My parents didn't enter me in the first grade until I was 7 yrs of age; consequently I was 18 yrs old in my senior year in high school. I turned 18 in November of 1942 and received my notice to report for my physical in March of '43. Because I had not graduated yet my local draft board gave me a deferment. As soon as I walked out the door of the school on the last day "my friends and neighbors" gave me an invitation to report.

I had never been out of the state of Indiana, where I was born and raised, nor had hardly ever been out of the little town of 1,800 people in Northeastern Indiana named Berne. So when I was inducted I was one homesick puppy. I had been at the reception center at Fort Benjamin Harrison near Indianapolis for awhile awaiting assignment when one day the shipment bulletin board had several pages of names which said: "shipment to Oregon" tacked on it. I had heard of Oregon only because of some class we had to take in high school but as far as I knew it was like any other "foreign country" and I knew that they certainly didn't play basketball out there which for a "Hoosier" was important.

Of course my name was one of those on the list. Why was I being shipped overseas directly from the reception center was my question. I could not imagine how I was going to survive that far from home. My fears and anxiety were heightened when in the wee hours of an August morning I stepped off a troop train and stared straight at a cross rifle insignia. Infantry? Me? What in the world was I doing in the infantry? At the reception center I had signed a paper stating that I wanted to be in the Air Corps so why was I at Camp Adair? I was one frightened young Indiana farm boy. Little did I know then what real fear I would encounter in December of 1944.

I have often thought that as an 18 yr old they asked us to become men in a split second. And in so doing we lost our youth, never really having the chance to enjoy what every 18,19,20 yr old enjoys doing. We left right out of high school and came back 21, 22 yr olds. When I returned home in April of 1946 I realized immediately that I was different from the rest of my family. There were five of us brothers in the service but I was the only one that saw combat.

Those of us who gather together at our reunions, all, I am sure had many experiences which caused us to wonder and ask, "how did I ever survive that"? Those horrors that we endured for days, weeks and months had an affect on all of our lives that will stay with us forever.

I was a Medic with 1st Battalion, 274. I alternated between litter bearer and company aid man. What do I remember from those days? Incessant barrages of 88's, mortars, machine gun fire, rifle fire, snow up to our armpits, severe, unbelievable cold weather, living in foxholes like rats and at times so frightened that I had a discussion with my partner wondering if giving a hand would be worth it to get out of combat and if we did stick our hand out would that be classified as S.I.W. I remember wearing a hood to keep my ears from freezing but then taking it off because I couldn't hear the in-coming 88's. Freezing ears was a better option than taking a direct hit. But there are two specific incidents which happened to me that are deeply imbedded in my mind that I want to relate. These, to me, are in the category of, "how did I survive that"?. There is no explanation short of miraculous to explain my survival.

The first incident happened when we were in Phillipsbourg. We were in a factory outside of Niederbronn being briefed by our C.O., Capt Frank Ellis. As he sent us down the road toward Phillipsbourg, following behind A company, he said, "good luck, be careful, we have reports that the Germans are shooting at Medics". I was with a litter squad walking down the road thinking this is just like going out on a problem in Oregon and Missouri-nothing tough about this. In the distance we heard artillery, but no big deal we had also heard that at Adair and Leonard Wood. Gradually the artillery got louder and closer. All of a sudden shells landed in the middle of the road and as I dove for the ditch I thought, "holy cow what are they doing, why is our artillery sending rounds on top of us"? It was then that I heard the cry, "medic, medic" and realized this was "the real thing". We had been in Phillipsbourg for several days when one evening my litter squad was ordered to go up into the hill to the west of town to get some wounded that had been lying up there for a few days because the Germans had the company surrounded. I don't recall which company it was. The message from the company said these men need to be evacuated now but because there were still krauts in the area a rifle squad should accompany us. It was midnight, pitch black, snow up to our necks, bitter cold as we climbed up to rescue the wounded. We finally reached the area where they were without encountering any krauts. We placed the severely wounded on the litters. There was one rifleman who had a shrapnel wound in his left shoulder but was able to slowly walk along. It became my duty to place one arm around his waist let him lean on me and help him get back to the aid station. We headed back to Phillipsbourg without incident and eventually reached the main road back in town. Our aid station was located in a house at the southern tip of town. When we entered town we were a considerable distance from the aid station. The rifle squad, assuming we were out of danger took off down the road followed by the litter bearers, leaving me alone with the walking wounded. It was slow going for me because of his injury so in a short while he and I were all alone, a considerable distance behind the riflemen and litter bearers. We were shuffling along when all of a sudden out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure jump out from behind one of the buildings on the west side of the road. We had been warned that there were Germans wearing our uniforms that had infiltrated our lines. The distinguishing feature between them and what we wore was that they did not wear our helmet liner or helmet but were wearing our wool skull cap. As this figure ran up to me I saw a man wearing our uniform, a skull cap but no helmet. He stuck a pistol into my side and in English asked, "Where are you from?" I looked at him and my mind and heart were racing a mile a minute. What should I do? If I yelled for the rifle squad who were long gone by now it would do no good. He could pull the trigger and take off. What is my duty, I thought. There was no doubt in my mind that he was a kraut and even if it was a G.I. who had gone nuts what could I do. Helping an injured soldier walk and carrying only medical supplies I hardly was a match for the pistol in my side. I answered back, "what do you mean, where am I from"? He shoved the pistol harder into my side and said, "you know what I mean, what state are you from"? I have often thought since and have had a few laughs recalling how my thinking went. I can't tell him the truth (name, rank and serial number--right?) So I gave him the name of a state other than Indiana where I was from and then he asked, "what city are you from, what is the name of the city"? Again my mind said tell him a city that is not in the state that I told him I was from. Then I thought, jeez what if he knows American geography well enough to know that city isn't in that state. Anyway, he continued walking with me for a few more steps, which seemed like miles, and disappeared behind the buildings, that he had jumped out from, as fast as he had appeared. When I got to the aid station I reported what had happened to Capt Ellis. A rifle squad was sent on patrol but the kraut was long gone. Why didn't he take me prisoner? There were probably several good reasons why, but not pulling the trigger is something else.

The second incident happened when our aid station was located in Etzlingen. I was at that time assigned to A company as an aid man. We had taken a woods and for some unknown reason four riflemen and I stood in a group talking and only one of the group had started digging a fox hole and his was hardly deep enough to take care of his body. As we stood there talking we heard the unmistaken sound of an incoming 88. All five of us dove for the one hole. I, being the farthest away, landed on top of the other four so that I was a considerable distance off the ground and obviously totally exposed. The shell landed close by and covered me with dirt and rocks but no shrapnel. The only one of the group that got hit was the first rifleman in the hole, lying on the bottom covered by four of us. He was severely wounded, severe enough that we heard from him later that he had been sent back to the states. How could that possibly happen? All of us, no doubt, can relate similar experiences and all of us have asked, how did I survive that? There are no scientific explanations to what happened to us "up there". I, being a believer in God and a Christian choose to believe, "only by the grace of God can it be explained".

General Orders - 274th Honor Roll