With no definite target to fire at, we all retired to the house and silently cursed every tank that went past on the road -- for they drew 88 fire every time. One tanker had the temerity to park in our back yard, but we changed his mind about staying there in short order. Although we never fired more than a few rounds from that position, we were to remain there for several days. We had a grandstand seat and saw plenty. It was at Ossenberg that we encountered every conceivable type of enemy fire -- machine guns, mortars, 88's, nebelwerfers, and aerial strafing. In the few days at the farmhouse, life was far from dull. Jim Rives, our medic, found a P38 under the pillow of one of our wounded prisoners (close call, eh? Sgt. Mancuso selflessly exposed himself to enemy fire in search of an ammo dump. Billy Lewis did a swell job as wire man and was 'Up Front With Mauldin' constantly. Ernie Heina, and a couple of other boys located several hundred slave laborers, who were later liberated. John Lougie almost picked off 'The Sniper' in the factory. His intended victim turned out to be another GI. Six men in the platoon, names withheld, became known as the 'cellar dwellers'. They hardly saw the light of day.

Venlo was our first rest area. We'll never forget:
The friendly faces of the Dutch folk in the town square.
The private homes with their peace and quiet.
Mary.
The rum ration (Ask Herbie Boyd about it).
The beer parties and the local troubadours.
The day we received our Combat Infantryman's Badge.
The daily parks period with the lovely inducements.
The civilian chow hounds.
That Pete 'Kelly' made corporal.
John Mezzanotte's ricochet.

Pup tents later protected the sleeping bags and one often felt very cozy and comfortable after munching a verboten D-Ration bar or starting up a heat unit -- the directions on the carton said that the fumes were harmless so nobody minded the brown haze which was ever present.

We're travelling again -- yes it was another 'Paul Revere'. This time the trip was more thrilling -- we saw more snow and fewer people.

Who can ever forget the hayloft at Louvigny? Only the Mortar Platoon could have been assigned such a lovely billet. It had everything. Its mountains of hay and straw, although cold and wet in places did offer some comfort - although to this day I maintain that at least two bodies were buried there. The stove could only accommodate four of the twenty-four men in the platoon, but the others preferred the warmth of their overcoats anyway. And that yawning crevice in the center of the floor (the stairway) was the neatest challenge to a broken leg we've ever seen. We must admit one fact about the hayloft -- if it weren't for the beautiful bats swaying through the rafters, we might not have been happy there.

Sometime later, in the crumbling ruins of a former farmhouse, two rooms complete with ceiling and walls were discovered and the platoon migrated from the hayloft. Six hardy souls remained; but theirs is a story all its own. Braving the elements in order to preserve their inherent right of 'elbow room', these six stuck it out. In the dim cavern which was their home you could see them either huddled around the two stoves, dodging snowflakes, sifting through the holes in the roof, or chasing the rats out of their bedrolls. Only on direct order did they leave that picturesque place.

By the way, how did that 'Singing Song Title' game originate? Bill Marino and John Mezzanotte used to drive us nearly mad trying to outwit each other.

Remember the daily wood gathering ritual? I believe we burned up the equivalent of a good square block of the town.

Louvigny's expendable Chateau presented a good target for our mortar crews, and they fired dozens of rounds at her spires and into her courtyard. I hope we don't get a bill for damages. Sam Wetchler learned a startling fact about firing data here.

Metz, that large citadel close to Louvigny, was the first Continental city we saw at first hand. Most of the sights were viewed from the back door of a QM shower unit bath-house -- but who gave a darn -- we were getting clean underwear weren't we?

With the melting snow came the unveiling of Louvigny. She was really a sordid little village after her clean white blanket was removed, but we loved her just the same. Or did we?

Yes, we did see Belgium and Luxembourg in passing.

In Sibbe, Holland, we learned to love Dutch children, pies and hospitality. We saw our first 'V' bomb and reacquainted ourselves with running water and electricity. 'Cigarettes for papa', became the national phrase. Here we stayed all too short a time after half a dozen dry runs, we finally did shove off for the '"front'.

The Mortar Platoon received its first individual assignment when it supported C Company on the Roer River at St. Odilienberg, where the 8th Armored relieved the British.

It was a static front, but to us it was the real thing. Ask Sam Wetschler -- when those Kraut shells started dropping that first day, he hit that hole so fast that we lost him for a few days with a sprained back.

The windmill to the right of our mortar position gave us the most picturesque location of any unit in the division. It proved to be an excellent OP even though that AT platoon occasionally let a stray shell from their 57's glance off the bricks.

The British sergeant told us to expect Jerry patrols, but did we expect them to get within 500 yards of us within the first few days -- well they did. A few well directed shells sent them scurrying back across the muddy Roer.

Our emplacements became so elaborate that Sgt. Mc Bride suggested taking out insurance on all the furnishings. And how about Chiz's foxhole?

Who initially made the path through the minefield to the remains of 'Hoiman the Goiman?'

One lasting impression of St. Odilienberg will always be the delicious evening feasts (a la carte) served up by Sgt. Mancuso. That calf he dressed provided us with all those hearty dishes the men like so well. Boy, I can still smell those cutlets frying in the pan.

It was at St. Odilienberg that we got one of our earliest thrills. We listened in on the artillery barrage which simultaneously covered the entire Ninth Army Front -- it was a prelude to the assault crossing of the Roer. The shells were ours, but we surely hit that cellar fast. 'Mac', Ray Monce, and Bob Fiedler came down the stairs three abreast.

From St. Odilienberg to Lintfort, we chased the Jerries, and just missed them at Arsbeck and Aldekerk. It was in these latter towns that we began our souvenir hunting, became gourmets of the first order, and discovered Brooks Henrikson brushing his teeth at 2:30 AM inside his half track.

Our mission, upon leaving Venlo, was to travel a distance of approximately eighteen miles and then stop. Just as simple as all that. But you know how the Army is -- morning found us over the Rhine. Instead of the vicious assault crossing we all dreaded for so long, we merely followed a sign simply stating, 'You are now crossing the Rhine by courtesy of the umpteenth Engineers' and we were on the other side.

The Rhine crossing was merely a prelude again. The period from Venlo to V-E Day was approximately fifty days, and yet in that comparatively short interval the entire might of the Allied Forces asserted itself -- chaos resulting for the enemy. Those fifty odd days were bewildering to the man in the ranks, for events happened so fast, that we could scarcely keep them straight in our mind. It was like a nightmare with a happy ending.

Impressions came back to us illuminating the past like a spotlight on a darkened stage. If a photographer were able to record these flashes for posterity we'd have this picture:

At Dorsten -- the Mortar Platoon deployed in a ditch sweating out that vicious Jerry flanking fire again --the doctor's mansion -- the 88 emplaced in our neighbor's house -- that exhilarating feeling we experienced in firing a record amount of shells at the Krauts on the morning of Lt. Young's first firing mission -- that 'good' Nazi hanging from the rafters -- Cecil Frost's snazzy sniper's rifle -- that sumptuous banquet on our last night.

Through Geseke and Gladbach we played 'cat and mouse' with the 116th Panzers.

'Hell bent for election' we followed in the wake of the 2nd Armored, cleaning out pockets they left behind. At Neuhaus, outside of Paderborn, we stopped for a breather and helped neutralize some SS troopers and sundry others. One lonely Luftwaffe pilot really was looking for company that night, but we weren't in the mood for entertainment. He left his calling cards among his own troops, poor fish.

Chick Jendrus went out on a billeting party, but ended up as a non-paying 'guest' of the SS.

Rather than phaze him, this embarrassing predicament spurred our boy to greater efforts, and he was instrumental in capturing a goodly portion of his hosts. He also earned the Purple Heart.

Remember Unna? -- That deep draw adjacent to the crossroads was almost our undoing. But where else could we go, when that mystery weapon started slinging lead down the valley. Chizawsky, regardless of public opinion found a home in an open culvert. Too bad, we all couldn't fit. Bernie Rennenkampf, Norwood's favorite son, joined us here. Where did you get that wave, Bernie?

Westerhausen is a small farming community in Central Germany, with lots of farms and little community. It boasts of having a female resident who speaks English with an authentic 'Joisey' accent. Our stay there was featured by: nightly forays by hungry Jerries, John Lougie's decent from the wall (surprise, surprise), Ray Monce and his illusions about haystacks, Bob Fiedlers's twisted ankle, Rocky Giordano's magnetic attraction for eggs (176 in all), the 'open all night' beanery in the 1st Squad's 'bedroom'. -- Yes, Frank Mc Bride dood it again!

At Blankenburg, we took our basic training as riflemen. It was an ideal problem in village street fighting, the only difference lying in the fact that the Wehrmacht was already in the hands of the MP's. Going through the houses systematically was somewhat of a thrill, anyway. You could never be sure of what you'd find in the next room. Gerald Lynch took first prize in the 'Button, button, whose got the schnapps' contest.

We left Wolfenbuttel out of this narrative quite by accident. Maybe it's better that way. You might like to know that the surest method of making A. B. Jensen laugh is to mention Wolfenbuttel with the accent on the 'Wolfen'.

For an ideal vacation in the beautiful Harz Mountains you should stop at the Hotel Grune Tanne in Rubeland. Yours truly had a lovely attic room with southern exposure overlooking the Bahnhof. Most of us had reservations for as long as six months, but we cancelled them. The combination of an extreme cold spell and the 83rd Division drove us from this Shangri-La. It was a bit unpleasant giving up those outposts, though -- "Booty" Branson will tell you all about it. Before leaving, Herb Boyd reorganized the band and Sgt. Mancuso got his 45 day furlough. PS -- Herb Shapiro got one night's sleep in his sumptuous boudoir.

Uslar - You fill in the details.

Rokycany - I'm still trying to dope this one out.