(Back to "Our History")

World War II Experiences
January 5, 1943 to January 3, 1946

by Thomas Nicolla
D Troop 41st Cavalry

INTRODUCTION

Before I could relate any of my World War II experiences, I had to reread the Thunderbolt Division History Book and its accounts of the war in Europe. It was a history written by staff officers describing a war entirely different from the one I had fought in. Here is the reason why:

I was born in Cohoes, New York, April 10, 1923, the oldest son of immigrant parents from the European country of Albania. My father fought in the Balkan Wars, before World War I, in the Greek Army against Turkey, where he was wounded. He came to Cohoes, New York for work. Being the only Albanian family in the Capital District, he quickly found out that the City was run by nationalities other than his. A small mixture of Polish, Italians and Russians lived along the river and Barge Canal.

We moved to Albany, New York and I attended that school system from second grade to 12th grade in time to be drafted for World War II. I served from January 5, 1943 until January 3, 1946.

I was sent to Camp Upton, New York for processing and immediately from there cross-country by train to the State of Washington for basic training. After basic training I was sent to a sterilization and bath unit at Long Beach, California. I was tested and sent to Pasadena Junior College for more testing. After a month, I was then sent to the University of California, Berkeley, for ten months of engineering schooling. Because of the pending invasion in Europe, the school program was abandoned and I was sent to Camp Cooke 11th Armored Division.

JOINING THE THUNDERBOLTS

The 11th Armored Division was combat ready and at full strength. All A.S.T.P. (four in Troop D 41st Cavalry) personnel were excess baggage with no assigned military designation. I was given mortar gunner overseas.

While the Division was preparing for moving out of Camp Cooke for an undisclosed destination, we (the troops) were daily read memos about what procedures of conduct were to be followed and training films about gonorrhea and syphilis, which, if contracted, would immediately be reported to our families, wives or sweethearts. I never qualified for firing a weapon or any military training whatsoever. Every morning began with everyone doing calisthenics, and one day in particular that I vividly recall, an officer commenced reading a memo on “fraternization with the enemy overseas.” The reason I mention this is because the officer couldn’t pronounce the word “fraternization.” A fellow A.S.T.P., Gerry Sharkey, standing next to me prompted him. The officer was furious, thinking it was me. He asked if I wanted to come forward and read the memo. I answered, “No Sir!” After everyone was dismissed he called me over and after asking for my name, ordered me to report to the kitchen KP. indefinitely until we shipped overseas. By doing this, I was unable to receive any combat weapon or tactical training.

I pulled KP. on the train from California to the East Coast. On board ship I was attached to the Marines for guard duty sailing to England. We landed in England and I was quickly assigned to a unit that had the responsibility of locating missing vehicles and equipment throughout South England and Wales that were the property of our unit. 

EUROPEAN THEATER

Landing in France was utter confusion. Lack of liaison and communications between combat commands and armies resulted in friendly forces firing at one another. Hedgerow fighting, weather permitting, was ideal for fighter planes to strafe. because it was difficult to get off the roads. We sustained heavy losses. The Battle of the Bulge, and Bastogne was more a battle against the weather. Closing the gap at Houffalize (meeting the 1st Army) and the opening of the road to Bastogne to liberate the 101st Airborne, everything was frozen. Dead bodies (both American and German) were frozen into grotesque shapes unable to be freed from the icy ground. Fingers and hands were broken off and mutilated for rings, chains and watches by whomever; I didn’t want to know! I was unaware that I had been attached to the 6th Armored Division during this time. 

TIGER TANK ENCOUNTER

The next morning I (my jeep driver, Sergeant and myself) received a message from our Captain to investigate a tank battle in a nearby forest area. We were directed to the fighting by the loud, rapid gunfire. Entering the woods, we were almost run over by an American tank destroyer backing up. A tank destroyer is a mechanized track-driven vehicle with a large 75mm gun. They have no armor protection, only speed going forward or backward, with a crew of three, one being the driver. Upon seeing us the tanker exclaimed, “What the hell are you doing here?” We were told that the German tanks had a gun that could only traverse 120 degrees. To go beyond the 120 degrees, the tank had to lock one track and drive with the other to turn to a target beyond this limit. “Head for the road down there,” we were told pointing down the road, “before he hits both of us.” We got to the road and turned into the direction of the German tanks. From the close proximity of the firing, we realized our mistake and made a quick U-turn to get away from the fighting. Most of the buildings along the road were destroyed but gave us some cover going up the road. A German tank must have been tracking us along the road when a shell hit the corner of a house as we approached it, sending bricks and debris all over us. The sound was deafening, but we were not hurt—just a few scratches. The Americans answered with their own firing and suddenly they started cheering. To get to us, the German tank had to turn, leaving its soft side open to the American tank destroyer which had knocked it out. We were trying to remove the debris from our jeep when the tank destroyer crew came upon us and said “Thanks, but get the hell out of here.” We gladly left! 

FIRST ENCOUNTER OF THE WORST KIND

For whatever reason, our 41st Cav. Recon. Troop Mechanized, decided to go into its first military encounter alone and on foot as infantry. We had all assembled at the entrance of a logging road that led into a heavily wooded area. It was some time in March; an inch of snow was covering everything in sight. The sun was bright and warm for that time of year. We had never been given any winter gear so we had to wear our olive drab wool dress uniforms and olive drab wool sweaters and hats, light field jackets, helmets and combat boots.

As Captain was giving our mission instructions, which were to spread out as we went down the logging road in order to be in place between Troop “C” on our left and Troop “A” on our right (they were supposed to be in place already), a mortar shell exploded in the midst of our platoon. Four of our men were literally blown to bits right in front of me. The blood on the snow was so red! I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. I tried turning my head away, but as much as I didn’t want to, I kept looking in horror.

The Captain ordered us into the woods. As I started to walk around the parts and pieces of bodies, the Captain ordered me to walk straight into them. I pretended not to hear him and continued walking around the bodies, as he did himself; following us. In the middle of the logging road stood a large spruce tree, which suddenly started shedding the snow from its branches. Falling out of the tree onto the ground was a young German soldier, shivering, hungry and crying. The Captain and five or six of his friends volunteered to take him back to headquarters for questioning.

The remainder of us continued down the road to the edge of a large clearing. There were large shell holes in the middle of the clearing. It was starting to get dark and very cold when a voice in broken English was heard coming from one of the shell holes pleading for medical help. It sounded like a P.A. system. Some of our men tried enticing whoever he was with promises of hot soup, which we didn’t have, and care and to surrender to them. They wanted to take him back to our warm headquarters.

It was so dark that the Germans across the clearing started campfires to warm themselves. They evidently didn’t think we were that stupid as to stay all night freezing.

To keep warm I tried digging a foxhole with my trench shovel. I could only go down two inches into the frozen ground. The other men had left without saying a word, leaving five men, including myself: Two had fallen to the ground, twitching and shaking out of control. I got them up and proceeded to rub them and slap them all over their bodies to restore some of the warmth to their bodies. The others followed suit by pairing off and doing the same. We suddenly received mortar fire. I jumped into my two-inch foxhole with only my elbows in hugging my helmet, when one of the other men tried pushing me out to get in my so-called foxhole. No one was hurt, but suddenly coming along the edge of the forest road were two German personnel carriers with German soldiers in the back sitting facing one another. The vehicles were tracked and the only light was slits for driving in the headlamps. We jumped behind large trees, and as the vehicles were passing within ten feet of us, we walked around the trees not to be seen.

After they had passed, I went up the road to stand guard. It was about four in the morning. My relief relieved me, but I didn’t have any place to sleep. I cut down two small pines for my mattress and had the guard put two more over me.

From that moment on, I can only relate what was told to me. I had just fallen asleep when it started to snow. After two hours, the guard almost froze to death, when some of our men came up and brought the guard back to a deep, underground German bunker they had discovered earlier that night. It had a wood burning stove. I had been forgotten when the guard remembered that I was asleep in the woods. They ran up, checking every mound of snow.

All I could recall was that it was the most peaceful sleep I had ever experienced, even to this day. My body felt detached from my mind, with no sense of feeling the cold at all. They finally found me, and in removing the snow-laden pines, a pile of snow fell on my face. It was morning, and looking up into the daylight, I believed I was in Heaven. The next thing I recalled was the earth smell of the underground bunker and some feeling coming back into my body.

The irony of this entire event was the Captain had the wrong day. We were a day early; and we lost four men and many suffered extensive frostbite. I didn’t even know what the names were of the men who were killed. 

CROSSING THE OUR RIVER IN BELGIUM

As a holding action, the Germans destroyed most of the bridges across the Our River. Two of the platoons were entrenched on a high bluff on the west side of the Our. A steep road went down to a small bridge crossing our high position, but we could see the road climbing steeply along the sheer rock cliffs of the Our River. Looking across at the east (side), which was at the same elevation as we were on the west side, we had what would have been balcony seats in a theater watching a tank battle starting. American tanks had made it across the Our River downstream and were moving opposite to our positions behind the German entrenchments. Suddenly German infantry carrying bazookas came out of the cliff openings going up the road to get our tanks one by one single file coming down the steep road to the bridge. Not knowing that the Germans were there, I called to our Sergeant to open fire on the Germans. He refused saying we would give our position away. I knew I could never reach them with my carbine but we did have one M-1 rifle in our troop, and I went over and grabbed it and commenced shooting. I hit the lead German bazooka gunner in the legs. He went down and the other German soldiers picked him up and pulled him into a cliff opening. I kept firing at the others, but the German gun emplacements opened up with heavy gunfire. Our tanks stopped, but the Germans kept firing, not at us because we were up too high. All firing stopped and the Sergeant ran up to me, grabbed the M-1 rifle and threatened me with court martial. The owner of the rifle kept yelling for me to clean his rifle. Up the road came an American Artillery Colonel, muddied and disheveled, screaming why did we stop firing because he was pinned down in a ditch and had to crawl up the entire road ditch on his stomach. He was there to direct artillery fire on the Germans to protect the American tanks. A Sergeant told him I was responsible for giving our position away and he was going to Court martial me for disobeying a direct order. Angrily, he shouted to the Sergeant, “Since when are you not supposed to kill Germans?” He wanted to know what outfit we were with to make sure nothing detrimental would be done about me. I have since found out that he may have been Colonel John H. Howard, Division Artillery Officer. I am trying to contact him about this incident.

That was the last time I would be fighting with my outfit. My driver, John Topper, and I (the machine gunner) would go into combat alone with no back up, only a radio. 

SIEGFRIED LINE

I was part of a Combat Reconnaissance Patrol, ten in number. Our mission was to infiltrate the Siegfried Line to capture prisoners for questioning. I was the patrol point with Staff Sergeant Al Kosiek in charge. The night was so clear and quiet that with a bright, full moon I had to muddy my face and glasses to prevent moonlight reflections. The only noise was the friendly exchange of artillery fire every ten minutes. Same pattern: two rapid-fire shots with one shot 15 seconds later, and then complete silence. This was to keep us from sleeping. You could hear a pin drop. We made it through the Dragon Teeth without any problem. I went ahead through a small cemetery to a service road. A German guard station was at the end of the road. Suddenly a German guard came out of the guard building to use the slit trench. I was about to capture him when he dropped his pants to use the trench. I motioned to the others to give me a hand. I couldn’t move because a courier came out of the building and left on his bike. I crawled back through the cemetery and got to the group huddled around the radio. Al was pleading with the Captain that we were encountering heavy gunfire and were outnumbered. When we got back, a Major said that he would take a 14 man armed patrol back in. The next day the patrol went in. The Germans, in the meantime, had spotted our footprints in the light snow and placed anti-personnel mines along the path.  

LT. TOUSLEY’S DEATH

As we approached a small German town, our radio being on, I heard the 3rd Platoon, led by Lt. Burton Tousley, ordered to go in. All hell broke loose, with Tousley saying over the radio that the Germans were firing 88mm guns all along the side streets leading in and out of town. He was directed to keep going, and again we heard heavy rifle fire, then silence. The Captain ordered my jeep to go in. I told the driver to go slowly up the cross streets, where I opened up with the machine gun, hitting everything that moved. The Germans took off, leaving their guns and their dead. We didn’t know which way to go to find Tousley. The Captain directed us to keep going through the far end of town, which we did. Leaving town, the road went up a gentle slope to the left. The road had been cut into the hillside, a high bank with a deep ditch on the hillside and the shoulder of the road dropped off to the left. Tousley’s jeep was off the road against the hill straddling the deep ditch. The driver, Frank Brantley, was screaming for help. He had been shot four or five times in the chest and legs. I jumped out of my jeep to help Brantley, instructing my driver to get the medics. He was backing our jeep down the hill to be out of enemy fire. I was trying to ease Brantley out of his jeep so that I could give him first aid. Brantley kept saying that Lt.Tousley was up ahead. I got in the road ditch and found Tousley face down in the middle of the road. I went to him and turned him over. He was dead with a bullet hole in the chest that had taken the top of his pen. I returned to Brantley and laid him out on the road to take care of his wounds. He was bleeding so profusely that I didn’t have enough first-aid packets to take care of all of his wounds. Suddenly, two packets fell at my feet. Two German soldiers were hiding under the jeep and gave up their packets when the medics arrived. I assisted the medic with putting Brantley on the stretcher and called the Captain to tell him about Tousley. After the war, Brantley called me to thank me for saving his life. I told him that two German soldiers helped, and he commented that was ironic since he was Jewish. 

DELAYING ACTION - GERMANS PULLING BACK MACHINE GUN NEST

Approaching a small farm hamlet, German machine guns opened up as we started to go into a tree-lined, curving road. I called immediately for tanks, but they couldn’t get a clear shot at the machine gunners. We could only determine they were firing from the rear of a large barn. They didn’t want to go down the road to get to the front of the barn because they would be exposed to bazooka and heavy 88mm fire. The Captain again ordered the driver and myself to go down. As we arrived at the front of the barn, we noticed about 15 to 20 German soldiers face down along the road. They all had their helmets on. The Germans throw their helmets away when they want to surrender. These Germans were waiting for our tanks with bazookas alongside them. The driver yelled, “fire” and I opened up. All I could remember was the way their bodies jerked when I hit them. I emptied one whole belt of ammo and reloaded. As I reloaded we could hear the German machine gun firing at the tanks. The front of the barn was about 50 feet back from the edge of the road, with a large solid wood gate that would swing in, hanging from a large wooden post. I couldn’t fire through both the gate and barn door and hope to hit the machine gunners. The driver pulled up to within 30 feet of the gate. I jumped from my gun and ran to open the gate to get a shot at the barn. I swung the gate in and ran back to the jeep. The driver yelled, “It’s closing,” so I ran to open it again, instructing him to get on the gun. I opened the gate with my back, pushing as hard as I could, while trying to stay clear of the line of fire. My driver started firing. I kept looking at the barn door to make sure he was clearing me. He didn’t stop firing until he emptied the whole belt. The door was splintering and almost falling off its hinges. We heard the panicked cries of horses, cows and German gunners. When the driver stopped, I asked if he thought I should go in to see if we got them. His response was “there isn’t enough money in this world for me to open that door.” Everything was quiet, and the tanks finally moved up. 

TREE ROAD BLOCK

As we started moving further into Germany, more and more often I was spearheading our combat command “B”, or I was reconnoitering behind enemy lines. For a period of at least three months the only contact I had was when my driver would leave me in towns, villages or cities and pick me up next morning, saying he had to refuel and get ammo. We would move out without back-up. On one occasion when the terrain was flat and wide open— no trees, occasional bushes—the driver would ask for a tank or armored car. The Germans were doing everything to stop us or slow us down. On one occasion, when the road we were on started into a heavily-wooded area, the Germans had felled a five foot diameter tree across the road. We could get by but the tanks would have to swing down off the road into a vulnerable open area. I called up a tank to hook a chain over the log and pull it back into the ditch. I got out of the jeep to assist. My driver backed down the road, leaving me alone. The tank officer handed me the chain to wrap around the tree trunk while he hooked his end to an eyelet at the front of his tank. As I wrapped the chain around the tree, a Captain instructed me to be sure to hook the chain coming off the bottom. In the meantime, freed French prisoners came up the road trying to hug and kiss me. I convinced them to get into the ditch while we removed the tree. I bent down to hook the chain lower when a German machine gun opened fire. By bending down, the tree protected me, but the Captain was shot and killed. I crawled along the tree trunk to see if he was alive. I thought he was the Tank Commander. I turned to the Tank Commander and informed him that the Captain was dead. He immediately buttoned up and started backing up, not realizing he was hooked to the tree trunk. As he moved back, I lost my cover. He started firing into the woods, still moving back. The left end of the tree trunk started pivoting toward the ditch, where all the French prisoners were cowering. I was wide open. I jumped in front of the tank to stop it from crushing the French. The tank stopped but continued firing. I jumped down to the downside of the road (wide open) on my stomach. The Tank Commander turned his tank across the road, firing his 75mm high over my head. I felt the percussion of the gun on my back. I had to rise on my elbows just in case. The firing ceased; the tankers removed the chain and headed back down the road. I went over to the French, where only one was injured. I had no ride so the French and I walked back down the road together. I promised the injured Frenchman some medical aid. The infantry came through to clean up the Germans in the woods. The tankers, about six of them, in a jeep, went up to retrieve the Captain’s body. As we continued down the road, the tankers came back with a German prisoner sitting on the hood of the jeep. I told them to call the M.P.’s.

I followed the French to a small town where they had been imprisoned, as they wanted to celebrate at the local restaurant and cafe. When we arrived, the celebration had already begun with a beautiful French girl jumping up on an outside cafe table. The sole purpose of the dance she was doing was to spin with her skirt up, showing her secretly made underpants with the French tri-colors. Viva La France! There is a follow-up story that occurred in Paris after the War. 

ONE GERMAN PLANE DOWN

One morning my jeep was ordered to leave, leading the column, and take the next right and head toward a resort area (the name began with an “O”) and investigate an American P.O.W. camp. We drove approximately 25 miles into what was a small ski resort. A single road followed atop a small hill with businesses and dwellings on only the right side overlooking a beautiful valley. We were not expected because German civilians were shopping along the strip. There was a Kodak film sign on one of the storefronts. This I recognized and went into the store, and asked about American P.O.W.s. The owner replied in the negative and pleaded that we not take his studio camera and lenses. I assured him we wouldn’t touch anything but that perhaps he could take our picture later on. As I stepped outside to tell the driver “no P.O.W.s,” a Messerschmidt with landing gear down flew over our heads. I could have jumped up and touched the wheels it was so low. The long prop nosing with a white corkscrew spiral was revolving slowly as the fighter started its descent into the valley. I darted into a jewelry store next to the photo studio, and persuaded the owner to tell me what the fighter was doing. He nervously related that a fighter squadron airstrip was in the valley. As I came out, a German reconnaissance plane was coming up the valley very low hugging the hillside. I jumped behind my machine gun and had the driver get to an opening between two buildings. As the plane banked to come over the hill, I opened fire, aiming over him to avoid hitting the hill and so that he would fly into my gunfire. He went into a steep dive into the valley with my driver chasing after him, racing down the hill with me still firing. He landed in a newly plowed field. Two fliers scrambled out with their parachutes still strapped to their backside and ran into the woods. The driver got close enough for me to fire into the wings of the plane, setting the plane on fire.

We went back into town to avoid any German fighters, but none came. The driver then left me to go back for help. The jeweler gave me a bag full of cheap rings for protection. The photographer took my picture with Bill Jones from Pennsylvania at his studio the next day and developed film for us.  

B-24 DOWN IN ONE PIECE

In a similar incident, my driver and I went into a very large town with no resistance. A young German girl stopped us to explain that her German boyfriend was trying to get fuel to fly an American B-24 that had landed in a large soccer field. She took us to the plane that was in perfect shape. I inquired about the crew and she replied that they had been taken prisoner. I called headquarters about the B-24 and was instructed to have the driver return to HQ. I was to stay behind to guard the plane. I was informed that the plane may possibly be booby-trapped and not to touch it. I remained on guard all night, and during the night the girl returned with her boyfriend’s Air Force ring. She said he wanted to surrender to me in the morning and I should keep the ring. Nothing happened the next morning.

Another incident concerning planes occurred when my driver and I came into a section of the German Autobahn near Nurnburg. The stretch of road was as straight and level as a road could get. Driving off the shoulders of the Autobahn, we encountered three small planes hidden among some scrub trees. They all had cockpits but no props. They looked to be unfinished with a large opening in each nose. I called back to headquarters and described what we had found. Without bothering to come and check this out, I was told they were V-1 or V-2 rockets, which had been used to fire on England. I informed them they had a pilot cockpit for piloting. They ordered me, and everyone else, not to try and fly them. That ended it. I checked with our tankers; and what we concluded was we were looking at the first fighter jets, and that if they had fuel and used the Autobahn as an airstrip, these aircraft would have made a big difference. I hope our side took advantage of this new technology and not the Russians.  

SURRENDER OF BAYREUTH, GERMANY

On or about April 14, 15th, 1945, units of the 11th Armored Division, Combat Command “B” were converging on Bayreuth coming in from the west. Bayreuth, being a historical city, was famous for its annual spring festivals, Wagnerian operas and for being the birthplace of Richard Wagner, the noted composer.

Earlier that day U.S. planes had been flying over Bayreuth dropping leaflets to alert the civilian and German military not to offer any resistance to the American forces. If Bayreuth didn’t surrender, it would be taken by force. The city would be destroyed.

Colonel Wesley W. Yale, code name “Doc,” commanded Combat Command “B.” My unit, the 41st Cav. Recon. was the spearhead for the command, and I was the lead machine gunner. Doc made a call for my jeep to come to the head of the column to interrogate two German officers who were standing in the middle of the road. They had been sent by the German regular army command to discuss the surrender of Bayreuth.

In speaking to the German officers, it was learned that the Bayreuth Burgomeister and Major General August Hagl, who was battle commander of Bayreuth, wanted to talk surrender. Upon informing Doc of what was discussed, Doc promptly desired to talk to the Burgomeister, ignoring the Major General. Doc ordered my jeep (driver, Sergeant Brown, and myself) to enter Bayreuth to get the Burgomeister.

Starting down the road into the city, we encountered a political prison; upon seeing us, the inmates made a break for freedom. Suddenly, machine gun and rifle fire opened up on us, sending some of the inmates scurrying back into the prison. The bullets just missed, going over our heads. I radioed Doc and informed him of what had happened and asked if I should return fire. He responded, “No, just raise a white flag.” I answered, “What white flag? All we have is olive drab.” He said to just hang a G.I. towel to our radio antenna and go to get the Burgomeister.

I told the political prisoners who had made it through the front gate to run up the road to our troops. The firing had stopped so we resumed going down into the city. In passing a nearby railroad track and underpass, we saw German solders mining the underpass and running electrical contacts up the railroad tracks to detonators. The bridge was ready to blow. This explained where the earlier firing had come from. Being down low and firing at us on the high road, the Germans couldn’t get a clear shot at us, thus missing and firing over our heads.

As we entered the center of the city, all the streets had tank barricades with openings only large enough for small cars. German civilians and soldiers were gathering in front of what could have been city hall.

The Burgomeister came forward, introduced himself and his staff, and commenced pleading about surrendering the city and for us to stop the bombing and shelling. I informed him that he had to come with us to talk to our officers. He agreed and sat next to me in the back seat of the jeep as we returned to our troops. He was talking nervously about saving the city. When we arrived back to our lines, I took the Burgomeister over to where the two German officers were standing. Doc was nowhere to be found. Doc had turned the interrogation over to a G.I. friend of mine who spoke some German. Doc never asked me about what had happened in the city. The next thing I learned was that the Burgomeister, being a civilian, regardless of his Air Force uniform, could not surrender the city. We were to return to the city and bring back the General.

This time the driver and I went in alone for the General. We had no idea where we could locate the General, but going in, we were surrounded by all the remaining political prisoners who had been freed. I directed them to walk back to our troops because we had to find the General who wanted to surrender the city. Out of the crowd a young prisoner came forward and volunteered to be our guide and interpreter. He said that he was a Yugoslavian who spoke perfect German. He looked to be in excellent health compared to the other political prisoners. The driver and I didn’t trust him at all but we wanted to use him to get to the General. We made him sit on the hood of the jeep with his legs straddling a vertical angle iron that had been welded to the Jeep bumper. The purpose of the notched angle was to cut any drawn wires strung across a road. Before these angles were installed, we lost two jeep gunners by decapitation. I volunteered for the machine gunner’s job because I had limited firepower as a mortar gunner. I wanted more firepower for safety and longevity.

Our Yugo guide directed us to take the road going south over the charged overpass. The driver stopped before crossing and handed the Yugo wire cutters to cut all wires to the bridge. Without hesitation, he took the wire cutters, ran on to the bridge and began cutting the wires. The Germans on the tracks saw him but didn’t fire. They turned and ran up the tracks. That’s when we knew for certain that Yugo was a German soldier disguised as a political prisoner. The Yugo returned to the hood of the jeep and directed us to drive down the road west of the city for about two miles.

Suddenly we were forced to come to a halt because standing in the middle of the road was a German S.S. Officer. He didn’t say a word or move a muscle. I stood up in the jeep, put my hand on the machine gun and informed him that all German troops were surrendering. I realized he didn’t understand a word I was saying. I told the Yugo to tell him to drop his weapon and surrender. Before Yugo could finish whatever he was saying, German S. S. soldiers stood up in their foxholes on both sides of the road with machine guns and rifles. The S. S. Staff Sergeant upon command ran to the S. S. Officer and gave him a Nazi salute. (Seeing this, I can still remember the sinking hopeless feeling I got.) I told Yugo to inform him we were under a flag of truce and that they had to honor it. Yugo told me we didn’t have any truce flag (we had lost our towel somewhere along the way) and that we were also armed The S.S. Officer, his Staff Sergeant and Yugo got into the jeep with the driver and me. We proceeded into the city as prisoners to their barracks.

Hundreds of German soldiers were preparing barricades, mining all bridges and loading vehicles ready to leave the city to join a convoy of Tiger tanks. Yugo and the S.S. Officer went into the barracks and we were left surrounded by curious S.S. and Army regulars. They wanted to know about the jeep, the 30 caliber machine gun, our food rations and what we had in the rear rack attached to the back of the jeep which was covered by the jeep’s canvas roof. The roof folded on top of the rack, thus making a seat for me when I fired the machine gun. It also covered souvenirs of German guns, swords, pistols, cameras, binoculars and swastika flags. We were told that if we were ever captured we should be sure not to have anything German. The Germans believed that we had to have killed Germans to have secured these articles, and we, vice versa, about American items.

With much trepidation, I closed the canvas roof before they could get a good look underneath and distracted them with a box of rations. I started handing out cans of scrambled eggs and beans, chocolate bars, toilet paper and crackers. Suddenly, a German soldier noticed that pinned to my jacket lapel was an Olympic five-ring pin. He yelled out, “Olympiad!” pointing to me and wanting to know if I had been in the Olympics. Luckily I remembered from high school that an American by the name of Carpenter won the Gold Medal for the Discus. I told him that he was my cousin. Their attitude changed immediately toward me. They stopped snooping and started asking questions about how they could surrender. They had read the leaflets dropped earlier about carrying and showing a white sheet or handkerchief to surrender. One had a white handkerchief in his watch pocket for surrendering.

I asked what they planned to do with us, the driver and me. We were told that the S. S. wanted only the jeep and that the regular German Army solders had no control over them. Suddenly the German S.S. Officer, Staff Sergeant and Yugo came out of the barracks with their belongings and put them in the jeep. They were told by the Regular Army that I was an Olympian; they were not impressed. As we drove back through the city, we crossed under an Autobahn bridge ready to blow. We were just about to go up the ramp on to the Autobahn to bypass the bridges ready to blow when one went off sending tons of concrete, steel and dirt about 200 feet in the air. The explosion raised the hair on the back of my neck.

Our radio was open to Doc’s channel and we could hear all of Doc’s transmissions. Hearing the bridges being blown, Doc chastised our artillery gunners for firing into the city when we had men in the city negotiating surrender.

Our spotter cub plane was sent up to observe what was going on. Doc kept calling me, “Hello Nicolla, Hello Nicolla; this is Doc, over.” We couldn’t answer and Doc would not send in any help for us. The pilot of the spotter cub plane saw the tank column heading east into Germany with more American vehicles in column with white stars than we had, but he couldn’t pick us out because he had to be flying up high out of range of artillery fire and he marveled at the size of the Tiger Tanks taking up the full width of the road.

I informed Yugo that if we weren’t sent back that the cub plane would direct artillery fire on us. He told me that he heard Doc give the order for no artillery fire. As we started up the entrance ramp to the Autobahn to get in line with the German Tiger Tanks, a staff car came racing up from another road and made us stop.

It was the Major General. Yugo, the Staff Sergeant and the S. S. Officer told me to go over to the General. He stepped out of his staff car dressed in a long, gray leather coat, highly polished black leather boots, a gray peak cap and holding a riding crop. I had met General Patton, with his pearl-handled pistols, but he couldn’t come close to the likes of this German General. I was so impressed that I saluted him and he returned by touching his crop to his cap. With the S. S. Officer there, he didn’t want to use the Nazi salute.

He had two aides on either side of him to interpret. Yugo was interpreter for the S. S. Officer and me when we started talking. I had Yugo explain to the General who I was and why I was there. I explained that if we were not released by a certain time, the artillery would start. Our radio was on and everyone there could hear the cub pilot saying he spotted us below talking to Germans. Immediately Doc was on with, “Hello Nicolla, hello Nicolla; this is Doc, over!” He kept repeating it over and over. The General spoke to Yugo, who asked me what my rank was. I lied, saying Corporal. He had sent officers to discuss surrender, and Doc insulted him by sending a Corporal. The General told me that he still desired to surrender his entire command, but the S. S. Officer presented a problem. He stated that according to German Military Code, any officer or noncom could assume command of any unit still wishing to continue fighting.

I was so frustrated that I walked to the jeep with the driver frozen to the steering wheel and picked up the phone to tell Doc to shut up. Before I could get the phone to my ear, the S.S. Staff Sergeant ran up to me and put his pistol to my head. Yugo shouted, “Shut the phone down or he will kill you.” I put the phone down, and rendered motionless with fright, stood next to the jeep with my kneecaps trembling.

The General and S. S. Officer were hotly discussing our release. Finally the General said we could go, and he would still surrender his forces. He would be found in that section of Bayreuth. He touched his crop to his hat; I saluted him and he got into his staff car and drove away. I got into our jeep and I inquired of Yugo if he was coming with us. He smiled and waved us on. I told him not to change back into his uniform.

Speeding back up the road to our unit, and “good ole Doc,” a motorcycle with two German officers came up alongside our jeep. I stood up in the jeep with my hand on the machine gun telling them that everyone was surrendering and to follow us. One replied in a perfect British accent that he had been in a British P.O.W. camp in Africa and thank you but no, they had had enough. They turned off the road, leaving us to return alone.

When we arrived back to our unit, no one spoke to us or even debriefed us about the surrender. We were told to take off on our next mission.

All of our vehicles and tanks were mostly unattended. The only person still standing was the Burgomeister. I left my jeep and went over to ask him about the two German officers. He told me they were instructed to go back to their units. The German officers had a car and left, but he reminded me that I had brought him there in our jeep. No American wanted to bring him back into Bayreuth. The Burgomeister accompanied me back to the jeep, and although the driver wasn’t around, he and I got in the jeep and I drove him into the city.

He was so pleased with what I had done for him that he wanted to show me the city. He took me inside the Wagnerian Opera House, which had a small seating capacity. Backstage were dozens of backdrops depicting flowing streams, waterfalls, gardens, and other scenes. It was spectacular, but I had to return to my unit. The Burgomeister inquired if I had any knowledge of Richard Wagner. I told him that I had read a biography about the pianist, Franz Liszt, whose daughter had married Richard Wagner. We shook hands and he requested that I write my name down for him. I did and then told him to remove all tank barriers because the tankers would remove them with their heavy guns. Then I departed.

The next morning the Burgomeister came back up to our unit searching for me, but I had already left. Doc called me on the radio to tell me that the Burgomeister wanted to award me a citation. Doc informed me that I couldn’t accept any medals or awards from the enemy. That ended that.  

GERMAN MASS SURRENDER

Following Bayreuth, we started rapidly to drive towards Austria, trying to reach Vienna before the Russians. As we began to pass through a large German industrial town, the Germans laid fire to a plant that made the infamous 88mm gun. The 88mm guns stocked in the plant yard were also burning.

We passed through without incident and suddenly we came upon an entire German regiment having lunch in a wooded area about 300 feet off the road. Some were standing in line washing their mess kits; the others were sitting on the ground eating. They spotted our jeep but didn’t move. The driver told me to fire but I told him there were too many and to call for help!

I got out of the jeep to show them we weren’t going to fire. As I left the jeep and started walking down to them, one of our armored cars came alongside of our jeep. Seeing the armored car, they started scrambling further into the woods. I ran back to my gun and opened fire. I purposely fired high over their heads, but they kept going. Jumping out of the jeep, I ran to the armored car and started firing their 50 cal. skate-mounted machine gun. I fired high, hitting and splitting trees; that suddenly stopped the Germans in their tracks. Ultimately they surrendered. I summoned the M.P.’s to pick them up, but they had so many prisoners that they could not handle any more and instructed me to disarm them and allow them to walk home. That’s what happened. I also warned them to get out of their uniforms.

Ascription: While we were prisoners in Bayreuth, one of the German soldiers I had spoken to asked me what German weapon the Americans feared most. I told him it was their 88mm gun and their machine gun we called a “burp gun,” because of its rapid fire. I then asked him what American weapon they feared most and he said it was our 50 cal. machine gun. That is why I used the armored car’s 50 cal. gun; and it worked—at least this one time it did.

There was one other occasion the 50 cal. machine gun proved its deadly reputation. While spearheading “Combat Command B” we came upon two road intersections entering from the left about 100 yards apart. We stopped our jeep and allowed the armored car to come up along side for directions. Suddenly, a German staff car was entering the second intersection, turning left driving away from us. Seeing us, they sped away with our jeep in pursuit. I fired a burst from my machine gun, not wanting to hit the car, but to make them stop. The armored car, from its position, thinking we missed our target, fired their 50 cal. machine gun, hitting the staff car in the rear while it was stopping. My driver stopped the jeep 50 feet behind the staff car. I jumped from the jeep and ran to the open door on the passenger side. The 50 cal. rounds had passed through the trunk door, the rear seat and the back of the front seat killing the driver who was slumped over the steering wheel. One of the shells hit the officer in the back of his right knee, tearing it off completely, with only a ligament still connected. He was in shock and bleeding profusely. I yelled for the driver to help me with a tourniquet. As I grabbed his leg stump with both hands, to stop the bleeding, he gasped and lowered his head. We had to leave them there in hopes that some Germans would find them. I closed the door to keep animals away. 

HUNGARIAN MASS SURRENDER—I THINK!

The very next morning we reached a wooded bivouac area loaded with hundreds of Hungarian soldiers and families. They all started waving at us; so I walked down to see if they wanted to surrender. All they had were horses and wagons loaded with their belongings. I approached the Hungarian officer and noticed that their uniforms were elegant and very clean, but he was wearing a pistol I told him to instruct the rest to drop their weapons and they could go home. He refused; I looked at the beautiful women and children and decided they were harmless. I told them to go farther into the woods, and when our whole column passed by to continue going home. 

DISPLACED PERSONS OR VICTIMS

There came a time when we didn’t encounter any resistance at all. We would move 30 to 35 miles a day as we moved closer to entering Austria.

One day while spearheading our C.C.B., the driver and I came upon a hamlet of three-story tenement buildings. We were told to go into the hamlet to reconnoiter. Turning into the main street, we suddenly stopped. In the middle of the street were two young women screaming with pain. One was standing with her legs apart and the other kneeling with her arms hugging the one standing about the waist. Both were bleeding profusely from under their pale green gowns, and they couldn’t move because of the pain. I called Doc immediately on what we should do. Doc told me to move on. I checked the apartment windows for snipers or surrender white sheets. This could have been a trick with nothing showing. Three women suddenly appeared in one of the apartment windows motioning to me for them to come down and attend to the injured women. I nodded yes and waved them to come down.

I called for medics and then I went over to the three women who had gotten to where the injured women were to see what was wrong.

The attending women informed me that German guards had shot both of the injured women between their legs in order to slow us down. They said that the Germans who had committed this atrocity had left about two hours ago. Angered, I had the driver maneuver around the injured women and we took off after the Germans, not knowing what to expect.

About ten miles along the road, we came upon bodies of what we were to later call Displaced Persons laying on their sides in a fetal position. They had been shot in the back of their heads while kneeling, so that they would conveniently fall into the road ditch. They were wearing the typical Holocaust light blue and white striped shirt and hat. They were only on the right ditch side of the road and spaced 30 feet apart. There were about six of the victims shot at the same time by six individual German guards from behind. I reported to Doc and then continued down the road as quickly as possible. I called the medics to get a report on the two injured women, and I was told that one had died and it didn’t look like the other would make it.

Later on I found out that the apartments housed “Displaced Persons” who were both men and women and forced to work in the German plant in that town. The two women were D.P.’s that were girlfriends of the German officers. They shot them so that the American soldiers couldn’t enjoy them.

The road ahead curved to the right between a large farm with farmhouse on the left side of the road and a large, lightly wooded hill across the road. The road was obscured by the hill, and we stopped, and then slowly started to drive around the hill expecting an ambush. Instead a deafening roar came from hundreds of Displaced Persons along the hillside. The joy and shouting sent chills up and down my spine. There was only one other time in my life when I had experienced that feeling. That was when, at the age of 14 years, I went to Yankee Stadium for the first time and the Yankees ran out onto the field to play the Detroit Tigers.

They had started to build small fires to keep warm. We pulled off the road to avoid hitting them, not really knowing who they were. Some could barely move but managed to surround our jeep. I stood up in the jeep while they tried shaking my hand and touching my legs. They cried and kept thanking us over and over. They were mostly older men in rags clutching wood sticks for support, and they were starving. All the German guards had given them for sustenance was a small cloth drawstring pouch filled with oats, the same oats they fed to their horses.

I called for the infantry to go after the guards who had fled up the road into the woods. The Germans had discarded their rifles and had broken the stocks to render them useless. I tried to get the D.P.’s to move back, so that we could go on to the road after the German guards and provide assistance to the infantry. All at once one of the young D.P.’s jumped onto the hood of the jeep. He appeared healthy and didn’t seem to fit in with the rest and suddenly, in perfect English, shouted, “When you get back home, I want you to tell the world that this is the true German culture.” The driver looked at me and said, “Another Yugo.!”

We untied all of our rations and gave them to the D.P.’s. The infantry had gone racing by into the woods. I called the M.P.’s to come and manage the D.P.’s; we had to go and help the infantry.

The driver and I tried desperately to move the D.P.’s out of the way of our jeep so that we could drive up the road after the German guards. It was useless; they were along both sides of the road and also in the road.

They were in pairs, it appeared, the strongest always caring for and helping the other. If one had dropped during the march, they would have been shot. Some would even carry their partner piggyback to save them.

At this point they were getting tired and cold trying to repair their tattered clothing and blistered feet. Some, especially the older D.P.’s, were still eating their oats or nibbling on some of the rations I had given them. Their stomachs had shrunk so that they wisely avoided overeating, which would have killed them. Some started walking back to a nearby farm; I warned them not to go because the German farmers would not have known that they had been liberated, and thinking that they were escaping, would shoot them. They wouldn’t listen, however. They looted the nearby farms. Later the M.P.’s informed me that hundreds had died of overeating.

Still furious, I walked up the road alone, checking to see if I could spot our infantry. All I had was a sidearm as I started into the woods. Suddenly, sitting on the ground near a large pond, was a wounded German guard begging for medics. He had been shot in the stomach. The adrenalin and anger overcame me. I began to cry and rushed to the wounded German, picked him up over my head and was about to throw him into the pond when a German officer came along, surrendering with his hands over his head. It looked like he had a weapon and holster in his hand. I dropped the wounded German and ordered the officer to keep his hands up and continue walking to the road. When we reached the road, I made him stop and commanded him to give me his weapon. He refused and I grabbed it from his raised hands. It turned out to be binoculars; I still have them.

I told him to walk down the road with his hands over his head. He started to go down, but stopped when he saw all the D.P.’s. I hadn’t noticed previously, but his uniform was not German Army issue. He was an officer in the guards. Using the few German expressions we had learned and with hand gestures, he tried to convince me he wasn’t the one who had shot the two women or killed the six D.P.’s. I said, “OK; continue walking down the road.”

At first he wasn’t noticed by any D.P.’s, so he started walking with his shoulders squared and head up high. As he got to where the D.P.’s were sitting, he slowed down - and stopped as the D.P.’s were getting up. The D.P.’s all picked up the German broken rifles from the roadside by the barrels, with the broken stocks still dangling from the arm slings. The German officer looked back at me, and I yelled, “Keep going!” About ten of the D.P.’s knew who he was and pounced on him, knocking him to the ground. They all repeatedly hit him with the broken rifles, as he screamed for his mother, until he was killed.

I didn’t feel a bit of remorse for him, and when I related this part of the Holocaust to a Jewish group here, I would well up with tears.

The D.P.’s that were there thought as the infantry and I did—no mercy! The infantry was so overcome by what they saw that they didn’t take any prisoners. The officer guard killed by the D.P.’s was hiding from the infantry to avoid being killed. He finally saw me and surrendered to me rather than take his chances with the infantry.

This was only a small part of what was to come in Austria.

ASCRIPTION: This episode as it unfolded changed me forever. “Man’s inhumanity to man.” When I first read this I didn’t have the slightest idea what it meant. But seeing the horrors that happened during this cruel march, and what was to come later, left me dumbfounded. Every nationality in Europe was being persecuted 

SO WHAT’S A CONCENTRATION CAMP?

We started racing for Linz, Austria, encountering very little resistance. The mileage covered per day was limited to the speed of our tanks, roughly 35-40 miles per day. The Germans wanted desperately to surrender to the Americans rather than the Russians, even though they were told at the beginning that the Americans were barbarians who would loot, rape their women and murder their children. Our Combat Command “B” was ordered to follow behind us going into Austria. They were all strung out along the main roads. The 17th Airborne was made an infantry unit, taking its place behind us as infantry support.

We didn’t have to worry about German planes strafing us because the Germans were without high-octane fuel to fly their planes.

On occasion the Germans would allow the lead machine gun jeep (mine) to pass, and then blow up a drainage road culvert pipe or culvert bridge between the armored car and us, scaring the hell out of the driver and myself. This isolated us from any immediate help from the rest of the column; we were on our own.

I would open fire indiscriminately on whatever target presented itself whether it be infantry, machine gun or tanks. I had no choice!

Luckily, I would only draw small arms fire, because the Germans only wanted our jeeps, and I presented a very small and poor target. I couldn’t get any help from the 17th Airborne Infantry because of their lack of fire power and that they were confined to being in a column with no mobility.

ASCRIPTION: When I first volunteered to take over the machine gunner job at Worms, Germany on the Rhine River, I was only given five canisters of ammo; and at the end of the War, I went through 20 canisters per day. I was always knee-deep in bullet casings. At the end of each fighting day, I would have to shovel all of the casings out of the jeep.

These incursions would happen almost every day resulting in a great deal of stress and nervous tension on both the driver and myself. I couldn’t sleep or eat and kept losing weight how much I couldn’t tell.

The driver and I decided to let someone else take over the CCB lead for a change. We pulled our jeep off to the side of the road and dismounted to direct the column to continue on. Just then, a mortar shell hit near our jeep on the other side from where we were standing, flattening the tires, tearing into our bedrolls and food rations. The column stopped with everyone jumping into road ditches and behind vehicles. There wasn’t any ground cover for protection. That’s all there was—just one shell, which I believed must have come from friendly fire. The driver radioed back to Doc and was immediately told that we all were to stay with our vehicle and that a maintenance tank “lowbed” would transport our jeep to the rear for repairs. We were to go along. The 17th Airborne jeeps would have to lead CCB without a machine gun jeep.

The thought that after two days I would have to return up front to resume fighting immediately brought on an anxiety attack. In the past, I never had time to be afraid. I was in complete charge and control of my life, not answering to anyone. It was a 24-hour “high,” seven days a week that gave me the feeling that I was invincible and the only person on this planet in complete control of his destiny, fighting the War and being completely unafraid. I didn’t care how long the War continued.

As the column kept passing, I could hardly catch my breath. I told the driver and Sergeant I was going up front and started running along the column up to the front. When the column stopped, I would hitch a ride with whatever unit was available. I finally caught up to the 17th Airborne personnel carriers. They made room for me when they saw I was with the 41st Cav. They “God Blessed Me,” when they heard I was going up front to lead the combat command. Strangely enough, there wasn’t an officer to be found to make decisions, which made everything great. 

START OF MY EXILE

ASCRIPTION: The purpose of relating this incident was to show how fate plays such an important determinant part in our lives.

After the German surrender on May 7, 1945, I was told that in a name drawing, Al Kosiek and I were selected to go to Nice, France for R & R.

I was at Nice on the French Riviera for over a month. However, after arriving at Nice, Al Kosiek informed me that he had to return to the outfit in two days, leaving me alone. Returning to Austria after my stay, I had to go by train to Paris, then by truck to Luxembourg, and by six-wheeler truck to Austria.

There was a two-day layover in Paris to catch the next Red Ball Express. All French bars were off limits to G.I.’s; we could only patronize G.I. side-street bars. The French didn’t care too well for Americans. The G.I.’s stupidly treated the French as foreigners.

The side streets were poorly lit because of the War except for the bar entrances. As I approached the bar, three drunken G.I.’s who happened to be from another unit noticed my 11th Armored arm patch. They began to make derogatory remarks about how brave we thought we were, and the three of them started toward me. Stepping out of a darkened doorway across the narrow street from the bar was a French Gendarme. This didn’t stop the drunken G.I.’s until the Gendarme motioned to two other husky, plain-clothes Gendarmes to even up the odds. The G.I.’s turned around and went back into the bar without a word.

I thanked all three for saving me, when the Gendarme, in very poor English, said he had met me in Germany. He was one of the French P.O.W.’s at the “tree road block” incident. He was the injured Frenchman I got medical attention for, and he had recognized me. He told me he had suffered a dislocated shoulder where the tree had struck him. He was so happy to see me that he hugged me and warned me not to go into the bar but to go to the world-renowned “Cafe de la Paye,” which was off-limits for G.I.’s. He gave me the name of the head waiter, and instructed me that after I had my meal, not to pay with G.I. money but to ask the head waiter, “Combien,” (how much?) in American cigarettes. It turned out the bill was two American cigarettes (Camels).

I gave the Gendarme a full pack of cigarettes to share with his two partners and left for the Cafe de la Paye and a wonderful time. The topic of conversation with the waiters and patrons was strictly political. The Germans treated the French so much better than the American G.I. I agreed. 

WHERE IS MAUTHAUSEN?

Linz, Austria was an open city whose emissaries had already surrendered the City and all of its troops to the Division when we arrived. Some of our cavalry patrols had reached Katzdorf, but were delayed by enemy artillery fire. I received orders to investigate an enemy strong point near Mauthausen, to the southeast. No one had any idea what a concentration camp looked like, or what it was used for.

As we headed south searching for Mauthausen, we came upon what resembled a fortress on a hill. I radioed to Doc, but was surprised to hear Al Kosiek’s voice telling me to find Mauthausen. I still believed he was talking about a city called Mauthausen. Not meeting any resistance, I continued this time with Sgt. Brown along the road leading south. German civilians would come out to the road to greet us as if the War was over. I would mention Mauthausen, and they would point in a southerly direction along the road.

Finally, after a few miles, I came upon three women standing at the roadside. I inquired if they spoke English. One replied that she could, and I again asked about Mauthausen. She said it was about ten kilometers down the road. This would be approximately six plus miles. I then questioned her about the bad odor in the area; she played dumb and shrugged her shoulders. I radioed Al Kosiek, informing him that Mauthausen was ten miles down the road and that there was a terrible foul smell in the air. His orders were to find Mauthausen.

We finally arrived at a wire-enclosed camp with a solid wood gate. It was next to a 2-1/2 story brick building being guarded by a German sentry. The sentry, without a word, placed his rifle against the building, came down the stairs and opened the gate wide. The driver maneuvered the jeep to the gate entrance. What we saw was horrifying. I jumped from the jeep to look down through the basement window. Men and women German officers were hurriedly going through steel files. They pretended that they didn’t notice me. I turned to order the sentry to tell everyone in the building to come out into the courtyard, but he had taken off unnoticed. The driver and Sgt. Brown remained in the jeep.

It was a large courtyard with rows of partially enclosed barracks. There were no doors and very little siding. You could see two shelf tiers of bunks on an earthen floor. No one was in the few barracks that I could see.

Walking around the courtyard were two pairs of inmates, one assisting the other to walk. All they were wearing were raggedy loose shirts with no pants. They were so thin that I could see their entire pelvic and leg bones and they had scarcely any flesh on their entire bodies. Even if they had been wearing pants, they couldn’t have kept them up for lack of a waistline. I walked to the far end of the courtyard and then I could see why these inmates wanted to stay on their feet. Next to the last barrack was a large oven with the door open and the fire burning hot. Piled about four feet high between the barrack and oven were naked, dead bodies of inmates, ready to be tossed into the oven. I myself measured about four times the size of one of those dead bodies so I couldn’t even begin to guess how many bodies were in the pile. I couldn’t even approximate. Now I knew where the choking stench I had noticed previously was coming from. We had interrupted the Germans trying to burn evidence of their atrocities.

I walked back to the jeep and requested that the Sergeant call headquarters. He said he had called them and they had responded to keep on looking for Mauthausen. I grabbed the phone and called the M.P.’s. I told them what we had found and ordered them to round up all the local men, women and children. It was necessary to get them to the site and clean up the mess. The medics were summoned as well, and it was imperative that the records in the camp office building be saved.

Al Kosiek called telling me he had heard my transmission and that we had to continue south to Mauthausen. We spent the next two days looking for Mauthausen, with no luck, and then we were finally ordered back to Linz. I found years later that Mauthausen, Goshen I and II, etc. were all one large camp comprising of Mauthausen Proper plus smaller satellite camps, approximately seven in number. All were called Mauthausen, and located within the city limits of Mauthausen.

On the way back, I ordered the driver to stop at the camp I wanted cleaned. There were hundreds of German civilians, mostly women, working at cleaning the camp and caring for the inmates. I was surprised how rapidly this clean up was progressing.

I later understood why. In the past when the International Red Cross received complaints about concentration camps and the mistreatment of inmates, Hitler would allow the Red Cross to make an annual inspection of only select camps which could be cleaned by the locals at a moment’s notice. Mauthausen was one of these select camps.

Two years ago (2000), I related this story for the first time at the 11th Armored Division convention in Reno, Nevada to a few of the veterans. No one seemed to remember any of these experiences. About a year later I received the New York Times article from one of the veterans who heard me tell this story.

I didn’t fully read the article until I was trying to get proof that would verify my experiences. Someone else had the guts back in April 1945 to write about these atrocities. Concentration camps in Mauthausen, Austria were yet to be liberated. Proving later that they were the most notorious of all concentration camps.

In reading the full article, I found it to be somewhat accurate. Some of my experiences were very similar and adjunct to the newspaper article. It helped me corroborate eyewitness evidence that the “Death March,” S.S. atrocities, death camps and concentration camps really did exist, contrary to the perceptions of disbelievers.

The fighting ended on May 7, 1945, and we celebrated with German soldiers and civilians lined all along the road as we pulled back to the agreed upon Russian-American line. I’m far from being a botanist even to this day, but the Germans were yelling and shouting “Der Krieg Ist Vorbei” (The War is Finished!) and they were throwing lilacs into our laps and all over the jeep. I still favor the smell of lilacs that almost always blossom during the first week of May.

The stench of Mauthausen still remains in my memory.

DER KRIEG IST VORBEI May 7, 1945

If anyone recalls and can corroborate the events described above, please contact me at 8 Timberland Dr., Loudonville, NY 12211.

(Back to "Our History")