A Veteran's Journey

December 20, 1944
Somewhere in Luxembourg

I can’t begin to describe what I’ve been through the past few days. Hell, what we’ve all been through. I’m not even sure where to begin. It’s all been such a blur. Nonstop… day after day, hour after hour, minute by minute. It hasn’t let up.

“Lieutenant Adkins. How many miles do you think we’ve traveled the last day since we left Saint Avold?”

“Damn if I know, Kad. We’ve been riding all night. It’s gotta be over a hundred and twenty miles. My watch reads 0300. We’re stopping for the night. Let’s get these trucks unloaded and get the men dug in. No telling what the Germans are planning. Last I heard, there was a big push through the Ardennes a few days ago.”

“Let’s hope this is our last stop, at least for a while. I’m not sure how much longer our men can travel in these open trucks. Freezing cold weather with only a few blankets per truck for the men to share. I’ll gather the sergeants to get things organized, Andy. You take care of that leg. I don’t want to lose you again.” Kad chuckled, then turned and walked away. I knew he’d take care of our men.

Lt Saul “Kad” Kadison was the platoon leader for one of Howe’s (Company “H,” 2d Battalion heavy weapons company) .81 mortars. He was from Brooklyn, New York, and joined the outfit in mid-September soon after we crossed the Moselle River. I’m one of the other mortar platoon leaders; we’re both with the 317th Infantry Regiment of the 80th “Blue Ridge” Division. My unit had been in division reserve in Saint Avold, France, for a week of much needed rest when I returned just a few short days ago. It took me nearly three weeks to get back from the 216th General Hospital in England.

Blast that damn roof timber that fell on me back in early October, knocking me out cold and pinning me down. I’d been up on the second floor as a forward observer for my .81mm mortar platoon, calling in coordinates when the German shell hit the house. Good thing Kad came looking for me after a while of not answering him on the radio. I owe him big time. But at least I got to ride in the infamous “40 and 8” railroad cars on the trip back to my unit. Never knew that stood for “40 men or 8 horses.” I bet someone had fun with that nickname.

Now, here we are in Junglinster, Luxembourg, just north of Luxembourg City and about eight miles from the front lines. The last few days have been a whirlwind.

Word came down that Field Marshal von Rundstedt launched a big offensive to “welcome me” back to my unit. We’re still not sure what Germany’s commander in the West is up to. But if General Patton ordered the 80th Division to rush north to Luxembourg to defend the capital, Luxembourg City, and the radio station, Radio Luxembourg, I’m sure we’re going to find out soon enough.

I guess I didn’t realize how much I had missed my men. Sure, resting and relaxing after my knee surgery in a nice, soft, warm bed in the hospital was a hell of a lot better than sleeping in these foxholes. Three squares a day was much better than eating K-rations. At least for the first few days. Physical therapy wasn’t too bad, though the nurses could be pretty rough on a fella when they wanted to. Still, those nice hot showers felt so good, especially that first one.

It’s hard to remember back that far… October 4th or 5th—morphine works wonders for pain on the battlefield. But from what I do recall, that first day in the 39th Evacuation Hospital, one nurse helped me undress down to my shorts. I must’ve been a sight to behold. I hadn’t shaved in several weeks and hadn’t brushed my teeth in I can’t remember when. Looking in the mirror, my teeth were almost black—that I do remember.

The nurse said I needed to empty my pockets: my wallet, K-rations, cigarettes, toilet paper, gum, can opener, a leather thong I used to tie up my raincoat, a can of powdered coffee, some dirty oily rages I had been using as handkerchiefs, and a pair of binoculars I still had around my neck.

In my left-fatigue jacket pocket, I pulled out a .45 Colt pistol that I always carried in case my carbine failed. I also removed a few souvenirs I’d taken from prisoners we had captured, including a piece of silk from a parachute and some emblems and patches ripped off Kraut uniforms.

The last time I’d had a bath of any nature was out of my helmet 39 days earlier. Except for my socks, I’d not changed clothes. I hadn’t had a hot bath since I’d left the states on July 4. I’m sure I smelled worse than a barnyard, but these nurses and aides were used to us men coming off the battlefield. Everything I wore was almost black, even my undershorts.

The nurse wanted the hospital aide to bathe me in bed. But I said, “Hell, no! Just help me to the shower and I’ll take over from there.” My leg was really swollen and hurt like hell, but the aide helped me get under the shower. I don’t know how long I was under that steaming water, but I can’t remember anything that felt as good as that.

And now… here I am. Back where I belong… back with my men. Back to the realities of war. Guess we won’t be home for Christmas.

We have a new battalion commander, Lt. Col. Bill Boydstun, a broad-shouldered man with a flat nose he’d earned as a collegiate boxer. Seems like a good man. Let’s hope he can get us through whatever lies before us. The men hadn’t been too impressed with our previous battalion commander. Even though he was a West Pointer, the men remembered too well that in the two attacks at Moivron and Sivry, France, when he was our CO, we’d gotten the crap beat out of us. The way he had ordered those attacks was not only useless, but foolish. That left a bad taste in the men’s mouths.

It was a strange mix of emotions to be back with the company. There were a lot of familiar faces—faces of men that had grown close over the months of fighting. But a lot of my friends were missing—killed, wounded, or captured. I knew eventually we’d be fighting the Germans and once again, be in the middle of the blood, guts, and death.

I’ve got a little spare time and since I can’t sleep, I’ll write my folks a short letter just to let them know that I’m back with my unit.

I’d like to tell them what’s really going on. I’d like to let them know their little boy is fine amongst all this death and destruction. I’m sure the newspapers don’t report half of what we’ve seen and what we’ve done. But I don’t want them to worry. Lord knows they worried enough when I wrote them I’d been evacuated to a hospital back in October. And because it takes a month or so for them to receive my mail, I’ll try sending this one via V-mail.

My men are dug in and hopefully getting some rest. It’s still dark, but at least it’s not raining. I’m sure we’ll get some snow soon, but hopefully it’ll be a light winter. From a boy who’d grown up in Florida, a “little snow” might be kinda pretty. I guess I’ll try to get a little sleep before we have to move again.

Sure wish I was back at Kingsley Lake, Florida, basking in the sun and swimming in that clear lake. But I guess since it’s December, the water may be a little too cold to swim. Still, it would be better to be there than here… any day.

Epilogue

My dad like to hunt (deer, quail, dove), but he didn’t like to hike. I guess he’d walked enough all over France, Luxembourg, and Germany.

He took us camping a few times, but I camped more with friends “down at the creek.” I guess he’d “camped” enough in foxholes during the war. Sleeping outside just wasn’t his thing; it probably brought back too many memories.

Christmas was always special to my parents. I remember while growing up, he and my mom (well, mostly my mom) sent Christmas cards to all his army buddies. They did this for years. My dad once told me that the men he’d fought with were closer to him than family. I didn’t realize what he really meant at the time… I mean, we were his family.

But as I’ve grown older with kids of my own (and now grandkids), I understand that family is not limited to your blood relatives. I spent four years in the US Navy (’73-77); a lot of guys I served with, both at NAS Agana, Guam and on the flight deck of USS Kitty Hawk, I also consider “family.”

My consulting business took me all over the country, meeting with clients and making presentations at legal technology conferences. Many friends traveled similar routes, and we’d meet up at these conferences several times each year, catch up with the industry, our businesses and families, and “share” our kids growing up. I often refer to them as “my family away from home.”

During this time of the year, when many are celebrating Christmas, Hanukkah, and other special holidays, I also know many shipmates, classmates, and friends have lost their loved ones. This will be their first holiday without their spouse, and I know it’s gotta be tough. But I also know family and friends will surround them with love and support to help bring comfort during a difficult time.

May we all find peace and happiness during this time of year.

Until we meet again,
Andy

Andy Adkins is a US Navy veteran (’73-77) and the author of several books, including You Can’t Get Much Closer Than This-Combat with the 80th “Blue Ridge” Division in World War II Europe, published by Casemate Publishers (2005) and selected as the Book of the Month for the Military Book Club. More information on his website: www.azadkinsiii.com.