After eating and cleaning up, I joined a group of fellows who were having a friendly conversation with Burt. I still remember listening to their account of the battle of wits and wills that took place in England between their buddy, Abner Goggin, and Lt. Soelburg, the company executive officer, who was determined that Abner would get his curly locks cut — or else. It was related with pride that after three trips to the barber shop, Ole Abner still looked like he hadn’t had a haircut in months. In B company exaggeration was a popular form of humor. E company in this respect, wasn’t any different. Burt didn’t say much, except that he missed Abner. It was evident that he enjoyed seeing his men in so lighthearted a mood. Capping off the story one of the fellows remarked, “Abner and Soelburg got hit the same day. Wouldn’t it be something if they wound up in adjoining hospital beds.”

I looked at Burt and he shook his head as if to say that it didn’t happen that way. One of the fellows chimed in, “If they’re together, Ole Abner better not go to sleep, or he’ll wake up with a head as bald and smooth as a baby’s arse.”

As soon as the conversation started to drag, I left and effortlessly drifted off to sleep. My nightmares were interrupted by the all too familiar, “Let’s go. Guard duty.” The night seemed colder and bleaker than ever. We were too cold to talk. Frank and I paced back and forth in a futile effort to keep warm. At this time we would have welcomed a returning patrol to get some news of the front and break the monotony. No one stirred and our two hour shift seemed like ten. What a cold miserable night. We were, however, thankful that we weren’t at the front, but realized that we’d soon be there, and there would be no such thing as a two hour shift.

When we returned to out billet, we were happy to learn that Burt somehow had consolidated our posts and we now would have six hours off between shifts. Again I wished that Burt had been our B company platoon leader. If he had, things sure would have been different. You could talk to him. He would have listened to my side of the story and understood.

At 7 A.M. Frank and I relieved the guards at the road block. It was still cold and dark, but afresh coat of powdery snow made the town seem brighter. When we were relieved, the early morning sun turned the snow to glistening crystal. The outlying hills sparkled and only the sound of artillery shells exploding in the distance brought us back to reality.

Frank returned to our billet, and I decided to write a few more letters. As soon as the door opened, Rene took me by the hand and rushed me through the hallway into the kitchen. Excitement shone in his eyes as he pointed to two candy bars on the table and jabbered away. His mother pointed to the pot and in the direction of the soldiers across the street. By her motions I understood that the candy bars were given in appreciation of hot chocolate and cake.

I gave her a couple more D bars, and she offered to cook eggs for breakfast. It took awhile for me to get her to understand that a cup of chocolate and a piece of stollen was all I wanted. When I started writing, there was the familiar tapping on my knee, the wistful smile accompanied by, “Fini?”, continued until I was finished.

Rene was upon my lap almost before my pen was pocketed. He rubbed his hand upon my clean shaven face and bewilderedly spoke to his mother. She answered, and with an imaginary razor went through the motions of shaving. Rene nodded, ran his fingers over my face and indicated that he understood. He then started examining tufts of my hair and talking to his mother. “Rouge” was the only word that I understood and got the impression that he had seen few, if any, red heads.

Suddenly the tot bounded from my lap and darted down the hallway into a bedroom. I thought he was going to show me one of his toys. Instead he returned with his parent’s wedding picture. The look in his mother’s eyes made me fear for the worst. I looked to her for an explanation. She closed her eyes indicating sleep. Then she pantomimed rifle butts and fists pounding upon their door. “Bosch!”, she cried reenacting the horror of how they dragged her husband away. Throughout the vivid reenactment, Rene seemed puzzled. He was, thankfully, too young to understand.

I must admit that as a soldier, I wasn’t too concerned about civilian suffering. The egocentric world of the teenager is not too far removed from that of a child’s. Also, most of the destroyed houses, crumpled buildings, and dead cattle strewn about the fields like rubble after a football game belonged to Germans. We didn’t feel sorry for the Germans. They started the damn war, wantonly destroyed or looted the conquered countries and enslaved the vanquished. Most of us felt that they got their just reward.

I realized what Rene’s mother must be going through. As we used to say in those days, she was a spunky lady, the salt of the earth. More than ever I regretted not being able to speak French, for they needed to be reassured that their family would soon be reunited, because the German offensive had been stopped and victory was within sight. I tried to convey these thoughts by sign language. In spite of my efforts, she still looked forlorn. Rene started talking to her. I tried to think of something to say or do but felt so helpless that I had to leave. Before leaving I told them I’d be back after my next shift.

As I was telling the guards that hot chocolate was on the way, the old gent joined us. I asked him about Rene’s father and he explained that in early August the Bosch rounded up all able bodied men and carted them away. One of the villagers escaped and they learned that their captives were forced to work improving the fortifications of the Siegfried Line. Then it hit me. That is why there were no young men in church or around town.
The old gentleman seemed to wither before our eyes as he told the story. It appeared most likely that his loved ones were a part of this group. He didn’t volunteer the information, and we lacked the courage to ask.

VOLUNTEER? HELL, NO!

After dinner a group of us were sitting around the kitchen table sipping wine and shooting the breeze. I still felt like a stranger, hardly said a word, but enjoyed listening to the accounts of Abner’s prodigious appetite. I couldn’t help picturing him as weighing at least 250 pounds, extremely folksy, somewhat of a modern day character, right out of the annals of Dog Patch.

Our banter was interrupted by a loud knock. A company runner handed Burt a message. “What’s up?” Burt stared at the message and took a while to reply, “Battalion wants me to pick a sergeant and nine men to scout enemy lines and relieve an outpost that is guarding some stupid bridge.” Burt threw the message on the table and carried his glass to the sink. Under his breath he whispered, “I can’t ask anyone to lead this damn patrol. I’ll have to go.”

I was coming from the sink and overheard him. His expression convinced me that the responsibility of command was getting him down. It would not have surprised me if he were wishing he was a private again. I picked up the message. Bridge, enemy territory, and advancing tanks caught my eye.

Burt looked so melancholy that he must have been thinking about previous patrols, for his entire demeanor seemed to say, “Why must I be the one to send them?” At twenty six Burt was as much of a big brother to his men as a platoon leader. Now I got a first-hand glimpse of how concerned and protective he was. I wondered how he was able to remain so calm under fire or be so cheerful and lighthearted enough to orchestrate the camaraderie that protected us from the flood waters of despair. I soon came to realize that Burt was a hero who died a thousand deaths not out of concern for his own life, but for the lives of his men.

As he walked to the table, I looked into his troubled eyes. “Burt, I’ll go with you.” I couldn’t believe it. Those around the table also volunteered. Now he had to select those who would stay. Considering how tired we were and the danger involved, over nine men volunteering on the spot was a remarkable tribute. Burt didn’t say anything, but his smile expressed his sense of relief and gratitude. “Get some sleep. We’ll be leaving at 3 A.M.” He stopped at the door, “I’m going to HQs to look at the maps and get a final briefing.”

Before drifting off to sleep, I thought of Corporal Bryant asking a bunch of rookies in basic training, “Who wants to volunteer for the Air Corps?” The volunteers were promptly designated “dive bombers” and detailed to pick up all the cigarette butts in the area. This was the second time since basic that I volunteered. The first time was the night that the Krauts ambushed B company in the Saar. Both times I acted on the spur of the moment. I prayed that ignoring the Cardinal Rule, “Thou Shall Not Volunteer” would not prove disastrous.

Those of us going on the patrol slept in the room nearest the kitchen. All too soon the familiar shake and “Let’s go” signaled the start of our mission. Reluctantly, we gathered our gear and left our warm secure billet. Burt led the way and nine sleepy, silent men followed.

We left town by a narrow twisting road, which in this rural section of the Ardennes was probably a main thoroughfare. It was January 3rd. We thought the road led through the Hais de Tillet Woods and eventually to the town of that name. St. Hubert was mentioned several times and we assumed that these towns were the key to liberating Bastogne.

Soon we were in the midst of a ominously dark forest. It was too damned quiet, and we feared that silence spelled danger. At intervals, we cautiously scouted both sides of the road, found nothing and continued toward the bridge. About a mile into the woods we were greeted by the group we came to relieve. Burt spoke to the sergeant in command who quietly explained how the bridge was mined, showed us the detonator, and said that he was ordered to let the first tank pass over and then blow the bridge as the second was crossing. Burt told him we had the same orders. Burt followed the sergeant as he explained that the field telephone was connected to an artillery battery and the observer was expected around 7 A.M. The sergeant vanished in a flash, followed by his men.

“They didn’t waste a second,” remarked one of our men. “Do you blame them?” Burt replied, “This ain’t exactly a church picnic.”

The terrain to the left of the bridge was rugged and appeared much too steep for tanks, so only four men were assigned there. “Be on the lookout for a sneak attack.” The sergeant said that he heard movement coming from that direction. The remaining six men were spread out in pairs on the right hand side of the bridge. Burt took up the position by the detonator which was set up about a hundred feet from the bridge, within easy reach of the field phone, and picked me to be with him. I figured it was because I was the new kid on the block, and he wanted to keep an eye on me.

As I recall, it was a bitter cold morning. There was no moon, but the snow made it light enough to discern the outline of the field that sloped below us and the gorge that the stream followed to the left of the bridge. In the distance slightly to our right, we could barely discern the silhouette of what appeared to be a house. We were positioned at the edge of the woods, two men about every hundred yards. The incline leading to the meadow was steep enough to hamper an infantry charge, but tanks could advance over the frozen ground at will. The stream was only about fifteen feet wide, but it appeared that its banks were steep enough to prevent tanks from crossing. Now we realized why the bridge was so damned important.

Burt left to check the deployment on our side of the Bridge. When he returned, he told me that all was quiet and left to check the opposite side. I was again left alone with my thoughts. Lately there were times when my mind raced and times when it operated in slow motion. Now my thoughts gushed like an overflowing stream. “If this bridge is so damned important, why only ten men? Why no tank destroyers or at least antitank guns?” The next question made me even angrier, “Why send us without even a Bazooka?” Burt had explained that the Krauts usually sent a clinker to test the waters. That’s why we were to blow up the second one across. This made sense, but my spirits were still dampened by the questions that defied logic and couldn’t be answered.

Burt returned and whispered “I wish we didn’t have to spread the men so far apart, but we’ve got to make sure that we’re not attacked from the rear.” After listening he continued, “The snow will enable us to detect movement across the field, and the ice crust cracks underfoot, so no one should be able to sneak up through the woods.” I agreed and he continued, “I’d sure like to know where the front is. The sergeant didn’t know or have any idea what outfits were on our flanks, or even if there were any. The front was in such a state of flux, this came as no great surprise.

Time dragged. The ground was too cold to lie upon; we had to keep moving in place. The silence became more ominous and time seemed to stand still. Every hour or so, I was asked to check the men on our left. When I’d return, Burt would check the rest. In the intervals we talked. He told me that he planned to become a teacher after the war. He was tired of killing and felt that teaching would make up for it. I was also sick and tired of killing, hunting men and in turn being hunted. Burt’s desire to become a teacher was understandable, but I could not see myself as one. On the other hand, Burt would be a natural. If he cared for his students as much as he cared for us, they couldn’t help but like and respect him. I was sure that his mannerisms were bound to make him an excellent teacher. He was intelligent, asked, never ordered, and didn’t enforce one set of rules and live by another. His students were bound to admire him so much that they’d be motivated to learn to please him.

In the course of the conversation, he jokingly mentioned Lt. Nichols, my old B company nemesis, “When Nick saw you going into the woods lugging that large cushion, he thought you had gone off your rocker.” We both laughed as I explained that Nick never stood guard duty. “If he did, he’d know how important it was to be able to lie upon the ground.”

“I wish we had cushions tonight.” Replied Burt as we shifted from foot to foot in a vain attempt to warm our feet. “If the others are moving like us, it will be harder to see or hear Jerry.” I agreed but we had no choice but to continue moving from side to side hoping that the trees in front of us would mask our movements.

In the distance we heard the sounds of artillery shells punishing the earth. The explosions were too far away for us to determine their point of origin or destination. We hoped they were ours and that we’d soon be going on the offensive again, for the waiting game was getting on our nerves.

Shortly after seven, we were joined by the artillery observer. Burt talked to him at length. “He doesn’t know any more than we do. There are rumors that a regimental attack is scheduled for dawn.” Daylight was well over an hour away. There was nothing we could do but wait and listen to the distant thunder of shells.

When daylight finally arrived, visibility was still limited by the patchy ground fog and mist. We could make out the stream more clearly, for it was only about a hundred yards from us. It disappeared in a blanket of fog as it meandered through the meadow about half way between us and the shrouded farm house on our far right. In a clear patch it reappeared and we could see that it curved away from the house and almost made a beeline for the bridge. In the sketchy light we were sure that the stream and hill would slow an infantry attack, but had doubts about the stream, because the banks nearest the house looked to be only a couple of feet high. From the farm house the fields extended for another hundred yards before ending at the woods. The woods we were in gave us cover. Our height and the meadows below us gave us an excellent field of fire. We knew that if Jerry attacked without armor, it would take a considerable force to dislodge us.

The steam drifting slowly skyward from the stream and the ground fog caused by the temperature inversion between the blanket of snow and the colder air created a white eerie mist that gave the meadow the appearance of a ghostly English moor.

Now and again the fog danced and slowly wandered in step with the intermittent breeze giving us a glimpse of the farm house and the surrounding terrain. We saw that the road from the bridge crossed another road that led to the farm house and then into the woods beyond. With the exception of the field below, the area around us was heavily wooded. The greenest rookie could easily recognize the importance of the bridge and the ground we occupied. If Jerry was going to attack with armor in the vanguard, this would be the only route in sight that his tanks could utilize. This explained the presence of the artillery observer, but not the lack of Tank Destroyers, anti tank guns, or much less Bazookas.

Visibility improved slightly and we turned our attention to the house that was only partly shrouded in the morning mist. It appeared to be a typical stone structure with an attached barn and a few small outbuildings, none was large enough to conceal a tank. Since there were no haystacks in sight, behind the house was the only place Jerry could conceal a tank. This gave us a sense of security for there didn’t appear to be any place to hide one. If any approached, we’d hear them. Visibility was too poor for us to be certain how far the stone wall extended from the house. We were pretty sure that it enclosed the area around the barnyard.

Sometime before nine o’clock, the sun started playing peekaboo with the drifting clouds. Visibility was improving, but small objects were still hard to identify. “I got a hunch that Jerry spent a warm, pleasant night in the house enjoying schnapps while we froze our tails off.” Before I could reply, Burt continued, “I’m going to borrow the observers glasses. I want to have a good look at that place.” As he walked away, I noticed a BAR slung over his shoulder. By no means was this man a typical army officer.

Burt returned with the field glasses. We took turns surveying the farm house. Although the fog was thinning, our vision was still impaired. The house looked completely deserted and there were no signs of animals about the barnyard. When I gave the glasses back to Burt, he noted that he couldn’t see any broken windows or signs of artillery or small arms damage. “I wish it were clear enough to tell if there were any tank tracks or footprints.” He confirmed his suspicion of the house by adding, “As soon as we are reinforced, I’m going to have a look at that house.” He handed me the glasses and I scanned the countryside. “Burt” I whispered, there’s movement to our left. Looks like at least a squad of men are heading for the bridge.” Whoever they were, they were in no hurry, for they were no sooner out of the woods then they stopped and seemed to be looking at a map — probably trying to figure out their location or destination.

“Are they Germans?”, asked Burt as he removed the BAR from his shoulder.

“Could be. But I’m not sure. Its still too misty to be certain.” I handed him the glasses and he observed the motionless figures.

“They’re too far away. Damn the fog.” He handed me the glasses, “I’m going to alert the observer and our men.” Burt quickly spread the alarm and returned, “Well, what do you see?”

“They’re helmeted with long coats and slung rifles.”

“Now we know they’re soldiers. But are they American or German?” I could only shrug my shoulders in doubt.

Burt nudged me as they started moving, and I handed him the glasses. They traveled ’till they reached the cross road and stopped and held another conference. It looked as if they were trying to decide which road to take. If they went ahead, they would go to the farm house. If they turned right, they’d be heading towards us and the bridge.

They finished talking and followed the road leading to the house. Burt signaled our men to remain under cover and to hold their fire until he gave the order. As they approached the edge of the barnyard Burt remarked, “Damn it, I’m still not sure. What do you think?”

“They’ve got to be GIs”, I replied. “They are lost, and yet they walk down the road like they own it. They were in no hurry, even stopped to argue a few times.” As proof positive, I stated, “Germans are professional soldiers, and would have used the woods not an open road.” Then I emphatically added, “I’ll bet anything they’re Americans.” Little did I realize that I almost bet my life.

Although I didn’t hear it, a shot rang out, hit me and flung me about like a rag doll. I was knocked unconscious and rolled or slid about ten feet down the embankment, until stopped by the last tree on the hillside. I don’t know how long I was unconscious and never got around to asking Burt. I must have drifted in and out of consciousness. As my mind started to clear, I was convinced that I was dying. The events of my life didn’t rush before my eyes. All I can remember is that everything seemed so bright, a sparkling white. A blissful feeling of peace, contentment and resignation came over me. I was completely fearless as I thought, “If the Good Lord wants me, I’m ready.” In another moment of semi-consciousness, I also remember being thankful that neither wife nor children would be left to mourn. I must have drifted off again and remember hearing noises in the distance. In time they grew louder. It took a while before these noises registered as gun fire. I was still in a euphoric state, I vaguely remember smiling as I became aware that in addition to the rifle fire there were other strange but soothing noises. There were whizzing sounds, soft phufts, light thumps and occasional whines and whir like echoes. They seemed so pleasant and I felt that I was peacefully drifting above the earth. Gradually my head started to clear and I realized that the blissful sounds were caused either by bullets flying overhead, breaking the ice crust, lodging in soft snow, or ricocheting off the tree that prevented me from sliding down the hill.

A prolonged blast from Burt’s BAR almost brought me back to reality. I was still confused, but at least I was trying to figure out what I should do. As my thoughts became more lucid, the sound of incoming bullets convinced me that I was in the line of fire. “Cover your head,” my mind shrieked, “your red head against the snow stands out like a bull’s eye.” I opened my eyes and as soon as the ground stopped waving, I spotted my helmet about four feet from the crest of the hill. I made a lounge for it, but never made it because my arms and legs seemed to be made of rubber and wouldn’t obey my commands. I slipped backwards. Again the tree prevented me from sliding down the hill. The snow on my face and hands felt good. It had a warming effect, and I tried to figure this out. I must have started to drift off again for, “You’re alive!”, seemed to have come from miles away, as did the sound of incoming bullets.

The next thing I remember was the screeching sound of a BAR firing non stop. I looked up and wondered what Burt was doing there? He was picking me up. Why was he doing such a silly thing? I must have drifted off again, for I came to on top of the hill. Burt was reloading his rifle. He noticed eyes my were open, “By the way you went down, and the hole in your helmet, I’d have sworn you were a dead man.” He pointed to my helmet. It had landed upright with the back facing us. There was a jagged hole about an inch and a half in diameter that had been peeled outward like an orange. The bullet must have shattered as it penetrated the helmet, thus causing such a large hole as it exited through the rear.

I must have drifted off again, for the next thing I remember was Burt talking to the artillery observer and asking him to order a barrage.

“Cover your head” once more blasted through my mind, and sent me scrambling for my helmet. This time my arms and legs obeyed. I covered my head and spied my gloves beside my lucky tree. I slid down to them, and Jerry opened up as I clambered to safety.

“What the hell are you up to?” shouted Burt as he rushed to my side. “Can’t I leave you alone for a second?” I realized my stupidity, but it struck me as funny, and I burst out laughing. Burt didn’t want to, but he also laughed.

Incoming bullets soon ended our laughter. Burt and the other fellows returned their fire. I crawled over the precipice and retrieved my rifle. “Now What?” pierced my ears. “I told you to stay put.” I got the impression that he believed that I didn’t know where I was or what was going on.

The first time, I had to get my helmet and gloves. This time I went for my rifle. I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why he was so upset.

“Are you with it?”, by his tone, I was convinced that he was certain that I wasn’t. This rankled me.

“I’m fine.” I stubbornly replied trying to ignore my throbbing head. My neck felt warm. I ran my fingers across it and realized that blood was trickling down from the wound.

Burt saw my fingers and spoke harshly, “Damn it. Don’t you dare move until the stretcher gets here. That’s an order. Understand?” At the time I saw no reason for his getting all riled up and acting like a typical shave tail.

The fellows on our right started firing and someone yelled, “They’re trying to get to the woods.” Burt’s BAR immediately swung into action. For awhile I lay motionless placidly listening to the pleasant sounds around me. Then something strange inside me turned my apathy into anger.

“Those SOBS”, I yelled, “I’ll make them pay.” I grabbed my rifle and fired at a German running along the side of the wall. He flew through the air. I wasn’t sure that I hit him, or that he was just diving for cover. I waited like a cat, waiting for some bastard to move. The war again had become a personal vendetta.

We knew that it would be suicidal to charge across the meadow. “Let’s flank ’em.” Someone yelled and Burt replied, “Stay put. The damned bridge is more important than a few Krauts.” Every now and again, a German would dart to another position and draw heavy fire. It was a long stretch in the open from the stone wall to the woods. Wisely, Jerry remained content to hug the wall.

During a lull Burt again asked the artillery observer to call for support. He explained that it would just be a matter of time before their reinforcements arrived. He wanted our artillery zeroed in on the cross road and the house before Jerry had a chance to launch an attack. He also wanted Battalion to be notified that we were running low on ammo and need reinforcements.

Each side remained under cover and waited. Almost as suddenly as it started, the skirmish developed into a Mexican standoff, a waiting game, with both sides aware that the one who received reinforcements and armor or artillery support could easily dislodge the other.

When Burt returned, he asked me how I was doing. “Great. I’m just hoping a Kraut head pops up.”

“You look white as a ghost.” He crawled over, looked into my eyes, “I’m going to send you back with one of the men.” With that he waved his hand in front of my eyes.

I realized he was right, but hated to admit it.

“I can walk back by myself. I don’t need any help and you need every man.” I was too proud to admit it, but my head felt like it was exploding. I was getting dizzier and nauseous. Reason prevailed and it was understandable that they needed ammunition more than me. Someone on our right called for Burt. I left feeling as guilty as a deserter and vowed to return with ammo and reinforcements.

On my trek to HQs, my only companion was silence. Cold, clear, an ominous silence, a silence that penetrated my brain and portended an imminent attack. Every so often, I’d stop, rest and listen, only to be greeted by another wave of foreboding silence. I continued walking and something in the back of my mind was gnawing away at me. Then it hit me. I hadn’t even thanked Burt for risking his life to save mine.

Postscript: This small skirmish was the start of the bloody battle of the Hais de Tillet Woods that ended with the capture of the town on Jan 12th. Delmer “Abner” Goggin returned to the outfit the day I left, Jan. 3rd. Forty four years later, I met him, for the first time since the end of the war. He described this battle as being as hard fought as any in the Saar. According to him, Burt was the only officer left and was the acting company commander. When they captured their sector of the town, there were less than a dozen men in the company. The first sergeant told Abner that Lt. Hafkin had been recommended for the Silver Star, and the rest of them for Bronze Stars. Lady Luck again smiled upon me. I wasn’t with E company in the Saar, when they suffered heavy losses, and I left before the real fighting in the Ardennes began.

Incidentally, Burt never received the Silver Star and his men never received their Bronze Stars. It looms as a distinct possibility that Burt’s unpopularity with Battalion brass may have been the determining factor.

LADY LUCK VISITED ME AGAIN

As I neared the town, the silence was broken by the pleasant sounds of trucks and jeeps moving about. Not far from our billet, the first sergeant was talking to one of our men. I told him how badly Burt’s patrol needed ammunition and reinforcements. “I’ll get word to Battalion.” He returned in a flash, “What happened to you?” He just noticed the dried blood upon my face.
“I got grazed by a bullet, but I’m OK.” He looked closer.

“Better let the medics check you over.” He offered to send someone with me. I refused and he pointed to the aid station at the far end of the block. When I got to the aid station, the building was empty. The soldiers at the intersection road block told me that the aid station had been moved to a safer location. They pointed to the left fork of the road and told me to follow it.

Like most roads in this section of the Ardennes, it was narrow, twisting and soon became engulfed in a dense forest. After a few minutes, I started to feel queasy and stopped to rest. Soon afterward a jeep approached, I hailed the driver, but he stepped on the gas and sped away. I should have used my rifle to stop him. I recognized the driver, although I didn’t know his name. He was a First Battalion sergeant. I remembered seeing him talking to Major Chapman the morning after B company had been attacked in the woods. I was as angry as a hornet, and probably didn’t realize how lucky I was to be able to jump aside in time.

I had to rest and probably drifted off again, for it felt like some time had elapsed before I resumed my trek. I vaguely remember something that sounded like artillery rumbling in the distance, hoped we were shelling the farm house. As my head cleared uncertainty crept in — “was the shelling a reality, or wishful thinking?”

About three quarters of a mile down the road, at a hairpin turn, I spied the jeep that almost ran me down. It was racked up in a small ditch. There were tank tracks that seemed to indicate that both vehicles rounded the bend at the same time. The jeep driver must have swerved left in an unsuccessful effort to avoid the tank. The passenger side was completely crushed, the windshield was broken and the driver’s side was a bloody mess. The tracks indicated that the tank had turned around and headed in the direction of the aid station, hopefully with the unfortunate jeep driver on board. If I were a cat, I’d be running out of lives.

The sight of the blood turned my stomach, but I didn’t stop to rest until the bloody scene was well behind. I said a prayer and thanked Lady Luck because I believed she was sent by the One above.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DOCTOR MAKES

As I approached the aid station, an ambulance sped by. I hoped it was taking the injured jeep driver to a hospital. I imagined that I’d be treated by the doctor who told me there was nothing wrong with my feet, at most a slight touch of arthritis. I was Infuriated because he intimated that it was all in my head. I hoped against hope that this doctor would ask me how I felt, for my prepared reply was, “I’m hurt, but there’s as you’d say, nothing to worry about, because its all in my head.” This brought my feet to mind. I imagined he might be right, for they felt so good that I’d forgotten all about them. This made me decide to dispense with wise cracks.

Once inside, a medic took me to an examination room, and gave me a tetanus shot in the upper thigh. The pain was so intense that I almost fainted. The medic smiled, one of those, “it hurts me more than it does you smiles.”

“What the hell are trying to do’?” I shouted.

He shrugged, “Orders, anyone who gets hit, gets a shot.”

“Why the hell didn’t you inject me in the arm?” He smiled as he left the room. That damn shot hurt move than the bullet, and I was angry enough to clobber him. In a while I managed to cool down by convincing myself that he was only doing his job, even if he enjoyed jabbing more than he should have. Even after I cooled down, I couldn’t understand why my temper almost raged out of control.

A warm friendly smile on Dr. Salpeter’s face helped me to forget my anger. He greeted me with a casual, “Sorry that the shot hurt so much, but we can’t take any chances. Believe me an infection would be a lot more painful than the shot.” He gently examined the wound, “How did this happen?” I told him about the patrol, how Burt rescued me, and that I forgot to thank him. He never took his eyes off mine, “I’m sure that under the circumstances Lt. Hafkin will understand.” While he was saying this, he kept shining a small light in one eye then the other. Next came a series of non-sensible questions, such as, today’s date, my birthday, and simple multiplication problems.

It finally dawned on me that he was checking to see if I was with it. I got a kick out of it and couldn’t resist a sardonic, “When you’re finished playing school. I’d like to play monopoly.”

He tried to appear serious and in a most professional tone replied, “OK. I’m satisfied. School is over. Now its time for fun and games.”With a broad smile he wielded a pair of scissors, “Remember bald is beautiful.” He then amputated the hair around the wound. “Now comes the fun part.” He wielded the razor like a sword, “This should hurt you more than me. If it doesn’t, let me know and I’ll shave the rest of your head.” He gently shaved the cut area and applied an antiseptic.

He looked as if he were anticipating a snide reply. I tried not to let him down. “If you were a dentist, you’d have your patients howling and ‘PAINLESS’, would be all that you’d need on your shingle.” I think this convinced him that I was in full command of my senses. My sanity probably remained in doubt.

As he reached for a roll of gauze, he spied my helmet and picked it up, “I don’t believe it, by all rights the bullet should have gone through your head.” He then pointed to the entry hole, the size of a bullet and continued, “The angle of entry should have resulted in skull penetration. I can’t for the life of me understand how it came out without going through your skull.” He turned the helmet over looked inside and nodded his head in the manner of a detective who had just discovered a vital clue. “Look at the socks and toilet paper stuffed under the straps of the helmet liner.” He showed it to me and I realized it was not my helmet, for I was wearing my extra pair of socks and had run out of paper. I mentioned this and added that it was dark when we left our billet. If he had said that I had more luck than brains, I couldn’t have disagreed.

“It is quite possible that the socks and tissue deflected the bullet that is why you only have a razor like incision along the side of your head. If you stop using your head, in no time, you’ll be as good as new.” I thanked him grabbed my helmet and started for the door. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To rejoin my outfit.” I replied,” “They’re low on ammo, and I want to make sure it’s on the way.”

He asked why I was so anxious to return. I told him that the way things were going, Battalion may have ignored the first sergeant’s message.

“Don’t worry he will not let them forget.” He pointed to a chair in the waiting room, “I’m sending you back. You must be x-rayed, and there is a slight chance you may go into shock. In any event, I’m recommending ten days of observation and rest.” In spite of his jovial manner, I knew he meant business and knew what was best.

While waiting for the ambulance, Dr. Salpeter sat next to me. There weren’t any patients so he had time to spare. We had a long talk. Since we both lived on Long Island, he remarked that we’re almost neighbors. He took a real interest in me. The last time I saw an army doctor, he made me feel like a number, and the more numbers like me that were between him and the front, the safer he would be. Dr. Salpeter even made it a point to ask me to see him when I got back. He had a way about him that made me feel more like a friend than a patient.

When the ambulance arrived Dr. Salpeter and the corpsmen wished me good luck. As the ambulance was leaving one of the medics called to the driver to stop and opened the door. “The Doc figured you might want Your helmet as a souvenir.” He handed me the helmet and a wool cap, “Doc thinks you should keep your head warm.”

The ambulance contained two sets of double deck stretchers. I got in the top bunk so that I could see out the windshield. As we passed the damaged jeep, it struck me that I had forgotten to ask about the driver. “See the jeep in the ditch. Did you take the driver to the hospital? It looks like he hit a tank and was really banged up.” The driver stopped and looked at the jeep. “I just got back from an Evac Hospital. He was probably taken to a Paris hospital. If he’s in real bad shape, he might have been taken to an airport to be flown to England.” From what I saw, the chances were that the unfortunate driver would be on his way to England, or the morgue.

“Where are we heading? I’d love to spend a couple of weeks in England.”

“You and me both. I’ve been to Paris, and I’ll take England anytime.” He must have realized that he didn’t answer my question, for he added, “You’re headed for an Evac Hospital. You’ll probably stay there until you’re ready to rejoin your outfit.”

I wanted to sleep but my mind kept going over the past events. My grandmother used to say, “Dick me bye, you have the Luck of the Irish.” Today had proven her to be right on target. It was, pure, or at least dumb luck, that I picked up the wrong helmet, was swaying to the right instead of the left when the bullet struck, and that the last tree upon the hillside twice prevented me from sliding to the bottom. Further thought convinced me that it was fortunate that Burt picked me to stay with him. What else but Lady Luck being on my side could explain my being nicked by the first shot fired and missed by the hundreds that followed. I felt sorry for the jeep driver, but it was sure lucky for me that he didn’t give me a lift. I prayed that luck wasn’t an expendable commodity, for if it was, mine was pretty damn well used up.
As we sped through the open country side, a farm house caught my eye, and my mind flashed back to the events of the morning. Burt was right; there were Germans in the farmhouse. The shot must have come from either the house or from behind the barnyard wall, for when the first shot hit me, the unidentified soldiers were still walking on the road — at least a hundred feet from the stone wall.

Lt. Burt Hafkin was killed in action defending his troops during the Korean War.


The author, Dick Werner, passed away in December 2001.

Previously published in
The Golden Acorn News


June and September 1997