I was welcomed back by the cleanest GIs I’d ever seen. No more fighting! They even smelled good.

Three days later, we were back in action. I spent the majority of my remaining combat time kicking my own

butt. I was essentially useless. Every time I’d hear gunfire, I’d hit the ground and, in one case, one of my

fellow officers had to kick me in the foot to get me up.

            One day the Jumper came down with combat fatigue—or something. Since I was now the executive

officer, I inherited the company. Typical action:  a column of men on each side of the road. I was walking

back and forth cheering on the troops. As we approached the top of a long hill, one of the scouts suggested

we take a break. Checking my watch, I turned around and made the “break” sign. We dropped to the ground

and the Germans opened up. I couldn’t even move a finger. Finally, our tank destroyer people came up with

their armored cars and 50-caliber machine guns and got us out. The black troops had gained fame and a unit

citation for their actions at Climbach, France in support of the 411th Infantry, while I was back in the hospital.

            Returning to the rear of the column, I walked into the worst and most deserved tail-chewing I have

ever received. That battalion commander called me everything under the sun because I had gotten myself

out of position to command the company. It was another day of learning.

             One reason I had no resentment for the tail-chewing is that I had great respect for the man. This respect

was further justified when he pulled one of the smartest moves I’ve ever witnessed. The regimental commander

was trying to outdo George Patton. We were worn out, but the colonel said, “Keep moving.” The battalion

 commander decided to quickly “take” six towns. In the sixth town, he told us to get some sleep. Each hour he

would call in our arrival at one of the preceding towns, thus buying us six hours of sleep. As I look back,

I feel that our battalion commanders were our strongest leaders.

            Approaching the city of Landsberg, site of one of the infamous Holocaust camps, we were told that

700 Hungarian troops in the east side of the city—Landsberg is divided by a river—wanted to surrender. One

hundred German soldiers on the south side of the city didn’t want the Hungarians to give up. While the rest of the regiment was liberating the concentration camp, Company L was assigned the job of mopping up the Germans.

            The plan was to be trucked upriver, go through a tunnel inside the dam, and walk downriver toward

Landsberg to get the Hungarians. As we started walking north in a single column, we received some

harassing fire from the Germans in the hills. The company became split up into five parts, with no one part

knowing where the other four were. Obviously, we had radio silence; so all communication was by word

of mouth. Jack Scannell spotted a jeep-like vehicle filled with Germans. He initiated the message, “Stop

that jeep—pass the word.” The message kept moving up the line—as the jeep disappeared in the distance.

            We finally became consolidated behind a dike on the bank of the river near Landsberg. We couldn’t

get over the dike because the Germans were shooting at us from the wooded hills. Jack Scannell went through

another tunnel under a dam and brought the cannon company to the west bank of the river. As soon as the

cannons started firing over our heads, we assumed it was safe enough to climb the dike. I looked back to

see a large explosion at the location of one of the cannons. I first assumed it was counter-battery fire. I found

out later that this particular cannon had been set up behind a tree in their haste to help us. The explosion

occurred when the cannon fired a shell and hit the tree in front of them. Casualties, but no deaths.