War Stories

MY NIGHTMARE STARTED AT AGE EIGHTEEN AND LASTED SIXTY-ONE YEARS

When I received my draft notice during World War Two, my father Stephen J. Thomas, who had served as a Chief Radio Operator in World War One advised me to request the Navy instead of the Army. I remember him saying, "Son, you will almost always have a hot meal and a warm bed." At the induction center they agreed and stamped "U.S. Naval Forces" all over my induction papers, ushered fifty of us into a large auditorium where a Navy Chief with service stripes all the way up to his armpit told us how lucky we were to be in the Navy.

Suddenly, two large doors in the rear flew open and an Army First Sergeant ran down the aisle shouting, "Hold it Chief, I want these men." We had just experienced the shortest career in the Navy anyone had ever experienced. We were then taken to Camp Roberts in California for seventeen weeks of infantry training. At the camp we congregated in a warehouse where we were introduced to Yul Brynner's barber, issued uniforms and given shots. Following this we were taught to be soldiers. Upon completion of our training we were shipped to New York for embarkment to Europe.

One cold dark morning in New York harbor ten thousand of us boarded the Queen Mary, We were a full division of infantry replacements. I recall a very cold January 1945. Once on board I stood outside by the railing. As we passed the Statue of Liberty the cold wind blew away my tears. The vibration of the engine and the sound of the water splashing against the hull made me wonder if I would ever see her again. The Queen was fast, so we had no escort. For eleven days we zig-zagged to avoid subs. Almost all the troops were seasick. The bunks were stacked four high. We landed at Firth of Clyde in Scotland where we climbed down the sides on cargo nets onto flat steel decks of landing crafts that were bobbing up and down. We traveled by train across Scotland and England, arriving in Southampton. Six of us and all of our equipment were stacked in the train compartment when suddenly the door opened and an English Red Cross Lady stuck her head in and said in a thick English/Scottish brogue, "Laddies wud ya like sum coffee?" One fellow held out his cup, took a swig and said, "Ugh, you English call this coffee?" Her reply was, "Laddy, if ya con't drink it, ya con wash ur feet in it."

Transferred to a boat, we approached Le Havre, France, which was heavily damaged by bombing. Here we were loaded aboard boxcars left over from World War One called "forty and eights." They held forty men or eight horses and traveled across France. The train would slow down as we approached the intersections where the French people would be waiting. They would hand us long loaves of bread and long neck bottles of wine.

Walking alone and dragging my bags to a replacement camp at Metz, France I entered a long, dark tunnel with a dim light at the far end. It was very quiet. I could hear my boots hit the stone floor. A deep voice from behind me asked, "can I help you sir?." I turned around to see a dark skinned fellow about 6' 7" tall with a turban around his head. I was so shocked because he had made no sound as he approached me from the rear, that I just stood there. He took my bags and led me to the light at the end of the tunnel. I entered a huge dark courtyard, surrounded by tall stone buildings with fires burning under large kettles of water. I was handed a rifle wrapped in orange wax paper covered with a thick grease called cosmoline and instructed to boil it in water and clean it. Later about twelve of us were loaded aboard a truck and driven to the front.

After many hours of traveling, we began to hear explosions and see flashes of light in the distance. As we got closer, the sounds were much louder, the flashes seemed unreal, and we could now hear small arms fire. About a mile or so later the truck stopped and we were told to get out and wait for the "old men". The old men were fellows who had been on the line for a month. We followed the four of them in single file, arm on shoulder arm on shoulder. Even with all the flashes of light, we could not see a thing. Some guys fell into shell holes. Enduring a long walk in the freezing cold, we arrived at the Siegfried Line that was built by the Germans. It was a series of below ground fortifications, gun ports, concrete bunkers, mined and booby trapped areas, and "Dragons Teeth". They were large concrete pyramid shaped objects used to block entry of tanks, all of this was connected by trenches. The Germans had the artillery coordinates on each bunker so as soon as we took each one, the artillery would come in and hole us up inside for hours or days. When there was a lull in artillery fire, we would go down the trench to the next bunker.

As we entered the foul smelling dimly lit bunker, there were many small fires burning. The walls were covered with black soot, water running down the sides. GI's were lying all over, many were burning small handfuls of C-2 explosive, the fires gave off light, but gave everyone headaches. A weary looking 2nd Lieutenant stood up and amid the explosions and vibrations outside - welcomed us into General George S. Patton's 3rd Army, 90th Division and the Battle of the Bulge. The Lieutenant explained the plan. We were to work our way down the trenches to the next fort in line, supply cover fire for the explosive engineer, blow the heavy steel door(s) and roust out the soldiers. The Germans ate well, as evidenced by canned hams and beef from Denmark, black brot (bread) and schnapps. Since we had no rations, and were forced to live off of the land - we would rush in, grab the food, and hole up until the artillery would stop, then move to the next bunker.

"Dead Eye", was our explosive engineer, a short funny guy, with two canvas pouches criss-crossed across his chest. One carrying the plastic explosive C-2, and the other detonators. He wore a steel helmet with a bullet hole in the front, where he had caught a round. It looked as if he had been shot in the forehead, but since he also wore a plastic helmet liner below the steel helmet - the round went between the two layers and popped out the back of the steel helmet. He was unharmed but it knocked him out cold. From then on, he would not wear any other helmet. It was his lucky "rabbit's foot" helmet. He would run up to the steel door, plant the charge blow the door - he was very good at that - that's how he got his name, he was a very brave man. On occasions we could not get to the steel door, so we called a "TD" also called a tank destroyer) which was a tank with a big gun up front. The TD driver would pull up to the steel door and fire a few rounds. This would kill most of the soldiers inside but it would solve our problem. Near the end of the Siegfried Line, after the door was blown, I was the first one through the door, followed by my buddies. As I cleared the doorway into the bunker, about twelve feet away, there was this small nine or ten year old child kneeling on one knee, a large uniform dwarfing his small body, a huge helmet framing the very small face, and the eyes were looking right at me. He was pointing a submachine ("burp") gun at me. I shot him and ran out of the bunker.

After the Siegfried campaign we started to clear the villages and continued on our search for food. At one farmhouse we found lots of eggs, but no animals. We hard boiled a batch and looked around for anything else. I ate one dozen of the hard boiled eggs and half of a jar of gooseberries. I did not know what they were at the time. Delicious. It was late in the afternoon when we came upon the last farm to clear and everyone was "bushed" so we decided to take cover and "konk" out in the barn loft. As I started to lie down I looked out the barn opening and saw this outhouse down below about fifty yards away perched on the edge of a dry riverbed. That was a luxury I could not pass up. As I pulled my pants down and started to sit I heard the sound of a motor and the squeaking of tracks nearby. Looking through the cracks in the boards of the outhouse, I could see this tank coming towards me in the riverbed. When it was about to pass, it turned and the flasher on the end of the barrel came to within inches of knocking the outhouse over. It was a King Tiger tank. As it crested the edge of the bank, it began firing at the barn loft. I ran out, headed up the riverbed and joined some of the guys. I lost some real friends that afternoon.

The Ardennes forest was filled with Christmas fir trees. They looked like Christmas fir trees but they did not smell like Christmas fir trees. It was very quiet, no artillery, no birds or animals, and it was dark. Dawn was approaching. We were stretched out in a line perpendicular to the road next to me, waiting for armored support (tanks) to come so we could advance on the village that we were receiving a lot of fire from. Finally, we could faintly hear the motor and the squeaks of the tracks as a tank approached. We were expecting a Sherman tank but it turned out to be a Tiger. It passed without firing a shot. Before panic joined our group, a soldier on horseback ran after the tank. Some of the guys fired at the rider. As we advanced I looked to my right and saw the horse standing there with multiple bleeding bullet wounds on his rear flank. The soldier was on the ground. We cleared the village. There were no other tanks. We knew they were running out of petrol.

About five or six of us were requested to string a wire and phone out on the side of a mountain to act as a forward observation post to report any enemy action. It took four guys just to carry the stick and spool of wire. It was very quiet and cold. Suddenly rockets started to come in. We called these rockets screaming meemies because of the terrible sounds they make. I huddled on the ground clutching my helmet, trying to climb into it for protection. I awoke in an evacuation center on a stretcher on the floor. I was in a state of deep vertigo. It seemed as though the room was spinning. I was bleeding from both ears and I was very nauseated. I had a concussion due to a head injury. My condition was diagnosed as Acoustic Blast Trauma. After being hospitalized they placed me on limited assignment and to a holding center.

Early one morning a Lieutenant Dostilick (may be wrong name) came into the tent. He was the 90th Division headquarters officer. His assignment was to reconnoiter the surrounding areas that had already been cleared and report to division headquarters. He asked me to ride "shotgun" on the back of his Harley Motorcycle, handed me a "greasegun" (45 cal. submachine gun) and away we went. After riding several hours through the winding mountain passes we saw a small village. As we passed, people started to put white flags out of the top windows of their houses. At the end of the street was a factory building with a tall smokestack. It was surrounded by chain link fence and barbed wire. We parked the cycle and approached the gate - about 7 or 8 men in long white coats started milling around. The Lieutenant asked who was in charge, one man pointed across the street. There stood a tall Victorian house with a bay window sticking out on the top floor. A kind elderly lady took us upstairs to the top floor in front, and closed the door. The room was empty. We stood there for several minutes in silence. Suddenly the curtain covering the bay window pulled back exposing a tall crew cut civilian, he spoke good English, he was the Mine Director. Lieutenant asked for a tour.

It was a large complex. As we toured the lab, we passed a microwave sized kiln. The Director opened the small door showing us some tobacco leaves he had just roasted - he laughed and said, "for my smoking". He said this facility was part of a large salt mine complex and that he would take us down the elevator for an inspection tomorrow. It was not possible today because there was no steam in the boilers to operate the elevators. We agreed, told him we would be back the next day, and rode off. A few miles away, we stopped and discussed the situation. We both came to the conclusion that we had wandered onto an area not yet taken by the 90th division hence the white flags out the windows, men in long white coats milling around (we were told later, had automatic weapons under their coats) and the cooperation of the mine Director. They must have thought we were the advanced scouts of a large American force - otherwise they would have shot us. On that basis the Lieutenant decided to give a few hours to get up steam, and go back.

Later as we neared the mine, we could see volumes of steam arising from the tall smokestack. When the large freight elevator reached the bottom of the shaft, all of the lights were on, we could see cavernous sized rooms, long tunnels, high ceilings and small gauge tracks. There was crates, bags and all kinds of items stacked about. The Director led the Lieutenant into a room on the left while I explored one on the right. The room was stacked floor to ceiling with rows and rows of many different types of books. I selected two parchment covered books, one in german "Hoffgerichts Ordnung year 1578", and one in Latin "Borcholten J Amsterdamse Secretary, Amsterdam year 1726" -1 still have both volumes. We returned to base and reported the find. The mine was in the Merkers area where the gold hoard was found.

The next day the Lieutenant and I went back to the mine followed by other members of the 90th Division Headquarters staff. I was instructed to take the cycle and ride out a few miles to the crossroad. I was to wait there and direct some trucks to the mine. Some time passed before I saw many semi-trucks winding down the mountain pass. I watched the displaced persons, i.e. former slave laborers ("DP's") bring up contents of the mine and load the trucks. I was ordered back to the holding center.

It was revealed later that in the Battle of the Bulge, Adolph Hitler decided to make a last major effort to win the war, so he had called in all available forces, including old men and young boys. When I shot that ten year old child in that bunker it was my belief that I had killed an untrained, innocent child, unwillingly conscripted into service. For sixty-one years the guilt I have felt from that terrible act has haunted me, until last year. In 2005, the 90th Infantry Division had their reunion in Corpus Christi, Texas. I was privileged to attend. I met many outstanding veterans, two of whom made a change in my life.

Verne Schmidt introduced me to a former Hitler Youth, Bruno Ehlick (author of "Born on the wrong side of the fence") who at the age of nine years was one of Hitler's boy soldiers. Bruno stressed the fact that the child I saw was a well trained, highly motivated killer who without hesitation would have killed me and all of my buddies behind me.

General George S. Patton has my deepest respect. As General of the Army, he was an outstanding tactician. He once said "All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle" and that "Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge." That may be true, but I was an eighteen year old kid fresh out of high school. To me combat was fear, severe cold, hunger, diarrhea, confusion and of course, survival, in that order.