My arrival in Phillipsbourg was then, and is now, somewhat hazy to me. I remember it was night and a bunch of us were being bounced around in the back of a truck. The trip was actually of short duration, but seemed to take hours. The idea of being in a real town appealed to us when compared to the open terrain we had just left. The truck finally came to a jarring stop. A voice, emanating from a dark shape, told us to unload and to bring our gear with us. By the time our feet located the earth, there were several other shapes with floating flashlights. We were looking forward to finally getting out of the cold, so when one of the flashlights told us to follow him, we did so with enthusiasm. As we trudged along, we began to become aware of our benefactor and the buildings on either side of us.

When our guide finally called a halt, we found that all the buildings had disappeared. In the budding light of first morning, we could see nothing but miles of flat farm country. Looking back, it became obvious that we had overshot our anticipated comfort by at least 200 yards. Before we could point out the mistake to our guide, he told us that there had been a breakthrough by the Germans and that they were coming our way, spearheaded by an armored column. Ever since this incident, I have distrusted shapes bearing flashlights. We were told to dig-in along the road running out of town. Since we had no weapons that would stop any kind of a vehicle, I looked for maximum protection in placing the squad.

Close to the road were two huge piles of neatly stacked logs, with a short space between the piles. The lucky winner of this small piece of real estate was Claude Lindsay, one of North Carolina's finest.

Digging a foxhole was extremely tough since the earth was frozen for the first 2 feet. After an hour of spade work, most of us became satisfied with the depth and embarked on the task of trying to make some sort of breakfast of K-rations. I was busily tearing up the wax-covered cardboard box for fuel when a sudden explosion got my attention. I found myself in my belly- button-deep foxhole when the second 88 shell screamed past me on its way into town. Living in Phillipsbourg quickly lost all its appeal.

Peering across the open terrain, you could just make out the gun flash, winking at us from a farm-house about two miles away. Every time the farm-house winked the air was full of ear- rending moans and the shallow holes were full of condensed GIs. After several salvos, a round found the log pile it had been searching for. Huge logs stood on end, amongst flying splinters. All of us felt we were watching the end of Lindsay. The logs came crashing down, forming what looked like an immense beaver dam.

A lull in the barrage brought quiet. I hurried over to where Lindsay's foxhole had been. Calling out, I was amazed when I got an answer. Lindsay crawled out of the debris totally intact but shaking like an aspen. He tried three times to light cigarettes but finally gave up when they all fell from his hands to the ground.

The shelling encouraged us to enlarge our pits. We were still at it when shortly past noon one of the squad, close to the road, hollered that something was coming. By listening carefully, you could just make out the sound of a motorcycle engine. The cycle came into view headed straight for town. The rider looked like a civilian with his green scarf covering the lower half of his face. I waited for those on the road to challenge him. No one did. He rode straight into Phillipsbourg to be greeted by shouts and shots. The bike reappeared on its return trip, but moving a lot faster. To this day, I don't know if the cyclist was a civilian or soldier. Putting it mildly, I got a chewing for letting the intruder, first into, then out of town.

Later in the day, a weapons carrier pulled up near our position. It was occupied by several GIs I had not seen before. There were also several light machine-guns and boxes of ammunition. We were told we would be taken to a point about one mile north of town where several roads intersected. Our objective was to keep the enemy from entering the town from the North. T/Sgt. Allen Hebering and S/Sgt. Norm Wallace were in charge.

Three members of my squad and I joined the truck's occupants. We then took off on a short scenic tour. The vehicle stopped and we unloaded. You could see we were out in the sticks. The area was V-shaped, with a ground-level, concrete bunker dominating the point where the roads came together. The hills on either side of the bunker were fairly steep and were thickly covered by mature pines. Halfway up these hills were earthen trenches on either side of the box. The field of fire, from the three emplacements, stretched out across a V-shaped valley for at least 600 yards.

Our group of about 12 men, appeared to be a pick-up assignment. I was told to take my squad and man the trench to the left of the bunker. Michael Dominguez and George Prill, who shared this balcony-like fortification, were being kidded by Bruce Perry, another squad member. Perry told us he had a cushy assignment inside the bunker. We really envied him, for it was bitter cold.

The three of us checked out our position, assembled and loaded our weapons. I remember placing grenades along the top of the parapet for easy access. You could look down from the bulwark onto the road directly below. The distance was about 30 feet.

Darkness came quickly to the valley. I assigned schedules for the watch. All three of us wrapped ourselves in blankets and two of us tried to get a little sleep. You could hear our sentry pacing back and forth on the road below. I dozed off. My sleep was broken by a voice calling out "Who goes there?" This was followed by a burst from a "burp gun". There is no other sound like it in the world. I found myself on my feet, peering over the edge of the parapet. Below I could make out a mass of scurrying figures in the dark. Their movements were punctuated by the bunker's machine gun. In seconds we were all firing. The three of us were leaning out over the earthwork, firing directly into the confusion below. I swear I did not hear my rifle go off, but the empty clips kept jumping out. Our machine gun never did fire; it seemed to be frozen solid.

There was a deep ditch on the opposite side of the road. Several dozen of the enemy had leaped into it endeavoring to escape fire from the bunker. By the flashes from grenades, you could make out the tops of German heads. Most were wearing cloth caps, not helmets, which indicated to me that they had expected no opposition. We had sent several grenades rolling down the hill. I was sure there were three or four left, but I couldn't seem to find them. Very carefully I moved my hand along the parapet, just a few inches at a time. No luck. We had either used up the grenades or had accidently pushed them over the edge in the excitement.

It was a murderous ambush, with frontal fire from the pillbox and flanking fire from the side trenches. The enemy tried climbing our embankment several times but were driven back by grenades and rifle fire.

A large number of grenades were thrown at us. You could see and hear them exploding in the trees around us. I didn't find out until morning that fragments from one of the explosions had hit me.

The fighting seemed like minutes but it must have taken at least an hour before the firing stopped. The cries of the wounded were punctuated with calls of "Kamerade". Though the firing had stopped, none of our men left their positions until it was light enough to assess the situation. We called back and forth and found that our only serious casualty was our sentry, who challenged the enemy. This soldier was still very much alive even though he had been hit four or five times.

As it became lighter, we prepared to leave our position, when someone hollered from the other trench. They could just make out a German soldier at the far end of the meadow, trying to escape. I had shot expert in basic so I set the sights on my rifle for 500 yards, took careful aim and fired. I missed. I missed again, just before the soldier disappeared behind some brush. In later years, I have been forever thankful for that failure. It would have been the only person I knowingly killed in my lifetime.

We were summoned from our perch to the area in front of the bunker. I saw Perry standing near the opening and I noticed that his face and hands were cut in several places. He told me that during the engagement the enemy had slipped up to the bunker and had dropped several grenades into the gun ports. Their explosions, and the ricocheting concrete and metal, had found him in the dark.

Someone put a dressing on my head and my arm. As far as I could tell none of us was disabled.

We went over to talk to the enemy wounded. What I got out of our exchange was that they were an Automatic Weapons Company on their way to Phillipsbourg. At least a dozen Germans were killed outright, five or six could not be moved because of their wounds, and about 10 were taken prisoners. I assumed the remainder had escaped into the countryside like the soldier I had shot at. I remember one wounded German calling over and over for "Wasser". I offered him my canteen but his buddy put up his hand and said "Nix". He pointed to his friend's stomach to show where the wound was. I put the canteen away.

We had to take the prisoners back to town so we got the walking wounded on their feet, with the help of other prisoners. It was slow going but after a time we came to Phillipsbourg. Things had sure changed since we left. The area had seen better days. There were several dead, from both sides, who lay where they had fallen. Apprehensively, we entered town with the prisoners in our midst. Suddenly, the windows and doorways were full of German soldiers. Everywhere you looked, the place was alive with the enemy. The only reason we were not cut down was because of the close proximity of the prisoners. We put down our arms. There was no apparent hostility since we had treated the prisoners well, especially the wounded.