By March 2, 1945, 70th Div. was prepared to assault the French border cities of Forbach Stiring-Wendel, and Neu-Glashutte. Stiring-Wendel was the main objective of the 274th, plus the strong fortifications in the Siegfried Line. Immediately after jumping off in the dense woods, we came under extremely heavy German artillery fire. At the very start of the attack it seemed our every move brought fire down on us. I was a gunner in a heavy machine-gun squad. The squad had been reduced by casualties, from the original five to only two, Al Vargo and myself during the February fighting on Spicheren Heights.

Stiring-Wendel, France as it appears today. Photo courtesy of Clement Keller of France.

We were advancing slowly through thick woods. I was burdened with the gun, a carbine, and two boxes of machine-gun ammo. Suddenly, mortars began dropping all around. My first instinct was to look for a hole. The closest was a shallow depression into which I dropped. Like infantrymen everywhere, I knew how to shrink. Every muscle contracted, the air left my lungs. My body collapsed in some way known only to men under fire. I glanced to try right. Sgt. Herman Trier lay there in the open, and I motioned to him to join me. He scrambled in gratefully. I could hear wounded men crying out for medics. Directly in front of me Bill Belden, a gunner, was acting very strangely. He seemed to be sobbing and beating his fists on the ground. I called to him but he did not respond. Then I realized he had become mentally broken under the strain of the bombardment. (Medics evacuated him and he returned to the outfit four weeks later). I could hear shrapnel hitting the trees and branches, and then twigs showering down. S/Sgt. Harold Kline was some distance ahead of our squad. He had been firing down into a valley where he could see Germans moving about, and claimed some hits. The shelling slackened somewhat and I debated joining him, perhaps to make a few kills myself. But then I heard him cry out that he'd been hit. I yelled to him but he did not answer. I feared the worst, and then I saw him limping back, using his rifle as a crunch. He eased himself down near me, and I could see hi left leg was all bloodied. Shell fragments had penetrated his thigh. Medics treated him. When they were about to litter him out they asked for his rifle. Kline refused to surrender it, and was carried away still clutching it tightly, a good soldier. Sgt. Trier took over the section in his place. A solid, intelligent non-com, Trier had a "the hell with it" attitude. I recall we were set up in a house at the edge of town. The squad was taking it easy in a room about eye-level with the street. Then one of the boys warned of 88's "walking" toward our house. I looked out and sure enough, in bursts of three, they were coming directly at our building. The men started scrambling down into the cellar. I noticed Trier stretched out under a window, wasn't moving.

I yelled at him. He said, "The hell with it, I'm staying." I left him. There was a crash that shook the building. The shelling ceased. I ran up. Trier was pickingg himself up, his body whitened with plaster and mortar. "Are you OK?", I shouted. "Can't hear you," he replied. H'ed been deafened by a shell burst The window had been replaced by a large hole, otherwise he was OK. "Are you nuts," I said "things are bad enough without you asking for it." He shrugged -- the same to hell with it attitude again. After the shelling had ceased, I got up and looked around. About four or five men had been hit. It was amazing. I expected to see bodies lying everywhere.

Down the trail, a G.I. was approaching with four prisoners in tow. I recognized him -- a fellow from G Co. I nodded hello to him. He said he was bringing these Krauts to the rear. Tears came to his eyes as he swore that they'd never make it aline. These Germans had pulled the white flag routine. Three of his squad had left cover and been fired on by others. All were hit by the resulting fire. He continued with the P.W.'s - I often wondered if they made it back to the rear.

Pfc. Al Vargo and I set up our gun and fired down into the valley. We could see movement. The range was about seven or eight hundred yards, but we couldn't tell if we were doing much good. The air was filled with a terrible screeching sound. Vargo and I exchanged frightened looks and dove for the bottom of the hole. There was an arwful crash. Several more came over. These were the famous "Screaming Meemies", the German rocket.

We moved forward slowly, now under fire from artillery and small arms fire. We were obliged to go to ground often as shells burst close by. Luckily the bullet fire was high. Once, lying full length on the ground, I noticed that my right trouser leg was slit from the hip to the ankle. Now how the hell did I do that, I wondered. I examined my leg, but I seemed to be unhurt.

We were now moving in rushes down a fairly steep hill and finally into a half demolished house, where we quickly set up our gun in a window on the first floor. There was open grouted ahead of us for several hundred yards, and then a fringe of woods from which we were receiving fire. We sprayed these woods thoroughly, and the firing stopped. Previously, we had removed the tracers from our ammo belts, we didn't want some Kraut zeroing in at us.

We were stretched out on the floor, relaxing from the harrowing ordeal in the woods. A highway went by the house, and we were alerted to movement on the road and also in the fields in front of our position. Sure enough, there were men crawling and hobbling toward us. The method of approach was such that we knew it wasn't a German attack. Then we heard machine guns fire. The first of these creatures, for that's what they seemed to be, skeletons of men in shabby, torn clothing reached our house and fell gasping for breath. They seemed to be slave laborers of all nationalities. The Germans had released them and then had fired on them indiscriminately, killing and wounding many. We could see numerous bodies in the fields and on the road.

General Orders - 274th Honor Roll