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473d AAA Automatic Weapons Battalion (SP)
We have come a long way together since the old days at Camp Hulen. The road has not been an easy one. We have passed through the education and irritation of a training center; the mud and cold of maneuvers; the chill damp of England, where we first fought the enemy in the form of Buzz Bombs. Finally, we have come through the war itself, in which we played our part with a vigor, enthusiasm and courage of which you may all be proud. In the 375 days of combat during which you men actually manned your guns, we have never failed. No objective guarded by the Fighting 473rd has ever been successfully bombed; although the Jerries tried many times, much to their sorrow. We have lost good men, fine comrades, in this struggle. Those men we will never forget. They left us with the spirit in which they served. The victory of our army has been won on just that spirit.
(signed) Lt. Col., CAC Commanding
Index
CAMP HULEN AND MANEUVERS BRITAIN NORMANDY RHINELAND CENTRAL EUROPE
HEADQUARTERS BATTERY ABLE BATTERY BAKER BATTERY CHARLIE BATTERY DOG BATTERY
MEDICS THE CHAPLAIN SPORTS BLACKOUT CONVOY DEDICATION
Gruff
voices soon brought order out of confusion, and in a few moments, a
double, erect line stood - waiting! questioning? Where are we ? What now?
They soon found the answer to these questions, for above the tumult a
voice, loud and strong rang out, "This is it fellows, welcome to Camp
Hulen !"
Yes,
this was it, Camp Hulen, Texas. Small but clean; isolated yet self
sustaining. Home to thousands of Gls for varied periods, and above all,
the place where a new name in the Army annals was born: the 473rd AAA AW
Bn !
Formed in the spirit of a war-time America, the personnel of this
organization, drawn from many parts of the country, represented a good
cross section of American life; farmer, factory worker, cowboy and
clerk-all answered the call to arms and donned the uniform of the AII-American
team. In this spirit, we never doubted we could become other than what we
did - the best.
The
best, that's what we are today, but it took a long time and a hell-a-va
lot of sweat and work to achieve this end! Drilling, marching, studying,
cussing and griping, frustration; the whole book was thrown at us. At
first it staggered us, but with grim determination, we waded in, and in a
surprisingly short time showed results.
On
February sixth, 1944, the battalion received orders to proceed to
Louisiana. Arriving on the seventh at Camp Polk, we immediately set out
for the maneuvers area. Then it began. Hours and hours of convoys thru
pitch black nights over narrow winding roads into muddy positions - ever
changing, ever moving; digging, guarding, sweating - all with what seemed
too little rest. We ached and we griped but we pitched in and followed
orders.
"Tactical" was the little word that stood between us and a good old
fashioned bon fire in that chilly forest. Want those imaginary Blue Army
pilots to see the smoke? Or the light at night? Move around more - you'll
get warm. Dig another hole, brother - good for the muscles.
We
learned some good lessons in those muddy woods and we learned fast; for
not even one month had elapsed before we received, on March third, our
orders to proceed to Camp Claiborne for staging purposes. Our stay here
was of short duration. Much work was done on our equipment which was
turned in shortly to Ordnance. Then on March twenty-sixth, after a
physical check up and inspection of personal equipment, the three letters
we had heard so much about came into being: POE. On that day we started
our trek to New Jersey and arrived at Camp Kilmer on the twenty-eight and
twenty-ninth.
Short
passes were issued and many of the men were able to have a few hours home.
Those of us from other parts of the country appreciated the opportunity of
viewing famous New York City for the first time. But to New Yorkers and
Jerseyites, this was especially welcome. This was their last good-bye for
awhile; a few hours of forgetting everything but friends and home. Then
back to waiting, checking and more waiting. The tension was mounting
despite all the officers did to counteract it. Shows and PX beer safety-valved
our restlessness to some extent, but at best we indulged half-heartedly. SO LONG - AMERICA!
The
lurching of our ferry as it hit the wharf shook us from our reverie and
while the welcoming band played a few of our favorite songs, we trudged
into the immense building before us. Coffee and donuts from the Red Cross,
all we wanted, just "hit the spot" and before long we were walking up the
gang-plank onto the decks of what was to be our home for the next ten
days: the Ille de France.
Early
on the morning of the next day, April, seventh, the great sea queen
quivered into sudden pulsating life and, urged by the dwarfed tugs beside
her, moved softly into the river pointing her sleek bow south toward the
misty Atlantic. We were off on the great adventure with a last wave to the
Statue of Liberty and a softly murmured, "So long, America".
April
seventh and we were on the high seas, viewing the wide expanses of the
rolling ocean with mixed emotions. To some, it called up dreams of romance
and adventure; to others, last night's supper. Nevertheless, chow call
brought lines of men tramping into the dining room. We came in hope and
left in despair...our faith in English cooking was unshaken...they are
still the world's best diplomats.
Perhaps the most welcome diversion of the entire voyage was the contingent
of WACs with whom we shared our passage. Because of the high standards of
propriety maintained on board, that was about all we shared with them. But
we could look and that we did. Even such menial tasks as sweeping down the
hallways became an interesting gamble. With some luck a man might draw the
WAC deck...and reap his reward of a smile or a whiff of perfume.
On
April fifteenth the ever present haze on the horizon dissolved into the
rolling green countryside of northern Scotland. By the morning of the next
day we were anchored in the Firth of Clyde. Our ship lay still for the
first time in ten days. The tension of sailing through hostile waters had
gone. The surrounding scene of the bustling harbor activities was in sharp
contrast to its pastoral background. We were impressed and fascinated.
Here was a crossroad for destiny. Cargo ships, liners, cruisers,
flat-tops; each with its burden; each burden the contribution of a people
to a cause. The peaceful green slopes with their tiny thatch-roofed
communities, their grazing cattle, back-dropped the harbor as of kind of
symbolism...Here before our eyes was the "cause".
On
April seventeenth we arrived at Abergavenny, Wales, and then drove in
trucks to Dan-Y-Park. Quartered in drafty, damp buildings, sleeping on
straw pallets, we were far from a happy lot. The chow was meager and food
became the topic of conversation, holding its own against such a subject
as, "Where to now ?"
The
Battalion's first mission came on April twenty-sixth. We convoyed to
western England to join the IX Air Defense Command. Our AA defenses were
set up at Aldermaston, Greenham Commons, Welford Park and Membury. We were
treated royally by the AAF, chow improved a hundredfold and it wasn't very
long before we were given passes to near-by towns.
We
made our acquaintance with English bitters, pubs, money and girls, though
we were really still too fresh from the States to appreciate any of
them...
The
big news came on July third. Orders to proceed in convoy to South
Winchester, Hampshire for marshalling, preparatory to shipping over the
Channel. On July ninth we moved on to the embarkation point, and after a
briefing by our officers began to load.
The
harbor was a hive of activity. Every imaginable type of vessel was used to
swallow up the steady stream of men and machines heading for France.
Barrage balloons spread their protective cables over all. "Let's go",
passed up the line of waiting troops, and vehicles roared to life. Slowly
the file began to move. A sharp turn; a sudden burst of speed and then up
into the dimly lighted interior of the L.S.T....We were on our way...
Our
crossing of the Channel was uneventful. On July tenth the sloping sand of
Utah Beach came into view, where not many days previous the battle had
raged that cost the lives of thousands of Americans. It was still raging,
but now further inland.
Battery A covered a supply route south of St. Saveur le Vicomte. The rest
of the battalion gave AA protection to field artillery units around such
historic places as La Haye de Puits, Gorges and Baupte. It was here that
we came under enemy artillery fire for the first time. That was a
harrowing experience. It left us making mental calculations of fool-proof
foxholes and coming to the conclusion that it would be safer not to be
there at all; which of course was a ridiculous thought. But, ridiculous
thoughts seem to flow freely to men facing death.
During such an attack, C Battery had eight wounded. It was a stunning blow
to our sense of reality and the impact left us angry and not a little
scared.
On
July 20th, squads from each of our Batteries were attached to the 28th,
13th and 121st Infantry Regiments. The mission was to force gaps through
the hedgerows that formed the enemy's natural defenses. Our particular
task was to spray these hedgerows until the infantrymen could get close
enough to close in. It was rough going because we often had to expose
ourselves to get into firing position. Our tracks became the target for
every Kraut that could fire a gun. We were lucky in a way, for in that
holocaust of mortar shells and machine gun fire, we only left one
man...Cpl. Sam Collins. And so, in a small way we contributed our part to a break-through that was only to halt at the Siegfried Line. We led the cavalcade of troops and supplies to Avaranches and Pontabault, where we fell out to protect two bridges. They told us the bridges were vital and the Luftwaffe spent the next three days proving it to us. Jerry tried every trick in the book to get at those bridges, but the wall of fire that greeted every try made the effort too costly. When the probing fingers of the tracers found their mark, the resultant spiral of flame would descend to earth like a comet. The charred remains would be another monument to Pvts. Castallano, Marchesano and T/5 Iscaro who died there.
During the last three weeks of December we were in Holland, billeted in
such towns as Schaesberg, Eygelshoven and Niewenhagen. At the kind
invitation of the townsfolk, we were given sleeping quarters in their
homes. For the first time in months we enjoyed a rest in an atmosphere
that was the closest thing to home that we had found thus far. We forgot
war for a time. But the Luftwaffe reminded us of our mission, for time and
again they tried to inflict what damage they could on our main supply
routes, part of which we were stationed near. The greater part of our time
in Holland however was pleasant; we shall never forget the Dutch for their
hospitality. Since many of them spoke good English, we naturally did lots
of talking, for it was a welcome diversion to hear our native tongue once
again. Meanwhile the war was moving on and so must we.
Germany was not far away. We were close to one sector of the border over
which the Luftwaffe was using as a corridor to send bombing and strafing
missions back to Allied supply dumps. So we moved into that sector - the
better to spot them. The Batteries occupied Palenberg, Baesweiller and
Wurselen, and set up gun positions in each. The end of the year was only
two days off and winter had begun in earnest. Through the long night hours
of guard, over the cold wind driving fiercely, we listened for the drone
of enemy planes. New Years' Eve held no thrill like the others we had
celebrated back home. It was just another cold night. Next day the
Luftwaffe came in force and all Batteries reported claims. As part of the
German plan for the offensive in the Belgium-Luxembourg sector, enemy air
activity was heavy for the next few weeks. The snow and cold played havoc
with our equipment and got to be a more dreaded enemy than the Germans.
Many gun crews had only dugouts for quarters - there was no steam heat.
But somehow we kept warm and the more important enemy was taken care of.
It
was in this sector at Wurselen, that T/5 Tagliaferri of D Battery, was
killed through a booby-trap explosion.
On
February 8th, relieved of our assignment and attached to the 8th Armored
Division, we were on the move again. Through a shift of armies, the 8th
Armored was sent in to replace part of the British forces in Holland.
Extensive preparations on all fronts was now taking place and troop
concentrations began to form for the pending assault across the Roer
River.
Hectic days followed. This sector of the Ninth Army front was seething
with activity. After throwing up a thunderous artillery barrage, the most
devastating thus far, the historic crossing of the Roer was accomplished.
On the 28th of February B Battery crossed with Combat Command A and was
speedily followed by the rest of the battalion, operating with various
branches of the 8th Armored.
Units
of the 473rd, driving with the forward elements, advanced far ahead of the
main body. The Germans tried desperately to stem this armored tide, but
were unsuccessful. Prisoners were now streaming back by the truck load. We
accounted for many of these unhappy supermen. The main German forces were
fleeing now and scurrying across their last natural barrier: the Rhine.
Meanwhile, mopping up operations had to be carried out. Stony-faced
civilians stared glumly at the passing American forces. This was not the
welcome we were accustomed to. This was no liberation; we were part of a
conquering army now.
Assigned the mission of protecting Field Artillery and railheads, the
473rd was deployed over a wide area, dug in and alerted. The Rhine was the
next big Allied objective. Tremendous equipment was being drawn up and
assembled for this assault; field pieces, tanks, boats, bridges and huge
stores of gas and ammo. AA protection for all this was vital.
Knowing that the assault across the Rhine was inevitable, the Luftwaffe
stepped up its bombing and strafing missions. Night and day our gun crews
were busy. But no enemy air raid was ever fully successful. We were "On
Target" whenever they dared come close enough.
On
March 25th, preparations were complete. What we waited for had come. The
early morning quiet was suddenly exploded into an unearthly crash with the
initial opening of concentrated artillery. Tons of high explosive shells
smashed into the German defenses. The steady roar of cannon continued hour
after hour. Later in the morning our Air Corps took over, criss crossing
in the sky on their various missions.
Word
reached us soon that the Infantry had established a sizable bridge-head on
the east bank of the river. Orders were not long in coming to prepare for
movement. Working feverishly, the Battalion replenished its almost
exhausted ammo stocks. Vehicles and equipment were checked and readied -
not solely for the pontoon crossing of the Rhine, but for what we knew
The
famous Rhine river gave us a lot to think about. Here the Germans had
hoped to stem the armored might of the ever advancing Allies, and failed.
Would planes be more numerous now that the Germans were being pushed right
into their own back yard? How did Hitler and his Generals plan to cope
with this mighty force that had thus far outwitted them across half of
Europe? Well, these were the enemy's worries - and that thought, if
nothing else, was comforting to us. They had more to worry about than we
did.
They
did use their planes. But our smashing advance was so fast and so far,
both day and night, that is was difficult for them to know where to use
them with the greatest effect. Reports came from all Batteries, of air
activity in each of our sectors after the Rhine crossing. But our stay at
anyone place was always short. The armored spearheads smashed forward with
growing ferocity, skirting strong points when possible, but advancing
always. And not one enemy air raid on the columns of supplies we protected
was ever successfully carried out. Days and nights were spent on the road
with hardly ever a good rest. Fifty or sixty miles in one day got to be a
common occurrence. One gigantic team - pushing, driving, slowing up and
pushing again. Prisoners came back by the truck loads, bewildered and
stunned by our swift advance, looking as though most of the "Heil" had
been knocked out of them.
The
good news finally came to us that the American Armies had linked up,
forming a giant pocket of desperate German troops in the Rhur. Our
battalion, moving with the Armored forces, received orders to proceed with
mopping up operations. Now our picture was somewhat different. Instead of
a rapidly retreating enemy, we now had the task of squeezing a
hard-pressed do or die force. The fighting settled down to bitterly won
advances. All resolved that no German would escape this trap. And none
did! One instance showing this resolve was when a squad of A Battery men,
on April ninth, spotted a building that was being used by the Germans as
an observation point for artillery fire; fire that was inflicting serious
damage to the assaulting forces. Unheeding possible danger to themselves,
the crew in an exposed position opened fire on the building. In a matter
of seconds it was set afire forcing the twenty Germans inside to
surrender.
On
April 11th, orders were received to withdraw from our sector and proceed
to aid the 2nd Armored. That meant back to the main attack front to our
fast driving, hard hitting role once more. But we found that the same
punch was not needed. Something was happening inside the "Fatherland". The
German armies which had been drawn in to defend it were suffering their
worst defeat. The Third Reich was getting groggy; this was the last round.
Air activity on the enemy's part, falling off sharply, had by now almost
ceased to exist. Herman Goering didn't have enough gasoline left for his
cigarette lighter. The war was lost and the supermen were beginning to
realize it. Those leaders who had set out to rule Germany for a thousand
years and conquer the freedom-loving peoples of the world, were
floundering in the pulverized rubble of their own capital. The beginning
of the end was at hand.
Hitler Dead! V-E Day! We read the bold headlines and somehow we were not
surprised. We were glad but not surprised. We looked sadly at those
headlines and somehow the big black print didn't seem to be black. We were
thinking of other things now; of the things behind those headlines - of
the marching, the training, the studying, the sweating; of boats and
barges and
by S/Sgt. Raymond Wegner
It
all began way back in February of forty-three, when some ninety civilians
were assembled into that Stepchild of Army organization called a
Headquarters Battery. Here a man's status hovers between craftsman and
soldier; between tradesman and fighter. We were to service a combat team.
We had to learn to feed that team, to clothe them, to keep their vehicles
on the line, to keep communications intact at all times. Furthermore, we
had to learn to do these things under battle conditions - "Simulation"
they called it, and therein began a phase that ended only the day we hit
the beach.
After
better than a year of this sort of preparation, we hit the big time. Our
short stay at Camp Kilmer, N. J. was loaded with work and frustration. The
Battalion was subjected to every kind of inspection imaginable, and every
inspection meant work for someone. Supply men worked twenty-four hour
days; Personnel men made last minute adjustments. The passes were limited
to twelve hours - hardly enough to see New York - and certainly not enough
for goodbyes.
On
Good Friday Morning, from the rain-soaked deck of the Illie de France,
we got our last glimpse of Lady Liberty. Seemingly, she bid us God-speed
from out of the morning fog, and each of us told her our own private
farewell.
We
made the voyage without any mishap and were piped into Scotland by a
Kilties Band. We were given a cup of coffee, a newspaper and a nice long
train ride.
It
was May before we settled down to a quiet English life in a Glider Box
Colony at Greenham Commons, a glider base near Reading. It was here that
we learned about England, and it was from here that we witnessed the
take-off of those first airborne troops on D-Day.
D-Day
was a day of prayer at home and it was pretty much the same with us,
except that ours was a sort of individual praying. We'd see squadrons go
out and count 'em coming in. Sometimes there'd be some missing and then
we'd experience an an inarticulate little twinge in the pit of our
stomachs. Maybe it wasn't an entirely unselfish emotion, for we knew that
our turn would come soon.
And
it did about a month later, we'd had a mission shooting at Buzz-bombs when
our Battalion was alerted for France. Again that "This is it" feeling and
again we made it without mishap. Our entry into France was something like a nightmare come true. Hitherto, the war had kept its distance. Now we lived within it. The rubble that was once a village, the broken grotesque bodies of men and animals, the inconceivable complete destruction. The smells - of fire, of gunpowder, of decay. The dull booming of the artillery, the staccato cracking of small arms, the soft sighing whine of the eighty-eights, These were the things that impressed us...and made us dig.
But
even war has its compensations for the victorious. Ours came in the form
of the breakthrough and the subsequent liberation of France. It began at
Gorges with Norman peasants, cautiously returning to their homes. By way
of celebration they would unearth quantities of Calvados, a sort of French
Apple-Jack that had the effect of an atomic bomb - and the after-effect of
a war-worker's income tax. Then came Pierres, Coutance, Avaranches,
Pontaubault, Rennes and the crescendo of welcome rose to the hysteria of
Liberation. Flowers, Champagne, rare Brandies, nothing was too good for
these "Heroes", who, just a month before considered themselves fortunate
to get a drink of Scotch in an English Pub. We loved it.
In a
short time, the city of Nantes became our focal point and remained just
that for many months. Places like the "House of Mirrors" and the "Oceanic"
will remain legendary in our thoughts.
But a
pleasant routine is not the Army way and in November we moved to Holland.
It was a cold five day train ride in 40 and 8's, but as usual, we made it
without incident.
There's not a man among us that can forget the next three months. We
entered Schaesberg on a dreary winters' morning, cold and a bit
distrustful of what the future might hold for us. At first we were a
little bewildered at being quartered out among civilians, although we
couldn't resist the charm of clean sheets and comfortable beds. It took
only a few days to discover that we had struck a home. Our hosts became
our "families" and in the months that followed there occurred the best
possible demonstration for the American Way - a friendship between the
Dutch and ourselves that will exist as long as we both have memories.
In
the next months we had to forget that friendliness that comes so natural
to the American soldier. We had entered enemy territory. The weeks that
followed were unforgettable nightmares of violence. The crossing of the
Rhine amid brilliant and deadly AA Fire, the endless movement, the tragedy
of Bad Lauterberg where three of our comrades were treacherously waylaid
and shot thru the back by Nazi SS Troopers.
At
last, V-E Day! We celebrated - with wine, with cognac - but we remembered
too. We remembered Francitas, Gorges, Avaranches; Little, Frink, and
Shepard. We remembered with joy, with sorrow, but we remember - and that's
history - thank God !
by Pfc. Robert H. McKinley
From
the battle of Francitas...mosquitoes, foxholes (6' x 4' 6" x 2-1/2',
measure it Mr. Inspector) AAATC to the battle of the Harz Mountains (SS
men, rifle fire, few foxholes and no inspectors to measure them). Sure it
was rough, plenty of times we didn't know whether we would see another day
dawn, and just as many times we didn't care. Dust, grime, wet to the bone
and with that always present stink that goes without bathing for weeks at
a time. Riding in the snow and rain for days, struggling through
Avaranches with the innumerable [German] planes bombing and
strafing, the sickening sound of an ME-109 diving to spit it's fire of
death. If there ever was hell, this was it. Then on to Rennes; a real
French welcome, complete with wine and women - we were in our glory. On
the move again, this time Nantes, with its unforgettable alleys and
gentlemen-like warfare; yes it was nice, but we must move on...always
moving.
And
now Holland; a new language, different people, a home on the continent,
people who loved us and whom we in turn loved...Hard to leave? Hell yes it
was! But, the Roer had to be crossed and new battles had to be fought and
won. Over the Roer and on to the Rhine; out in front, one night stands if
we were lucky; a little sleep and then march order, march order till it
rang in our ears. Sleeping in the bucket, on the hood, and if luck was
with us on the cold hard ground. Those unforgettable damnable stoves and
countless figuring of how seven men could eat food that wouldn't make a
good meal for two and then with the food on the fire it would come again;
"March Order"! Stove and all in the trailer, pullout a "K" ration cheese
and crackers on the road...we're moving again! This is it, the Artillery's
setting up, put your tracks there, dig in, post a guard, the rest of you
get some sleep, chow in an hour...if we don't move first.
Planes!...Hell they're [German], get on those guns...you're on him,
now fire...give 'em hell, count your planes Hitler, we think you're short
a couple. At last a break, a house to live in, maybe a bed, nothing to do
but rest...What's this ?...Clean the bogies, clean the guns and ammo, wash
your clothes, gas up...We're moving up again! Rest hell!
On
and on, would it ever end ? When could we stop and get a good nights'
sleep and eat some decent food, it had to stop, but when? At last after
traveling across five countries and fighting in five major battles, it did
stop. At Braunlage we saw the end of the war. Battery "A" had done it's
job and now could sit back and look over it all and realize just why it's
the best battery in the best battalion in the world. Why? It's simple,
we've got the best damn men and best damn officers in any battery, in any
battalion, any place!
by Pfc. Addison McLintock and T/5 Thomas Russo
Gone
were nights like those at Avaranches, where B Battery blood and guts
bought that vital bridge, which opened the gateway to Brittany - where the
enemy used every available bomber and strafing plane to rock the earth
with explosions, and fill the sky with fire, while Nazi snipers strived
vainly to pin our deadly gunners to the ground.
No
more blasting at innocent appearing hedgerows like those at St. Lo, which
concealed death behind every bank. No more hidden mines lurking in fields
and roadbeds to wreck our vehicles. It was wonderful to be a liberator.
Suddenly the bubble burst; the Luftwaffe struck at the bridge in Rennes.
Leaping to action, Baker Battery gunners wove an impenetrable pattern of
steel over the bridge, and it stood. Now we realized a long road lay ahead
of us.
We
learned it again when a German attack smashed toward our C.P. near Blain.
Shrapnel tore through the air and missiles of death bounced off our armor,
but our Battery squelched the Nazi threat, and left the attackers groggy.
Constantly moving, and making new friends, we entered Holland. The
grateful Dutch people took us into their homes and into their hearts. No
one could say he left those fine people without heartfelt regret.
But
in war, one always moves; this time it was into Germany and the Roer River
Valley. Here again the German Air Force felt the sting of B Battery guns,
as we celebrated a victorious New Year. Many, who might have damaged US
installations, failed to return to the fatherland.
Now
the fabulous Rhine loomed before us, but our swift crossing soon put
history behind us. Continually advancing and ever guarding the sky above
US forces, we witnessed the collapse of Germany's industrial heart, the
Ruhr Valley, and climbed into the Harz Mountains. Nearing the Elbe River,
B Battery turned southward, lowered its guns, and flushed fanatical SS
troops from the dense forests.
It is
over now, but B Battery will remember much. The deafening crash of
exploding buzz-bombs in England, the staccato chattering of murderous
machine guns in France, friendliness in picturesque Holland, Schnapps
filled cellars in Germany, and bewilderment in restless Czechoslovakia.
More important, Baker Battery will remember its many successful missions
in Europe, its proud record of the highest total of air victories in the
Battalion, and even more so, its heroic dead.
CHARLIE'S TIMES - GOOD AND BAD
by T/5 Donald Bergen
It was a long time after our duties of protecting the artillery were over before we could hear a high thin whistle without taking cover. Those '88 jitters are a bad disease.
We
shall never forget the many tedious hours spent on guard at the St.
Nazaire Pocket. But the Germans didn't break out in force and we started
to receive a few passes to Nantes, where the entertainment was small, but
the prices high.
In
Holland, the people were friendly and helpful. There seemed to be nothing
they would not do to make us comfortable. Many of the fellows found a
"home" away from home in Holland and all agreed that of all the peoples
they had met, the Dutch were the nicest by far.
Entering Germany Christmas Day, we were all impressed by the destruction
and desolation of the towns we passed through. We moved into the basements
of the war-scarred houses and foraged about for beds and food to
supplement our G.I. issue.
New
Year's Day the German planes came over in force. Four of them crashed to
the ground as the others fled before the withering fire of our sharp-eyed
gunners. A good way to start the New Year.
Moving further into Germany, we passed long lines of civilians moving from
the fighting area, hauling their goods behind them. We learned to shrug
our shoulders and say, "Das ist der Krieg" when they told us their
troubles. Funny thing, no matter how many we questioned, there were never
any Nazis to be found.
The
happy faces of the released PWs and DPs and the way they smiled their
thanks when given food or cigarettes, lingers in our memories. Then came
the non-fraternization policy and the fines and punishments that were a
part of it.
In
Czechoslovakia, we enjoyed some dances and beer with a friendly people
again. After a one week rest, it was back into Germany, deep in the heart
of the picturesque Bavarian Alps where the Nazis were to have made their
last hold-out.
Here
we set up as an occupation force, establishing roadblocks, screening
civilians, weeding out Nazi party members, searching houses and uncovering
hidden caches of weapons and ammunition.
It
was here as the war came to an end throughout the world, that Battery C
found itself waiting for the order that would send us on our way back to
our own America.
Like
the noble animal whom its phonetic name represents, Dog Battery has been
tested in its many assignments and proven faithful; ever eager for action
and deadly efficient whenever action came our way, day or night, rain or
shine, in hedgerow, forest or hilltop.
Memories we have - yes. Every hour of overseas duty loaded with sixty of
them and each one sixty seconds long. Some are harsh, some mild, some sad,
some humorous. From Le Haye du Puit where the famous German 88 baptized us
with shrapnel, to the Harz Mountains in Germany where the Stars and
Stripes headlines screamed Hitler's defeat, Dog Battery's bogie wheels
rattled across our assigned trail, at sunrise, noon or blackout; through
rain, through snow, through mud; through cutting wind and choking dust; on
good roads, bad roads and on some that we made ourselves. But always on
time - scores of destinations without fail were reached at the proper
hour. And along that trail, there were both flying and ground targets that
felt the sting of our 50s and 37s. Our guns spoke often to the enemy and
in tones that commanded respect.
To
all of our officers, whose leadership inspired us every mile of the way, a
salute with our earnest expression of gratitude. Sound judgment, with
calmness and calculation on their part, in all of our darker moments, was
never lacking.
Looking back, we humbly claim no glory for the part we played in
performing our duty; for victory, as we well know, was not achieved
without its sacrifice in the precious lives of our comrades who fell.
Their blood is the supreme price of freedom which neither monuments,
medals nor words can adequately glorify. To them, whose willing hands have
no more labor, whose weary feet have reached journey's end, whose aching
minds are at peace, to them alone, goes the undying honor and reverence.
We
are proud of the job accomplished along that winding muddy trail from its
beginning on Omaha Beach to its glorious conclusion on V-E Day, contented
that our efforts were not without reward; the reward of peace and the
thoughts of home and friends. And the deep down inside reward in the
cheers of liberated peoples; the wild joy of women and children and old
men amid laughter, tears, flowers and wine; these are the rewards we shall
never forget. No words can fully describe the feeling it gave us to think
we played some little part in bringing happiness to those people. If we
suffered any, we are none the worse for it; if we tired ourselves any, we
are rested now and pleased with our labor; if we became impatient at
times, we have acquired the virtue of patience, and if we never before
realized the full meaning of the word freedom, believe us, we do now.
by T/3 Robert Lentz
Not
only in case of a casualty was the medic on the job: Patiently training at
camp where he tied up the healthiest of pals just to be able to bandage
correctly and in the least time necessary when he might be called upon;
assisting at sick call, learning to take care of those aches and pains
that beset us all; studying field sanitation and public health. All of
this to one end. To be the best medical aid man possible, caring for all
casualties encountered and treating those minor aches and pains.
Then
on the job overseas, practicing what was learned in camp. The aid man
traveling with the various platoons. Out on their own, doing their level
best to maintain the highest standards of health and sanitation. And in
the Aid Station, officers and enlisted men giving more definite treatment
and supervising evacuation. The Aid Station traveled with Headquarters
Battery except for the interlude with the 8th Armored Division, when they
were giving medical aid to Division rear and dental care to both Forward
and Rear Echelons.
We've
heard the call - "Medic!" And we've done our best to make our response the
most efficient and cheerful possible.
Consequently, the 473rd has not marched alone during its years of service.
God has marched with it: The Chaplains have seen to that. By every
possible means they have striven to bring religion into the lives of the
men committed to their care. And, it is to the credit of our men and their
officers that religion holds an important position in our history. It has
not been neglected but rather has formed an integral and essential part of
our family life.
The
first of these men to serve with the 473rd was Chaplain E. M. Clapper who
joined the organization at Camp Hulen, Texas in March of 1943. After
changing the T.O. placing Chaplains of the AA with AA Groups, this unit
was without a Chaplain until Chaplain George A. Kmieck was assigned to the
unit upon arrival overseas. He was with the Battalion through its combat
period, after which he was assigned to an Infantry unit. Chaplain John B.
Holland has been assigned to the unit succeeding Chaplain Kmieck
endeavoring to assist everyone in his soldiering, in his citizenship and
in being Godly men.
by Sgt. Leonard Tyminski
Our boxing team kept up the prestige of the battalion by setting a record of its own in boxing circles. They won the 8th Armored "Invitation Show" and then came to take the Southern Germany title.
Our
officers held the prestige of the men by winning the softball and volley
ball championships of the Group.
So
hats off to the 473rd G.I. - not only for contributing so much to victory,
but for holding the number one position in sports. In the words of Col.
Burba of the 8th Armored Division who stated, "The cocky 473rd could
outbox and outplay any outfit in the E.T.O."
We
can never, in the future, recall our ETO experiences without thinking of
our blackout drives. The average European road even in broad daylight, is
nothing to make any American driver dance for joy. They are narrow and
ditched; dusty if dry, muddy and slippery if wet. At night these hazards
increase their effect tenfold.
But
we must move. The time of day is not for us to choose - nor the weather -
nor the road. Bombed bridges will delay but not stop us. We must move now.
Tonight! Our mission here is finished. We move out in thirty minutes, and
- Thirty minutes? Hell, we gotta move fast!
Now
is when maintenance pays off...Nothing must go wrong. After hurried
preparations and last minute checking, we find ourselves lumbering out of
position and heading for the road. We turn west and join the rest of the
Platoon near their CP. Soon we are on our way, slowly at first for the
night is inky black. The stingy little blackout lights on the vehicle
ahead seem no better than the glow of a cigarette, and dust swirls up from
the road shielding them from our straining eyes. A row of overhanging
trees on either side of the road looms up suddenly and we pass through a
natural "tunnel" which hides the meager light from the sky, distorting the
silhouette of the vehicle leading us as we surge uncertainly forward. Into
the clear once more, we pick up the dusty red lights again. The sky clears
somewhat and our speed increases noticeably, except where the ancient road
twists and turns, then slopes down toward some hamlet, quietly deserted
and ghostlike; either sleeping or blasted into silence by our Air Corps or
by the tanks which precede us. Melancholy it looks, in the murky shadows
as we rumble by, indistinctly resembling the previous towns, emitting the
same odors; musty, sickening and stale, the smell of death heavy in the
air. We can see the battered smoldering buildings and here and there,
discernable even in the shadows, white surrender flags hang limp and
dejected gathering our dust.
To
our right and left in the distance, the flash of artillery stabs at the
black sky, and seconds later the deep throated roar of big guns
reverberates over the valley. American guns. We nod approvingly to one
another and feel better. We are not alone out here tonight.
Presently the moon puts in an appearance; the strain is eased, for the
road takes shape and we ride with more assurance. Off to the side we can
make out the burned hulk of a Jerry tank with the usual litter of
equipment scattered around and hastily abandoned. We can see too the
overturned wagons that the Krauts used in their retreat; more equipment
tumbled in wild confusion in the ditches; dead horses lying grotesquely
among the debris. Knocked out gun positions blasted to twice their
original size; fields of grass and clover pock-marked by artillery; trees
uprooted, wire fences snapped and tangled and the tell-tale foot-deep ruts
of some monster tank that took to the field. These are the things that we
hurriedly glimpse as we roll on. We begin to get hungry now, and dry from the dust; cramped from sitting and jouncing. We become impatient too. When will we get there? How many miles did we go? How the hell much further...
Look!
Ahead! Ahead of our column - tracers in the sky, climbing into the
blackness; two streams of them spaced with precision, all following the
leader; then wavering, changing course, groping for the target, hanging
momentarily before they die, looking like tangled sets of Christmas tree
lights. Now more streams split the darkness - another gun speaks up - and
another! Soon a fountain of lead is pouring upward. Where is that plane ?
Our column stops. Gunners, trackers, cannoneers, all jolted to wakefulness
now and tensely alert. Then we can hear it. The familiar up and down drone
of a [German] plane. The guns up front quit, for the plane is
nearer to us now. Before the sky is clear of tracers, the track just ahead
joins in. There he is! We can see him silhouetted against the sky! Fire!
Fire! The 50s chatter an answer, deafening, pounding; roaring defiance at
the intruder, in rapid succession firing and recoiling like two barking
dogs straining at leashes. Flashing light fills the turret and shows our
battle-intoxicated faces upturned. The thundering crash of a bomb
somewhere behind us sends a shower of dirt around the area. Another crash
follows it, farther back. He's strafing the column now! Green tracers mix
with our red. Now we can faintly see him zoom up and away. But he's hit!
See - he's burning! Zigzagging away now, the ship seems to fight for
control, to shake off the flames eating its strength. But the wound is
fatal. It settles reluctantly for the downward plunge which ends in one
blinding flash. Another swastika for the door of somebody's half track.
Our radio speaker sputters to life; somebody is putting in a claim in
category one. Who was it? What's the difference. He's down, ain't he? To
hell with him!
We
have reached our new "home" finally. In an hour or so when it's light
enough, we'll look it over, There's a barn over there; maybe we can get
some hay for beds. Maybe this place will be better than the last. Beds!
That's right, we're tired. Well, that can wait awhile - there may be other
planes tonight. We want to be ready. Tomorrow we can see about beds.
Tomorrow we'll look it all over - wonder how long we'll be at this spot -
hope to hell we don't have to move at night.
Through them we live
It is to these fallen
comrades that this book is dedicated:
ALEXANDER, ALFRED
|
Officers and Men of the
473rd: