Just at that moment, an 88 shell hit the upstairs of the house, making one helluva noise and dust poured down the stairways. We heard several other explosions and then down the stairs in a run came a first sergeant from one of our rifle companies. He was a tall handsome young man who had been with his company since Africa. In spite of what General Patton may have said or thought, there are times when even the bravest soldier reaches a breaking point. The sergeant was hysterical. He shouted something about the Germans were counter-attacking with Tiger tanks and infantry. In spite of him being a head taller than the Colonel we saw a good commander in action. Gerard grabbed the front of the sergeant’s jacket. He shook him so hard that his helmet flew off. The sergeant seemed to come out of a daze. Then Gerard said, “Sergeant, tell me what did you see? Are they attacking with a company, battalion, regiment, or what? How many tanks did you see?” The sergeant replied that they had two tanks and about a company of infantry. The Colonel then announced to all in the room that this was our town and we were going to hold it. He told the sergeant to sit down and compose himself and reassured him that everything was going to be alright. Another 88 shell hit the upstairs.
      The lieutenant who was in the bunker with us the previous day said he was going to get some tank destroyers and asked me to go with him. As I wasn’t in condition to be of much help in the CP, I didn’t need much urging. Besides, the thought of a Tiger tank a few houses away was rather disconcerting.
      We crawled thru a back basement window and, keeping the houses between us and the attacking Germans, reached the crossroads about a block away. One of our tanks was parked at the crossroads. The commander’s head and shoulders were above the turret. He kept firing tracers down the street and every once in awhile the tank’s 75mm would fire. The Germans tank commander apparently was afraid to come out onto the street and have a shoot-out duel. It seems he was partly behind the first building at the edge of town.
      The house next to the tank and on the corner of the crossroads was being used as an aid station. Some of our fellows were badly wounded. The aidmen were doing their best. One GI was on a stretcher in the middle of the room with a large wound in his abdomen. I could see his intestines. He was in terrible pain.
      I moved to an attached shed in the direction of the German attack. The shed was open on two sides. The end facing the German tank was made of stone and mortar. Probably it wasn’t more than 8 inches thick. An 88 would have gone right thru it and destroyed the house as well. Yet surprisingly the wall gave one a feeling of security. The Sherman tank kept firing down the street. Two other American tanks were on a small hill on the other side of the house. Apparently they could see the Tiger so they decided to get off the hill. The Tiger took a shot at them. Both revved up their motors and spun around. They had to go down a sharp incline and thru a ditch to the road. One tank made it by hitting the ditch at an angle. The other hit the ditch with both tracks at the same time. He was stuck there. His stern was up in the air. The next 88 hit his exposed rear. The tank was instantly engulfed in flames. There were no survivors.
      I decided this was no place for a cripple like me. But before I could move, an 88 shell hit a pile of junk between the burning tank and our shed. The air was filled with flying debris and shell fragments. A I standing on my right emitted a gasp and fell over on his face. On my left, almost shoulder to shoulder, was a young lieutenant who was a forward observer for the artillery. He uttered a moan and started to slowly sink down. I reached under his shoulder blades with my good arm to steady him. I asked him if he was hit. His face was caulk white. He said something about his legs as I eased him down to the ground.
      I had barely gotten him on his back when a GI took his pistol saying he wouldn’t be needing it anymore!! Another passing GI took his field glasses and yet another his compass kit. None of them inquired as to his state of health. Talk about scavengers. There he was, barely on the ground, before he was stripped of all of his equipment. It looked like chunks of mortar or concrete were embedded in both of his front thighs. I asked him if he was hit anyplace else. He weakly said he didn’t think so. Then I noticed a hole in his jacket on the right side about heart level and another on the same level on the left side. With my heart in my throat I unzipped his jacket. Wounds in the thoracic area are usually very messy. The two lower ends of his GI scarf fell away from the upper part as if cut by scissors. Apparently a piece of flying steel had entered one side, cutting the scarf, and had exited the other side, missing his ribs by a fraction of an inch. He was just as lucky as I had been earlier. The steel fragment may have been the one that killed the GI on the other side of us.
      With the help of another GI we rounded up four Germans in a near by house. They looked like they were all in their fifties at least. They held up their arms and kept repeating to us, “Nix soldat. Nix soldat.” We got the lieutenant on a stretcher and had the four prisoners lift him up. I pointed up the road and so we headed back thru the dragon teeth for the woods and the Aid Station.
      The road was lined with GI’s moving down toward town. Half way to the woods one of the Germans was having trouble carrying his personal bag and his corner of the stretcher. So I offered to carry his bag for him. During the exchange one of the passing GI’s wanted to know why in hell was I carrying the prisoner’s bag and suggested that he or I should – “shoot the son-of-a-bitch.” He even aimed his rifle in our direction. The tensions and fears of combat bring out the best and worse in individuals. We proceeded up the icy road, passed the two-wheel German cart and into the woods for a quarter of a mile to an Aid Station. Shortly after taking the lieutenant inside, a doctor yanked my arm, repairing my shoulder dislocation. After bandaging the wounds in my arm and getting the data for a Purple Heart record, I was released.
      By now it was late afternoon. The First Battalion had successfully beaten off the German counter-attack. The town was still ours. We were to be relieved the next day. That night we spent underground in the bunkers of the Siegfried Line. We were lucky that they had not been fully manned or armed. Above us the dead, friend and foe alike, lay scattered where they had fallen in the snow. One of our fellows, who was part Indian, spent a couple hours crawling around among the dead. He returned with a pocket full of rings and watches which he claimed he had taken from the Germans only.
      The next day we departed for Sissonne, France. For us in the 82nd Airborne, the Battle of the Bulge was over.
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