World War II
Left: 157th Infantry Regiment
Distinctive Unit Insignia
By Karl Mann
1925-2022
157th Infantry Regiment

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1943
Training
On July 17, 1943, I reported to the Greyhound Bus Terminal at
New York Avenue and 12th
Street, N.W., in
Washington, D.C., for active duty with the U.S. Army. Together
with several dozen other inductees I was then transported to
Camp (now Fort) Lee in Virginia. There I received my first army
haircut (a very short one), army clothing, several inoculations,
as well as my two identification tags. These tags, generally
known as "dog tags", were worn on a chain around the neck and
indicated my name, blood type, and army serial number 33 728
867. I did not stay very long at Camp Lee, but left a few days
later on a troop train which took me to Fort McClellan, near
Anniston in Alabama, for 17 weeks of basic infantry training.
At Fort McClellan I was assigned
to the 19th Training Company. Together with
about seven other recruits who came from a variety of different
backgrounds, I lived in a wooden barrack which consisted of a
large room and contained a metal bed and a foot locker for each
one of us (Two of the other recruits whom I
was to see again after the war were Ernesto Moyoral, a young
Puerto Rican whom I accidentally met again on a street in
Santurce in 1953 while I was working there for the U.S.
Department of Labor, and Harvey Perloff, a recent Harvard Ph.D.
in economics whom I visited in Chicago in 1948 while I was doing
graduate work at the University of Wisconsin in Madison.) The
dining room and kitchen for our company were in a separate
building as were the bathroom facilities.
Initially it was the sergeant in
charge of our "hut" who taught us. From him we learned, among
other things, how and when to salute, how to make our bed so
that it would pass any surprise inspection, and how to take
apan, clean, and put together again the rifle which each one of
us had been issued. Every morning after reveille had sounded
around 6:15 a.m., we quickly had to get dressed, make our beds,
and go outside to fall in for our daily roll call. Then we would
wash up and shave before having our breakfast which might
include pancakes, French toast, or s.o.s. Then we usually
marched in cadence to some other location, such as an outdoor
amphitheater, where we received instruction dealing with a
variety of military and combat topics such as map reading;
machine guns, mortars, and other weapons; hand-to-hand combat;
how to use a bayonet; how to carry a wounded person; how to
judge distance; etc. After a couple of months we also had an
opportunity to go to the firing range where we actually fired a
rifle and a pistol. Depending on our performance, we were to
receive a badge indicating that we were either a "marksman", a
"sharpshooter" or an "expert". As I found out later, I qualified
to receive a "sharpshooter" (M-1 rifle) badge. Toward the end of
our basic training, we also had to experience an obstacle course
which tried to simulate combat conditions. Fortunately it was
not as difficult as we had anticipated.
We were also required to perform
a variety of non-military duties which did not really make us
better soldiers. But somebody had to do them. The best known of
these was "K.P." (i.e. kitchen police) which included helping to
clean the kitchen, the dining room, as well as the huge pots
used by the cooks to prepare our meals. One day, having seen a
cartoon in which a soldier called his cook "cookie", I did the
same; however, I quickly found out that this was not appreciated
by our cooks and never again repeated it. The most frequent
non-military activity we performed involved "policing" an area.
This meant that all of us had to go over a large area and pick
up any and all trash lying around, especially the great many
cigarette butts. The least liked of all these non-military
duties was called "latrine duty" which involved cleaning the
washrooms, showers, and toilets.
"Mail Call" was the most
enjoyable part of my basic training. Twice a week we would
congregate in front of the company mailroom to receive letters
and packages from home. But I always felt sorry for these whose
sad faces indicated that, once again, they had not received any
mail. For me, the most important single event during my stay at
Fort McClellan took place on October 30, 1943. On that day I
received, at the federal court house in Anniston, my U. S.
citizenship papers and, thus, became the first American citizen
in our family.
Toward the end of November, my
basic training having been completed and having been promoted to
Pfc. (Private First Class), the Army sent me to Fort George W.
Meade in Maryland where I was given a three-week furlough to
visit my family. After this visit I had to return to Ft. Meade
in order to await shipment for duty overseas. In the meantime
Pappi, who had a consulting job at the Pentagon and was not
exactly thrilled by my being in the infantry, tried to help me
get into the Army Specialized Training Program, generally known
as A.S.T.P. Having scored a 145 on the Army General
Classification Test, an I.Q. test, and having become an American
citizen, I now was eligible and wanted to apply for this program
under which soldiers were sent to college to study a specialized
subject of importance to the Army. Unfortunately, A.S.T.P. was being phased out and
Pappi's efforts on my behalf were in vain. However, because of
these efforts I stayed at Ft. Meade until January, several weeks
longer than originally scheduled. As a result, I spent several
weekends, as well as Christmas, at home before finally being
shipped out.
1944
This time the destination was
Camp Patrick Henry, near Newport News in Virginia. Here I stayed
only a few days, just long enough to prepare for our overseas
voyage. Finally we embarked our ship which was either one of
many Victory or Liberty ships—I can't remember which—that were
built during World War Il. We crossed the Atlantic in little
more than three weeks, presumably as part of a large convoy.
However, we never did see any of the other ships. During the
entire trip we were not permitted to have any lights or even to
smoke on deck in order to minimize the possibility that we would
be seen and attacked by a German U-boat. Consequently, at night
we sailed in total darkness.
Our accommodations were
quintuple-decker canvas bunks. Being convinced that I would not
get seasick (which, as it turned out, I never did in my entire
life), I quickly selected a top bunk so that I would not have to
be below someone who would get sick. Entertainment during our
voyage was virtually non-existent. However, we did have an
exhibition boxing match between on of the soldiers who was a
professional welterweight and a bigger and very husky sailor.
Not surprisingly, the sailor lost. For me the most enjoyable
moment during the entire trip came about because I had been
appointed to serve as an acting corporal until we reached our
destination and one night became the sergeant-of-the guard. As
such I was free to go wherever I wanted to on the deck. After
checking on those who were on guard duty, and without telling
anyone, I decided to go as far forward on the bow as was
possible. There, in the darkness of the night except for some
moonlight, I enjoyed going up and down with the bow as it cut
through the waves. It was a truly wonderful and exhilarating
feeling.
Anzio
Finally, we passed Gibraltar and entered the
Mediterranean Sea. A couple of days later we reached Oran about
which I remember absolutely nothing except the big, juicy
oranges which I really enjoyed after our long voyage. After
being anchored for two or three days, we continued our voyage
and sailed past Sicily to our final destination: Naples. There
we disembarked and were transported to the so-called "Repple
Depple", the depot for replacements like me, which was located
at the Naples race track. A week or so later we were once again
transported, this time on a smaller ship (probably an L.S.T.) to
a little town on the Italian coast called Anzio. It was February
29, 1944.
Toward
the end of January, the 5th Army of the Allies had landed several divisions behind
the German lines near the towns of Anzio and Nettuno, about 36
miles south of Rome. These troops advanced very rapidly and
within days began to establish a sizeable beachhead. Early in
February the enemy counter-attacked and tried to push the
Allied troops back into the Mediterranean. After considerable
fighting which resulted in heavy casualties on both sides, the
counter-attacks came to an end and the famous Anzio beachhead
became firmly established.
I was one of the many soldiers
who were sent to Anzio to replace those who had been killed,
wounded, or captured during the first few weeks of the
beachhead. After my arrival, I found out that I had been
assigned to the Third Battalion of the 157th Infantry Regiment of the 45ff Division, the Thunderbird Division.
Within our battalion I became a member of M Company, the heavy
weapons company, and was given the job of ammunition carrier in
one of the water-cooled 30-mm machine-gun platoons. When I
arrived at my unit, which was located somewhere in the middle of
the beachhead, it was raining and the foxhole I was assigned was
wet and muddy. But I quickly learned
from some of the "old-timers" how to manage under such
circumstances and that it was much more important to always keep
not me but my M-l rifle dry. All of this happened before I
reached my 19th birthday. It was right around this
time, however, that I was surprised to read in Stars and
Stripes, the army newspaper, a report that President Roosevelt
had stated that no 18-year-olds were being sent into combat.
Thus, for the first time in my life, I became aware that
sometimes even Presidents handle the truth somewhat carelessly.
My army life was now quite
different from what it had been in the States and on the long
trip to Anzio. Almost all of my belongings such as raingear were
in my backpack, to which was attached my rolled-up sleeping bag
and a small shovel with which to dig foxholes and, since we
usually had no latrines, slit-trenches. Because kitchen-prepared
meals were now the exception rather than the rule, in my
backpack I also carried either C-rations or, somewhat later and
for most of the duration of the war, K-rations. C-rations were
roughly one-pound cans of stew, corned beef, or similar food.
K-rations, on the other hand, came in sets of three boxes which
were a little smaller than the size of a brick, one for each
meal of the day. Every box included a six-ounce can of either
ham and scrambled eggs for breakfast, processed cheese for
lunch, or some meat for supper; crackers; cigarettes; powdered
coffee, lemonade or bouillon; a fruit bar or a bar of solid
chocolate and, last but not least, toilet paper. Thus, we ate a
lot of protein but no fruits or vegetables. Usually we also
received about a quart of water a day which we carried in a
canteen on our ammunition belt. Since we usually drank all the
water, we seldom had enough left over with which to wash up,
shave, and/or brush our teeth. In fact, I remember having only
one shower during my three months on the Anzio beachhead: One
day we were herded into a large tent where we were given, as I
recall, one minute to soap ourselves and one minute to rinse
with cold water. It was the quickest shower I ever had.
Moreover, we normally wore the same clothes for weeks, day in
and day out, before we could exchange them for clean ones. Under
these circumstances, although none of us seemed to notice, we
probably didn't smell too fantastic.
As in the States, we also had
guard duty—four hours on and eight hours off—since enemy
infiltration was not unheard of. My first turn came one night
shortly after I had joined my new outfit. As I tried to stay
awake and perform my assigned duties, I suddenly had a very
painful stomach ache that wouldn't go away. After I was given
some medication by our medic and was permitted to go back to
sleep, the pain subsided. However, for the duration of the war,
I periodically had these stomach pains, usually right after we
were pulled back from the font lines but never while actually
were on the front lines. Eventually the medication I was given
that helped me the most was, I was told, opium pills.
Since the Germans occupied the
mountains twenty miles east of Anzio called the Alban Hills,
they could observe almost the entire beachhead and the
activities of the Allied troops. Under those circumstances no place
on the beachhead was safe from their artillery, Anzio harbor
being their favorite target. But as long as we were somewhere in
the middle of the beachhead we were less likely to be shelled.
Nevertheless, we almost always slept in a foxhole, with two of
us in each hole facing in opposite directions. And in the
daytime, we usually made a mental note of the nearest foxhole,
ditch, or some other relatively safer spot into which we could
jump if and when we were being shelled. After being on Anzio a
while I, like the other G.l.'s, learned to recognize the sound
of "incoming mail", especially shells fired at us by the German
88-mm guns. In addition we could hear the shells of their
long-range artillery, especially those of the two huge and
famous railroad guns known as "Anzio Annie" and "Anzio Express",
as they headed toward the harbor. On the other hand, incoming
mortar shells made no discernible sound until they hit the
ground and exploded and, consequently, were more difficult to
protect against. Depending on where we were on the beachhead, we
could also hear our guns firing at the enemy positions. And at
night we often would see the tracers of our anti-aircraft guns
as they tried to shoot down some German airplane flying toward
the harbor.
Toward the end of March my
outfit was moved to the front line, somewhere on the eastern
side of the beachhead perimeter. There I was assigned to a
machine-gun emplacement together with another Pfc., Daniel "Bud"
Gindhart, a young married truck driver from the Kensington
section of Philadelphia. This gun emplacement was significantly
larger than the foxholes in which I had slept during the
preceding weeks, measuring roughly four feet by four feet by
five feet in length. Inasmuch as we had very little to do and
almost never left our emplacement, it was fortunate that, in
spite of our different backgrounds, Bud and I got along
extremely well. We would talk for hours and after a few days, to
while the time away, started singing various songs we knew.
Later, after we had returned from the front line, another
soldier who had been in the next gun emplacement joked that,
while he was praying, we were singing the popular song, "When
the Lights Go On Again All Over the World.. .." During the
daytime, we would never raise our heads above ground level for
fear of being seen by the enemy; as a consequence, we could
never stand up, only sit or lie down. If and when nature called,
we had to wait until after dark. Then, because there were no
latrines and I wasn't about to take the time to dig a slit
trench, I would quickly get out of our emplacement, quickly find
a nearby shell hole which might provide a little protection,
quickly accomplish my mission, and quickly return to the
relative safety of our gun emplacement. During all this time, I
kept hoping that no incoming shell would interfere with what I
was doing and none ever did. If it had and I had been wounded,
it would have been an embarrassing story. Also during the night,
we would receive our rations and water and, sometimes, even mail
from home. While it was dark, we were especially careful not to
give away our position to the enemy when we smoked. Thus, when
we would light up and every time that we would take a drag on a
cigarette, we always did so having covered ourselves with our
sleeping bag or a poncho and suing our hands to form a cup
around the cigarette.
In April my battalion was
relieved by another outfit and we were moved to a rest area
known as "The Pines", a relatively safe wooded area. There we
received clean clothes, had the aforementioned shower, ate
kitchen-prepared meals, and even practiced some close-order
drill. Eventually, around the middle of May, we once again moved
to our frontline positions. There we stayed until May 23 when
the Allied forces finally began the long-awaited breakout from
the Anzio beachhead. After a tremendous early morning artillery
bombardment of the enemy positions, we left our foxholes and
followed the rifle companies in the direction of the Alban
Hills. Shortly thereafter I saw my first enemy soldiers—two dead
Germans.
That afternoon (or possibly the
next) we were traveling along a dirt road when, as often happens
in the Army, for some unknown reason we stopped. On one side of
the road, parallel to and a few feet lower than the roadbed, ran
a little creek. On the other side was a small hillside which,
apparently, had been sliced vertically to make room for the
road. Because we assumed that the enemy was in the direction of
the hillside and that therefore his artillery shells could not
hit us, our location seemed reasonably safe. Nevertheless, as
frequently as done when we stopped for an indefinite period,
many of the G.l.'s took out their little shovels and began to
dig a shallow foxhole in order to provide themselves with some
protection. Unfortunately, however, the soil was so hard it was
impossible to dig more than a few inches. I didn't even try to
dig in. Instead, having found an armored personnel carrier that
was parked nearby, I crawled underneath this vehicle where I
felt relatively safe. There I relaxed and soon fell asleep.
Somewhat later I was suddenly awakened by the nearby explosion
of an artillery shell. Apparently, in spite of the protection
that the hillside seemed to provide, an 88 shell had somehow
managed to land right in the middle of our troops. Immediately
we heard the cry, "Medic! Medic!" I don't know if anyone was
killed, but several of our soldiers were wounded. Some of us
headed right away for greater protection. Soon thereafter, no
additional shells having followed, my outfit moved on. But I
have never forgotten how lucky I had been when, by sleeping
under the personnel carrier, I had escaped any harm.
During the days that followed,
we continued in the general direction of Rome. At one point, I
vaguely recall, someone told me that we were marching on the
famous and ancient Via Appia' however, I was never certain that
this was true. In any event, on June 4 the Imperial City finally
fell to the Allied troops. My 45th Division
stopped roughly ten miles west of the city where we bivouacked
for the next two weeks or so. Shortly thereafter, a couple of
other G.l.'s who had access to a jeep told me that they were
going to Rome for some sightseeing and asked me if I wanted to
come along. I was delighted to do so and, since there was no
backseat for me to sit on, I rode in the back of the jeep
sitting on one of the metal corners. In Rome we managed to see a
number of famous landmarks, including St. Peter's, the Coliseum,
and the huge white monument to King Victor Emmanuel Il. A day or
two after this trip, my tailbone began to hurt quite a bit. I
couldn't figure out what the problem was. No matter what
position I was in— whether I was standing, sitting, or lying
down—the pain would not stop. Finally, another soldier told me
that he had had the same thing and that it was an abscess called
a "pilonidal cyst". It probably had been caused because, during
the bumpy ride to Rome, I had been sitting on the metal of the
jeep. At any rate, a day later I was on my way to a field
hospital where a doctor confirmed the soldier's diagnosis. Soon
thereafter I had surgery to remove the abscess and have had no
problems since that time.
About a week later I rejoined my
outfit which, by this time, had moved to an area near Salerno to
prepare for the coming invasion of southern France. However, in
order to let my incision heal, I did not participate in these
preparations. Having little to do, I took advantage of another
invitation, this time to look at the ruins of Pompeii. It was a
fascinating visit. The town being completely deserted, we
wandered around and saw a lot, even if we did not always know
what, specifically, we were looking at.
In July, when I finally returned
to active duty, I did not rejoin my old machine-gun platoon,
instead I was assigned to my company's 81 -mm mortar platoon.
However, not having participated in the invasion preparations, I
did not become an ammunition carrier, but was given an anti-tank
weapon called a bazooka. Although I had never fired this weapon,
my job was to carry this weapon until we landed in France.
Southern
France
Final preparations for our invasion of southern France took
place during the second week of August, at which time we
received a new issue of clothing, wrote V-mail letters to our
families and friends, and attended either Catholic or Protestant
worship services. Subsequently we were trucked to Naples where
we boarded our ship which, I believe, was an LCI (Landing Craft,
Infantry). During the early morning hours of August 15, 1944,
having sailed to the western end of the French Riviera, we
transferred to small boats called LCVP's (Landing Craft, Vehicle
and Personnel) which were also known as "Higgins" boats. I
vaguely recall that we did so by climbing down cargo nets which
had been hung over the side of the LCI, but otherwise I don't
really remember much that happened during this night. Like all
or almost all of the others in my outfit I was worried and
scared, wondering what we might encounter when we landed. What
really frightened me the most was the rumor that the Germans had
buried in the sand of the beaches what we called "Bouncing
Betty's", antipersonnel mines which, if you stepped on them,
would "bounce" several feet into the air before exploding.
Before sunrise, in order to soften up the German defenders, our
airplanes began to bomb and naval guns to shell the various
landing areas, including our area near Ste. Maxime. At the same
time, our LCVP's circled off-shore until it was time to "hit the
beach". Our boat was part of the fourth wave of the invasion
which began with the first wave at 8:00 a.m.; and so at 8:30
a.m., "H plus 30" as it was called, we headed for the shore. In
order to protect us against possible enemy gunfire, we were not
allowed to stand up. Consequently, I didn't see the coast of
France until our boat had reached the beach and dropped its
front ramp. I had anticipated that, at this point, we would have
to wade ashore in several feet or more of water. However, our
LCVP managed to get so close to dry land that, as we ran out of
our boat and onto the beach, we barely got our shoes wet.
Moreover, to our surprise, we encountered neither German
soldiers nor enemy gunfire and none of us stepped on any
antipersonnel mines. For us in our sector it could not have been
a more perfect invasion.
Having safely reached the beach,
we immediately headed inland without finding any opposition. At
the first opportunity I got rid of the bazooka by loading it on
an available jeeptrailer and, soon thereafter, was assigned by
my mortar platoon sergeant to carry six (I believe) 81- mm.
mortar shells. During the warm and sunny days that followed we
continued in a more or less northerly direction, chasing the
Germans who were retreating in the same direction. One evening,
after we had stopped for the night in some farmer's field in
southern France, several of our G.l.'s happened to find a nearby
peach orchard. Not having had much fresh fruit for quite some
time, I quickly hurried to the orchard where I filled my helmet
with beautiful ripe peaches. After I returned to my platoon from
this little expedition, I shared my loot with several other
soldiers, and then had a most enjoyable evening feasting on this
delicious fruit.
Inasmuch as the Germans were
retreating very rapidly, we also had to move quickly. Because
walking was not fast enough, we were frequently loaded onto
trucks and other army vehicles and transported many miles before
continuing our northerly march on the eastern edge of the Rhone
river valley on foot. Under these circumstances, we seldom
stopped in towns and villages whose inhabitants were, of course,
delighted to see us. For example, early in September, having
been trucked to the outskirts of a town (it may have been
Bourg), we walked through the town being cheered by its happy
French citizens and then were loaded onto trucks again. One day,
however, having stopped in a village long enough for our mail to
catch up with us, I received a package from Mutti containing
three one-pound packages of caramels. It was a most unusual and
wonderful surprise. I immediately distributed one package among
several French women and children who happened to be nearby and
were delighted to receive such a treat, gave the contents of a
second package to some of the other G.l.'s and, since I really
liked caramels, kept the third package for myself.
The Vosges
It was probably in October, most
likely in the vicinity of Epinal or Rambervillers, when I was
informed that I had been selected to become a radio operator for
our mortar platoon. Switching to this job meant that I would no
longer be at some distance behind the front lines with our
mortars but, together with the lieutenant who was our platoon
leader and served as our forward observer, I would be with one
of our rifle companies right on the front line where, of course,
it was much more dangerous. After a few days of training during
which I learned not only how to operate the #300 radio we used
but, also, the radio language where A was called
"Able", B "Baker", C "Charlie",
D "Dog", etc., I was ready to transmit messages and directions
from the lieutenant to those in our platoon who were firing the
mortars. It was not long thereafter, as we were fighting in the
Vosges mountains of Alsace-Lorraine, that I had my first
experience as a combat radio operator. I remember having the
heavy radio strapped to my back in place of my backpack and,
together with the lieutenant and one of our rifle companies,
walking through the woods of one of the Vosges mountains when,
suddenly, enemy bullets came our way. Immediately everybody
flopped to the ground for self-protection, our normal reaction
whenever we were being shelled or fired upon. However, because
of the heavy radio on my back, I was unable to mover very fast
and consequently took much longer than I desired to reach the
ground. It was then that it began to dawn on me that, not having
my backpack with a shovel, I would be unable to "dig in" if and
when ordered to do so and I would, therefore, be in a much more
exposed position. Not surprisingly, at this point I became
convinced that I didn't really like being a combat radio
operator.
A few days later I was told to
report to our battalion commander, 27-year-old Lt. Col. Felix L.
Sparks. Since I seldom saw anyone higher up than our company
commander, this was something very unusual. I suspected that the
reason Col. Sparks wanted to see me had to do with the fact
that, back in September, I had met two soldiers who were with
the C.I.C., the counterintelligence corps. During our
conversations they had told me about their duties and activities
which sounded much more interesting than what I was doing.
Moreover, they felt that with my education and background and my
ability to speak German I would be very suitable for work in
their branch of the army. This appealed to me so much that I
immediately submitted an official request for a transfer to the
C.I.C. Now, when I reported to Col. Sparks, it was several weeks
later and I hoped to hear from him the good news that the
transfer had been approved. However, to my dismay, Col. Sparks
told me that unfortunately my request had been denied because
nobody was permitted to transfer out of the infantry. But, then,
he stated that he would need an interpreter and offered me the
opportunity to serve in that capacity. He explained that this
was not an official position on the T.O. (Table of Organization)
and that, therefore, I could not expect any promotion. Moreover,
he warned me that this position would be much more dangerous
than being with the mortar platoon. (Apparently, he did not know
that I had recently become a radio operator.) Not surprisingly,
I did not hesitate a second to accept his offer, thanked him,
saluted, and left his headquarters a very happy soldier.
Thus, probably early in
November, I became a member of the Headquarters Company of our 3
rd Battalion. Col. Sparks had a small
personal staff consisting of his jeep driver Albert Turk, his
runner Carleton Johnson, and now me, his interpreter. Whenever
possible, the four of us traveled in his jeep with Col. Sparks
in the passenger seat, while Johnson and I sat in the backseat
on top of all our sleeping bags and other belongings. During
most days—except for Turk who stayed with the jeep—we would walk
to the front lines where Col. Sparks visited our rifle companies
and conferred with his company commanders. During the cold and
wintry nights we stayed in a nearby village where we slept on
the floor of some farmer's house, whereas most of the soldiers
of our battalion had to sleep outdoors. Usually, because I spoke
German and most of the people in Alsace-Lorraine spoke both
French and German (as one Alsatian explained to me, "Germany is
our fatherland and France is our motherland"), as soon as it
became evident in what village we would stay for the night, it
was my responsibility to find and "reserve" a suitable house for
the half dozen or so "staff runners and drivers" of the officers
of our battalion headquarters company. In addition, I frequently
persuaded the owners of the house to prepare for us some food
consisting of one or more of their farm animals such as
chickens. In return we usually gave the family cigarettes as
well as some of our K-rations.
For the next two months we moved
from one location to another in Alsace-Lorraine. I don't
remember the names of all the villages where we stayed, but they
included Ingwiller, Zinsweiler, Rottbach, Oberbronn,
Niederbronn, Jägerthal and, of course, Reipertsweiler. By now,
winter weather had begun to make life even more miserable
despite the fact that we had been issued winter clothing
including parkas and "long johns". While we received turkey for
Thanksgiving and a similar meal for Christmas, we did not
celebrate these holidays very much. All that I remember is that,
on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve, I sang to myself the popular
song, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...." New Year's Eve was
even less exciting; subsequently I heard that, to celebrate the
event, at midnight Col Sparks fired his double-barreled shotgun
which he had picked up somewhere in France and often carried
with him.
1945
Reipertsweiler
Two weeks later we were in
Reipertsweiler where our battalion would suffer its biggest
defeat of the war. It began on January 14, 1945. As our
battalion was walking on one side of a valley toward new
positions in the Vosges mountains, the four of us drove in the
same direction in our jeep on a paved road on the other side of
the valley. Because two or three inches of new snow was on the
ground, Turk did not notice that anti-tank mines had been laid
by the Germans across the road in an extended W pattern. As a
consequence, all of a sudden we were surprised by a terribly
loud explosion when one of the jeep's front wheels ran over and
detonated one of the mines. The explosion threw Col Sparks out
of the jeep but, fortunately, Johnson and I received a little
bit of protection from the sleeping bags on which we had been
sitting. Inspecting the damaged jeep, we quickly saw that a back
wheel was sitting on top of another mine, only about an inch
away from the detonation cap. One more inch, and this story of
my life would never have been written. I survived this event
with only a major earache, but immediately began to hope that my
eardrum had burst and that, as a result, I would be sent home
and discharged. However, to my regret, a visit to our battalion
doctor indicated no major permanent damage to my ears. Turk, who
had borne the brunt of the explosion, was given a one-week pass
by Col. Sparks to visit Paris and recuperate, but Col. Sparks,
Johnson and I remained with the battalion. At this point, I did
not think about getting a Purple Heart Medal. But several weeks
later, having found out that the others in our jeep had received
this medal and, more importantly
to me at that time, having heard
that I would be discharged sooner from the army after the end of
the war if I had a higher "ASR Score" (i.e. a number of points
determined by length of service as well as medals received) and
that the Purple Heart would give me five additional points, I
decided to apply for this medal. Shortly thereafter I talked to
our battalion doctor who not only stated that he felt I deserved
to receive a Purple Heart but, also, volunteered to recommend me
for this medal. However, I did not find out that I had actually
been awarded the Purple Heart Medal until after the end of the
war in Europe.
On the following morning of
January 15, our battalion was ordered to take two snowcovered
wooded hills not far from Reipertsweiler, a mission that was
relatively easily accomplished. During that same afternoon Col.
Sparks, Johnson, and I hiked through the woods to where our
troops were now dug in. After Col. Sparks had conferred with his
company commanders and others, we returned to the road at the
bottom of these hills and then drove to Reipertsweiler where we
stayed again for the night. In the meantime our battalion, which
was now a 1,500-yard salient into the enemy's lines, received
heavy fire from the Germans who began to encircle the battalion.
The next day, after our troops had suffered many casualties,
most of the wounded were evacuated and the remaining G.l.'s were
resupplied with food and ammunition. In addition, two other
rifle companies of our regiment were sent to join and help our
battalion. However, the Germans continued to surround our G.l.'s
and sealed off the resupply and evacuation routes. Moreover,
because of the wintry weather, it was impossible to supply our
G.l.'s by air. On January 18, two of our tanks attempted to
reach the battalion by going up a steep trail through the woods.
Col. Sparks climbed on one of the tanks and, when enemy fire and
the muddy trail made it impossible for the tanks to go up the
hill any further, jumped from his tank in order to pick up
several wounded G.l.'s and load them on the tank. He did this in
full view of the Germans who recognized this act of bravery for
what it was and held their fire until the tank had safely
returned to the bottom of the hill where Johnson and I, as well
as several officers, were waiting. During the next couple of
days, the battalion was told to remain on the two hills where it
was completely surrounded and took a terrible pounding from the
enemy. Finally, on January 20, our troops were ordered to try to
break through the German lines and fight their way back to the
rest of the regiment. However, inasmuch as our soldiers had
little ammunition left and German artillery continued to pound
their position, this effort came too late and did not succeed.
Only two G.l.'s found their way back and safely returned to the
American lines. All told, in addition to the hundreds who were
wounded and evacuated, 158 were killed and 426 (including "Bud"
Gindhart, my Anzio beachhead buddy) were taken prisoners
(according to Flint Whitlock in his excellent book, The Rock
ofAnzio, p. 340). A few days later the New York Times reported
the battle of Reipertsweiler and the loss of our battalion in a
major article. Unfortunately, however, the story in the Times
contained quite a few inaccuracies, and greatly understated how
many G.I. 's were involved in this battle, the number of
American casualties, as well as how many of our soldiers were
captured by the Germans. Thus ended the worst week in the
history of the 3rd
Battalion. I have
often wondered how the 27-yearold Col. Sparks must have felt
having lost, through no fault of his own, almost his entire
battalion.
Crossing
the Rhine River
My outfit was now sent to a rest area which, like all rest
areas, was located some distance behind the front lines. There
we received hundreds of replacements, most of whom had been
transferred from the 103 rd Infantry
Division. After about two or three weeks, we returned to combat.
Eventually we fought our way through the famous German defenses
called the Siegfried Line, crossed the Rhine over a temporary
bridge, and continued deeper into Germany.
Our next big battle took place
during March in and around Aschaffenburg, a town on the river
Main. The officer in charge of defending this town, S.S. Major
von Lambert, was determined to fight to the bitter end and had
threatened to shoot any German soldier who wanted to surrender.
As a result, the battle for Aschaffenburg was one of our most
difficult ones. For our 3 rd Battalion
the fighting actually began in Schweinheim, a smaller
neighboring town. On one of the first days of this battle Col.
Sparks, Johnson and I reconnoitered a residential part of
Schweinheim whose inhabitants all had left. At an intersection
we met an American tank and briefly chatted with its crew. Then
we proceeded for several blocks to check out some of the
deserted houses. In one, Col. Sparks found a cute little dog
which he decided to keep. Returning to the American tank, we
found out that, while we were gone, the Germans had shelled the
intersection and several crew members of the tank had been
wounded. Who knows what might have happened to us had we
lingered when we first arrived at this intersection. After we
came back to our jeep, it became my job to hold Col. Sparks'
little dog in my lap, something which I didn't mind doing. A few
days later, however, I began to itch and discovered to my dismay
that this little dog had fleas which it had shared with me. As a
result, I was sent to the rear where I showered, was treated
with flea powder, and was given new clothes. Not surprisingly,
Col.Sparks wasted no
time getting rid of his dog. A day or two later, the German
soldiers in Aschaffenburg finally began to surrender, often by
the hundreds. Many of them were quite young, appearing to be
only in their mid-teens. At one point we were told that some of
their officers wanted to surrender, but only to an American of
at least equal rank. As a consequence, temporarily one of our
sergeants became a captain and I a sergeant. The two of us then
went out to meet the German officers who, in a typical
old-fashioned European manner, formally surrendered by turning
their pistols over to our "captain". After the fierce battle for
Aschaffenburg was over, we rapidly continued in the direction of
Nürnberg, a famous city which we reached in April. Following
several days of fighting, organized resistance in this largely
destroyed city came to an end.
By this time, I was the proud
owner of several "souvenirs". One was an excellent German army
wristwatch which I subsequently wore for almost three decades. A
second "souvenir" was a brand-new Walther 22 which was given to
me by one of our soldiers who had found a number of these
beautiful little pistols in the Nürnberg freightyard. A few days
later, through the efforts of another G.I., a leather shoulder
holster was made for me by a local German. I proudly wore this
shoulder holster with the Walther 22 for the rest of my days in
the army. Eventually, however, several years after returning to
civilian life, I needed money and sold this pistol for $20. A
third "souvenir" was a sharp-looking sky-blue leather jacket of
the type which may have been worn by Luftwaffe (i.e. German Air
Force) officers. I cannot recall where I obtained this jacket,
but I wore it for quite a few weeks. One day, however, another
soldier warned me that I could get shot by some G.I. who might
mistake me for a German soldier. At that point, much to my
regret, I got rid of this leather jacket.
Click on image for larger
format
Karl Mann (FAR LEFT) before
crossing the Danube River in April, 1945
Dachau
Toward the end of April, having continued to chase the German
army in the direction of Munich, we reached a small Bavarian
town called Dachau. Less than a mile from this town was the
infamous Dachau concentration camp. Most of the officers and men
of our outfit had never heard of this concentration camp and
those of us who had knew very little about it. In the early
hours of April 29, Col. Sparks was ordered by his regimental
commander to liberate and secure this camp. Col Sparks, in turn,
assigned this task to I Company whose company commander was Lt.
William Walsh. Later that same morning, I Company, a machine gun
platoon from M Company, as well as a few others including Col.
Sparks, Johnson, and me proceeded from the town, across a little
bridge over the Amper River, through a wooded area, toward the
concentration camp. After a while, we saw parked at some
distance quite a few railroad freight cars. Closer inspection by
some of our G. I. 's revealed that these boxcars contained the
bodies of hundreds who, apparently, had died while being
transported to Dachau. A little later, I noticed that our
soldiers had captured a big burly German who wore the black S.S.
uniform as well as a Red Cross armband. He was being pushed
around by some of our G.I. 's and, finally, made a break for it.
Immediately, several shots were fired and he fell to the ground,
dead I am certain. Shortly
thereafter we reached and entered the concentration camp.
The G.l.'s of I Company wasted
little time rounding up all of the enemy soldiers they could
find, including the medical personnel of the camp's hospital.
They usually referred to these enemy soldiers as "S.S.";
however, I never saw any of them wearing a uniform or insignia
which identified them as such. As we walked through the
camp, we came to a place which, in the days that followed, was
usually referred to by the American troops as the "coal yard".
This was an area less than 100 feet by 100 feet, I would
estimate, and was enclosed by a high stuccoed wall. Dozens of
German prisoners were lined up along the far wall, while Lt.
Walsh and other officers and men of I Company were standing
around on the opposite side of the coal yard, near its entrance.
When Col. Sparks left for a few minutes to talk with someone, an
I Company lieutenant ordered one of the M Company machine
gunners to set up his gun and, then, to start shooting the
prisoners. The young gunner fired his gun for about 15 to 20
seconds I guess, although it seemed longer, sweeping his gun
back and forth. Immediately all of the Germans, with the
exception of three or four who remained standing, flopped to the
ground to escape the bullets. At this point, having heard the
shooting, Col. Sparks reappeared. Taking about five seconds to
figure out what was going on, he quickly fired his pistol in the
air to get everyone's attention and stopped the shooting. I
could not tell whether any of the Germans had been killed or
wounded. Many years later I read that as many as 17 had died,
but I have no idea whether this number is correct.
Shortly thereafter, Col. Sparks,
Johnson, and I headed for the prisoner compound of the
concentration camp. As we got closer, we could hear a tremendous
joyful roar coming from this enclosure. Finally we reached the
compound's wire fence behind which thousands of inmates were
cheering the arrival of their American liberators. At the
Jourhaus, the building next to the compound's entrance, was the
famous wrought iron gate which contained the words, Arbeit Macht Frei. One of
my first observations was how our soldiers, who were not
permitted to enter the compound, were throwing cigarettes and
candy bars over the barbed wire fence to the prisoners. When
someone pointed out that we should not do this because the
inmates might hurt themselves in the scramble to get hold of
these "goodies", I and other G.I. 's did what we could to stop
this activity. As I was standing around near the Jourhaus
watching all the action going on, I noticed a short distance
away an inmate who was wearing the striped clothing worn by all
of the inmates and which always reminded me of pajamas.
Wondering why he wasn't in the compound with all of the other
prisoners, I walked over to him and asked him in German. He told
me that he had been let out by the guards to help with some
activity I no longer recall. He was probably a "trustee" or
"capo" or maybe an "informer", but I decided he could be useful
to us. Consequently, with Col. Sparks' permission, he became our
guide during our subsequent walks through the concentration
camp, someone who could explain to us what was what. For
example, at one point, as we were viewing an empty crematorium,
he pointed to some stacks of red clay pottery containers and
explained that these were used to ship the ashes of victims home
to their families. OF course, we never knew whether or not he
told us the truth.
After an extended tour of the
camp, we returned to the Jourhaus. There we found to our
surprise that, during our absence, a Brigadier General Henning
Linden, the assistant commander of the 42nd Infantry Division, had arrived on
the scene together with an Air Force general as well as several
other officers and men from his division. When he saw us, Gen.
Linden immediately ordered that the inmate who had been our
guide be returned into the compound. He then informed Col.
Sparks that he, Gen. Linden, was now in charge. When Col Sparks
disagreed and explained what his orders had been, the two got
involved in a heated argument. Not only the American G.l.'s who
were present but, also, many of the concentration camp inmates
were able to observe this unusual confrontation, although most
of us could not hear everything these two gentlemen were saying
to each other. Gen. Linden, a relatively short and chubby
officer who carried a riding stick, soon lost his temper and
looked somewhat ridiculous as he argued with Col. Sparks. On the
other hand, I had never seen Col. Sparks as mad and red in the
face as he was that day. Eventually the general and his party
left and Col Sparks, having made sure that I Company had secured
the camp, returned with Johnson and me to where Turk was waiting
with our jeep.
We remained in Dachau another
day or two during which I Company was replaced by some other
army unit and Col. Sparks toured the concentration camp with
Major General Robert Frederick, the commanding officer of the 45th Division, and later with Col. Walter
O'Brien, the regimental commander of the 157th Infantry Regiment. And then we
continued on to Munich.
Many years later, I was shocked and dismayed when I
read that a number of other army outfits, as well as
individual G.I. 's who never had been members of the 157th Infantry Regiment, had falsely
claimed to have been liberators of the Dachau concentration
camp. For example,
the 20th Armored Division not only made
such a claim but, as a consequence, called itself "The
Liberators", in spite of the fact that not a single tank nor
any G.I. from this Division was in or in the immediate
vicinity of the camp on April 29, the day of its liberation.
Today, the iron gate with the
words Arbeit Macht Frei
continues to be a tourist attraction. Attached to it are two
plaques, one crediting the 42nd Division and another the 20th Armored Division with having
liberated the Dachau concentration camp. But there is no
plaque recognizing the well-documented fact that it was the
soldiers of the 157th
Infantry
Regiment of the 45th
Division who
first reached the prisoners compound and the Jourhaus and
thus, were the actual liberators. I'll never know why my
outfit never received such recognition. Of course, I have
heard and read a number of stories about this matter, but none
of them provide a clear explanation.
When my daughter Heidi took
her first trip to Germany in the early 1990's, she visited
what today remains of the Dachau concentration camp. To her
surprise, she did not see any indication that it was the 45th Division which had liberated the
camp. After she returned home, she asked me about this.
Unfortunately, I could not give her any satisfactory answer.
Munich and the End of the War
Munich was our final destination of the war. After a couple of
days in our new surroundings, Col. Sparks informed everyone that
he was being sent back to the States. The following day he left
in his jeep together with Johnson, me, and a jeep driver (not
Turk) and headed for France. There, at some headquarters in or
near Alsace-Lorraine, he remained with Johnson and ordered the
jeep driver and me to return to Munich. It was during this trip
that Germany finally surrendered.
Shortly thereafter, I received
the surprising and good news that I was to spend a week's
vacation on the French Riviera. And so, a few days later I found
myself on a train bound for Nice. I'll never forget that, during
this long train ride, I managed to sleep through the night on
the overhead luggage rack of our compartment without falling
off. Nice was full of American military personnel and not very
exciting, but I and some other soldiers did manage to go
swimming in the Mediterranean and had an interesting sightseeing
tour of the Riviera, including Monte Carlo and the huge and
beautiful fields of flowers used in the manufacture of perfume.
After this vacation, I rejoined
my outfit which had moved from Munich to Fürstenfeldbruck, a
small town near Augsburg. There I did absolutely nothing but
wait to find out what our next destination would be. One rumor
had it that we would be returned to the States and then shipped
to the Pacific Theater of War. But this was not exactly what we
were hoping for. A few weeks later, many of us received the news
that we were being transferred to the 9th Infantry Division. This time we were
relocated to a small village famous for growing hops, north of
and not too far from Munich. But life continued to be boring,
especially since American soldiers were not allowed to
"fraternize" with German civilians. Finally, in August, we
received the wonderful news that Japan had surrendered after the
United States had dropped atomic bombs on two of its cities.
This meant that the war in the Pacific and, thus, World War Il
was over and we would soon return to the States to be
discharged.
Return
Home
It must have been in September that I was transferred to the 69th Infantry Division with which I was
shipped home. As I recall, we left Europe on October 16 from Le
Havre on a very large converted luxury liner, the S.S. America I
believe. This time rough seas made the voyage quite unpleasant
for many of the G.l.'s who became seasick but I, once again, did
not get sick. After about a week, as on previous transatlantic
trips, I saw the red buoy #1 which provided the first indication
that we were approaching New York. It must have been October 23
when we landed in New York and were quickly transported to Ft.
Meade where, almost two years earlier, I had spent three weeks
before being shipped overseas. There I received a physical exam,
discharge papers which erroneously stated that I had black
instead of blond hair, and a check for $100 of my mustering out
pay of $401.46 (including $1.45 travel pay) which the Army owed
me for my two years, three months, and 26 days of active
service. It was October 28, 1945. I was also given a number of
medals, badges, and ribbons. Some were not important enough to
list here. Those that were worth mentioning included the Combat
Infantry Badge of which I was most proud because it indicated
that I had not been a rear echelon soldier, like most G.I. 's,
but had been in combat during my many months overseas; the
Purple Heart Medal; and the European, African, Middle Eastern
Service Ribbon with an arrowhead (for participating in the
invasion of southern France) and four battle stars representing
my participation in four campaigns: Rome/Arno, Southern France,
Rhineland, and Central Europe. In addition, several months
later, I received to my great surprise the Bronze Star Medal—in
the mail.
As soon as I was told that I had
been honorably discharged, I grabbed my dufflebag and, although
I had no cash, took a taxi to take me home. After I anived, I
rang the doorbell. It was Puzzi who opened the door and was the
first one to welcome me back. And Pappi had to pay the cab
driver.
157th
Infantry Regiment Unit Page
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