157th Infantry Regiment Distinctive Unit InsigniaWorld War II45th Infantry Division Shoulder Patch

Left: 157th Infantry Regiment Distinctive Unit Insignia

By Karl Mann

1925-2022

157th Infantry Regiment

Karl Mann
C
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1943

Training

On July 17, 1943, I reported to the Greyhound Bus Terminal at New York Avenue and 12
th Street, N.W., in Washington, D.C., for active duty with the U.S. Army. Together with several dozen other inductees I was then transported to Camp (now Fort) Lee in Virginia. There I received my first army haircut (a very short one), army clothing, several inoculations, as well as my two identification tags. These tags, generally known as "dog tags", were worn on a chain around the neck and indicated my name, blood type, and army serial number 33 728 867. I did not stay very long at Camp Lee, but left a few days later on a troop train which took me to Fort McClellan, near Anniston in Alabama, for 17 weeks of basic infantry training.

At Fort McClellan I was assigned to the 19th Training Company. Together with about seven other recruits who came from a variety of different backgrounds, I lived in a wooden barrack which consisted of a large room and contained a metal bed and a foot locker for each one of us (Two of the other recruits whom I was to see again after the war were Ernesto Moyoral, a young Puerto Rican whom I accidentally met again on a street in Santurce in 1953 while I was working there for the U.S. Department of Labor, and Harvey Perloff, a recent Harvard Ph.D. in economics whom I visited in Chicago in 1948 while I was doing graduate work at the University of Wisconsin in Madison.) The dining room and kitchen for our company were in a separate building as were the bathroom facilities.

Initially it was the sergeant in charge of our "hut" who taught us. From him we learned, among other things, how and when to salute, how to make our bed so that it would pass any surprise inspection, and how to take apan, clean, and put together again the rifle which each one of us had been issued. Every morning after reveille had sounded around 6:15 a.m., we quickly had to get dressed, make our beds, and go outside to fall in for our daily roll call. Then we would wash up and shave before having our breakfast which might include pancakes, French toast, or s.o.s. Then we usually marched in cadence to some other location, such as an outdoor amphitheater, where we received instruction dealing with a variety of military and combat topics such as map reading; machine guns, mortars, and other weapons; hand-to-hand combat; how to use a bayonet; how to carry a wounded person; how to judge distance; etc. After a couple of months we also had an opportunity to go to the firing range where we actually fired a rifle and a pistol. Depending on our performance, we were to receive a badge indicating that we were either a "marksman", a "sharpshooter" or an "expert". As I found out later, I qualified to receive a "sharpshooter" (M-1 rifle) badge. Toward the end of our basic training, we also had to experience an obstacle course which tried to simulate combat conditions. Fortunately it was not as difficult as we had anticipated.

We were also required to perform a variety of non-military duties which did not really make us better soldiers. But somebody had to do them. The best known of these was "K.P." (i.e. kitchen police) which included helping to clean the kitchen, the dining room, as well as the huge pots used by the cooks to prepare our meals. One day, having seen a cartoon in which a soldier called his cook "cookie", I did the same; however, I quickly found out that this was not appreciated by our cooks and never again repeated it. The most frequent non-military activity we performed involved "policing" an area. This meant that all of us had to go over a large area and pick up any and all trash lying around, especially the great many cigarette butts. The least liked of all these non-military duties was called "latrine duty" which involved cleaning the washrooms, showers, and toilets.

"Mail Call" was the most enjoyable part of my basic training. Twice a week we would congregate in front of the company mailroom to receive letters and packages from home. But I always felt sorry for these whose sad faces indicated that, once again, they had not received any mail. For me, the most important single event during my stay at Fort McClellan took place on October 30, 1943. On that day I received, at the federal court house in Anniston, my U. S. citizenship papers and, thus, became the first American citizen in our family.

Toward the end of November, my basic training having been completed and having been promoted to Pfc. (Private First Class), the Army sent me to Fort George W. Meade in Maryland where I was given a three-week furlough to visit my family. After this visit I had to return to Ft. Meade in order to await shipment for duty overseas. In the meantime Pappi, who had a consulting job at the Pentagon and was not exactly thrilled by my being in the infantry, tried to help me get into the Army Specialized Training Program, generally known as A.S.T.P. Having scored a 145 on the Army General Classification Test, an I.Q. test, and having become an American citizen, I now was eligible and wanted to apply for this program under which soldiers were sent to college to study a specialized subject of importance to the Army. Unfortunately, A.S.T.P. was being phased out and Pappi's efforts on my behalf were in vain. However, because of these efforts I stayed at Ft. Meade until January, several weeks longer than originally scheduled. As a result, I spent several weekends, as well as Christmas, at home before finally being shipped out.

1944


This time the destination was Camp Patrick Henry, near Newport News in Virginia. Here I stayed only a few days, just long enough to prepare for our overseas voyage. Finally we embarked our ship which was either one of many Victory or Liberty ships—I can't remember which—that were built during World War Il. We crossed the Atlantic in little more than three weeks, presumably as part of a large convoy. However, we never did see any of the other ships. During the entire trip we were not permitted to have any lights or even to smoke on deck in order to minimize the possibility that we would be seen and attacked by a German U-boat. Consequently, at night we sailed in total darkness.

Our accommodations were quintuple-decker canvas bunks. Being convinced that I would not get seasick (which, as it turned out, I never did in my entire life), I quickly selected a top bunk so that I would not have to be below someone who would get sick. Entertainment during our voyage was virtually non-existent. However, we did have an exhibition boxing match between on of the soldiers who was a professional welterweight and a bigger and very husky sailor. Not surprisingly, the sailor lost. For me the most enjoyable moment during the entire trip came about because I had been appointed to serve as an acting corporal until we reached our destination and one night became the sergeant-of-the guard. As such I was free to go wherever I wanted to on the deck. After checking on those who were on guard duty, and without telling anyone, I decided to go as far forward on the bow as was possible. There, in the darkness of the night except for some moonlight, I enjoyed going up and down with the bow as it cut through the waves. It was a truly wonderful and exhilarating feeling.

Anzio

Finally, we passed Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean Sea. A couple of days later we reached Oran about which I remember absolutely nothing except the big, juicy oranges which I really enjoyed after our long voyage. After being anchored for two or three days, we continued our voyage and sailed past Sicily to our final destination: Naples. There we disembarked and were transported to the so-called "Repple Depple", the depot for replacements like me, which was located at the Naples race track. A week or so later we were once again transported, this time on a smaller ship (probably an L.S.T.) to a little town on the Italian coast called Anzio. It was February 29, 1944.


Toward the end of January, the 5th Army of the Allies had landed several divisions behind the German lines near the towns of Anzio and Nettuno, about 36 miles south of Rome. These troops advanced very rapidly and within days began to establish a sizeable beachhead. Early in February the enemy counter-attacked and tried to push the Allied troops back into the Mediterranean. After considerable fighting which resulted in heavy casualties on both sides, the counter-attacks came to an end and the famous Anzio beachhead became firmly established.

I was one of the many soldiers who were sent to Anzio to replace those who had been killed, wounded, or captured during the first few weeks of the beachhead. After my arrival, I found out that I had been assigned to the Third Battalion of the 157th Infantry Regiment of the 45ff Division, the Thunderbird Division. Within our battalion I became a member of M Company, the heavy weapons company, and was given the job of ammunition carrier in one of the water-cooled 30-mm machine-gun platoons. When I arrived at my unit, which was located somewhere in the middle of the beachhead, it was raining and the foxhole I was assigned was wet and muddy. But I quickly learned from some of the "old-timers" how to manage under such circumstances and that it was much more important to always keep not me but my M-l rifle dry. All of this happened before I reached my 19th birthday. It was right around this time, however, that I was surprised to read in Stars and Stripes, the army newspaper, a report that President Roosevelt had stated that no 18-year-olds were being sent into combat. Thus, for the first time in my life, I became aware that sometimes even Presidents handle the truth somewhat carelessly.

My army life was now quite different from what it had been in the States and on the long trip to Anzio. Almost all of my belongings such as raingear were in my backpack, to which was attached my rolled-up sleeping bag and a small shovel with which to dig foxholes and, since we usually had no latrines, slit-trenches. Because kitchen-prepared meals were now the exception rather than the rule, in my backpack I also carried either C-rations or, somewhat later and for most of the duration of the war, K-rations. C-rations were roughly one-pound cans of stew, corned beef, or similar food. K-rations, on the other hand, came in sets of three boxes which were a little smaller than the size of a brick, one for each meal of the day. Every box included a six-ounce can of either ham and scrambled eggs for breakfast, processed cheese for lunch, or some meat for supper; crackers; cigarettes; powdered coffee, lemonade or bouillon; a fruit bar or a bar of solid chocolate and, last but not least, toilet paper. Thus, we ate a lot of protein but no fruits or vegetables. Usually we also received about a quart of water a day which we carried in a canteen on our ammunition belt. Since we usually drank all the water, we seldom had enough left over with which to wash up, shave, and/or brush our teeth. In fact, I remember having only one shower during my three months on the Anzio beachhead: One day we were herded into a large tent where we were given, as I recall, one minute to soap ourselves and one minute to rinse with cold water. It was the quickest shower I ever had. Moreover, we normally wore the same clothes for weeks, day in and day out, before we could exchange them for clean ones. Under these circumstances, although none of us seemed to notice, we probably didn't smell too fantastic.

As in the States, we also had guard duty—four hours on and eight hours off—since enemy infiltration was not unheard of. My first turn came one night shortly after I had joined my new outfit. As I tried to stay awake and perform my assigned duties, I suddenly had a very painful stomach ache that wouldn't go away. After I was given some medication by our medic and was permitted to go back to sleep, the pain subsided. However, for the duration of the war, I periodically had these stomach pains, usually right after we were pulled back from the font lines but never while actually were on the front lines. Eventually the medication I was given that helped me the most was, I was told, opium pills.

Since the Germans occupied the mountains twenty miles east of Anzio called the Alban Hills, they could observe almost the entire beachhead and the activities of the Allied troops. Under those circumstances no place on the beachhead was safe from their artillery, Anzio harbor being their favorite target. But as long as we were somewhere in the middle of the beachhead we were less likely to be shelled. Nevertheless, we almost always slept in a foxhole, with two of us in each hole facing in opposite directions. And in the daytime, we usually made a mental note of the nearest foxhole, ditch, or some other relatively safer spot into which we could jump if and when we were being shelled. After being on Anzio a while I, like the other G.l.'s, learned to recognize the sound of "incoming mail", especially shells fired at us by the German 88-mm guns. In addition we could hear the shells of their long-range artillery, especially those of the two huge and famous railroad guns known as "Anzio Annie" and "Anzio Express", as they headed toward the harbor. On the other hand, incoming mortar shells made no discernible sound until they hit the ground and exploded and, consequently, were more difficult to protect against. Depending on where we were on the beachhead, we could also hear our guns firing at the enemy positions. And at night we often would see the tracers of our anti-aircraft guns as they tried to shoot down some German airplane flying toward the harbor.

Toward the end of March my outfit was moved to the front line, somewhere on the eastern side of the beachhead perimeter. There I was assigned to a machine-gun emplacement together with another Pfc., Daniel "Bud" Gindhart, a young married truck driver from the Kensington section of Philadelphia. This gun emplacement was significantly larger than the foxholes in which I had slept during the preceding weeks, measuring roughly four feet by four feet by five feet in length. Inasmuch as we had very little to do and almost never left our emplacement, it was fortunate that, in spite of our different backgrounds, Bud and I got along extremely well. We would talk for hours and after a few days, to while the time away, started singing various songs we knew. Later, after we had returned from the front line, another soldier who had been in the next gun emplacement joked that, while he was praying, we were singing the popular song, "When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World.. .." During the daytime, we would never raise our heads above ground level for fear of being seen by the enemy; as a consequence, we could never stand up, only sit or lie down. If and when nature called, we had to wait until after dark. Then, because there were no latrines and I wasn't about to take the time to dig a slit trench, I would quickly get out of our emplacement, quickly find a nearby shell hole which might provide a little protection, quickly accomplish my mission, and quickly return to the relative safety of our gun emplacement. During all this time, I kept hoping that no incoming shell would interfere with what I was doing and none ever did. If it had and I had been wounded, it would have been an embarrassing story. Also during the night, we would receive our rations and water and, sometimes, even mail from home. While it was dark, we were especially careful not to give away our position to the enemy when we smoked. Thus, when we would light up and every time that we would take a drag on a cigarette, we always did so having covered ourselves with our sleeping bag or a poncho and suing our hands to form a cup around the cigarette.

In April my battalion was relieved by another outfit and we were moved to a rest area known as "The Pines", a relatively safe wooded area. There we received clean clothes, had the aforementioned shower, ate kitchen-prepared meals, and even practiced some close-order drill. Eventually, around the middle of May, we once again moved to our frontline positions. There we stayed until May 23 when the Allied forces finally began the long-awaited breakout from the Anzio beachhead. After a tremendous early morning artillery bombardment of the enemy positions, we left our foxholes and followed the rifle companies in the direction of the Alban Hills. Shortly thereafter I saw my first enemy soldiers—two dead Germans.

That afternoon (or possibly the next) we were traveling along a dirt road when, as often happens in the Army, for some unknown reason we stopped. On one side of the road, parallel to and a few feet lower than the roadbed, ran a little creek. On the other side was a small hillside which, apparently, had been sliced vertically to make room for the road. Because we assumed that the enemy was in the direction of the hillside and that therefore his artillery shells could not hit us, our location seemed reasonably safe. Nevertheless, as frequently as done when we stopped for an indefinite period, many of the G.l.'s took out their little shovels and began to dig a shallow foxhole in order to provide themselves with some protection. Unfortunately, however, the soil was so hard it was impossible to dig more than a few inches. I didn't even try to dig in. Instead, having found an armored personnel carrier that was parked nearby, I crawled underneath this vehicle where I felt relatively safe. There I relaxed and soon fell asleep. Somewhat later I was suddenly awakened by the nearby explosion of an artillery shell. Apparently, in spite of the protection that the hillside seemed to provide, an 88 shell had somehow managed to land right in the middle of our troops. Immediately we heard the cry, "Medic! Medic!" I don't know if anyone was killed, but several of our soldiers were wounded. Some of us headed right away for greater protection. Soon thereafter, no additional shells having followed, my outfit moved on. But I have never forgotten how lucky I had been when, by sleeping under the personnel carrier, I had escaped any harm.

During the days that followed, we continued in the general direction of Rome. At one point, I vaguely recall, someone told me that we were marching on the famous and ancient Via Appia' however, I was never certain that this was true. In any event, on June 4 the Imperial City finally fell to the Allied troops. My 45th Division stopped roughly ten miles west of the city where we bivouacked for the next two weeks or so. Shortly thereafter, a couple of other G.l.'s who had access to a jeep told me that they were going to Rome for some sightseeing and asked me if I wanted to come along. I was delighted to do so and, since there was no backseat for me to sit on, I rode in the back of the jeep sitting on one of the metal corners. In Rome we managed to see a number of famous landmarks, including St. Peter's, the Coliseum, and the huge white monument to King Victor Emmanuel Il. A day or two after this trip, my tailbone began to hurt quite a bit. I couldn't figure out what the problem was. No matter what position I was in— whether I was standing, sitting, or lying down—the pain would not stop. Finally, another soldier told me that he had had the same thing and that it was an abscess called a "pilonidal cyst". It probably had been caused because, during the bumpy ride to Rome, I had been sitting on the metal of the jeep. At any rate, a day later I was on my way to a field hospital where a doctor confirmed the soldier's diagnosis. Soon thereafter I had surgery to remove the abscess and have had no problems since that time.

About a week later I rejoined my outfit which, by this time, had moved to an area near Salerno to prepare for the coming invasion of southern France. However, in order to let my incision heal, I did not participate in these preparations. Having little to do, I took advantage of another invitation, this time to look at the ruins of Pompeii. It was a fascinating visit. The town being completely deserted, we wandered around and saw a lot, even if we did not always know what, specifically, we were looking at.

In July, when I finally returned to active duty, I did not rejoin my old machine-gun platoon, instead I was assigned to my company's 81 -mm mortar platoon. However, not having participated in the invasion preparations, I did not become an ammunition carrier, but was given an anti-tank weapon called a bazooka. Although I had never fired this weapon, my job was to carry this weapon until we landed in France.

Southern France

Final preparations for our invasion of southern France took place during the second week of August, at which time we received a new issue of clothing, wrote V-mail letters to our families and friends, and attended either Catholic or Protestant worship services. Subsequently we were trucked to Naples where we boarded our ship which, I believe, was an LCI (Landing Craft, Infantry). During the early morning hours of August 15, 1944, having sailed to the western end of the French Riviera, we transferred to small boats called LCVP's (Landing Craft, Vehicle and Personnel) which were also known as "Higgins" boats. I vaguely recall that we did so by climbing down cargo nets which had been hung over the side of the LCI, but otherwise I don't really remember much that happened during this night. Like all or almost all of the others in my outfit I was worried and scared, wondering what we might encounter when we landed. What really frightened me the most was the rumor that the Germans had buried in the sand of the beaches what we called "Bouncing Betty's", antipersonnel mines which, if you stepped on them, would "bounce" several feet into the air before exploding. Before sunrise, in order to soften up the German defenders, our airplanes began to bomb and naval guns to shell the various landing areas, including our area near Ste. Maxime. At the same time, our LCVP's circled off-shore until it was time to "hit the beach". Our boat was part of the fourth wave of the invasion which began with the first wave at 8:00 a.m.; and so at 8:30 a.m., "H plus 30" as it was called, we headed for the shore. In order to protect us against possible enemy gunfire, we were not allowed to stand up. Consequently, I didn't see the coast of France until our boat had reached the beach and dropped its front ramp. I had anticipated that, at this point, we would have to wade ashore in several feet or more of water. However, our LCVP managed to get so close to dry land that, as we ran out of our boat and onto the beach, we barely got our shoes wet. Moreover, to our surprise, we encountered neither German soldiers nor enemy gunfire and none of us stepped on any antipersonnel mines. For us in our sector it could not have been a more perfect invasion.


Having safely reached the beach, we immediately headed inland without finding any opposition. At the first opportunity I got rid of the bazooka by loading it on an available jeeptrailer and, soon thereafter, was assigned by my mortar platoon sergeant to carry six (I believe) 81- mm. mortar shells. During the warm and sunny days that followed we continued in a more or less northerly direction, chasing the Germans who were retreating in the same direction. One evening, after we had stopped for the night in some farmer's field in southern France, several of our G.l.'s happened to find a nearby peach orchard. Not having had much fresh fruit for quite some time, I quickly hurried to the orchard where I filled my helmet with beautiful ripe peaches. After I returned to my platoon from this little expedition, I shared my loot with several other soldiers, and then had a most enjoyable evening feasting on this delicious fruit.

Inasmuch as the Germans were retreating very rapidly, we also had to move quickly. Because walking was not fast enough, we were frequently loaded onto trucks and other army vehicles and transported many miles before continuing our northerly march on the eastern edge of the Rhone river valley on foot. Under these circumstances, we seldom stopped in towns and villages whose inhabitants were, of course, delighted to see us. For example, early in September, having been trucked to the outskirts of a town (it may have been Bourg), we walked through the town being cheered by its happy French citizens and then were loaded onto trucks again. One day, however, having stopped in a village long enough for our mail to catch up with us, I received a package from Mutti containing three one-pound packages of caramels. It was a most unusual and wonderful surprise. I immediately distributed one package among several French women and children who happened to be nearby and were delighted to receive such a treat, gave the contents of a second package to some of the other G.l.'s and, since I really liked caramels, kept the third package for myself.

The Vosges

It was probably in October, most likely in the vicinity of Epinal or Rambervillers, when I was informed that I had been selected to become a radio operator for our mortar platoon. Switching to this job meant that I would no longer be at some distance behind the front lines with our mortars but, together with the lieutenant who was our platoon leader and served as our forward observer, I would be with one of our rifle companies right on the front line where, of course, it was much more dangerous. After a few days of training during which I learned not only how to operate the #300 radio we used but, also, the radio language where A was called

"Able", B "Baker", C "Charlie", D "Dog", etc., I was ready to transmit messages and directions from the lieutenant to those in our platoon who were firing the mortars. It was not long thereafter, as we were fighting in the Vosges mountains of Alsace-Lorraine, that I had my first experience as a combat radio operator. I remember having the heavy radio strapped to my back in place of my backpack and, together with the lieutenant and one of our rifle companies, walking through the woods of one of the Vosges mountains when, suddenly, enemy bullets came our way. Immediately everybody flopped to the ground for self-protection, our normal reaction whenever we were being shelled or fired upon. However, because of the heavy radio on my back, I was unable to mover very fast and consequently took much longer than I desired to reach the ground. It was then that it began to dawn on me that, not having my backpack with a shovel, I would be unable to "dig in" if and when ordered to do so and I would, therefore, be in a much more exposed position. Not surprisingly, at this point I became convinced that I didn't really like being a combat radio operator.

A few days later I was told to report to our battalion commander, 27-year-old Lt. Col. Felix L. Sparks. Since I seldom saw anyone higher up than our company commander, this was something very unusual. I suspected that the reason Col. Sparks wanted to see me had to do with the fact that, back in September, I had met two soldiers who were with the C.I.C., the counterintelligence corps. During our conversations they had told me about their duties and activities which sounded much more interesting than what I was doing. Moreover, they felt that with my education and background and my ability to speak German I would be very suitable for work in their branch of the army. This appealed to me so much that I immediately submitted an official request for a transfer to the C.I.C. Now, when I reported to Col. Sparks, it was several weeks later and I hoped to hear from him the good news that the transfer had been approved. However, to my dismay, Col. Sparks told me that unfortunately my request had been denied because nobody was permitted to transfer out of the infantry. But, then, he stated that he would need an interpreter and offered me the opportunity to serve in that capacity. He explained that this was not an official position on the T.O. (Table of Organization) and that, therefore, I could not expect any promotion. Moreover, he warned me that this position would be much more dangerous than being with the mortar platoon. (Apparently, he did not know that I had recently become a radio operator.) Not surprisingly, I did not hesitate a second to accept his offer, thanked him, saluted, and left his headquarters a very happy soldier.

Thus, probably early in November, I became a member of the Headquarters Company of our 3 rd Battalion. Col. Sparks had a small personal staff consisting of his jeep driver Albert Turk, his runner Carleton Johnson, and now me, his interpreter. Whenever possible, the four of us traveled in his jeep with Col. Sparks in the passenger seat, while Johnson and I sat in the backseat on top of all our sleeping bags and other belongings. During most days—except for Turk who stayed with the jeep—we would walk to the front lines where Col. Sparks visited our rifle companies and conferred with his company commanders. During the cold and wintry nights we stayed in a nearby village where we slept on the floor of some farmer's house, whereas most of the soldiers of our battalion had to sleep outdoors. Usually, because I spoke German and most of the people in Alsace-Lorraine spoke both French and German (as one Alsatian explained to me, "Germany is our fatherland and France is our motherland"), as soon as it became evident in what village we would stay for the night, it was my responsibility to find and "reserve" a suitable house for the half dozen or so "staff runners and drivers" of the officers of our battalion headquarters company. In addition, I frequently persuaded the owners of the house to prepare for us some food consisting of one or more of their farm animals such as chickens. In return we usually gave the family cigarettes as well as some of our K-rations.

For the next two months we moved from one location to another in Alsace-Lorraine. I don't remember the names of all the villages where we stayed, but they included Ingwiller, Zinsweiler, Rottbach, Oberbronn, Niederbronn, Jägerthal and, of course, Reipertsweiler. By now, winter weather had begun to make life even more miserable despite the fact that we had been issued winter clothing including parkas and "long johns". While we received turkey for Thanksgiving and a similar meal for Christmas, we did not celebrate these holidays very much. All that I remember is that, on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve, I sang to myself the popular song, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...." New Year's Eve was even less exciting; subsequently I heard that, to celebrate the event, at midnight Col Sparks fired his double-barreled shotgun which he had picked up somewhere in France and often carried with him.

1945

Reipertsweiler

Two weeks later we were in Reipertsweiler where our battalion would suffer its biggest defeat of the war. It began on January 14, 1945. As our battalion was walking on one side of a valley toward new positions in the Vosges mountains, the four of us drove in the same direction in our jeep on a paved road on the other side of the valley. Because two or three inches of new snow was on the ground, Turk did not notice that anti-tank mines had been laid by the Germans across the road in an extended W pattern. As a consequence, all of a sudden we were surprised by a terribly loud explosion when one of the jeep's front wheels ran over and detonated one of the mines. The explosion threw Col Sparks out of the jeep but, fortunately, Johnson and I received a little bit of protection from the sleeping bags on which we had been sitting. Inspecting the damaged jeep, we quickly saw that a back wheel was sitting on top of another mine, only about an inch away from the detonation cap. One more inch, and this story of my life would never have been written. I survived this event with only a major earache, but immediately began to hope that my eardrum had burst and that, as a result, I would be sent home and discharged. However, to my regret, a visit to our battalion doctor indicated no major permanent damage to my ears. Turk, who had borne the brunt of the explosion, was given a one-week pass by Col. Sparks to visit Paris and recuperate, but Col. Sparks, Johnson and I remained with the battalion. At this point, I did not think about getting a Purple Heart Medal. But several weeks later, having found out that the others in our jeep had received this medal and, more importantly to me at that time, having heard that I would be discharged sooner from the army after the end of the war if I had a higher "ASR Score" (i.e. a number of points determined by length of service as well as medals received) and that the Purple Heart would give me five additional points, I decided to apply for this medal. Shortly thereafter I talked to our battalion doctor who not only stated that he felt I deserved to receive a Purple Heart but, also, volunteered to recommend me for this medal. However, I did not find out that I had actually been awarded the Purple Heart Medal until after the end of the war in Europe.

On the following morning of January 15, our battalion was ordered to take two snowcovered wooded hills not far from Reipertsweiler, a mission that was relatively easily accomplished. During that same afternoon Col. Sparks, Johnson, and I hiked through the woods to where our troops were now dug in. After Col. Sparks had conferred with his company commanders and others, we returned to the road at the bottom of these hills and then drove to Reipertsweiler where we stayed again for the night. In the meantime our battalion, which was now a 1,500-yard salient into the enemy's lines, received heavy fire from the Germans who began to encircle the battalion. The next day, after our troops had suffered many casualties, most of the wounded were evacuated and the remaining G.l.'s were resupplied with food and ammunition. In addition, two other rifle companies of our regiment were sent to join and help our battalion. However, the Germans continued to surround our G.l.'s and sealed off the resupply and evacuation routes. Moreover, because of the wintry weather, it was impossible to supply our G.l.'s by air. On January 18, two of our tanks attempted to reach the battalion by going up a steep trail through the woods. Col. Sparks climbed on one of the tanks and, when enemy fire and the muddy trail made it impossible for the tanks to go up the hill any further, jumped from his tank in order to pick up several wounded G.l.'s and load them on the tank. He did this in full view of the Germans who recognized this act of bravery for what it was and held their fire until the tank had safely returned to the bottom of the hill where Johnson and I, as well as several officers, were waiting. During the next couple of days, the battalion was told to remain on the two hills where it was completely surrounded and took a terrible pounding from the enemy. Finally, on January 20, our troops were ordered to try to break through the German lines and fight their way back to the rest of the regiment. However, inasmuch as our soldiers had little ammunition left and German artillery continued to pound their position, this effort came too late and did not succeed. Only two G.l.'s found their way back and safely returned to the American lines. All told, in addition to the hundreds who were wounded and evacuated, 158 were killed and 426 (including "Bud" Gindhart, my Anzio beachhead buddy) were taken prisoners (according to Flint Whitlock in his excellent book, The Rock ofAnzio, p. 340). A few days later the New York Times reported the battle of Reipertsweiler and the loss of our battalion in a major article. Unfortunately, however, the story in the Times contained quite a few inaccuracies, and greatly understated how many G.I. 's were involved in this battle, the number of American casualties, as well as how many of our soldiers were captured by the Germans. Thus ended the worst week in the history of the 3rd Battalion. I have often wondered how the 27-yearold Col. Sparks must have felt having lost, through no fault of his own, almost his entire battalion.

Crossing the Rhine River

My outfit was now sent to a rest area which, like all rest areas, was located some distance behind the front lines. There we received hundreds of replacements, most of whom had been transferred from the 103
rd Infantry Division. After about two or three weeks, we returned to combat. Eventually we fought our way through the famous German defenses called the Siegfried Line, crossed the Rhine over a temporary bridge, and continued deeper into Germany.

Our next big battle took place during March in and around Aschaffenburg, a town on the river Main. The officer in charge of defending this town, S.S. Major von Lambert, was determined to fight to the bitter end and had threatened to shoot any German soldier who wanted to surrender. As a result, the battle for Aschaffenburg was one of our most difficult ones. For our 3 rd Battalion the fighting actually began in Schweinheim, a smaller neighboring town. On one of the first days of this battle Col. Sparks, Johnson and I reconnoitered a residential part of Schweinheim whose inhabitants all had left. At an intersection we met an American tank and briefly chatted with its crew. Then we proceeded for several blocks to check out some of the deserted houses. In one, Col. Sparks found a cute little dog which he decided to keep. Returning to the American tank, we found out that, while we were gone, the Germans had shelled the intersection and several crew members of the tank had been wounded. Who knows what might have happened to us had we lingered when we first arrived at this intersection. After we came back to our jeep, it became my job to hold Col. Sparks' little dog in my lap, something which I didn't mind doing. A few days later, however, I began to itch and discovered to my dismay that this little dog had fleas which it had shared with me. As a result, I was sent to the rear where I showered, was treated with flea powder, and was given new clothes. Not surprisingly, Col.Sparks wasted no time getting rid of his dog. A day or two later, the German soldiers in Aschaffenburg finally began to surrender, often by the hundreds. Many of them were quite young, appearing to be only in their mid-teens. At one point we were told that some of their officers wanted to surrender, but only to an American of at least equal rank. As a consequence, temporarily one of our sergeants became a captain and I a sergeant. The two of us then went out to meet the German officers who, in a typical old-fashioned European manner, formally surrendered by turning their pistols over to our "captain". After the fierce battle for Aschaffenburg was over, we rapidly continued in the direction of Nürnberg, a famous city which we reached in April. Following several days of fighting, organized resistance in this largely destroyed city came to an end.

By this time, I was the proud owner of several "souvenirs". One was an excellent German army wristwatch which I subsequently wore for almost three decades. A second "souvenir" was a brand-new Walther 22 which was given to me by one of our soldiers who had found a number of these beautiful little pistols in the Nürnberg freightyard. A few days later, through the efforts of another G.I., a leather shoulder holster was made for me by a local German. I proudly wore this shoulder holster with the Walther 22 for the rest of my days in the army. Eventually, however, several years after returning to civilian life, I needed money and sold this pistol for $20. A third "souvenir" was a sharp-looking sky-blue leather jacket of the type which may have been worn by Luftwaffe (i.e. German Air Force) officers. I cannot recall where I obtained this jacket, but I wore it for quite a few weeks. One day, however, another soldier warned me that I could get shot by some G.I. who might mistake me for a German soldier. At that point, much to my regret, I got rid of this leather jacket.

Mann
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Karl Mann (FAR LEFT) before crossing the Danube River in April, 1945


Dachau

Toward the end of April, having continued to chase the German army in the direction of Munich, we reached a small Bavarian town called Dachau. Less than a mile from this town was the infamous Dachau concentration camp. Most of the officers and men of our outfit had never heard of this concentration camp and those of us who had knew very little about it. In the early hours of April 29, Col. Sparks was ordered by his regimental commander to liberate and secure this camp. Col Sparks, in turn, assigned this task to I Company whose company commander was Lt. William Walsh. Later that same morning, I Company, a machine gun platoon from M Company, as well as a few others including Col. Sparks, Johnson, and me proceeded from the town, across a little bridge over the Amper River, through a wooded area, toward the concentration camp. After a while, we saw parked at some distance quite a few railroad freight cars. Closer inspection by some of our G. I. 's revealed that these boxcars contained the bodies of hundreds who, apparently, had died while being transported to Dachau. A little later, I noticed that our soldiers had captured a big burly German who wore the black S.S. uniform as well as a Red Cross armband. He was being pushed around by some of our G.I. 's and, finally, made a break for it. Immediately, several shots were fired and he fell to the ground, dead I am certain.
Shortly thereafter we reached and entered the concentration camp.

The G.l.'s of I Company wasted little time rounding up all of the enemy soldiers they could find, including the medical personnel of the camp's hospital. They usually referred to these enemy soldiers as "S.S."; however, I never saw any of them wearing a uniform or insignia which identified them as such. As we walked through the camp, we came to a place which, in the days that followed, was usually referred to by the American troops as the "coal yard". This was an area less than 100 feet by 100 feet, I would estimate, and was enclosed by a high stuccoed wall. Dozens of German prisoners were lined up along the far wall, while Lt. Walsh and other officers and men of I Company were standing around on the opposite side of the coal yard, near its entrance. When Col. Sparks left for a few minutes to talk with someone, an I Company lieutenant ordered one of the M Company machine gunners to set up his gun and, then, to start shooting the prisoners. The young gunner fired his gun for about 15 to 20 seconds I guess, although it seemed longer, sweeping his gun back and forth. Immediately all of the Germans, with the exception of three or four who remained standing, flopped to the ground to escape the bullets. At this point, having heard the shooting, Col. Sparks reappeared. Taking about five seconds to figure out what was going on, he quickly fired his pistol in the air to get everyone's attention and stopped the shooting. I could not tell whether any of the Germans had been killed or wounded. Many years later I read that as many as 17 had died, but I have no idea whether this number is correct.

Shortly thereafter, Col. Sparks, Johnson, and I headed for the prisoner compound of the concentration camp. As we got closer, we could hear a tremendous joyful roar coming from this enclosure. Finally we reached the compound's wire fence behind which thousands of inmates were cheering the arrival of their American liberators. At the Jourhaus, the building next to the compound's entrance, was the famous wrought iron gate which contained the words, Arbeit Macht Frei. One of my first observations was how our soldiers, who were not permitted to enter the compound, were throwing cigarettes and candy bars over the barbed wire fence to the prisoners. When someone pointed out that we should not do this because the inmates might hurt themselves in the scramble to get hold of these "goodies", I and other G.I. 's did what we could to stop this activity. As I was standing around near the Jourhaus watching all the action going on, I noticed a short distance away an inmate who was wearing the striped clothing worn by all of the inmates and which always reminded me of pajamas. Wondering why he wasn't in the compound with all of the other prisoners, I walked over to him and asked him in German. He told me that he had been let out by the guards to help with some activity I no longer recall. He was probably a "trustee" or "capo" or maybe an "informer", but I decided he could be useful to us. Consequently, with Col. Sparks' permission, he became our guide during our subsequent walks through the concentration camp, someone who could explain to us what was what. For example, at one point, as we were viewing an empty crematorium, he pointed to some stacks of red clay pottery containers and explained that these were used to ship the ashes of victims home to their families. OF course, we never knew whether or not he told us the truth.

After an extended tour of the camp, we returned to the Jourhaus. There we found to our surprise that, during our absence, a Brigadier General Henning Linden, the assistant commander of the 42nd Infantry Division, had arrived on the scene together with an Air Force general as well as several other officers and men from his division. When he saw us, Gen. Linden immediately ordered that the inmate who had been our guide be returned into the compound. He then informed Col. Sparks that he, Gen. Linden, was now in charge. When Col Sparks disagreed and explained what his orders had been, the two got involved in a heated argument. Not only the American G.l.'s who were present but, also, many of the concentration camp inmates were able to observe this unusual confrontation, although most of us could not hear everything these two gentlemen were saying to each other. Gen. Linden, a relatively short and chubby officer who carried a riding stick, soon lost his temper and looked somewhat ridiculous as he argued with Col. Sparks. On the other hand, I had never seen Col. Sparks as mad and red in the face as he was that day. Eventually the general and his party left and Col Sparks, having made sure that I Company had secured the camp, returned with Johnson and me to where Turk was waiting with our jeep.

We remained in Dachau another day or two during which I Company was replaced by some other army unit and Col. Sparks toured the concentration camp with Major General Robert Frederick, the commanding officer of the 45th Division, and later with Col. Walter O'Brien, the regimental commander of the 157th Infantry Regiment. And then we continued on to Munich.

Many years later, I was shocked and dismayed when I read that a number of other army outfits, as well as individual G.I. 's who never had been members of the 157th Infantry Regiment, had falsely claimed to have been liberators of the Dachau concentration camp. For example, the 20th Armored Division not only made such a claim but, as a consequence, called itself "The Liberators", in spite of the fact that not a single tank nor any G.I. from this Division was in or in the immediate vicinity of the camp on April 29, the day of its liberation.

Today, the iron gate with the words Arbeit Macht Frei continues to be a tourist attraction. Attached to it are two plaques, one crediting the 42nd Division and another the 20th Armored Division with having liberated the Dachau concentration camp. But there is no plaque recognizing the well-documented fact that it was the soldiers of the 157th Infantry Regiment of the 45th Division who first reached the prisoners compound and the Jourhaus and thus, were the actual liberators. I'll never know why my outfit never received such recognition. Of course, I have heard and read a number of stories about this matter, but none of them provide a clear explanation.

When my daughter Heidi took her first trip to Germany in the early 1990's, she visited what today remains of the Dachau concentration camp. To her surprise, she did not see any indication that it was the 45th Division which had liberated the camp. After she returned home, she asked me about this. Unfortunately, I could not give her any satisfactory answer.

Munich and the End of the War

Munich was our final destination of the war. After a couple of days in our new surroundings, Col. Sparks informed everyone that he was being sent back to the States. The following day he left in his jeep together with Johnson, me, and a jeep driver (not Turk) and headed for France. There, at some headquarters in or near Alsace-Lorraine, he remained with Johnson and ordered the jeep driver and me to return to Munich. It was during this trip that Germany finally surrendered.


Shortly thereafter, I received the surprising and good news that I was to spend a week's vacation on the French Riviera. And so, a few days later I found myself on a train bound for Nice. I'll never forget that, during this long train ride, I managed to sleep through the night on the overhead luggage rack of our compartment without falling off. Nice was full of American military personnel and not very exciting, but I and some other soldiers did manage to go swimming in the Mediterranean and had an interesting sightseeing tour of the Riviera, including Monte Carlo and the huge and beautiful fields of flowers used in the manufacture of perfume.

After this vacation, I rejoined my outfit which had moved from Munich to Fürstenfeldbruck, a small town near Augsburg. There I did absolutely nothing but wait to find out what our next destination would be. One rumor had it that we would be returned to the States and then shipped to the Pacific Theater of War. But this was not exactly what we were hoping for. A few weeks later, many of us received the news that we were being transferred to the 9th Infantry Division. This time we were relocated to a small village famous for growing hops, north of and not too far from Munich. But life continued to be boring, especially since American soldiers were not allowed to "fraternize" with German civilians. Finally, in August, we received the wonderful news that Japan had surrendered after the United States had dropped atomic bombs on two of its cities. This meant that the war in the Pacific and, thus, World War Il was over and we would soon return to the States to be discharged.

Return Home

It must have been in September that I was transferred to the 69
th Infantry Division with which I was shipped home. As I recall, we left Europe on October 16 from Le Havre on a very large converted luxury liner, the S.S. America I believe. This time rough seas made the voyage quite unpleasant for many of the G.l.'s who became seasick but I, once again, did not get sick. After about a week, as on previous transatlantic trips, I saw the red buoy #1 which provided the first indication that we were approaching New York. It must have been October 23 when we landed in New York and were quickly transported to Ft. Meade where, almost two years earlier, I had spent three weeks before being shipped overseas. There I received a physical exam, discharge papers which erroneously stated that I had black instead of blond hair, and a check for $100 of my mustering out pay of $401.46 (including $1.45 travel pay) which the Army owed me for my two years, three months, and 26 days of active service. It was October 28, 1945. I was also given a number of medals, badges, and ribbons. Some were not important enough to list here. Those that were worth mentioning included the Combat Infantry Badge of which I was most proud because it indicated that I had not been a rear echelon soldier, like most G.I. 's, but had been in combat during my many months overseas; the Purple Heart Medal; and the European, African, Middle Eastern Service Ribbon with an arrowhead (for participating in the invasion of southern France) and four battle stars representing my participation in four campaigns: Rome/Arno, Southern France, Rhineland, and Central Europe. In addition, several months later, I received to my great surprise the Bronze Star Medal—in the mail.

As soon as I was told that I had been honorably discharged, I grabbed my dufflebag and, although I had no cash, took a taxi to take me home. After I anived, I rang the doorbell. It was Puzzi who opened the door and was the first one to welcome me back. And Pappi had to pay the cab driver.

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Mann and
                    Kershaw
Karl Mann with Alex Kershaw, author of The Liberator: One World War II Soldier's 500-Day Odyssey from the Beaches of Sicily to the Gates of Dachau
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Mann
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Mann

157th Infantry Regiment Unit Page

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The 45th Infantry Division in World War II: An Unofficial Guide to Resources

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Last Major Update: January 9, 2022
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