George Gordon Ward, my father’s younger brother was drafted into the United States Army in 1943.  He was sworn in at Fort Ord, California and immediately sent to Camp Lee, Virginia for his basic training.  After basic he went to Fort Washington, Maryland, where he learned to operate an IBM machine.  From there he traveled to Fort Mason in San Francisco, where it appeared he would sit out the war as an office worker.

One day he was walking down a sidewalk at Fort Mason when two navy sailors passed by, their chests resplendent with battle ribbons.  “Where ya been, soldier?” one of them scoffed at the medal-less, ribbon-less young IBM operator.

That did it.  My uncle was not going to sit out the war in some office, with no stories to tell his grandchildren.  He found a bulletin board at Fort Mason to see what looked interesting.  On the board he saw a poster challenging men to become pilots for the Army Air Corps.  He applied and was accepted.  Before he knew it, he was heading for Abilene, Texas to begin class as an AAC Cadet.  Graduation would earn him the gold bars of a Second Lieutenant and an invitation to pilot school.

Alas!  No sooner had he arrived in Abilene, when the camp commandant announced that the AAC Cadet class was canceled.  What the army needed more urgently was infantry.  Just like that George found himself assigned to the 1^st Platoon, of Company C, of the 1^st Battalion, of the 242^nd Infantry Regiment, of the 42^nd Rainbow Division, of the 9^th Corps, of the 7^th Army.  As compensation for being washed out of an officer’s training program before being given a chance, he was promoted to Staff Sergeant and placed in charge of the 3^rd Squad of the First Platoon.  He commanded eleven men.

When the 42^nd Division was deemed battle-worthy, it was activated and sent off to join the war.  George boarded a troopship called the William S. Black and headed east across the Atlantic.  The division debarked at Marseille, France, not far from where my father’s unit had landed only a few days earlier.  No sooner had they landed, when a single German fighter plane appeared overhead and strafed the troops.  Fortunately, no one was hit, but George now realized that he was in a shooting war.

With his unit George marched and rode a train northward from Marseille until he came to a French fort in the Alsace area of France, not far from the German border.  At that point, in early December, 1944 he still had not seen any real combat.  It looked like maybe he would see none.  The Germans appeared all but finished.   The war might be over by Christmas.  While at the fort he was visited briefly by my father, First Lieutenant Artemus Edgar Ward, who commanded the 599^th Ambulance Platoon.  It was their only meeting during the war.

The early morning hours of December 16, 1944, abruptly dashed hopes of an early end to the war.  After an opening artillery barrage, twenty-four German divisions, ten of them Panzer, suddenly appeared opposite four green American infantry divisions along a sixty-mile front in the Ardennes forests of Belgium and Luxembourg.  The Americans, outnumbered and taken completely by surprise, fell back before the onslaught.  A huge bulge was driven into the American lines, hence the name, “The Battle of the Bulge.”

To meet the offensive, large numbers of American troops under General Omar Bradley were gathered to pinch the bulge shut from the south.  The British General Sir Bernard Montgomery took command of the American and British forces to the north, which began to clamp down from that direction.

By the end of December the German offensive quite literally ran out of gas.  From that point on, they were steadily pushed back.  Three weeks later they were back to where they had started, minus huge quantities of equipment and 120,000 troops that could not be replaced.

The sudden redeployment of American troops from the south left the newly liberated French area of the Alsace in danger of re-occupation by the Germans.  The French in Strasbourg in particular, had risen against the German garrison and then welcomed their allied liberators with rapturous joy.  There was fear of horrific German retributions.  To prevent such an occurrence, the 42^nd division was retained in the Alsace.

Hitler did indeed launch a smaller, little known offensive with eleven divisions called Operation Nordwind on the Alsace on January 9, 1945.  In the tiny town of Hatten, twenty miles to the northeast of Strasbourg, my uncle George saw his first combat.  Knowing that the Germans were about to attack, he was having his squad dig foxholes in Hatten, to fortify a defensive position in the wee hours before dawn.  A runner appeared with orders that they were to move 500 yards forward and join the rest of the platoon.  There they dug in at a drainage ditch outside of town.

Snow was falling heavily at first light when the Germans opened an artillery barrage.  George and his men scrambled behind a large earthen mound on the town side of the drainage ditch.  The barrage subsided with the appearance of the German infantry behind their new Mark IV tanks, which were superior to our Shermans.

“They were a rag-tag bunch,” George told me many years later.  “Some were black shirted panzer troops.  Others wore white winter camouflage, while still others were in summer green.”

Lying prone on the snow, my uncle opened fire with the rest of his platoon once the Germans came within 300 yards.  The barrel of his rifle became so hot that it sizzled when he tried to cool it with snow.  George and his buddies fired.  Germans fell.  It was impossible to tell if any of his bullets were responsible.  He fired along with the others.  Germans fell.

Americans were falling too.  To his left burst a German mortar shell.  It was so cold that George did not realize until later that a fragment from the shell had torn into his left knee.  For that wound he would later receive a Purple Heart.

Very quickly the entire supply of bazooka shells, the only means they had to stop the German tanks, was expended  Fortunately, the tanks could not cross the drainage ditch.  Even so, with the German infantry coming up, First Platoon’s position appeared untenable.  The platoon sergeant was dead.  The next ranking sergeant was wounded.  George was informed that he was now in command.  Should they stay put and fight it out, or should they attempt to rejoin the rest of Company C in Hatten?  A temporary lull in the fighting gave George time to weigh his options.

“Let’s go for Hatten,” he decided.  Since he was now in command, he had to be the first man to venture from cover.  When no shots came, he shouted “Let’s go!”  The whole platoon ran for Hatten.

Two soldiers didn’t make it.  One astride of George cried “I’ve been hit!”  With German bullets whizzing by, my uncle knelt down to take his pulse.  No pulse.  He had taken a bullet between the eyes.  There was nothing to do but leave him and run for the safety of Hatten.

George made it safely to Hatten, but Hatten was far from safe.  By this time the Germans controlled portions of the town—and nobody knew exactly who held what.  A medic asked George to help him carry a wounded German to an aid station.  George uttered a few choice words about what he thought of “Krauts,” and then took an end of the stretcher.  On the way to the aid station, they turned a corner and found themselves staring down the muzzle of a German Mark IV tank.  The medic, who was in front froze, expecting immediately to meet his Maker.  No fire came from the tank and they continued toward the aid station.  Evidently, the tank crew saw the Red Cross arm band or perhaps noticed that the wounded soldier on the stretcher was one of theirs.  Up the stairs of a building they carried him to a room filled with doctors and wounded.

Shortly thereafter a group of about twelve German soldiers bounded up the stairs, burst into the room and announced that all the Americans present were prisoners of war.  George and the others were marched behind the German lines and informed that they were being sent to a prison camp.  They were given one loaf of bread for each three soldiers.

Upon crossing into the enemy lines, George saw the bodies of about 100 American soldiers stacked neatly in a row, reminding him of a fence.  There he made a mistake that nearly cost him his life.  Without thinking he knelt down to tie his shoe.  A German guard tapped him with his rifle and motioned for him to return to his feet.  For all the guard knew, an American was reaching for a concealed weapon hidden under his pant leg.  George realized he was fortunate that the guard didn’t just shoot him.

The next day each of the prisoners was taken for interrogation.  George went before three German officers, who asked for his name, rank, and serial number.  Those questions he readily answered, for they were required under the terms of the Geneva Convention rules of war.  He was told to empty his pockets.  Out came a number of powdered lemonade packets.

“What are these?” they demanded.

“Powdered lemonade packets.”

The unconvinced officers suspected they might be some kind of explosive powder.  They were confiscated, along with George’s wristwatch.  Then came military questions.

“What American units are in the area?  What are the American plans?”

All soldiers are taught during basic training that if captured, they are to give the enemy no information beyond the Geneva Convention requirements.  George decided to fulfill his duty by playing dumb.

“I’ve told you all I have to tell.  I don’t know anything.”

“You are Sergeant Ward, First Platoon leader of Company C.”

They had probably gleaned that information from another prisoner.  Since he was a leader, he had to know something.  They continued to press him.

“I don’t know anything,” he responded.

Maybe they thought he was stupid.  Maybe they thought he was being a loyal American.  In any event, they dismissed him.  George and the other prisoners were then crammed, standing room only, into boxcars for transfer to a prison camp.

The week long trip was a study in misery.  At either end of the box car was a bucket for a toilet.  Because the rail-lines had been so badly shot up by allied planes, the first train could only take them so far.  They were then marched to where another train picked them up and moved them along.  This pattern was repeated several times until they reached Stalag 4B, a prison camp 200 miles to the northeast, near Muhlberg, Germany.  Upon arrival, the camp commandant addressed the prisoners.

“For you the war is over.  Do not try to escape.  You are far from any place to go and you will be shot.”

Stalag 4B was a large complex, with British/American and Russian sides.  George noted a marked difference in the treatment of the prisoners on the two sides.  The German guards went out of their way to inflict cruelty upon the Russians, whom they considered inferior.  George and the other prisoners on his side were not mistreated, except that there was never enough to eat.  His daily ration was a bowl of thin soup, with a turnip or rutabaga, brown bread made from sawdust, and some mint tea.  During his three months of captivity, he lost over forty pounds.  He was given the opportunity to write a letter home.

February 3, 1945

Dear mother,

I am a prisoner of war in Germany.  I’m well treated and in good health.  Contact the Red Cross and they will give you a good idea of what you can send me.  Be sure and write me often because the last letter I had from home was dated the 16^th of December and I keep wondering if all is smooth at home.  Hope you are taking it easy and obeying the doctor.  The weather is far from warm in these parts.  To tell the truth, I haven’t been warm since we left the states.  Say hello to Marilyn (a sister) for me.  Also my friends.  Write Artie (my father) for me.  Take it easy.  Love, George.

In April, 1945 the Russians overran the camp from the east, the German guards escaping just ahead of them.  The newly freed Russian prisoners were given guns by their liberators and invited to hunt down the guards, which they did with a vengeance.

You’d think our wonderful Russian allies would immediately arrange to return the British and American prisoners to their lines.  Instead they went from captives of the Germans to captives of the Russians.  They were marched five miles southward to a Luftwaffe barracks in Riesa, Germany, where they were placed under guard in a stockade.  The Russians wanted to hold them hostage in exchange for prisoners or money.

George took his new captivity for a couple of days.  One night he and two others quietly hopped the fence and made for the nearby town.  Riesa was deserted, the civilian populace having fled before the invading Russians.  The three escapees came to a house that had canned food in the basement and chickens running around in the yard.  It was time to feast.  Just as they were opening some cans in the basement, three Russian soldiers came downstairs and pointed their rifles at them.

“Friends!  Americans!” they shouted.

One of the Russians was an officer.  When he spoke to the other two soldiers, George caught the word “Americans.”  They abruptly left.

George and his friends then gorged themselves on canned food.  One of the men ran down a chicken, which they butchered and cooked.  Then they all got sick from too much food, too fast, on shriveled stomachs.  After recovering sufficiently, they commandeered three bicycles and began peddling southwest, in the direction of the American lines.

At this point the war was not quite over.  Soon they passed from Russian held territory to land still held by the Germans.  They came upon a column of retreating German soldiers.  Though the three men were unarmed, they were still wearing their tattered American uniforms.

“Play it cool,” George told the others.  They rode between the soldiers.  No rifle was raised.  Not a word was spoken.  Maybe the retreating Germans had seen enough killing.

They pedaled on with no further incidents until they came upon an American patrol, which took them to their headquarters.  From there they were driven to Nurnberg, and then to the French seaport of LaHavre, to await transportation back to the United States.  The LaHavre experience was an improvement over Stalag 4B.  George, who by then weighed 115 pounds, was told to “pack it in.”  He did not disobey.

With the conclusion of the war in Europe, thousands of men were being shipped home from LaHavre every day.  George had to await his turn.  Every morning he scanned the lists to see if his name had come up.  When it did not, he decided to take advantage of a standing three-day pass to Paris.  He had a great time in Paris and returned to LaHavre just in time to watch his ship, an Italian luxury liner, sail out of the harbor.  He ended up settling for a no frills American Liberty ship.  He arrived in New York harbor on America’s 169^th birthday, July 4, 1945.  Home alive in ‘45!  He had indeed been somewhere.

George married Beth Meeker of Berkeley, California on June 21, 1947.  Three children came from their marriage; my cousins Dick, Joan, and Martha.  Their union lasted until July 29, 1999 when my uncle passed away peacefully in his sleep.  He was one of the most decent men I have ever known.  As of this writing, his widow Beth is still alive, pushing 93.