But we cannot blame them for their words, however immoral they maybe.
Now we can take a break and I seize the opportunity to eat some of the food that these boys consume on a daily basis. Coffee is plentisome and the men, although obviously seeing me as an outsider, answer my questions when they hear them above the racket of guns outsi
Oh, my dear reader,
I now find myself inside the very vestiges of hell.
The enemy has struck back at use with their dastardly artillery.
Some of the wonderful men that I spoke with have fallen, claimed by the dice of war, purely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As the shells swept over us, we could hear the cries of the wounded, cries to which the brave stretcher bearers responded.
Both those valiant men lie amongst those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in this war against the aggression of Communism.
Giorgio, an Italian-American who spoke of little else but a future in professional baseball, has departed in the ambulance that took away four of our wounded souls.
They lied to him, assuring him that he would be well. He has lost a leg, and the knowledge of that would have struck him as mortal a blow as the enemy metal that has deprived him of his career.
My escort, Sergeant Ron, has disappeared, and my comrades fear the worst for their rock, as they call him.
Before I came on this personal mission, I can only confess to how little I understood of the cost of war, and the loss of these few men has made a deep impression upon me. I cannot begin to imagine how deeply it will affect those who have sweated and bled beside them, only now to find them gone forever.
[Author’s note. The unit that JTS joined was Baker Company, 264th US Infantry Regiment. The Divisional history indicates that the 1st Battalion, of which Baker was a part, had seen some ferocious fighting in the first days of combat, during which over two-thirds of its leadership was killed or wounded. That makes me wonder greatly as to why JTS was sent to them, and especially given the plans for their use during the upcoming renewed assaults.
2nd Lieutenant Joseph S. Warner never returned to the front line, as he developed complications and died a month after his injury was sustained. According to witness testimony, his time actually in the front line amounted to no more than twenty-five minutes.
First Sergeant Ronald F. Gregson disappeared in the artillery strike that JTS speaks of. It is known that he left the safety of the dugout before the medics, but nothing is known of his actions or demise.
According to the battle-diary of First Battalion, the enemy artillery barrage lasted for no more than seven minutes, during which time Baker Company lost eighteen men WIA and eleven KIA. Three men were MIA, including Gregson, who had fought with the 42nd Division in the Great War,
The Heavy Weapons Company lost six WIA and five KIA.
Replacements were with the company within twenty-four hours.]
Dear Reader,
Today I am to closely observe an attack, as the men of this company push forward to take a vital position, in preparation for a larger attack on a nearby town.
Around us are the wrecks and marks of previous combat.
Of particular note is a ruined tank, besides which are set five graves.
A German tank for sure, so it is a relic of the previous war, but none the less poignant to this reporter’s eye.
The marks on the tank reveal how it met its end, two holes, once bright, now rusted, betray how the vehicle was knocked out.
Clearly the men inside would have had no chance.
Enemies or not, I find myself feeling sympathy for them, and for their families.
My concept of war seems to be changing as I see more of the loss and horror it brings.
It is difficult to find glory besides these five graves, or those I walked past some days ago.
There seems little glory in the screams of wounded men, or in the endless silence of the dead.
I have experienced loss, the departure of men with whom I have spent a few minutes, so how must it be for these soldiers, who see their friends and comrades taken from them so regularly?
I pray to God that these men will be preserved today, and yet, as I walk amongst them as they prepare, I wonder to myself whose voice will be heard no more, whose heart will be stilled, whose family will wait in vain?
I hope my prayers are listened to.
Dear Reader,
It is my duty, my awful duty to speak of the events that fell before my eye as these brave men went about the business of war.
I am now more convinced than ever as to the bestiality of it all, and ask what we achieve by sending our young men into circumstances that can only be described as hell on earth.
My prayers have fallen away, clearly unheard, at least I hope that is the case, not that they were unheeded.
The company was magnificent, moving forward on foot towards the objective; a piece of raised ground that dominates an important road junction.
Accompanied by another unit on our left flank, the men pushed forward hard until the enemy mortars started to drop amongst them.
Men that I had just shared coffee with fell in front of my eyes, never to rise again.
The company commander, wounded by a metal fragment, called his own support down upon the hill, and within seconds the high-explosive started to change the landscape towards which our troops again advanced.
More shells landed amongst the advancing waves and I saw grievous work done amongst the other supporting unit.
Again, the advance halted whilst more support was organised.
Within minutes it arrived, in the shape of seven aircraft. I did not recognise the type, nor the markings, but they were friendly and attacked the Soviet-held hill immediately.
I am told that they used something called napalm.
Whatever it was, the sight of its effect will live with me forever.
The whole hill was enveloped in roaring flame as, one after the other, the Allied aircraft dropped their deadly cargo.
After a second pass, the enemy mortars stopped their fire, and there was nothing by way of resistance from the smoking hill top.
Our men swept up and over the location, intent on pushing past the feature. The remaining units of the First Battalion, plus extra support, followed up quickly to secure the position and prepare for any counter-attack.
I went with them and found that, whatever I had thought about the weapon in use, the effects upon the occupying enemy were catastrophic.
It was the sweet smell, carried on the gentle breeze, which first assailed me.
I little understood its nature until I was confronted by my first corpse, charred black and shrunk to the size of a dwarf, the grotesquely smoking skull gaping wide displaying what can only have been the extremes of suffering.
This truly awful sight paled into insignificance as I moved further up the hill, where the numbers of shrunken black pygmies grew until, just the other side of the summit, I found the most awful tableau of man’s suffering I think it is possible to see.
A wide trench, clearly the place where the enemy assembled their wounded, was filled with bodies, all ravaged by the excesses of fire. A score? Thirty? I have no idea how many men had been there when our air force struck. Whatever the number, they were all now permanently together in death, the horribly burned bodies welded and melted together by the deadly napalm.
Hell could not look as appalling as the aftermath of our attack on that hill.