Heroes: the Army

"...I thought of all the combat that I had been through; the worst had been the deadly artillery, the mortars, the never-ending patrols, and the lack of knowing what was occurring only half a mountain away. But that was the way it was in the infantry..."

 

 

Bennett J. Palmer, Sr.   Branch of Service: Army Unit: 36th Infantry Division, 143rd Regiment, 1st Batn., Co. B., 1st Pltn. Dates: 1943-1945 Location: European Theater Rank: PFC - Sgt. Birth Year: 1924 Entered Service: Buffalo, NY

Bennett J. Palmer, Sr. at age 18

 

 

     Recently, we were contacted by Mr. Bennett J. Palmer, Sr. and asked if we might consider helping him promote his recently written account of his personal experiences during the war on World War II Stories -- In Their Own Words.

     Mr. Palmer was most generous in sending us an autographed copy of his recent publication entitled The Hunter and the Hunted -- A Combat Soldier's Story.

     After reading Mr. Palmer's book from cover to cover, we were most impressed at Mr. Palmer's writing skills, his recollections of his combat experiences of 56 years previous and for his easy reading style that relates his compelling story of a common American G.I. in mortal combat.

     We highly recommended reading Mr. Palmer's account of his time in combat in Italy, France and Germany.

     I have personally read a number of first hand accounts of men in combat and have enjoyed the experience of reading this particular first hand account.

     Mr. Palmer's book is an easy reading text of recollections from his days of service in the U. S. Army and contains numerous photographs, maps, diagrams, copies of letters, and some images taken from a film clip that Mr. Palmer appeard in during his campaign in the mountainous country of southern Italy. The film clip is from a Signal Corps film that his sister saw while working at a local theater. The film clip segment (about 5 feet) was given to her by the theater manager. Mr. Palmer retains this film clip as a war memento to this day.

     It is with pleasure and a sense of gratitude that we at World War II Stories -- In Their Own Words now offer you some insight into the personal war memories of Mr. Palmer.

     Below, please find some exerpts of Mr. Palmer's book, The Hunter and the Hunted that we have chosen to include on our web pages.

     We have thoroughly enjoyed reading the personal accounts of five major campaigns as seen through the eyes of Mr. Palmer.

     We are sure that you will agree.

     Joe Richard
     Webmaster

Note: Throughout the text you will notice numbers such as these [41] which are the page numbers referred to in the text from Mr. Palmer's book.

 

 

 

The Hunter and the Hunted
A Combat Soldier's Story

Two Years in a Rifle Company WWII
Italy, France, Germany
February 5, 1943 - October 20, 1945

by Bennett J. Palmer, Sr.

 

 

Ben's Tour Back to Old Battlegrounds in Europe

Prologue

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     In early 1998, I received a letter from the 36 Division Association that a trip to Italy, France and ending up in Munich, Germany was being planned. I had been to several 36th reunions and met many new "T-Patchers"; one in particular was Ray Wells, who had been working and planning this tour for close to two years. I had been to the yearly reunion, and this was where I received the paperwork.

     I really thought it would be impossible for me to go. My wife Pauline said that she could never walk that much, so she suggested my brother, Ray, who has lived in London for quite a few years. I got Ray on the phone and he said to give him a few days to think about the trip. It wasn't but a few days, and the message was, "Let's give it a go." So I filled out two applications and sent them to a company named Galaxy Tours in Pennsylvania. This, as I remember, was in February and our tour left on April 17, 1998. The first thing I had to get was a passport that I had already applied for and which should arrive in time. It seemed odd that I, as an old infantryman, would need a passport; the Army hadn't called for one back in 1943. I guess times have really changed.

     Time passed quickly as Pauline tried to help pack my bags. Two bags were allowed per person, but if she had her way, two bags wouldn't hold all she wanted me to carry. Thank God for a two-bag limit. When the time came to travel to the Buffalo Airport on April 17th, my son, Greg, drove me to the airport. I hated to leave Polly behind, for I knew she would have loved Europe; this would have been the trip of a lifetime for us both. But it wasn't to be. My family waited to see me off. I flew into LaGuardia Airport, got there on time, and checked my baggage. I had time to get a little lunch, and I had my small carryon and a handful of [i] papers. My passport was at the ready," as they say, "Don't let it out of your sight."

     My flight on British Air was to leave at 9:00 p.m. Well, 9:00 came and went; I and a lot of others were wondering what the problem was. There were several reasons that were spread around, but we hadn't moved, since our plane hadn't arrived. I got another cup of coffee, calmed my nerves, and waited like everyone else. But I did have a problem &emdash; brother Ray in London was to meet me at Heathrow Airport in London at about 9:00 a.m. the next day. The story here in New York was that we would leave at about 12:45 a.m. Since the time in London was five hours ahead, meeting Ray and our flight to Rome to catch up to the tour group looked bad. I was panicking, as I hated to screw up this trip, and I hadn't seen Ray in several years. I called Pauline at home and explained what had happened. I asked if she would call Ray before he went to the airport to meet me.

     By about 1:00 a.m., I was on the airplane to England, and I slept most of the way. We landed about four hours late at Heathrow Airport, and I got my bags. Now I had to try to figure out where I would get our flight to Rome, since this was where Ray and I were to meet. These Brits hadn't learned English yet, and it was difficult to find out where to go for my flight to Rome. I got to an information booth, and the lady wrote a few directions saying that I was to take a lorry to the concourse number she had written down. Well, I can tell you one thing &emdash; if this is London's finest transportations system, I'm not impressed. Besides, in 1945 I had spent thirty-six hours in London, and these lorries, or whatever they're called, looked like the same one that they had back then. Of course they drove on the wrong side of the highway, and I think mostly on cobblestone streets. It was some ride, but it got me to the right concourse. I had my carry-on, walked into the building, went to the information desk, and showed the attendant my ticket. She was a bit excited; she told me I had eighteen more concourses to go before I could meet my brother and catch my flight to Rome. Away I went, about as fast as I could walk. There were no electric carts, not even a moving floor. I can tell you one thing, my old legs aren't what they used to be, but I made it, with a minute to spare.

     As I turned the corner on the eighteenth concourse, I saw Ray. He was telling me to hurry, as the airline was about to close up the board-[ii]ing dock. Ray grabbed my bag and we hustled aboard.

     We then had our greetings for each other, but I still hadn't quite recovered from the dash that I had made, getting there on time. It was fun getting together with Ray; he was what you might call a world traveler. We arrived in Rome late in the afternoon. I had my 36th Division cap on so our tour guide could locate us in the crowded airport. Ray and I went to claim our baggage; Ray's bag showed up so he set it aside as we waited for more baggage. About that time a fellow who was very excited spotted my cap and moved up to us. He told us that he was our tour guide who introduced himself as Dennis Ross. My first impression of him was, "What in hell was he so upset about?" He told us that the rest of the group was sitting outside the airport waiting for Ray and me and one other fellow that was on the tour. At least we were in the right place. The only remaining problem was that my luggage hadn't shown up. Dennis, our guide, did quite well with the language and was doing everything in his power to find my luggage, to no avail. He talked to the baggage clerk and finally said that the best deal would be that I would get my baggage at my hotel at Anzio. Well, this would be three days into our trip, but it was the best they could do.

     As Ray and I got on our tour bus, we met our old 36th Division men, all from different units of our Division. I told one fellow whom I had met at a reunion (I will not name him since we became good friends) I said that if it hadn't been for us "Yankees," the Texans in the group would still be fighting the damn war! We got underway; our tour bus was to take us to Caserta and most of us knew this place as the first and only rest camp in Italy. It was so large that when we came here during the war, I could only remember half of it. We stayed a couple of nights as we went south to visit Salerno and Paestum, the landing beaches of the invasion of Italy. We had a ceremony at a memorial in Salerno to honor the men who had fought and died there. We then visited the ruins of Pompeii, which I had visited when I was at Caserta in late January 1944. I remember that we came in the old Army 6/6 trucks, for only a few-hour tour, and someone had told of some erotic paintings, but I did not see them at that time. I couldn't believe it was such a large ancient city that Mt. Vesuvius had buried centuries ago. When we visited Pompeii during the war we were able to see Vesuvius erupting from the top of the mountains on which we were fighting. The other thing that I [iii] couldn't remember was how large an area it was.

 

 

Chapter 1

The Hunter and The Hunted

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     My mother and dad were both from Buffalo, New York, and they met and married when Mom was only sixteen years old and Dad was nineteen. In 1919, shortly after they married, they managed to buy a forty-eight acre farm in a small town called Holland that was located about thirty miles southeast of Buffalo and before long there were seven children, four girls and three boys. I was named after my dad, Bennett L. Palmer, and was the third of the brood. Mother managed a grocery store in a nearby township; she also managed our home and took care of the seven of us as well. Dad worked in Buffalo for the New York Central Railroad and had a long commute in all kinds of weather. We all had to work together to help in any way we could, so we usually grew an acre of potatoes and I remember sorting "spuds" every night after school. Dad would take a few bushels to work where he sold or traded them for other items that we needed.

     I was just coming up the cellar steps after sorting potatoes on December 7, 1941, when my mother called out that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor and that we were at war with Japan. Since Germany had already gone into Poland, we would soon be in a world war. I was in my junior year of high school; in a short time, I would be just the right age to be in the armed services since the "Draft Board" would be calling when I turned eighteen.

     It seemed like everyone pitched in for the war effort and during the summer after my third year of high school, I was employed in Buffalo for the Curtiss Wright Company working on the C-46 transport planes. This was very exciting to me since being around any kind of machinery was my idea of a good job.

     After the summer, I tried to return to finish school; I attempted going to school during the day and working nights. That lasted until about the end of October when my English teacher, Ann Geer, said to me, "Benny, you must quit that job and finish high school, since it is too much for you to do both!" Mother, Dad, and my sisters said the same thing, but I was eighteen; I guess I was pretty smart and thought I knew better.

Mother and I sit along a river near
Camp Shenango with mother's famous broiled
chicken. This was our last time together
until after I returned from the war.

Dad and I sit together for the last time
at Camp Shenango. Four weeks later
I was in Casablanca in North Africa.

 

     At age eighteen I registered with the Draft Board at North Collins, [1] New York, and was given four months to get my personal business in order. On February 12, 1943, Dad took me to North Collins to start my military life where we found that several other young men from the Holland area were there as well. We were loaded on trains and shipped to Fort Niagara, but we were there for only a few days and since it was winter in New York, we nearly froze in those old barracks. The army issued us our first wool uniforms, and we really thought we were something; however, after wearing the wool uniforms, we often scratched and itched. Soon it was time to leave, and we were loaded on a train where the passenger cars had wooden seats, no heat, and no conveniences. No one knew where we were going, nor did we think to ask. Someone said we were going south along the Mississippi River and for me that was the first time I had ever been near the big river and the first time most of us had ever been outside of New York State.

     In February of 1943, we arrived at Fort McClellan, Alabama. Four of us were from my area, and we ended up training together here. We were given thirteen weeks of basic infantry training and were kept busy marching and firing weapons; our training was strictly infantry. We were given a few short passes to Anniston, Alabama, but the weeks went by quickly. All the fellows in this thirteen-week-infantry-training course were eighteen to twenty years old. I soon realized I could have stayed out of the draft a little longer if I had finished high school, but that was my mistake, and I was living with it.

     When we finished our basic training, we were pronounced "combat ready" and we were considered prepared for being sent off to war to kill the enemy. The thought was unsettling, but I had received a sharp-shooter medal and a paper to send home stating I was fully trained. However, the only question I had was whether I would get a furlough home. Headquarters told us that we were moving to Camp Shenango in Pennsylvania. Several men from my home town and I were all moved at the same time including Charley Stock. He and I had trained together, but at Camp Shenango, things looked bleak with no signs that we would ever get home. Somehow Charley and I managed to get a twelve-hour pass, so we hitchhiked home, nearly 190 miles. We were lucky and got a ride straight to Holland and arrived home late that afternoon.

     My family arranged a quick get-together, including a few photos. Mother made a chicken dinner; we all ate like we hadn't eaten in a [3] month. We were so excited and I had no way of knowing if this would be the only time I would be able to get home, but it felt so good to be home that I had an idea. I called my friend Charley and told him that I was going to forge my pass making it a twenty-four hour pass; I told him if he could wait until the next day, my dad and brother Dave would drive us both back. He thought that was a great idea. The next day we picked Charley up at his house in my pride and joy, our 1936 Ford pickup and I got a chance to drive it once more, not knowing if it would be for the last time. Charley had had a few beers and immediately went to sleep, bouncing on that old auto seat in the back. The 190 miles took us six hours, and Dad worried about our changing our pass to twenty-four hours; he wasn't alone. As I drove, running through my head was every kind of excuse I could think of for being late.

     When we were near the camp, I changed places with my brother Dave before pulling up to the M.P.'s guardhouse. Charley woke up and we showed the guard our pass and he didn't seem to notice that the passes had been changed and he gave us permission to go through. I gave my Dad a hug and wished him a safe trip home, but I could tell Dad was relieved that we got back into camp with no problems. Mother and Dad came down to visit me in Shenango once more before I shipped out and Mother, of course, brought her wonderful chicken dinner with all the trimmings, which we ate near a small river. My parents took photos of us all as a remembrance. Little did I know that this was to be the last time I would see my family until I was discharged nearly three years later. [5]

 

 

Chapter 2

Shipping Out of the USA and Landing In North Africa

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     We landed in North Africa at Casablanca on August 6, 1943. We had been five days on the Atlantic Ocean from Norfolk, Virginia, and we really didn't have any idea as to what was happening with the war. Someone told us that the North African fighting was still going on, and that, of course, France had already fallen to the Germans; real, factual communications were all but non-existent.

     When we were off-loaded, each GI was given two barracks' bags filled with something we had never seen before. Of course, the veterans said that they were body bags, which didn't make us feel very good. As we dragged the "B-bags" a half-mile down a very dusty road, we noticed that the road was filled with Arab kids wanting anything they could beg from us. Their camels smelled like hell, and the kids were naked; we were wide-eyed, to say the least.

     We finally reached a dusty area full of tents which was to be our home for the next few days and which served as not much more than a spot to feed and shower ourselves. We received a new mailing address, "A.P.O. 36 Replacement Battalion," and, unknown to any of us, the 36th Infantry Division was in Africa already. They were a National Guard division from Texas, but we weren't going to join them yet; we had some training to do.

     The North African campaign was winding down, as the Desert Fox, Rommel, was being pushed out of North Africa. Meanwhile, we were about to be put on rail cars that were the infamous 40x8s that were designed for either forty men or eight horses. Maybe the cars were all [8] right for horses, but I can tell you they were not large enough for forty men; we were so crowded that we could not all lie down and sleep at the same time. Olive drab (o.d.) blankets were tied at each end across the car to make a hammock, but guess what, o.d. blankets stretch! But life went on, and the ride continued for ten days on the first leg. The railroad was run by the French Moroccans, and the old steam engine had been built in 1918, during World War I, in Elmira, N.Y., only 120 miles from where I was born. Every joint leaked steam, and the engine looked as bad as it performed; it had long ago run out of steam. However, the U.S. Army furnished a diesel electric engine as a pusher. The rail cars were as old as the steam engine on the front, and this antique equipment wasn't equipped with air brakes so each boxcar had a set of hand brakes manned by a Moroccan who was fully robed, wasn't very friendly, and didn't smell very good. I think they sat in their 2' x 2' cabs and put the brakes on and went to sleep, forgetting to release them. We couldn't believe that there were tunnels in North Africa, but there were. Picture going through one with this old steam engine puffing soft coal; everyone soon looked the same in color, black.

     We unloaded ten days later in Bizerte, washed and got clean clothes, and received "C" rations, but after a few days, we learned that we were supposed to have been in Oran. We were not in a very good mood, but we were all privates who took orders, so back we went. We got on the train and went back through the tunnels that had gotten us so dirty in the first place. This made for very unsanitary conditions and we didn't stop, not even to go to the bathroom. Out the door everything went as we traveled along at about ten to fifteen miles per hour. We were going so slowly that if one were up front and jumped off to rob some melons, he could always get on a car further to the back. We traveled on this train for seven more days and nights; talk about first-class! In the meantime we were getting no news of the war while we were "bumming" around North Africa. When our return train ride ended at Oran, we looked just as bad as we had looked when we began our first ten-day ride, only a lot angrier, of course. The food didn't get better at Oran since there were no field kitchens, so we ate cold rations. The date was now about the first week in September 1943, and we were now located in an area where we could get showers and clean clothes, and we also got Atabrine pills for malaria and salt tablets for dehydration. [11] We regularly formed up and had exercise, but we were really not in good physical condition since all the traveling on the first ten-day train trip and then the seven-day return trip had been a real "killer."

     We learned by word of mouth that the 36th Division had invaded Salerno, Italy, on September 9, 1943, but the Army kept us in Africa, just waiting and waiting. We still only knew the guys who were at our side; other than that we were just a faceless number. I was #32840498, my army serial number and to this day the number is etched in my memory. We were given lectures by some noncoms, men who were not combat men, just fellows that were sergeants from an old guard division. They tried to keep a little order and soon loaded us on boats for another unknown destination. We still didn't know much about what was happening in Europe, and we didn't know that the North African campaign had ended, that Sicily had been invaded, and that the Germans had cost the allies many casualties. [12]

 

 

Chapter 5

My First Combat in Italy

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     I soon learned that the boxes from home would become our lifeline, and I continued to write home as often as I could. Sometimes in camp we would have a few softball games and a few other activities which gave us little time to write home. We could not indicate our location in our letters; this would be censored or blacked out; our folks could only guess where we were.

     Around November 15, we were moved to our first combat area through Venafro and we who fought there would always remember this village. It had the only road leading to the mountains to the north that would be ours to take and hold for the winter of 1943. We relieved a company of the Third Division, taking up their same positions, but always moved after dark so "Jerry" could not get his artillery zeroed in on us. This was my first combat and as we moved into position we received small arms fire and a few mortar rounds; nothing real close, the veterans assured us. The troops we replaced were glad to give us their rock pile. We quickly learned that it took a lot of tough climbing for us to move anywhere, and we eventually learned that we would do this many times while we were in Italy. Sergeant Golden placed our outposts near the artillery forward observers who were in radio contact with our artillery and who instructed them where to fire. The forward observers' radios were quite good, but only if they were on the highest point of elevation. A telephone became our outpost's main source of communication with company headquarters and the outposts became the eyes and ears of every infantry company so when incoming artillery and mortar rounds damaged our phone wires, another wire was quickly rolled out to replace a blown wire. I always thought those wire guys really eamed their money.

     For the rifleman, it was patrols. In our minds these patrols were not too practical since we would be in plain sight of the Germans which was sure to get the mortars coming in, and the mortars were very nasty weapons. Along with the artillery, this made for some hard times and I, [19] like all my combat buddies, was badly frightened, but combat raged on.

     At night there would be some small-arms fire and we shot at anything that moved, which many times would turn out to be nothing. Tension was always high, and we moved from our mountain posts several times during the next few weeks. The weather and living conditions on the mountain were so bad that we spent only a few days at a time on the mountain and then we would move down off the mountaln for some days in a relief camp. The weather kept getting worse, and the snow and the living conditions in the high elevation made it difficult for us at our posts as our teeth never stopped chattering from the cold and never-ending artillery and mortars. Also, there always seemed to be rain at the relief camps farther down the mountain, which contributed to the deep mud that made living horrible. Trench foot, caused by our feet and boots being constantly soaked in water, was getting very bad, but fortunately my health seemed to be fine.

The above images are from frames from the
Signal Corps film shown in the local theaters
in early 1945 back in the USA. "Sorry I don't
know the G.I. with me on this patrol.
60 years is a long time."

 

     We learned the names of some of the mountains that we had been fighting on -- Mt. Sammucro, Mt. Maggiore, Mt. Casteleone, and Mt. Lungo, which would all become famous during this war. Also the small town of San Pietro became well known for the battle that raged during most of the coldest winter in years. Our Company B 143rd Regiment remained in a fight to hold Mt. Sammurco. We were also involved in many firefights and often called for our 60mm mortars to stop the German attack. Our artillery constantly gave us a lot of help, but this battlefront became very nasty. We were losing men, and the medics were overwhelmed trying to help those who were still alive; I'll never know what kept us going.

     I was with Dick Hupman's squad, moving to gain better positions for firing. As our squad moved toward the Germans, there was a deafening noise from our rifles and the German mortars and artillery. I was hit in the right wrist, and it was bleeding quite a bit, so I looked for "Doc" Everest, our first platoon medic. He helped me get my medical kit off my ammunition belt and then poured sulpha drugs on my wrist, wrapped it up, and said, "Get the hell out of here before you get killed." (These medics got my highest praise, as they wore only a Red Cross armband. Medics bore no arms, but bullets or shrapnel weren't deterred because of a Red Cross.) Luckily, I wasn't really in a lot of pain, and thought, "You are a very lucky guy. I received my wound on the twelfth month, tenth day of 1943. [20]

 

 

Chapter 9

Back to Naples, and First News on Captain Waskow

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     We now had started making new friendships, but we were soon loaded onto a boat to go back to Italy. We said goodbye to our new friends, some of whom would never see another day of combat since most of them were already in the biggest fight they would ever have to win. With God's help and a nation's prayers, we hoped they somehow would prevail over their wounds.

     Around the tenth of January we were loaded onto a boat bound for Naples. We boarded an LST in Bizerte and headed out to sea for a trip that was to take four days. The storms were very bad, most of us were very seasick, and the navy chow didn't help, either. We were moving through the Messina Straights, where we stopped. Some of us were on the top floor level, and we watched a few small boats making their way toward our boat. Native people in these little boats wanted to trade oranges and soft-shell almonds for cigarettes, chocolate, or rations so we lowered a light rope a few times, with some items to trade and we got back a few oranges and nuts. It looked like we were about to move, so rapid trades had to be made. Someone stuffed in an empty cigarette carton that really looked real and a successful exchange was made; we got a bag of nuts and they got the stuffed box; I don't think we parted as their friends.

     The boat was moving again, and as we got out of the Straits, we again got into some rough weather. As we got closer to Naples, I wondered if the large boat that had been sunk in the harbor was still there, but I noticed it wasn't when we returned. We were unloaded and taken to an old warehouse where a sergeant took over who told us to take a seat and that he would try to get us to the units that we had previously been in. I believe most of us wanted our old units since the only people we knew in Italy were in those platoons. Also, our best chance for getting our mail was at our original company, even though none of us had a clue where our company was. I was the only man from Company [35] B, 143 Infantry, and the sergeant said that there would be someone along soon to take me to regimental headquarters.

     It seemed like hours before another sergeant came in looking for "Palmer." He had a few words with the sergeant whose job it was to get us to our former units and the sergeant gave him my records, which were not very extensive. All the belongings I had included a small Red Cross bag of toiletries, writing paper, ink and pen, and the army clothes on my back. When we were loaded onto a jeep, the sergeant told me that we were about an hour from regimental headquarters. As we drove down the road, I tried talking to the sergeant, but in an army jeep it truly was like talking to the wind. Also, it was getting late, and I think the sergeant wanted to arrive before dark. I was taken to an office where a first sergeant welcomed every man back from injury. He also said that combat on the front lines had been very bad, and I knew that was not good news.

     It was chow time and the first sergeant said that he would get someone to show me where I would bunk for the night, where the mess hall was, and where I could find the toilet and showers. I was happy with these facilities, for I knew that in about two more days I would be with Company B again. But for that night I felt safe, and soon bedded down for the night. Regimental headquarters were normally several miles behind the lines, but this was where some of our heavy "Long Tom" artillery was located, so after chow I tried to find out what had been happening on the front from anyone who might have information.

     I sat with a few men from other companies and we were all frightened wondering how we would react when we got back into combat. I thought of all the combat that I had been through; the worst had been the deadly artillery, the mortars, the never-ending patrols, and the lack of knowing what was occurring only half a mountain away. But that was the way it was in the infantry. I asked a first lieutenant if he had any information about Company B and he asked how long I had been away from duty. When I told him it had been thirty-two days, he asked if I knew that Captain Waskow, my captain, had been killed on the 15th of December. Since I had been wounded on the tenth of December, I did not know about his death. This proved a real shock to me, for he had been my very first company commander and I had always considered him a great CO. [36]

 

 

Chapter 10

The Rapido River Fiasco,

as Told by First Sergeant Parker

[Exerpt from this chapter]

 

     Sergeant Parker told me, "Ben Palmer, you have some catching up to do about what went on while you were rehabbing. "He said that since I had been away, the 141st and 143rd had been in the worst river crossing ever conceived, Rapido River. The river normally ran four feet deep, but the Germans had blown up a dam upstream, and with so much rain, it became a raging torrent. It had run over its banks by two hundred feet in some places, and he explained that the first attempt to cross was made on January 18. I learned that the men had carried rubber rafts down to the river's edge, and the combat engineers had tried to lay footbridges. The engineers had waded, swam, and crawled into the icy river to get a few ropes tied off on the other side to prevent those footbridges from washing down the river. Unfortunately, some of these men got across only to be killed, wounded, or taken prisoner. Several attempted crossings were made at the same time, and none went well and Parker informed me that it was so dark that even getting to the river was hell.

     The Germans had had this whole area zeroed in, and they threw everything they could at it. Since these battles always took place at night, command and control were almost impossible and the mission was finally called off, but much confusion existed. Wounded men who could walk or crawl tried to get back across the river, but many drowned because all the footbridges and rubber boats had been washed down the river. The men left over on the German side of the river were either killed or became prisoners of war. Sergeant Parker was nearly in tears when he told me that on this night there were two regiments of young Americans who had paid a terrible price at this attempted crossing. After the two regiments had gathered up every man that could walk, General Clark ordered another strike the following night. After [41] the first night, any man walking tried to help the medics patch up the wounded while the Germans continued dropping in mortar rounds and some machine gun fire. Parker said that most of the men were trying to get to the rear as fast as they could. At daybreak, all the sergeants and officers tried to put what was left of the troops into some form of a fighting unit. Non-commissioned officers tried to get a count of the MA, wounded, and missing in action, but no accurate count could be made, and as they were trying to get reorganized the morale was about zero.

     Then came orders from regimental headquarters that the unit must reorganize, and every man that was available would be used to try another crossing. It was a nightmare for the noncommiss-ioned officers that were still there. Sergeant Parker was without his lieutenant, who was missing, and not knowing his fate, Parker was doing everything in his power to get rations, water, ammo, and more men, but the latter were not available.

     Parker continued telling his story about the second attempt that was even worse than the first. The Germans were ready and, of course, their artillery, mortars, and machine guns were even more deadly. Also the night before we had lost many brave men so by early morning, within hours of the second crossing, everything and everyone was in a battle for survival. Some soldiers got across, but in such small numbers that most were either killed or captured. Some men managed to swim back in the near-freezing water and during this time, the Germans were firing everything they had at the Americans. History records the fact that this was the worst single defeat for these two regiments in war to that date. As this night and this battle wound down, the troops were fewer in number, and the ones that survived were never the same.

     First Sergeant Parker told me he had asked anyone, walking or crawling, if they had seen any men that needed help. The Germans kept up their shelling to keep the pressure on the GIs, but our artillery and mortars and tanks never stopped firing because they were trying to help the dogfaces on this God-forsaken mission. Our division had no chance in hell of pushing the "Krauts" out of their well-defended and dug-in positions across a raging river three times its normal width, in near freezing weather, in the face of the heaviest firepower the Germans could throw at them. Parker said that after the second try, he was left to [42] gather up a shattered and shocked corps of men whose true numbers lost would never be known. Parker said that there was one more order that came after that second day of pure hell; all non-commissioned officers and their lieutenants were to report to regimental headquarters with the number of troops still able to form some kind of combat unit. Our leaders were again getting ready to put together another attempt for this bloody Rapido River crossing.

     Parker became very emotional while relating his story to me. He said that regimental headquarters had been in contact with division headquarters for hours telling them they couldn't find enough men in the two regiments to make even one combat unit. What men were left that day were tired, hungry, wet, and looked like they were the walking dead.

     Again I asked Sergeant Parker if Golden, Hupman, Kubiac, and others had survived and he said that as far as he knew they had all made it. Listening to this very troubling story, I felt lucky that I had missed this debacle, but I was very sad that several of my buddies had been wounded. Had my wound saved my life? Unfortunately, I had just returned on the day when Clark ordered a third attempt to cross this raging Rapido River. Now after all these horrible battles I had returned to see these men wrapped in blankets and shelter halves trying to get warm. They were just hulks of men, thoroughly exhausted. I suspected that I would be online in a day or so, and then I would learn how many of the old platoon had survived. I asked Sergeant Parker if there was any mail up here, and he said that things had been so bad that everything else took priority over mail. I found out that Company B had been getting back some of the fellows that had been wounded in the San Pietro area and that the next day I would return to the first platoon. I took my C rations and my bedroll and went to find a spot that would give me a little protection from artillery.[43]

 

 

Chapter 16

Anzio Beach

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     The ground was quite rough so we proceeded slowly. It was full daylight, and things were getting quite noisy for I think the Germans were trying to figure out what in hell was going on. I was about thirty yards from the main trail and moving when all of a sudden I was being fired upon. It looked like this German rifleman had been left behind as a one-man outpost. My good luck was that he missed me, but I didn't miss him. In war it's either them or you, but the cries of death are the same. I learned that no one could tell me that killing in war was easy. I also learned that most soldiers were K.I.A. as a result of mortars and artillery. Small arms fire was far less accountable for death on either side. By this time Hupman arrived out of nowhere and saw that I was still standing but was quite shook up. The German who had shot at me had not moved; his luck had run out. This scene will probably always be in my brain. But the killing wouldn't end here because we were just breaking through to Rome where a lot of combat lay ahead.

     My squad had this section of the mountain to clear of Germans. We also had to help our artillery forward observers set up to be able to call in for artillery. This overnight infil-tration put a lot of Germans in one hell of a bind; we caught some eating, shaving and other things, which told the story of the total surprise for the Germans. We got to the top with no small arms firing and "Jerry's" artillery seemed to be hit and miss. It was hard to tell where the front line was, but we could see out over a large valley that seemed to be on fire, and the noise from all the artillery had the whole valley just rolling. Later that day we came off the mountain and crossed this area that had had reeds seven feet high, but our tanks had flattened them. David Arvizu said to me, "What in the world is this terrible odor?" as we started to cross the wet area. Further investigation told us that the American tanks had caught Germans hiding in these reeds and this whole area was a mass of bloated, torn up Germans. There was no way of telling how many had died such a horrible death. The temperature remained in the high seventies, which created an odor that will never leave my memory. Dave asked me if I had ever seen anything like that before, and my answer was no. This seemed to be another twist of war at its very worst; the Germans had been trapped and mangled in this place, and we had come upon this horrible scene.

     We double-timed our walk to get away from the sight and smell of [93] the massacre and we thanked the Lord they weren't Americans. But this sight would haunt for life all of us who saw it. Again this war didn't look like it would end any time soon. As we regrouped, we were given the new assignment of clearing out snipers and the few German machine gun nests that "Jerry" had left behind to slow our advance toward Rome. These machine gunners were nasty and had been told to hold out to the end. When this happened we had to call in our 60mm mortars. Fortunately, our mortar men could just about drop a shell in the Germans' pockets. These babies "cleaned house," and we moved on to the next obstacle that wasn't far away. As we moved ahead slowly, we came alongside railroad tracks going into a tunnel. Sticking halfway out of the tunnel was the biggest artillery piece I had ever seen. We had read in the "Stars and Swipes" that the Germans had such a weapon that we called "Anzio Annie." "Annie" had been fired in the area when we had originally landed, but luckily the shells went over our heads. However, the damn shells just about scared you to death while going over us to their intended target.

     Things were really crazy; infantry was moving all over as far as one could see. Tanks from the 36 Division looked like they came from heaven as they broke through and opened the door to Rome. The "plum" all our generals were playing for was finally ours, thanks to my so-called hard luck division; this action gave General Clark the keys to Rome. Our division had been put into some of the worst circumstances of any division that had ever fought in Italy. But, of course, Clark would be the one to get "his" photo and many news stories about what a brilliant general he was in the papers, even though the break-through plan was done by none other than our own General Walker, our division commander. This mission was a great success for our two regiments who had infiltrated behind the German lines, something that was unheard of. But I was part of the better times, at this moment anyway. Being part of this great drive to Rome as a combat soldier was exciting. We knew we had fought for every inch of land and always in our minds were the fellows who had made the supreme sacrifice and who were not here to grasp this moment. We had to carry on in their name, in a war that seemed like it would never end.[94]

 

 

Chapter 19

Invasion of Southern France

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     Our 143rd Regiment began loading at the port of Pozzuoli, Italy, on August 10, 1944. We loaded on LSTs and LCIs, the main boats for moving infantry to the invasion sites. The ship was very crowded as it pulled out of the harbor, and most men were in the lower decks that were steaming hot. I was allowed to stay on the top deck since the navy didn't want the flamethrower that I was in charge of or me out of their sight. I assured them I would take good care of it. Staying up top, where at least one could breathe fresh air, was just fine with me. These ships didn't have one bit of luxury anywhere; there were a couple "cans" on each deck, and a place to fill our canteens with water. We ate K rations while we listened to Lt. Brancato fill us in on how long this boat ride would be. We saw land after a couple of days at sea and of course the guys wanted to know what country this was. Platoon Sergeant Hupman had been told that it was the island of Corsica, which didn't mean much to a bunch of overheated GIs.

     The word was given that we would probably be setting here for a while, which set off a signal of sorts. Guys went diving off the boat, getting the swim of their life. Every one of us dropped everything, and over the sides we went. For a while most of us forgot why we were on the boats. The climb back on the boat involved using the rope ladders that were laid against the sides of the boat. We had practiced this with full field pack, so the "birthday suit" climb was a breeze. The "brass" kind of looked the other way, and left the men to enjoy the break since no one knew what tomorrow would bring. The next day turned out to be the biggest show of my lifetime.

     It was the 15th of August, and this convoy seemed to be getting bigger by the hour. So far we had not even been warned of any German aircraft in the area, and we could thank the Lord for that. As we set off from Corsica, we saw flights of P-47 and P-38 fighter planes watching over our swelling convoy. These planes made us feel better as they [105] made their way through the sky. We were told that the planes were flying many sorties every day into Italy since the war was still on north of Rome, but we had paid our dues in that God-forsaken country. When we left Italy, we never learned any more news of the tough fighting that was going on in the Alps. We were on our way to France, to another unknown, and "H-Hour" was but hours away. As daylight broke for those of us who were on the top deck, we could see boats of every description as far as the eye could look along the coast of France. There was much going on; the sky was shaking as hundreds of transport planes towing gliders were heading to the shores of France. Planes were all loaded with troops and equipment and all were saying a few prayers for those men in those gliders. The battleships had been shelling the coastline with their big guns and the coastline seemed to be completely blocked from view because of the smoke and fire on the shore. Some of the boats had rockets; I didn't know how many each could fire at once, but the rockets were terrifying weapons. Sitting on the top deck gave me a front row seat.

     During this time I remembered that my job was to guard my flamethrower, which worried the navy because they felt the flamethrower was a time bomb. I told them I wasn't in love with the damn thing either, and they could stow it or throw it as far as I was concerned, and just give me my Ml. I knew that at least it would fire and I could depend on it. I said I was a staff sergeant, and a squad leader, but not a "heater man.

     It was now time for the platoon leaders to review our plans as best we could. These boats could not take us to the beachhead for many reasons, including the fact that these boats would surely go to ground in the shallow water and be sitting ducks for German fighter planes, but so far no German planes of any kind had appeared. The small LCIs that were to take us to the beachhead came alongside our big boat, and we went over the side and down the rope ladder into our landing craft. As soon as each platoon was loaded, the LCIs would move quickly away from the side of the boat since another group would already be near the bottom of the ladder. The navy guys had been through this at a couple other landings so they knew what they could be in for. Thank the Lord the sea was quite calm.

     We all studied maps and were briefed on what we might encounter.[106] The beach we were to land on was code-named Green Beach, which, of course, meant nothing to us. When our boat hit the beach and that full-width door came down, everyone was out of the boat in a few seconds. I had my flamethrower, but my friends stayed well ahead of me, for they knew that if a rifle bullet hit any one of the tanks on my back it would go off like a bomb. I never could figure out why I got this damned torch since there were a lot of men much bigger than I, but I was a staff sergeant, and they paid me more so maybe that was the reason.

     We had a very good landing. A few artillery shells dropped in the water, but it seemed like "Jerry" was just lobbing them in hopes of hitting something. There was rifle and machine gun fire from somewhere on the beach, and all of the first platoon was on the beach and spread out as we moved further inland.

     Lt. Brancato and Platoon Leader Hupman gave hand signals indicating where they wanted the squads to go. The beach was not sand, but a heavy layer of small stones, which were very hard to walk on. There were GIs as far as I could see trying to get further away from the sea and it looked like "Jerry" hadn't built any pillboxes or artillery bunkers in this area. If there had been either of these fortifications, my job was to take them out while I was supposed to be covered by riflemen, bazooka men, machine guns, and hand grenades. I was supposed to do whatever it took to get close enough to blow the napalm into a gun port or any other opening in the pillbox. The flamethrower had a range of thirty to fifty yards with the wind at my back and it was strictly a oneshot deal, if the flamethrower fired at all. As the mix under pressure left the wand, I had my index finger on a trigger that caused the liquid to ignite instantly and turn into a fiery jelly mass, sticking to and burning anything it landed on. If it landed on a person's clothes, he would not be able to put the flames out. Thank God Lt. Brancato soon sent word up that I was to disarm the flamethrower and leave it. We moved on at a fast pace and I knew I would never have been able to keep up carrying the flamethrower. It didn't matter as I had orders to drop the weapon if there were no target. I got my first squad back. Meanwhile Hupman had carried my Thompson submachine gun, my ammo belt, canteen, hand grenades, and ammo clips for me. Dave Arvizu was my scout who was fast becoming a very good friend and friends were so [107] valuable, but so hard to keep because of the toll of combat.

     Word had it that our l42nd Regiment hadn't been able to penetrate the steel obstacles and mines that "Jerry" had put under the water at Red Beach and which were not visible to the LCI Commanders. The troops were under navy control, and the navy boys along with our army troops were in a lot of trouble. The navy had some new thing, that was radiocontrolled, a type of minesweeper. This device the navy could send along the shore to explode mines and take out underwater obstacles, since the obstacles were keeping the l42nd Infantry from getting in on Red Beach. A couple of the new minesweepers went wild. The word was that they were headed towards a couple of our navy boats, so the navy had to blow them up in the water. Time was passing and our l42nd was still not on Red Beach. A navy commander overrode an army order and sent the 142nd in on Green Beach, which had already accepted two regiments of the 36th Division. We were well on our way to completing the initial phase of our landing. This naval officer should have gotten a big medal since he saved countless GIs from disaster. Meanwhile, Company B had been given orders to head towards San Raphael. We would pass behind and through the Red Beach area where our l42nd had not been able to get ashore.

     We took some German prisoners (some were German, but many were Poles) and others who were just glad the war was over for them. We were also taking some artillery fire here and there and we had a couple of wounded who already had gone back to the company aid station. We were still moving toward San Raphael, cleaning out small pockets of resistance and pushing on. It was just before dark when I heard a noise overhead of what I would call a radio-guided drone with a very narrow wing span, and a power source that I couldn't recognize. The army reported that a German bomber had dropped bombs on the ship offshore and I had seen this drone with my own eyes. It was separated from the "Mother Bomber" and on path to its target. Soon we all heard and felt the explosion this drone created. This explosion occurred shortly after sundown on the eve of our invasion. Many of my men and I watched as the drone was guided to its target. I never saw the "Mother Bomber" because the whole area was covered with the smoke of the battle, but I was sure the bomber was probably at a higher elevation.

     If this invasion wasn't still going on, this drone would never have [108] gotten to the ship for if our AAA had been set up, it could have blown this drone out of the sky before it blew up the ship that had most of the 36th, Division s artillery on board. The drone was so low that we could have hit it with a bazooka shell. But there had been only a couple of minutes and then there was one of the biggest explosions that I had ever heard. This, no doubt, took many American Navy men's lives, since the ground shook back several miles to where we were. At this time we didn't know what ship had been demolished.

     Everyone was tired since no one had slept the night before the invasion. On the morning before we had landed on San Raphael beach, we had packed six K rations in our field pack, filled two canteens with water, and loaded our weapons, ammo, and grenades. As we pushed through San Raphael in a single file on each side of the road, things weren t quite so noisy, and we got the normal Infantry ten-minute break. Most had eaten their "K's" and gotten forty winks since a GI seemed to sleep while walking down the road. I could picture myself dropping on my butt, fully loaded, and the sergeant always saying, "Get them feet up and get the blood going back to your heart."

     We moved out and as we started down the road where there was a roaring fire lighting up the totally black sky, and, at the same time, there were explosions going off all around that fire area. Then the weirdest thing happened; we had a column of our men on each side of the road moving forward when there was this indescribable sound that seemed like it was moving right between our two columns of troops. This awful noise got closer and louder as it was moving between our two columns of troops. Everyone hit the ditch with no regard to what he might encounter along the roadside. This event was over in ten seconds, but it took us a few minutes to get going again. The only explanation we received was that a German ammunition dump had apparently been hit by our artillery and that this ammunition dump had blown up, sending fire and blown shells in a hundred directions. The shells were going end over end, making a deathly noise on their helterskelter way. It was quite nerve-wracking to say the least, but we had to pick ourselves up and continue to push ahead which only added to our jitters.

     We had made contact with the airborne and glider troops about eight miles from Green Beach. The glider troops seemed to have [109] suffered the worst because the gliders that we met up with had landed in an orchard of dwarf pear trees, which were grown on wire and posts. The branches were tied flat to the wire, and they looked much like grape vineyards with the wood posts holding the neat row on rows of both crops. The big picture was that this drop zone was about the same as the rest of the drop zones, and the glider troops were the ones that had had to land in these vineyards and orchards where the posts and wires tore the gliders' men and their equipment apart. This area became a massive junkyard and graveyard. The wounded were being cleared from this area before we arrived. Those who had survived had picked up what they could salvage and organized into a fighting unit that tried to still accomplish its mission.

     The airborne had had a little better go at it because they came down in parachutes and not in one of these wooden coffins (gliders). Paratroopers' problems were regrouping their fighting units back together because of timing, wind, and not being able to identify their drop zone. Clouds and being dropped before daylight made it difficult to assemble after landing. When we were waiting to land on Green Beach and looked to the sky, we saw the gliders being towed by Army DC-3s and other transport planes, and so we had met up with them late that same day. I had to admire them &emdash; jumping with a parachute or being towed in a wooden motorless glider over a designated area, and then being cut loose. God had to love these guys; they had paid a terrible price! [110]

 

 

Chapter 23

Strasbourg for Christmas

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     Our captain told us that we would move to an area called Bitche where we would have three days of training. We were also told that the Germans had been infiltrating our lines wearing American uniforms and some were even driving American jeeps while speaking very good English. The word from Axis Sally" was that we had better surrender for the allies would surely soon fail in battle. Of course she was tough on our morale, but we all had heard her blabber and interpreted it that way. The combat in the Bitche area became a real challenge for the troops since the weather was horrible. The men could only survive a few days at a time under these weather conditions and the training was taking place in low country where troops were never dry; the mud and the rivers all took their toll. The changing of our troops was dangerous and very tiring, but for us to survive as a fighting force, we had to follow our orders.

     On the fourth of January in 1945, Company B was marching through an area which looked to be quite flat. Since it was just about dark it was hard to gauge the size of the area. What was so different about this area was that there must have been a hundred anti-aircraft searchlights manned by an AAA unit, but these lights weren't for shooting down German fighter planes. Instead our army was still very [154] worried about German infiltrators, and so these lights were turned up slightly to beam against the clouds that reflected their powerful light beam toward the enemy lines. This was being tried because of what the German prisoners had been telling our intelligence -- that their orders were to infiltrate and to raise hell. Later they hoped to send a larger force to split the 7th Army and all this action was to coincide with the great battles going on all over the northern sector. As we marched by this strange scene, I wondered what else our American commanders could think of next to try to beat the Germans in this deadly war. How much all these lights and equipment did to end the damn war, I will never know.

     One thing I knew, we just kept moving trying to cope with a life that was so unbearable. We moved to new areas to relieve other soldiers so they could dry out. The weather wasn't getting any better and we all wondered when everything would end. We had so many men going back on sick call along with casualties from the never-ending combat that our active numbers on line just kept dropping. The front was never quiet, with the artillery blowing in on us anytime "Jerry" thought we might be going on the offensive. The Germans were nervous and it became a "cat and mouse" game for we did a lot of mock attacks. We would often have an artillery barrage with mortars and then move some troops around to see what developed, yet some of the toughest fighting we encountered was in north central France. We lived in the forest for what seemed like forever. It was only the first week in January, but we had been in this general area for so long that we were even getting to know the names of the villages. This was little comfort, however, for we hardly ever slept under cover. A hayloft would have been nice, but "Jerry" burned most of the houses and barns in the area. Besides, the Germans had the coordinates for their artillery and that meant they could take out any building they wanted to. So life in combat never got any easier. Again, we prayed silently just to stay alive. I, as a squad leader, had to look out for my men and try to keep a step ahead of the Germans, but that, at times, seemed nearly impossible.

     Dave Arvizu had gotten hit but I never knew about it until Sergeant Hupman returned to our line. Dave had run into a German patrol and he had gotten shot up enough so that he was sent back from the lines. Unfortunately, I didn't realize when Dave got hit because this was [155] rolling country with very heavy pine forests. Dave had been on a patrol out scouting the area just generally trying to see where "Jerry" was holed up. But sometimes the Germans would let our forces advance and then spring a trap on them. They were masters at camouflage so what trap Dave fell into only his men and he would ever know. Dave was one hell of a soldier and the third squad would surely miss him and naturally we all prayed that he would be OK. However, we soon lost all track of any soldiers who got wounded, for we just hoped to continue on to try to win our battles. Eventually Dave would come back. Again, every infantryman would always be quick to tell you that if your wound didn't kill you, at least the wound got you out of combat and the vicious weather. This advantage was all right if you were wounded seriously, but not fatally. Dave's getting wounded really got to me since we had been each other's strength since Italy. That night I was to take out a routine patrol seeking the usual prisoners and scouting out German positions which generally meant drawing enemy fire. The weather had been horrible; it was late in the night. My squad was spread out across a small area on this mountain with everyone sitting next to their foxholes, most of which had several inches of water in them. I decided not to go; my men would never know that some of them should have been on patrol, if I hadn't "lost it." I hadn't cried in a long time, but I did that night in HELL on that mountain. Platoon Sergeant, Hupman, checked us out at about 1500 hours and told me that we were going on an early attack in the morning. I was never asked for a report; maybe our captain knew we were at the breaking point. (This is tough for me to write about since war gives no passes and as long as we survived we fought another day.)

     We were still trying to live through January and the fighting continued much as before. For the most part we dug in on the sides of the mountains where it took a lot of work to even make some sort of glorified foxhole. Small trees that had been cut by hand were laid over the top of our foxholes, which helped protect us from shrapnel. Despite all the work required, digging helped our morale about as much as anything. Living in the forest was always also so very dangerous since artillery shells only had to hit a fairly good-sized limb, an explosion occurred, and that gave us double trouble. So in this area, with twice the killing power, it always seemed that there was no end to these [156] forested rolling mountains.

     The war was getting very tough on the combat veterans with so many men being wounded or MA. Our first platoon was dug in along the ridge of one of these mountains and we had been in this holding and probing action for weeks, taking and giving enough just to keep our lines stable, and patrols in both armies continued most of the time. Late one day, when the Germans were shelling our area I had my squad deployed and we were getting things ready for another cold, snowy night. Men doubled up in order to get a bit warmer, and our foxholes were high enough so that with pine boughs we might stay somewhat dry. Just before dark, "Jerry" lobbed a few mortars and some 88's at us. In all the noise and confusion, there was the loudest blast that I ever heard and God knows I had heard many loud noises. This blast killed my friend as we were next to the foxhole that we shared. We were very close, and this event pushed me to the limit; I remember that my rifle was shattered from the blast. Hupman came, along with Doc Everest. Doc checked my buddy and said that he had died of a concussion. Since we weren't but four feet apart when this shell hit, it must have been the result of a "tree burst." This probably also accounted for the smaller amounts of shrapnel which hadn't cut either of us up. Doc reached for me and tried to steady me and Hupman also began checking me over. Between the two of them they held me up and told me that I had escaped the "Grim Reaper" once again. However, I really didn't remember a lot about events after that.

 

 

Chapter 25

Dick Hupman Wounded Quite Badly

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     General orders had been given to other service groups to cut their men. These men were supposedly not essential to service operation, but the infantry needed help. I worked with some of these men who had been transferred and I understood their bitch of going to a combat unit from a comparatively safe job behind the line of combat. I also can safely say that no man who had ever been in combat got used to war, nor would these new men. Again it seemed like I and a million other young men were the chosen "few" who moved the battles to the Germans, but we were the foot soldiers, and that was our job.

     We were still in the Haguenau and Bischwiller area when all this was taking place. It would soon be February with the weather getting a bit better, but the rivers were all ovefflowing their banks. Mud was everywhere and our armor couldn't move when off the paved roads. Infantry couldn't dig in since foxholes became water holes. Maybe it was a good thing that we were in this type of holding pattern, but we were not very happy GIs. The replacements should at least have had a chance to get over the trauma of being placed into a combat unit, but there was no such thing as training for these new men. We were in a relief pattern, or a backup pattern, in case "Jerry" tried to break through our lines. The only thing that we could do for the new men was to make them feel needed. But the worst thing I felt was not knowing how they would react in battle since we veterans had faced combat more times than we would like to admit for there was never any guarantee of survival.

     We had been relieving troops every few days so that they could get dried out and get hot food. Snow was melting, rivers were ovefflowing, and nothing was moving. When we were back on line we pulled patrols, stayed out of water-filled foxholes, and dragged old logs around to get a little cover from "Jerry's" artillery and mortars. The war never let up and the Germans were getting very nervous. If anything moved on our side, we got the hell shelled out of us.

     The first week in February, the weather got a little better, and the word we were getting was that the first battalion would move at night through overflowing streams that had snow and ice in the water. Who can picture a whole battalion of infantry loaded down with about seventy pounds of everything we needed to have to fight the Germans?

 

France

February 2,1945

 

Dearest Mother And Dad

     Well a few lines to let you know I am still o.k. Looks like I will be back to duty soon. The Doctors don't seem to agree on what's wrong with my hearing. They say to many artillery shells bursting to close, I am a lot better than when I was carted in this hospital. But I just can't seem to like the idea of more combat. I hear rumors of all G.Is. leaving hospitals with paper work saying fit for combat duty must report to a forwarding center and would be sent where these guys deemed we were needed. I was a Staff Sergeant and new only one unit, that I started with back on the 10/10/43. This was where I was going back to if I had to take off and find my way back on my own.

I met Nurse Eleanor Frew in the hospital
outside Naples when I was wounded. Her family
owned a farm just four miles from my home.
Can you imagine my delight in meeting
someone from my home area?

 

     I guess I had written that Eleanor Frew was at this hospital, in a village in France. She was as surprised to see me, as I was to see her. We talked a few minutes of our last meeting in Italy, about 14 months ago. She looked at me and seemed a bit lost for words. She asked why I was here, I explained some of what happened, and told her I was being discharged and would be back on line in a couple days. I told her that if I survive this war, we must meet at home and tell of our experiences. I take off with memories of one of the great ladies of the U. S. Army nurse Corps, from my hometown, and great for the morale.

     Of course my mail has been all messed up, for the Company generally holds it until they see if I would be coming back to duty. Mother next month I will be sending a good-sized money order, as being in the hospital I missed a payday. I am sure I will have a lot of mail and packages back at Company Hdq.

     Hoping this letter finds you all getting through this winter, we have had the worst winter in many years according to the weather experts over here. We in the Infantry would agree. Will close now, miss you all so much, and love you. (Ben )

 

     Our footwear was the combat boot. I suppose it had an army issue number, but our feet were still always wet, and it seemed like our teeth never stopped chattering. Maybe it wasn't the cold, but the pure fright of this never-ending war. Our attacks were made at night and soon I was engaged in my first large attack since coming back from the hospital. Now I had a much tougher job; I had the whole first platoon to lead. Our platoon officer, Lt. Larson, was new to the first platoon, so I had to get to know him. I knew he had been in combat with some other [169] unit, but how would he succeed as our platoon leader? He knew that I was the oldest guy left in the first platoon, so he ordered our platoon to take the village of Rohierwiler and to hit Herrlisheim. As we got closer to our objective, the Germans became wary, but it was too late; we were in the town. Luckily there were only a few outposts to shut down which allowed our guys to round up many prisoners, as well as take a lot of food the Germans were preparing for themselves. We had really taken them by surprise so we knew their food was safe to eat. Also, they didn't have time to booby trap anything, so we could call these blessings a good night's haul. It was good for all the new men as well as for us old vets, too. Most of us had cover out of the terrible weather for a few hours, at least.

     Our First Battalion moved to Herrlisheim where we relieved elements of the 117th Cavalry Reconnaissance. We established an outpost with a French division along the Rhine River. This was the second time I had seen the Rhine, but this location was further north. It looked like there was going to be hell to pay to cross this river, and I had seen too many river crossings since joining my division in Italy. This one would be one of the toughest yet since the allies were pushing the Germans into their homeland. We were already receiving their wrath with every move we made; the Germans made us pay dearly since they were a desperate enemy and very dangerous. Artillery battles went on for hours, and we pulled patrols night and day. This stirred the Germans up enough that they sent the dreaded mortars, along with their "Screaming Mimis" more often. Again, our forward artillery observers tried to set up and call our artillery down on them, but the Germans were smart; they would continue to fire their weapons and then quickly move them since the smoke and flash would give the weapons' location away.

     We had been on the defensive, changing positions, and just keeping "Jerry" busy enough so that he was unable to mount any large offensive action. We hoped the weather would change so that we could use our armor that would help us so much since our tanks had been pretty much limited all winter. With only a few hard roads, tanks would get mired in mud and become sitting ducks for the Germans to knock out. The air force had not been seen much that winter because severe weather kept them back at their bases.[170]

 

 

Chapter 27

The Battle Begins

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     The month of March became very busy. Our sister regiment, the 141st, relieved us at Haguenau while our 143rd Regiment went on to penetrate the outer ring of the Siegfried Line which was where we eventually battled to reach the Rhine. I was with my company as we fought against these mammnoth concrete barriers. Words cannot express what it was like to be an infantry soldier and to have to move against an object having short odds of survival. Our men didn't ask what our chances were, but they muttered a silent prayer as the battle continued at the Siegfried Line. The Germans had everything in their favor, but we still prevailed, pushing the Germans back to the Rhine River, even though some days we moved only a few yards at a time.

     The weather began getting much better. We also had hot chow, mail, and a few hours to write home. The news from what we could determine was getting better, thank the Lord. We were told that Patton was giving the Germans hell. Again, our American GIs were the ones who helped move the assault ahead and deserved much of the credit for moving the allied winter lines. We had been put to the task many times during this very long cold winter, but from the limited news we got of the war in general, our allies were moving forward, yet were paying a hell of a price in this damn war. The 143rd Regiment had the unenviable job of passing through the 14th Armored at Bitschoffen and then moving to division reserve to be ready to go on the attack wherever needed. Things were really moving at a very fast pace; the Rhine River was the allies' last great barrier and the whole weight of our forces was about to be unleashed. What a dangerous time to be on the allies' side, since the Germans were like caged tigers yet ten times more dangerous. I had a little time to think ahead before we moved on to our next battle. I was a platoon sergeant and a survivor to this point of many battles. How many more would the good Lord let me survive? What plans did He have for me? I had already seen too much killing and maiming [173] of our young men, but we had to go on.

     Our first battalion, commanded by Lt. Col. Clarkin, was in regimental reserve and ready to push through when any of our other battalions forced a breakout. We already knew that "Jerry" was a master at building great defenses so we didn't know when the breakout was to take place in the Bitschoffen area, where my rifle platoon would have two medium tanks and two tank destroyers with our company B to help in occupying Bitschoffen. Eventually, we took over forty prisoners in the fight for Bitschoffen, which proved to be fast-moving battles. Our First Battalion took two bridges and continued on towards Griesbach. Here we met stiff resistance with a lot of our troops trying to move to more advantageous positions. Company B had cleared a wooded area onto a highway leading into the town of Griesbach, but the Germans were not backing out of there without a big fight. My platoon moved out of the wooded area, in front of this village where there was a field of grass on both sides of the road. These battles became very confusing; we were always wondering who was covering our flank since our communications were always worse when we were on line and moving trying to take our objective.

     As the battle for this village progressed, my platoon took up position on the right side of our Sherman tanks. This was the first that I had seen of these tanks with the new 90 mm guns, but our tankers needed these larger weapons to compete with the German 88's, the dreaded weapon that all combat troops feared. As our tanks traveled on the hard road leading into the village of Griesbach, my platoon fell in along each side of our tanks where soon the Germans engaged us in a firefight. "Jerry" was dug in a defensive position in the village and soon our forces were pinned down all across our company front. We had had our artillery drop smoke in a half-hour earlier, but we were held up, the wind changed, and the smoke blew right over the Germans. Our lieutenant ordered fighter planes to help us and in a few minutes they were over their target and us. To let the pilots know where our lines were, a yellow smoke shell was dropped. Even then, the first P-47 came in and dropped one bomb which fell short and dropped amongst our guys on the left side where Dave Arvizu had his squad spread out. Fortunately, the bomb missed all of his men who escaped with only minor scrapes and bruises. Needless to say, Dave was one mad sergeant. After the four [174] P-47s had unloaded on the village, they gave us a little look at the strength of our air power. We hadn't seen a lot of the Army Air Corps since the southern France invasion and again at Montelmar where we had blocked the retreating 19th German Army. The air corps had stopped the Germans dead in their tracks. It had been a sight so gruesome that anyone who saw it would never forget it. Again, we were there as infantry always was.

     The army told us that with all the awful winter weather, fighter planes had had to stay back at their bases. The P-47's disappeared in the sky heading back to their bases where the "flyboys" would have a dry bed and hot meals. I guess we were jealous, but we still loved them. Meanwhile, I had to get my platoon moving if we were to take Griesbach. Dave Arvizu led my old first squad on the left side of our Sherman tank and my group was on the right, facing the village. We were taking small arms fire and mortars, which was all the more reason to get going. Following us was our very brave and dependable Doc Everest who had been with us through most of Italy and who was now here in France. As our first squad spread out alongside the tank the tanker must have received a fire order. Doc Everest had just started getting up, still in a half-crouch position, when the tank let a round go. This muzzle blast was so powerful that it almost lifted Doc to his feet. At the same time I hand-signaled to the first squad to move forward alongside the tank as it headed towards Griesbach. I also had moved in beside the muzzle of that big old 90mm gun at the time when it was fired. Since I had only been back from the hospital for a short time where I had been treated for a "severe concussion," it was a wonder that I still had any memory or hearing left. Doc Everest was sent back to Battalion Aid, where he hung around for a few days. We all knew he was the best, and we waited to see if he would ever come back to Company B. After much fighting for this village, the battle was over and the village was safely in our hands. After every battle starting from platoon up, we always had a sort of reorganization where another reserve unit would pull through our position and continue forward pushing the Germans.

     Our next mission was a river crossing at a river named Bieberbach where the First Battalion was meeting very stiff resistance. I learned about this as I read the after-action reports that had put the battles in [175] some sort of order. What was so difficult for us noncoms was cormmunication. We seemed to be forever lacking information, but we used whatever data we had to the best of our ability. I also thought about what our commanding officers had to consider every minute of the time we were in combat or off the lines. I eventually learned a lot about how our own units were shuffled around to new assignments. Our own small area was still a maze of troops fighting for a bridgehead over this particular river, the Bieberbach, trying to take the village of Gunstett. Our purpose in this sector of this gigantic fight was to get this war over as soon as possible.

     After the battle, we, the First Battalion, pushed into Gunstett meeting heavy German resistance, but having cleared the town, our orders now were to hold and secure the town, which meant establishing our outposts with machine guns and infantry, plus a command post for communications.

     We tried to figure out what our next move might be. And, yes, I generally never had to tell my men to start digging foxholes; this order was self-imposed the minute "Jerry" started to drop in some artillery; everyone seemed to get a renewed energy for cover. Our 143rd Regiment had been on the offensive for seventy-two hours, had captured ten towns, had taken 567 prisoners and had overrun "Jerry's" last defenses west of the Siegfried Line which opened the gateway for an armored offensive to cross the Rhine. [177]

 

ATTACK ON GRIESBACH

By Company B 143rd Infantry, 36th Inf. Div.

REFERENCE: Page 249, 143d Infantry Regiment -

After Action Reports WWII.

 

     "At 1200 hours Companies B and C supported by six medium Tanks were engaging the enemy in a firefight on the southern outskirts of GRIESBACH (Q-9352). Despite the enemies effort to hold the town, Companies B and C steadily gained ground and at 1303, Company A was mopping up disorganized groups and Company C pushed through the town onto the GRIESBACH-GUNSTETIT road. Some 75 prisoners were taken."

 

     The paragraph above is an excellent example of the short report by a Regimental Headquarters of a specified action and the attack and capture of an enemy held town in northeast France during March, 1945. To fully describe in detail the actual events as experienced by the combat infantryman is a much different story.

     On the morning of 16 March, 1945, Company B 143rd Infantry Regiment was assigned the mission of attacking and capturing the town of GRIESBACH. Enroute to the line of departure along a narrow road the company was strafed by a small German airplane. Fortunately there were no casualties. From the line of departure to the town was an open field about 100 yards away. After going into the attack in a line of skirmishers formation, with the 1st platoon on the left and the 2nd platoon on the right the attack began. After going forward the tops of some of the buildings could be seen. Both platoons continued forward in for another 150 yards or so, then crawled forward on their bellies until most of the house tops could be seen. Initially the attack was delayed waiting for the engineert to build a bridge so that our tanks could cross the FALKENSTIEN river, and assault the town with the infantry. After a delay of about 30 minutes the Commanding Officer of Company B, George C. Chambers was given the order to attack without tank support.

     At about this time a Small German airplane suddenly appeared flying very low and started to dive toward us, I looked up and saw the plane drop a bomb, it hit the ground toward the left flank and exploded. No one was injured from the blast. I was the nearest to the explosion and was only shook by the concussion, we continued to crawl forward and when we were about 500 yards from the town the terrain sloped upward giving us some cover from machine gun or rifle fire. At about this time the enemy saw us and opend up with machine gun and rifle fire, from the left side of the town. At this point the 1st and 2d platoons began digging individual small trenches. We had to dig laying on our sides, the ground was hard and it was - slow digging. I was on the extreme left and the ground was extremely hard and gravelly. I called out to the men in my squad to stay low and to keep digging.

     The macine gun and rifle fire intensified but so far no one was hit I was in a bad spot and not desperately waiting for our tanks to making progress digging. We were come forward and give us some support hoping that the enemy would not begin dropping mortar or artillery shells in our direction.

     I was not making much progress digging, and decided to make a dash for the bomb crater. I could hear the enemy machine gun rounds popping all around me. I jumped into the bomb crafter and felt that the ground was still warm. That enemy machine gun kept firing over my head. I would raise over the edge of the crater and fire off a few rounds and then get down the crater. A short time later the tank and one tank destroyer came up and the 1st and second squad began to get behind them for the final assault. I jumped out of the bomb crater with my rifle at the "port arms position", at this time a bullet from the enemy machine gun hit my rifle at the junction of the operating rod and front of the stock, at chest level. That rifle saved my life, and the bullet only nicked my small finger of the left hand. The rifle was useless. I got behind the tank safely. Then S/Sgt Palmer and our platoon medic "doc" Everest got overanxious and got between the tank and the Tank destroyer. They tried to get on their feet and then the tank destroyer fired off a round and knocked both of them down again. The "Krauts" decided that they were overwhelmed and beat a hasty retreat. Company C finished cleaning up the town I had to go to the Company CP and get another rifle. While all this was going on, General Daiquist was watching all the action and commented "That is the way for an infantry and armor units should work together."

     So on this day 16 March 1944 Company B was stafed, bombed and assaulted an emeny held town. The only casualties were S/Sgt. Palmer knocked down by concussion from our supporting armor.

     What a lucky Day! Wish all assaults by the front-line infantrymen were this easy. But we front line infantrymen do not have it this easy.

 

DAVID ARVIZU B-143
921 Green Star Drive, Apt. 1009
Colorado Springs, CO 80906-1821

Fall 2000 - Fighting 36th Quarterly - Page 17

 

 

 

Chapter 29

Into Germany at Last

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     As I write about these dates of our action, I could see that the war had no set timing; infantry had to move the line in the sand, so to speak. I couldn't even figure out if this war was moving ahead with the hundreds of battles all up and down the allied lines of combat. I guess that's why we had generals and that's why I also believed that General Eisenhower was the best. We were in the town of Neupfotz where we were put in reserve, but our orders were to continue to send out patrols to comb the area for German stragglers; as far as I knew, none were found. The First Battalion finally assembled in a small town named Is sing, where things remained quiet.

     Our 1 43rd Regiment was the first element to reach the Rhine River, according to division headquarters' records, and we netted 2,886 prisoners of war, so we were all very proud of what we had achieved. Again, we had time to stop and say a prayer for all those we had left behind in graves throughout Italy and France. (Their faces would never leave my mind. Even for me, fifty-seven years later, the faces of these young men whose lives were taken way before their time, still haunt me. As a survivor of this war, I had many stories to tell about what life had been like in the five campaigns I had fought in. From a green replacement in Italy to a seasoned veteran of the invasion of southern France, there were many tales to relate.)

     We continued to face many days of combat with no relief after we had broken through the Siegfried Line and we had marched up along the Rhine River where we tried several crossings. Our First Battalion had tried two patrol crossings, but we were forced to withdraw. Finally, we were relieved and we were moved to an assembly area in the vicinity of Landau.

     From the Landau area we marched to a new area, Zweibrucken, along with the 133rd Field Artillery unit and the 11 1th Medical Battalion. I felt that the medical battalion was most important since we were a [183] tired group with many battle fatigue cases beginning to break out. This withdrawal from direct combat proved to be a lifesaver, since this was only the second time since we had invaded southern France that our entire combat team had been withdrawn at the same time. Our regimental combat team still occupied an area of about 2,000 square miles and this area showed all the markings of the terrible war that had just passed through only a short time before. Towns were bombed to a tangled mess of mortar and reddish, crumbled tile from roofs had been blown to hell.

     The people that we did see looked at us as if we didn't exist and moved about in a kind of stupor, turning over the rubble of the town trying to salvage anything they could use or that they thought was theirs. Of course there were numerous fights over ownership of various objects, so whenever things got quite heated, one of us would have to break these incidents up. The natives really didn't have much left, thanks to Hitler and his Nazism. I can't honestly say that I felt too sorry for these people as a whole for individually they were poor folks from farming communities, but these rural areas had not felt the wrath of this war as did the larger cities.

     The First Battalion got an even larger sector to post guard on all routes in and out of the villages. In one village, Jagersburg, our duty was to screen every person for identification and to search every home for anything that was connected to the Nazi party. Weapons were picked up; even personal hunting weapons had to be turned over to a sort of military government. On about the 24th of April, we again got word that the 26th Infantry would take over our positions and we would be moving again. The whole month of April was spent trying to keep the displaced persons away from the German civilians. Many of the DP camps had been liberated and prisoners who were able to walk or leave the camps on their own took from the Germans whatever they wanted. These prisoners claimed that they had a right to take what they wanted so our troops as the peacemakers had our hands full. Also, most of us couldn't speak their language since it involved knowing many different dialects that further complicated the situation.

     From the first to the tenth of May, we performed many different jobs including capturing a few SS troopers along with a few young boys that were about twelve years old. These twelve-year-olds were [184] very good with small arms and were led by SS officers. Not one of us took these youngsters lightly, since a bullet from one of these kids' rifles could kill just as well as a bullet from the rifle of a full-grown German soldier. We also got the word that on the fifth of May all troops of the German Army group that opposed the Seventh Army were to surrender at 1200 hours on May 6th. Our forward units were instructed to remain in place and to cease further warfare by order of Lt. General Patch. The First Battalion was also guarding the Berlin Institute of Technology where valuable equipment was housed and we were told that this war should officially be over in three or four days. Meanwhile, all three of our regiments were assigned large areas where we tried to keep the DPs from killing the Germans. Many German soldiers were getting into civilian clothes to try to keep from getting picked up by our troops, but if civilians didn't have papers made out to them within the last six months, we took them to a POW camp.

     On May 7, 1945, we, at our regiment, thought the war was finally over. As we know now, the war actually ended on May 8, 1945, but we were overjoyed and thankful. Everyone had his own way of celebrating; many of us went to chapel service to pray and thank God that we had survived this war. Each of us had his own thoughts remembering the men we had lost and the wounded men who never came back to combat. I knew, at least in my platoon, that I was the only one who had endured twenty-two months of combat. We were hard-pressed to find anything to celebrate or to "tear up" the town about; we just were a very tired division. Even our later replacements had had all the combat they ever wanted. The 36th Division had been my home for thirty-four months and every bit of combat I was in was with the same Company B 143rd Regiment. No one can ever come close to telling what combat life was all about. I didn't even consider it a life since animals wouldn't even be asked to do what we were asked to do. My men did believe ours was a just cause, but what a terrible cost to the eighteen- to twenty-year-old youth of our country. We did not have any parades; combat men were not good at doing Main Street parades, anyway, for we had never trained for that type of "spit and polish." We combat men heard on our captured German radios about all the big parades in all the large cities around the world. All we knew was that the war was not fair and we were glad that it was over. [185]

     I would forever thank the Lord for giving me the chance to go home to fulfill my dreams. I had to stop and say a prayer, but I could still see the faces of many of my deceased friends, some of whom I had known for such a short time. I also often thought how it must have been for our folks at home not having the slightest idea where their sons were, yet I knew that their prayers never ended. I carried a small testament, and I knew the 23rd Psalm by heart (I'm sure I was not alone). Church services were held everywhere inside, outside, or in no particular place and generally, the chaplains helped us to realize that this hellish war had finally ended. So now we became occupation troops while getting our "points" together so that we could return home and get out of the military.

     We got new orders that were designed to keep everybody busy, but most of the fighting men were quite edgy, even those men who had joined us later. Most of us couldn't believe that the war was over and no killer artillery, mortar shells, or small arms were cracking about. We hadn't dug a foxhole for a week, and we had regular mail call, getting letters and boxes from home. We took showers and got clean clothes and now we became combat soldiers who had to learn how to just be human beings again.

     There was more good news, at least for a few of the older guys. Since the war had ended, a few of us had the choice of a pass to Paris, London, or Nice in southern France. I chose the southern France option in order to spend a few days in a warm climate. Most of us knew that even though we had had many combat days, the old Texas guard men would get out first based on their number of days overseas, plus their time in the guard. Many had already left months ago, so my getting home I knew would turn out to be quite time consuming. But the military has its own way, and I knew that was the way things would go.[187]

 

August 17,1945

 

Dearest Mother Dad and Kids;

     Well folks just a line to let you know it's a swell day here in Goppingen Germany. They have given us the day off to celabrate, V.J. day,and to celabrate our Southern France Invasion of a year and two days past.Most of us are just happy to be getting our points to head home.

     Received three letters, where you spoke of Rod Joyce and Charlie Preston still home, I believe Rod was younger then I. But when I dropped out of school I had sealed my future so to speak. For me being a survivor,a very prowd American G.I. with a story of five campaighns in the most horrable war the Nazi could throw at us.

     You said Lee Joyce had been bragging up my picture from the Signal Corp film that Ginny Lees daughter had also seen at the Aurora Theater. Of course Rod and I were the best friends,as I had the old Model A Ford we drove about town in. With other school chums.

     Rod asked if I was asked to take a field Commision. Yes this was asked before V.J. day,for none of us new where we would be going. When the war ended in Europe on 5/8/45, This left us in sort of limbo. I being a T/Sgt. with many days of combat,my future was up in the air. So I new my chance Of getting out were better as a T/Sgt. So I guess I am the oldest T/Sgt. in the Company.

     Mother can you find couple rolls of film for my German Camera. Its size is (127), there is none available over here. I see by the paper we get over here that the U.S. Government is lifting a few thing from rationing. Well I have written on and on. Just to have survived this terrable war and can set in a safe house and write to the best Family in the world, who never forgot me for a minute.

     God had sure watched over Ben Palmer

 

 

Chapter 30

A Day to Remember

[Exerpt from this chapter]

     Toward the end of June our company was near a village named Goppingen in Germany, still in the rural area, and we had taken over several civilian homes for each platoon. We tried to set up some semblance of military order by posting guard, having some exercise, and, in general, trying to keep a bit of order. Officers were constantly changing; Captain Chambers had been gone since January of 1945, and our new captain was a Captain Dobbins, who tried the best he could to start the point system for going home (which would be different for each of us). In general, the program gave priority to the men who had originally been with the division back in the States or those who were married men or those who were classified as hardship cases. These were the soldiers who were being sent home at the time. This was not real good news for the surviving men and me, so most of us went after points by any means that we could.

     Personally, the officer who would have put me in for a Silver Star had been wounded and sent back to England for rehab, so I never got it. I did, however, finally get the Bronze Star with two Oak Leaf Clusters and did get credit for the combat badge and other credits for five campaigns, plus twenty-two months of combat which gave me seventy-eight points. But adding them up and getting them in my paperwork was the next job I had to push through, which turned out to be very time-consuming. It just seemed like I was never going to be on my way home. Our unit was also short of noncoms and officers, so I remained as a first sergeant for a while. Things were quite screwed up, but why should I be surprised? It was the first of July and I was twenty- [198] one years old, and truly a man. I really just thanked the Lord for being alive and in very good health. I had been through this terrible war and had fought to honor my family, God, and my country, but many I had served with were not present for the victory celebration. They would always be in my heart and mind, and it was up to us survivors to tell the story of the life and death of the combat soldier.

     Dick Hupman had written to me a couple times from Belgium where they had put him with the M.P.s, but he still wanted to get back to our platoon; however, the army reclassified him out of infantry because of his severe leg wounds. He told me, however, that he would make the M.P.s glad to get rid of him and that he might go AWOL if they tried to keep him. Life went on here in camp; our mail had been good, with plenty of packages from home and letters from friends. I was still doing first sergeant duty and doing too much paperwork since soldiers were coming and going. We had to have proper paperwork, but it seemed as if no one knew what proper papers were. It was a typical army snafu.

     Even as acting first sergeant, I couldn't speed up my points. Most of my platoon had left with only a few like me still waiting for enough points to get started on our way back home. Dave Arvizu had returned to Company B after being wounded in France. Dave had joined the Company in February 1944, so he had not been a stranger to combat, just like me. Mark Brunner had joined us at a training camp in Italy before we invaded southern France. He had been injured in France and he did get back to our company, but only after I had started my move back towards the good old U.S.A. There were other soldiers who had returned to our company, but David and Mark were old-timers like me.

     Our group was shipped to a camp named Lucky Strike where we would join the 63rd Division. I really didn't know why this meant anything to getting back home because there seemed to be no sense of order. No one had much authority or seemed to want any, but there was enough order to move us to this camp, which was the first step to get to the large seaport of Le Havre, France. We were at camp for a few days not doing much of anything, but near the middle of October 1945 we were loaded onto a boat bound for the British port of Southampton, England. Dave Arvizu and I separated when we got to England, but I remember we had a twenty-four-hour pass to London. I went to [199] London but I don't recall Dave being with me. I know that if it had been possible, Dave and I would have visited London together because we were the only two going home together who knew each other who had been in combat from Italy until the end of the war.

     (Eventually, Dave and I got back in touch in the early 1990's and our other close combat buddy, Dick Hupman, contacted us. Unfortunately, Dick Hupman passed away in 1993. He was one of the best and we had been in combat for most of two years together; there was no way to express the feeling of our comradeship during our five campaigns all in the First Platoon, 143, Company B.)

     I visited London with five other soldiers who were there, but we were all just marking time. Although we didn't know each other personally, we all had the same goal &emdash; to get back home to the good old U.S.A. The five of us toured London, but for us it was a crazy situation; Londoners drove on the wrong side of the street and there were even some double-decker buses that we rode on that I think were already thirty years old. Also, as I went into London, I didn't see much bomb damage from the German planes. We walked the "Pig Alley" to see Big Ben, crossed a bridge over the Thames River, visited a few shops, had some British ale, and ate some fish and chips.

     The only order that I remembered was given by some officer, telling us that we had to be back to a large warehouse where we had stayed after we debarked from the boat that brought us from France. The final order to load was soon to be given and if one wasn't there, it was hard telling when the next boat would leave for the States. England was still set up for handling large numbers of troops since all the troops for the June 1944 invasion of Normandy had been mobilized there. Our group of a thousand men carried our barracks bags with everything we owned in the world, and we also had some souvenirs and a change of clothes, army issue at that. We finally got the word that we were to load and cheers went up. We had many army 6/6 trucks to take us to the Southampton harbor.

     Our next surprise was that as our trucks drove alongside the docks, we saw this very large ship with bold black letters that said, Queen Mary. We thought we would be on a luxury liner, but we didn't have to wait long to learn that all the staterooms and the pools were gone. Everywhere there was a maze of pipe framework bunks five and six [200] high; the Queen Mary had been refitted for carrying troops. Still, this was by far the largest ship that most of us would ever be on. Again, I lucked out since I ended up near the top deck. On these large ships, most men had to stay quite near where their bunk was simply because of the vast number of troops aboard.

     The trip from England to New York took just a bit over five days and our ship was loaded with men from every branch of army service. Most of the infantrymen would be wearing only a few medals because we were never issued the medals each of us had earned yet many of us had identification showing the unit we had been with. Most infantrymen were wearing their combat badge, as I was, along with my T/Sergeant stripes on my uniform. I was one of the happiest guys on the Queen Mary. Twice I had been wounded and returned to combat. I believed that I had been tested and the Lord had new plans for me. Still, the big question for me for the rest of my life was why had I survived when so many others didn't. Only God knew the answer.[201]

 

----- Bennet J. Palmer, Sr.

 

The Hunter and the Hunted
Twenty-four Months
in a Rifle Company

by Bennett J. Palmer, Sr.

 

Here are some of the praises being bestowed on Mr. Palmer and his accounts of The Hunter and the Hunted:

 

"What a great way to share with others that we were ordinary people thrust into an extraordinary moment in history."

Bob Dole, U. S. Senator

---

"Some fill their stories with things that make me wonder if they were really there. You leave no doubt. You were there."

Andrew A. Rooney

---

"Ben Palmer's account of his service in a rifle company in Italy, France and Germany in World War II is a masterpiece reflecting the human emotions, courage and innermost feelings of the hardships, suffering and pathos that riflemen are forced to endure. His continuous two-year assignment to the same company of the 36th Infantry Division was extraordinary; indeed, a rarity, and even more notable as his division was recognized as on of the five "hardest hit" infantry divisions in Europe."

Hal F. Ryder
Lt. Colonel, Retired
U. S. Army

---

"Thank you for the work you put into The Hunter and the Hunted. You made a contribution to the story of the 36th. I'm sure your family is deeply appreciative of 'your story', for too many vets won't talk of their experiences. New generations MUST know the WAY IT WAS."

Brian Schenk
MSGT (E-8) Texas National Guard (retired)
Librarian and Archivist

---

"WOW...it is a very very good story. I just finished it. I started last night and finished it tonight. You should be so very proud. Your family certainly is! We didn't appreciate this side of your past when we were kids, Dad...maybe we really wouldn't have truly understood it as children. I am really glad you took the time to put it into words. We would have never understood...never truly known. This would have been a great loss for us."

Barb Palmer
Ben Palmer's daughter

---

"Your book [The Hunter and the Hunted] will be a lasting resource dedicated to honoring the combat men of World War II. The National D-Day Museum appreciates your contribution and will add it to our growing library collection."

Elizabeth Bugbee
Research Department Intern

 

If interested, you can purchase a copy of this excellent first person account of a combat soldier's

"Twenty-four Months in a Rifle Company",

 

"...one of the millions of eighteen to twenty-year-old kids who received thirteen weeks infantry training and who were shipped out from various seaports of America...

...I was wounded at San Pietro, fought at Cassino, and watched the bombing of the Benedictine Abbey. I was pulled off the line with my unit where we were refited and where we received replacements for those who had been injured and killed. Out unit landed in Anzio in May of 1944. I was with one of tow regiments that infiltrated behind the German lines and helped to break open the road to Rome. On June 4, 1944, two days before the Normandy Invasion, our forces helped to liberate the city of Rome...

...The Southern France Invasion on August 15, 1944, was a time to remember, and, I, as a survivor, am now able to write of the continuing combat of my rifle platoon during this time period. My unit and I were involved in nearly every major battle in France, during which time I received a severe concussion in the Colmer, Vosages area..."

 

For more information or to purchase a copy of The Hunter and the Hunted please contact:

Mr. Ben Palmer

10140 Warner Gulf Rd.

Holland, NY 14080-9638

 

or e-mail

at Pollyben1@aol.com

or

Print out a copy of this coupon
and mail to Ben Palmer.

 

 

Books are priced at $25 each.

Price includes shipping/handling and tax.

Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.

 

Interested in learning more about the 36th Infantry Division...the Fighting 36th? Check out the following links:

36th Divison Association

36th Infantry Association

The Texas Division

History: 36th Infantry Division

Dedicated to the 36th Infantry Division

Combat Chronicle: 36th Infantry Division

Dedicated to the 36th Infantry Division

World War II Causality Search

 

 

Exerpts from the abovementioned book, The Hunter and the Hunted - A Combat Soldier's Story, by Bennett J. Palmer, Sr., 36th Infantry Division, 143rd Regiment, 1st Battalion, Company B., 1st Platoon was originally self published in 2002. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: ISBN 0-9631963-6-7.

 

 

The story exerpts that are re-printed here on World War II Stories -- In Their Own Words are with the kind permission of the author, Ms. Bennett J. Palmer, Sr. Our sincerest THANKS for Mr. Palmer's allowing us to share a portion of his story.

 

Original Story submitted on 20 January 2004.
Story added to website on -----------------.

 

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Updated on 27 January 2012...1432:05 CST

 

 

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