The following account was written by one of the Association's past President, Mr. Dale Bowlin. Mr. Bowlin served with the Battery C, 883 Field Artillery.

APPROACHING SPICHEREN HEIGHTS

As blood spurted from the artery in my left leg, the last thing I remembered was looking up at the two German soldiers who had come out of the bunker that I had finally reached. When I regained consciousness several hours later I was in a room with six wounded German soldiers, blankets covered the windows and I could hear artillery in the distance. A small candle was the only light. Later I learned this was a German field hospital in Saarbrucken.

Shortly after midnight on February 21, 1945 three companies from the 275th Regiment, 70th Infantry Division, had taken off with orders to circle behind the German held town of Alsting, just a short distance from Spicheren on the French/German border, across the Saar River from the city of Saarbrucken. We were to be in position by noon, hopefully to cut off any retreating Germans.

As part of a forward observer team from Battery C, 883rd Field Artillery, I was accompanying the infantry.

There had been little resistance that morning so our progress was reasonably good although I had the impression that there was some question as to our exact location. However we moved ahead and it seemed that we were approaching our target position. All at once there was heavy rifle and machine gun fire as well as the German 88s. The lead infantry elements were pinned down in a deep ditch which I learned years later was a tank trap.

The call came for artillery so Lt. Boyd, Pfc. Stewart and I ran forward to the ditch. Stewart and I set up the radio, made contact with our battery fire control center and relayed Boyd's request for fire. Not knowing our location complicated the situation but rounds of 105 mm high explosive shells were sent in our direction. With the 88s firing point blank at our position combined with the fact that we were in a wooded area, it was impossible to observe any of our rounds. At least two or three of the infantry men, including L Company Commander Howard White had been badly wounded just a few feet to my left. I was operating the radio, attempting to answer questions from the officer at the gun positions. Years later I learned that Lt. White died in that ditch.

Just then I heard Lt. Boyd say that we were going to pull back. I asked if we should destroy the radio and he replied "No, we'll be back". After relaying this information to the battery, Stewart and I started to crawl down the ditch to our right. We had gone only a short distance when we came up behind Major Duffy, the officer leading the attack. He had been wounded in the left wrist and was making slow progress since the ditch had water and barbed wire in the bottom. As we approached the end of the ditch we found a squad leader who had been separated from his men. There was no one else around.

At this point I peeked over the top of the ditch and saw the German infantry approaching us in a skirmish line formation. I told the Major what was happening. By my calculations with only my carbine and the Major's 45, we didn't have much of a chance against what looked like a company of Germans. In a matter of seconds the German soldiers were on top of us, took our two weapons and then sent one of their men to the rear with us. At their command post we were interrogated briefly by an officer or non-com who spoke excellent English, explaining he had grown up in Brooklyn. He was particularly interested in any cigarettes we had.

As we moved in single file to the rear I was in the lead with the other three Americans and the German behind. At the sound of a 105 mm artillery shell coming in I dove into a shallow ditch on the right side of the trail and the last I saw of the other four they were going down a steep bank to the left. My first thought was that I might still get back to my outfit. About that time I discovered blood was filling my left pant leg.

Although I had felt no pain, I determined that a piece of shrapnel had hit behind my knee and the way it was bleeding, an artery had been severed. As I removed my belt to use as a tourniquet two German soldiers came down the trail and one attempted to help with the belt but the buckle broke off so he went on. Our artillery was coming closer again; I could see a bunker some 75 yard across a clearing and I decided to try for that to reduce my chances of getting hit again.

My silent prayer was "God, be with me"; my strength was draining away rapidly and to crawl the last few yards I was grasping tufts of grass to pull myself forward. As I rolled over on my back the two soldiers came out and were looking down at me.

During the next two months as a prisoner of the Germans I had plenty of time to speculate about what happened after I became unconscious. The fact that I was alive meant that both soldiers had not returned to the safety of their bunker without me. If they had pulled me into the bunker I believe I would have died soon without medical attention. Therefore I am left with the conclusion that one or both of those German soldiers carried me to a medical aid station. The only vehicles I had seen in the area were the tanks that had pinned us down. That meant that one or both of the German soldiers had risked their lives to save me, their enemy who had been attempting to direct artillery shells at them a few minutes earlier.

By now I have had more than 48 years to reflect on what happened that day. I will be forever grateful to the unknown soldier or soldiers who saved my life. And while I firmly believe that God was a part of what happened, it is my deep conviction that I am alive today because of the Christian Spirit of Brotherly Love that worked through those soldiers standing over me in front of that bunker.

On rare occasions I permit myself to dream of someday meeting those men--but I am always at a loss as to how to express my thanks. My other "dream or nightmare" is that I walk out of a bunker with enemy artillery shells falling at random and I see a German soldier lying at my feet, bleeding to death.