding the poor souls, looked mean to me. For some reason, at that moment, I thought that I would probably wind up in front of those guns.

We were soon herded into a large building with long rows of bunks, or beds, with metal springs but nothing more. I knew the Army was tough, but it didn't seem right that tender young guys like us should have to sleep like this. Soon a mean-looking General or something like that came in. We knew he was a big shot because he was so mean and had a stripe on his shirt sleeve. Was I ever impressed with such attention so soon. This big shot told us to get the "heck" out to the store house and grab a mattress and other bedding. Can you imagine ... no room service. Must have been the maid's day off, I thought. I found out later that they must have fired all the maids because they never came back.

After we dragged in our bedding, old big shot "one stripe" wanted to play games. He wanted to see how fast we could make those bunks, and the last guy finished could wash dishes for a week. I never did like to wash dishes, so I immediately became the fastest bunk maker in the Army. Old "one stripe" was impressed. I slept in peace.

The next day we became real soldiers. We were issued uniforms. Real honest-to-goodness GI clothes. Now it so happens that in those days that I was a little type guy weighing in at 128 pounds. But I sure fooled those boys who were giving out the uniforms. They gave me everything king-size, and I sure felt like a king in those clothes until I looked in the mirror and then I wondered if those Navy bell bottoms were all that bad after all.

There I stood, a future General or something, and I didn't look good at all. I thought for a moment that I had put the barracks bag on instead of the shirt, but that looked good compared with the pants. But the thing that really impressed me were those shoes ... they were big. Now those shoes which they gave us they said were very fine, I asked for size seven but they gave me size nine. Like I said, I sure fooled those guys.

After my first week at Camp, the General gave me a pass since he didn't need me. So I decided to go home. I sneaked around back alleys so that no one would see me in that uniform but as luck would have it I ran into a bunch of teenage girls. They started to whistle. I thought they were calling their dog, so I looked around to see if by chance I had frightened their dog, but there was no dog. Those sweet things were actually whistling at me. I smiled and walked out into the open and grew into those pants just a little bit more and those shoes felt smaller too.

The folks at home were impressed and wanted to know what I was going to be in the Army. I told them I didn't know since they already had a General who held bunk-making contests.

When I got back to Fort Thomas the clerk who was running the Army also wanted to know what I was interested in doing. I told him that I didn't know, but I didn't want to be in the Navy. He thought that was real funny. I could tell he thought it was funny by the way he clenched his fist to keep from laughing. He asked me if I would like to be a Paratrooper. That sounded pretty good so I said yes. Before I could change my mind he gave me a statement to sign. It read as follows:

I had given up my chance to be a General and joined the greatest, most daring, the toughest outfit in the service. The folks at home thought I had lost my mind for sure. My best girl, Edith Moore, must have given some thought to trading me in on some Four "F" type.

I managed to keep off KP while at Fort Thomas but did learn to pick up cigarette butts, paper and a few other objects. I also found out that the big shot with one stripe was just a Private First Class which is next to nothing unless you are a Private Last Class as were all of us who learned to build a bed out of an arm load of bedding and a bunk with springs. Actually, that bed was very comfortable.

Army food wasn't too good in the beginning. The rolls that they gave us they said were very fine, but one rolled off the table and wounded a friend of mine. And the coffee that they gave us they said was very fine, it was good for cuts and bruises and tasted like iodine.

In late June 1943 I visited home for one last time before being shipped south for the real thing, basic training with the wild and rough paratroopers. One of the last things I remember of this last visit was Ole Edie putting on my oversize shoes and doing a dance. Man was that funny ... like an average size man with his feet poked into two Volkswagens.

CAMP TOCCOA GEORGIA

June 1943 was nearing the end when the selected few departed Fort Thomas for the deep South and a try at being paratroopers. I was one of 21 who thought that being a paratrooper was the best way to do our bit for the war effort. I must say that at that time most of us had very little knowledge of what the Army was like and even less of what war was like. Still, we felt rather important in our oversize uniforms, most away from home for the first time and for me at least it was my first memory of being on a train.

On a bleak afternoon a couple of days later we arrived at Camp Toccoa deep in the red mud of Georgia. It was easy to see why Sherman, or was it Sheridan, went through Georgia so fast, there was nothing worth stopping for. But, we stopped and climbed from the train with our only possessions in our barracks bags. It was here that I received my first real taste of Army methods. From up front somewhere someone called my name; I said "here" and some other clown screamed at me as though I had stepped in his mess kit, "When your name is called you say 'Here, sir' and don't forget it." I didn't forget it because I still remembered those boys at Fort Thomas picking up paper with a gun in their back.

We rode in trucks through the dismal area of this Camp in the red mud and soon received our assignment to barracks. The barracks, our new home, were long rough buildings with a row of double bunks along both sides. The Camp seemed deserted, and we later learned that all the troops were on the rifle range firing their rifles. We had joined an outfit which had been in training for several weeks, and we were to be used as replacements for those who had not been able to make it with this tough outfit called Paratroopers. What chance did we have?

We soon found that our chance of staying with the paratroopers was very slim. During the next few days, we were given strict physical exams and a few other tests designed to eliminate a few boys who thought they were already in the outfit that wore the high boots. Several were eliminated early and sent to other parts of the service. I was told that I was too small since I weighed only 128 pounds. Of course I was shattered and asked for a chance. I told them that I had been going to a lot of parties and not getting much sleep just before I came into the service. They didn't seem to believe me but gave me another chance with what appeared to me to be just a delay. I am sure they thought I would not pass the other tests.

To me the next real test was jumping from high towers in a parachute harness and sliding to the ground in a big hurry. The guys ahead of me didn't do very well; they appeared to be afraid to jump from the tower and when they did they forgot to count or did something else wrong. When my turn came I could understand why. That was a frightening thing to do. The instructor put that harness on me and told me to jump out that door, make a half turn, count to three and keep my eyes open. It was now or never so, with all the courage I could muster, out I went. The next thing I knew I was on the ground looking into the face of a rough looking Lieutenant who said, "You did a fine job." I was now a member of the 517th Parachute Infantry Regiment, and so was one other of the 21 who made the trip to the land of the red mud.

The rest of that first week was very slow and easy with little or nothing to do. I know now that it was just a chance for a last rest until the end of World War Two.

Friday of my first week at Camp Toccoa was one I will never forget. The one thing that made it so was the return of the troops from the rifle range. These troops were dirty, tough-looking, big, and in my estimation well-trained. What a picture they made as they stood in formation, slapping those rifles around from one position to another on command from the officer in charge. Soon they were dismissed and charged the barracks with shouts of all kinds. It sounded to me as though they were charging a bunch of Indians in a cowboy picture. I watched them come into the barracks and wanted to stay out of their way, but they wanted to celebrate their return by telling of their feats on the range. I was even invited to listen.

The loudest loudmouth of them all was a short stubby guy from North Carolina. He was happy, to say the least, and I soon learned why; he had made the best score of all those from our bunch. This was my introduction to Clarence Billy Jones, better known as C. B. He took me under his wing and told all about his scores and showed me how to take the rifle apart and put it back together. This in itself seemed like an impossible task, but I soon learned that it was simple after a little practice. From this day C. B. was to play a large part in my military experiences.

At this time I thought I was well on my way to becoming a real fighting man. However, on Sunday morning my career had a setback. As I lay in my bunk, some rude character came up and informed me that I was supposed to be on K.P. I wondered how he figured that out, and he wanted to know why I hadn't read the bulletin board and found out for myself. What's this bulletin board kick I wanted to know, so he told me -- along with a few other things that wouldn't look good here. I didn't go on K.P. but instead received another thrill in my new career. I was about to resume my Sunday relaxation when some other spoilsport came in and told me that the Sergeant wanted to see me. Not everyone got such an invitation, I was sure, so I ran right in.

The Sergeant informed me that I was, as of now, Latrine Orderly. What, only here one week and already assigned to such a position. I'll admit that I didn't know exactly what to do, but I did know what a latrine was and no doubt that "orderly" was an important position of inspection or supervision. I walked proudly to the latrine and looked for someone to supervise but found the place empty. So, I inspected the joint and went back to bed. (I later learned that a Latrine Orderly is supposed to clean the place.)

As I lay there thinking of the fine title now bestowed upon me, I was further honored by a visit by a real live Lieutenant. He told me of another responsible job that needed attention. This time I was assigned to watch the store room, or did he say clean it up -- of course not, a Latrine Orderly should not clean a store room. I decided that I should watch the place, so with peace of mind I wrote eight letters. A nice Sunday even though I could not stay in bed.

As I look back, I wonder how I managed to live through that weekend without being placed on K.P. for a month.

The next two months were spent running, eating and sleeping, mostly running. This initial paratroop training was designed to make men of all who had the good fortune to keep up with the schedule. Many men fell but got up and ran some more. My main trouble was not physical; I ran before breakfast or any other time, but I couldn't keep in step. This was necessary so I would do everything I could to stay in the rear in hopes that no one would see me, but they always did and fussed at me until I was ready to quit. They didn't seem to understand that I was new in the outfit. One morning I got all the way in the rear of the column, but much to my dismay they turned us around and I found myself leading the whole company. This was very different, because I didn't see any heads jumping up and down and from that day forward I could keep in step.

CAMP MACKALL NORTH CAROLINA

Summer 1943

My stay at Camp Toccoa was short, but definitely not sweet. It seemed that every effort was made to kill each of us. Now that I look back it is easy to see that all that tough training was very necessary to prepare us for the things to come. It was also obvious that the training had only begun.

In early August 1943 we were transported to Camp Mackall, North Carolina. I was surprised that we were not required to run all the way there; but as it turned out, we only walked the last few hundred yards. The change was really something, from red mud to the sand hills. This place had more sand than anything, in fact there was not much else other than pine trees.

One thing was about the same, our barracks. Two rows of double bunks inside a flimsy building that barely kept out the elements. In winter we warmed the place with two iron stoves. Actually, the camp was rather nice and cozy situated there among the tall pines and sand dunes.

Military training began in earnest at Camp Mackall, and we wondered when we would finally jump out of an airplane. Although we might have wondered, we had no time to worry about it because we were kept busy from daylight to dark, and sometimes after dark. First thing every morning we lined up for roll call and then ran for several miles. Then came breakfast and a full day of physical training and all types of combat training. Late in the afternoon we returned to Camp and left our guns and packs and then ran a few more miles. On these runs many men passed out from exhaustion but always managed to get up and run some more the next time. I had no trouble keeping up with all the rest and soon gained about 25 pounds of pure muscle. I was no longer a 128 pound little boy hoping to be allowed to stay in the paratroopers. The training was tough, but I liked it.

I soon had learned to fire the rifle as well as C.B., and I could take it apart and put it back together with my eyes closed. I was proud of the rifle and spent much of my brief spare time cleaning it. In fact, it seemed that we were cleaning our shoes, rifles or barracks during most of our spare time except Sunday which was a day of badly-needed rest.

Much of our training was with live bullets which made it seem just like war. One of the worst things was running along a narrow path, climbing fences, and going through creeks of filthy water while some nearsighted guy shot close to us with real bullets. I jumped in one of the creeks and went under water, man did that stuff taste bad. Some pour souls didn't quite make it, but no one got shot; some wished they had because the training was getting too rough. We had to crawl under bullets and barbed wire for about two hundred feet, and those bullets were pretty close to the ground.

I enjoyed throwing hand grenades more than crawling under bullets; in fact this was somewhat like playing baseball. We had to throw at targets at various distances with "dummy" grenades. This looked easy to me, so I said so. Unfortunately, our Sergeant (Sergeant Craig) did not appreciate my talking about how easy it would be to hit those targets. He bet me two dollars that I couldn't hit them all, so I bet him. After all, it would be worth two dollars to get him off my back. The Lieutenant came along arid this big-mouth Sergeant told him about the bet. The Lieutenant was a smart officer, so he wanted to win two dollars also.

Of course, I had to bet him too. I couldn't afford to lose four dollars, and I was worried about beating these superiors. Anyway, I started throwing grenades and hit the nearby targets without much trouble, but the worst was yet to come, and everyone was sure I couldn't hit the others. Everyone but me that was, so I threw those long ones right on the target. I won four dollars, and didn't make an enemy.

The training continued, and we became a little tougher each day, but Some of the big guys didn't seem to get the message. The very nice Sergeant, for one, thought he was really rough. He wanted me to wrestle him ... well, he was an old guy, about 25 years old, so I figured that anyone that old should be a little slow. We started a good-natured-type wrestling match, and by some chance every time he came at me I gave him a flip over my hip. He eventually shed a little blood, and decided that we had had enough. This suited me because I had a few bumps myself. This sort of thing was all in fun and a part of the training to make men of kids.

During late Summer in 1943, I received one of my biggest thrills in the Army. I was promoted to Private First Class ... a real live PFC. I was so proud that I sewed one stripe on my sleeve. Only one because this was all I had at the time, and I had found it lying around somewhere and had carried it around for several days. Not many days expired before I had one on each sleeve and fully realized that there were more important things in the Army than being general. As I recall, being a PFC meant five or ten dollars more each month, but it may have been only four bucks more. Anyway, it was worth it, and, after all, what could a young guy who was already receiving fifty dollars every month do with all that extra money. Being a PFC didn't give me any more work nor more responsibility, but it sure looked better than "Pvt" in the return address on my letters. Besides that, it gave me a good reason to try harder and not goof up. One goof and they could take away that stripe. That would be terrible or worse, so I didn't stray too far off course.

Food was always an item of extreme interest, and the mess hall was always a place to stay away from except at meal time. However, very few, if any, privates or privates first class managed to escape kitchen police (K.P.) duty. I did my share of potato peeling and pot washing. Even had the mess sergeant chase me once or twice to get me back to the kitchen. This K.P. stuff really wasn't bad, but it was degrading to a PFC ... and privates. There happened to be a rather uncouth mess sergeant in our mess hall who made a couple of enemies. One night when the mess sergeant and some of his poker-playing buddies were playing poker, one of those enemies approached the window with a rifle. He contemplated his target, the mess sergeant, and in his words told later, "I took careful aim and squeezed the trigger ... I knew I had him by the way he jumped." Life can be rough and long, but death is permanent.

FORT BENNING GEORGIA

September 1943

The time had finally come for the 517th Parachute Infantry Regiment to become a real parachute outfit. We had already discovered that becoming a paratrooper meant much more than jumping from a tower or, for that matter, jumping from a plane. We had many weeks of very rough and tough training behind us when we arrived at Fort Benning, Georgia, in September 1943. But, we were not finished with pre-jump training yet. We spent two more weeks running, doing pushups, jumping from towers and going through dozens of other exercises designed to make us strong enough and smart enough to jump from a plane and land via parachute. One of the most interesting and sure as heck one of the most important phases of our training was learning to pack a parachute. Packing a parachute meant placing a rather large chute into a real small package in such a manner that it would open when we jumped from the plane. We were paired in teams of two since packing a chute is a two-man job when you know little or nothing about it. I managed to be paired with a fine young guy who was also more intelligent than the average bear ... I mean paratrooper. Really, most people thought bears and many other "dumb" animals were smarter than paratroopers. This was never proved however.

Well, back to parachute packing. This brighter-than-average trooper to be was Roger Bender from Bloomington, Indiana. He, too, was to play an important roll in my military career or at least he was to share many experiences with me and will never be forgotten. Roger and I worked well together and packed ten chutes that opened, five for him and five for me. Fortunately, we didn't pack any that didn't open although we were told not to worry about it because if one failed to open we could take it back and get another one.

Much of the training was difficult compared to packing chutes though not as interesting. One of the less interesting bits was trying to learn to guide the chute after we jumped and the chute had opened. We were hooked into a harness and had to swing out from a tower and maneuver ourselves back. Sometimes I did, other times I didn't. It was during this exercise that I learned another meaning of PFC. I was hanging out over thin air trying to get back on the tower when the instructor yelled, "Praying for Corporal, huh?" I wondered what he meant so he said, "You're a PFC and that's what all you PFC's are doing." I wondered if he thought my chances were slim while watching me dangle out there kicking like a mixed-up chicken.

The closest thing to jumping from a plane was dropping from a tower about 200 feet high. To do this we were placed in a parachute and attached to a wire which pulled us to the top of the tower. The tower had four arms sticking out from the top each having a number. one through four. After pulling four guys up there. some big shot standing safely on the ground would yell ... release number one. or number four or number something or other. If you were lucky. you might remember your number and be ready. Being ready was important because you had to guide the chute so that it moved away from the tower or else you could wind up in a broken mess by crashing into the tower. This was easy enough during the day. but they couldn't let it go at that so we had to drop from up there at night also. This became a lot more tricky because we were required to guide the chute away from the tower by looking at a light on the ground. When we reached the top this guy on the ground would yell ... number so-and-so do you see your light ... and if you saw it you said "yes" and the light holder would say ... release number whatever. This is where the problem started because you had to immediately guide the chute toward the light. When I got up on the number four arm I lost my cool just a little and when he yelled, "Number four do you see your light?" I screamed "yes" when in fact I didn't see anything. But, I knew that yes was supposed to be the right answer. The guy said to release number four and I pulled on those guide lines so hard that tower did not even come close. Despite the fact that I did not see the light I landed right on top of the fellow who thought he was so safe there on the ground.

As I stood there happy to be in one piece I heard the question ... number one do you see your light ... and the answer was yes. Release number one ... a moment of silence and then crash. screech. bam or something like that. Then a lot of people started screaming all over the place. Believe it or not their main concern was whether the chute was damaged. They seemed to care little for the poor dope who guided his chute into the tower. We quickly moved in to see who was dead or dying and found that it wasn't a dope and he wasn't dying. It was Private Peter Racich in fine shape and ready for anything except another trip up that tower.

By now we had been issued jump boots, and to say we were proud of those boots would be an understatement in a big way. A trooper is proud number one of his boots and then proud of being a trooper so that he can wear those boots. We were the only military types with authority to wear the jump boots though a few others tried and had them cut from their feet by enraged paratroopers. We tucked our pants into the tops of those boots and knew we could lick the world as soon as we got a chance ... the chance was coming all too soon.

Roger and I packed our chutes for the first time for real. The next day we would make our first jump. I rushed to finish the packing because I had permission to go into town to meet my aunt and uncle who had come to see me make my first jump. This was quite a thrill because they had brought my girl friend with them. I suppose they wanted to see me one more time just in case that chute didn't open. We spent a few hours together in Columbus, Georgia, just outside Fort Benning and then back to the base for me. I tried to sleep and probably did. The next day came quickly and turned out to be a windy day. We couldn't jump in this kind of weather, so we just sat around waiting. My aunt, uncle and Edie were there waiting too. Big deal. Finally, the weather got better, and we left for the planes and struggled to get the chutes on. We wore two chutes, the second was smaller but was designed to save your life just in case the big one didn't open.

We were soon airborne, 24 troopers to each plane, and headed for the jump field. On the first run across the jump field 12 of the guys were supposed to jump, and they did. I was in the second group, and I had a horrible feeling as I watched those boys leave the plane with nothing but a parachute and a lot of air between them and the ground. Those in the second group had little time to worry about the first group. Very soon the jumpmaster called for us to stand up and hook up. We lined up from the door of the plane in a line and hooked the static line to a cable in the top of the plane. We were not required to pull a rip cord because the static line hooked inside the plane pulled the back pack of the chute and pulled the chute from the pack, and with any luck at all the chute opened. As I stood up and hooked up, I felt as though I might faint. I wondered what I was doing there. Then I thought, "come on boy you can't give up now." That was the end of any doubt which might have been in my mind.

We jumped, and the most thrilling moment of my life came when I looked up and saw that beautiful white parachute billowing above my head. I took several pieces of paper from my pocket and dropped them hoping that the people on the ground would notice. But, evidently no one noticed. Floating down was a great thrill and the landing was smooth enough. The first one was over. My "family" went back to Ohio; and during the next four days, we made four more jumps and earned our paratrooper wings. When they gave us those wings we knew for the first time that we had really made it as one of the greatest, a real paratrooper.

CAMP MACKALL NORTH CAROLINA

October 1943 - February 1944

Back to the land of sand and pine trees for more running and more jumping from airplanes while in flight. We ran and trained a lot and jumped six more times. Each jump became more difficult, and the feeling among the troops was that the more we knew about jumping the more frightening it became.

Jump number seven started out just like all the others, but about 50 feet from the ground my chute lost it's air or something. and I hit the ground so fast that those watching thought that I had had it. The ambulance came rushing over to pick up the pieces. The effort was wasted because I had made the best tumble and roll that my training had been able to instill in my mind. I felt no pain, and, in fact, I had not been hurt at all. If there had been any doubt about the need of all that training, I lost the doubt about half way through that long tumble.

The next big moment came as we prepared for our first night jump, We wondered how it would be since there would be no way to see the ground so that we could get ready for the landing. It was very important to have the knees slightly bent and the toes pointed slightly down just at the moment of landing. In the dark we would have to be ready for impact as soon as the chute opened. We had trouble finding the jump zone, and we became more concerned as we flew around trying to find the place to jump. We, troopers lost some faith in the Air Force as we sat there waiting for the pilot to find the spot to dump us. Finally, the red light came on which was the signal to stand up and hook up. In a matter of seconds the green light flashed and out we went. I found myself feeling for the ground with my toes and wondering what would happen when the ground and I did meet. Sooner than expected, I smashed into the ground in a pretty good position and was very happy to escape without a scratch.

Being a paratrooper was not all training and jumping. We did go into town occasionally, and some of the boys enjoyed themselves a little too much. No matter what we still had to be up and in formation around daybreak each day. On occasion. some of the boys were barely able to stand up. This plus the fact that we were a little late getting into formation would make the officers lose their cool. One morning the Captain really gave us a hard time and told us. "Tomorrow morning I want to see you here on time; when that whistle blows I want to see those doors fly off that barracks as you come out." We usually did what we were told. so the next morning the doors flew off as we smashed through them without bothering to open them. The Captain was surprised. I'm sure, but he didn't say a word ... just looked with wonder and a little pride.

Christmas 1943 was a few days off, and I was facing my first Christmas away from home. There was no chance of going home, so all that I and the many others who were a long way from home could do was look forward to a turkey dinner in the mess hall and a lonely time in the barracks. I sat there on my bunk looking kinda sad no doubt, nothing to do but get used to the fact Christmas away from home just had to be. It did have to be, but it didn't have to be all that bad because I had already received an early Christmas present. Well, maybe not a Christmas present really, but I had been promoted to Corporal. The Lieutenant who had bet me two dollars that I couldn't throw those hand grenades into all those targets had promoted me. I wondered if my baseball ability had made any difference.

Anyway, as I sat there in gloomsville, Ray Helms, whom I really didn't know very well, came up to me and asked if I would like to go home with him for Christmas. With some reluctance I accepted. This was the beginning of a lasting friendship. Only a few guys really become friends in the service, but Ray, along with Roger and to a lesser degree C. B. Jones, were to become closely related to my brief Army career.

Christmas 1943 was one of the most enjoyable ones I ever had. I went home with Ray, and his older brother, Troy, who was an invalid, and his parents who obviously were relatively "poor" people treated me as one of their own. I fell in "love" with the whole family. They gave me presents and lots of good North Carolina type food. I had also bought small presents for the family, and the Christmas cheer was all around the house. Christmas away from home was not bad at all.

Troy Helms, though paralyzed from his waist down, could move around the house with ease. His arms and shoulders were very strong and his mind was sharp and his attitude was the greatest. That boy, a little older that Ray and he was a joy to be with. He enjoyed life and seemed to be dedicated to helping others do the same. Mr. and Mrs. Helms were not far behind in this respect, and I was always welcome in their home after that beautiful Christmas and spent many nice weekends with Ray and his family.

In the cold of winter we were again loaded into trains and transported to some God forsaken mud hole in Tennessee for a month or two of war games. This had to be the most horrible thing that could face a bunch of troops short of actual combat. The first night in Tennessee was spent in tents in pouring rain. We were wet, muddy and miserable. It gets cold in Tennessee in the winter and the rain made it almost unbearable, or so we thought at that time.

Prior to leaving Camp Mackall, I had been requested to volunteer for a special detail. To be forced to volunteer for anything is the worst thing that can normally happen to a G. I. However, I soon learned that this special detail for which I had been picked was the greatest break in my short career. I was pulled from that mud hole and sent to a big dry tent, temporarily promoted to Staff Sergeant, and given a job of helping to control and process so-called war prisoners back to their outfits after they had been "captured." I ate well and slept in comfort while my outfit was out in the mud, mess and snow. I felt guilty to some extent and wondered why I was picked for such great duty. I suppose I even feared that someone might have thought I was too soft to make it in the mud and cold, but that couldn't be the case because no one ever cared whether a G. I. could make it or not ... so just lucky was I.

After about six weeks of mud maneuvers, I learned that my Regiment, the 517th, was being returned to Camp Mackall. They didn't send for me, so I asked permission to be relieved from my temporary assignment so that I could rejoin my outfit. Rumors indicated that the 5l7th was to be sent to Europe; I didn't want to miss the trip. After two or three days of riding trucks and jeeps, I found the ole paratroop outfit camped somewhere in another Tennessee mud hole, though not nearly as bad as before. The guys thought I was crazy for coming back, and I soon learned how lucky I had been to miss the mess they had been through.

The food had been strictly field rations which was a bad way to go. Ray suggested that we go looking for a farm house in hopes of finding something to eat. We evidently thought someone would just take us in and feed us. Or, of course, we could get shot. Anyway, off we went in search of some form of civilization. We spotted a farm house and arrived just before dark. We knocked on the door, and a young wife came to the door and with relative calm asked what we wanted. We told her that we had been out in the field for a long time without good hot food and would like to buy something to eat.

She was alone with her two small children, but her husband would be home soon so she let us in and proceeded to cook eggs, potatoes and some other goodies for us. If she was afraid of US, it didn't really show. This made me feel great because I figured that Ray and I were two good guys. We really enjoyed talking with the little kids, and no doubt they were impressed by two rather dirty type paratroopers. Soon the husband came home and showed little emotion at finding two G: I.s there with his wife and children. I've often wondered how he and she really felt. The only thing that I will remember is their hospitality and kindness. Looking back to the days of World War Two, their actions were rather typical of the way people in many parts of the world treated the boys in the service. We ate and visited and gave them much more money than they wanted. They wanted none, but it was obvious that they had little enough for themselves. Thus ended the Tennessee maneuvers and back to Camp Mackall we went to go through our final phase of training prior to a trip to Europe.

We made a few more jumps, including one more at night, and we seemed to have a few more free weekends. I visited with Ray's family, and Ray and I met a few nice girls Who were remembered later only because they sent Cookies and letters while we were overseas. This, too, was a way of life in World War Two ... you could meet a girl one time, talk and visit briefly, say good-bye after knowing her only a few hours, and she would send cookies as though she were an old friend. Those Who missed those war days were lucky in a way, but they missed a nation-wide feeling of friendship that we may never see again.

Back on the train again and this time leaving Camp Mackall for the last time. We arrived at Camp Patrick Henry knowing that our time had come to be shipped out. We were on our way to Europe.

While at Patrick Henry I observed my first real display of bad feelings between the blacks and whites. I knew there had always been a problem between the two races, but I had been spared any actual wild demonstrations of the hatred or whatever existed. I knew there were no blacks in the paratroopers, but I never really wondered why. Apparently, they weren't asked to join. Very likely, this had little or nothing to do with the fact that a small war started right there between the blacks and the whites. I was in the middle of it for a while with bottles, rocks, and a few other things flying through the air. I soon realized just how stupid this was and got the heck out of there fast. Some were not so lucky and landed in the hospital. I wonder if they took the blacks to the same hospital ... they bled the same color of blood, I noticed.

A few days later we were marched to the seashore where many of us saw our first ship. As we got nearer to the General Richardson, our ship, I smelled something very strange but nice. Perfume was all around us. What could this be ... maybe a good-bye party group or something like that. It was not really like that because that good smell was coming from about six hundred WACs (Women Army types) and their luggage which was soon hauled aboard by the boys in my company. For 14 days that boat never stopped rocking.

With the WACs all settled aboard ship and the paratroopers all excited about the sweet company they made, we sailed from Newport News, Virginia, bound for Naples, Italy. Within 15 minutes there was only one WAC left free ... free that is from the clutches of a paratrooper. This extra one I kinda latched on to, or was it the other way around. Well, I needed a mother type, and she looked as though she might be looking for a son. She taught me a couple of card games; and after I recovered from the excitement of that, I started wondering what else could be done aboard ship. It was obvious that the WAC hunt was over because every one had one trooper hanging on and two more waiting on the side lines just in case.

Those of us with nothing better to do were required to go to the ship commissary for candy, gum, lifesavers, and other goodies for the troops in our compartment of the ship. We each gave our orders, and for two or three cents an item we could get most any type of sweets. Roger Bender and I noticed that many of the guys were so interested in chasing women that they never gave an order for the goodies. We decided to go into business for ourselves. We bought loads of stuff from the commissary each morning and strolled among the guys and gals selling it for two or three cents profit per item. In the two weeks on the ship we earned over one hundred dollars each ... and stayed out of trouble.

Our ship was one of about twenty in the convoy to Naples. Several of the ships were responsible for protecting the troop ships from submarines and German gun boats. The ships literally weaved their way across the ocean to avoid becoming a target for the German submarines. One morning we went on deck to find that we were all alone in the middle of the Atlantic. Our ship had engine trouble and had been left to shift for itself. After the engines were running again, we felt a little safer but still expected to be shot out of the water at any moment. What a waste of WAC that would have been. The ship's captain must have thought about that himself because he poured on the power and we sailed in a straight line and caught the other ships before dark.

On Memorial Day afternoon we landed in Naples Harbor and got off that boat as soon as we could. No self-respecting paratrooper could enjoy being on a ship except, of course, the six hundred or so who had a WAC for company. We marched through the streets of poverty stricken Naples and marveled at what we saw. It was terrible with beggars everywhere trying to get a few pieces of money to feed their families. Bomb destruction was evident on all sides. This city and her people had suffered long and hard under the German guns. So this was war ... war that the American people would not have to see nor endure. Large piles of brick and stone which was once beautiful buildings left no doubt in the minds of this bunch of G. I.s as to whether we were now in the war zone.

We were taken to our camp area which was down in a huge volcano crater. Ray and I bunked together and went into town together. The streets of the city were loaded with people selling anything they could get their hands on that someone else wanted. We had to fight them off. These peoples were slowly starving to death so any profession was considered honorable. The turning point in the war had to come for them with the coming of the American troops and the expulsion of the Germans. The people of Napoli would survive and partly so because we left several of our dollars there.

Our stay in Naples was rather short since we were needed on the battle fields surrounding Rome. We were loaded aboard LSTs (Landing Ships Troops, I think) and spent one cool night lying on deck while we were being transported up the Tyrrhenian Sea. We landed at Civitavecchia, Italy, near Rome and. charged toward the front lines through dirt, rubble and. German prisoner s. Our first night near the front was very exciting. We could hear the guns firing in the distance and wanted very much to know what was going on, but could see nothing. The next morning we advanced toward the real war and soon found it. Bullets were flying all over the place, and I couldn't tell for sure just who my friends were. We managed to crawl under bullets to a barnyard and kept on crawling through the area where cows had spent long hours before. A lot of "dirt" won't hurt you I soon found out. I also discovered that hair started to grow on my chest (must have been the fertilizer ), and the hair on my head started to turn white. This I mean.

At this time I was the assistant squad leader which meant, among other things, that I had to bring up the rear of the column of troops. As we crawled through the cow playground, we found that we had to go down a hill to get to where we thought the Germans were. The guys up front started. down the hill through a fence. As I, along with the man in front of me, started over the fence, the Germans started shooting right into us. We crawled back into the cow piles. Oh! war is hell, we decided. The worst part of this particular battle was over the hill, so I decided that's where this other guy and I should be. I said, "Let's go." He said, "No." I asked why. He said, "I don't want to get shot." He had a point. I thought about that for a few seconds and decided that we would go anyway. He still wouldn't. So, I told him to crawl back into a cow pile and rot. I started down the hill and that boy changed his mind and followed. We were making very good time when a hail of bullets flew all around us. We fell like the best movie stunt man and rolled as far as we could. The Germans must have thought they had us because they stopped shooting. We got up and ran to where the other troops were, and I crawled behind a tree that immediately became the target of a machine gun. I crawfished out of there and hid the best I could as we fired our guns like a bunch of cowboys and Indians. Soon the Germans retreated and our first day of war was over except for an occasional shell burst nearby during the night.

The next day we were told to chase the Germans out of a small town. We had little success, so some tanks came to help us. My little group of about twelve troops were assigned to clear some buildings on a hill outside of town. We approached the buildings with more of the cowboy and Indian stuff and the Germans took off. It was here that I smelled human blood for the first time. Unfortunately, an Italian man who lived in one of the buildings had been badly shot. Other members of the family were praying and screaming and no doubt cussing us and the Germans at the same time. There's no way to describe the sorrow and futility that I felt at that time. We arranged to have our medics take care of the man and joined the tanks and other troops and stormed the town. Bullets were flying in all directions and what made it worse was the fact that the bullets could be seen going through the air. One of five could be anyway, because they were tracer bullets. Tracer bullets are on fire as they fly from gun to target. With guns firing so fast the air was full of tracer bullets, and we knew there were many times that many that made no light as they searched for something to hit. What a feeling not knowing for sure which way those bullets were going. Somehow, we made it, and the Germans left town in a rush. We were hungry and tired and expected to find a place to sleep in town. We were given some food and orders to move out. This was very disappointing, but we left the town and slowly moved into the hills. It was so dark that we had to hold to each other to keep from getting lost. This was frightening to say the least and the most eerie feeling I had ever experienced. Around midnight as we wormed our way through the brush on that hill, a most ghostly and ghastly light began to appear in the northern sky. Such a sight would have to be seen to believe, and coming under the conditions under which we were existing at that time, it was overwhelming. I have never seen such a sight and never expect to again. After what seemed like hours of fright and wonder, we decided this unbelievable, rolling light was the aurora borealis, or northern lights. We spent the night in the hills with Germans all around us, but we didn't bother each other and the next morning they were gone.

The battle of Rome was over, but we continued up the coast to Grosseto where we had our last big fight in Italy. This I remember because of C. B. Jones. We were in a tight spot for a while and had to do a lot of maneuvering to stay alive. I asked C. B. to go to a certain position and he screamed, "What are you trying to do, get me killed?" The strain of war was getting to the little guy. Most of us, including C. B., came through in good condition and were relieved and taken back to Rome for what we had hoped to be a long rest. General Mark Clark had a lot of good words to say for the parachute outfit that didn't jump into Italy, but earned our first battle star anyway for our part in liberating Rome and the surrounding country side. We ate our share of grapes during our tour through the area, and some of the troops raided a few too many wine cellars. That wine was terrible.

My outfit, the 517th Parachute Infantry Regiment, was through with the Italian front in early July and was sent to the area of Frascati just a little southeast of Rome. Our mission now was to first of all get ready for the invasion of Southern France, but we had a few other missions also. These missions involved trips into the Eternal City ... Rome. We had made our mark at war, now we would make our mark at wine, or something like that. The Germans knew who we were. We even became the object of a discussion by Berlin Sal, the very famous German radio personality who tried to smash the morale of the American troops by playing sweet music for us over the radio, and telling us all the bad things she could dream up. To the men of the 517th she said, "You men of the Five-Seventeen are much better than we anticipate. But you are foolhardy ... you will lose men." Really, that wasn't a very brilliant statement, any nut would know that we would lose men, and the other stuff she said was true enough.

We pitched our tents in an olive grove and started working and playing. The playing was the most memorable, and the opportunity to see such historic places as the Vatican City, the Colosseum, the Victor Emmanuelle monument and drive a jeep along the Apian Way was almost worth the trip. I didn't seek an audience with Pope Pius XII, though some of the guys did. Rome was great, and C. B. Jones and I visited some of the more interesting spots. Also, Ray Helms and I went to a sweet shop occasionally. We liked ice cream, especially when it was served by two of the most beautiful dolls in Rome. Unfortunately, those dolls had a very protective dad who watched us like a hawk. Oh well, we enjoyed looking anyway.

Some of the most interesting things happened around the olive grove. We had a lot of visitors, mostly mothers looking for a handout to help feed their families. These women would come at each mealtime and literally compete for scraps of food leftover from our meals. They would tell stories about each other in hopes that we would chase the "bad" one away, thus making more scraps available for the "good" ones. The favorite "bad woman" story was to say that the other gal liked Germans. We ignored the tales and made them line up and share the wealth. We sometimes looked for a little extra food ourselves. We would take gallon cans of fruit salad or other fruit from the mess hall and eat it in our tents. One night we stole, I mean took, a few cans and later discovered it was apple butter. What a waste ... we gave it to the good gals ... and the bad gals too.

We were also known to "borrow" jeeps and trucks from the regular Army, because paratroopers just don't have such things. We ride planes, so who needs a jeep? We did. After all, how were we expected to get around Rome. We even borrowed a few and rode them into combat during our battles. I lost a beautiful fountain pen and a lot of other stuff when we drove one into a German battlefield position. We got away, the Germans got the jeep and all of its contents. Such a war.

All was not fun and frolic in and around Rome since we were there to get ready for a jump. We studied maps of our jump zone which we hoped to hit in France. We sprayed our jump suits with camouflage paint until we must have looked like the leftovers of Satan's Society, straight from the hallowed halls of Hades.

On the l5th of August we were told that the time had come ... we would jump in France that night. We sat around in small groups, ate all our candy (just in case we didn't make it, we would leave none of those goodies) and talked about the coming jump. In a group of four, Private Lemen said, "The odds are at least one of four of us will die in this jump." No use to argue with the odds, so we tried to think of more pleasant things.

The planes, dark and packed with paratroopers, nosed into darkness and out over the Tyrrhenian Sea carrying us to an unforgettable adventure along the Riviera to the foothills of the Alps. Not much was said as we roared toward France and a night jump that would make those practice jumps look like a moonlight outing. I laid my head down on my reserve chute which was fastened across my belly but pushed nearly up to my chin by all the stuff in my pack which hung below the chute. I thought of many things; the rugged training, the practice jumps and tried to remember all the things necessary for a successful jump.

A Frenchman had been found who would lead us down the steep and dangerous cliff and across the river. We were told that the water would be about up to our armpits in spots. This wasn't so bad At about 2:00 A M, we started down the cliff toward the river The trail was suitable for mountain goat,. but somehow that Frenchman led u, to the water during total darkness. The guy. whoever he was, who said the water was only up to the armpit evidently didn't check where we crossed or else he was at least seven feet tall. We hadn't gone far when we were in over our head,. We lost a gun or two but made it to more shallow water. Every moment we expected to receive a welcome from the German gun,. We were ignored because the Kraut, knew anyone with any brain, at all would never try to cross that river at night They were not aware of the fact that we were paratrooper,. thus not very bright. We sneaked in behind the German lines and hid for a while to get organized. A French family brought us a big pot of stew which was just about the best stuff we had in France.

We made our way nearer the town, La Rocquette I think, and dug in on a hill still not knowing where the Germans were nor how many there were of them. In mid afternoon I had to go to the bathroom ... of course, there was no bathroom on the battlefields of France, but that was a way of life in combat. At any rate, I had to go and as I went or was going or whatever ... I heard some more familiar thuds. The next thing I knew bullets were flying under my feet. The expression "caught with my pants down" is the best way I know to express my plight. This didn't slow me down much. In a couple of seconds I was back in the slit trench with my bare knees sticking up and bullets bouncing allover the place. I wiggled back into my pants and yelled, "Let's get out of here." We started running up the hill, and I dropped my tommy gun. I scrambled back for it and finally made it over the hill in a hail of bullets. Obviously:, the Germans were a long way off because they missed us and we could not hear their guns fire.

Though we could not hear their guns we knew where they were. They were in this small town which was situated on a cliff overlooking the river. A beautiful place to be. Unfortunately for the Germans, we were behind them and even though they had fired at us they didn't seem to realize the fact that we were there. They might have thought we were French. Whatever their problem, we sneaked in behind them and from cover of trees and grapevines we watched them milling around the town. As we watched, more of their troops marched into town.

They assembled in the court yard and some were lying around on the grass when we opened fire with all the guns we had. Those Germans were in panic. Some fought, some ran inside buildings, and some jumped over the cliff. One of their mortar shells landed in our squad.

The shell fragments flew in all directions hitting Ray Helms and one other man. Ray was the squad leader, and I was the assistant. We did what we could for Ray and Private Duncan and continued toward the city.

The fighting was wild, but we seemed to have profited by the element of surprise. Within an hour we had cleaned out the town. Several enemy were dead and about one hundred were captured. The prisoners thought we were going to kill them, I suppose, because some of them begged us not to shoot them. Others offered us money. We assured them that they would be treated properly. They were lucky and apparently happy at this point, but I think we were the lucky ones because we had only the two wounded and no deaths.

Sergeant Craig, who had bet me two dollars in the hand grenades throwing incident and lost a little blood in our wrestling match back at Camp Mackall, lead us in this battle. For his outstanding leadership he was given a battlefield commission. We had lost a good Sergeant, but gained a good Second Lieutenant. Of much less significance, I replaced Ray as squad leader. There was no thrill in this for me, because Ray was my best friend and his injury was rather serious.

To make things worse we could not get him out to a doctor. We were still behind enemy lines. Help did not come until the next day when our troops on the other side of the river were able to cross and find us.

After the battle we were hungry, but had no food. There was no way of getting any either until the other troops got through to us. Should have saved some of that candy we had eaten the night before. I'll never forget that night. I was so hungry. The only thing I had which was even remotely associated with food was a package of lemonade powder. A German prisoner gave me some "hard tack" type stuff. This was somewhat like little rocks, but might have been some sort of bread. I mixed the lemonade powder with some stale water and drank it to help melt the German hard tack. Under the circumstances, I believe this tasted better than the stew the French family had given us in the morning. We remained near the town that night, keeping a sharp look-out for more Germans. As luck would have it, none came.

During the night, as usual on guard duty, one or two men would watch a small area for an hour then wake someone else who watched for an hour, and on and on through the night. One of our troops had finished his hour of guard duty and tried to wake a guy to take his turn. The guy would not respond. After a slight hassle, our troop discovered with some surprise that he had been trying to wake a dead German.

It was a welcome sight the next day when our troops arrived from across the river with food and a jeep to carry Ray and the other wounded man back to safety and medical attention. I know we all wondered who really were the lucky ones. I think most of us would have traded places with Ray. It was often said that the real lucky ones got shot early ... of course, a nice clean wound had to be part of the deal. So, there we were the "unlucky ones" on the march again. Charge! That's what we did day after day, chasing Germans allover Southern France ... at least it seemed that way.

In early September our charge came to a halt overlooking the Sospel valley. In this valley lay the lovely. but seemingly forbidden City of Sospel. The city was forbidden in that we could not get into the place. German forts. or more correctly stated. French forts manned by Germans kept us out of town. We first saw the city late one afternoon from a small mountain which jutted out toward the valley. I was one of the few who went to the vantage point to view the sights out that way. We immediately drew gun fire from the Germans and quickly got out of there. We dug our holes and set up a defensive line to our front. No enemy showed up. but their big artillery shells dropped in all through our positions. We had even strung cans on wires to make noise if the Germans had come sneaking in. I was nearly lifted from my shallow hole on several occasions during the night. I had never experienced such concussion from shell blasts. The next morning I crawled from my hole and rolled up in my rain coat and shelter half to rest on the ground. The German shells had stopped at daybreak, and we felt safe. A short time later we heard something in the outlying area. so went back underground. A few bullets flew around us and I heard a thud nearby. Later. I found that the thud was caused by a bullet as it tore through my "bed roll" which I had left when I jumped back in the hole. Lucky for me I had vacated that spot. It was obvious that this place was not the most desirable place to live. That morning we found several dead or wounded among our troops. The company commander decided to move back behind the mountain. This was a great idea as far as I was concerned. but my feeling of relief was short lived. The commander assigned me and my squad the responsibility of staying right there as an outpost to watch for the enemy and guard the area. A group of boys from Hawaii were left there with us. These guys had an anti-tank gun with a truckload of shells just in case the Germans decided to come in with a tank. The Hawaiian boys numbered four or five and my squad was made up of eleven pretty tough characters ... tough anyway.

We felt rather lonesome as the company pulled out and left us. Me, a 19 year old kid with some others about the same age, along with some who were in their twenties. We also had one convenience of home, a telephone. This phone was in a shallow slit trench which became my home for the night. Shortly after dark, the phone rang. The Company Commander was on the phone with some exciting news. Germans had been spotted coming up both sides of our not-so-sacred mountain. We were to stand our ground and keep the guys behind the mountain informed. He reminded me that if we lived through the night we could come back behind the mountain the next morning. He may not have put it just like that, but we could be assured of relief the next day. He also told me that our own artillery was going to start blasting the Germans who were approaching us. This sounded better. As he hung up, the shells from our guns from behind the hill began to whiz over our heads into enemy territory. We felt safe because this would very likely drive the Germans back. However, in a matter of seconds these shells started dropping right into our position. The truck loaded with anti-tank ammunition was blasted by one of the shells. All hell had broken loose. I called the company as the shells kept coming in. I told them that we were being torn up by our own guns. While I pleaded with them to stop those guns, the boys from Hawaii and the guys in my squad were trying to find a deeper hole to crawl into. My hole was shallow and gave little protection. I was hit in the chest by something blasted my way by a shell burst, but it only hurt a little. Three men from my squad were lying there in the road in front of me begging, "Gene, make them stop." I wondered if they thought I was talking to the girl next door. I told them to get the hell in a hole, I was doing all I could.

Several minutes later the blasting stopped. We checked the troops and equipment and found that the only victim was the truck. Someone swore that the Hawaiian boys had turned white during the early stages of that mess. At any rate all was quiet for the moment. Our only problem was the fact that the Germans were still coming.

As we were getting regrouped, the phone rang again. This time it was the captain who directed the artillery company. He and my commander wanted me to direct the artillery fire on the Germans. I told them I didn't know anything about directing artillery fire, but they insisted because their directors, or whatever they caned them, had all been knocked out of action up our way the day before. The artillery captain gave me some instructions, and I gave him my first "order." I told him to raise those gun sights a few points and start firing. If they cleared us, we could take it from there. They did so and the shells missed us with no problems. This captain told me to go out in front of our positions and observe where the shells were falling. This didn't appeal to me one bit, but I took my rifle and walked into the darkness, expecting every moment to be shot. The artillery blasted away, but I couldn't see where they were landing those shells. I got back to the phone and told the captain. He said that he would have the gunners fire some smoke shells. I asked him how he expected me to see smoke when it was as dark as the inside of a cow. He informed me that smoke shells make a much bigger blast of flame when they exploded, so I might be able to see the flash. Back into the darkness time after time as I tried to direct the fire. Then one of our officers from another company got on the phone and said I was directing fire into his troops. We discussed this for a while and decided this was not the case. So, back out into the darkness some more, and I still didn't know where the Germans were, but expected one to get me any moment. Soon we had the fire going the way we hoped was right, so I settled down in my hole and prayed that the Germans would not get to us. They didn't.

The next morning an officer and a group of others came to our position. They wanted to see the guy who directed fire last night. I knew then that I had killed some of our own troops. I thought I knew that is. That was not the case. They told me that we had done a good job and blasted the hell out of the Germans. Later, I was awarded the Bronze Star Medal along with the following citation:

Back to 12 September 1944, the day we were to be removed from that horrible place. As we checked our area while awaiting relief, we discovered that two other phone lines lying right along with mine had been cut by one of the shell bursts the night before. Had the line to our phone been cut I could not have called to have them. stop the firing. I must have been mistaken about the number of men in my squad that night. There must have been twelve. I never saw the twelfth one, but I talked with Him. many times after that night.

The expected relief never came. We were praised for our night's work and told to stay there until further notice. Further notice came 30 days later. We dug deeper holes and placed logs over them. I even found an old straw mattress and placed it in my house in the ground. My home was a one room combination living. dining and bed room ... the bathroom was up the hill. The phone made the stay a little more pleasant for me, but for the First Sergeant back safely behind the hill it was at times a source of irritation. He was so scared that every time the German shells started falling in he would call me to ask where they were landing. I would hold the phone outside the hole to let him listen to the booms made by the shells. I would tell him that it was real bad. It was at that. Before we were relieved to go back where he was safely stored away, they carted him off to the hospital. The war had gotten to him, and he cracked up. I no doubt contributed to his shattered nerves, though I had no intention of doing so. After the first few days, we knew just about where every shell was going to land, so we became a little more brave than the average knucklehead.

I suppose we were not really all that brave, because we sure hated to go on the required patrols through the woods. We had to make a two-mile trip several times a day, and night. The purpose of these trips was to make contact with another company. It's a wonder to me that we didn't get killed or captured because there were hundreds of places the other side could hide and wait for us, but they must have stayed in their holes down in the valley. At the turn around point in our patrol there was a dead German. He was there when we quit making our patrol. I wonder why we didn't bury the gentleman, but somehow the subject was never discussed.

On two occasions we nearly shot some French people. Once, two Frenchmen came through the woods on a motorcycle, kinda speeding along a small road. We saw them coming and hid in the ditch. They were wearing helmets that looked very much like the German helmet. I told the men not to shoot and thank God none of them did. As they approached us, we jumped from the ditch with our guns pointed right in their eyes. Those two Frenchies turned white, green and a few other colors. We told them to 9 et out and stay out ... imagine those foreigners messing around in our woods. The other time we just about blasted a bunch of them in a car. Other than these events there was little actual excitement, but we were shelled several times by artillery. One day, I shot a squirrel with my rifle which was big enough to kill an elephant. The bullet didn't tear the little fellow up too badly so we cooked it in a can of water over our camp fire. When that squirrel got nearly cooked my buddies ate it so fast I didn't get a bite of it. That fresh meat must have tasted good.

Finally, we got word that we were being relieved the next day. I think we were actually sorry to leave. Our last night on that hill was one to remember, and it changed our minds about being sorry to leave. Rain poured down all night. My "house" was flooded to the point that my straw mattress floated. The next morning that place was a muddy mess. I felt so sorry for the troops who had come to take our place. But, thirty days was long enough to live in one hole. We went back behind the hill for a couple of days and then moved further back to a small town.

It was a real thrill being back in an area where people lived. Unfortunately, we were not allowed to go into town. We moved into some old shacks and barns. Sleeping in a barn is great after sleeping in a hole for much to long. The move back was made more interesting by the return of my friend, Ray Helms. He still had a piece of the shell in him, but feeling ready to go again. Although I had gotten along OK as squad leader, I was glad to have Ray back to take over the squad. We had a nice visit while some of the boys sneaked into town. One squad in our Platoon was especially bad about doing things they were not authorized to do, naturally they went to town. The next morning someone rushed into our area with the word that one of this squad was lying in a creek nearby. Our Platoon leader, Lt. Brearley, charged to the creek with several of us following. He jumped a wall and rushed down a dangerous cliff to reach this boy in the creek. It was too late, he was dead. Lt. Brearley was a fine compassionate man, and this really hurt him. To see a man die this way after going through so much war was hard to accept. Lt. Brearley immediately removed the squad leader and put me in charge of the squad. I expected all kinds of trouble from this bunch of goof-ups, and didn't much want the job even though I never said so. I talked with the men of the first squad, and from that day they became a different bunch of guys. After a few days rest, we were back on the front lines living in holes or small "forts" that we built with sand bags. The situation was still bad up there because the Germans were in big concrete bunkers, and we could not get them out. The bunkers had big artillery guns in them. The guns were built on elevators. They could be raised and fired a few times and then lowered before we could hit the guns to knock them out. Our side fired thousands of big shells at those bunkers, or forts, but did almost no damage.

After several more days of slugging back and forth with the Germans, we decided to move into the city of Sospel. As we moved forward, signs of over 50 days of war were everywhere. The trees, grass and other former living things were now dead in no-mans-land between our positions and the forts where the Germans were holed up. The Germans were tired of war as they and we had been living it and all evidence pointed to the fact that they started to move to more comfortable land. As we moved through one of the areas where they had been, our Platoon leader was leading us along a narrow path in single file formation. He decided that we should post a guard and search the area and told me to drop out of line and post a guard nearby. I stepped out of line and another man moved up into my position and took two or three steps forward and stepped on a mine. The mine blew his entire foot off at the ankle. We were all on the ground as soon as the mine exploded. The stub of this man's leg was right in front of my face. This bothered me more than anything else that I had seen during the war. Whether it was the thought that I "should" have been the one to step on the mine or something else I don't know, but I could not push the scene from my mind.

We soon learned that most of the Germans had left their forts. They could not stand the pressure of being closed up in those forts any longer, so most of them left. Those who did not became our prisoners and told the story of their long stay in the forts. Our big guns had hit the forts hundreds of times and the noise inside was terrible, so they said. They also indicated that many of their troops had cracked up as a result of the long ordeal. At any rate, the longest battle was finally over and after 94 days on or near the front lines, the Five-Seventeenth was ready for a rest.

We moved back to an area near Nice, France. The only unpleasant part was the fact that we had to live in our small tents. Nice was a lovely city and visits to some of her fun spots made living in the tents a lot more tolerable. We even found a very good place to eat and went there often to enjoy a French dinner. Never did find out where those folks got the food which they served us, but it was great. Might have been some horse meat thrown in with the other goodies. We just sat down and dined as they brought course after course of soup through cognac-soaked cherries. Finding this spot was our greatest find because in Nice it was almost impossible to buy anything to eat. Roger and I were in town on one occasion and nearly starved. We went to a bakery trying to buy a loaf of bread. The baker said no because we did not have a ration card to buy bread in France. Some gratitude. We should have left the Germans there. I could understand his concern by observing the poor housewives who stood in line hoping to get a loaf before it was all gone. The French can, or at least could then, make a meal out of a loaf of bread and a little wine. Yes, Nice was nice, but as usual our stay was short. In early December the outfit was told to shape up and ship out.

On the 7th of December, 1944, the 517th crowded, along with all bedrolls, bags and any other possessions, into small 40 and 8's. These were freight cars designed to haul 40 men and 8 mules. Don't really know whether they were actually designed for this purpose, but during World War One they were used for this purpose--thus the name 40 and 8's. No matter what you call those flea traps they were small, cold and crowded. The trip was relatively uneventful except for the rain and snow storms which the train ploughed steadily through, and the rush for water when the train stopped or slowed down. The destination, Soissons, was reached five days later. Barracks were available for the first time, and the guys who were there enjoyed this luxury. Those who were not there were either in a hospital somewhere or gone forever. Christmas was coming and the world looked like a better place to live, but Yon Rundstedt and thousands of German troops were also coming. The Germans arrived first ... into Belgium that is. The Battle of the Bulge had begun, and the 517th was on the way to the front and more war ... Merry Christmas.

The short vacation from the fighting was a welcome one which gave us an opportunity to relax and get reorganized. We had received some replacements for the men who had been killed or wounded. Most of the old timers were still with the outfit, including C. B. Jones, Ray Helms, Roger Bender, and former Sergeant, now Lieutenant, Craig. Ray was the leader of the second squad, Roger the leader of the third squad and I was the leader of the first squad. We made up the Third Platoon of E Company. Lt. Craig was our platoon leader. The first squad had changed a lot since the death of the boy in the creek. They, or perhaps I should say we, were being watched by the officers of the outfit because of the action of those who had gone into town against orders which resulted in the death of the guy who evidently fell over the wall into the water. I was glad we were being watched because I knew all the boys did a great job of fighting after I was assigned as squad leader. I don't mean to imply that I caused the change, but that they were the best. I recall one night when most of us were sleeping the men on guard started firing at approaching Germans. The men of the first squad were out to their holes and in fighting position in seconds. Most of them were bare-footed, but didn't seem to notice. They were ready for anything and soon chased the bad guys away. During the rest period near Nice, the Colonel who was in charge of the Battalion asked me how my squad was making out and what my opinion of them was. The only thing I said was, "They are the best damn squad in the outfit, Sir." I meant it; and since we had to go fight some more, I was glad to be a part of the first squad.

On the 22nd of December, 1944, the men of the 517th in Belgium were on the way to intercept the Germans who had smashed through our lines and were coming through fast. As we passed through Belgium towns, worried clusters of Belgians stood on street corners knowing full well that their towns and their lives were once again being threatened by the on-rushing Germans. The charging forces of the German Army were first encountered near Soy, Belgium. They were stopped there by the 5l7th and turned in the opposite direction. We had helped halt their advance in that sector, but the Battle of the Bulge was just beginning.

Christmas day came in clear and cold and was just like any other day. The troops ate cold "K" rations and watched bomber and fighter aircraft doing their thing overhead. We were in constant danger of being bombed throughout the day. A different type of Christmas to say the least. Just one year before I had spent the delightful Christmas with Ray and his family. So much had happened since Christmas, 1943. We had experienced many new things and at this very time were seeing. something really new ... German buzz bombs. The buzz bomb was a new secret weapon developed by the crafty Germans. These bombs could be seen as well as heard which made them more frightening. We could hear them coming and then start watching and wondering as to where they would fall. They were set to fly only so far and then the engine would stop and the bomb would come hurtling to the ground with a tremendous explosion. The earth would shake for what seemed to be miles. During the action on Christmas day, one German fighter plane hurtled crazily over our artillery position and its pilot fell out and landed in the middle of the area. I understand they didn't have to bury him ... they just shoveled a little dirt over the hole he made for himself.

On December 26th, the 5l7th received one of its most important assignments. It was ordered to take the city of Manhay at any cost. Manhay had been reclaimed by one of the German SS Panzer Divisions The Panzers were considered the cream of the German Army, and this particular Division was responsible for killing a large number of American prisoners at Malmedy earlier in the breakthrough. Our outfit hit this bunch of kraut-heads with everything available, and in about 90 minutes took the town. The German prisoners said that they had been surprised and stunned by the violence and speed of the paratrooper attack. They were, to some extent, repaid for the Malmedy murders.

During the brief lull in the fighting, we sat around and talked of home, good food, clean soft beds and all the nice things we could remember. C. B. Jones had a nice 35rnrn camera which he used occasionally to take pictures of our motley crew. He asked me to make sure that the camera was sent home if he were killed. We assured him that anyone who could talk as much and as fast as he could would never get caught.

Right after the battle of Manhay we moved into a little Belgian town which became our home for three days. When we first arrived we were standing around the center of town with a few fires going to keep from freezing while the officers decided where we could bed down for a while. As I stood there, a little Belgian boy came up to me, no doubt thinking I was going to freeze to death any minute, and asked if I wanted to go to his house. I suppose that's what he said. I could understand a few words of French, such as, what are you doing tonight beautiful. I knew he wasn't asking me that. In fact, I don't think he was speaking French at all. They spoke something like French, called Flemish I believe. Anyway, I went with him to his house which was only a few yards away. The house was combined with their business, a bicycle shop. The family was so glad to have me visit, so I stayed two nights. The little boy, Maurice Soloman, and I slept in a fine feather bed. Was that ever a change from sleeping on the ground. At night the family lived in constant fear of the buzz bombs. We sat and listened at them fly over and fall :some place a few miles away. One of the most interesting things about these nice people was that they always ate five times each day, the regular three meals and a snack at ten and two. They had very little food and were delighted when I gave them my canned rations. The Mother would warm the stuff, and it tasted very good. The snacks consisted of cheese, jam and bread for the most part. The bread was mixed at home and taken to a central bakery for baking. I can visualize many enjoyable visits of the women at the bakery as they baked their dark bread. It was good and very different from the soft white bread back home. The day I left the family seemed to be so sad to see me go. They wanted me to come back for New Years. They told me if I came back I could have a whole bottle of cognac all for myself. I never got back, of course, and I'm sure they never expected to see nor hear of me again.

Back to war ... God, would it never end? Fighting the Germans was not our only battle. The weather knocked off almost as many of us as the live enemy. The snow in many places was waist deep and even short moves were made under the most trying conditions. I thought my legs would fall off from walking through the snow. It was unbelievably cold, near zero much of the time, so for sure the battle for existence against the elements was at least as difficult as that against the enemy. Somehow we managed to find a way to move toward the enemy.

A couple of days after an unnoticed New Years Day, my Battalion killed approximately two hundred Germans and captured over five hundred more. In three days the battle was over ... over forever for the many Germans as well as for several of our own men. C. B. Jones was ripped by machine gun bullets and begged to be allowed to live. It was not to be. My friend, who had taught me how to take the rifle apart back at Camp Toccoa, died during the night ... he didn't have a chance after being hit so badly. For the fun-loving C. B., the war and suffering were over.

We moved into Trois Ponts, found houses in which to sleep and hoped that the Germans had moved far away. Lt. Brearley and Lt. Craig went for a walk through the area to look over the situation. As they rounded the corner of a house a German sniper shot Lt. Craig right through the head. No more bets and no more wrestling, Lt. Craig died instantly. He left a wife, and what's even more sad he left a child he had never seen ... What did Daddy do in the war, Mommy?

The losses were hard to accept, but it had become a way of life so we did somehow accept it and continued our battle with the silent and not-so-silent enemies.

Moving through the snow was not only difficult, it was also frightening because we were easy to see since our uniforms were dark. We could even be seen at night as we struggled through the snow. Some of the men wrapped sheets around themselves. Others had been issued snow suits which were worn over the regular uniform. The squad leaders always felt that the men came first, so we would never take a suit but got all we could for the men. Not enough of course, but they were appreciated.

Speaking of the men, my squad was made up of an interesting bunch, some of whom had been with me all the way. There was Ken Large (who was little), Art Little (who was large), Bill Short (who was average size), and Max Long (who was long). There was also a guy we called Stubby because we couldn't say his Polish name properly. There was a guy named Klinglehoffer who could speak German like a German. With a name like that he must have had a German in the family somewhere. With this bunch and a few others we moved on to the next "hot" spot.

At about 8:00 P. M. one cold evening, we moved into a clump of trees or a small forest and prepared to stay for the night. The trucks even brought our bed rolls to us. We dug our beds into Mother Earth as usual, wrapped up in our bed rolls and went to sleep. At that stage in life I could sleep lying on a pile of rocks. It was so good to sleep and rest even in such cold weather. Soon after I went to sleep I heard voices ... oh no! What could it be? Germans no doubt. Suddenly, someone shook me and said, "Let's go." We were being awakened to move up real close to the Germans. We were told that we could take our bed rolls ii we could carry them.. Most of the guys could, but the machine gunner could not because the gun was so heavy he could not carry both. I told him. to get his bed roll and that I would leave mine and carry the machine gun for him.. He finally did so and off we went through the ice and snow. We helped each other with the loads and helped each other to our feet as we fell time after time. Fresh snow was falling much faster than we were as we plodded on through the night. About midnight, we quietly moved into a position on the front. We spread out in a line across an open field and dug into the snow to make our beds. As those who brought their beds were getting ready to bed down, a young man came up to me with an extra bed roll and said it was for me. I wondered why; he said he had been watching when we left the other area and saw what I had done so he brought an extra one for me. Although he was a radio (small radio) man, I'm. sure that carrying his equipment and the two bed rolls was not all that easy. Though I had learned to expect anything from. men on the battlefield, I had not expected this. I don't remember who he was, but I know he was a great and thoughtful person.

As we did the best we could to shelter ourselves from the snow, we received our regular guard duty instructions. We were to be especially careful because the enemy was just over the hill. Max Long and I got under a makeshift tent and rolled up in our bed rolls or sleeping bags. In my case I had a very light sleeping bag which had been given me by that thoughtful GI. The sleeping bag had a soft, light comforter-type lining and was very warm. Max took his boots off which was unusual under the circumstances, but his feet hurt to badly to leave them on. Knowing full well that we would be called for guard duty soon, we were soon sound asleep. The next thing I knew it was well after daybreak, and we were all covered with snow. The first group to be on guard duty fell asleep and no one else woke up so we slept through the night. While we slept, the soft, silent snow covered us and helped keep us warm. What a beautiful, restful sleep. Max had a problem though -- he could not get his boots on. They were frozen since they were outside his bed roll. After great effort, he managed to get them on just in time to join us in a hasty move to a nearby farm. We moved in with the pigs in an effort to keep warm until someone decided what we were to do next. The only wounded critter in the area was not a paratrooper but a young cow. It had apparently been hit by an artillery blast. We contemplated eating it, but decided it was too sick looking to eat.

Shortly after noon, we moved out to a wooded area to push a few more Germans from a few more yards of Belgium. We were under artillery fire continuously and spent much of our time on our bellies with our faces buried in the snow. I hoped and prayed that we could get through another encounter. Each battle seemed to be a little more difficult than the last. I lay on my belly in the snow, crawled through whatever was in my path and thanked God for the steel helmet I wore on my head. The helmet was a great source of comfort. I always felt that if I could keep my head under the helmet with my face buried in the ground I wouldn't get hit. It must have been like the small child who covers his face and believes that he can't be seen.

Somehow we made it through the day only to face a most frightening night. We were to struggle through an open field into another wooded area where the Germans were. The trip across that deep snow was almost more than I could stand. My legs were being pulled from my hips by the snow. The constant fear of being shot made me forget some of the pain, and in spite of many artillery shells falling among us we made it to the woods where the Germans were. They must have been sleeping under the snow, otherwise they would have creamed us. Whereas it had appeared very light out in that open field, it was completely dark in those woods. The company was all spread out, so the officer in charge of our platoon wanted to find the Company Commander. He told me to stay with the men while he went to find him. We waited and waited and I could hear our troops moving on. Finally, no sounds; no nothing. We apparently had been left behind, but I was the only one to know it. I moved around a little to try to find someone and nearly got hit by some flying bullets. I was sure that the Germans did not see us in the dark even though they were not far away. I decided that no matter what my orders were I would stay there no longer.

I passed the word back for everyone to follow me in single file. Though I could not see our troops I knew they had passed nearby going to my right, so I walked forward until I felt their path in the snow. I followed the trail by feeling it with my feet for about 45 minutes; then came dawn and we could see well enough to follow the trail. The four or five men closest behind me knew we were in trouble, but I don't think the others did. Soon after daylight, we found the company. At about the same time our platoon leader missed us. He sent word back to determine if we were with the group. I'll never understand how he could stagger around for over an hour and not know we were missing, but he did. When he discovered that he was minus his platoon and soon found that we were bringing up the rear, he sent for us to come to the front of the company. We were given some kind of, "I'm sorry boys, etc.", and now we need you to go out there in the deep woods and find out where the Germans are. Why us, I wondered. Anyway, my squad started out through the snowy woods and very soon ran right into the Germans who evidently were looking for us. I had no idea how many we had found, so I ordered the men not to shoot. We would try to capture them. Klinglehoffer started talking with them ... surrender he says ... in German, of course. They gave us the same invitation which, of course, was a wasted invitation. Old Kling asked them a few more times; and the forest was full of chatter in German, but neither side wanted to give up. I still didn't want to fight partly because we could not see them very well although we were only a few feet apart. I was lying in the snow when right in front of my eyes appeared two of the biggest Germans I had ever seen. One had a machine gun, the other boxes of machine gun shells. I pointed my rifle at the heart of the big guy with the machine gun. It was obvious that he did not see me. I could not pull the trigger. At that moment someone fired a shot to my left. I looked around, and when I looked forward again the two big Germans were gone. I hope they are living and happy today.

When the first shot was fired all hell broke loose, and we chased the Germans completely out of our forest. None of us were hurt; I'm not sure about them.

The day dragged on as we maneuvered around the woods shooting and being shot at. About ten of us were in a group when a German artillery shell hit the trees over our heads. The flash of heat was very hot and the tremendous blast knocked us all down. 59 this is death, I thought, knowing perfectly well that I had been blasted good. Well, dying wasn't so bad after all ... I was warm and a little sleepy. I moved a limb or two and found that everything worked fine. Oh hell! I was still alive and would have to go on living in this miserable cold. Five of the others were not so lucky. None were killed, but some were pretty well banged up. Max Long was sliced badly by a piece of flying steel from the shell. His upper back below the shoulder blade had a ten-inch gash cut to the bone. What a mess; but as it turned out, not so serious. He recovered very well I heard later, but I never saw him again.

The Platoon Leader called me to his "hiding place" late in the afternoon to give me a snow suit. He said he didn't want to lose me. He had almost done so early that morning when he left us behind. Since most of the men had the suits, I was glad to get it. I wish that it had been more warm along with being white, because I nearly froze that night. We moved out of the woods into an open field so that we could see to protect ourselves. It was extremely cold, and we had no blankets nor bed rolls. Two men dug a hole through the snow and shared it. That is, two to a hole. The ground was frozen and we could not dig into it, so for the most part we were just dug into the snow. For once, I found it very difficult to sleep. The guy with me curled himself up and seemed to do a little better. It was good to see the morning come, especially after we were told that we were going to take a town that day. Maybe we could find a place to sleep in town that night.

In the late afternoon we approached the town which was burning in various sections. The scene looked somewhat like a Christmas card with the beautiful snow blanket all around the town arid the light made by the fires reflecting off the snow. We slowly and carefully moved into town with very little resistance from the enemy. When we got into town we were told that we would stay there all night. There was only one problem ... we had to clear out the Germans. My squad was assigned a street which would be our home for the night as soon as we cleaned it up a bit. We moved along the dark street looking for Germans. We had not gone far when we noticed a house with a little light leaking out. We figured we had found some Germans, so I told three men to go to the back door to catch them when the rest of us chased them out. Just to be polite I decided to knock on the door. When I did so, the door flew open and a man jumped out and grabbed me ... I thought I was in big trouble. But, when a woman also jumped out and started hugging me I knew we had found a home for the night. This was part of a very happy Belgian family. The Germans had just left and the thought of being liberated again was enough"" to make those folks happy indeed. We liberators decided that we had gone far enough, so we stopped right there. This was probably a mistake, but at that moment we didn't give a darn. We placed guards around the house and joined the family inside. We were taken to the basement where several other members of the family were sheltered in safety. We visited as much as we could considering the language barrier. The Germans had been rough on them and had taken most of their food, leaving only potatoes. The lady wanted to cook some for us, but we gave them some of our rations instead. Soon we wanted to sleep and were given the run of the house for the night.

I selected a first-floor bedroom. but found it was difficult because the Germans shelled the town all night. They seemed to be shooting at our house, and I wondered if they knew we were in this particular house. After a greatly disturbed few minutes on the first floor, I returned to the basement. That front window wouldn't stop many artillery shells; in fact, the brick wall would not stop them. So, those of us who were not on guard spent the night in the basement with the family.

As luck would have it, morning came. We were all still living and it was still cold and miserable. I went outside to be greeted by a bunch of excited women. Bosch. they said. pointing down the street. Bosch meant German. or at least that's what a lot of people called them. I finally understood that they were saying that Germans were in the second house down the street. I got the boys together and we went down to have a look. As we approached the entrance to the basement. a German officer came out with his hands up. Then five others came out behind him. They appeared to be extremely happy to be captured. Some of them were. injured, but all could walk. We searched them and in doing so some of our guys took watches. razors and other items from them. The Germans were unhappy about this. so I made the guys return all the items. These Germans had a radio jeep in the front yard of this house, and the officer indicated that he wanted to go to the jeep. I didn't think much of this idea. but I raised my rifle at him and told him to go ahead. He reached into the jeep and pulled out a bottle of German whiskey, then another and then still more. He gave the whiskey. called Schnapps I think. to us as a reward for capturing him I suppose. I tried to drink some of the stuff but couldn't quite hack it. That booze was hot. Some of the guys sipped some of the stuff. and we sent the prisoners on the way to the rear. For these lucky Germans the war was over.

For us it was just another day of fighting ... today we had to help take St. Vith. St. Vith was a very important city to control because, among other things, several roads passed through the city. Thus, he who controlled the city controlled the roads. The Second Battalion (our battalion) was attached to the Seventh Armored Division to take the city. The Seventh was a tank outfit and when they lined those tanks up across the snow-covered fields outside St. Vith, we knew we would storm that place in a very short time. Storm it we did. Those tanks started rolling and shooting at the same time. We followed them in and soon the much publicized German defenses were smashed. The enemy was staggered from its last foothold in the area, and the Bulge was not bulging any more.

The Battle of the Bulge was unbelievable ... the cold ... the ability of the troops to survive ... the happiness expressed by the Belgians as we liberated them ... the death and needless destruction and all else would make a fine story for a movie. (OK, so someone else already thought of that. ) Some of the sights included destroyed German Tiger tanks, the most beautiful and powerful tank in the war, and their crews. One of these tanks looked as though it had been decorated with charred bodies. Two burned bodies were hanging from the turret, one was hanging on the side of the tank, another was in a sitting position on the ground. The tank had been hit and burned before the crew could get out. When a tank is hit just right it burns, along with the contents, in about 15 seconds. Frozen bodies of the dead adorned the landscape. Frozen feet of the living ended the fighting career of hundreds, and hungry bellies growled all across the land. But, the Battle of the Bulge was over and the 517th was looking for a rest.

The rest came soon after the victory at St. Vith. The 517th was sent to the city of Stavelot, Belgium, where cold damp buildings were a welcome sight after many days in the snow. We even had hot showers for the first time since early December. This was late January, and a lot of the guys had dirty feet about this time. The showers were great in spite of the fact that they were set up in tents built right on top of the snow. Water was hauled in by trucks and pumped through the shower plumbing. We were taken in groups and watched to make sure that everyone got just one chance at the shower over the snow. We came out clean and then had clean clothes to put on. I think they just burned the stuff we took off. Some rather rare uniforms were disposed of at that time.

We sat around small fires or in our cool quarters and told war stories, or some other kind, and wrote a lot of letters. We wrote very few letters while in actual combat so now was the time to let everyone back home know that we were still among the living. Roger Bender and I talked of home and that which we left behind and wanted so desperately to get back to. Roger was married, and his wife, Betty, was waiting for him in Bloomington, Indiana. Roger liked to tell the story of his adventures at the university -- not as a student, but as a candy salesman. (Now I know why he and I sold candy on the Santa Rosa on our way to Italy. Our ship was the Santa Rosa although I called it the General Richardson earlier.) Anyway, back to Roger's candy business at the University of Indiana. Roger was a very short, young-looking guy in 1945, but back when he was selling candy between the ages of 11 and 15 he was really little and young looking. What does this have to do with his candy business? Well, he sold candy in the girl's dorms. The girls just loved this cute little boy and would hold him on their laps and cuddle him. No harm at all when it involves a very little 11-year-old boy who looked about eight. But this same treatment was going on when he was about 15. The girls would come and go and none of them stayed around long enough to figure out that he had been coming in for years so had to be getting older. All the time Roger would walk right in, and the girls in all stages of undress would pay little attention to him. However, all good things had to come to an end, and cute little Roger was done in by a house mother who finally realized that he had been coming in there for years. Maybe this early exposure to women is the reason he was married young. At any rate Roger was lonesome for his wife as well as for his parents and brothers. He made me promise that if anything ever happened to him that I would go visit his family.

As we sat writing letters one night, Lt. Brearley came in and told me that I had been promoted to Sergeant. Now I was a Sergeant, and I couldn't even spell it. I'll never forget that I stopped right in the middle of a sentence of a letter I was writing and wrote: Flash, after four or five months of doing the job of a Sergeant I have now been promoted. It seemed like a long time to wait, but I suppose the paper-work boys were busy.

On the 4th of February we received orders to go to Germany. I'll never forget a lot of things, I'm sure, including the night-long trip to Germany by truck. The trucks could not use their lights for fear of being bombed. The roads were muddy and treacherous. Many trucks and their load of GI's slipped into ditches. We passed through the Siegfried line which was supposed to save Germany because Hitler and his gang knew that no enemy of Germany could ever defeat the German Army holed up in the forts of the Siegfried Line. The Americans had done it a few days earlier. We crawled, in trucks, through the Heurtgen Forest which I think was called the Black Forest. At any rate, it was black in there. We were told that every tree in this forest had been hit by shell fire. Most trees were ripped of their branches or damaged in some manner.

In the pre-dawn hours of the 6th of February 1945, we were plodding through the mud on our way to Bergstein, Germany, where Hitler's 1st Parachute Army had been preparing for weeks to defend the western approach of the Roer River. As we sloshed along the very muddy road leading to Bergstein, the Germans were all around us, or so it seemed. They knew we were coming and shot flares into the air in an effort to see us. These flares would light large areas. When we saw a flare going up we would stop "dead" in our tracks. Somehow we got into the city and tried to breakthrough the German lines, but could not. The enemy poured all kinds of bullet shells into us. In the impossible darkness we were helpless and stumbled and fell over dead animals and many other objects which we could not see. Obstacles in our path were too numerous, so we had to pull back to the outskirts of the town. We learned that the Germans had been working six weeks to improve their defenses along this line. They were in concrete emplacements, and the whole front of us was smothered in the largest mine field ever found in Europe.

We spent the daylight hours of the 6th hidden behind or under anything we could find. I was with a group in a piece of a stone building. There was but three sides to the place and no top. The Germans shelled us all day and our artillery shelled them. A shell hit near our "rubble" hideout, and a piece of metal (shrapnel) from the shell bounced off all three walls like a crazy bumblebee. It missed my head by a hair ... I had short hair. We attacked again on the night of the 6th but to no avail. We had about half of our troops left, and the Germans had everything going for them. During the day of the 7th, we pulled further back and tried to dry our clothes. I took my boots off and placed them near a fire to dry. They got a little too close and one of the tops was burned rather badly. No problem, I put them on and was ready to go again on the night of the 7th. At about midnight on the 7th, our battalion cut through a network of trip wires and passed through mine fields toward the Roer River. We had orders not to shoot because we were going to sneak through the German lines. We might as well have been playing drums because they knew exactly where we were. They threw grenades at us as we crawled through their lines. I saw one get up and run away, I'm sure to tell his buddies that a bunch of idiots were crawling around out there in the night. We got within hearing distance of the river but could get no further. We were ordered to pull back ... retreat ... attack to the rear ... or whatever was most honorable.

Just at daybreak we were out of the woods and on a little hill over-looking the river valley. We were told to dig in there. This had to be the most stupid order our officers had ever given. Those Germans knew exactly where we were and knew exactly how to blast us out of there. Just as we started to dig holes for protection a green flare was shot into the air. We knew this was the signal for artillery to fire ... German artillery that is. The first barrage landed in our position just seconds later. The first blast got the guy who was digging a hole with me. I moved to a shallow hole with two men, and we fired our guns at nothing because we could not see the enemy. I recall a boy, we called Woody, was lying right out in the open firing his machine gun like crazy. The Germans kept firing artillery and machine guns at us. Bullets were hitting the ground in front of my face and a bursting shell hit another man who was lying beside me. A piece of shrapnel had hit him in the face. At about this time someone in authority directed us to retreat back to Bergstein. I told my group to get back, and they started moving, and fast. Bullets were flying all over. This influenced Kreycme, our mortar man, to throw down his mortar and run like a mad man. Could be that he was just smart, because he did make it back. When I was sure that all the men were out of that hell hole I picked up the mortar and moved out as fast as I could. The mortar was heavy and slowed me down a lot, but I didn't want to leave it for the Germans. I ran a little and fell into a shell hole to rest. I repeated this exercise a few times and was back to the edge of town where I jumped into a ditch to rest.

After a short rest, I picked myself, the mortar and my rifle from the mud hole and started plodding through the mud to the safety of a large building a few yards away. I was happy to have made it back and said to myself ... well, I've scored again. Then, without warning, I was blasted from the war. A shell landed right near me and shrapnel hit me in the right thumb, in the left chest right over the heart and in the right leg. I was lying face down in the mud and the hot shrapnel was burning me something awful. To make things worse the shells were still falling all around me. I placed the mortar in the mud on one side of me, my rifle on the other ... I wouldn't be needing them any more. I then moved my legs ... they seemed to be able to carry me, so I got up and ran a few yards and fell over. Two troopers picked me up and helped me to a big building nearby. It contained the aid station. As they dragged me to the door, some of my buddies, my men, were standing there watching. I heard one of them say, "Oh no, not Gene too. " It was then that I learned that Roger Bender had been killed as we made that senseless effort to dig in on that hill overlooking hell or the Roer River, whichever you prefer.

I was taken to the basement of the building and given first aid. I knew that I was in relatively good condition compared to several who were there, one with an entire leg blown off, others badly damaged. My greatest trouble was pain. The Company Commander gave me a cigarette, the doctor gave me morphine. I responded by vomiting. They soon patched me up well enough to ship out. I still had shrapnel in my leg but could hobble along. I said goodbye to the few men who were left and rode away from the worst place I had ever been. I had to sit for hours in the front of the ambulance because those hurt worse were lying in the back. I hurt real bad ... it could have been worse. Roger, C. B., Lt. Craig and many others would have been happy to have suffered no greater fate.

I learned that this had been the last battle of the war for the 517th. When we were pulled from the lines that morning that was it. We were relieved immediately after we got back to Bergstein. So, in the last battle of the war for our outfit Roger was killed and in the last couple of minutes I was pretty well racked up. I'm sure this happened every day during the war, but it still becomes rather shocking and personal when it happens to you.

The trip back to the field hospital was a rough ride, even for me. Those in the back must have suffered much more. I talked with the driver trying to ignore the burning pain in my leg and thumb. By this time I was fully aware that the piece of metal that hit me over the heart did little damage. It burned real bad for a while, otherwise all was well. The metal slab was small and had gone through a spoon and torn a chunk from a pipe that I had in my coat pocket. I still have the piece of metal which contains a few splinters of wood from my pipe.

I was then shipped to a hospital in Paris, France, for one or two days. The shrapnel was still in my leg, but by then I was learning to live with it. My thumb was giving me more trouble than anything, because the bandage kept coming off. I decided to do a little nursing for myself by wrapping a lot of tape around the bandage put on by the nurse. The bandage didn't come off after that. Before my nurse could see the good bandage job I had done I was rushed away to the coast and put aboard a hospital ship to England. That night on the ship the nice English nurse came by with tea and cookies and wanted to know if she could help. I told her my thumb was hurting much worse and would like for her to take the bandage off and check it. She didn't think that was necessary, so she told me to forget it and go to sleep. It wasn't that easy because that darn thumb was giving me a lot of trouble. I took the bandage off myself, and the thumb looked horrible. I called the nurse. When she found out that I had removed the bandage she gave me hell. She did finally consent to look at my thumb. She nearly flipped because it looked like a piece of spoiled, rotten meat. She did everything but cry for having ignored me. Her excellent attention to my thumb made it feel better immediately. She really gave me special care after that. I was glad that she never found out that my own bandage had caused the trouble. I had wrapped it so tightly with tape that no air could get in resulting in serious damage. I then realized why the bandage was so loose ... air had to get in. Oh well, I never expected to be a nurse.

The hospital ship docked in Southampton and unloaded its cargo of crippled humans. I was taken to a hospital in Southern England. The doctor ordered me prepared for surgery; they would finally take the metal from my leg. I expected to sleep through the operation, but no, those doctors just shot my leg full of so-called pain killer and started digging. I thought they were tearing my leg off. Soon I had another piece of shrapnel to add to my collection.

My stay in the hospital was much more comfortable than being out in the fields of Europe. Soon enough later, I was able to move around though my leg and thumb were stiff. I kinda thought that walking would be too hard on the leg, so I hobbled around on crutches. I was scheduled for physical therapy, grabbed a wheelchair and my crutches and took off for the therapy room. It felt so good to have the whirlpool treatment and the nurses rub my hand. This was really living. That afternoon I was asked if I could attend a ceremony the next day to receive the Purple Heart and Bronze Star. I figured that I could even though it meant walking in a small parade-type thing to receive the medals. I dressed up in my best uniform, which I had obtained from the local supply, and made it to the parade ground. I stumbled a little but didn't fall.

Right after the ceremony I had another appointment in therapy. I didn't bother to change uniforms or travel by wheelchair ... I just walked in. The people in there were dumbfounded to see me walk in after only one day of therapy. They had to know that I was putting on a little the day before, but I assured them it was the result of their good work. Anyway, I kept going and was soon able to go into town.

The thing that impressed me most about England was the green fields and the fact that those fields had not been torn by war. I was also impressed by the fact that I could talk to the natives. I met some nice ones to talk with and enjoyed every minute of it. We went to the pubs, drank a little beer, sang a few songs and threw darts hour after hour. What fun far away from the battlefields. Then came the greatest day in many years ... the announcement that the war in Europe was over. The only sad part of this ending was the fact that President Roosevelt was not living to see the end. His death about a month earlier had saddened the hearts of the English as well as the Americans.

During my stay in the hospital, I learned that Ray Helms was in another hospital several miles from where I was. I went to visit him, and we relived many good and bad moments of our recent past. Though short, the visit was an enjoyable one -- the last for quite some time.

My stay in the hospital had come to an end ... it was time to return to the USA. I joined hundreds of troops aboard the General Richardson for the trip across the North Atlantic to Boston Harbor. The weather was bad, and that darn ship rocked and rolled all the way to Boston. There was no candy business this time; in fact, many of the guys could not eat much of anything. There was a mess of sick troops on that tub. I managed to keep everything inside me ... food and drink that is. I did spend a lot of time in my bunk in an effort to remain in control of my stomach.

On a bright day in June, seven days after departing South Hampton, we arrived in Boston Harbor. People and bands were there to welcome us home. How wonderful to be able to return to America with part of the war over. I'm sure many of us still expected to return to war in Japan. But, for now we were back in the country we had gone to war to defend. We were loaded aboard trains for the trip to camp near Boston. During the train ride we were given real milk, the first I had seen since May 1944. I had been gone about 13 months, and an unbelievable experience was behind me. Very thankful was I to have survived the past year and one month.

Our time in Boston was very short, but everyone wanted to make it pleasant. The USO and Red Cross helped by bringing us goodies to eat and books to read. They arranged a dance for the troops. Loads of girls were brought to camp for us to visit and dance with. This was enjoyable, but the only thing that really impressed me that evening was one of the most popular songs of the time ... I'M GONNA TAKE A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY HOME ...

If post-mortem has to do with after death, it may still be appropriate; because for many after the war was after death, and for others the time spent in the war was as bad or worse than death.

I returned to Camp Atterbury, Indiana, near Cincinnati, Ohio. From there I went home to Loveland, Ohio, for a long leave. Officially, I was still a patient and the part of Camp Atterbury that I was in was designed to give needed therapy. Going home was about all the therapy I needed. While there I did much more though, such as playing softball ... my team won the championship; hitting a golf ball for the first time ... I broke a golf club just hitting the ball; and going into Indianapolis ... I enjoyed seeing a city not devastated by war.

I also visited Roger Bender's family. His wife, Betty, his mother and brothers were all pleased that I came. What could I do or say. They asked many questions about Roger ... how did he die ... did he suffer. I could have said, "yes, he suffered for eight months, but not in death." As I understand his death, it was all over in an instant, very much unlike the death of C. B. Jones. I'm sorry to say that I was unable to send C. B.'s camera home because when I got hit I never saw any of my stuff again. We had our personal equipment stored in the rear (away from the front lines), and the camera was among my things.

On a rainy afternoon in Indianapolis the announcement came that the war in Japan was over. Was it really true ... yes, its allover ... Thank God! The town went wild as did cities, towns, villages and individuals allover the world. We could now look forward to going home. Yet, the Army sent me to Fort Sam Houston, Texas. Why? I never figured that one out. I was in Fort Sam three weeks and then discharged on 22 October 1945.

Approximately three days later, I was back in Loveland making plans for the future. The future included college at Wilmington College in Wilmington, Ohio.

Many years later, in 1970, I wrote a letter to Maurice Salomon, the young man in Belgium who had invited me to his home back in December 1944. Several days later I received a letter from his brother telling me that Maurice had married and become the father of three lovely children. Unfortunately, he had died a few months earlier. I was saddened by the news, but glad to hear that they remembered me.

Denise, Lisa and Gisele, the words you have read in this ... "What did you do in the war, Daddy?"-type thing are true.

During August 1989 several veterans of the 517th Parachute Combat Team returned to Southern France, where we jumped during the invasion of that area. Two men from my company, Company E, made the trip. While visiting Les Arcs, the small town near where we jumped (See pages 21 thru 24 of this story) a local man approached one of these men. It matters not why he chose to approach Ben Adams, but when he did a new chapter of A Devil In Baggy Pants began to unfold. The local gentleman asked, Do you per chance know a Eugene Brissey? Ben was shocked but managed to reply, "yes". He then called, Dick Jones over to meet the man. Ben and Dick were the two former Company E troopers, now talking to Fred Saeys.

Fred told them that he had one of Eugene Brissey's dog tags, (identification tags). Fred and his wife Colette now lived in the house near Les Arcs where we had a big fight with the enemy shortly after our jump into Southern France. It was a wild encounter. After the battle and victory we spent the night around the house ... all except Charles Lemen who was killed in their yard that afternoon in 1944. (Pages 21 through 24 covers this period of time). Fred was very excited as he told the story of my dog tag. In 1978 his wife was cleaning the yard when her rake uncovered a small piece of metal attached to a short chain. They cleaned it and found that it was a dog tag which had belonged to an American soldier. They made some effort to find me in the nearby cemetery where Lemen has remained all these years. The Saeys couple also wrote to the address on the dog tag. However, the Brissey's had long since moved from Rt. 3 Loveland Ohio.

They placed the tag in an envelope and stored it in a drawer. A war souvenir of sorts, which they had given little or no thought until learning that the 517th was returning to the scene of the l944 action. As Fred said, the first miracle vas finding the tag, the second vas the hard to believe fact that he Eugene L. Brissey was still alive. And, now for the rest of the story.

When Ben and Dick returned from the trip they both called me and related the story. Goose bumps and memories were popping out beyond belief. They had obtained Fred Saeys' address. With considerable excitement I wrote to Mr. Fred Saeys, Ermintage, Rte. Ste. Roseline, 83460 Les Arcs, France.

Soon enough later a letter arrived from him. Fortunately he spoke and wrote English. One letter resulted in another and it became clear to me that he wanted to keep the dog tag. I didn't mind, after all I only had the tag for a little over a year and lost it. He had it for 11 years and kept it safely tucked away. I did have a desire to see it and assured him that I would return it to him if he would send it to me. He did with the comment that it would be more important, valuable or something, to him after it had been in my hands. I would guess that he never expected to get it back.

I kept the tag for a longer period than I should have and finally sent it with a nice letter of thanks, etc., etc., and told him that I would be proud to have him and Colette keep it. A couple of days later I sent him a plastic match box with matches still in it. I had carried the little box for many months during the war and thought that he might like it in view of all the previous happenings. As fate would have it, the package with the match box arrived before the letter with the dog tag. Fred probably thought for sure, at this time, that I had no intention of returning the tag. He wrote a very polite letter expressing concern that the tag had probably been lost and that I had never received it since he had not heard anything from me concerning the tag. Immediately after he wrote the letter the tag arrived. The same day I think.

He quickly dispatched another letter to let me know that the tag had arrived and all was well. Later he wrote and invited us to visit them and share the good wine made from grapes that he grew. He also said that he was going to return the tag to me, after he had shared it and our stories with many others in the community. He said that many people had enjoyed the "dog tag saga". In September 1990 a letter arrived, but no dog tag. However there was a strong invitation for us to visit them in October when the weather would be nice and the wine even better. After thinking about it for a few days we decided to go. Hurry, hurry, hurry, -- passports, airline reservations, arrival date and time -- all set. They would meet us at the Nice, France air port at 3:00 PM October 25, 1990.

Forty six years, two months and 10 days or so later we took off for a different type of landing in Southern France. This trip would bring another adventure and a much more enjoyable experience than the one in 1944. More goose bumps and memories kept me excited about the things to come. Much like the first trip, I had no idea what to expect.

Through New York, Paris and on an Air France plane, we were approaching Nice with a body full of tingles. I had spent several days and nights in this lovely city in 1944, though the memories were not especially good. One weekend Roger Bender and I did not enjoy a hungry time in this town on the Riviera, a narrow piece of land on the Mediterranean. We could not even find a place to buy a loaf of bread. A military policeman invited us to come to his headquarters for food. With our bellies full, we gazed up at the Alps which rise back of the Riviera and decided that being hungry in Nice was better than being up in those mountains. We had just recently left one of those peaks which was situated in such a way that mules had to be used to bring food to us. I will never forget the fact that on November 11, 1944 I looked down at our planes flying well below us as we celebrated Independence Day (now veterans day) while enjoying the view of the Italian and French Riviera.

Nice was coming up or were we coming down to Nice, anyway we wondered what to expect and imagined the difficulties involved in making contact with Fred and Colette. Ben and Dick had sent some pictures which included, Fred. This would help, maybe. We left the plane, walked into the waiting area and all I remember seeing was Fred. He greeted us and took us to the baggage area where all our luggage was neatly stacked. A customs man or some other official was there. He began asking what we had brought, its value or whatever they ask. I told him, through Fred, that we only had personal things plus a gift for our hosts. When he asked the value of the gift, Fred told him that the question was not polite, grabbed our luggage and we left. Outside we were met by Colette who had been cruising the area. After a few tense moments we were doing just fine. Fred spoke English well and Colette a little, and I had studied French for several hours before departing. Thank goodness I didn't have to use any of my newly acquired knowledge of the language at this time though it did come in very handy, later, in Paris.

Before going to their home, Fred said that he wanted to take us to some place which was rather special in their neighborhood. As we approached the place we met an old lady who looked rather common in her wine country clothes. They talked and then we drove to the nearby rather special place. The old lady tagged along and greeted us in the courtyard of a beautiful building complex. We soon learned that she was The Baroness Andre Paula de Rasque de Laval, or something like that, and we had arrived at her place, the beautiful Chateau St. Roseline. The Chateau consisted of large living areas, a chapel, a winery and who knows what else, all surrounded by the most gorgeous grounds that one could ever imagine. The Baroness escorted us throughout this wonderful place. I soon realized that this had been our Command Headquarters during the time we were here in 1944. Baron de Rasque de Laval invited our commander to use the place while we were in combat in the area. A plaque is now on an outside wall of the Chateau to honor our Commander and the 517th for liberating this bit of France. The clipping appeared in our paratrooper news paper in 1990. Notice that the Baron's name is spelled differently, but I think Laval is correct. He's gone so he won't care no matter what and I sure don't care because I have trouble spelling my own name, at times. The wording on the plaque reads something like this: ON AUGUST 15, 1944, SAINT ROSELINE and this region were liberated by Colonel Rupert Graves and his 517th parachute outfit after they jumped in here at about 4 o'clock in the morning and beat the hell out of the Germans.

Marble plaque installed at the vineyard-winery of St. Roseline honoring the 517 PRCT and our commander Colonel Rupert Graves.

August 15th, the home and winery of Baron Rasque de Lavelle was the Combat Team command Post and also the Major Vella's Regimental Aid Station.

I never found out exactly how the Baroness fits into the descendants of the Baron.

After the gracious tour we proceeded to ERMINTAGE, home of the Saeys. It seems that everyone's "estate" has a name in their area. ERMINTAGE is a lovely old place which was built in 1765, give or take a few years.

We were just about conked out at 9:00 P.M., so we were shown the guest area and invited to have a good sleep. The bedroom had shutters on the windows which Fred closed to assure that no light would bother us. This proved to be a bad idea because I kept waking up the next morning, but seeing no light I kept trying to sleep. During this time, Fred called to us once. I didn't understand what he was saying, it sounded something like "Are we bothering you?" I said no and just laid there. Later, Colette came up saying something about pictures. I looked at my watch ... it was 11:45 A.M. I nearly jumped through the shutters when I understood that newspaper reporters and photographers were waiting for us down stairs.

Edie, told me to go without her because she could not get ready to meet with anyone within a reasonable time. So, I got ready in record time and stumbled down stairs, feeling like I would almost rather be back on that peak in the Alps waiting for the mules to arrive with some cold food. Waiting down stairs were the Saeys, three French war veterans, and the newspaper crew. Pictures were taken of all of us and the dog tag, and I was interviewed, in French, with Fred doing my part of the talking. Even with my help he managed to make a few statements which were a little off center. (Perhaps it was because of my help.) The most glaring error was the last paragraph in the French newspaper, where it is stated "the paratroop outfit moved North into the terrible Ardennes battle and into Berlin". All true except that we were pulled out of combat three months before the war ended, and the Russians were given the honor of taking what was left of Berlin, a move the USA has regretted ever since.

A copy of the French newspaper article, a translation or two and some other items should be attached to this follow-up on the story.

After we got half way back to normal, the thrills and chills started to unfold. Fred, showed me the areas where my company was digging holes and doing all we could to stay alive as the enemy fired on us for hours as their troops massed in the valley below. Actually I suppose I should say that I showed him the area, in any case we all stayed alive except Charles Lemen. (See 3rd paragraph page 21 of the story). Fred showed me where, according to his neighbors, Lemen was killed in the yard. Memories were vivid and a bit difficult to handle, because that day in 1944 had been a rough one. Page 24 of the story gives a brief account of the battle near the Saeys' home.

After the tour around the home area, we four went into the quaint little city of Les Arcs. While there we went into a small shop. After a flurry of French between Fred and the \shop keeper, the shop keeper rushed into the back room and returned with a box containing four bottles of wine. He had read the story in the morning paper about the dog tag saga and wanted me to have the wine. Of course I took it with great appreciation and thanks and whatever else Fred might have thrown in. From here events became an interesting adventure. We were invited to other homes where we enjoyed the hospitality of newly found friends while rehashing the August days of 1944.

A day among all the special days, which I enjoyed most was the day we toured the cities and places which were in our "spotlight" in 1944. The Saeys and two other couples took us along the route the 517th liberated in 1944. There was a great difference this time though, we used the roads and enjoyed the comfort of automobiles. I think the biggest thrill was returning to La Roquette, a small town high above the Var River. (Pages 25 into 29 of The Story tells of this 1944 adventure). The town was built so long ago that the streets were made for walking ... no cars. We parked outside of this beautiful place and started walking. As we walked a local gentleman saw us and when he found out why we were there he became more excited than I. He went inside his house and brought out souvenirs that he had collected after the battle of La Roquette, which he remembered very well. He showed me his collection and then appointed himself official guide and proceeded to lead us to the areas where I had participated in the battle and spent the night afterwards. He was very animated especially when he talked about the Germans. He obviously had some unpleasant memories of them. He took me to a place where 13 German Soldiers were still resting after they were buried there so long ago. It was unfortunate that several Germans were killed, but it seemed to please the old man who seem to be upset only because no one ever came to get the bodies.

The greatest disappointment to me, during this days tour, was that we could not find the place near Sospel where I spent 30 days in the same fox hole. Of course I could get out of the hole when shells weren't landing in our area. It wasn't all bad, I even had a phone in the hole. (Read page 28 into page 32 of The Story for more on this phase). We went into Sospel for lunch and viewed the entire area from a very different perspective.

As the day was drawing to an end we returned to the Saeys' home by way Monte Carlo, Monaco and Nice. Nice is the largest city in the area and is near where we camped after leaving the combat zone in the French Alps. (See 3rd Para. page 33 of The Story)

Among many other memorable short trips around Les Arcs, was to the cemetery in Draguignan where Charles Lemen is buried. The attendant took us to his grave.

The five days we spent with the Saeys were very enjoyable and resulted in experiences which could never have been expected. Experiences which resulted because, Colette Saeys, found a simple metal plaque.

We returned to Paris by a very fast train and really enjoyed a lot of beautiful country. We spent two days in Paris seeing many of the well known places that everyone should see when visiting the city by the SEINE.