I was in my foxhole on my machine gun about twenty feet away. The krauts really gave us a laddering that time, and guys were running over from other companies hollering, “We need medics, get some medics!” We told them, “Jesus Christ, we ain’t got no medics to spare!” When Joe Toye got hit and then Bill, Hank Hanson told me and Ed Joint to run to the other woods and try and get another medic. I said, “Hank, they’re coming over to us trying to get medics!” The only medic around was Roe; he was running around trying to take care of everybody, and he got right in there with Bill and Joe to try and stop the bleeding. They were both in bad, bad shape. I didn’t think they were going to make it. None of us did. If you saw them, you wouldn’t have given two cents for them. Their legs were hanging off them. I can’t describe it. They were in bad shape. But they were calm. They just lay there. I tried to get a cigarette to Bill. I didn’t know what else to do. There was a lot of confusion. Everybody was shook up because it was Bill and Joe. Me and Malarkey helped get them onto stretchers, and as luck would have it, a kid on a Jeep came by taking 81mm mortars to his unit, an antitank company. One of our guys, Eugene Jackson from Arnold, Pennsylvania, stopped the driver and told him, “Get these men to the aid station.” The kid said, “I’ve got ammo to take up front.” Jackson pulled his gun out and said, “The hell with the ammo! Get these men back!” One of our guys—we called him Sad Sack, because he looked like the comic strip character, and his helmet was always falling off his head—he was crying like hell, and he jumped on the Jeep to see them off. He cried for four or five days, just sat in his foxhole sobbing.
Joe Toye and Bill were the noncoms who really took care of the men. They were two tough sons of bitches, very courageous men. Bill risking his own life to save Toye—that tells you the kind of guy Bill is. He puts others before himself, to his own detriment. Losing just one of them was a blow to the platoon and the company. Losing both of them together shook us all up. You can’t help thinking, There but for the grace of God go I.
They took me to Bastogne and medics tried to get out the shrapnel as best they could and stop the bleeding. Thanks to the medics, I got out alive. I think the cold weather coagulated your blood, otherwise we both would have bled to death. I was in extreme pain from all the shrapnel dug into my body. Since I could use the upper part of my body but not the lower part, they put me next to a kid that could not use his upper body, but could use his lower body. So I guarded him, and we helped each other, and that’s how they kept your mind up. They couldn’t get the wounded out to hospitals, we were still surrounded. We were out in the open, on stretchers in a churchyard somewhere; we couldn’t keep warm. I was sure I wasn’t going to make it. I started thinking about my mother, father, Frannie, and my brothers and sisters. I wondered, Who’s going to tell them I’m dead? So many thoughts go through your mind. I thought of Henry. Mom and Pop losing two sons. It was almost a year to the day Henry died. The next day I woke up and thought, Good, I’m still here. It took three to four days before they were able to push the Germans away and get us out. I was sent to a hospital in Paris.
None of us knew if Bill or Joe Toye was going to make it. It didn’t look good. But that Jeep coming up when it did, and Eugene Jackson ordering the driver to take them back—that may have saved their lives. Jackson was a private in our platoon who joined the company in Holland. He was a good kid.
Right after it happened, Buck Compton was evacuated. The emotional impact of seeing two of his best buddies, Bill and Joe Toye, in such a bad way was too much. I was there when he rolled up his bedroll. He had it pressed against his chest. I said, “Buck, where are you going?” He had a blank stare, he had a bad look about him. He said, “I just lost my two best buddies.” Then where he went, I don’t know. He must have gone back to the aid station.
Some guys could handle more than others. Compton was one of Easy Company’s best officers; he was willing to put his life on the line for his men and his country without a thought. How much personal loss each man can take is another story. I don’t think any of us thought less of a man for losing his emotional strength after a while. Seeing your buddies die right before your eyes, day after day takes its toll, no matter who you are. And when you see two guys like Guarnere and Toye go down, it had to affect you mentally.
On the 10th of January, the krauts started bombarding us with 88s and mortars. Just blasting us. Everyone was running for cover. I was in my foxhole talking to Muck and Penkala, who were about ten feet away. George Luz went running by to get to his hole, and Muck and Penkala were yelling, “Luz! Jump in! Jump in!” They wanted him to take cover in their foxhole. Luz ran past and jumped into his own foxhole. Just then, a shell exploded on Muck and Penkala’s foxhole. Luz ran over and looked down, and there was nothing left. He said, “They’re gone.” I got out of my hole and looked down. They had vanished into thin air. We were in shock. I looked up into the trees. Usually when a tree burst exploded and someone was hit, body parts went flying, and since we were in the forest, they went flying up into the trees. There was nothing in the trees. There was nothing left. Nothing but a hole.
Even while you’re mourning the loss of your buddies, you can’t help thinking that it could have been you. You can’t help being glad to be alive. I was right there. Instead of going a few feet to the left, the shell went a few feet to the right.
I thought back to the Mass Muck and I had been to a few weeks earlier, and Father Maloney saying, “The Catholic faith is the hardest to live by but the easiest to die by.” I thought how sincere that was and how much it made sense. Muck died in a state of grace. I still think of Muck every time I take communion.
In mid-January, we were advancing toward Foy for an attack. The snow was at least a foot deep. You could barely move, between the snow and the equipment we had on us. The snow kept falling and we had been marching for what seemed like hours. My mind went back to a movie I’d seen a few years back called The Fighting 69th, with James Cagney and Pat O’Brien. There’s a scene where Jeffrey Lynn, playing the poet Joyce Kilmer, is marching with his men through the snow, and he recites a poem. Of course, I couldn’t recall the poem at the time.
I saw a dead trooper on the ground. He was from the 501st. His hands were up in front of his face in a catcher’s stance, like he saw what was coming and tried to catch it. His helmet and bazooka lay beside him, and his black, wavy hair was blowing in the wind. Two dead kraut soldiers were lying next to him, frozen and twisted with pain on their faces. I thought, Here’s a kid who looks like any Italian American kid hanging out on the street corner in South Philly.
In Foy, we had to go about a mile through an open field to get to the village, and we were advancing out in the open. We were crouched down in the snow waiting for an order, and Dike froze, he couldn’t give an order. The Germans starting firing at us. Johnny Martin’s platoon was up front and they were taking a licking. There were Germans all around, and they killed Frankie Mellett and Harold Webb. Perconte got shot in the ass. Winters sent Speirs in to relieve Dike. I was on my machine gun covering the platoon, right next to Dike, when Speirs came running over and told Dike he was taking over. That day Speirs took command of the company for the rest of the war. A couple of the German snipers were taken prisoner and killed. Shifty Powers took out a couple of them. He was the guy when you had snipers to take out.
Later we were exchanging fire with the krauts in the woods when a lost German patrol strayed into my path. I opened fire and really got my kills.
We dug in outside of town, freezing to death, some of us with our burlap bags still on our feet. It tested our endurance, taking the dirt and the filth, being so cold, with no relief, no way to warm yourself. You had to lay there and freeze and when your buddy got in the foxhole with you, you had a little body heat.
At one point I looked up and saw our battalion commander wearing fur-lined boots. I thought, Where the hell did he get them from?! Some of the officers took care of themselves first, even though the men on the front line were the one
s in need. The higher the rank, the less you saw of them. Whether it was back on garrison or in combat, some of them were soldiers’ soldiers, and others we considered outsiders. Winters was a soldiers’ soldier. He took care of his men. He was the best leader Easy Company ever had. After him the best officers were Foley, Compton, and Welsh. And it was our NCOs that made the company what it was. The worst was Dike. I don’t think he was a coward, I just think he just was a bad leader. He was scared to see men get killed. He was one of the guys who couldn’t lead men, and some officers who could lead couldn’t hold a glove to Bill and the rest of our noncoms.
I was transferred from Paris to a hospital in England, then Scotland, then back to the U.S. When I was in England, I wrote to Johnny Martin. He wasn’t there when I got hit, and I wanted to tell him what happened, tell him I was alive, and to take care of the men. He wrote me back January 12, 1945: “Dear Bill, I received your letter today…Anything you asked me in the letter I’ll do. You know that. As far as what went on after you left, you’ve probably read it in the papers…it was plenty rough…and I’ll tell you later about who got it and who didn’t. Well, Bill…I’m going to see you whether it be soon or a long time, but I’m going to see you no matter what…Bill, when I got your letter, I was at the CO. CP. Of course, everyone was interested to hear from you. Well, they said read it out loud. Well, the CO and the rest of company headquarters were there. I got halfway through and started to cry in front of all the guys. I just had to take off, Bill. Boy, I never felt so hollow inside in all my life. From now on when you write, please…leave anything about your leg out of my letters. Just do it as a favor for me. I guess I’m not near as good a man as I thought I was. Boy, for the first time, I never had any control of myself. When I heard you were hurt, I got all the poop I could, but you know where we were, and I couldn’t possibly get to see you. All the guys told me how you took it cooler than anybody yet. Laying there shooting the shit when you were hit like that. Some guys about shit when they get nicked with a bullet and you get hit like that and just shoot the shit. Well, I just want to tell you right now, you’re so much better of a man than I am it isn’t even funny. I don’t mean only in combat either. You’re better than any officer or EM I’ve ever seen or ever will. You’re the first guy whom I’ve ever met I could hit it with and it’s just because you’re such a swell guy…For God’s sake, Bill, don’t let it get you down…I know you’re the kind of guy who will see it through to the end…I expect to have a lot of fun when we get back to the States. Buddy, we’ll rip her apart when I get back. When I go to bed tonight, I am going to pray that I get a furlough to England. I hear they are going to send them out…Well, I suppose you want to know what changes there are in the battalion. Our CO is now Lieutenant Speirs from D Company. I think he’s the best one we’ve had yet. There is a new officer in charge of 2nd Platoon. Welsh is S-3 and we have a new S-2 officer. Nixon is Regiment S-3…I’ll close now, and if I don’t get a couple of letters a week from you, I’ll be disappointed…So long for now. Your pal, ‘Jason’ Martin.”
When I read the letter, I couldn’t believe it. That was a side of Johnny I never seen. We were in and out of trouble together, me and Johnny. He was a good soldier and a good friend. I guess it shook him up. I think we wrote a couple letters back and forth before I was transferred to Scotland.
In Paris and England, they just tried to get all the shrapnel out, keep me bandaged up, gave me medication to keep me alive. When I got to Scotland, they operated to take off whatever was left below the mid-thigh. You’re wide awake when they do the operation, they numb you, but you’re awake. When they were at the end of the operation, the doctor reached up to grab a saw, like we were in a butcher shop. I thought, Holy cow. They said they were going to trim the bone. I said to the nurse, “Put your hands on my skidonies, so they don’t saw that off.” Everybody laughed, but she did it. I never forgot her, a little nurse from Boston named Rose Kramer.
I felt lucky to be alive. What I saw in the hospitals was so horrible it can’t be described. One thing I’ll never get out my head is the smell of burned flesh. I get sick just thinking about it.
Most of the GIs went home by boat, but the more serious cases, they flew home. On the flight home from Scotland, we were supposed to land in New York, but they had engine trouble over Newfoundland. The props started sputtering, everybody was getting nervous, and I was lying there on a stretcher, and the plane was going up, it was going down, and you don’t know what’s going to happen. So I said to myself, I’ll be damned if I’m going to go through this whole damn war to wind up going down in the ocean. I unstrapped myself from the stretcher and hopped out and I said to the nurse, “Give me a goddamn parachute. I’m going out the door.” I figured if the plane goes down, I’m going down with a swan dive. I’ll take my chance in the water. She told me to get back on the stretcher. I said, “I’ll kick that door open and jump out of this plane.” Finally the plane leveled off, and we did an emergency landing in Gander, Newfoundland.
One day in mid-January, just before we were going to advance and take Noville, which was just beyond Foy, I picked up my machine gun, and I couldn’t move my hands. They were numb, and my wrist was in excruciating pain like I used to get playing football at home and throwing cases of whiskey at work. I started rubbing them and rubbing them with the ice that had formed on the machine gun to get them good and cold and loosen them up. I couldn’t wear gloves, the gloves were soaking wet. So I put my hands in my pockets when I wasn’t carrying my gun. The pain was so severe, I couldn’t even hold my machine gun. For days, I ignored pain in both my hands and feet, because I wasn’t about to leave the line. But at this point, I wasn’t worth a damn. I couldn’t hold anything and my feet were turning black. I didn’t want to tell anyone. You felt guilty about complaining when you saw what was going on around you. I ended up in the hospital for five days and four nights. The captain there told me he hadn’t seen this condition since he treated pregnant women. I said, “Doctor, I assure you, I’m not pregnant!” He said my calcium was too low and sent me to a hospital in Liège, Belgium, quite a truck ride away. I have to say this: I never would have let them put a medical tag on me to go to Liège, Belgium, if Guarnere and Toye were still with us. I would have never left them. I didn’t care how much pain I was in. When they were around, I stuck it out. I would have run right back to the unit. I put up with the pain in Holland and in jump school. I think I never would have made Toccoa, so I’m glad it worked out the way it did. I did what I wanted to do. I got to fight with the best unit in the Army, even with my hands the way they were.
The kid in the next bed, they were taking both his legs off in the morning. The nurse heard me talking and said, “You’re from South Philly?” She knew the accent. She said, “You’re a Two Streeter.” Turned out she graduated Catholic school with a girl from Mifflin Street, who was a member of my parish. “You look like an old man,” she said to me. Those six words really affected me. That’s what war will do, turn a nineteen-year-old kid into an old man. She put my feet up on a pillow and gave me three big saucers of dehydrated milk. After four days the captain said, “There’s nothing more we can do, you’re a walking case.” I had to go AWOL to get back to Easy Company. The nurse knew what I was doing and gave me a bottle of champagne for the trip. On the way out, I bumped into two kids from Fox Company, Farley and Green, and the three of us hitchhiked our way back. Sergeant Green was from Georgia, and he and I hit it off. We made a date to go to Paris as soon as we got off the line.
The Germans attacked Alsace-Lorraine on the France-Germany border, so the entire regiment was sent up to Hagenau to relieve another outfit and hold the line there. They knew they couldn’t use us to do any more pushing, Jesus Christ, we didn’t have anybody left. But they put us in a defensive position, to prevent the Germans from breaking through, and we set up at the edge of the Moder River. We were on one side of the river and the Germans were on the other. It was a big change from Bastogne, because we stayed in hou
ses. Every platoon had their own house. We could even do OP duty sometimes from inside a house.
We switched off on outpost duty every couple hours and sent out patrols to keep an eye on the krauts and try and push them back. I was on outpost along the river one day, when a guy swam up and was climbing up on the bank carrying something. As soon as I saw him, I laid into him with my rifle. He had no business being there, and no one ever said a word to me about it.
We did some firing back and forth, but it wasn’t constant. We shelled them, they shelled us. And let me tell you, they had this huge railroad gun behind their lines that had us on edge. It was a 205mm cannon attached to a railroad car. They didn’t have many of them in operation—they were from World War I, and they weren’t very mobile, but boy, oh, boy. Ooh! They’d fire one round of that railroad gun, and let me tell you, you could feel the ground shake, and then you looked up in the sky, because it was so heavy, it would go chug-chug-chug-chug over your head. No speed. You could hear it cutting the air. You couldn’t see it but you could hear it, and it was so slow moving, and we thought, Oh my God, where is this going to hit? You knew it was going to be a hell of a shell. These shells could take out a whole house. Once it goes over your head, you know you’re all right. There’s a rule of thumb: You never hear the shell that hits you. Shells travel faster than sound, so by the time you do hear it, it’s on you. Once they fired a round of that gun, they had to move their position, because all we had to do was go look for the railroad. Once a day, twice a day, they fired that damn gun.
Brothers in Battle, Best of Friends Page 19