Your story also takes me back to our attack south of Stavelot some time later. We had the high ground to take. On the second day of the advance, we came upon a farm family that had been able to stay put. The farmer had gathered the neighbor’s cattle into his barn where he fed and milked the cows. At that time, we had not been able to get our hands on fresh milk for what seemed like an eternity. Our milk and eggs in Europe were dried. Although the cooks, when we were out of combat, did their best, it is impossible to make dried stuff taste like the real thing. In combat, the cooks served as litter bearers, while we ate K rations when we could get them. As we went by in the attack, the farmer’s daughter, a pretty ten (or so) year old, poured fresh milk into our canteen cups. To my dying day, I will always remember the thoughtfulness of that family and that pretty young Belgian girl.

One of the neighborhood cattle did not make it due to an incoming mortar round. Lt. Col. Paxton shot the animal in the head with his forty-five as we ran by in the attack. I am told that only a skeleton was left by the time the battalion had passed. An order against fires did not prevent the troops from devouring steak that afternoon.

Thanks again for your recollections. I’m glad you kids got a kick out of the wounded German’s messing up your fastidious aunt’s impeccable corner in that basement hideout. I did too. Howard Hensleigh