Post by Jim Visel on Jul 18, 2010 16:29:12 GMT -5
Remembering World War II
By Edwin D. Williams, copyright 1992
As told to James Visel 1992
I don’t know why I’ve waited so many years to tell this story, or even why I’m writing it now. I guess the main reason is that that the memories are over forty-five years old, but still stand out in my mind very vividly. It’s something I want to tell.
Facts and quotes;
“The front line soldier that I knew lived for months like an animal, and was a veteran in the cruel fierce world of death. Everything was abnormal and unstable in his life. He was filthy dirty, ate if and when, slept on the ground or in a foxhole. His clothes were greasy and he lived in the constant presence of dirt, dust, or mud, moving constantly, deprived of all things. The front line soldier has to harden his inside as well as his outside or he would crack under the strain.” --Ernie Pyle
“In Italy, Holland, and Germany, rain and cold produced conditions of appalling severity. Be it in the Italian mountains, a German forest, or a ruptured canal system in Holland, mere day to day existence became a terrible ordeal.” --John Ellis in “The Sharp End”
“The rifleman fights without promise of either reward or relief. Behind every river there’s another hill, and behind every hill lies another river. After weeks on the front line only a wound can offer him the comfort of safety, shelter and a bed. Those who are left to fight, fight on, evading death, but knowing that each day of evasion they have exhausted one more chance for survival. Sooner or later, unless victory comes, this chase must end on the litter or in the grave.” --Gen. Omar Bradley
Fact: The infantry, which comprised only 6% of the U.S. Army, accounted for more than 80% of the ground forces killed in battle in Europe. The actual count of American casualties was 90,636 killed in action, 296,636 wounded in action, and 95,000 Americans taken prisoner in the European Theater of Operations.
Fact: Total casualties of WWI, WWII, Korea, and Viet Nam are 1, 387, 928. Those still listed in 1992 as Missing in Action or Prisoners of War are WWII-- 78,751, Korea--8,177, Vietnam--2300
I’ll start my story by telling you the events of the day before my capture. I believe this was February 27th, 1945, though I’m not sure; most of the time we didn’t even know what day of the week it was.
I remember the day was dreary, with a cold, light rain falling. We had been in contact with the Germans for many days, driving them back into their homeland. They would stop and put up heavy resistance when they could. This day we were moving up.
The going was tough. The terrain was extremely hilly, rocky, and wooded. I was carrying not only a full field pack, as a mortar section squad leader, but this day I was also carrying the 60mm mortar, all 60 lbs of it. In basic training we would break it down into two components, the barrel and the base-plate. In combat it was a different story. What the hell good would only half of it be if the man carrying the other half was hit?
All the other members of the squad carried 12 rounds of 60mm shells in a heavy canvas pouch, slung over their shoulder. There were six rounds in front, and six rounds in back, and we would trade off on occasion with whoever was carrying the “tube”. My own personal weapon was a Colt .45.
Late in the afternoon we reached what everyone supposed was our objective, and we were told to dig in. Digging a foxhole was normal procedure every time we stopped. We dug back into a hillside, just big enough to get into, in a sitting position. The digging was difficult in that rocky terrain. I covered the top of the hole with my shelter-half, throwing dirt around the outer edge to hold it in place.
Finished, I crawled in to rest. I was beat, and hungry, and pulled a “K-ration” out of my pack. The beverage powder in this one was lemonade, and as I was cold and wet, I figured to drink it hot. That was accomplished by heating a canteen cup of water over a small fire made by burning the waxed box of the ration. About the time the water was hot enough, someone walked past the hole shouting, “OK men, load up! We’re moving out!”
I’m sure you can imagine what words passed my lips, and what thoughts went through my head at that time, but in the military you learn very soon to take orders without question. In disgust I threw out the hot water, put out the fire, and crawled out. I retrieved the shelter-half, picked up my load once more and fell into line.
We moved out, with conditions as miserable as before. Shortly another factor was added; darkness. It’s hard to keep up in single file I daylight, but in darkness it’s virtually impossible, especially in rough terrain. We walked and struggled ahead for what seemed like three hours. The order came to move ahead quietly came down the line. We moved on up for about half a mile more. By up I mean up a hill. The terrain finally flattened out a bit, and once again we were told to dig in.
Sgt. Kelly, our platoon Sergeant showed me where I was to set up the mortar, gave me a compass azmuth, and range, to where the Germans were. They were on the next hill, in the woods.
I don’t think there was a single foxhole dug that night. We were just too tired to move, let alone dig a hole. I managed to scrape out a place to lie down, about six inches deep, threw my shelter-half in the bottom of it, laid down under my two blankets, and immediately went to sleep. I don’t think many, if any stood guard that night. At that point I didn’t much care. I don’t think I could have found the mortar in the dark anyway.
Awake at daybreak, while eating cold K-rations, we were told that an artillery barrage was going to start on the wooded hill next to us, and when the barrage stopped we were going to attack. Somehow our company jeep found us and brought up cigarettes, free cigarettes, not just a few; in fact three cases. Everyone had all the smokes they wanted and then some. Many cartons were left there on the ground.
The artillery barrage started on time and lasted about 45 minutes. None of us thought many of the Germans could survive such a pounding. Our 105’s were sure putting it to them. I’m sure our company commander thought they were softened up enough when we attacked, but we found out differently.
In normal situations, when the rifle platoons attacked, the mortar squads stayed back in case they were needed for supporting fire, not right in back of the rifle platoon, where effectiveness would be lost. But for some reason we were ordered to follow right behind the rifle platoon.
We took off at a run, down the hill, across a small stream in the valley, and up the ill-fated “Queen Hill.” This day I was carrying a pouch of mortar shells. About the time we caught up with the others, almost at the top, the Germans opened fire, pinning everyone down. We crawled up behind some boulders, wondering what we were going to do. I was also wondering what good my Colt .45 was going to do in this situation. A few minutes later our company commander came running down the hill, jumped in behind the boulders and said, “Tie in with the first platoon,” and pointed to our left flank. He moved off to the right.
I must have been the only S.O.B. to hear the order, as I was the only one that moved out. Running to my left, I picked up an M1 rifle, apparently dropped by one of our men when he was hit, as there was quite a bit of blood around. He was nowhere in sight. Now I had a rifle but no ammunition for it, except for what was in the clip. I pulled back the bold, and saw three rounds.
Continuing in my direction, I finally saw two men I knew from the first platoon. They were the B.A.R. (Browning Automatic Rifle) team and were the last men on the right flank. I positioned myself on their right, about thirty yards away, which made me the last man on that line. No telling where the next on my right was, and at this point I could not see any of the enemy. From my position I could not hear any verbal orders, but soon one of the B.A.R. team motioned that we were to move forward.
I carefully arose and started moving. To the left I could not see any more of the platoon, as they were over the edge of the hill and down. We hadn’t moved more than one hundred yards when firing started down in their area, and since they were meeting resistance, we had to stop once more.
Visually scanning the terrain ahead, I thought I was seeing flickers of movement, but no visible targets when the movement stopped. I knew I wasn’t seeing things, so every time I saw movement I squeezed of a round with the M-1. The B.A.R. team was throwing some lead too. After firing I pulled back the bolt to see how many rounds I had left. There was only one.
Shortly I glanced to my left, and one of the men there was motioning as if to say “Come on!” I took a good look around before moving, thinking they had seen something I hadn’t. Seeing nothing, I gathered my gear and got ready to move. Looking left again, they had gone, where and what direction I had no idea.
This is the point in time where an error in judgment probably led to my capture. I assumed they had withdrawn to the rear, to where we had come up the hill, but no, they had withdrawn to the left, the way off this loaf-shaped hill. This I learned later.
I jumped up, throwing the pouch of mortar shells over my shoulder as I ran. I hadn’t taken more than a few strides, when the Germans started shooting at me. Bullets were digging up balls of leaves and dirt at my feet, and kicking bark off the trees around me. I ran in a zig-zag pattern, to make myself a more difficult target.
The firing finally eased off. At about the same time I saw and heard PFC Edward K. Zimmerman of the third platoon. He was their radio-man, and at this moment he was holding the walkie-talkie by the antenna and beating it against a tree as hard as he could. I figured what was going through his mind; he didn’t want the Germans to get it. Rifle fire began again and we took off running again, until it eased off.
We stopped behind a large tree to catch our breath for a moment and try to collect our thoughts. Then without a word we both took off at the same time, still running zig-zag patterns. The rifle fire reduced to an occasional pop, and finally stopped completely. We ran on for about another five hundred yards before spotting an empty German foxhole. I was plenty big and just too inviting to both of us to pass up. We were at that moment facing the fact we were separated from the rest of our Company, and didn’t know what the hell was going on.
The foxhole was partially covered with logs and dirt and was, as far as foxholes go, a thing of beauty. We were almost certain the Jerries hadn’t seen us jump into the hole, as the firing at us had stopped a long way back. We both agreed that our best chance was to stay put for now. We still thought that our company had gone the same general direction we had, and we fully expected that they would move on the hill again, and we could fall in with them when they did.
Staying down very low in the hole, we only spoke in whispers, realizing that we could be taken prisoner, and Zimmerman was getting rid of all his German souvenirs by stuffing them between the logs and dirt at the top of the hole. I didn’t have anything to hide, but I loosened the strap on my wristwatch, and pushed up my arm as far as I could. It had been a gift from my Mother, given before I left to go overseas.
Everything was very quiet for perhaps fifteen minutes, and then in the distance we began to hear conversation, so faint we couldn’t tell if it was English or German, but shortly we found out. The whole was quickly surrounded by Germans, who ordered us out in no uncertain terms. These guys were German paratroopers.
Plenty scared; we crawled out and raised our hands. First they took our weapons, and then started searching our pockets. In the left breast-pocket of my fatigue jacket I was carrying perhaps fifteen or so letters from my wife. After writing me a letter, she would put on fresh lipstick and kiss the last page, above her signature, and these letters I cherished. The Germans soon had them strewn all over the ground. They missed the watch on this search, but took all the cigarettes and rations I had in my possession.
While the search was going on, I glanced around, and then realized why we were unable to see any definite targets earlier. Their uniforms were totally camouflaged, even to their helmets. They weren’t wearing regular German Wehrmact helmets, the ones with the brim dropped down above the ears. These were made like round pots.
These people were rough, and rough-looking. At one point I saw one of them eye-balling my snow pac boots, and I started to wonder how I was going to get my feet into the hob-nailed boots he was wearing, if he insisted on a trade.
I cannot say we were mistreated, but there was plenty of shoving and shouting as they started taking up back up the hill. I took one last look at all the lipstick imprinted letters on the ground and silently said “Goodby” to my wife and daughter. At that point I honestly thought I was never to see them again.
As strange as it was to us, they let us keep our steel helmet. When we took German prisoners, we always made them throw their helmets away, so they could not be used as a weapon. Zimmerman and I said nothing to each other during this time. We were sure that they would look in disfavor on any conversation between us. Besides, what was to say?
When we got to the top of the hill we could see how the Germans had survived the attack our artillery had laid in on them. There were many log-covered foxholes in the area. There had been casualties, however, and there was a severely wounded German soldier lying on the ground. From the bandage he had on, and the amount of blood, it was evident he had had a good portion of his left lower jaw blown away. The fact he was there probably saved us from being executed, as they indicated they wanted us to carry this man down the back side of this hill. We learned later that when this hill was finally taken, they found the bodies of eight of our men, who had been lined up and shot!
The only way we had to carry this man was between us, on two shelter halves, buttoned together. The German shelter-half differed from ours, as theirs were made in sort of a triangle shape, where ours were rectangular. They buttoned two of them together and somehow got it under this man.
Before we could pick him up again our artillery started shelling the hill again; now we were on the receiving end of our own artillery! Our 105’s had a different sound than the German shells when they exploded. These had a much sharper “crack” to them. By instinct, Zimmerman and I both hit the dirt when we heard the shells coming, but strange as it was, the Germans just sort of hunkered over, near a tree if possible. After the first barrage, our captors let us know in no uncertain terms we were to get moving with the wounded man.
Zimmerman and I twisted the corners of our makeshift carrier to give us something to hold on to. He was a big man, probably close to 180 lbs. It felt like a ton. I’ll never know how we made it down to the base of this hill, as they only let us set him down twice to rest, and then only momentarily. When we picked him up the third time, the fabric on my side began to tear, and we almost dropped him. I had to reach under him and grab hold of the un-torn edge, and hold on like that the rest of the way down.
There was a road running along this side of the hill, and across the road was a medical aid station. It consisted of a large bunker dug back into a hill and reinforced with logs and dirt. This is where they took the wounded man. They couldn’t do much for him except change the bandage. Their medical supplies were practically non-existent. This we learned after it was indicated to us that inside this bunker was where we were to stay. We sat on a bench along the wall, straight back from the door opening.
The wounded man was in a bunk directly across from us. His breathing was short, and had a rattling sound, which got continuously worse. It was clear that he was choking to death on his own blood. His breathing got shorter and shorter, and finally stopped altogether. The German medic finally came to him and seemed surprised to find that he was dead. I spoke in my best “German” and told him that he had been dead for about ten minutes. He and another medic then started going through his pockets, to see what they could find.
We spent the rest of the day in this bunker. There was not much conversation, as we were both wrapped up in our own thoughts, wondering what our fate was. We also knew that most Germans could understand and speak some English. One of these medics said to us, “For you the war is over, ya?” At that point, we had to agree.
Darkness had sent in when they finally took us outside. There were many German soldiers around. There were also three more members of our company, who had been captured. They were Sgt. Frank Ferranti, PFC Lawrence E. McCollam, and Pvt Lai K. Wong, an Chinese-American shot through the upper left arm, and who was in a lot of pain. All the German medics had done for him was wrapping his wound and put his arm in a sling. There were no pain-killing drugs. There was now some slight comfort for the fact that others had been taken prisoner too, and so far our lives had been spared.
It was clear we were getting ready to move out, deeper into German territory. A second search was made at this time, and the man who searched me was smart enough to feel farther up my arm, where he found my watch. I spoke out and made it known to him that the watch was from my “Mutter”, but to no avail.
We moved out with a fair-sized group of German troops, in what hat to be an easterly direction. Thinking back now, we walked between three and four miles back into a fair sized town. As we entered town American heavy artillery, our 155’s started shelling the town from far behind our lines. Fortunately none of them hit too close. They fell about one hundred yards to our right, but now we knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of our heavy stuff. We could hear them coming from a long way, and the explosions were terrific. We all hurried ahead to vacate the immediate area.
Farther down the road we made a turn, and the two Germans who were our guards, shoved us into an unoccupied house and into the cellar for the night. Luckily we found a large vegetable bin with a few small, grubby, sandy potatoes in it. We hadn’t eaten since early that morning and we were all hungry enough that we just brushed them off with our fingers and ate them skin and all.
It was clear to me that Wong was not going to be able to lay down and sleep with his arm hurting like it was, so he and I sat with our backs to the wall in that potato-bin. He was a much smaller person than I, so it was fairly comfortable with my arm around him, holding him to immobilize the arm, and to try to keep him from shaking. We also shared body heat in this position. Somehow we all fell asleep.
Shortly after daybreak we were rousted out of the cellar by the two German soldiers who were to be our guards for that day. We were marched to the next town, not too far away, and stopped in front of what appeared to be a school house. We hadn’t seen any civilians to this point.
This is where our interrogation took place. We were sent inside, one at a time, before the interrogations officer. I think I was the third to go in; where before me sat an impeccably dressed German officer. I wasn’t familiar enough with the German uniform insignia to tell what rank he was, I guessed at least a Major.
One of the things that had been stressed to all GI’s in basic training was, if captured, the only information you were required to give was your name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. I was certainly surprised when this officer said, “Please have a seat,” in perfect English, without any trace of a German accent. Were it not for his uniform, I could have been talking to another American. He was filling out a form as we talked. When Asked I gave him the required information. Then he asked, “what outfit are you with?”
I replied, “Sir, I am not required to give you that information.”
“That’s OK,” he said, “I already know.” And out of a drawer he pulled a Forth Infantry Division shoulder patch, laying it on the desk. The drawer held many American unit patches and insignia in it. These Germans knew who they were fighting.
I finally screwed up enough courage to ask hem where he learned to speak such perfect English. “I lived in New Jersey for eight years and went to college there. Some day, I want to go back.” He replied.
After questioning us all, he came outside and informed us, almost apologetically it seemed, that we would have to walk back into Germany, as they had no transportation for us, with the exception of Pvt. Wong, who would go back by ambulance, to a hospital. It was some comfort to know that his arm was finally going to be taken care of. We wished him well, and told him good-bye. He managed a slight smile as he told us goodbye. We never saw him again. I am sure he made it back all right, as the war ended within three months, and his wound didn’t seem life threatening.
At this point we learned there was a girl to be taken back into Germany with us. She was from Alsace Loraine, the disputed territory between Germany and France. She had become pregnant by a German soldier and was being taken back to Germany to have her child on German soil. It was then that we four prisoners were given our food parcels. They each consisted of one small loaf of black bread, a small amount of what they called margarine, but was nothing more than lard, and perhaps a half-pound of ersatz, a hard imitation candy, individually wrapped. We were all hungry as hell. All we had eaten in the last thirty hours was the few small grubby potatoes the night before. It didn’t take us long to dig into the bread, and it wasn’t too bad. I suppose anything would have tasted good at that point.
We started our trek east into Germany under the control of two guards who carried only pistols. They were a little better dressed than the front-line troops w had been in contact with. Being rear-echelon troops didn’t make them any more friendly or gentle, as these two were just the opposite. We were roughly shoved into a column of two’s and in the direction we were to go. The two guards and the girl fell in behind us and the pace they made us set was grueling. A time or two we whispered to one another to slow down a bit, which we did, but the guards caught on real fast and soon had us up to the original pace.
There was a certain likeness, in the regimen for the next three days’ march into Germany, and yet several things stood out. I had assumed, I suppose, that we would have the same guards all the way back to wherever we were headed, and was rather surprised of the fact that we were assigned a new pair each morning. Thinking about it however, it wasn’t so unusual as each pair would have to report back to their own units.
We were strictly at the mercy of the two guards each day, and we never knew what kind of people these would be, or what their feelings were toward American POWs. I cannot say we were harshly mistreated, but we were never treated with any kindness either, until the last day.
We hadn’t seen any German civilians up to this point, as we didn’t’ go through too many villages. The maps that the guards were using must have been highly detailed, as we would not stay on too many main roads, but rather used smaller roads, and on occasion it was nothing more than a wide trail through wooded areas. It was on one of these trails that we all had a real scare.
We were still moving in a column of two’s, with the two guards and the girl in the rear. Zimmerman and I were the front two. Suddenly two pistol shots were fired. I thought we were being executed and turned around fully expecting to see Ferranti and McCollam both shot dead behind me, but there they stood, both just as surprised and scared as I was. Apparently firing off into the woods was one of the guard’s methods of cleaning his weapon. The girl seemed quite amused at our fright.
Getting back to the civilians I mentioned, our first encounter with them in the first town of any size, when they saw is being marched by, they ran out into the road with very angry looks on their faces. “Engeles? Engeles?” they asked the guards.
“Nein! Nein!” the guards shot back, “Americanish.”
Upon learning that we were Americans, much of the hostility would leave their faces. It was very apparent they hated the English worse than they did us Americans.
At the end of this day’s march, and after our evening meal of black bread and lard, we were placed in a barn for the night. We were to sleep up in the hay mow, so up the ladder we all went, with the guards right behind us. Naturally they stayed between us and the ladder to prevent us from escaping. We were dog tired and it didn’t take us long to go to sleep. The guards didn’t even wait for us to get to sleep however, before they were taking advantage of the girl with them. They both had their turn, and I must add that she enjoyed the encounters as much as they did, from all the squealing and giggling that went on. The same thing occurred each night.
The following morning we had a rather pleasant experience, if anything could be pleasant under those conditions. Let me back track a bit and explain that there were quite a few political prisoners roaming loose, and not under guard, in this part of Germany. As we were eating our morning meal outside the barn, we were approached by two Serbian political prisoners who asked the guards if they could give us four Americans a haircut and shave. The guards were agreeable as their replacements hadn’t arrived yet. I had at least a week’s growth of whiskers on my face, and I have no idea when I last had a haircut. I can never forget that wonderful experience of a barber haircut and shave, by those two kind Serbs.
The two Serbians also had in their possession Red Cross parcels which contained small, four-pack samples of Old Gold cigarettes. Ferranti and I were the only ones that smoked, and they gave each of us a pack. They must have been ages old, and dry as a chip. They crackled when I rolled one between my fingers. I lit one up and damn near fell on my face because it made me so dizzy. Still I made those four cigarettes last as long as I could.
Let me get away from the story for a bit and try to tell you of the very miserable conditions I had lived under since arriving in Europe. I arrived just in time to get into the Battle of the Bulge. We were in contact with the enemy from then on with the exception of a few days before my capture. We slept in foxholes most every night, and these holes in the ground would get very muddy if it rained or snowed. We were cold most of the time, and the only chance we had to wash up a bit was if we were lucky enough to be billeted in an abandoned house or farm. Then we could heat up some water in our steel helmets and at least shave or wash to the waist. A bath or shower was out of the question.
The clothing I was wearing during this time was two pair of wool long john, and two wool long-sleeve undershirts. These articles I would alternate as they got progressively dirtier (they were almost slick inside when I finally received a change). I was also wearing wool O.D. pants and shirt, wool sweater, fatigue pants, wool lined field jacket, wool gloves, wool stocking cap under my helmet liner, and wool socks under my snow pac boots. It had been stressed upon us very strongly to keep our feet as dry as possible to prevent trench-foot, so I was in the habit of exchanging my wool socks every day and putting the damp pair inside my shirt around the waist. Body heat usually dried them. I went from December 23, 1944 til March 5, 1945 without a bath or shower. My field jacket will be mentioned again.
Back to the story. Up to this point I haven’t mentioned anything about my physical condition. In the army, everything was “GI” or Government Issue. Naturally, when one was sick, it was called the “GI Shits”, or whatever. As I recall now, both Zimmerman and I were bothered by diarrhea. This case of the GIs led to what is probably the most embarrassing time of my life.
When we would indicate to the guards, at least to the ones we had until this day, that we had to go, they would send us out into a field beside the road, where we could have a little privacy and they could still keep an eye on us. This day when I had to go, the guard pointed to the edge of the road. When I indicated that I wanted to go out into the field, he was very adamant that I was to “go” beside the road, about four feet away. Never in my wildest imagination would I ever take my pants down and take a crap in front of a girl. But at this moment nature was urgent, and I had no choice. The girl seemed amused by my predicament.
The other thing I particularly remember about this day occurred at the end of the day’s march. We had arrived at what looked like a small abandoned school house, where we were to spend the night. There were other prisoners (later we learned they were Russians) coming out the door, each carrying arm loads of loose straw that they had apparently been sleeping on. We asked the guards, in our best German why we couldn’t sleep on the straw, since we were going to take over these quarters. They indicated by scratching and bug picking motions that the straw was full of lice.
When we got inside we could tell that this building had been used to house prisoners for a long time, as it had the wooden slat bunks that all ex-pows seem to be familiar with. It was filthy dirty, and the Russians hadn’t removed every trace of the straw. I don’t think any of us were surprised to wake up scratching lice the next morning. I don’t recall, at this time if the guards and the girl stayed in this building or not. Sleep came quickly.
The next morning our luck took a turn for the better. As occurred every day, we were assigned new guards. One of these guards was also from Alsace Lorraine, and spoke French as well as German. Sgt. Ferranti spoke broken French, and this very much improved communication between us and our captors. It proved to be very significant later in the day.
The forced march this day still stands out in my memory very strongly. The day was overcast, and rather cold. We were approaching a range of large wooded hills and the road started the ascent. By early afternoon we began to by-pass a column of German soldiers, apparently retreating towards the Rhine. All of their equipment was on horse-drawn wagons, loaded heavily. Their artillery pieces were also being horse drawn.
The progress of this column was very slow, as we were making much better time walking than they were. The horses were struggling very hard, and when one of them would falter and fall, and was unable to get up again, the walking Germans would salvage what they could carry off of the wagons, shoot the horse, and push it and the wagon over the edge of the hill. I saw this occur four or five times, and felt sorry for the horses, but there was no such feeling towards the Germans; seeming them in this situation. We finally completely passed this column, and continued our uphill march. The going wasn’t easy.
We finally emerged upon high ground with low rolling hills, and the road continued straight in an easterly direction. We arrived at a “T” intersection and turned north (left). After proceeding up this road about two miles, we passed a road leading east (right), but we moved north. About a mile and a half later we met another German military column proceeding south, led by an officer mounted on horseback. He made it known to our guards that there were American tanks in the distance behind his column. We turned back and proceeded down the road we had passed going east.
This road led us into the town of Wehr. As we entered the town what was most evident was a state of total confusion. There was a man with an axe chopping down a tall pole that had a swastika at its top. The townspeople and the German military personnel billeted in the town were going in all directions, and the column we met on the road was trying to make its way through town.
During this time our two guards made our presence as inconspicuous as they could. They placed us under a porch type overhang facing the street, while they contemplated what they were to do. The four of us knew what they were discussing between them. As we had approached the town we all began to hear the distant roar of the approaching armor. It was the sweetest sound I had heard in some time. We all knew it was American.
It was evident however, by the distance they were away, and the time of day, that they wouldn’t make the town by nightfall. This gave Sgt Ferranti the opportunity to “go to work” on the French speaking guard, and try to convince him to stop here in this town that night, and after the armored column had passed through town, to surrender to u, and we would guarantee them safe passage back to the American lines. The only “fly in the ointment” to this was that the other guard’s mother lived about 12 kilometers on the other side of the Rhine River, and he wanted to see her.
While we were sitting under this porch with our backs to the wall, we attracted the attention of a few children. They were curious as to who we were and what we were carrying in our parcels. I don’t suppose these kids had seen candy for a long time, and when they found out what we had, they disappeared and returned shortly with apples they had apparently picked out of their cellar, and traded us apples for candy until the guards made them leave.
A short time later we heard someone ask. “Would you like some split pea soup?” We all looked up, and he asked again. We said “yes” and he asked the guards. He was a German cook with his kitchen wagon across the street. His men had been fed and he had some soup left over. We were permitted to go, two at a time with one guard, and we all had hot split pea soup. It was delicious!
A short time after we had returned to our places under the porch a German SS Trooper rode up on a very fine horse, and started shouting to the other German military around. He was very agitated, and we could tell that our presence was the topic of his conversation. We learned the next morning that he wanted the four of us executed, but he was outranked, and over-ruled, by the town commander, an older Lieutenant Colonel. He will enter the story again later.
After the guards had made their decision as to what they were going to do, we proceeded toward the center of town, and turned to the right on a narrower street. We knew then we were going to stay the night in town. We proceeded down this street to the very last house on the left side. This house, like many, had a wall around it with a gate in the front.
As you can imagine, conditions had begun to change dramatically in our favor. This house belonged to an older German couple, and was occupied by them and two German soldiers who were billeted there. This made a total of eleven people spending the night there. The mood soon became almost party-like. The older couple made hot chocolate for everyone, and passed out cigars. They even cranked up an old phonograph and played a Nelson Eddy and Janette McDonald recording of “Indian Love Call.” No one stood guard over us that night. If we had to go outside to relieve ourselves, we went alone.
The American armored column had halted some distance from town, but they never shut the engines off, and would rev them up now and then, to add to the din and roar of the many tanks. At first light, the armored column started through the town of Wher. We could plainly hear them roaring through on the main road, in the center of town. They didn’t come through in a solid column, but in small groups of three of four at a time.
The two guards gave us their pistols. The other German soldiers left their rifles inside, and we all went out into the courtyard in front of the house. We marched them out, with two of us on each side, into the street and towards the center of town. From each house, on both sides of the street, there streamed something white from the windows. Also from almost every house, German soldiers billeted there would come out with their hands up and fall into the column we had.
Needless to say, by the time we got close to the center of town, we had quite a column of German soldiers marching down the street. We were approaching the main road when an observer in one of the tanks spotted this bunch of German soldiers coming down the road. The tank rocked to an immediate stop, and the turret of the 90mm cannon moved around till it was pointed straight at us.
“Hold your fire!” we shouted, “There are Americans here!”
With an astonished look on his face, the tank commander asked,
“What the f___ outfit are you guys with?”
“Fourth Infantry Division.”
“How the f___ did you get up here?”
“We walked,” was the only answer we could give. We then told him we had been prisoners of the Germans until this time and this group had surrendered to us. We asked him if they had any American weapons they could spare, as all we had were the pistols that had been surrendered to us by our guards. They didn’t have any to spare, but shortly a jeep with an Armored Division First Lieutenant drove up and we repeated our story to him. Then he called back on his radio for a jeep to come up and pick us up and lead this bunch of prisoners back.
While we waited for transportation, we lined up all the Germans on one side of the street, against a building. Surrendering soldiers still were coming down all the streets leading into the center of town. Among them was the old Lt. Colonel who, we had learned had saved our butts the night before.
Our guards had given us their packets containing our papers, and at this time we dug out the ones belonging to the girl with us, and gave them to her and turned her loose. We never knew what became of her. She seemed to be the self sufficient type. I wonder to this day, if she and her child are still living.
A jeep to take us back finally arrived. We felt pretty good about the old German Colonel, so we decided to let him ride on the front fender of the jeep, as we led this column back. It became apparent very shortly that this was not going to work, as he started shaking like a leaf, probably from cold and anxiety. We stopped and put him in the front seat of the jeep. One of us rode the rest of the way back on the fender.
We had more or less put our two former guards “in charge” of the column walking behind us, and they did a pretty good job of keeping them in line and moving. After leaving the town, the column picked up more surrendering soldiers and political prisoners, coming out of the fields. When we arrived at the staging area we had more than 250 prisoners following us.
The staging area was nothing more than a large open field. The few MPs there asked us to help them sort out this large group into their nationalities. The majority were German, of course. The political prisoners were hard to tell, as most of them were wearing the remnants of a ragged uniform of some kind. We would ask them if they were “Russki?”, “Poleske?”, Ukrainian?”, etc, and sort them this way.
After a couple of hours or so helping the MPs they finally took us back to the Armored Dividion Headquarters. We had told the story of our capture and repatriation at every HQ we went through. At the Division HQ we met war correspondents from the Associated Press, to whom we told the complete story of our release. These stories made the local papers in the home towns of the four of us in mid-April. Neither my wife, nor my parents, knew anything of my being a POW until the story came out in our local paper, all of our mail home was censored, and I had said nothing about it, hoping to spare them the anxiety.
We were taken from the Armored Division Headquarters, to the 4th Infantry Division Headquarters, and on down through the chain of command, to our own unit. While at the 4th Inf Div HQ, we were given a good hot shower, de-loused, and new clothes. This is where the field jackets I was wearing came into focus again. While emptying the pockets, I found a bullet hole in the large pleat behind the left shoulder, a nice neat hole between both layers of the pleat. I borrowed a pocket knife and cut this portion of the jacket out. I still have it, along with the pistol one of the guards handed to me, among my mementos.
We arrived at Division HQ just in time to have our names taken off of the “Missing in Action” list before it went through. All of our buddies in Company F were very glad to see us again. One person in particular, Harold “Hap” Himmelman, of Reading, Pennsylvania, had gone back up on Queen Hill, after it was finally taken, to look for my body, as he had heard that eight of our Company members had been executed. We became fast friends, and remain so to this day.
Here ends this part of my story. I’ll add the following observation. I wouldn’t relive my military experiences for a million dollars, nor would I take a million dollars for having lived them!
Edwin D. Williams, Champaign, Ill 1992
By Edwin D. Williams, copyright 1992
As told to James Visel 1992
I don’t know why I’ve waited so many years to tell this story, or even why I’m writing it now. I guess the main reason is that that the memories are over forty-five years old, but still stand out in my mind very vividly. It’s something I want to tell.
Facts and quotes;
“The front line soldier that I knew lived for months like an animal, and was a veteran in the cruel fierce world of death. Everything was abnormal and unstable in his life. He was filthy dirty, ate if and when, slept on the ground or in a foxhole. His clothes were greasy and he lived in the constant presence of dirt, dust, or mud, moving constantly, deprived of all things. The front line soldier has to harden his inside as well as his outside or he would crack under the strain.” --Ernie Pyle
“In Italy, Holland, and Germany, rain and cold produced conditions of appalling severity. Be it in the Italian mountains, a German forest, or a ruptured canal system in Holland, mere day to day existence became a terrible ordeal.” --John Ellis in “The Sharp End”
“The rifleman fights without promise of either reward or relief. Behind every river there’s another hill, and behind every hill lies another river. After weeks on the front line only a wound can offer him the comfort of safety, shelter and a bed. Those who are left to fight, fight on, evading death, but knowing that each day of evasion they have exhausted one more chance for survival. Sooner or later, unless victory comes, this chase must end on the litter or in the grave.” --Gen. Omar Bradley
Fact: The infantry, which comprised only 6% of the U.S. Army, accounted for more than 80% of the ground forces killed in battle in Europe. The actual count of American casualties was 90,636 killed in action, 296,636 wounded in action, and 95,000 Americans taken prisoner in the European Theater of Operations.
Fact: Total casualties of WWI, WWII, Korea, and Viet Nam are 1, 387, 928. Those still listed in 1992 as Missing in Action or Prisoners of War are WWII-- 78,751, Korea--8,177, Vietnam--2300
I’ll start my story by telling you the events of the day before my capture. I believe this was February 27th, 1945, though I’m not sure; most of the time we didn’t even know what day of the week it was.
I remember the day was dreary, with a cold, light rain falling. We had been in contact with the Germans for many days, driving them back into their homeland. They would stop and put up heavy resistance when they could. This day we were moving up.
The going was tough. The terrain was extremely hilly, rocky, and wooded. I was carrying not only a full field pack, as a mortar section squad leader, but this day I was also carrying the 60mm mortar, all 60 lbs of it. In basic training we would break it down into two components, the barrel and the base-plate. In combat it was a different story. What the hell good would only half of it be if the man carrying the other half was hit?
All the other members of the squad carried 12 rounds of 60mm shells in a heavy canvas pouch, slung over their shoulder. There were six rounds in front, and six rounds in back, and we would trade off on occasion with whoever was carrying the “tube”. My own personal weapon was a Colt .45.
Late in the afternoon we reached what everyone supposed was our objective, and we were told to dig in. Digging a foxhole was normal procedure every time we stopped. We dug back into a hillside, just big enough to get into, in a sitting position. The digging was difficult in that rocky terrain. I covered the top of the hole with my shelter-half, throwing dirt around the outer edge to hold it in place.
Finished, I crawled in to rest. I was beat, and hungry, and pulled a “K-ration” out of my pack. The beverage powder in this one was lemonade, and as I was cold and wet, I figured to drink it hot. That was accomplished by heating a canteen cup of water over a small fire made by burning the waxed box of the ration. About the time the water was hot enough, someone walked past the hole shouting, “OK men, load up! We’re moving out!”
I’m sure you can imagine what words passed my lips, and what thoughts went through my head at that time, but in the military you learn very soon to take orders without question. In disgust I threw out the hot water, put out the fire, and crawled out. I retrieved the shelter-half, picked up my load once more and fell into line.
We moved out, with conditions as miserable as before. Shortly another factor was added; darkness. It’s hard to keep up in single file I daylight, but in darkness it’s virtually impossible, especially in rough terrain. We walked and struggled ahead for what seemed like three hours. The order came to move ahead quietly came down the line. We moved on up for about half a mile more. By up I mean up a hill. The terrain finally flattened out a bit, and once again we were told to dig in.
Sgt. Kelly, our platoon Sergeant showed me where I was to set up the mortar, gave me a compass azmuth, and range, to where the Germans were. They were on the next hill, in the woods.
I don’t think there was a single foxhole dug that night. We were just too tired to move, let alone dig a hole. I managed to scrape out a place to lie down, about six inches deep, threw my shelter-half in the bottom of it, laid down under my two blankets, and immediately went to sleep. I don’t think many, if any stood guard that night. At that point I didn’t much care. I don’t think I could have found the mortar in the dark anyway.
Awake at daybreak, while eating cold K-rations, we were told that an artillery barrage was going to start on the wooded hill next to us, and when the barrage stopped we were going to attack. Somehow our company jeep found us and brought up cigarettes, free cigarettes, not just a few; in fact three cases. Everyone had all the smokes they wanted and then some. Many cartons were left there on the ground.
The artillery barrage started on time and lasted about 45 minutes. None of us thought many of the Germans could survive such a pounding. Our 105’s were sure putting it to them. I’m sure our company commander thought they were softened up enough when we attacked, but we found out differently.
In normal situations, when the rifle platoons attacked, the mortar squads stayed back in case they were needed for supporting fire, not right in back of the rifle platoon, where effectiveness would be lost. But for some reason we were ordered to follow right behind the rifle platoon.
We took off at a run, down the hill, across a small stream in the valley, and up the ill-fated “Queen Hill.” This day I was carrying a pouch of mortar shells. About the time we caught up with the others, almost at the top, the Germans opened fire, pinning everyone down. We crawled up behind some boulders, wondering what we were going to do. I was also wondering what good my Colt .45 was going to do in this situation. A few minutes later our company commander came running down the hill, jumped in behind the boulders and said, “Tie in with the first platoon,” and pointed to our left flank. He moved off to the right.
I must have been the only S.O.B. to hear the order, as I was the only one that moved out. Running to my left, I picked up an M1 rifle, apparently dropped by one of our men when he was hit, as there was quite a bit of blood around. He was nowhere in sight. Now I had a rifle but no ammunition for it, except for what was in the clip. I pulled back the bold, and saw three rounds.
Continuing in my direction, I finally saw two men I knew from the first platoon. They were the B.A.R. (Browning Automatic Rifle) team and were the last men on the right flank. I positioned myself on their right, about thirty yards away, which made me the last man on that line. No telling where the next on my right was, and at this point I could not see any of the enemy. From my position I could not hear any verbal orders, but soon one of the B.A.R. team motioned that we were to move forward.
I carefully arose and started moving. To the left I could not see any more of the platoon, as they were over the edge of the hill and down. We hadn’t moved more than one hundred yards when firing started down in their area, and since they were meeting resistance, we had to stop once more.
Visually scanning the terrain ahead, I thought I was seeing flickers of movement, but no visible targets when the movement stopped. I knew I wasn’t seeing things, so every time I saw movement I squeezed of a round with the M-1. The B.A.R. team was throwing some lead too. After firing I pulled back the bolt to see how many rounds I had left. There was only one.
Shortly I glanced to my left, and one of the men there was motioning as if to say “Come on!” I took a good look around before moving, thinking they had seen something I hadn’t. Seeing nothing, I gathered my gear and got ready to move. Looking left again, they had gone, where and what direction I had no idea.
This is the point in time where an error in judgment probably led to my capture. I assumed they had withdrawn to the rear, to where we had come up the hill, but no, they had withdrawn to the left, the way off this loaf-shaped hill. This I learned later.
I jumped up, throwing the pouch of mortar shells over my shoulder as I ran. I hadn’t taken more than a few strides, when the Germans started shooting at me. Bullets were digging up balls of leaves and dirt at my feet, and kicking bark off the trees around me. I ran in a zig-zag pattern, to make myself a more difficult target.
The firing finally eased off. At about the same time I saw and heard PFC Edward K. Zimmerman of the third platoon. He was their radio-man, and at this moment he was holding the walkie-talkie by the antenna and beating it against a tree as hard as he could. I figured what was going through his mind; he didn’t want the Germans to get it. Rifle fire began again and we took off running again, until it eased off.
We stopped behind a large tree to catch our breath for a moment and try to collect our thoughts. Then without a word we both took off at the same time, still running zig-zag patterns. The rifle fire reduced to an occasional pop, and finally stopped completely. We ran on for about another five hundred yards before spotting an empty German foxhole. I was plenty big and just too inviting to both of us to pass up. We were at that moment facing the fact we were separated from the rest of our Company, and didn’t know what the hell was going on.
The foxhole was partially covered with logs and dirt and was, as far as foxholes go, a thing of beauty. We were almost certain the Jerries hadn’t seen us jump into the hole, as the firing at us had stopped a long way back. We both agreed that our best chance was to stay put for now. We still thought that our company had gone the same general direction we had, and we fully expected that they would move on the hill again, and we could fall in with them when they did.
Staying down very low in the hole, we only spoke in whispers, realizing that we could be taken prisoner, and Zimmerman was getting rid of all his German souvenirs by stuffing them between the logs and dirt at the top of the hole. I didn’t have anything to hide, but I loosened the strap on my wristwatch, and pushed up my arm as far as I could. It had been a gift from my Mother, given before I left to go overseas.
Everything was very quiet for perhaps fifteen minutes, and then in the distance we began to hear conversation, so faint we couldn’t tell if it was English or German, but shortly we found out. The whole was quickly surrounded by Germans, who ordered us out in no uncertain terms. These guys were German paratroopers.
Plenty scared; we crawled out and raised our hands. First they took our weapons, and then started searching our pockets. In the left breast-pocket of my fatigue jacket I was carrying perhaps fifteen or so letters from my wife. After writing me a letter, she would put on fresh lipstick and kiss the last page, above her signature, and these letters I cherished. The Germans soon had them strewn all over the ground. They missed the watch on this search, but took all the cigarettes and rations I had in my possession.
While the search was going on, I glanced around, and then realized why we were unable to see any definite targets earlier. Their uniforms were totally camouflaged, even to their helmets. They weren’t wearing regular German Wehrmact helmets, the ones with the brim dropped down above the ears. These were made like round pots.
These people were rough, and rough-looking. At one point I saw one of them eye-balling my snow pac boots, and I started to wonder how I was going to get my feet into the hob-nailed boots he was wearing, if he insisted on a trade.
I cannot say we were mistreated, but there was plenty of shoving and shouting as they started taking up back up the hill. I took one last look at all the lipstick imprinted letters on the ground and silently said “Goodby” to my wife and daughter. At that point I honestly thought I was never to see them again.
As strange as it was to us, they let us keep our steel helmet. When we took German prisoners, we always made them throw their helmets away, so they could not be used as a weapon. Zimmerman and I said nothing to each other during this time. We were sure that they would look in disfavor on any conversation between us. Besides, what was to say?
When we got to the top of the hill we could see how the Germans had survived the attack our artillery had laid in on them. There were many log-covered foxholes in the area. There had been casualties, however, and there was a severely wounded German soldier lying on the ground. From the bandage he had on, and the amount of blood, it was evident he had had a good portion of his left lower jaw blown away. The fact he was there probably saved us from being executed, as they indicated they wanted us to carry this man down the back side of this hill. We learned later that when this hill was finally taken, they found the bodies of eight of our men, who had been lined up and shot!
The only way we had to carry this man was between us, on two shelter halves, buttoned together. The German shelter-half differed from ours, as theirs were made in sort of a triangle shape, where ours were rectangular. They buttoned two of them together and somehow got it under this man.
Before we could pick him up again our artillery started shelling the hill again; now we were on the receiving end of our own artillery! Our 105’s had a different sound than the German shells when they exploded. These had a much sharper “crack” to them. By instinct, Zimmerman and I both hit the dirt when we heard the shells coming, but strange as it was, the Germans just sort of hunkered over, near a tree if possible. After the first barrage, our captors let us know in no uncertain terms we were to get moving with the wounded man.
Zimmerman and I twisted the corners of our makeshift carrier to give us something to hold on to. He was a big man, probably close to 180 lbs. It felt like a ton. I’ll never know how we made it down to the base of this hill, as they only let us set him down twice to rest, and then only momentarily. When we picked him up the third time, the fabric on my side began to tear, and we almost dropped him. I had to reach under him and grab hold of the un-torn edge, and hold on like that the rest of the way down.
There was a road running along this side of the hill, and across the road was a medical aid station. It consisted of a large bunker dug back into a hill and reinforced with logs and dirt. This is where they took the wounded man. They couldn’t do much for him except change the bandage. Their medical supplies were practically non-existent. This we learned after it was indicated to us that inside this bunker was where we were to stay. We sat on a bench along the wall, straight back from the door opening.
The wounded man was in a bunk directly across from us. His breathing was short, and had a rattling sound, which got continuously worse. It was clear that he was choking to death on his own blood. His breathing got shorter and shorter, and finally stopped altogether. The German medic finally came to him and seemed surprised to find that he was dead. I spoke in my best “German” and told him that he had been dead for about ten minutes. He and another medic then started going through his pockets, to see what they could find.
We spent the rest of the day in this bunker. There was not much conversation, as we were both wrapped up in our own thoughts, wondering what our fate was. We also knew that most Germans could understand and speak some English. One of these medics said to us, “For you the war is over, ya?” At that point, we had to agree.
Darkness had sent in when they finally took us outside. There were many German soldiers around. There were also three more members of our company, who had been captured. They were Sgt. Frank Ferranti, PFC Lawrence E. McCollam, and Pvt Lai K. Wong, an Chinese-American shot through the upper left arm, and who was in a lot of pain. All the German medics had done for him was wrapping his wound and put his arm in a sling. There were no pain-killing drugs. There was now some slight comfort for the fact that others had been taken prisoner too, and so far our lives had been spared.
It was clear we were getting ready to move out, deeper into German territory. A second search was made at this time, and the man who searched me was smart enough to feel farther up my arm, where he found my watch. I spoke out and made it known to him that the watch was from my “Mutter”, but to no avail.
We moved out with a fair-sized group of German troops, in what hat to be an easterly direction. Thinking back now, we walked between three and four miles back into a fair sized town. As we entered town American heavy artillery, our 155’s started shelling the town from far behind our lines. Fortunately none of them hit too close. They fell about one hundred yards to our right, but now we knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of our heavy stuff. We could hear them coming from a long way, and the explosions were terrific. We all hurried ahead to vacate the immediate area.
Farther down the road we made a turn, and the two Germans who were our guards, shoved us into an unoccupied house and into the cellar for the night. Luckily we found a large vegetable bin with a few small, grubby, sandy potatoes in it. We hadn’t eaten since early that morning and we were all hungry enough that we just brushed them off with our fingers and ate them skin and all.
It was clear to me that Wong was not going to be able to lay down and sleep with his arm hurting like it was, so he and I sat with our backs to the wall in that potato-bin. He was a much smaller person than I, so it was fairly comfortable with my arm around him, holding him to immobilize the arm, and to try to keep him from shaking. We also shared body heat in this position. Somehow we all fell asleep.
Shortly after daybreak we were rousted out of the cellar by the two German soldiers who were to be our guards for that day. We were marched to the next town, not too far away, and stopped in front of what appeared to be a school house. We hadn’t seen any civilians to this point.
This is where our interrogation took place. We were sent inside, one at a time, before the interrogations officer. I think I was the third to go in; where before me sat an impeccably dressed German officer. I wasn’t familiar enough with the German uniform insignia to tell what rank he was, I guessed at least a Major.
One of the things that had been stressed to all GI’s in basic training was, if captured, the only information you were required to give was your name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. I was certainly surprised when this officer said, “Please have a seat,” in perfect English, without any trace of a German accent. Were it not for his uniform, I could have been talking to another American. He was filling out a form as we talked. When Asked I gave him the required information. Then he asked, “what outfit are you with?”
I replied, “Sir, I am not required to give you that information.”
“That’s OK,” he said, “I already know.” And out of a drawer he pulled a Forth Infantry Division shoulder patch, laying it on the desk. The drawer held many American unit patches and insignia in it. These Germans knew who they were fighting.
I finally screwed up enough courage to ask hem where he learned to speak such perfect English. “I lived in New Jersey for eight years and went to college there. Some day, I want to go back.” He replied.
After questioning us all, he came outside and informed us, almost apologetically it seemed, that we would have to walk back into Germany, as they had no transportation for us, with the exception of Pvt. Wong, who would go back by ambulance, to a hospital. It was some comfort to know that his arm was finally going to be taken care of. We wished him well, and told him good-bye. He managed a slight smile as he told us goodbye. We never saw him again. I am sure he made it back all right, as the war ended within three months, and his wound didn’t seem life threatening.
At this point we learned there was a girl to be taken back into Germany with us. She was from Alsace Loraine, the disputed territory between Germany and France. She had become pregnant by a German soldier and was being taken back to Germany to have her child on German soil. It was then that we four prisoners were given our food parcels. They each consisted of one small loaf of black bread, a small amount of what they called margarine, but was nothing more than lard, and perhaps a half-pound of ersatz, a hard imitation candy, individually wrapped. We were all hungry as hell. All we had eaten in the last thirty hours was the few small grubby potatoes the night before. It didn’t take us long to dig into the bread, and it wasn’t too bad. I suppose anything would have tasted good at that point.
We started our trek east into Germany under the control of two guards who carried only pistols. They were a little better dressed than the front-line troops w had been in contact with. Being rear-echelon troops didn’t make them any more friendly or gentle, as these two were just the opposite. We were roughly shoved into a column of two’s and in the direction we were to go. The two guards and the girl fell in behind us and the pace they made us set was grueling. A time or two we whispered to one another to slow down a bit, which we did, but the guards caught on real fast and soon had us up to the original pace.
There was a certain likeness, in the regimen for the next three days’ march into Germany, and yet several things stood out. I had assumed, I suppose, that we would have the same guards all the way back to wherever we were headed, and was rather surprised of the fact that we were assigned a new pair each morning. Thinking about it however, it wasn’t so unusual as each pair would have to report back to their own units.
We were strictly at the mercy of the two guards each day, and we never knew what kind of people these would be, or what their feelings were toward American POWs. I cannot say we were harshly mistreated, but we were never treated with any kindness either, until the last day.
We hadn’t seen any German civilians up to this point, as we didn’t’ go through too many villages. The maps that the guards were using must have been highly detailed, as we would not stay on too many main roads, but rather used smaller roads, and on occasion it was nothing more than a wide trail through wooded areas. It was on one of these trails that we all had a real scare.
We were still moving in a column of two’s, with the two guards and the girl in the rear. Zimmerman and I were the front two. Suddenly two pistol shots were fired. I thought we were being executed and turned around fully expecting to see Ferranti and McCollam both shot dead behind me, but there they stood, both just as surprised and scared as I was. Apparently firing off into the woods was one of the guard’s methods of cleaning his weapon. The girl seemed quite amused at our fright.
Getting back to the civilians I mentioned, our first encounter with them in the first town of any size, when they saw is being marched by, they ran out into the road with very angry looks on their faces. “Engeles? Engeles?” they asked the guards.
“Nein! Nein!” the guards shot back, “Americanish.”
Upon learning that we were Americans, much of the hostility would leave their faces. It was very apparent they hated the English worse than they did us Americans.
At the end of this day’s march, and after our evening meal of black bread and lard, we were placed in a barn for the night. We were to sleep up in the hay mow, so up the ladder we all went, with the guards right behind us. Naturally they stayed between us and the ladder to prevent us from escaping. We were dog tired and it didn’t take us long to go to sleep. The guards didn’t even wait for us to get to sleep however, before they were taking advantage of the girl with them. They both had their turn, and I must add that she enjoyed the encounters as much as they did, from all the squealing and giggling that went on. The same thing occurred each night.
The following morning we had a rather pleasant experience, if anything could be pleasant under those conditions. Let me back track a bit and explain that there were quite a few political prisoners roaming loose, and not under guard, in this part of Germany. As we were eating our morning meal outside the barn, we were approached by two Serbian political prisoners who asked the guards if they could give us four Americans a haircut and shave. The guards were agreeable as their replacements hadn’t arrived yet. I had at least a week’s growth of whiskers on my face, and I have no idea when I last had a haircut. I can never forget that wonderful experience of a barber haircut and shave, by those two kind Serbs.
The two Serbians also had in their possession Red Cross parcels which contained small, four-pack samples of Old Gold cigarettes. Ferranti and I were the only ones that smoked, and they gave each of us a pack. They must have been ages old, and dry as a chip. They crackled when I rolled one between my fingers. I lit one up and damn near fell on my face because it made me so dizzy. Still I made those four cigarettes last as long as I could.
Let me get away from the story for a bit and try to tell you of the very miserable conditions I had lived under since arriving in Europe. I arrived just in time to get into the Battle of the Bulge. We were in contact with the enemy from then on with the exception of a few days before my capture. We slept in foxholes most every night, and these holes in the ground would get very muddy if it rained or snowed. We were cold most of the time, and the only chance we had to wash up a bit was if we were lucky enough to be billeted in an abandoned house or farm. Then we could heat up some water in our steel helmets and at least shave or wash to the waist. A bath or shower was out of the question.
The clothing I was wearing during this time was two pair of wool long john, and two wool long-sleeve undershirts. These articles I would alternate as they got progressively dirtier (they were almost slick inside when I finally received a change). I was also wearing wool O.D. pants and shirt, wool sweater, fatigue pants, wool lined field jacket, wool gloves, wool stocking cap under my helmet liner, and wool socks under my snow pac boots. It had been stressed upon us very strongly to keep our feet as dry as possible to prevent trench-foot, so I was in the habit of exchanging my wool socks every day and putting the damp pair inside my shirt around the waist. Body heat usually dried them. I went from December 23, 1944 til March 5, 1945 without a bath or shower. My field jacket will be mentioned again.
Back to the story. Up to this point I haven’t mentioned anything about my physical condition. In the army, everything was “GI” or Government Issue. Naturally, when one was sick, it was called the “GI Shits”, or whatever. As I recall now, both Zimmerman and I were bothered by diarrhea. This case of the GIs led to what is probably the most embarrassing time of my life.
When we would indicate to the guards, at least to the ones we had until this day, that we had to go, they would send us out into a field beside the road, where we could have a little privacy and they could still keep an eye on us. This day when I had to go, the guard pointed to the edge of the road. When I indicated that I wanted to go out into the field, he was very adamant that I was to “go” beside the road, about four feet away. Never in my wildest imagination would I ever take my pants down and take a crap in front of a girl. But at this moment nature was urgent, and I had no choice. The girl seemed amused by my predicament.
The other thing I particularly remember about this day occurred at the end of the day’s march. We had arrived at what looked like a small abandoned school house, where we were to spend the night. There were other prisoners (later we learned they were Russians) coming out the door, each carrying arm loads of loose straw that they had apparently been sleeping on. We asked the guards, in our best German why we couldn’t sleep on the straw, since we were going to take over these quarters. They indicated by scratching and bug picking motions that the straw was full of lice.
When we got inside we could tell that this building had been used to house prisoners for a long time, as it had the wooden slat bunks that all ex-pows seem to be familiar with. It was filthy dirty, and the Russians hadn’t removed every trace of the straw. I don’t think any of us were surprised to wake up scratching lice the next morning. I don’t recall, at this time if the guards and the girl stayed in this building or not. Sleep came quickly.
The next morning our luck took a turn for the better. As occurred every day, we were assigned new guards. One of these guards was also from Alsace Lorraine, and spoke French as well as German. Sgt. Ferranti spoke broken French, and this very much improved communication between us and our captors. It proved to be very significant later in the day.
The forced march this day still stands out in my memory very strongly. The day was overcast, and rather cold. We were approaching a range of large wooded hills and the road started the ascent. By early afternoon we began to by-pass a column of German soldiers, apparently retreating towards the Rhine. All of their equipment was on horse-drawn wagons, loaded heavily. Their artillery pieces were also being horse drawn.
The progress of this column was very slow, as we were making much better time walking than they were. The horses were struggling very hard, and when one of them would falter and fall, and was unable to get up again, the walking Germans would salvage what they could carry off of the wagons, shoot the horse, and push it and the wagon over the edge of the hill. I saw this occur four or five times, and felt sorry for the horses, but there was no such feeling towards the Germans; seeming them in this situation. We finally completely passed this column, and continued our uphill march. The going wasn’t easy.
We finally emerged upon high ground with low rolling hills, and the road continued straight in an easterly direction. We arrived at a “T” intersection and turned north (left). After proceeding up this road about two miles, we passed a road leading east (right), but we moved north. About a mile and a half later we met another German military column proceeding south, led by an officer mounted on horseback. He made it known to our guards that there were American tanks in the distance behind his column. We turned back and proceeded down the road we had passed going east.
This road led us into the town of Wehr. As we entered the town what was most evident was a state of total confusion. There was a man with an axe chopping down a tall pole that had a swastika at its top. The townspeople and the German military personnel billeted in the town were going in all directions, and the column we met on the road was trying to make its way through town.
During this time our two guards made our presence as inconspicuous as they could. They placed us under a porch type overhang facing the street, while they contemplated what they were to do. The four of us knew what they were discussing between them. As we had approached the town we all began to hear the distant roar of the approaching armor. It was the sweetest sound I had heard in some time. We all knew it was American.
It was evident however, by the distance they were away, and the time of day, that they wouldn’t make the town by nightfall. This gave Sgt Ferranti the opportunity to “go to work” on the French speaking guard, and try to convince him to stop here in this town that night, and after the armored column had passed through town, to surrender to u, and we would guarantee them safe passage back to the American lines. The only “fly in the ointment” to this was that the other guard’s mother lived about 12 kilometers on the other side of the Rhine River, and he wanted to see her.
While we were sitting under this porch with our backs to the wall, we attracted the attention of a few children. They were curious as to who we were and what we were carrying in our parcels. I don’t suppose these kids had seen candy for a long time, and when they found out what we had, they disappeared and returned shortly with apples they had apparently picked out of their cellar, and traded us apples for candy until the guards made them leave.
A short time later we heard someone ask. “Would you like some split pea soup?” We all looked up, and he asked again. We said “yes” and he asked the guards. He was a German cook with his kitchen wagon across the street. His men had been fed and he had some soup left over. We were permitted to go, two at a time with one guard, and we all had hot split pea soup. It was delicious!
A short time after we had returned to our places under the porch a German SS Trooper rode up on a very fine horse, and started shouting to the other German military around. He was very agitated, and we could tell that our presence was the topic of his conversation. We learned the next morning that he wanted the four of us executed, but he was outranked, and over-ruled, by the town commander, an older Lieutenant Colonel. He will enter the story again later.
After the guards had made their decision as to what they were going to do, we proceeded toward the center of town, and turned to the right on a narrower street. We knew then we were going to stay the night in town. We proceeded down this street to the very last house on the left side. This house, like many, had a wall around it with a gate in the front.
As you can imagine, conditions had begun to change dramatically in our favor. This house belonged to an older German couple, and was occupied by them and two German soldiers who were billeted there. This made a total of eleven people spending the night there. The mood soon became almost party-like. The older couple made hot chocolate for everyone, and passed out cigars. They even cranked up an old phonograph and played a Nelson Eddy and Janette McDonald recording of “Indian Love Call.” No one stood guard over us that night. If we had to go outside to relieve ourselves, we went alone.
The American armored column had halted some distance from town, but they never shut the engines off, and would rev them up now and then, to add to the din and roar of the many tanks. At first light, the armored column started through the town of Wher. We could plainly hear them roaring through on the main road, in the center of town. They didn’t come through in a solid column, but in small groups of three of four at a time.
The two guards gave us their pistols. The other German soldiers left their rifles inside, and we all went out into the courtyard in front of the house. We marched them out, with two of us on each side, into the street and towards the center of town. From each house, on both sides of the street, there streamed something white from the windows. Also from almost every house, German soldiers billeted there would come out with their hands up and fall into the column we had.
Needless to say, by the time we got close to the center of town, we had quite a column of German soldiers marching down the street. We were approaching the main road when an observer in one of the tanks spotted this bunch of German soldiers coming down the road. The tank rocked to an immediate stop, and the turret of the 90mm cannon moved around till it was pointed straight at us.
“Hold your fire!” we shouted, “There are Americans here!”
With an astonished look on his face, the tank commander asked,
“What the f___ outfit are you guys with?”
“Fourth Infantry Division.”
“How the f___ did you get up here?”
“We walked,” was the only answer we could give. We then told him we had been prisoners of the Germans until this time and this group had surrendered to us. We asked him if they had any American weapons they could spare, as all we had were the pistols that had been surrendered to us by our guards. They didn’t have any to spare, but shortly a jeep with an Armored Division First Lieutenant drove up and we repeated our story to him. Then he called back on his radio for a jeep to come up and pick us up and lead this bunch of prisoners back.
While we waited for transportation, we lined up all the Germans on one side of the street, against a building. Surrendering soldiers still were coming down all the streets leading into the center of town. Among them was the old Lt. Colonel who, we had learned had saved our butts the night before.
Our guards had given us their packets containing our papers, and at this time we dug out the ones belonging to the girl with us, and gave them to her and turned her loose. We never knew what became of her. She seemed to be the self sufficient type. I wonder to this day, if she and her child are still living.
A jeep to take us back finally arrived. We felt pretty good about the old German Colonel, so we decided to let him ride on the front fender of the jeep, as we led this column back. It became apparent very shortly that this was not going to work, as he started shaking like a leaf, probably from cold and anxiety. We stopped and put him in the front seat of the jeep. One of us rode the rest of the way back on the fender.
We had more or less put our two former guards “in charge” of the column walking behind us, and they did a pretty good job of keeping them in line and moving. After leaving the town, the column picked up more surrendering soldiers and political prisoners, coming out of the fields. When we arrived at the staging area we had more than 250 prisoners following us.
The staging area was nothing more than a large open field. The few MPs there asked us to help them sort out this large group into their nationalities. The majority were German, of course. The political prisoners were hard to tell, as most of them were wearing the remnants of a ragged uniform of some kind. We would ask them if they were “Russki?”, “Poleske?”, Ukrainian?”, etc, and sort them this way.
After a couple of hours or so helping the MPs they finally took us back to the Armored Dividion Headquarters. We had told the story of our capture and repatriation at every HQ we went through. At the Division HQ we met war correspondents from the Associated Press, to whom we told the complete story of our release. These stories made the local papers in the home towns of the four of us in mid-April. Neither my wife, nor my parents, knew anything of my being a POW until the story came out in our local paper, all of our mail home was censored, and I had said nothing about it, hoping to spare them the anxiety.
We were taken from the Armored Division Headquarters, to the 4th Infantry Division Headquarters, and on down through the chain of command, to our own unit. While at the 4th Inf Div HQ, we were given a good hot shower, de-loused, and new clothes. This is where the field jackets I was wearing came into focus again. While emptying the pockets, I found a bullet hole in the large pleat behind the left shoulder, a nice neat hole between both layers of the pleat. I borrowed a pocket knife and cut this portion of the jacket out. I still have it, along with the pistol one of the guards handed to me, among my mementos.
We arrived at Division HQ just in time to have our names taken off of the “Missing in Action” list before it went through. All of our buddies in Company F were very glad to see us again. One person in particular, Harold “Hap” Himmelman, of Reading, Pennsylvania, had gone back up on Queen Hill, after it was finally taken, to look for my body, as he had heard that eight of our Company members had been executed. We became fast friends, and remain so to this day.
Here ends this part of my story. I’ll add the following observation. I wouldn’t relive my military experiences for a million dollars, nor would I take a million dollars for having lived them!
Edwin D. Williams, Champaign, Ill 1992