University of Virginia Library

XIV
Assaulting Fortress Europe

While the United States was gathering men, supplies, and boats
in England for the attack on Normandy in June of 1944, the
Army Air Forces waged from England a continuous and aggressive
warfare, which slowly but surely crippled Germany. Between
August 17, 1942, when the Eighth Air Force made its first heavy
bomber attack, and V-E Day more than 1,550,000 tons of bombs
were dropped on western European targets.

Stationed in Great Britain, American airmen learned to know
and admire the people. From “a pretty spot in England,” Major
Wilmer H. Paine of Charlottesville, who was flight surgeon for a
group of thirty-six B-24's, wrote to his wife in September, 1942,
praising the British. “My hat goes off to them. In spite of the
war they continue to live their daily lives as though the Germans
were 5,000 miles away. They say little or nothing about the
war. ... Except for searchlights and anti-aircraft guns and distant
sound of motors at night I wouldn't believe that we were here to
fight a war.”

As a means of keeping physically fit, Major Paine spent an
afternoon working with a threshing crew, harvesting the barley.
“All England is either a grain field at the height of its greatest
harvest or a lovely green pasture filled with fat cattle,” he wrote.
“I've flown over quite a slice of it and I've never seen so much
grain, sugar beets, cabbage, Irish potatoes, and beef cattle in my
life.”[1]

“You will notice a clipping of the Liberator raid on St. Nazaire,”
he wrote Mrs. Paine in December. “Your spouse was on that raid
with the boys. It was great fun, but not as exciting as I had expected.
I have been on two raids with the boys and I tell you this,
not to cause you any alarm, but merely to give you my word that
I will not be going on any more unless it is strictly my duty to
do so. I felt, however, that it was my duty to go on a couple to
prove to myself and the men who depend on me that I had the
guts to go. It is easy for someone to tell a man he hasn't the
guts to fly into enemy territory and face the fighters and the flak

(anti-aircraft shells) when he is seated safely behind a desk two
hundred miles away.

“On the other hand, one wonders if he isn't a little cracked to
go barging off on a bombing mission across France with a good
chance of getting a few hunks of steel through his lungs when
he doesn't have to. Oh well, it was a wonderful experience and
I wouldn't take something pretty for it. When you are flying
four miles high you make rather difficult duck shooting even for
those crack Hun gunmen. In addition to the altitude we were
squirming like a worm and going over 200 miles an hour. After
we opened the bomb bay doors and dropped six tons of exploding
eggs we did a little job called getting the hell out of there.
This involved peeling off toward the sea and going down to the
top of the waves quicker than it takes to tell it.”[2]

Daily bombers went out to attack German installations. Staff
Sergeant Mason E. Houchens of Charlottesville, who was qualified
both as a radio operator and rear gunner of a B-17 Flying Fortress,
was shot down over Europe on June 13, 1943. On July 28 his
family was informed that he was a prisoner of war. For nearly
two years he was in a German prison camp until he was liberated
in the spring of 1945.[3]

On the return of the Flying Fortress, “Standby,” from its target
in occupied France, the bombardier, Lieutenant James Elmer Harlow,
one of the three flying Harlows of Charlottesville, was really mad.
A German 20-millimeter cannon shell had obliterated the name
“Dorothy” which he had painted on the nose. Slowly he explained,
“I don't like being crossed up. I meant my wife's name
to remain on the ship. When that fighter got Dorothy's name,
naturally I got him.”

Harlow took part on October 14, 1943, in the famous raid on
the Schweinfurt ball bearing manufacturing plant, a foray from
which sixty American bombers did not return. His roughest mission,
however, was one to Kassel, Germany, during which his
plane had one engine and all but four guns knocked out. Once
he successfully bombed a German destroyer from 17,000 feet over
the North Sea without a bombsight. On another occasion, returning
from Stuttgart, his plane ran out of gasoline and was forced
to ditch in the English Channel. Harlow was picked up by two
Englishmen in a rowboat after being in the water an hour, clinging
to a partially inflated rubber dinghy.[4]

The American Red Cross played an important part in the life
of a soldier in Europe. “The Red Cross really helps a guy over
here,” wrote Corporal Warren T. Birckhead of Charlottesville after
a visit to London. “We got a bed (with two clean sheets) for
a shilling and sixpence (30¢) a night and our meals only cost

one shilling (20¢) each. If it wasn't for them we wouldn't be
able to spend a single night away from camp.”[5]

Katherine Lea Marshall of Charlottesville, who landed in England
in late November, 1943, was a member of a crew of three
Red Cross workers who operated a clubmobile. They travelled
from camp to camp dispensing doughnuts and coffee. After the
soldiers were filled the girls promoted games and other recreation.[6]

The Red Cross also ministered to the needs of those soldiers
who became prisoners of war. “The Red Cross was our salvation—
I can't say enough for them,” Sergeant Harvey Hamilton Fleming
declared. The sergeant had been forced to bail out of his B-17
over Brunswick, Germany, on February 10, 1944. At first he
was imprisoned at Stalag Luft 6, in East Prussia, but later was held
at Stalag Luft 4 in Pomerania after the Russians advanced to Memel.
Fleming charged that the Germans had been “eating Red Cross
boxes for years” but added that the Red Cross “sent such a volume
of supplies that some just had to get through.” At first American
prisoners got a box a week, but later when transportation broke
down they got only a half a box a week. When the Russians
overran eastern Germany in 1945, Fleming and other prisoners were
marched westward. They found many German civilians were moving
in the direction of the American front to get away from the
Russians. A German woman, whose husband was receiving good
treatment as a prisoner of war in Arizona, told Fleming, “I will
greet the Americans with arms of flowers.” Hearing that the
Russians were near, Fleming escaped and hid until they arrived.
He then accompanied the Russian soldiers, and was present at the
historic meeting of the Russians and the Americans April 27, 1945,
on the Elbe River near Torgau. Fleming described the meeting as
highly hilarious. “Everybody was drunk, running around, firing
into the air.”[7]

For every plane which winged its way over occupied Europe
there was a ground crew which kept the plane fit to fly. A crew
chief of a B-26 Marauder, Technical Sergeant Lewis Mahanes of
Cismont, won a Bronze Star, which was awarded in recognition of
his “technical proficiency and tireless energy” in the performance
of his vital but not glamorous duty. Wrote a friend of Mahanes,
“Lewis” ship has been in the newspapers a time or two, and his
pilot thinks he is the best crew chief in the group. He is probably
the best mechanic in the whole group, and has done a splendid job
working long hours. Even working on his day off when he thought
it necessary.”[8]

Over the great enemy airfield at St. Omer, France, First Lieutenant
C. Forman Dirickson, the pilot of a B-26 Marauder, had a rough

time. “The flak that day,” he recalled, “was by far the worst I
have ever seen.” It burst all around the bomber, fragments pounded
against the fuselage like hail, and the smell of cordite filled the
air. A shell burst immediately above the pilot's compartment, filling
the area with flying glass. Then a piece of flak struck Dirickson's
helmet, knocking him out momentarily. The co-pilot pushed him
away from the controls and took over. As Dirickson recovered consciousness,
his one thought was to gain control of the plane. For
several confused seconds he fought with the co-pilot before his mind
cleared. One of the two engines had been damaged and after spitting
and sputtering a few minutes died. Nevertheless the plane limped
back to Britain on the single engine.[9]

Lieutenant Colonel George L. Wertenbaker, Jr., of Charlottesville,
a deputy-commander of a P-47 Fighter Group with the Ninth
Air Force in England, made twenty-two bomber escort missions
in his Thunderbolt, “Betty L.” He was a pre-Pearl Harbor airman,
his determination to fly having been reached while he was
still a boy. He first soloed on January 1, 1935, and in August,
1939, he won his wings and commission at Kelly Field.[10]

Lieutenant Colonel Beirne Lay, Jr., whose parents live in Charlottesville,
was a four-engine bomber pilot who commanded the
487th Bomb Group of the Eighth Air Force in England and took
part in a number of missions over Germany.

On May 11, 1944, he had to abandon his mortally wounded
B-24 over German-occupied France. “It was a month before D-day,”
he recalled. “My time had come. I pressed the microphone button
on the wheel. The words stalled for a moment, where the throat
mike resting snug against my Adam's apple would carry the message
over the interphone to the ten other members of the crew.

“'Abandon ship,' I called. But the interphone was dead. I
turned to the navigator, who was standing between the pilot's seat
and mine. He had come up a few minutes before to tell me that
a hunk of flak had broken the bombardier's thigh bone.

“'Bail out,' I said to him. 'Pass the word to the rest of the
crew.'

“It was what he'd been waiting to hear. Lieutenant Frank
Vratny, the pilot, pressed the alarm button—a long ring and a
series of short rings. In a matter of seconds, escape-hatch doors
were sailing out into the slip stream behind us and bodies were
dropping out of the mortally wounded Liberator. From the copilot's
seat, where I had been sitting as leader of the wing of seventy-two
Liberators with which we had taken off from England,
I watched Vratny struggle with the wheel, rudder pedals and throttles
to maintain level flight until the boys were out. He had his
hands full of airplane. ...

“I shed my flak vest, reached behind my seat for my chest chute
and buckled it on. Vratny watched me apprehensively out of the
corner of his eye. I think he must have wondered whether I'd
forgotten that the commander is the last man out. I turned to
him and give him a jerk of my thumb, then grabbed the wheel
and throttles. He reached for his chute pack and was out of the
cockpit like a shot. Then for a few seconds the B-24 flew fairly
straight and level above enemy-occupied France.

“Maybe the co-pilot is still back in the tail turret, I thought. I'll
stay with it until she goes out of control. There's plenty of altitude.
I can bail out of the bomb bay in four seconds. A half minute
passed. Abruptly the nose came up in a climb. We stood on a
wing tip. I found myself looking sideways through the window
at the neat French fields barely visible through the noon haze.

“The plane's nose came down with a whoosh. There was no
response from the elevator controls. I pulled back the remaining
two good throttles. It was time to leave.

“I grabbed the emergency bomb bay door and bomb-salvo release
handle, installed in the floor. It came up a few inches and jammed.
Looking back, I saw that the bomb bay doors were still closed.
I was out of the seat now, with both feet planted on the floor
and with both hands on the emergency release, but I couldn't budge
it farther. Flak had shot up the system. The B-24 was already
in a steep spiraling dive and the wind was tearing past the top-turret
dome in a rising scream.

“The only means of quick exit was gone. You can't get out
the windows of a B-24. In a flash, the terrible tension in me dissolved,
giving way to a feeling of helplessness. This was too much.
The sand had run out.

“By the time I got back to the bomb bay and turned to crawl
forward underneath the floor of the cockpit toward the nose hatch,
the B-24 seemed to be heading straight down. It felt like crawling
from the ceiling to the floor of an elevator that is falling faster
than you can drop. I struggled forward through my gloomy tunnel
toward the nose wheel, but in the cramped space I didn't seem to
be making very good time toward that beckoning gap of light up
ahead where the nose hatch was. The hum of the slip stream over
the ship's metal skin indicated a hell of a dive, and I judged we
were making close to 400 miles an hour. As I squeezed past the
nose wheel, my parachute harness caught. I fought clumsily to
free myself, fearful of releasing the rip cord, and all hope went out
of me. I was trapped. It seemed as though I had been crawling
for five minutes and that we should have hit the ground long ago.
I would never get to that patch of light in time now.

“I broke free, but a further sense of relief had already come. It

was out of my hands now. The next fraction of a second would
bring instant oblivion without my even feeling it—final release from
panic and fear and striving. Clearly I saw the white board front
and green shutters of my house in Washington, and my wife's face.
I'm sorry, Luddy.

“Panting hard, I wormed closer to the daylight showing through
the hatch. And then a giant suction whisked me through the opening
like a cigarette out the window slit of a speeding car, and I
yanked the rip cord hard as I went. The ground looked as close
as the floor to a man rolling off a bed. The chute opened with a
jerk that brought the chest buckle up against my chin like a left
hook. Abruptly I was anchored in the air and I saw that I had
a 1000-foot margin. ...”[11]

For almost three months Lieutenant Colonel Lay and the co-pilot
lived in occupied France, hidden and helped by the French at the
risk of their lives. Meanwhile the Americans landed in Normandy.
At last General Patton's troops fought their way into the area,
and Lieutenant Colonel Lay was able to begin his journey home.[12]
The story of his adventures, “Down in Flames, Out By Underground,”
which he wrote for The Saturday Evening Post, is one
of the most interesting narratives to come out of the war.

After a year and a half of training in the United States, Company
K, 116th Infantry (the Monticello Guard) sailed from New York,
September 26, 1942, on the Queen Mary. There had been many
changes in personnel since the company left Charlottesville, but it
still enrolled many of its original members. John P. Davis of
Charlottesville, who had left to go to O.C.S., had been succeeded
as first sergeant by Clay S. Purvis of Charlottesville, and Captain
John A. Martin of Charlottesville had been succeeded as company
commander by Captain Asbury H. Jackson of Winchester, Virginia.
As the Queen Mary neared the coast of Ireland on October 2, she
was picked up by the British light cruiser, Curaçoa, which began
to act most strangely, appearing to put on a show for the American
soldiers. Actually she was engaged in a skirmish with a submarine.
Finally the Curaçoa crossed the Queen Mary's path. There was a
crash as the giant liner sheared the Curaçoa in two, amidships. The
Queen Mary continued on her way but that afternoon slowed down
to repair her damaged bow. The next day she docked safely at
Greenock, Scotland.[13]

Company K was stationed at Tidworth Barracks in southern
England for the next ten months. Shortly before Christmas First
Sergeant Purvis wrote of life there:

“Every once in a while a German plane takes a shot at one or
another town right close by and we grab our rifles and take off.
The R.A.F. and our boys are doing a fine job. I think Hitler's

gang is slowly losing out all around. ... We are all well and getting
along fine, and there is nothing to worry about. The men
are getting trips to London once in a while. We have gotten
used to the weather, money, and ways of the British in general.”[14]

The regulation ten-minute halt in an all-day training march
through drenching winter rain and intermittent drizzle found Company
K near an ivy-covered brick wall enclosing an English country
churchyard. Thomas R. Henry, Staff Correspondent for the
Washington Star, described the scene:

“These men were gathered in the mossy gateway of a lovely
manor house to which the church at one time had been an adjunct.
The house was set in a lovely park of oaks and yews. It reminded
them a lot, they said, of some of the fine country places around
Charlottesville. They adjusted themselves to the atmosphere of the
British countryside more easily than most American troops because
of this similarity.

“'It came pretty easy to me,' remarked Corporal H. L. Baptist
of Ivy, Virginia, a former University of Virginia student, 'because,
you see, Ivy is a typical British settlement. There must be 50
English families around there, some of whom have kept up the
ways of life of the old country, and I was brought up among them.'

“With Corporal Baptist was Sergeant William T. Chewning,
who used to be a member of the university football squad. The
whole group, in fact, is imbued with the football tradition of
Charlottesville. They have just walked away with the championship
of the regiment to which they are attached. ...

“Since they have been here they have taken up English football
and, Sergeant Chewning said, they have found it a tougher game
than the American brand.

“ 'I had thought it was tame,' he added, 'but there's a lot more
chance to get your neck broken. At home, you see, you run with
the ball, or kick it, or pass it, but you don't try to do all three
things at once and a fellow is tackled only when he is running.
Here the idea is to get the ball ahead any way and everybody
can pile on you once you are down.' ”[15]

In May of 1943 Sergeant Purvis wrote requesting some cigarettes.
“We can't buy American cigarettes here, and these aren't worth
smoking.”[16]

Lady Astor, the former Nancy Langhorne of “Mirador,” Albemarle
County, took an active interest in the 116th Infantry from
her native state. Sickness in her family caused a delay in her
plans to do something for “those dear Virginia boys,” but in time
she was entertaining her Virginia cousins. There was a pre-Fourth
of July reception and dance on Saturday as the Fourth fell on Sunday
in 1943.

The following December Lady Astor attended a special performance
of the 29th Division's musical show “Get Crackin'.”
Major General Leonard T. Gerow of Petersburg, Virginia, the
division commander, introduced Lady Astor to the audience, remarking
that she had a special talent for telling Cornish dialect
stories and that she had often expressed a desire to obtain some
real Virginia ham. “Lady Astor,” said the general, “I once made
a wager. If you will tell three stories for my outfit here tonight,
you can have your pig.” Thereupon a squirming, be-ribboned
porker was dragged to the platform. Never to be outdone, Lady
Astor gamely marched to the microphone and in her inimitable
manner won the pig.

A general favorite with the division, Lady Astor at first was
made an honorary private first class but later received a “battlefield
promotion” to second lieutenant.[17]

By July, 1943, Company K was attracting the attention of
the “brass.” For the past fifteen months the company had had
no men AWOL and no cases of venereal disease. The Medical
Corps in the European Theatre of Operations, which was working
hard to keep down the rise of venereal cases, wanted to know how
Company K was able to make such an outstanding record. It was
universally concluded that the company had men of higher caliber
than the average unit. In the history of the company, with its
highly selective peacetime recruiting policy and its strong esprit de
corps built up over a long period, were to be found the reasons for the
high standards of conduct.[18]

Recognized as an outstanding unit, Company K was ordered
to Liverpool for two months of guard duty. While it was there
the 116th Infantry moved. When the Company rejoined the regiment,
it was stationed at Crown Hill Barracks near Plymouth.
While there the men spent long hours in rigorous amphibious training
preparing for the coming invasion. During the maneuvers in
the Channel they often saw the mysterious shores of France which
awaited the day of liberation. Many of the men also went to Scotland
for extensive ranger training. As the second winter in England
passed and the days lengthened, everyone became increasingly anxious
to begin the real fighting.

After two years of planning and preparation, the invasion of
France was launched on June 6, 1944. For the landing two strips
of the Normandy coast on either side of the Vire Estuary were
selected. The beach to the northwest was designated Utah Beach
and that to the east Omaha Beach. On the latter the 29th Division
landed. On its left to the east was the First Division. Still farther
to the east the British forces landed. In his book Invasion!, Charles
Christian Wertenbaker of Charlottesville, a newspaper correspondent

who accompanied the troops, told vividly the story of the landings
and of the struggle for a firm beachhead. The transport USS Thomas
Jefferson, which carried the early waves of the 116th Infantry
assault troops, was able to unload all its landing craft in sixty-six
minutes. The craft left the rendezvous area at 4:30 A. M. and
headed for the beach. A storm, which had occasioned a twenty-four
hour delay in launching the invasion, made the sea very rough,
and many men became seasick in the small craft.[19]

In a letter to his mother Captain Charles C. Cole of Charlottesville,
commander of Battery B, 110th Field Artillery with the 29th
Division, described the action on Omaha Beach.

“I hit the beach D-Day and as long as I live I shall never forget the
infantry that day or the days since. They are still the backbone of any
army and deserve all the medals and praise that man can give them.
We couldn't have done without the Air Corps and Navy shelling,
but Jerry was dug in the cliffs in huge tunnels which the Air Corps
and Navy couldn't and didn't dent. We didn't know this, though,
until we hit the beach and then all hell broke loose.

“Some of these tunnels ran for miles inland and even three or
four days afterwards the beach was being sniped upon, and at the
other end we were digging them out of houses and chateaus. They
had lived in these tunnels for years and were well stocked with every
human need. But the doughboys—and how your heart bleeds for
them—kept going forward.

“That first week was a little ticklish. As much of everything was
trying to get ashore that could, and we in front were being shoved
forward whether we wanted to or not—and I must say I didn't
always want to. At one time there we came close to putting bayonets
on our guns, so close were we to Jerry and with no infantry in
front of us.

“For three days we were doing two things—trying to fight and
trying to collect everybody together again. Between trying to land
on a place about as big as a bath tub and being shelled by the
Jerry 88's, we were pretty well disorganized and separated. But
gradually things have settled down, so that now we are using some
of the stuff we have been taught all these past months.”[20]

A veteran of the Mediterranean campaigns, Major William R.
Washington of Crozet landed with the First Division on Omaha
Beach. Out of thirty-eight officers and enlisted men in an assault
boat, he was one of twelve who lived to reach the beach. When
intense enemy fire pinned down the leading waves of the 16th
Infantry, Major Washington fearlessly exposed himself to the raking
fire along the shore in order to get the halted men to move
inland. Through barbed wire entanglements and uncharted mine
fields, the men led by Major Washington scrambled up the heavily
fortified cliffs and destroyed several enemy strong points. After the

troops were established on the high ground, Major Washington,
though badly wounded by sniper fire, moved forward to a vital
crossroad near Colleville-sur-Mer and set up an observation post
which he manned for twenty-four hours, giving valuable directions
to the advancing troops. In recognition of Major Washington's
incomparable fighting spirit and magnificent valor, the Distinguished
Service Cross was awarded to him. While recovering from his
wounds Major Washington remarked: “How I got through I'll
never know unless it was by the grace of God and the fact that my
wife was praying for me.”[21]

Company K, 116th Infantry, landed shortly after 7:00 A. M. on
the beach to the east of les Moulins, which was about a mile east
of where they were supposed to land. The craft of Company K
came in well bunched on the right flank of the 3rd Battalion.
Enemy small arms fire was light, and no losses were sustained in
crossing the tidal flat to the shingle. Nevertheless the men tended
to become immobilized as they reached cover, and reorganization
was made difficult because a number of other units had also landed
in the area. Once started, the men had trouble getting to the top of
the cliffs. Sporadic machinegun fire hit a few men on the beach,
and mines caused difficulty on the slope of the bluff. Guides had
to be placed to mark routes of ascent. Company K lost fifteen or
twenty men before the top was reached shortly after nine o'clock.
The men then moved a couple of hundred yards inland before they
were pinned down in open fields by scattered machinegun fire and
some shelling. One boat team under the leadership of Technical
Sergeant Carl D. Proffitt, Jr., of Charlottesville was able to push
inland to Vierville-sur-Mer. After they were forced by the Germans
to withdraw, Proffitt twice led the men back. That night they
were used for headquarters security. During the night efforts were
made to reorganize the company.[22]

On D+1 the 270th Port Company was landed at Omaha Beach.
It began to bring order to the handling of supplies there, an absolutely
essential function if the drive into Northern France was to
succeed. The men of the company included Corporal Robert L.
Wicks, Route 2, Charlottesville: Private First Class Thomas D.
Gardner, Cobham: Private First Class John N. Zellars, Crozet: and
Private First Class John B. White, Esmont.[23] Company K of the
116th Infantry spent this day mopping up remnants of enemy resistance
along the bluffs and then joined in the perimeter defense of
Vierville that night.

At Pointe du Hoe, to the west of Omaha Beach, a force of Rangers
who had landed D-Day were isolated. Early on June 8 the 3rd
Battalion of the 116th Infantry joined other units moving along
the coast road to Pointe du Hoe. Company K took part in the

“How I got through I'll never know.”
Billy Washington of Crozet receives the DSC

attack which relieved the Rangers and cleared the enemy from the
area by noon. The Americans then pressed on to Grandcamp-les-Bains,
a beach resort town, a little over two miles farther west.
After the 5th Ranger Battalion had attacked and failed to take the
town, the 3rd Battalion of the 116th Infantry moved into position
late in the afternoon. Tanks led the way across a bridge over a
flooded area just east of the town, and then Companies K and L
crossed and attacked abreast on either side of the highway. Company
K on the north side found the enemy strongly entrenched on a
rise. Repeated assaults were turned back by machinegun and rifle
fire. The company commander, Captain William Geoff Pingley,
Jr., of Winchester, Virginia, was killed as he moved forward. An
officer who was nearby tells how, after two hours of fighting. Technical
Sergeant Frank Dabnev Peregory of Charlottesville took the
situation in hand and won a Medal of Honor.

“Realizing that it was necessary to go in after the Germans, [he]
crawled into the withering fire that covered the hillside and worked
his way to the crest. He carried only his rifle and bayonet and some
hand grenades. Near the crest he discovered a trench that led toward
the main fortification and dropped into it. He found himself
among a squad of enemy riflemen and immediately engaged them.
... He killed eight of these and captured three others and then, with
his prisoners, advanced on the main position along the shelter of
the trench. This was a deeply entrenched machinegun position and
using the hand grenades he destroyed the position and forced the
surrender of 32 other German riflemen.”[24]

During this action which broke the German resistance First Sergeant
Purvis exposed himself in order to bring fire upon the enemy
emplacement, and at the risk of his life he materially aided the
advance. The Silver Star was awarded to him for his heroic action.[25]

Grandcamp was occupied before dark, but Company K withdrew
to spend the night in a field to the south of town. The next few
days were spent in mopping up the area. The company then moved
south across the Arne River and became a part of the 29th Division
reserve. Here the men relaxed briefly.

On June 12 Staff Sergeant Jacob Lee Lively of Charlottesville
wrote to his wife, “I guess by now you already know that I am
somewhere in France. They had a nice reception waiting for us,
but we in turn had a nice one all cooked up for them. We hit them
a blow that was heard all the way across the Channel. ...

“I guess Mom is pretty well shocked but tell her not to worry—
I will keep my head down and go like h - - -. We can't lose; we
have too much stuff for them and are all Americans. Being Americans
means a lot. We are superior and will definitely prove it all the
way to the Heinie. How long we will last is undetermined, but

I personally think we will come out O. K. I have put an extra
emphasis on my prayers.”

Published in The Daily Progress on June 24, this letter was the
first word of the Monticello Guard to reach Charlottesville from
France.

On June 12 Sergeant Peregory also wrote a V-mail letter to his
wife, modestly remarking “news is scarce.” The next day Company
K advanced to the south, crossed the Elle River, and pushed on to
the village of Couvains. The following day the company was ordered
to take a patch of woods on high ground to the south of the
town. Three determined attacks were made, but each was repulsed
with heavy losses. The division took the high ground three miles
north of St. Lô on June 17. While leading his platoon through a
gate during the second attack on June 14 Peregory was killed.
Wrote Technical Sergeant Ellwyn C. Walsh of Charlottesville, who
was wounded in the cheek that day, “They finally got Frank today
but he didn't miss a one of the Jerries until they did get him.”[26]

Peregory was born in Albemarle County, April 10, 1915. His
parents, Mr. and Mrs. James Ervin Peregory of Esmont, died when
he was still a boy. After attending school at Esmont, Peregory came
to Charlottesville where he worked from the time he was twelve
years old. For four years prior to entering the service, he was employed
by the Barnes Lumber Company. He first enlisted in the
Monticello Guard on July 5, 1931, when only sixteen years old. As
a private first class he was mustered into Federal service on February
3, 1941. When the Guard visited Charlottesville five months later
to take part in the Fourth of July parade and celebration. Peregory
remained for the weekend, and on Saturday, July 5, he married
Bessie Geneva Kirby.

Shortly after Pearl Harbor while Company K was engaged for
two months in patrolling the coast around New Bern, North Carolina,
Peregory became the first hero of the 29th Division. Early
Sunday morning, January 11, 1942, a weapons carrier in which a
patrol of Company K was riding skidded on the icy road and plunged
into a canal near Hobucken, North Carolina. Most of the men extricated
themselves from the submerged vehicle, but when Corporal
Massie N. Tomlin of Charlottesville called the roll, it was discovered
that Private Stanley P. Major was missing. Peregory,
realizing that Major was still in the truck, immediately dived into
the icy water to rescue him. Descending through a hole which
had been cut in the tarpaulin top of the truck, Peregory located the
unconscious soldier and thrust his body up through the opening
where Tomlin and others could grasp the apparently lifeless form.
While awaiting assistance for which Corporal Earl F. Wilkerson of
Charlottesville had been dispatched, Privates John Chris Kardos

Frank Peregory of the Monticello Guard “didn't miss a
one of the Jerries.”

of Charlottesville and Willard C. Dyer worked diligently for half
an hour to restore Major to consciousness. It was some hours later,
however, after the group had returned to camp that Major was revived.
For his heroic and unselfish deed Peregory was awarded the
Soldier's Medal, and various other members of the patrol were
commended.

The Soldier's Medal, America's highest award for non-combat
gallantry, was presented to Peregory (then a corporal) by Major
General Leonard T. Gerow at the A. P. Hill Military Reservation on
June 17, 1942. Members of the 116th Regimental Combat Team,
commanded by Colonel E. Walton Opie, marched by the reviewing
stand where General Gerow and Corporal Peregory received the
salute of the troops as they passed. After the parade the modest
hero quietly slipped away and later was to be found doing his
routine duties.[27]

Peregory of course never knew that he had won the Medal of
Honor, for he had been killed only six days after his singlehanded
exploit at Grandcamp in Normandy, long before the award could be
made. A posthumous presentation of the medal was made to his
wife, on June 4, 1945, at the Charlottesville City Armory, where
Peregory had drilled with the National Guard. Present besides close
friends and relatives were Mayor Roscoe S. Adams, the local units of
the Virginia State Guard, and some returned members of the Monticello
Guard. In presenting the medal Brigadier General E. R.
Warner McCabe of Charlottesville, commandant of the School of
Military Government at the University of Virginia, assured the
hero's widow, “You will have the comfort and consolation and satisfaction
of knowing that your heroic husband's memory will live
forever in the heart of his country and his valiant deeds will live in
the hearts of his fellow citizens.”

The citation for the Medal of Honor reads:

The members of Company K were learning the grim lessons of
war at first hand. Wrote Staff Sergeant Clayborne W. Dudley of
Charlottesville, “I guess you know by now that our outfit was one
of the first to land in France on D-Day and as far as I know they
are still in there fighting. I waited two years to get over there and
then didn't stay but nine days. However, I learned more in those
nine days than I did in the two years I was here in England. I
never really knew what war was until after I was in there fighting,
and believe me it's hell. ... Day and night the shells and bullets
are hitting close to you and one can never tell just when you will get
the next one. Some of the boys are glad when they are hit so they
can get out of it for awhile. The piece that hit me felt as if it were
as big as a house, and I had to look the second time to see if my arm
was still on my body. Altogether, I got hit six times, but all of them
are healed except the one on my wrist. I guess it won't be long
before I'll be back over there so if my letters are few you'll understand.”[29]

In times of stress some soldiers found in religion a source of comfort
and strength. Private Roy Daniel Carver of Crozet, a member
of the Methodist Church, wrote his wife, “I was reading a chapter
in my testament the other night, as I do each day that I get a
chance, and a Spanish boy came up and asked me to read out loud to
him. But, as you know, I do not like to read to anyone, so I
called one of my buddies to come over and read to us out of my
testament. Another boy passed and hearing what was going on, he
stopped and joined us. It certainly made me feel good to know that
I had helped someone out that wanted to hear the word of God
during these trying times. None of the three boys has a testament
so they now borrow mine to read. I carry mine with me at all
times so that others, as well as I, may read from it.”[30]

During the early days of the invasion some soldiers came into
contact with many second rate German troops who surrendered
when the going got tough. “These d- - - Germans don't quite
seem to be the supermen you read about,” wrote Private Peter G.
Fekas of Charlottesville, with Company C. 12th Infantry. “When
we make things a little too hot for them, they come out and surrender.
All it takes to make them come out of their holes is a little machinegun
fire and a little artillery.”[31]

Farther inland around St. Lô the Americans found the Germans
fighting with dogged determination. By June 17 the 116th Infantry
was within three miles of that city, but it required over a
month of the most gruelling combat to break through the German

defenses. On July 15 the regiment was attacking southwest along
a ridge east of St. Lô, when the second battalion made an important
advance and reached the edge of la Madeleine, a village only a mile
from the city. Well in front of the rest of the 29th Division, the
battalion was isolated. At 4:30 A. M. on July 17, the third battalion
under Major Thomas D. Howie of Staunton, Virginia, attacked
with the mission of re-enforcing the second battalion so that
the two battalions could continue the attack on St. Lô. This was
the first silent night attack the Americans had made since landing.
Only two men in each platoon were authorized to fire even in emergency;
the rest were to rely on bayonet and hand grenades. Above all
else they were to get through. Technical Sergeant Marshall L. Tomlin
of Charlottesville, a platoon leader of Company K, remarked, “If
we'd tried this earlier, we'd never have got the men to hold their
fire. It takes a lot of experience not to shoot back when you are
shot at.”

The attack moved fast. Sergeant Tomlin personally killed at least
three Germans.

“I bayoneted my first one,” he said, “just as he was coming out
of his hole with his machine pistol in his hand. I was on top of
a hedgerow and I was pretty scared, I guess, because I lunged at him
so hard I could hardly get the bayonet out. It went in high up on
his chest, hitting the heart. He let out a little noise and that was the
end of it.

“There was another fellow coming for me in the mist and I hit
him with the butt and knocked him cold. Then I stuck him to
make sure. They were beginning to wake up at this time and I
threw a grenade at two machine gunners who were just setting up
[their gun]. It knocked them both out.” He bayoneted his third
man later.[32]

By 7:30 that morning the third battalion had reached its objective
and reorganized. When asked by phone if the battalion
would lead the advance on St. Lô, Major Howie replied, “Will do.”
He then ordered Company K to spearhead the attack. Hardly had
the company officers left, after receiving their orders, when German
mortar fire hit the command post, killing Major Howie. Soon
enemy artillery fire was covering the entire area, and the attack had
to be abandoned.

Late the next day a 29th Division task force fought its way into
the city. With it went the body of Major Howie, which was placed
on the rubble before the ruined cathedral. He had promised to meet
his men in St. Lô, and they wanted to keep the rendezvous.

After forty-five days of the most savage fighting the 29th Division
was relieved. Those men who had served throughout the campaign
were presented certificates by the Division Commander, Major General
Charles H. Gerhardt, commending their service from D-Day to

St. Lô. The 116th Infantry on September 6, 1944, was awarded a
Presidential Citation “for extraordinary heroism and outstanding
performance of duty in action in the initial assault on the northern
coast of Normandy.” Its personnel thus became entitled to wear
the Distinguished Unit Badge. Later the 29th Division was
awarded the French Croix de Guerre. Decorations too numerous to
catalogue were awarded to individuals. By July, 1945, after the
fighting was over but before all awards had been made, the men of
Company K, 116th Infantry, had already won one Medal of Honor,
two Distinguished Service Crosses, forty-three Silver Stars, eighty-eight
Bronze Stars, and 492 Purple Hearts, besides one Distinguished
Conduct Medal (British) and one Croix de Guerre (French).[33]

On D+38, even before the fall of St. Lô, the first detachment of
WACs arrived in France to do clerical work in the Forward Echelon,
Communications Zone Headquarters. They carried shovels for digging
foxholes but no guns. First down the gangplank of the
cruiser was First Sergeant Nancy Elizabeth Carter of Charlottesville.
While the French villagers cheered, the American GIs whistled a
welcome to “the morale builders.”

A few miles south of Cherbourg in an apple orchard just outside
of Valongnes the girls set up housekeeping in the most approved GI
manner. They dug ditches around the tents to carry off the water
which gathered during eight straight days of rain. On the other
hand, they also learned how to make one helmet full of water provide
first a bath, then a shampoo, and finally clean clothes. They supplemented
C and K rations with fresh apple sauce and even apple pie.
There were also a few other feminine extras, such as flowers in canteen
cups and teddy bears propped up on bunks. As first sergeant.
Nancy Carter had the responsibility of preparing for the housing of
additional WACs as they arrived. This was an arduous undertaking,
but by working from dawn until dark in the long northern
European summer days she got the job done in such a manner as to
win a Bronze Star.

With the liberation of Paris, Sergeant Carter and other WACs of
her detachment packed their gear and on September 6, 1944, moved
to the French capital with the Communications Zone Headquarters.[34]

The liberation of Paris was perhaps the most colorful campaign
of the whole war. To the armies the city had great strategic value,
but to the French people it was the sacred symbol of the whole nation.
When the shackles of German occupation were broken, the
French were carried away with a great delirium of joy. Captain
Henry R. Macy of Charlottesville with the Office of Strategic Services
was among the first Americans to enter the liberated city. In a jeep
driven by Colonel Donald Q. Coster, Captain Macy and a young
French lieutenant followed General Charles de Gaulle, when he paraded

from the Arc de Triomphe to the Cathedral de Notre Dame
on August 26, 1944.

“I saw the President of the Provisional Government of the French
Republic,” Macy wrote his wife, “that tall, gloomy, controversial
character who has from the month of June, 1940, symbolized the
French Resistance, the courage and the hope and the pride of Frenchmen
all over the world. He had a very serious expression on his
face and made odd little gestures with his hands which he did not
raise above his waist—small encouraging movements to the crowd—
very restrained. He got into his car and then a wild procession down
the Rue de Rivoli. The Colonel shoved tanks and armored cars
aside in his determination to get close to the “Grand Charlie.”
Eventually we got into the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville
where the General was to speak from a platform. Here the crowd
was thicker than ever, and I noticed a jeep full of correspondents and
photographers, writing and snapping madly away. ... We started
across the Pont Notre Dame in the wake of de Gaulle, on our way to
the Cathedral when the ominous sound of firing began. Of course.
one has no way of knowing where they come from, or against whom
they are directed. The crowd hit the pavement like lightning, and
the colonel turned the jeep around and we tore back across the Place
de L'Hôtel de Ville, careened around the corner into the Rue de
Rivoli (I was convinced that we would run over a dozen people—
but as an ambulance driver in 1940 I guess D. Q. C. has learned to
maneuver) and down the street. He was calling out “Soyez tranquilles,
ce n'est rien,” I was smoking a cigarette and making the
V sign for lack of anything else to do and feeling rather foolish, and
the French officer had his pistol out and I think was looking for a
target. We must have presented a rather frantic appearance, driving
like mad down the street with sounds of shots all around, apparently
in desperate flight from danger, and calling on the people to be calm
and that there was nothing. As we approached the Louvre where
there is a wide space, I noticed that the people were lying on the streets,
and plead with the colonel to turn off the street and get out of the
car. So we swerved into a side street almost running down the crowd
and stopped the car, got out and dashed into a building. By now
there was shooting everywhere. Apparently it was rather heavy in
the Place de la Concorde. (The Square of Peace!) People were still
in the street, police and F. F. I. were firing at windows up and down
and I must say it was the most exciting moment of my life. It went
on for about an hour I should think, but it was now a week old for
the Parisians, and they were unbelievably calm on the whole, although
some were evidently terrified, and others were cursing the Germans,
and apologized to us—were horrified that this should happen when

the Americans had arrived. They seemed to think it involved a breach
of hospitality on their part.”[35]

Meanwhile, back in England the German robot buzz bombs were
taking a heavy toll. “One fell about 25 yards from a building that
I was in,” wrote Corporal Melvin R. Bishop, Jr., of Charlottesville.
“I really hit the floor fast, but plaster walls and glass and all kinds
of furniture hit the floor first—and believe it or not I only got a
few small scratches. I was lucky to get out alive. That's the closest
I've been to one but I have had about ten within two blocks of me.
I'm ruining all my uniforms hitting the ground.”[36]

Lieutenant James Cranwell of Ivy, who had been on more than
thirty missions over Europe as navigator in his B-24 bomber, “Little
Hutch,” remarked: “Those buzz bombs are bad. I went into London
once, but I got out right away. It was too risky. I figured there was
no sense in risking my life twice a day.”[37]

Somewhat later, Private First Class Charles T. Lupton of Charlottesville
had a narrow escape in a London station. While he was
buying a ticket to return to his company of combat engineers, a rocket
bomb exploded nearby. The concussion was terrific. He was much
impressed by what he saw during his two-day pass. “London at
night was a new experience,” he remembered. “There were large
crowds on the Square, but few autos were seen on the streets. The
city is partially blacked out. No one seemed to mind the alert signals
or the buzz-bombs. When the signals sounded, there was no scurrying
for shelter.”[38]

While the Army pushed forward on the ground, the air force was
also carrying the war to the Germans. Second Lieutenant Robert S.
Gleason of Charlottesville downed his first enemy plane over Axis-held
Europe. In the “Vicious Virgin,” one of a P-47 Thunderbolt
Group providing protection for heavy bombers during a raid over
Germany, he became involved in a fight with twenty-eight Jerry
fighters, twenty-six of which were shot down. “I looked around and
saw an ME-109 chasing two P-47s,” said the Charlottesville flier.
“They crossed right in front of me. I opened fire at 450 yards and
closed to 200, firing my .50 caliber wing guns all the way. Suddenly
I felt my plane being hit and found myself in a violent turn to the
right. When I had completed 180 degrees of my turn I looked back
and saw the ME-109 that I had fired at exploding. I saw no parachute.”
When Gleason added up the damage to his own plane, he
found that one 20 mm. shell had shattered his canopy and sprinkled
the cockpit with shrapnel. Another had landed in one of the wing
ammunition boxes, exploding the last of the ammunition. A third
had smashed his tail surface, and a fourth had damaged his right
rudder. After landing he counted seventy-seven holes in the riddled
plane.[39]

“I was shot down in flames over Holland during the big airborne
operations you've been reading about,” Second Lieutenant Allen N.
White, Jr., of Ivy, pilot of a B-24 Liberator bomber, told his parents.
“Before I go any further, I'd better say that by some miracle I escaped
without a scratch, not even so much as a bruise. In fact, only one
member of the crew was injured—the radio operator got some minor
burns on his face and hands, but nothing serious, thank God. ...

“We decided to risk a crash landing rather than bail out, which
later proved to be a smart idea, as we would have been landed right
on top of a bunch of Jerries.

“As it was, we put her down smoothly in a field of scrub not more
than 200 yards from a Heinie heavy machinegun. The minute she
stopped rolling we really got the hell out—but fast! Luckily there
was a shallow ditch close by which we dove into headlong and crawled
along in it on our bellies for about 50 yards.

“We paused a while for breath and looked back to watch the Old
Lady burn. God, what a fire! And were we thankful to be alive,
even though our future was a little uncertain.”

However, a British armored patrol soon dashed to the scene, he
said. “They hauled us aboard their Bren gun carrier and plied us
with beer and cognac, which revived us enough so that we could tell
them our story coherently.” He added that the patrol was “Hunhunting,”
but rushed the airmen back to brigade headquarters before
continuing on their party.

“So that's how the colonel had a few unexpected visitors for tea. I
must say he rose to the occasion admirably. 'Bit of a hot show,
wasn't it, chaps?', he greeted us. 'Well, nice to have you here—just
in time for tea, too. Bloody punctual, you Yanks.' ”[40]

Lieutenant Joseph D. Moore of Charlottesville, also in the September
airborne operations in Holland, wrote his parents. “I was in the
first wave of parachutists to jump. Gee, you should have seen the
show. There seemed to be millions of different colored chutes in the
air at once. Too, the sky was covered with transports, fighters and
bombers. Seemed as if the whole Air Corps turned out to give us a
helping hand which we needed very much.

“While crossing the English Channel, there appeared to be thousands
of transports on the rear of the column I was riding in. I only
saw one plane go down in all that mess. Each time the Jerries
opened up on us with anti-aircraft fire, about four fighters would dive
down to end their career. That was truly a greater air show than invasion
day on France. I certainly hope they made some newsreels of
it so all of us can see them after it's over.”[41]

After ninety-four gruelling days at the front, where he was twice
wounded by shrapnel and finally knocked out for eight hours in a
barrage on the Siegfried Line on September 8, Sergeant Frank Cullen
Hartman of the 4th Infantry Division was evacuated to a hospital in

England. Here, as he recuperated he was haunted by what he had
seen of the barbarities inflicted by the enemy. “I've often wondered
what the people back home feel about punishing the Germans after
the war is over,” he wrote. “If they want to be lenient, I have
something I'd sure like to tell them. I know they'd change their
minds. ...

“It was done by the SS troops, those fanatical Hitlerats that seem
to think the only way to win a war is by cruelty. This scene took
place in a little town in France near the Belgian border. We had
stopped at one town near dark the Jerries had just vacated, and prepared
to dig in for the night. Then word came the Jerries were in this
other town about five miles away.

“Well, we left to go to this town and drive the Heinies out. ....
We were going to move up three miles and bivouac for the night, then
early next morning we were going the rest of the way and attack the
Jerries. In a few minutes it was dark and cloudy with no moon.
The blackness could be cut with a knife it seemed.

“As we marched along we could see a fire in the distance. As we
drew closer and closer on the winding mountain road, the tenseness and
nervousness of us all mounted in anticipation of the battle ahead. We
all go through that before a battle, and it's something that can't be
explained.

“Anyway, instead of stopping for the night, we advanced right
into the city. The whole eastern half of the town was in flames,
set by the Germans. The first sight I saw as I entered into the city,
besides the burning buildings, was an old man and woman, and a
little girl of five or six who was bandaged from head to foot. The
old man was crying, trying to run into the flaming building behind
him (it was his home) while the old woman was trying to keep
him out. The little girl had been slashed by the Jerries, and the
Recon units who preceded us had bandaged the girl. The FFI had
opposed the Germans, so they killed quite a few of them, ran their
tanks through the streets before the people could leave their homes
and shelled them.

“Then they took all the old people and children between five and
seven, and cut their throats. Some, they ripped their bellies open,
stuffed gasoline soaked wadding in it, lit a match to it, and locked
them in houses. Many persons were locked in and burned alive.
They cut the throats of the dogs they found.

“No, we never caught the Jerries, but the FFI made one pay.”

Six months later from Germany Sergeant Hartman wrote: “A
German woman came running over and put her hand on my arm,
looked into my eyes pleadingly and said, 'Ve haf five little sheldren
ofer here who are hungry. Haf you some chocalate for them?'
Maybe God and Dick [a brother who had been killed in battle]
will forgive me ... but I couldn't resist that look. I said nothing,

stepped into my truck and got a can of lima beans and a large box
of cocoa and gave them to her. She cried excitedly, 'Danke schoen,'
that is 'thank you' in German ... I can't help it, I can't be hard even
as much as I hate them.”[42]

The advance into Germany received a sharp setback in December,
1944, when Hitler lashed out with the Ardennes counteroffensive.
The Battle of the Bulge delayed the Allied advance about six weeks,
during which time some of the bitterest fighting of the war took
place. The Americans were, however, only checked, not stalled.

During the defense of Bastogne, Belgium, Private First Class Elton
L. Knight of Charlottesville served with the 502nd Parachute Regiment
of the 101st Airborne Division. Armed only with a light machinegun,
he silenced a German strong point in a single-handed assault.
His company had been assigned the mission of securing a high ground
and establishing defensive positions. As soon as the company crossed
its line of departure it was pinned down by automatic weapons fire
and heavy concentrations of enemy artillery. In disregard of the fire
Knight, operating his machinegun from his hip, rushed upon the well-entrenched
enemy, who were armed with two machineguns and five
machine pistols, and captured the area. His daring won for him the
Silver Star.[43]

On January 6, 1945, Private First Class Herbert C. Bethel of
Charlottesville went on a night raid across the swift, icy Roer River
into well-defended German territory on the east bank. His platoon
had instructions to capture a prisoner for interrogation.

“Before the entire platoon had crossed the Roer, their presence was
discovered and a hail of small arms and machinegun fire raked their
area. Not a man faltered. Despite the ease of escape which was still
available and despite the knowledge of the obstacles which lay in wait,
the platoon plowed through the withering fire. With a spirit of defiance,
each man plunged through the water and a successful river crossing
was effected. That platoon continued to work its way through the
difficult marshy terrain. The intense enemy small arms and automatic
fire was now augmented by a profuse number of well-aimed hand
grenades. Undaunted, the platoon continued forward under perfect
control until it encountered the enemy protective wire. Like a well-rehearsed
play, each man sprang to his feet to execute his assigned task.
The wire was immediately blown with bangalore torpedoes, and
with calm but decisive manner the men rushed through the gap to
their prearranged positions. Twenty-two minutes after H-Hour, a
prisoner was captured and the platoon proceeded back in quick, orderly
manner. Despite continuous enemy fire, the entire patrol returned
with its captive and with but one man wounded.”[44]

Shortly before the Germans surrendered, Second Lieutenant James
A. Hageman of Charlottesville with the Eighth Air Force delivered
food by parachute to starving Dutch people. Relating his experiences

on one of several such flights, Lieutenant Hageman said: “We made
our coast in point, exactly on the money, and shortly after that we
turned left at the initial point on our bomb run, flying from there to
our target near Rotterdam at an unusually slow speed. Our entrance
was made into the then still occupied Dutch territory under a truce
agreement, but none of us expected the Germans to hold their fire. ...

“We were in the lead element of the lead squadron of the lead group
of the first wing: in other words, we were there first. From my front
seat I could get a good look at the reactions of the people, and from
500 feet I could see, at least I thought I did, the famed wooden shoes
upon the feet of those who came out to greet us.

“And they were there all right. At first the people just looked at
us curiously, wondering what we were up to, since the operation was
unknown to those not in the actual dropping area. It wasn't long
before they were waving at us with flags and everything handy—caps,
scarfs, handkerchiefs, towels, anything at all. They came out in
pairs, in bunches, in mobs, but they were there and they were happy.
By this time, though, we were quite jittery. Would the Jerries shoot,
or wouldn't they? Could we trust them? Why should we? Well,
maybe they wouldn't. Maybe, pray, brother, pray. ...

“They didn't shoot a round at us. We flew in, found the target,
inspected the area to see if the authorities had cleared away the people,
radioed our okay to the trailing squadron, and made a big circle to
the right to get behind the bomber stream. The general and the
colonel and us wanted to see the results. So we took a 45-minute
tour of Holland to kill time. Everywhere we looked we could see
people waving at us, looking up at us as we sailed past, paying their
respects to us and waving a salute to what we were doing. There
they were, starved, beaten, conquered slaves, looking up to us for
help. They were dying by the thousands every day, but they were
happy this day.”[45]

“This day has been a day of awakening to horror and the absolute
depth of baseness of the Nazi mind,” wrote Technical Sergeant Henry
J. Euler, Jr., of Red Hill after visiting a Nazi slave labor camp on
April 13, 1945, where he witnessed the work of exhuming hastily
interred bodies of an estimated six thousand people. “I have seen
scenes that you, I and millions like us have seen portrayed on the
screens of our theatres,” he continued. “Over here we cannot shrug
it off and forget it in the quiet atmosphere of our after-theatre beer
joints or soda parlors. The stink of death is still in my nostrils. ...

“When we arrived,” Sergeant Euler wrote, “we saw civilians with
litters of wood and baskets carrying things out of a ruined building.
These somethings turned out to be bodies and pieces of bodies. Some
were misshapen blobs of charred flesh. ... Others were so emaciated
and wasted that they were bones held together by bluish skin. Bruises

were plentiful. Each a grim tale of perverted minds and hideous
agony. Each a blot against the name of Germany.

“The people know it. As they pulled the rotting corpses from the
holes and buried the dead these people could not look an American
in the face. I wonder if the civilians knew the extent of the slaughter
that took place. ... Whether they did or not, I hold them equally
responsible.”[46]

But gruesome scenes were not necessary to remind people of the
miseries occasioned by Nazi conquests. From Germany Staff Sergeant
Raymond Lang of Charlottesville wrote to his wife: “You should
see the view from my window. The country stretches for miles across
a valley with a few scattered hills in the distance, and is dotted with
apple and cherry trees in full bloom. While working we could glance
out of the windows and see wagon loads of civilians returning to their
homes. I guess by now they realize the misery their own conquest
caused other people.”[47]

On May 7, 1945, the thoroughly beaten German nation surrendered,
but the suffering occasioned by the holocaust continued.