This is an account of one combat infantryman - his life and death in the line encompassed just two months. Harold Ward volunteered from the anti-aircraft to the infantry. From the beginning, we were drawn to each other as I also volunteered for overseas duty from AA, subsequently to the 70th Infantry Division.

Ward and I began as ammo bearers, on the same machine gun squad. We became quite friendly, although Harold was not a talkative person. We would sit for hour sharing the same foxhole, and not a word spoken. Of course, he bitched as loudly as the next guy, the cold, snow, chow, etc.

We were severely tested the first week in January, 1945, stemming the German drive in Alsace. When we finally entered the outskirts of Wingen, our squad was in support of G Company. Our section of guns occupied a house with Lt. (later Capt.) Cassidy C.O. and few others. Things were somewhat disorganized, with the Lieut. anxious and worried about his troops- not quite sure of their exact positions, but I never saw a more determined man as he gave his men orders, and not a sign of panic. Our gun was set up at a window adjacent to the room in which Casey- had his C.P. There were numerous dead Germans in the house, the smell was not too bad because of the cold.

Ward and I were detailed by our section leader S/Sgt. Kline to make our way back to the Bn. C.P. and possibly pick up some overcoats and machine gun parts. Darkness was falling as we started out. The Germans on the high ground overlooking the town were machine gunning anything that moved. We used as a check point the chateau where our colonel had set up our Bn. C.P.

It was dark as we started back. There seemed to be quite a firefight in town, as we attached ourselves to some medics going our way. We were challenged a number of times by trigger happy G.I.s, but finally made it back to our house where a sharp counterattack had been repelled shortly before. .

Everyday in combat was a test of endurance and courage for the men who participated in front line fighting. January was every bit of that as we were moved from one part of the line to another. Ward and I had warmed up to each other in these trying days. One snowy, cold day, trying desperately to keep warm in our foxhole, he confided to me that he'd gladly give up an arm or leg to get out of combat. I said that was a lot of nonsense, but he was a moody fellow and he persisted in mentioning this so often, I told him roughly to cease thinking those gloomy thoughts.

There weren't too many things to be cheerful about as the month of February rolled around. But one thing that cheered us up somewhat was a glimpse of Col. Cheves now and then visiting the men on the line. For the commanders intimately involved in combat there is a tremendous emotional load for the attachment that develops between the men they send into battle; it goes far deeper than respect and affection.

About the middle of February, we were attacking Spicheren Heights. Harold Ward was lucky enough to win a weeks pass to Paris, and happily left us on a hillside. A week later, after rough fighting, our section of machine guns was dug in, in wooded terrain overlooking the town. Ward had rejoined us after a blissful week in Paris. He and I reinforced our hole with logs and branches that had been cut down by shellfire.

We stood guard that night that was punctuated by shellfire sending tree branches to the ground. I stood my guard, awoke Ward, and was fast asleep when I was jolted awake by Ward shaking me violently. He whispered that he could see movement down front. Sure enough I could make out figures slowly moving up the hill. I immediately challenged with the password. No reply, and I opened fire. Fifteen or twenty yards down was what seemed to me to be a giant figure of a man. I took him as a target, squeezed off a shot and he crashed to the ground -- his helmet rolling down the hill.

Ward kept up a steady flow of cuss words. I also was worked up and was alternately yelling and pointing at targets to fire at. In front Sgt. Kline's position, three Germans screamed surrender and were immediately shot down. The firing slackened as day dawned and we laid low, now and then firing a slot. About ten yards down the hill lay the German I'd killed. To the right of our hole, so close I cursed aloud, was another dead kraut. At his side was a light machine gun, a rifle, and a shovel. This evidently was the one Ward had killed. Here and there we could see dead Germans, including four in front of Kline's hole.

Our ammo, particularly the M.G., was getting dangerously low. and Sgt. Kline yelled for Ward to dash to the rear and pick up a few boxes. We had cached a load some distance in back of our positions. A German machine gun was sweeping our holes at intervals and I told Ward to delay a while until he let up. Finally he prepared to go, left his carbine to lighten his load and took off. A rifle cracked twice, and I distinctly heard the thud of a bullet as he was hit but a few yards from the hole. He yelled to me that he was badly hurt. I quickly glanced out -- he was eight or ten feet away. I debated whether to jump out -- that sniper was sure to zero in on me. I decided to belly out, grab his legs and pull him in, which I did with Ward moaning in pain. As I slid him into the hole, he bloodied the whole front of my jacket. I asked him where he was hit and he motioned to his back. I cut away his pants and saw an ugly wound on his lower back from which blood was flowing in a steady stream. Using his first aid packet, I poured sulfur on the wound and bound it tightly, then called for a medic.

Ward had broken out in a cold sweat, the result of shock and loss of blood. We had three full canteens which he emptied in the next hour. There was sporadic firing, the Germans not making any moves at all. I presumed they did not care to come up against our guns which had taken a heavy toll in their ranks. Every now and then a shell burst, mostly in our immediate rear. Finally, a medic jumped into our hole and administered to Harold. He shook his head in a negative way when done, as though he could not do much more. He picked up his kit and said he would send litter bearers. But I never saw him again -- or the litter.

Ward was moaning constantly, and apologizing in the next breath. I tried to calm, fearing the Germans would hear him. He was dying before my eyes and I tried desperately to make him as comfortable as possible. The medic had given him a shot of morphine and that seemed to be taking effect, as he lay quietly without making a sound. Every now and then, I'd bend down and check his breathing.

My carbine ammo was down to a few clips, plus I'd been using Ward's weapon. Mine had malfunctioned, had stopped firing semi-automatic. I constantly searched the trees, as I thought the sniper that had nailed Ward might be holed up in one, commanding a good view of our positions. A machine gun somewhere to our left periodically would sweep our holes. The bullets would rattle off the logs covering our hole, and I would thank God for the protection they afforded. The afternoon wore on. I'd catch a glimpse of a German in woods and throw a round his way. But nothing untoward occurred. Ward lay quietly, wrapped in blankets, and I could see that there was not much life left in him. Sgt. Kline had crawled to our hole, took a quick glance at Ward, gathered up the German machine gun and rifle, and informed me we would probably be moving back shortly.

I gathered my gear and stared at Ward, wondering what the hell do I do about him. The thought of leaving him in that filthy hole was appalling to me. I shouted to Sgt. Kline, requesting aid to move Ward but he replied the medics would take care of him.

And so I left him. His eyes followed me as I stood and gathered my equipment, but he said nothing. I told him the medics would be along and pick him up. A subsequent patrol for that specific purpose of bringing him out, came up against opposition, took casualties and was forced to return. And so I lost friend.

Duty -- Pride -- Country -- Honor -- these are words that guided the actions of the man on the line with a rifle in his hands.

General Orders - 274th Honor Roll