P R E F A C E

For more than fifty years I tried unsuccessfully to forget the events of World War II. Finally, in 1994, shortly before the fiftieth anniversary of the Normandy assault, I started communicating with old buddies and joined my Division Association.

Realizing that there might be some historical value to be gained from my writing because our Army is so different now, I thought putting my experiences down on paper might perhaps be appreciated.

When I decided to tell the story of my time on active duty in the Army, I felt holding it to a minimum of detail and avoiding the excessive use of adjectives would limit over-emphasis of the good times and the trials and tribulations which popped up all too frequently.

What has developed is a narrative that will give you the flavor of things as they were and some of the actions I lived through. I have chosen to describe but a few of the many battles I experienced during my relatively short time in combat, only a small part of the total. For instance, there is scant mention of the frequent bombarding by heavy mortars and artillery, or the murderous fighting in the hedgerows.

Each hedgerow was a new scrap. Often, we could knock out a machine gun, kill a few Germans and gain another three to four hundred feet of France. The Germans would retreat, often to a hedgerow with prepared positions. They would have holes dug through the hedgerow near the ends for their machine guns to fire through, as well as many holes all along for their riflemen. Concentrating fire into the corners often temporarily eliminated a machine gun, and a frontal attack was the only way to get at them. Flanking moves often found the flankers getting lost, because the fields were odd-shaped, with no order apparent. Very confusing.

No sooner would we take such a hedgerow by force, than horrendous enemy bombardments by heavy mortar or artillery would zero-in on us. The shells would fall on us with disastrous results, as we had no time to dig in to protect ourselves before they hit.

The Germans had more — and heavier — mortars than we did. My Rifle Platoon was not equipped with any mortars at all. What mortars the Company had were light, 60 mm mortars, and they were deployed at the CO’s discretion.

The enemy’s MG 42 was the best machine gun in the world, firing at a cyclic rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute versus our heavy machine gun which fired at a rate of only six hundred rounds per minute. The Company I was attached to had two sections of light machine guns as well as three sections of 60 mm mortars and two .50 calibre machine guns. The heavy machine guns and 80 mm mortars were in H Company.

Further, a German squad had at least four Schmeisser machine-pistols with a high rate of fire. They sounded like pieces of cloth being ripped, hence the nickname B-r-r-rp, or Burp gun.

In my forty-man platoon I had three bazooka teams, as well as three B.A.R. (Browning Automatic Rifle) teams, one of each in each squad. The rest of us were armed with M1 rifles and, in my case, a carbine, plus all the grenades we could carry.

If your bazooka men were good, and still had ammunition, maybe a machine gun would be destroyed. But not all bazooka men were that good, and ammo had to be used wisely. They were, primarily, an anti-tank weapon, but light. The German Panzerfaust was far superior and was designed to be operated by only one man, not a team.

A word about the Germans. They — at least the ones I faced — were very, very good, tough soldiers.

I have avoided expressing my feelings in detail, particularly about the carnage, with men being hit or blown apart and dieing, in favor of milder descriptions. The thing that still sticks in my memory is the smell of large amounts of freshly spilled blood. It is a funny smell, but not an unpleasant one, a sweetish-thick smell that could be sickening. I was always afraid, but quickly became wily, crafty and often bold.

There is just a little mention of the tremendous courage of my men. They were the best.

Further, there is no mention of the one time I gave the command to “Fix bayonets!” and led the charge into a German position where we cut them up. I killed one with my trench knife and took out two with my bare hands. That is one memory that is still with me, unfortunately.

In short, what I have created is, hopefully, easy reading. There are numerous maps, photos, and original copies of orders. Consult them, for they will shed some light on my life in the Army of World War II.

Respectfully,

Captain (Retired) William Frodsham, Jr.

1994