The following account appears in the
Summer 2000 issue of the Trailblazer, the Association magazine, pp18
- 20. Written by Eldon McDermeit.It is difficult for me to decide which of the
events that occurred during combat to write about. I have chosen
events that I feel have had little or no attention by others whom
have written.
I want first to recognize the Infantry medics.
I had occasion to call "Medic" three times during my time in combat.
The contribution of the medics has never been adequately publicized.
I came to the division upon the dissolution of
the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP). Upon reporting to Camp
Adair, I was assigned as a gunner in a 60mm mortar squad. I went to
Europe with most of the Division on the USS West Point.
In our first combat experience, we got off our
trucks about a half mile south of Baerenthal. As we walked northward
toward the town, we were hit with mortar, 88mm and rifle fire. Thus
we found that the Germans had moved into Baerenthal, which took us
by surprise because we had been told it was still occupied by US
troops.
We all left the road and ran into the trees
immediately on our left. At that moment a mortar shell exploded
directly over our heads in the trees. That surprised us as we had
never been warned about tree burst during our train ing. Two of the
guys near me were hit by shrapnel that left one of them severally
wounded. I called "Medic" and one soon arrived to take care of them.
I then returned to the road, taking cover in the ditch which seemed
a safer place than staying under the trees.
We continued to be under heavy fire but the
situation was to become worse. Two German tanks came out of the
trees and into the clearing about a quarter mile northeast of us.
The Germans moved toward us with Infantry in
support on the flanks and at the rear. The tanks were firing both
their 88mm cannons and their machine guns. It was approaching dusk
and the machine guns were using alternating tracer bullets. This
would be the last time I was to see German tanks or tracers during
the war.
In the ditch next to me was a
good friend, Will Booker. He was also a mortar man but was not in my
squad. Someone suggested that we take a mortar up on the ridge
immediately to the west. I picked up the mortar tube plus one bag of
six shells, while Will carried two bags of shells. The ridge was
rather steep and we slipped back several times.
Upon reaching the top, I held the tube steady
while Will adjusted the slant of the tube a set the proper charges
on the fins of the rounds. We had opted take only the mortar tube so
could take more shells. When the first shell was dropped down the
tube, the tube nearly disappear into the soft ground!
After that first round only
about two inches of the top of the tube was left visible above the
surface. I then removed my steel helmet and after embedding it
solidly into the ground, used it as a base plate
and fired the 17 remaining shells. We could see the tanks and enemy
infantry an estimated 150 to 200 yards away so we aimed our shells
at the infantry. On firing the last of our shells someone yelled,
"Let's get out of here!" We moved forward about 100 yards and
dropped into a depression. By this time German mortars were firing
counter battery and shelling the exact area from which we had fired
our mortar.
Two or three days later I talked to one of our
guys who had been on a knoll near the tanks. He told me that our
shells had landed right where we intended and were very effective.
Another time, also near Baerenthal, I shared a
foxhole with my squad leader (and very good friend) Sgt. Mike Deasy.
We jumped into our hole upon hearing 88mm shells land nearby. An 88
(a flat trajectory, high speed shell) crossed our foxhole about five
feet above the ground, striking the trunk of a tree which was about
four inches in diameter and within arm's length of our hole. My end
of the foxhole was nearest the shell when it exploded. Since I was
sitting in the hole, the rim of the hole was four or five inches
higher than the top of my head, thus saving my life; Mike was not so
lucky. Shrapnel tore through Mike's upper body, including his
helmet. In this in- stance I did not call out "Medic" as it was
obvious Mike had been killed instantly. From that time on I chose
not to share a foxhole with anyone.
Later in combat we were sent out about three
miles in front of our lines on a day time patrol (which I considered
a stupid move). Not surprisingly we were subsequently surrounded. We
were ordered to dig foxholes in a large circle (like wagon trains).
That evening I was talking to a guy in the
next hole when a German mortar round landed on the edge of his
foxhole just as he was getting into it. The shell tore his arm off
above the elbow. I called "Medic"' and one came almost immediately.
Early the next morning I went over to the other hole and asked the
medic (who had stayed with him all night) how the man was doing. The
medic answered, "He just now died."
One night in early February 1945 we moved to a
new location farther northwest along the Saar River. In the process
we had to wade a knee-deep creek. Without time to change our socks
we were told to dig foxholes. I was about half through digging mine
when I heard one of our guys (a replacement) let out an anguished
yell, followed closely by an explosion and then a second explosion.
I rushed over to his hole; which was the
second one over from mine, but he was already dead. He had been
digging his position wearing two hand grenades hooked over his belt.
The cotter pin had worked out of one of the grenades. When the
grenade gave its little pop (meaning it was now armed and about
three seconds from exploding) the man had yelled, knowing that he
had a live grenade on his belt. Again I did not call "Medic;" he was
nearly cut in half at the waist. We surmised that the first grenade
had set off the second. Most of us with any time in the lines had
learned long before to not carry grenades on our belts.
Unfortunately, many of the replacements died
because of inadequate training; or in many cases, no training.
Contrary to articles written since the war, stating that all
replacements from other units who had not experienced infantry
training were given training in units just behind our front lines,
they usually arrived with NO infantry training. I showed many
replacement how to load a clip into a rifle, where to place a
foxhole to reduce the risk of casualties from tree bursts,
instructed them not to stand in the open (during day light hours),
etc.
In early March 1945 we were east of
Grosbliederstroff and were engaged in cleaning out a large patch of
woods and encountering lots of small arms fire. When it appeared
that the area had been secured, I cut across the woods to find our
Company CP.
As I rounded a bush, I saw a man's leg about
one step in front of me. The leg had been part of one of our men
whose body was lying about ten feet away. The leg had been severed
at the upper thigh and still had the trouser leg and boot attached.
The man had stepped on a land mine we called a "Bouncing Betty."
When stepped upon, it shot straight up about two feet and exploded.
We encountered other land mines called "Shu"
mines. They usually didn't kill but blew one's foot off. One always
had the thought that the next step may be on a land mine, but there
was nothing we could do about it.
After my friend Mike Deasy was killed I was
sent to rifle platoons for about ten days. At the end of that period
I was promoted to be squad leader of my own 60mm mortar squad. My
position called for the rank of Sergeant. The remaining members of
my squad were all replacements and had never seen a mortar and knew
nothing about the Infantry although some had rank. I spent about
half of the time giving them Infantry training.
When we were nearly to Saarbrucken I found
that my promotion never went through be cause the Table of
Organization (TO&E) determined that our company already had too many
men with rank (although with no Infantry training). I remained a
squad leader (and Pfc.) until the company was dispersed throughout
Europe in early August 1945.
As were most of the guys that were placed in
the Infantry upon the dissolution of the ASTP, I was not at all
happy about the assignment. Over time though I have had reason to
feel that this turn of events was supposed to happen.
On July 2, 1944, while stationed at Camp
Adair, another man and I went into Salem. We rented bicycles and
rode all over town. We were sitting under the trees adjacent to the
Oregon capitol building when fire engines passed. We chased the fire
engines but never caught up with them. However, we did overtake two
pretty girls also riding bicycles and, forgetting all else, we rode
with them.
The girl I rode with (Charyel Hayes) and I
became engaged before I went to Europe. We were married in March
1946 and have resided in Salem since the war. We have a great
family: two grown children and five grandchildren.
