Victory in Europe


It was here, I think near a town named Werdau that the war ended for us. The Germans were trapped in the mountains on the boarder with Czechoslovakia between us and the Soviets, waiting for the official cease fire which, when it came, would signal their mass exodus and surrender to us, thereby avoiding the tender mercies of the Soviets. During this lull, I had an interesting or at least memorable experience. A recent replacement Technical Sergeant and I were detailed to take a truckload of empty jerry cans to Zwickau right after lunch/chow, fill them with gasoline, and return. Filling 240 empty cans and reloading them back onto the truck, with little or no help, is an onerous task with which I had plenty of experience. We were just finishing chow before taking off on a lovely spring day. The sergeant was a real, loudmouth, know-it-all jerk from an anti-aircraft unit (why he became surplus is a good question) and of no use to Service Battery except for keep-out-of-the way tasks like commanding the gasoline truck driver, which is why I got stuck with him. While relaxing a moment before taking off, we got into some kind of an argument over politics and raised our voices a bit. Along came a Second Louie trying to impress us (or the Captain) with his importance asking why we were sitting there relaxing in the sun when we should be working or doing something else constructive. When I explained that we were about to take off for Werdau as scheduled and why, he was taken back a bit but recovered (read: saved face) by telling me to report to him when I returned before dinner. Nothing said to the Sergeant, just me.

Well, that's the kind of things you can expect in a Service Battery so off we go to Zwickau. When we pulled onto the main road we got quite a shock. There, along side us on the road, we were passing an entire Panzer Division slowly coming into the Zwickau collecting area to surrender. We passed tank after tank and trucks filled with armed soldiers. Somehow, my little carbine and the Sergeant's pistol gave me little solace. Well, we made it into the depot safely missing my last chance to earn a medal. It's not so bad offloading 240-250 empty gas cans but it's no picnic loading an equal amount when they are full and I, having done most of the work and all of the driving, I was tired. We had to wait our turn and also because of the heavy traffic didn't get back to our unit until a few minutes before chow time and the line was already forming. So I said to myself, "The hell with it. I'm beat and he knows he was just being chicken". So, after finishing chow, I returned to my tent. But of course, military discipline had to be maintained, especially in the face of the enemy, and about 15 or 30 minutes later I got a call to come to Captain Fallow's tent, our Battery Commander. There he was with this little pretty-boy Lieutenant at his side. He asked me why I hadn't reported to the Lt. (by the grace of God, I've forgotten his name) as ordered. I told him respectfully but straight forward that I was bushed when I returned and the Lt. Knew he was just being chicken-shit (I don't think I use that exact phrasing but that was the gist of it.) The Captain's reply (he wasn't a bad guy, really, a former bank teller I think) was something like "Kitchell, when am I ever going to be able to make a soldier out of you?" I thought but didn't say, not while we are both in a Service Battery. For the next week, when not on duty, I dug one of the deepest and largest sump pits you've ever seen. It didn't bother me one bit. Military discipline is one thing. Taking crap lying down is another.

The beginning of fraternization

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