Wallace's wartime letters: April 22, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. - France

Dearest Honey,

Here is some writing I have had among my stationery since the 6^th of April. When I first came into the hospital, the events that had gone on just before were in my mind most of the time. It’s always like that – when you get a “break” you digest emotionally the things you were too keyed up to appreciate when they happened. During an operation you think of what is going to happen next. The present goes into your memory and comes back later on almost like a movie being shown again. Since those events were in my mind, I thought I’d write them to you. Now I can just barely make up my mind to send them. Writing some of them down was a great idea for me, because it took the pictures out of my head, and kept them from going round and round as they sometimes do. But it makes a lousy letter, and the wording looks silly to me now. But I had you in mind as an audience when I wrote them, so here they are, more evidence that I can’t say what I feel even if I try.

I love you always,

Wallace.

April 6, 1945 Friday

Dearest Honey,

I can just put a ditto mark under my yesterday’s letter and you will know what I am doing today.

‘ “ ‘

It seems I remember you once mentioned in a letter to me about the interesting things to be seen along the Rhine. You were right. I have seen some of them now, not in detail but perhaps in a better way. The whole valley gives an impression of medieval romance, and I first saw it under circumstances so real and exciting and romantic that at the time I felt, and was, more like a knight in armor than a tourist. By fitting into the scene, I got an emotional reaction you never get merely looking at relics.

You read in the news how rapidly our armored outfits ripped thru the “Palatinate Pocket.” We traveled day and night, due east over the mountainous country between Trier and the Rhine. That was a wild ride, with plenty of action, but we skipped thru it to reach that long white area on the right hand side of our maps. That was the Rhine Valley and it was the easiest thing to see on the map because there were no contour lines in it. The mountains made the rest of the map red with them.

One evening we stopped about two inches (on the map) from the abrupt line where the red mountains met the white valley. The tanks drew into a circle on the slope of a hill and we drove the half-tracks into the center of the circle. This formation reminded everybody of the way covered wagons used to be put in a circle to provide a defense against Indians. The object was the same, for we were alone in an area still more the enemy’s than ours. We had little contact with the rear, so little that we burned any of our vehicles that could not keep up with the task force. Maybe the pioneers stayed all night in one spot, but we never did. Gas up, water up, clean up, take off. That was our bivouac.

We moved out that night before darkness had come. A brief officers’ meeting revealed that we were to push on without further stops until we reached the banks of the Rhine. There was no information of the enemy, but we knew that if he was to make a stand this side of the Rhine, we would have to hit it that night. As the column moved out in the dusk every man felt the power of the thrust we were making. For nearly a week it had seemed as tho our force was alone in the midst of a confused but numerous enemy. Now we saw the culmination of our dash blended with the mighty thrust of an entire army. Our tanks and tracks rolled along a road which wound among several large hills, finally curved under an autobahn (the first of Germany’s super-highways we were to see) and headed straight for the Rhine Valley, between the autobahn which was above us on the left and a smaller highway in a valley to our right. Along all three of these roads poured tanks and half-tracks, filling the entire area with dust and the deafening din of thousands of motors. Our task force, which we had considered a large one, was swallowed up in a flood or armor that filled all of us with awe. Tank columns silhouetted on the hills above us, roaring past the stream in the valley below us, creeping up behind us—all headed in one direction at the same unchanging speed. We could only smile faintly and thank God we were part of it all and not assigned the impossible task of stopping the avalanche.

Soon it was dark, except for the light of the half-moon in the cloudless sky [first quarter on March 20, 1945 = waxing gibbous]. We could no longer see the other columns, but the dull roar of engines on all sides informed us they were still there. We cut down our speed and grew taut and nervous as we watched our sectors and waited for whatever was to come. Gerry could be anywhere, we knew. An A.T. gun around the corner, a string of burp guns hidden under the trees, bazookas in houses or in foxholes near the roads. Delaying actions, usually, but hot enough for a few minutes. And tonite it could be a real defense, not just an empty crust.

We crept without opposition to the top of the last ridge before the valley. We came on it suddenly, and almost all at once the miles of flat country bordering the Rhine were stretched out in front of us. The spectacular and reassuring sight of demolition fires could be seen dotting the entire dark plane. We could see giant explosions spring up and violent fires stay on wherever they came, but we heard no sound for the explosions were too far away.

Then as we turned down the winding, steep-sided road that would bring us to the level of the plane, it seemed that the Middle Ages closed in around us. First was the castle. It was a perfect story-book castle, silhouetted largely against the sky beside us. The walls, the towers, the large gate were all there in the pale moonlight. From its location at the peak of the highest ridge in the area, you could see how the massive stone structure was built to command ground or repel attack. It would not have surprized me to have been challenged by a mounted knight in armor as we rolled passed the main gate.

Still nothing broke the tension. A burning half-track just off the road lighted our column for a short time when we were halfway thru the steep series of “S” curves that were taking us to the valley.

Soon the inevitable village at the base of the hill with the castle loomed before us. We stopped, reconnoitered on foot. No enemy in town. Civilians, yes, but here they chose to hide away out of sight while we passed. The mighty contrast between the town and our armored force could be felt. The town was built for defense. We were a symbol of offense. The town was like a historical panorama. We were like a glimpse of future supermen. The town was silent, frightened. We, a roar like thunder, an irresistable force.

Tanks passed under one massive stone arch, the only break in the high wall circling the village. We felt our way along narrow, cobblestoned streets. All blinds were closed. It was as tho the blamk, cold buildings were the walls of a ravine thru which we were passing. Here and there a coat of arms or a sign in the shape of an animal showed where an inn was located, but there was no light anywhere in town. Tanks retaliated for this silent animosity by chipping off pieces of the corners of the houses on turns in the street.

A square heavy church stood in the center of the town. Before it was a court yard, which narrowed into a long corridor leading to the gate on the far side of town. It was a stone village—no wood houses, no dirt roads. Only rock and cobblestone. Our armor edged along until it reached that last gate. Like the other one it was an arch in the city’s walls. Here the forbidding medieval town successfully opposed modern machines. The arch was too low to allow the passage of tanks! The town was ours, but undelayed advance was impossible. It would take some time to blow the arch. Radios were active for a few moments. It was decided to overcome feudal stubbornness with mechanical mobility. By-pass the town. It would do no harm behind us.

We left the village as we had entered, and as I rode under the main gate it seemed that our sojourn in the past had ended. We found a modern highway to procede on, but we still thought of our strange attack against antiquity. No man had opposed us, but centuries-old fortifications had resisted us and forced us into a new route. It was a peculiar, striking interlude that I didn’t shake off for several hours. However, dawn, and an accompanying attack on our column by enemy air, soon convinced me that we were opposing living fores as well as the dead past.

I remember a night attack we made in January; we all wore long robes fashioned from white cloth in order to camouflage ourselves in the snow. We drew near the line of departure. Artillery began to fall around us. In a silly effort to raise morale, I struck a Shakespearian pose, and said to my runner, “There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” He countered quickly and meaningfully, with one eye on the artillery, “The times are out of joint, o cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.”

Five minutes later artillery maimed my runner for life.

I did my first serious deer hunting from a half-track in Mulcey. Platoon Sergeant Siverling and squad leaders De Witt, Taylor, Schielke, Giangagario[?] and Otto went with me on “route reconnaissance,” mounted. We soon spotted our deer. I gave command to fire and for 2 minutes the six best men in the platoon fired rapid fire while the deer trotted blissfully, and unharmed, away. From then on I had no trouble keeping my non-coms in line. I only had to suggest telling the story of their marksmanship to the rest of the men.

Eventually, Siverling got a deer. But we never ate it. The night before our scheduled barbecue we were called up into the operation from which Siverling never returned and every one of the squad leaders became a casualty.