The next few weeks were spent getting ready for what was generally assumed to be the final great offensive of the war that would lead to the total destruction of the German war machine. The basic plan was an all-out assault by the 21 st Army Group under the command of the British general Bernard Montgomery. Included in the 21st Army Group were British and Canadian divisions, the American Ninth Army under General Simpson (which included the 8th Armored Division), several airborne units and a host of other support troops. Logistically, it would result in a concentration of Allied military power equal to or perhaps even exceeding the D-Day invasion in June, 1944. A successful crossing of the Rhine River at this junction could mean the final elimination of the last great natural barrier to the Allied advance to Berlin.

So much for the big picture. At our level, most of the time was spent in cleaning our weapons, performing maintenance on our vehicles and studying mockups of the terrain and likely German defensive positions on the east side of the "Rhine River. Even though most of us were aware of the fact that we would be facing difficult times ahead, especially with some thousand German 88's which were used both as anti-aircraft and anti-tank weapons ready to oppose us, there seemed to be no real anxiety or trepidation among the troops. It would be a nasty business to be sure, but hopefully we would come through it alive and be able eventually to return to our homes.

Finally, the order came and on the night of March 26, 1945, we crossed the Rhine River near Wesel over a bridge that had been constructed earlier by engineers. As we rolled over the bridge, we were greeted by a spectacular pyrotechnical display of tracer bullets streaking upward on the night sky. Apparently the target was some German aircraft which were observing our crossing. The whole spectacle reminded me of Fourth of July fireworks displays at home with the big difference being that this was deadly serious business rather than a celebration.

There was little respite after we had crossed the river. Shortly thereafter, we were assigned to a larger task force with orders to attack early the next morning. Jump-off time was set for 5 :00 a.m. Our platoon was located behind some tank units near the head of the task force. As daylight broke, the task force rumbled toward a village (the name of which I cannot recall) and almost immediately we began hearing the high pitched whines of incoming artillery shells and a series of explosions all around us. The task force halted and, from our vantage point, the lead tank appeared to have been knocked out. Meanwhile, because of the heavy artillery fire, we abandoned our vehicles and took shelter in a nearby building which was already accommodating a number of wounded G.I.s. A badly wounded officer was in need of more urgent treatment and another officer asked if someone could volunteer to transfer him back to an aid station which had been set up toward the rear of the task force. One of our platoon members, Charles McLinden, offered to do so and went outside to bring up his jeep. All of a sudden, there was a loud explosion and when I looked out, I saw Mac slumped over the steering wheel and a trickle of blood running down his cheek. Mac was dead and apparently shrapnel from an incoming artillery shell had killed him instantly. Mac was a no-nonsense but yet friendly type of guy from Philadelphia and now he was gone. All because he had tried to do a good deed and it had cost him his life. Another irony of war, I thought.

Because there was constant reshuffling of individual units in combat situations, we spent the next few weeks carrying out various objectives and missions. One particular incident remains etched in my memory. A gap had developed between the Germans and our lines and the task force had been ordered to continue advancing until contact was established with the enemy forces. The point recon vehicle leading the task force was typically manned by a three-member team including the driver, squad leader and a 50 caliber machine gun operation. It so happened that the individual who was supposed to handle the 50 caliber machine gun on that particular day was ill and the squad leader turned to me and said, 'Peura, you ride point today'. Gee, thanks, I thought, you just made my day. But orders are orders and I had no choice except to comply.

We proceeded several hundred yards down the road and, in accordance with the scouting procedure for which we had ben trained, we stopped and the sergeant reported back by radio that no resistance had been encountered. We proceeded again, stopped, and just as the sergeant raised the mouthpiece to his lips to report back that everything was OK, all hell broke loose. A torrent of rifle fire came toward us with bullets kicking up the dust on the road. The three of us jumped from the vehicle and made a beeline to a nearby shallow ditch. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it would bum a hole in my body. I was absolutely convinced that this was where I would die. In addition to the rifle bullets whizzing over our heads which sounded like a swarm of angry bees, we began hearing heavy artillery explosions first on one side of the road and then on the other. Seeing that we were pinned down, a tank from the task force moved up, stopped directly over us and swung its 75 mm cannon over our position in the shallow ditch. Because we knew that the tank would draw German artillery fire, we waved furiously at the tank crew to move away from us. Somehow, in the confusion of the next several moments, we were able to extricate ourselves from a seemingly hopeless situation and worked our way back to the main task force. In combat, to survive was usually more important than trying to be a hero. At least that was the way I felt.

As the war began drawing to a close in April, 1945, combat missions became more sporadic and German resistance became spotty, though no less fierce when it did occur. There was no frontline as such and the immediate concern was the possibility of encountering isolated pockets of German resistance. It was during one of our sweeps that I was involved in one of the most traumatic experiences of my combat career. We had come up on a German farmhouse without encountering any German soldiers other than some civilians including several women. As we began to search the immediate area, three of us, John Steffen, Charles Scully and I were bunched fairly close when, all of a sudden, I heard a burst of gunfire and caught a glimpse of a bright red muzzle blast. In the same instant, out of the comer of my eye, I saw Steffen's head jerk back and his knees starting to buckle. He uttered no sound and I instinctively knew that he was dead before he fell to the ground.

Almost simultaneously, I saw Scully writhing on the ground and crying out, 'Daddy, daddy'. A weird thought crossed my mind: Why is he calling out for his daddy? Why not his momma? Not that it mattered, because it was obvious that Scully was in the throes of dying and beyond any further assistance. The rest of us, not knowing what had precipitated the outburst of violence, scrambled for cover in a nearby potato cellar. As I sat down to gather my thoughts, I glanced down at my rifle and noticed bits of flesh clinging to the barrel. The bits of flesh had obviously come from Steffen's skull when he was hit in the head.

For the first time in my combat experience, I retched and almost vomited. To add to that highly charged atmosphere of the morning, one of our sergeants yelled that we should kill all the German civilians who were still milling around the farmhouse. However, cooler heads prevailed and no further action was taken against the civilians. It was later decided that what had happened was a random episode rather than an organized attack against us. We never did find out from where the attack came and who was responsible. It was one of those frustrating situations that can arise in combat actions for which no answer can be found.

Perhaps because I had formed a friendship with Steffen since we had joined the 8th Armored Division at approximately the same time (he had been transferred from the Air Force and me from the ASTP program), I felt concerned as to how his parents who were living in California might be affected by the news of his death. Consequently, I took it upon myself to draft a letter to his parents explaining in rather general terms what had happened and emphasizing that John had not experienced any prolonged suffering.. I also had members of our platoon sign the letter and offer their condolences to the family. A few weeks later, I received a letter from John's mother expressing the family's gratitude for the information and also invited me to visit with them after the war was over. It was an invitation which I knew I would not have the heart to accept. Mrs. Steffen continued to write some additional letters which I kept in my possession until 1982 when I donated them to the Illinois Historical Library to add to their collection of World War II material.