On January 7, 1945, the LST slipped smoothly through the water as it neared the coast of France. The sun was two hours high in a brilliantly blue sky revealing a vast harbor that seemed to be carved out of the cliffs that dropped off sheer at the ocean's edge. The ship slowly inched through an opening in the manmade water breakers, an opening that was partially blocked by the hull of a sunken ship. And as we cleared the aperture, we saw careened, wrecked, scuttled ships of all sizes littering the waters of the inner harbor. The twisted half-skeleton of Le Havre, France, at the extreme eastern rim of the harbor seemed to rise from the water, a mute prophecy of what was to come. We rapidly disembarked on the slanting surface of the beach, assembled into a convoy and passed through the lifeless town, dead but for a few listless civilians and hard working men of the quartermaster corps.

We were in France! France, the fabulous, noted for its wine, its attractive women, its gaiety, its emotion and lightheartedness. France, whose capital is Paris, the chic, sophisticated, Bohemian, colorful metropolis of the world. We wanted to see this France, to be able to brag about it in our letters home, to talk of it intelligently when we returned to civilian status.

We were in France! France, the fabulous, noted for its wine, its attractive women, its gaiety, its emotion and lightheartedness. France, whose capital is Paris, the chic, sophisticated, Bohemian, colorful metropolis of the world. We wanted to see this France, to be able to brag about it in our letters home, to talk of it intelligently when we returned to civilian status.

An Army truck as a means of transportation of gas cans, rations and captured krauts is without peer; but as a rubberneck bus it is a flop, a fizzle. Replete with thirteen men (an engineering squad), rations, clothing, engineering tools (picks and shovels to the un-initiate), personal weapons, machine guns, ammunition, demolition and its impedimentia, a 2 1/2 ton GI truck is packed tighter than the proverbial sardine can. The opportunity of drinking in the sights and scenery is limited for the most part to the breaks en-route for eating cold rations, stretching and other "necessary" functions.

After traveling all day, the convoy stopped near an old chateau set high on a hill. The ancient place was entitled CHATEAU MONT BINCON, and was located near Heuyleville, France. Soon after our arrival the snow began to fall and the following morning revealed a foot of white, fluffy covering on the ground. After another day had passed, we started out once more. We, the enlisted personnel, had no idea for where we were bound. The Army has always used the policy of keeping the EM as much in the dark as possible since it is believed that he, the lowly Gl, has some peculiar, mystic means of communicating with enemy intelligence, and likes nothing better than to inform the enemy of what he is doing or where he is going. This policy was carried to such an extreme in our outfit that in case, as often happened in the dark, the rear elements of a convoy became separated from the forward portion and there was no officer around in the know, the vehicles would just have to wait or get lost. This was thought better than revealing to a few sergeants or drivers the esoteric secret as to our destination. Even in combat most of the men had little idea as to their objective or why.

By noting the road signs a fairly accurate idea could be derived as to where we were and in which direction we were journeying. The day after leaving the chateau we bivouaced tactically near Rheims in the snow. We had traveled steadily not stopping long enough for hot food, and most everyone was frozen. Stan Hoffstein, Henry Kraus and Russel Mattson had to be treated by the medics for frostbite.

Our camp site was a lulu. It was in the middle of a grove of stunted, gnarled pine trees. Snow was from a foot to eighteen inches deep and the temperature had fallen out the bottom of the thermometer. Moreover, the wood from the trees refused to burn. A persistent rumor hung in the air that Jerry planes strafed this area each night.

The second night along about ten o'clock, word was received to load up preparatory to pulling out. In the meantime, literally tons of machine gun and rifle ammunition, rockets and grenades had been received. This had to be broken down before leaving. {The convoy finally was ready to move, but we were still in the Army. We sat in the painful cold until five o'clock in the morning before moving an inch.

During the night of January 13 our company pulled up in front of several barns and a few houses and billeted. This French village, called Les Menils, became our home for about three weeks. Most of the men slept in hay lofts; the rest slept on the floors of empty rooms; the Company Commander slept in a bed.

The front was not too far off. We were within auditory distance of the booming cannon. At night the exploding shells and bombs filled the sky with an eerie light. This was our first experience with such, and the fighting ardor of some of our warriors was somewhat cooled.

We soon learned that we were directly behind the Seventh Army front but attached to the Third Army. Our division was broken down into three combat commands: A; B; and R. Each combat command was made up of one each battalion of tanks, infantry and artillery and one each company of engineers and cavalry. Our company was put into Combat Command R, the reserve command. Some of the members of the company acted as though this were an affront to their manhood. We did not as yet have the slightest inkling of what combat was like.

Shortly after our arrival, Combat Command A went into action in the Saar Moselle Sector capturing a town. Company A of our engineer battalion suffered several casualties during this engagement. This operation was for the purpose of applying pressure to the enemy lines below the Bulge.

Most of the time at Les Menils was given over to maintenance. But the officers and their drivers roamed up and down the front in their peeps on reconnaissance seeking experience. Dick McKean took over h.q. platoon and made life miserable for the armorer. The line platoons built an occasional bridge, repaired roads and breached a newly discovered (at the cost of two lives from the 88th recon.) mine field. The temperature was sometimes down to 20 degrees below zero.

Big Bear Pizzo was driving his squad out to the bridge job on which they were then engaged when suddenly the motor of his H-T died. After cursing it awhile, practically wearing out the battery trying to get it started and tinkering with it in general, Big Bear checked the gas, at someone's suggestion. There was none. Pizzo stood in the middle of the frozen road, scratched his head and mumbled, "I didn't think of that."

There was twelve to eighteen inches of snow on the ground and that bitterly cold. There was no form of entertainment available other than the movie, "The Song of the "Open Road", which was shown us again. Recreation was at a standstill.

Three miles from our hamlet was the fair sized city of Pont-a-Mousson. And in Pont-a-Mousson was a number of liquid refreshment dispensaries usually featuring the added attraction of several not so petite nor demure French coquettes. "But a woman's a woman for a' that." The officers had peeps and could come and go as they chose. When all these facts finally came into the possession of certain enlisted personnel, trying to keep them away from Pont-a-Mousson was next to impossible. The town was declared off limits and M.P.s were scattered profusely about, but this only added zest to the trip - another challenge to our democratic tenets.

It was at Les Meniis that that ethereal substance that generals, advertising copywriters and politicians call morale began to rise and fall with the density of the incoming mail bag. It seems that photography had developed to such a stage that the plainest girl appeared in a touched up photograph to look like Heddy Lamarr. With three thousand and more miles between said girl and lonesome GI, and with an all too forgiving memory refreshed only by a hepped up picture, it did not take long for a soldier to forget all the bad points of his prospective "miss" and to ascribe unto her all the lush charms of Cleopatra minus her asp. As this illusion increased, he verily held his breath at mail call.

The girl friend, on the other hand, found herself bombarded by the press, radio and screen to keep up the morale of her lover overseas. So, if human (and according to the latest census, most women are), she tended to sprinkle her letters with star dust which left the recipient in a maniac state of passion.

However, there were some (of both sexes) who discovered that absence freed them from onerous inhibitions and obligations. When this happened in the company, that is, when some soldier received word that his wife or sweetheart had transferred her affections to different quarters, not only was the one man affected, but thoughtful faces appeared throughout the company and the search for surcease of sorrow via liquor renewed with double vigor.

All in all the company arrived at the conclusion that the two genders were masculine and feminine. The masculine was divided into temperate and intemperate; the feminine, into frigid and torrid.

Woody Engle ventured the opinion that matrimony is an institution for the punishment of one's sins.

After a couple of weeks in Les Menils it was discovered that public showers were located in Pont-a-Mousson. Several staff meetings later it was decided to send small groups of men in for showers. A man and his wife ran the shower room, he keeping the place clean and she controlling the finances, and the showers. There were no dressing rooms. One just stripped in the hall leaving his clothes in a pile, and the woman would then show him his shower. It was with tortured puritan minds that we took showers -~ wanting and needing the cleansing badly but shy about peeling in front of a woman. She came to the rescue by forcing the issue warning us to either or else. We took the shower.

Throughout subsequent adventures in Europe until the end of the war, we reckoned time in terms of showers, for we averaged about one a month, usually after some big campaign.

Fred Coon and Fritz Mileski turned greedy one day. They were not satisfied with one shower a month. They had to go back for seconds and were caught by Captain Rickard who was enjoying fifths. Setting up a court in which he acted as judge, jury and prosecuting attorney, Rickard found the boys guilty and sentenced each of them to dig a six by six in the granite like ground on his own time. This started what might be called the holey era for, hence-forth, the standard punishment for all minor infractions was digging a six by six or a latrine or two. It was quite common at night to see some lonely figure on the hillside laboring mightily in the snow -- especially H. C. Moore.

With the white snow piled up against the quaint old stone buildings, the branched trees gleaming with white fringed lace and the telephone poles strung together with glittering tinsel, the Christmas card became a reality.

But despite the beauty of the scene, it had its disadvantages. There was no modern plumbing. Latrines had to be dug. The Army's latrine is a slit trench. How well we who dug them in France remember how they had to be literally blasted out of the ground with T.N.T. Let us go through the process and dig one again -- only in our imaginations.

The slit trench is a work of art meeting certain prescribed specifications as to length, width, depth and background, After a two foot blanket of snow has been laid back so as to bare Mother Earth's bosom, small holes are drilled, charges placed and the event celebrated with loud noise and rejoicing. Of course, the site was chosen with meticulous care after a many worded conference among our intelligence staff, staffed, naturally, with our most intelligent staff.

After the ritual of "The Breaking of the Sod," similar to the turning of the first spade of earth by some noted and distinguished personality when the foundation of a huge, expensive, public building is begun, a picked crew of experts begin painstakingly carving out this great outdoor wonder --- a rival in engineering skill to the great stone face project in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The crew, being naturally proficient, is proud of its labor, so blesses the soil liberally and often.

Now the task is over; the masterpiece is done. It is ready for inspection -- and use. The inspecting officer carefully measures it with his steel tape, mumbles a few vague faults into his beard and departs.

That night when the wind is blowing and the snow falling, a mystic feeling steals over you and you rejoice in the knowledge that here is the great moment, the golden opportunity.

Ah ha! With purposeful stride and fast beating pulse you advance upon the "piece de resistance." But the driven snow has covered it which entails a search. Oops! there it is as you gingerly examine your foot. Scraping the snow carefully from around the scene of operations you prepare for the maneuver.

The wind howls fearsomely. The stinging snow whips mercilessly around. The cold grips the very marrow of the bones. The maneuver accomplished, a dread thought plunges like an icicle into your heart. Frantically you look around! Perhaps it is only covered by the snow. You kick the snow, feel around with rapidly numbing fingers and curse your thoughtlessness. No paper.

But you are freezing and must depart. Quickly reassembling your halibiment you furtively slip back in among the company very carefully saying nothing to anyone.

And it was along about this time that a horrible disease attacked our kidneys. Without any warning one would be seized by an excruciating burning which could only be mitigated by relieving the bladder. Sleeping or waking, we were subject to this condition. And when an attack came on, we went -- and fast. Lt. Oliver during one attack used Charles Moore's canteen cup. The cup should not have been so handy.

Before the outfit left Camp Polk and again in England, rigid, inspections were held to see that all enlisted men's combat boots were heavily and thoroughly dubbed. Harsh gigs were meted out to offenders. Shortly after arriving in France, the land was covered by a deep snow and the temperature shivered down below zero. Since we were near the front a heavy guard was maintained, especially at night. Those privates and T/5s walking guard nearly every night developed, literally, the coldest feet in the world. The dubbing on the combat boots conducted the cold as copper wire does electricity. Yankee ingenuity was strained to the breaking point by the guards in efforts to keep their feet warm.

Finally, it was announced that snow paks were arriving -- a boot designed for arctic wear. And arrive they did, but not enough for the whole c0mpany. A number of men were going to have to do without. Captain Rickard took over the responsibility of breaking them down equitably. So he did -- the privates and T/5s walking guard were the men who did NOT get the paks. The officers got first choice, drivers next (they did need them), followed by rank.

A few warm combat jackets were also received. Again the officers took first choice followed by the ranking non-coms. Lt. Burch gave his jacket to his peep driver, Tedlock -- a gesture that won him more respect from the men than all the written orders the Army ever produced.

The privates and T/5s continued to stand guard without paks, It was March before the lower ranks received paks and by that time the snow had vanished; the weather was comparatively warm.

Woody Engle got "high" on cognac and tried to fly with his 3/4 ton truck. He was busted and relieved of his machine. Frank Zelichowski, likewise inebriated, orated to the assembled company that "we are here, because we're here, because we're here." He, too, was shorn of his stripes.

As has been said once before, the U.S. Army is the best equipped in the world. No pains were spared in furnishing our troops the latest improvements. Many new items for individual use and comfort found their way to the soldiers of the second great war, For instance, the little Coleman Heater, worth its weight in gold, can never receive enough praise. And, though vilified a great deal, the K and the new C rations were a vast improvement over rations of the first war.

Then there is the bag, sleeping, MlAl. This innovation had a different effect on each man, depending largely on each man's avoir-du-pois. The bag (actually two bags, one of GI blanket material that slipped into a waterproof bag of the same size and shape} was shaped like an Egyptian sarcophagus with a snug fitting hood for the head, and zipper (both bags had zippers) that ran a short distance from the approximate place your chin should be down the front of the bag, just enough room to allow one to wiggle in.

These bags were all the same size. No matter how large or how small a man might be, he received a standard sized bag. It really was not standard sized but rather was built to fit like a cocoon the frame of a smallish medium man. Large men such as Alphonse Gedvilas, 260 pounds dressed, could and did get into them, but they were then helpless. Someone had to get them out. There is no denying that the bags were warm and to a certain extent waterproof. But they were totally useless, even dangerous to a man in combat. After turning over in a bag once or twice, the zippers usually managed to hide themselves, leaving you with a sense of frustration, especially if you were in such a location as to be subject to sudden moves. Weak kidneyed men found them a hazard as did men who imbibed too freely of liquid refreshments. The strait jacket (sobriquet applied to the bag by those who knew it most intimately) came to be used by only a few.

As January drew to a close, preparations were made for a long move. As usual, we EM knew not where we were going, when we were leaving or why; but rumors were as thick as the snow on the ground. But the morning February made its entrance into the world, we pulled out of Les Menils and headed in a northerly direction. Night found us half frozen, still traveling, but by no deep in the pine add snow covered mountains of the Ardennes Forest. The temperature was trying to establish a new low.

A convoy on a long move offers little or no opportunity for properly prepared rations. And if it is winter time (as it was) with all water frozen, 0ne's gear gets quite dirty as well as one's person.

When a group of men associate together intimately over a period of time, what one possessed privately at one time, is apt to become common property. So it is that now and then a little bug, the propagator of dysentery, runs merrily through an assemblage. In Army parlance dysentery is known as the GIS and is avoided only by scrupulous cleanliness. But, as was mentioned in the preceding paragraph, cleanliness is of a necessity relaxed under certain conditions. Thus, the omnipresent little microbe that plays hob with the contents of the canals that lead west and a little south of the stomach finds a hapless victim. And none is so had off as he who has partaken of old issue C rations.

Bill Persinger was such a victim. On a truck in a moving convoy in the chilly dead of night, Bill found himself in a critical state, desperate. He had to go -- and bad. For a truck to drop out of a moving convoy is almost an unpardonable sin, unless it has developed some mechanical malfunction that is unavoidable. So the truck could not stop without holding up part of the convoy. There was only one way out, one solution - the tailgate. So it was that history was made that night by a truck bumping and lurching around curves and over hills and a boy with dysentery.

Later this crisis occurred in the life of another lad, one Willie Marshall. But it was not quite so chilly this time and Willie rode out on a lumber trailer all night in a position to meet any contingency.

Our convoy moved north, skirted Luxemburg, passed through Liege and dropped into Valkenburg, Holland, the morning of February 3, where we became a part of the Ninth Army.