Bill was a happy, jovial man. He was a patient of mine for many years. He always came to the clinic in the company of his sweet wife, who clearly adored him. Bill looked like a professional grandfather. He was also my friend.
Bill was a gifted woodworker. He loved football, golf, and dancing with his wife. Within 15 minutes of meeting him, you knew where he stood with Jesus. Bill was a man of powerful faith. He loved people, and people loved him. In sum, Bill was as American as it gets.
I knew Bill in his golden years, when he was seasoned, shall we say. However, back in 1944, Bill was not somebody’s affectionate grandfather. 81 years ago, Bill was a hard-charging young infantryman with the 104th Infantry Division — the Timberwolves. Adolf Hitler had enslaved Europe. Bill and his mates were going to make that right.
War
Bill landed in Europe along with the rest of his division on 7 July 1944 — 31 days after D-Day. By then, the landing areas were well and truly secured, purchased with the blood of thousands of Allied troops. However, there yet remained a breathtaking amount of fighting to be done to wrest Europe back from the madman. Bill was a part of all of that.
Combat in WWII aged a young man quickly. Bill moved into Belgium in October of 1944 and then advanced as part of the offensive to clear the Scheldt Estuary. By month’s end they were in Aachen, Germany. Once in Germany, the Germans fought like lions to stop them.
That’s the sort of overview you might find in a history book. However, Bill was one of those vets who was willing to talk. Whenever I saw him in the clinic, I asked for a fresh war story. His mind was as sharp as his wit, and I got my share.
A Grunt’s Life
Three months into the overarching offensive, the 104th had already suffered tremendous casualties. Despite being only 19 years old, Bill was by then a seasoned veteran. With multiple combat patrols under his belt, Bill was expected to help keep the new guys alive when things popped off.
Like most American infantrymen, Bill carried an M1 rifle. He explained that there was only one M1. The M1 Carbine was the carbine, and the M1 Thompson was the Thompson. However, to the grunts who used it, the M1 Garand was always just the M1. He admired the rifle for its power and accuracy. However, it wasn’t the optimal tool for certain applications.
Bill got tagged to lead a night patrol behind enemy lines at one point to gather intelligence. He and his buddies taped down their equipment so that it wouldn’t rattle. He approached a gunner assigned to one of their 37mm antitank guns about swapping out his M1 for a Thompson just for this mission. The Thompson was boat anchor heavy, but it offered inimitable close-range firepower.
Bill explained that their 37mm AT guns were worthless in the face of German armor, so the antitank man rarely saw the front lines. He agreed to the temporary swap. Once the night patrol was complete, Bill just never gave the gun back. Don’t feel bad about that. Bill didn’t. The AT gunner was likely pleased not to have to carry the thing anymore. Bill, however, loved his Tommy gun. He used it for the rest of the war.
The Weapon
This was an M1A1 with the charging handle on the side. It came with five 20-round magazines and no web gear. Bill just carried his spare magazines in the pockets of his field jacket along with a bunch of loose ammo.
I once asked him if just having 100 rounds stoked and ready to go was ever a problem in combat. He said not really. He liked the fact that the Thompson and his M1911A1 pistol both used the same ammunition. He said that whenever he had a free second, even under fire, he would drop down behind a handy tree and thumb a few rounds into his magazines. Most of his engagements were brief enough that he could keep his mags topped off. This practice carried him throughout his time in combat.
War Stories
I asked Bill his opinion of the Thompson in action. I have fired a few, and, of course, I watch movies. He said that, at close range, the Thompson hit harder than anything else on the battlefield. A decent burst of those big thumb-sized .45 ACP slugs would reliably do the deed.
He related one incident wherein he was in the back of an armored halftrack barreling through a well-defended German village. Rounds were flying everywhere, and chaos reigned. A young German shoulder jumped up with what looked like a panzerfaust. Bill indexed his Thompson and caught him squarely in the chest with a burst that bowled the young man over as though he had been struck by a car.
His most moving tale orbited around a mission conducted at the very end of the war. They had a new platoon leader who needed some combat time before the shooting stopped. The war was all but over, and everybody knew it. However, the brass claimed they needed a couple of prisoners. Bill said that their hearts really weren’t in it.
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Bill’s best friend was a Jewish kid from New York named Sol — short for Solomon. They had been inseparable ever since they landed in France. That’s the nature of military service. These two young men, one from New York and the other from Mississippi, had absolutely nothing in common before the war. After a little time under fire, however, they were closer than brothers. Bill and Sol were the most experienced veterans on the patrol. It was their job to secure the prisoners and get the lieutenant back safely.
The patrol moved into a little German village and snatched a couple of prisoners without too much difficulty. It seemed that nobody really wanted to be the last casualties of the Second World War. At their farthest point forward, Bill and Sol were in the lead crouching behind the edge of a large brick building. The LT said it was time to turn around and go back. For reasons Bill said he has never understood, Sol stood up to take a look around the corner. Bill moved to stop him, but it was too late.
Unknown to them all, a German landser was also approaching around the opposite corner and came face-to-face with Sol. The Kraut stitched Bill’s friend in the chest with a burst from his MP40 SMG. Bill, for his part, stepped around the corner and killed the man with a similar burst from his Thompson. The Americans then all retreated into the building.
For a brief moment, Sol seemed fine. He was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, but just seemed more surprised than anything else. Then he fell back against the wall, slid to the floor, and died. The deed was done. Bill was powerless to stop it.
The Aftermath
The American patrol rushed out the back of the building with the two German prisoners in the lead. As they ran through the back garden they hit a tripwire that detonated an antipersonnel mine. Both of their prisoners were killed. Bill and his patrol, sans Sol, made it safely back to American lines. The war ended scant days later. Bill came home with three Bronze Stars and Purple Heart.
Bill tracked down Sol’s parents after the war in New York and told them what a great friend he had been. Then he returned home. Like so many of those amazing heroes, after having seen so much death and pain, all he wanted to do was make the world better. He died at age 95 with kids, grandkids, and great grandkids aplenty having done just that. Along the way, he blessed me as well.
Special thanks to www.WorldWarSupply.com for the cool replica gear used in preparation of our photos.
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