I ran up to the road and noticed a man in a German fur coat thrashing around on the pavement,

obviously wounded. I almost shot him, but at the last minute I noticed the boots—they were American

boots and the man thrashing wasn’t a German, but was our BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) man. I called

back for a jeep to evacuate him and was told only the colonel’s jeep was in the vicinity. With my newfound

bravado, I yelled that I didn’t give a damn whose jeep it was. The jeep arrived shortly, without the colonel,

and we evacuated our man on the hood.

            We formed up again and five minutes later a German machine gun opened up on us. As I rolled,

I noticed the little dust jets kicking up, coming toward me just like in the movies. I suddenly had a feeling

of being kicked in the foot. I froze—primarily from fear—and yelled for a medic. There was no pain, so

I figured I was mistaken—and embarrassed. I felt much better when I saw two holes, one on the inside of

my foot and an exit hole on the top.

            There was no more firing since I had noticed, out of the corner of my eye that Magera and Garcia

were quickly working up the left side of the road. I crawled a short distance to a trench where our medic,

Paul Bealer, was waiting. While he was bandaging my foot, diarrhea hit again. It was now my turn for a

jeep ride and I was one happy dogface.

            There was some delay getting back to the aid station. When I arrived, I encountered six men from

the Second Platoon. They said that the Second Platoon had replaced the First Platoon at point shortly after

I was hit. They had gone several hundred yards when they ran into a hornet’s nest. Our platoon only had

two casualties in eight hours and the Second Platoon had six casualties in 15 minutes.

            Back in the hospital, the doctors told me all I had was a good, clean Purple Heart. However,

I couldn’t walk for about a month because of the severed ligament. So I had a good rest. The important

thing I remember about the hospital was finally getting enough to eat.

            I returned to Company L and combat in early January 1945. I had been shot with no pain and was

an 11-day combat veteran. For the first time in my life, I felt that I was very good at my trade. I was soon

to get a lot smarter.

            When I returned, the company was in a defensive position in the hills overlooking the little Alsatian

town of St. Nicholas. Since we didn’t have much to keep us occupied, we started improving our dwellings.

Foxholes were joined together and made into dugouts. The dugouts were fitted with stoves and mattresses

“liberated” from neighboring houses. Most of us made log roofs for the dugouts and covered them with dirt.

Our weapons platoon, innovative people that they were, put in a skylight and a vanity with mirrors. The

minute any shelling started, they crammed into the corners or into our much safer dugouts.

            One of our pastimes was to watch John Feldman negotiate a tripwire. The tripwires were our crude

version of a household electronic alarm. Two steel posts were driven into the ground about 50 feet apart.

A hand grenade was wired to one post. A wire was attached to the pin ring and stretched to the other post.

If a German patrol would approach at night, they hopefully would trip over the wire, pull the pin and

BOOM! Back to John. John must have been the model for Bill Mauldin’s cartoons. A heavy black beard,

wool knit cap pulled low over his eyes, and his steel helmet tilted back on his head. As we watched from

the safety of a tree trunk, John would walk briskly up to the wire and at the very last minute lift his foot just

enough to clear the wire.

            Things were pretty quiet, but we did send out a couple of patrols. The first patrol was performed

in the snow, wearing white parkas. The white parkas reversed all normal patrol tactics. Instead of seeking

shadows, you remained in the open, since the white parkas would stand out in the shadows.  The biggest

problem with the parka was that hearing was diminished when the hood was over your head.