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POW Story

This true story is dedicated to my family, especially my granchildren and great-grandchildren, and friends.

October 1993

I am Gene R. Haff a soldier assigned to the 29th Infantry Division, 3rd Battalion, 'C' Co., 115th Infantry Regiment in World War II. During the years since 1945, when I was discharged, I was busy finding a job, buying a house, and raising a family; too busy to write, and a great reluctance to talk about my experiences with my family and friends, or others who asked pertinent war questions. I didn't have anything to hide, or any action or inaction that I was ashamed to tell, I simply felt that the war was over, so why revive the past — I just wanted to look forward to the future. Most of us World War II veterans are now in our seventies, and are gradually approaching the hour when the clock stops ticking and the war will be over. So after fifty years of elapsed time, here are some of my personal experiences as a combat infantry soldier and prisoner of war — POW.

In 1941, I moved from Vinita, Oklahoma to Kansas City, Missouri to work in a defense plant as a welder. In 1942, a daughter, Myrna, was born to my wife, Delma, and me. I worked as a defense plant welder until I was drafted into the Army April 14, 1944 at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. I was sent to Camp Joseph F. Robinson in Little Rock Arkansas for seventeen weeks of infantry training. From there, I was sent to Fort Mead, Maryland for advanced infantry training. After three weeks at Fort Mead, I was sent to Camp Shanks in New York, which was an assembly point for troops being sent to the European Theater of Operations. Several days later, we shipped out of New York Harbor on the British ship, Acquantania — there were eight thousand troops on board. We were on board eight days, and sailed into the Clyde River in Glasgow, Scotland — Scotland is a beautiful country. We were taken by train to Tideworth Barracks in England, where we were given additional infantry training and were assigned to the 29th Infantry Division as replacements. Training in the Infantry in time of war is learning how to kill other human beings, how to keep from being killed, and conditioning the mind and body to endure the mental and physical hardships of war. Many hardships faced each new replacement, and the Lord knows many of us fell into that category; in fact, there were replacements who replaced replacements, and on and on. Being a stranger to your comrades and not knowing their names was an especially difficult situation that would be overcome only if you managed to stay there long enough. While in England, we learned British currency, frequented pubs, became accustomed to tea and muffins, and went sightseeing in London. I saw such sights as Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Piccadilly Circus, and rode my first subway; however, our leave was short-lived, and we were shipped out to Southampton, England

From there, we crossed the English Channel to Omaha Beach — three months after 'D' Day. The signs of the hell of war were everywhere; ship bows sticking up out of the water, German and American steel helmets and mess kits, uniforms, and other items strung everywhere. After climbing the bluffs, we made camp in a French apple orchard. We rustled up some sticks to make a small fire, and an old Frenchman came out and said, The only thing I don 't like about the Americans is that they break limbs off my orchard trees to make fires. Maybe he liked the four years of Nazi occupation better. Certainly not much gratitude, I would say.

Next, we were taken to a depot, where we were loaded on a troop train and taken to Paris, France. While in the station, I purchased a loaf of French bread approximately a yard long. My buddies were all saying, Give me a piece of that and, before long, my ration was almost gone. Some men purchased French cognac and got plastered. From Paris, we were taken to training areas in Belgium and Holland. While there, radio-controlled, buzz booms bombarded us. They weren't very accurate, but they sure were bothersome — they were one of Hitler 's secret weapons. At the training school in Tribeck, Holland, we were taught battle facts straight from the front lines, also such Division SOP — Standard Operating Procedures as: chin strap on the point of the chin, soup twice a day, two up and one back, and I don't know, but I'll find out.

At the end of October, we were moved to the Hergoginrath-Kerkrade area just inside the Dutch border to train for the impending offensive aimed at the Roer River and Julick. We were soon moved to the 9th Army's left flank in the Gelsenkirchen area. They told us if any of us had gotten to the front lines short of some equipment, there were some available in a huge pile in the middle of the street. I happened to be short of a pair of combat boots called mudpacks. They told us that the men who had worn these items no longer needed them. These items had been salvaged off dead American troops before burial. I said, Thanks, but no thanks. I didn't want any part of those mudpacks from that pile, because I considered them bad luck. They told us that warfare decrees that some men must die so that others may live, and that we were rugged, sharp, and ready for combat

We went into the line November 16, 1944. We started walking columns of men on each side of the road, fifty feet apart for dispersal. On our shoulders and backs, we were carrying steel tripod machine gun barrels, boxes of ammunition, bandoliers of ammunition around our necks, and hand grenades in our pockets. This was the big push through the Siegfried line that was aimed at the Roer River and Julick. The sights and sounds of combat were everywhere. We soon started seeing dead animals in the fields, with stiff legs pointing skyward, and bloated bodies rotting in the sun; all the innocent victims of a fire fight. I saw men in foxholes, some dead and some alive; their faces were black and unshaven. They were young men, but the grime, whiskers, and exhaustion made them look middle-aged. Living conditions were rugged in the trenches and foxholes along the Roer River; icy mud and water was ankle deep. It rained all the time, and there was not a bit of your food, clothing, ammunition or weapon that was dry. We slept and woke up in water up to our bellies, and were very thankful for a hole that deep. Many men developed Trench Foot

Our battalion was involved in dogged, house-to-house fighting in Kirchberg. We were darting between demolished buildings, trying to clean out enemy snipers as stretcher-bearers carried out the dead and wounded. They would pick up the dead American soldiers first and the Germans last, so the new replacements coming up would not be so shocked. At times, I have seen large GI trucks with trailers behind them full of bodies that were thrown on them like sticks of stove wood.

We engaged in day and night patrols and diversionary attacks. One day, we were in the zigzag trenches and came under tremendous artillery fire, including German 88s, the most feared enemy guns. These were artillery pieces that were fired point blank, as opposed to being fired in an arc. This was a very scary and traumatic experience. My buddy was just around the corner out of my sight and praying loudly. Suddenly I could no longer hear him, so I rushed around the corner to see if he had been hit. He had been buried alive under a pile of dirt that had served as a parapet. Another buddy and I dug him out quickly and saved his life.

The night of November 27, 1944, I was on night patrol with a squad and four combat engineers for a total of sixteen men. Our assignment was to check a road that led down to the Roer River for mines. This was necessary so they could bring up the tanks and other vehicles. It was pitch dark and we were walking about fifty feet apart for dispersal. Our assignment was to cover the engineers while they used the mine detectors to check the road. There was a general tendency toward prayer and loose bowels, as we moved out into the darkness. The whole thing is a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach, and leaves only the reactions related to surviving the next step — it is called the Infantry Soldier's Fear. We felt mighty naked and alone.

After checking approximately a quarter mile of road, suddenly a loud command to "halt" was heard, and all hell broke loose. The Germans opened fire, and I dived for the ground. A tremendous small arms firefight was taking place. It's amazing how flat you can lay when necessary. I laid in a rut in the middle of the road; bullets, gravel, and pieces of blacktop showered me. I thought that this was the end of the trail for me. Before I could load another clip in my M-1 rifle, they charged and ran us over. I felt a heavy foot in the middle of my back and was told to leave my weapon on the ground, get up, and put my hands behind my head. We had been attacked by a fifty-man patrol using burp guns. They captured four men, killed eight, and the four who were at the rear of the patrol escaped. Our captors marched us four prisoners down to a German command post on the west bank of the Roer River. We were taken in one at a time and interrogated. They made all kinds of threats in an attempt to get information from us. They gouged us in the stomach with bayonets, jumped at us with burp guns, asked if we volunteered or did Roosevelt send us, and finally the captain asked, What did you Yanks come over here for, because we never intended to bother you — all of this to no avail. The only information that we were required to give them was our name, rank and serial number.

After the last one of us had been interrogated, we were marched down to the banks of the river, where our artillery had set a building on fire. As we came near, we thought they were going to shoot us and stick us into the fire, but the Lord was with us. We were marched across the river on a makeshift pontoon bridge. Once on the other side, we were marched up a road and on our left side we saw a field that, to our horror, was full of dead bodies — there must have been hundreds — we couldn't believe our eyes. They consisted of German civilians and soldiers. The Germans were salvaging from them their clothing, shoes, and anything else of value before mass burial. This was a sight I shall never forget. As we passed this field, we automatically started walking a little faster, because we thought they were going to shoot us and add us to the pile. A little farther up the road, we were loaded into a German command car that contained a driver and two other soldiers. They covered us the whole trip with their Luggers drawn. We were driven to a metal building approximately twenty feet by twenty feet, thrown inside, and locked in. The building had no windows, and we were given no water or food. There was bombing, strafing, and artillery fire all around us, as this was right on the front lines. At times, American fighter planes bombed and strafed, and we grabbed our steel helmets and lay in each corner. There were four of us, so we each had a corner. Four days and nights we were held in this building. Little did we suspect that this situation was the beginning of a long, hard struggle for food, water, and even our lives? As we were moved farther behind the lines, more prisoners who had been captured in various places joined us. We were loaded into boxcars for the journey across the Rhine River to Stalag XIIA at Limburg. There appeared to be every kind of allied prisoner there. In Stalag XIIA, I spent the coldest, longest, and saddest Christmas of my life. And to make things worse, we were bombed by our own Air Force on Christmas Day, and several casualties resulted. It was really scary and nerve-racking; somebody had made a bad miscalculation.

Shortly after Christmas, we were loaded back into boxcars. These boxcars were very small, and too many men were crowded into each. They gave each man one-third loaf of black bread, one-third can of canned meat — similar to potted ham, and no water; some men ate their ration the first day. We had to sleep standing up, as we were packed in like matchsticks. We had no blankets, straw, or anything, and it was getting very cold. This was not only insulting, but also miserable. Men got so thirsty that they licked the frost on the metal parts of the boxcars. The only sanitary facility was a bucket in the middle of the car that, to say the least, was inadequate, as nearly everyone had dysentery to some degree. After a very short time with everyone using the bucket, the stench became awful. Although we had been in some bad places before, we didn't think we could survive this one. Tempers became very short, as some men accidentally tromped on others feet while trying to get to the bucket. The train would move very slowly for a few miles, then stop for several hours because the tracks were torn up in many places. We were in this town one day, and the air-raid sirens were screaming. We all felt very scared and helpless, being locked in like we were. Moments later, we were being bombed and strafed by our own fighter planes. We looked out through the cracks in the boxcars and saw the Nazi train crew all run from the train and crawl into a straw stack near the tracks. Many POW's were exposed to this type of danger during incarceration, and many casualties resulted.

After four days and nights on the train, we finally pulled into what was left of the station at Leipzig. We were unloaded and marched through the street of Leipzig, so the people could see that the Germans were winning the war. We didn't look like much then, as we were battle-dirty and ragged, but we still had the American Spirit. Unfortunately a few townspeople tried spitting on GI's, and some GI's took a swing at them, which cost them dearly with a rifle butt to the head. We were then taken to a building, where each man was given a painful shot in the chest; the fluid injected was dark brown in color. We were never told what it was for, but we all thought it was a death serum. We were then loaded back on the train for three more hectic days and nights, with no additional food or water.

We finally reached our destination at Stalag IVA at Hoanstein, Germany. This was a new annex camp located thirteen miles from Dresden on the Elbe River. Water main lines had not yet been completed to the camp. Water had to be hauled in for use in the soup kitchen, and was in very short supply. There were eventually one thousand five hundred British and one thousand Americans in the camp. All prisoners with a rank lower than sergeant had to work. I was a PFC — Private First Class, so I had to work along with many others. They put us to work digging three miles of pipeline ditch, seven feet deep. This camp was in the mountains, and the ground was rocky and frozen, which made the pick and shovel work very difficult.

Not long after we arrived, they started taking our GI clothing and shoes and issuing German Army summer uniforms and wooden shoes, with rags to wrap around our feet for socks. When I got word of what they were doing, I hid out in the latrine and was able to keep some of my things. They did get my overcoat, gloves, toilet articles, jewelry, and money. I still had all the other clothing I had when I got captured, including my combat jacket. We found out later that the main reason they took these articles of clothing was for use in the Battle of the Bulge, which happened later. They outfitted some of their troops that had been taught English and American slang to infiltrate American lines and cause chaos and confusion. Another reason I think they took our clothing was just to be mean and see us suffer.

They assigned twenty men to each barrack and we slept on bunk beds with burlap mattresses filled with wood shavings. We had no covers at all, and we all slept with our clothing on to keep from freezing to death. We had woodstoves in our rooms, but they wouldn't let us have wood for fires. Sometimes on our jobs we would ask if we could gather sticks for firewood, and we were denied. We were being subjected to one of the coldest winters on record in Europe — 1944 and 1945. We could hear and feel the bedbugs, ticks, and body lice as we lay on our burlap-covered bunks. Men would stand up in the dark of night and swat and scratch themselves, and curse their captors for our predicament

Due to the shortage of water, we had to eat snow to survive, and there was none at all to wash or bathe. Clean snow inside the compound was hard to find, as men would go out at night and urinate in the yard instead of going to the latrine. There also was a persistent lack of food. We were supposed to get three hot meals a day, according to the Geneva Convention. They said they were complying by giving us a cup of ersatz coffee for breakfast, nothing for lunch, and a hot bowl of cabbage or grass soup for supper. Some nights, they would give us a piece of black sawdust bread with the soup. If you were lucky, you might find a piece of horsemeat the size of your thumbnail in your soup. As a result, there was much scrounging, bartering, and fussing about food.

The most anticipated event in our camp was the arrival of Red Cross parcels. However, after allied bombing raids, massive retreats, and a badly disrupted transport system, our food rations became paltry, and a deep persistent hunger set in. As a result, varying levels of vitamin deficiencies and malnutrition haunted every prisoner. Food wasn't our only concern, but certainly the most visible one.

As I said before, we had to work digging pipeline twelve hours a day, and most of the time seven days a week. When our interpreter asked why we weren't being worked according to the Geneva Convention rules, he was told that there was no such thing as Sunday's in Germany, and that they didn't abide by the Geneva Convention rules. Guards armed with rifles, bayonets attached, walked the ditch to see that we kept working and never rose up. You were beaten and butt-stroked (a blow, typically to the head, groin, or kidney, administered with the butt end of a rifle) by the guards if you didn't keep moving. Our physical being suffered on and off from dysentery. And when we would ask the guards to relieve ourselves, they would wait until we got our clothes down and in position, and then run up and kick us in the rear and say, You Americans are all shit. We got to where we were afraid to ask to do No. 2. Several times, when we were being marched in from work one or more men would pass out in the snow from exhaustion and when we started to go to their aid, we would be beaten and told to leave them there. We never knew what happened to them.

After approximately three months of captivity, some men began to die. Sometimes the guards would throw as many as three or four bodies at a time in the latrine. When we asked if we could bury them, they said, no. We want the rest of you to take a long, hard look at them, because you will never get out of this place alive. Sometimes of an evening after work, the guards would boil up a bucket of small potatoes with the jackets on and, for their own amusement, throw them up into the air and watch the starving American POW's fight for them — they would laugh and make fun of them. One evening we all lined up in front of the kitchen to get our soup and as we entered the door, we saw some horseshoes lying on the counter. Some GI POW yelled, "Whoa Dobbin," and the German mess officer became very angry and said, Is this the kind of table manners you Americans possess. Some men saw humor in their plights, no matter how frustrating boring, or restricted they seemed to be. Humor helped mask the gravity of the situation and defuse tense moments.

Sometimes the area in which we worked would be near a field of potatoes. These potatoes were usually harvested and stored in mounds lined with straw. At times, when the guards got to their farthest point from you, one could rush over and steal a few potatoes. If you were caught, you would be severely beaten and your head shaved to show everyone you were a thief. Day after day, we had the same skimpy, non-nourishing, tasteless, and monotonous rations. I cleaned my soup bowl by scouring it out with dirt, because we didn't have any water.

We never had but one bath, and that was right at the end of our incarceration. The Germans got word that the International Red Cross was going to come and inspect the camp and look for violations of the Geneva Convention. Therefore, they rushed us down to a place in town and gave us a quick shower and delousing. They still didn't wash our clothes; they just steamed them. My clothes were so filthy that they would stand alone.

It was three months after I was captured that my wife and folk knew I was missing in action. I was allowed to write one letter home while I was a prisoner. The Germans told us what to say, and, if we didn't say the right things, it would never get there. I still have that letter. This letter is how they found out I was captured and a POW.

One night, several prisoners cut the fence and escaped. This caused quite a fuss and security was tightened. The guards told us later that they were caught and killed. We had a huge hole in the middle of the prison yard near the kitchen. This was used to bury kitchen waste, etc. Men would get up at night and urinate in this hole. I have seen prisoners so hungry that they would go down in the hole and scrounge rotten potatoes and turnip peelings. When told not to do so by fellow prisoners because it could be fatal they said, I don 't care; I'm going to die soon anyway. Living in close confinement with a herd of fellow men with less food, less space, less privacy, and considerably less freedom led to unpleasant difficulties. We couldn't get any news from home, and we didn't know whether we were winning or losing the war.

Near the end of the war, the Germans passed out letters to each prisoner in our camp, asking them to join their army and help fight the Russians, who they claimed was the real enemy. They offered us plenty of food, clothing, etc. Every prisoner I knew scoffed and used their letter for toilet paper. I hid mine on my person and got home with it. I have a framed copy of it on my wall at home.

Approximately the latter part of January 1945, one night thousands of bombers came over our camp for hours. We had to turn out all our lights in the camp, and we heard tremendous explosions that rocked us in our beds. The British Royal Air Force bombed at night and the American Air Force in the daytime. Our camp was thirteen miles from Dresden, Germany on the Elbe River, and we knew what the target was. We all clapped our hands with glee and said, Count our supermen now, Adolph. The next morning, when we got up to go to work we saw dense smoke and small pieces of confetti — like burnt paper flying everywhere, and a terrible odor. The guards told us that Dresden was caput. They said that this was the largest and most destructive mission flown in World War II — two hundred thousand died. This is more than the Japanese cities sustained in the atomic bomb attack. Dresden was completely burned out and destroyed by these attacks. Jack Herrington, a POW friend of mine, took part in that mission.

The latter part of April 1945, I became very weak and couldn't see to read, couldn't hear, and didn't have any volume to my voice. Naturally, I was very concerned because I had seen other men get in that same condition and soon expire. Nothing is worse than being slowly starved to death. If the war had lasted another thirty days, I don 't believe I would have had the endurance to stay alive. There are actually no words in the English language to describe being incarcerated as a POW, but you can rest assured everything you you've read is true. There wasn't a great deal of difference in physical stamina between myself and those who died. Such immeasurable things as faith, spirit, persistence, and individual fighting morale contributed to my staying alive. Everybody prayed, many died whom I felt had a stronger faith than mine. Maybe God intended for me to live for a special purpose. Perhaps he did so I could tell my story about the brutal, barbaric, wicked, inhuman and cruel treatment I received from other human beings, my German captors.

One day, approximately May 7, 1945, we started hearing the roar and rumble of artillery in the east. Each day it got louder and louder, and at night we could see the flashes. We were all elated and all chimed, Here comes Uncle Joe, referring to Joseph Stalin.

The German guards became very nervous. One night, they told us to fallout and prepare to leave. When we asked where they were taking us, they said, To the American lines. Many men were too ill to walk and had to be carried. The ones that were still able to walk had to take turns carrying them. The ones that were near death were left behind to fall into the hands of the Russians. We were marched day and night through winding mountain roads that were loaded with German troops and civilian refugees, all loaded with what worldly possessions they could carry or push on crude carts. We were strafed several times every day by Russian fighter aircraft. The whole thing was a nightmare of chaos and confusion. After approximately four days and nights, we were surprised one morning at daylight, as there were no guards. They had abandoned us during the night and made their getaway from the Russians.

Four of us prisoners decided to take off on our own and try to find the American lines. After several days of travel, we came to a nice farmhouse near Pilsen, Czechoslovakia. We knocked on the door, identified ourselves and asked if they knew where the American Army lines were. They told us they heard that they were in Prague. When we asked for food and lodging, they hesitated and looked up and down the street carefully to see if their neighbors were watching them. They didn't trust anybody, because if they were caught giving aid and comfort to the enemy, they would be arrested and shot by the Gestapo. They let us in, and brought a large basin of water and asked us to wash our feet. We figured they still practiced the ancient custom of Bible times. We needed more than a foot washing, because we were covered with body lice, filthy grime, and festering sores caused by various insect bites. They told us they didn't have but very little food to give us, but agreed to give us what they could. Some of them let us sleep in their barns at night. We talked to them at length about our experiences and they seemed real interested. I remember them telling us to never let the government take your guns and ammunition away from you, as they made that mistake and ended up in slavery. They were very sympathetic and kind to us. This was typical of all the civilians we met in Czechoslovakia.

On May 9, 1945, Germany surrendered to the allies, but there were sill pockets of resistance for sometime afterwards. The German troops were required to wear a white armband to signify that they had given up; otherwise, they were fair game. Russian troops were showing up in large numbers. They were very "trigger happy, "firing from jeeps and half-tracks with reckless abandon. They had automatic weapons in one hand and a quart of Vodka in the other. There were also several women troops among them. They stopped us and questioned us to make sure we were American POW's.

The Russians were making the Germans that were giving up pile their weapons in big piles in the middle of the street, and posting guards on these piles. We saw three Germans with their weapons approaching the weapons piles to deposit their weapons, and one of them just pitched his pistol at me and I caught it — the rest of them put theirs in the pile. This pistol was a Spanish-made, 38 caliber with 16 rounds; the holster contained a spare clip. I was able to get home with it by keeping it hidden on my person and in my traveling bags. I am very proud of this souvenir, and keep it loaded always for protection.

On our way to Prague, we came to the next small town. As we walked up the street we saw five Russian POW's dead in the street. We became very concerned for our safety, because we feared prisoners were being shot by the Germans on sight. We decided to get out of this town as soon as possible, as we were hearing much small arms fire.

At approximately 1:00 p.m. on May 15, 1945, as we were walking down a rural road, we saw what we thought was an American jeep coming toward us. As it turned out, it was two American soldiers; we were overjoyed to see them. They had no idea who we were, because we looked so bad. After telling them we were American POW's, they told us that they had just finished eating lunch, and asked us to mount the jeep and they would take us to the field kitchen and feed us. We were served spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and ice cream. I will never forget how good this food tasted.

The next day, we were taken to an assembly area for POW's, loaded and flown to Rhimes, France. Upon arrival, we were deloused, given a good hot shower, weighed, and issued new clothes — I weighed 149 pounds — when I was captured, I weighed 210 pounds. From Rhimes, we were flown to Camp Lucky Strike in LaHague, France; this was an assembly point for prisoners to be processed before being returned home. Here, we were given physical exams, put on special no-salt diets, and given treatments for our many ailments. There were thousands passing through this camp every day, and you just had to wait your turn to get transportation home. Most men did not want to be hospitalized; they just wanted to get home as soon as possible. I had to wait twenty-one days before I could leave.

Finally, June 10, 1945, a large group of us was loaded aboard the Coast Guard ship, Admiral Mayo, and was on our way home. Victor Mature, a famous movie actor then, was serving in the Coast Guard and on board. He was introduced to us, and he entertained us with some jokes. One I still remember goes like this: My name is Victor Mature, and I have two brothers, Premature and Immature.

We had just been paid before boarding ship and everyone had money; consequently, there were many crap games on deck every day. I saw one POW from my POW camp that had shot craps for three days. He had the whole bundle of loot wrapped up in his jacket. He said he hadn't slept for several days and nights for fear someone would steal his money. We had a large, big band orchestra on board for our entertainment and USO shows.

After seven days at sea, we came into Boston Harbor. Everyone was overjoyed to be home safely again. We had to sit in the harbor for approximately six hours before being unloaded. This seemed an eternity, because everyone was so anxious to set foot on American soil again. Once ashore, we were taken to Fort Dix, New Jersey for processing. After leaving there, I was sent to Fort Chaffey, Arkansas, and from there home for two weeks. It was a great feeling to get home again to see and visit with everyone.

After my leave at home, I was sent to Hot Springs, Arkansas for three weeks of recuperation time. Here, we were allowed to just relax, sightsee, and we were waited on like royalty. We ate all our meals at the Arlington Hotel, and had live music at the dinner hour; I stayed in the Majestic Hotel close by. All of this was a delightful departure from the filthy environment we had just left in Germany, and we relished every moment of it. My brother, Herman, was stationed at nearby Camp Robinson, and he came and visited me while I was in Hot Springs. We had a nice visit and were glad to see each other again.

My vacation soon ran out and I was sent to Fort Ord, California, near Salinas. Here, I attended Cooks and Bakers school, and was promoted to second cook; I made the rolls, cakes, and cookies. I worked 24 hours on and 24 hours off so I was able to enjoy places of interest in the area. I was told that if I would stay in the Army they would make me a sergeant and give me $1,000, but I declined and chose to be discharged and go home. I was discharged December 5, 1945.

This concludes my story of some of my experiences as a combat infantry soldier and POW. As I have said before, there are actually no words in the English language to describe being incarcerated as a POW. You may ask yourself could I have done it, could I have survived? Yes, you could, as I have, as others have. All my constructive efforts to survive — the will to live — replaced the destructive thoughts of death.

Perhaps God intended for me to live for a specific purpose, so I could tell my story to my family, especially my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and friends.

I first ran across Gene when I started attending the Britton Road Church of Christ in Oklahoma City. Having a great deal of respect for the WWII generation and a tremendous penchant for asking a lot of questions about the war, Gene and I struck up a lot of conversations. One Sunday I told Gene that he was one of my heroes and he offered to bring me this story. After reading it, I asked him if I could put it up on these pages, and he graciously consented. It is an honor to be thought of as one of Gene's friends.

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