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Early evening, 28 March 1945. You are Lt. Donald H. Pickett, commander of the third platoon, Company 'A', 7th AIB (Armored Infantry Battalion) of the 8th Armored Division. We have been moving from our last engagement at Imloh. We finally stop at a cluster of farm houses too small to show on our maps. The half-tracks are placed behind farm buildings, beside hedges or wherever there is cover. We dismount. The men stay near the vehicles while Sgt. John Hartwell and I move forward to learn what we can. I like Hartwell. He is a tall, slender farmer from Iowa, walks with long confident strides, calm, cool and very much to be trusted. A single tank, detached from the 18th Tank Battalion, has been with us since yesterday afternoon.

There is sporadic fire coming from the east. We crawl to a point where we can raise our heads. To the front of us is a tree lined road leading to a town. We can see the church steeples and the tops of the red tile roofs. To the left of the road is plowed land with a house in the center, perhaps a half mile away. To the right of the road is more land, flat, flat, flat. A tanker's dream, an infantryman's nightmare.

The men have been given the order to 'dismount'. Some wander into the main farm house. Others are looking into the tank. I wonder to myself, 'Where are the men of this tank'.

A G. I. is running toward us from the direction of the firing. Short of breath, he gasps, he is a driver, Troop C, 88th Cavalry, jeep hit a mine reconnoitering the farm house, one man badly wounded, under fire from the house, buddies trapped by the jeep, can't move, need help, medic !!!

We are in a willow covered drainage area - a canal during the growing season. If is could take a few hen, we could maintain cover until we reach the road. After that it's about 500 yards of flat.

I point to four men, "You, you, you, and you, follow me. Let's go!" with our heads above cover, we run. It's crazy! The air above us erupts in an explosion of bursting pop corn. Back, get back! No way are we going to get there and live to tell.

The tank! Where is the driver? Just then, he comes out of the main farm house, bottle in hand. He has been drinking - apparently too much.

"Sergeant, are you the driver of this tank?"

"Yes sir!"

"We need your help." I quickly explain the problem. "We will provide side cover while some men will ride on top of the tank."

"No sir!"

"Sergeant! We need this tank! Now!!"

"No sir! My orders from my captain are that no one is to move this tank except upon his orders."

You order him to obey. He refuses. You threaten to have him court marshaled. He refuses. You point your carbine just inches from the side of his head and threaten to blow his #amp;*#@* head off.