COMBAT
BEFORE SESSENHEIM
Fifty years ago, I had one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Had I known that at the time,
I would probably have quit. It has taken me 50 years to collect the facts.
I was an infantry rifle platoon leader. The average life of a rifle platoon leader in combat was three days.
One reason for this short lifespan among second lieutenants (shavetails) was that their sergeants required at
least seven days to educate them. I listened carefully to my sergeants; so I lasted 11 days in my first “tour of
combat.”
As I recall, I did have plenty of warning about the hazards of my trade, but I thought those warnings
were for others. A grizzled combat veteran, 35 years of age, addressed our class at my graduation from the
Infantry Officers Candidate School (OCS) at Fort Benning. He opened his talk with the comment, “Six months
from now, two out of three of you will be dead.” This remark did not sit well with the mothers and fathers who
had come to watch their sons become “officers and gentlemen.” On our eleventh day of combat, I was shot
through the foot. The men who were above me and below me on the OCS roster were both killed. Seventeen
members of my graduating class, including myself, attended Georgia Tech. Two were killed on their first day
of combat and one was shot through the jaw. Tech football star Jim Luck and I combined for a total of eight
Purple Hearts.
So how did I get into this mess? It all started quite innocently when I was assigned to the 103d
Infantry Division in the spring of 1944. In the fall of 1944, we were shipped overseas. We were told the war
was practically over and that we would be in the Army of Occupation.
The first hint we had that someone was pulling our leg was the radio greeting we received from
“Axis Sally” when we got off the ship in Marseille. If you old folks recall, Axis Sally was the Milwaukee-born
bimbo who broadcast propaganda messages in English for Adolph Hitler. Sally said, “Welcome, boys of the
103d Division. We will kiss you hello at the Belfort Gap on November 11th.” We all laughed. She hit the day
right on the head, but missed the location by 50 miles.
When we were about four miles from the front, we were told to load our weapons in case the Germans
broke through. As you might imagine, we were all quite nervous and a number of weapons were discharged accidently. After about 10 hours of this dangerous condition, the order was reversed. It stated simply, “Unload
your weapons. We’ll gamble that the Germans won’t break through.” This order arrived early in the morning.
In a pup tent near me, two men were sleeping side by side. Upon hearing the order, one of the men sleepily
tried to take the cartridge clip out of his rifle. The muzzle was under his arm pit. The rifle discharged and
the bullet went through his shoulder. His tent companion jumped up and, draped with the tent, headed for the
nearest woods on a dead run. Of course, this was a combat introduction for our medics.
When it was announced that we would see combat the next morning, November 16, 1944, near St. Dié,
we were told to dig in for the night. I believe this was the last order I followed without question. Before I
started digging, I removed my lined coat and laid it on the snow, lining up. I did not know it at the time, but
the snow in the trees was thawing and in a short time my liner was soaked. I finished my foxhole after dark. I
did note that there was about two inches of water at the bottom of my hole, but I had my orders; so I put on the
coat and got in the hole. The temperature had dropped to below freezing. After an hour of this torture, with
my teeth chattering so badly I was afraid I’d chop off my tongue, I decided there was no worse thing than
freezing to death. I got out of the hole and started walking in circles to get warm. I encountered the company commander, who henceforth will be known only as “The Jumper.” He suggested I share the hole he shared
with the executive officer (second in command).