|Roscoe C. Blunt, Jr.; age 19, 1945|
As I crawled, I instinctively felt before me for trip wires, mines, or barbed wire. I tried to orient myself with landmarks I had studied on the map at the briefing, but I couldn't see anything. It dawned on me as I crawled forward that I was lost, so I decided to abort the mission and crawl back to our lines. Every direction I probed seemed strange to me and I couldn't find any landmarks. Also, I hadn't seen or heard the lieutenant for quite a while. An American machine gun opened up in the distance, but the echo distorted its direction. I dug my face into the mud and waited for the firing to stop.
Sensing a form before me, I hoped it was one of the buildings in Immendorf. It turned out to be a huge tree. I didn't remember any that large left standing back in Immendorf. I had been crawling deeper into German territory and away from our lines in Immendorf. I became aware of other forms and knew I was in a wooded area where, I hoped, I could get some shelter from the rain. I crawled to the base of another tree before realizing the tree was a Wehrmacht sentry towering above me only inches away, huddling from the weather.
Sizing up the situation quickly, I realized I couldn't go back and I couldn't move forward or around him without being discovered. There was only one alternative; to eliminate him silently. Slowly rising to my feet with P-38 in hand, I hit him as hard as I could at the base of his skull. He collapsed without a sound. I took my knife, rolled him over and drove it into his throat with a vicious twist. In the rain I heard a soft gargling sound as I plunged the knife repeatedly up to the hilt into his chest. Stabbing him took all the strength I had in my arms.
I lay on the ground panting, my heart again pounding in fear. It was my first kill with a knife. I had been baptized with the sentry's blood all over my arm. I was near sheer panic, but I had to find a way to get away from there as fast as I could.
"Wer ist da?" (Who is there?), a muted voice called out.
"Es ist nur mir" (It is only me), I answered in frightened desperation. "Ich musz pisse." (I have to piss.)
"Sei ruhig" (Be quiet), the voice admonished.
In a rush, my breath came back, for I had been holding it for what seemed like five minutes. My mind became twisted with terrified thoughts. Daylight was starting to come on and I remembered a dead GI I had seen who had been found by the Germans with a German pistol in his possession. They had rammed it down his throat and fired it, blowing the back of his neck off.
I didn't want to be captured with a P-38, but I hung onto it anyway. At least if I had to, I could give it a fight as long as the eight-round clip lasted. My chances of making it back to my lines were growing slim and I forced myself to face my dilemma.
I crawled into a dried-up brook bed and waited, trying to figure a way out of my predicament. Bushes on both banks offered excellent cover that I hoped would buy me some time. In the pre-dawn I could make out a German bivouac with men washing, shaving and cleaning their weapons about 150 feet away. From their routine manner, it appeared they had not missed the sentry, yet.
I could see a tank, two .88s, stockpiles of ammunition and supplies and a large group of soldiers digging in. They had slipped in during the night and apparently were planning to defend the area. This information was needed back in Immendorf, but there was no way to get there and no one to give it to.
Later, the early morning sun warmed me slightly and started drying my soaked uniform. About noon, I tried to break off pieces of by D-ration and soften them in my mouth without being seen, but the brook bed was only about a foot deep.
As I watched the Germans, a commotion started and two of them came into the bivouac area carrying the dead sentry. I heard the word "Patouille" (patrol). They were unaware the sentry's killer was still only a few feet away and, fortunately for me, they didn't bother to search.
At the sight of the dead sentry, a wave of nausea came over me. I quickly scratched out a hold in the gravel, placed my face in it and vomited up pieces of the D-ration I had been eating. They didn't hear me. I decided to wait until nightfall and again try to make it back to Immendorf.
At dusk, I chanced raising myself up--hopefully still hidden by the bushed-- to search to Immendorf. As I did so, a Mauser rifle shot cracked near me. I slammed my face back into the gravel, angry I had given my position away. The shot was only a German soldier shooting as a rabbit supper.
With each call of nature, I could not move, not even roll over without being seem by the Germans, so each time I was forced to wet my pants, the price I paid to stay alive.
I lift my head slightly, shooting quick glanced around the countryside. Behind me to my left I could see rolls of defensive barbed wire, meaning the American lines had to be in that direction. I waited until it was pitch black and started crawling. My body ached all over from lying cramped in the ditch for so many hours. I crawled as far as I could on my stomach and then scrambled to a kneeling position. I wormed my way through the barbed wire, and thinking I was safe at last, stood up and started walking toward the town.
"Buck," a voice called out.
I forgot, the password is changed every day. "Orphan Annie" was no longer the password of the day.
"Rogers," I gambled.
"Buck," the voice repeated. The outpost hadn't heard my reply.
"Rogers," I yelled back. "I'm an American. I've been lost on patrol since yesterday. I don't know today's password. For Christ sakes, let me in."
"Buck," he yelled back for the third and last time before I knew he would start firing.
I dropped to the ground and yelled, "You dumb son-of-a-bitch, I'm an American."
"Advance and be recognized," the voice instructed. I stood up and approached the outpost.
"What's your company?" he quizzed me.
"What's your company commander's name?"
"Captain John Bowen."
"Where ya from?"
"Where do the Red Sox play?"
"Fenway Park, Boston."
"OK. C'mon in," the sentry said, apparently satisfied.
"The password is 'Buckshot' not 'Buck Rogers,'" he told me.
I had guessed incorrectly, and had almost been shot because of it. I had crawled back through DOG Company's line, about a quarter mile off course from where I had started the night before.
The lieutenant had returned without me, giving me up for dead or captured. When he saw me, he was anxious to get any information I might have. I described what I had observed, even though I was confident the lieutenant would take full credit when the information was passed up to battalion.
|American Infantry move past a knocked out Panther tank in Immendorf, Germany; Dec. 1944|
I was instructed to show company officers on a map the coordinates of the German position. A few minutes later, the area was pounded by 105-mm and 155-mm howitzers. They must had hit the supply dump, for I saw black smoke curling upward from where I estimated the German position to be.
--INSIDE THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE, pgs 34-37,
Roscoe C. Blunt, Jr.
PURCHASE Inside the Battle of the Bulge by Roscoe C. Blunt, Jr. HERE