Bob McCarty Writes

On the occasion of Memorial Day and in honor of all those who paid the ultimate price in service to their country, I decided to publish a series of war stories that hold a special value in my heart, because they were written by my father, Ted, who served as a low-ranking enlisted man in the U.S. Army during World War II. The stories appear in his 1992 autobiography, Some Events in One Life: Mine! Please know he captured these stories as a means to provide his children and theirs context for his participation in one of history’s most harrowing events, World War II, not for any commercial gain. This is part twelve of twelve.

Some of the narrow escapes I have listed are only to show that the infantrymen lives with constant danger while on the front. The lifespan of a machine gunner was approximately 12 minutes when actually in a fire fight. At first, an infantryman feels anxious and wonders if he will live through another day. After awhile, those thoughts became suppressed into the subconscious. His mind knows the danger is there but chooses to ignore it. If not, he would soon become a basket case.

The Army Air Corps personnel were required to fly only a certain number of missions before being rotated stateside. The infantryman’s only means of returning to the states before the war was over was to be either wounded or killed.

The British were immediately adjacent to the north of one of our regiments. They were allowed to build fires to brew their tea whenever they had the chance. Our troops were usually wet and cold and very much wanted to make themselves some hot coffee. This was not allowed. They finally realized that this was definitely not going to happen so they finally gave up on the idea of brewing the hot drink.

Later, our outfit took another town, the name of which escapes me if I ever knew it. Our company command post was immediately set up on the ground floor of a house on the east edge of the town. The captain then went to our left, or north, to participate in setting up the company’s new line of defense.

I went with him as far as an orchard where he said, “I am going up the line a little way to check on things. I will be back in a little while.”

This implied I was to stay where I was. With no further instructions, I sat down and started eating an apple. It was now about 2:30 p.m., and I had not eaten lunch that day. Soon, a platoon of five or six of our tanks pulled up into the orchard a few feet from me. They pointed their guns eastward toward the Germans, elevated their guns and shot off several rounds. One round hit a tree to the east of me. It made a nerve-shattering noise but didn’t explode. The tanks then turned and traveled north in the direction the captain had gone.

The Germans were able to calculate from where the fire had originated and, within a few minutes, they began to return it. At first, the rounds came in several hundred yards north from where I was. This appeared to be nothing to worry about so I continued to eat my apple.

Then the first of several 88-mm shells come screaming in and landed within a couple hundred yards to my left. Dirt and metal flew and acrid smoke curled up from the crater it created. This was getting too close so I rolled over into a shell crater. I did not realize that it was neither wide enough nor deep enough to entirely protect me. Then the shells came down into my immediate sector in a barrage. I didn’t want to expose myself by raising up to dig my “fraidy” hole deeper. Consequently, my feet must have been slightly above ground level when a shell hit about 12 or 15 feet away. The noise of the explosion was literally deafening.

My right foot went numb as though something heavy had dropped on it. I looked at it and could see a hole in the top of my shoe on my right foot. The shell fragment had nearly severed the toe next to my big toe and broke the smaller one next to it. Both pant legs were slit in three or four places by the fragments. The one that went through my shoe had also sliced the skin on the calf of my right leg before taking off my toe.

A replacement soldier, new to combat, had come in that morning and the captain told him, “Stick with McCarty until I decide where to place you.”

When the 88 rounds started coming close to us, I told him to get into a shell hole as I had. He didn’t. Luckily, he was not hurt seriously by the exploding shells and escaped with only a very minor cut on his lip. How he escaped relatively unhurt I will never know. With his help, I limped back to the command post.

Another man had also been wounded and we both waited until evening for a medical team to pick us up. They were carrying us out on stretchers to load onto a Jeep when mortar rounds started coming in nearby. The two men ran back to the safety of the building and left us lying there on the ground. We briefly discussed what would be best for us and decided to stay where we were, on the ground. This turned out to be a wise decision. We were then loaded onto the hood of the Jeep and were driven to a field hospital.

By Thanksgiving Day 1944, the Allies in the local region were within five to six miles of the river Ruhr (Roer).

[Editor’s Note: My father’s “million-dollar wound” earned him a trip home and, more importantly, a chance to become a husband of more than 60 years (still going strong), a father of seven children, grandfather of 12 and great-grandfather of two (at last count). Additionally, four of his children -- myself included -- have either served in the Armed Forces or were married to someone who did.]

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My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part One

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Two

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Three

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Four

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Five

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Six

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Seven

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Eight

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Nine

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Ten

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Eleven