As dusk approached on 9 January 1945 on an exposed hill near Tillet, while Tiger tanks rumbled toward us with machine guns and 88s firing, T/Sgt. James Baker, Pfc. Truman Franklin, Pfc. Gene Richards, Pvt. Sam Boccadutri, and I, Pfc. Robert Renfrow of G Company, jumped out of a shell hole and surrendered to German troops in white camouflage clothing who suddenly appeared over the brow of the hill scarcely fifty yards away. At a CP in a farmhouse a mile or two inside the German lines we were soon joined by Lt. Berry from the engineers and two of his men.

We spent most of the next month in transit and in temporary holding stations in Clervaux, Prum, and Gerolstein before reaching an official transient POW camp, Stammlager XII A, in Limburg, Germany. Lt. Berry was separated from us by the time we reached Prum, and I lost track of his two enlisted men and Sam Boccadutri after we left Prum.

About 20 March, the Germans loaded a large number of us on “40 & 8” boxcars, and we left Limburg for a destination unknown to us. That afternoon, our train was the target of bombing and strafing runs by our planes, which succeeded in knocking out the engine. That night, the Germans painted “POW” on the tops of the boxcars in large white letters and under cover of darkness we got under way again with a replacement engine. The “POW” lettering did not stop our planes from attacking the train the next day, but they apparently aimed only at the engine. Fortunately, their aim was good because none of the POWs were hit even though the replacement engine was knocked out on the second run that day.

Several hours later, the Germans managed to get yet another engine. At this point they apparently said, “to hell with it,” because they pulled the train on to a siding in a small village, with the front end of the train in a cut and the car containing the guards in a tunnel while the POW cars were left out in the open behind. There we sat for about a week. After what seemed like a long time, the guards came and unlocked the door so that a detail from our car could remove and empty the latrine bucket. While they were gone, we heard considerable hullabaloo from the next car and wondered what was going on. When the detail came back, a German officer appeared in the door. He told us the Americans were very near and would be here soon. Those who could walk were to go 20 kilometers to a POW camp where they would be safe from the fighting. Those who could not walk, which included me, were to stay.

Needless to say, we could hardly believe our ears. Could it really be true that our ordeal was coming to an end? This was 27 March. We ate breakfast and then shortly before noon the guards threw open the doors and ordered everybody out except for approximately 100 of us who remained behind. As dusk fell, we sought shelter in the railroad tunnel. I lay down on the trap rock bed which covered the floor of the tunnel. I had no blanket and no padding to protect my bony body from the rocky bed. I doubled up as best I could and pulled my coat around and shivered in the cold. It was a long night.

When dawn came, 28 March, I somehow managed to stand up and make my way to the outside of the tunnel. Someone had managed to get a fire going. We clustered near it and ate some contents of Red Cross packages. Every once in awhile I could hear the sound of distant artillery telling me that the lines were getting closer. Finally, late in the afternoon, I said to a nearby companion, “Well, it doesn’t look like the Americans are going to get here today either. It’ll be dark soon.” He agreed.

A few minutes later I saw a crouching GI holding an M1 suddenly appear on the edge of the road on top of the railroad tunnel, look around cautiously, and then come scrambling down toward us. Then we saw another, and another, followed by still more! We let our a cheer! And then, overcome with emotion, my eyes overflowed with tears of joy and relief. To my surprise, I suddenly found myself sobbing like a baby. The ordeal was over. The GIs came running down to us. We greeted them as saviors and identified ourselves as POWs. They then identified themselves as being from the 99th Division.

There was no fighting in the town where we were liberated. As dusk approached, they lined us up and processed us past a clerk who took our name, rank, serial number, and organization, etc. This took close to an hour. They fed us greasy GI stew and did it taste good. That night we were billeted in a house and in the middle of the night, I awoke horrendously nauseated and barely got outside before I began blasting from both ends. Somehow I got through the night. The next day we were taken to a field hospital and loaded on an ambulance and taken to an air evacuation hospital somewhere near Frankfurt. The next morning, I was taken out to the landing strip, loaded on a bucket seat C-47 and flown to Paris where I was taken to the 62nd General Hospital.

When I went overseas, I was in top condition and weighed 165 pounds. When I weighed in at the 62nd General, I weighed 115 pounds. I was a patient from 30 March until 20 June recovering from atypical pneumonia, hepatitis, and an infected ulcer on my ankle. The malnutrition took longer to recover from. To this day, on every 28 March, I raise a glass in a toast of gratitude to the Checkerboard Division.