World War II Remembered

Meeting the Enemy

29 Meeting the Enemy • Kingsley Ervin U.S. Army Fifteen of us were sitting in the back of the GMC, on wooden benches along either side of the truck bed. Heaped in the middle lay our duffle bags, along with the equipment needed in a fire-direction center. There seemed little danger of enemy fire. We had taken off our helmets in the early spring cool of April. Even the canvas cover over our heads had been rolled back. The truck moved slowly, in convoy, along unfamiliar German roads. After the collapse of the Remagen counteroffensive, we had crossed the Rhine, our division still attached to Patton’s Third Army. In theory we were chasing the retreating enemy. But enemies were hard to find: a few straggling groups of soldiers, adolescents or older men from the Heimwehr, pathetic local defense groups. We would round them up, and they would be sent off with the troops assigned to collect prisoners . We drove into small villages where no inhabitants appeared, and frightened shopkeepers tending empty shelves could tell us little. Only rarely had we had to set up the howitzer attack that was our battalion’s 30 World War II Remembered mission, to provide close covering fire for the 89th Infantry Division as it moved across a battle line. On this afternoon we were driving through a thin woods when the trucks stopped before wooden gates, tall and protected by barbed wire. Carbines ready, we got out and approached the gates warily. But we saw that they were open, and we entered a large yard with buildings beyond. All around the yard were huddled shapes. It did not take us long to see they were bodies, clothed in striped, filthy pajama-like garments. The heads were shaved, the faces gaunt. A few were lying face up, staring at the sky. As we entered further we could see more bodies, some piled in heaps. The buildings seemed mainly empty, though a few shapes lay about on the floors. Everywhere was a cold, sweetish, rotten smell, distantly of sweat and dirt, but somehow abstracted and sinister. An officer came up. We went to hear what he had to say. “The SS shot them all before they took off.” From what? None of us had heard of forced labor camps. No one knew what to do. Then we noticed that some of the bodies were still alive. An arm moved, a head turned slowly. We went over and looked. One or two of us knelt down to see whether we could help. Our Battalion Commander’s Order More trucks stopped, and a call came to fall in—to assemble in some sort of military formation. We did this casually, but waited in lines to listen. The battalion commander, a tall, thin Texan, spoke to us. “No one touches any of these bodies. We don’t know what diseases they may have, and we can’t risk anyone getting infected.” Silence. A hand went up. “Sir, some of them are alive.” “I know. But we have to wait for medical units. I don’t want any of you men catching anything. That’s an order. Leave them alone.” We were ordered to fall out. Quietly we discussed what we’d seen. I said bitterly, “He’s a good Christian, a Baptist. He preaches to us about it. What kind of Christianity is this?” No one said anything. We were mute with horror. We had seen battle, with plenty of wounded. We knew the faint sweetness of damp plaster dust covering rounded shapes in a bombed stairwell. But the silent, stench-filled emptiness of the big camp was a new experience. Meeting the Enemy: Kingsley Ervin 31 A few of us wandered again to the buildings, wooden barracks-like places, some with tiers of bunks, some with tables. We saw only scattered bodies, some buckets, odd tools. Jeeps and trucks pulled up. There was active discussion among the officers. Some had gone into the small town nearby; one group returned with a couple of men, German civilians. One was said to be the mayor of the town. He was taken to look around, and seemed surprised. There was talk of forcing the inhabitants to dig a grave for the bodies. Then we were called together. We piled in our truck and drove off to our assigned quarters, a small hotel where the tables of a...