Going east, of course, seeing all these tanks gave us a lot of confidence. I took this picture while passing them. All of a sudden, they were behind us. It was our job to find the enemy.
Image courtesy of Karen Farrell.
That night after shaving off my goatee, and saying all my prayers twice, I finally fell asleep. I woke up the next morning when I sensed activity going on about me. Since I had slept with all my clothes on, I was ready to eat. With my mess kit in hand, I stood in what appeared to be a chow line, smiling at everyone and commenting on how hungry I was.
After a pretty good breakfast, I saw Sergeant Bowser* coming my way. He then gave me a new name. “Hey, you”, and assigns me to a jeep. Weeks later, I would give him a new name, under my breath, and behind his back, of course. I dubbed him Booze Bowser. A title he richly deserved. I came to admire old booze. He was good at his job, but I could never like someone who prejudged you because you came from ‘New Yawk City’, and your name ended in a vowel.
It was a beautiful summer morning, and we had ringside seats to what was about to happen, I was introduced to a couple of GIs who seemed nice. Our mission was to locate the enemy, make contact, move forward if possible, or wait for the heavy armor and join the big push.
From the west, the first of 2000 planes began to appear. Wave after wave of them in perfect formation. You could see the anti-aircraft shells exploding all around the bombers. American fighter planes were escorting them. I did not see any German fighters. Occasionally, the German A.A. fire would hit a bomber. It would catch fire and peel away from the formation. Men would parachute out and the plane would crash.
Later, I found out a lot of bombs fell short, killing some of our troops, including a General. This spectacle went on for some time. Before it was fully over, we were in our vehicles ready to go. I don’t know how John Wayne would have said it, but Booze just said, “Move it!” We were the cavalry, and this was our job. I expected to hear “eeeyo!” with a finger pointing east.
Remember the poker game I was in while crossing the English Channel? One of the losers sold me a very small camera and some film. I had it with me in the breast pocket of my fatigues. I later took a picture I still have. We were moving along at a pretty good clip, on a good road, when suddenly we were off the road and driving along side of it. We were passing tank after tank, cannon after cannons of all types, truck after truck filled with infantry. It was an army second to none. “Bring on those cooks and bakers!” We were going to kick ass! After passing a couple of miles of this mighty combat force, I realized we were back on the paved road again, and no one along side of us. They were way, way, in back of us. Shades of Little Big Horn, the Krauts are going to eat us alive!
The biggest gun we had was a 37 millimeter on the armored cars. The next biggest was a 30-caliber bullet, and I was too scared to shoot anything with my camera. The Krauts had the best tanks in the world, Tiger and Panther, with the best cannon in the universe, the 88. Who planned this attack, General Custer? The only thing then that would stop a Tiger tank, was a 500-pound bomb dropped from a P47 fighter plane. One Tiger could hold off any number of our Sherman tanks.
Well, we finally made contact with the enemy. Luckily no big guns, just small arms, fire and mortars. I guess the bombers did a good job. We sustained a few casualties and captured some German soldiers. Most of the time I didn’t know what was going on. As it turned out the cavalry probe was successful. We found the enemy, held our ground and waited for the big boys to take over.
The Point Sergeant of our platoon was a class non-commissioned officer. I overheard him lamenting the fact that he had to kill a Kraut who was playing possum in his fox hole. I’m glad I didn’t see it. He used his Thompson submachine gun. Later, I saw him limping badly. It seems that a mortar had exploded near him and had driven a small piece of shrapnel into the side of his knee. The medics picked him up and I never saw him again. He must have been shipped to England. I only knew him for a day, but I liked him. Why? Because he knew how to smile and did.
My first day of combat was over. It isn’t like you go home at six n the evening. What you did was play leapfrog. The big boys took over and we were moved to another area to be used as flank protection, whatever that means. I have always tried to protect my flank, and my ass, too.
Well, here I was in an old cavalry squadron that came from western United States. The soldiers were mostly from the Midwest, and they had been together for a long time. I wondered what I could do to become accepted and be one of the boys. It’s lonely being an outsider. There was this one G.I. who was walking around the area I was in constantly mumbling, “empty guns kill people”. As it turns out, I wasthe replacement for a dead G.I. the empty gun had killed.
It seems that the mumbler confiscated a pistol, thought he had removed the bullets, pulled the trigger and killed his best friend, resulting in not only one, but two casualties. Getting back to my problem. How would I become one of the boys? I was a New Yawker, and that was a big minus. I finally decided on the self-deprecating approach. Everybody loves a loser, so I told them all the things I couldn’t do. Like drive a car, what I’ve never done, like hunt or fish, or score with the ladies, all the while listening to their stories with wide eyed admiration.
Believe me, it worked. Blowing smoke is an art I’m familiar with, and good at. I was made fun of a lot, but eventually I became acceptable to them, not 100%, but enough at first. The second part of my plan was to be there when new replacements joined the platoon. I smiled, patted them on the back, introduced myself, shook their hands and made them feel welcome. Yes, we New Yawkers are slick, but we are also survivors.
Months later, when I was an old pro, they shipped a replacement to us while we were at the front line. He told me he got sick when he spotted me bending over some Kraut stiffs pulling off their wedding rings, so he ran behind a tree and puked. He was nineteen years old, in a clean uniform, clean shaven, not knowing what to expect seeing a dirty animal looking, around forty years old, robbing the dead. I had just turned twenty, and I was still trying to be one of the boys and be tough. Wasn’t it better than taking scalps? I still have a couple of my mementos.
Some guys might question my modus operandi. Well, remember Booze Bowser? He was my Sergeant for five minutes and put me on guard duty! I had to survive in this hostile and deadly environment and wouldn’t have with a name like ‘Hey you’. As it turns out, I lasted in a front-line outfit for the next fifteen months. You can blame that on a lot of luck and a short brown nose!
* Editor’s note: Booze Bowser is Sgt. James Bousa (6860871)
First platoon point sergeant is tentatively identified as Sgt. Sandy Speirs (37039409)