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Herman RUBENSTEIN |
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Unité :
Medical Detachment, 377th Infantry Regiment
Grade : 1st Lieutenant
Activité pendant la Seconde Guerre Mondiale : It was early June 1985, when I received the invitation. I didn’t quite know what to expect when I decided to attend the 95th Infantry Division’s 40 year reunion. It was going to be held in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania in September, just 90 miles from my home in Philadelphia. As I drove West on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to the reunion, vivid memories of World War II played out like a home movie unreeling inside my head. Fleeting recollections that transported me back to events that I had often thought were worth a million dollars, to experience, but I wouldn’t take a million to live thru again. Graduating from Officers Candidate School as a 19 year old Second Lieutenant----Assignment as a Combat Medic to General Patton’s 95th Infantry Division----The troopship zig zagging to dodge German submarines when it took us to Europe----Combat and the awful terrors that accompanied that little sojourn into hell----Picking up and treating casualties on the battlefield, and in the front line aid station. I was abruptly brought back to the present when I saw the white letters on the black sign in front of the hotel at the side of the road. “Welcome Men of The Ninety-Fifth Infantry Division.” I found a spot to park my car and entered a lobby crowded with men who had shared a war with me. I was third in line. waiting to check in when a stout gray-haired man in a polyester blue suit wearing a shirt with no tie, broke away from a nearby group of men and approached me. “Lieutenant. Remember me, “ he asked, a broad smile lighting up his pink face? There was something so familiar about his eyes. Then suddenly with a rush, I knew him. “Sammy. Sammy Norton. You were my jeep driver. How have you been Sam?” “Fine.” he laughed, gratified that I still knew who he was. Similar scenes of recognition were taking place all over the lobby. If the encounters were spirited and boisterous enough to attract attention, a small knot of men would encircle the reuniting veterans, and bask in the warmth of their meeting. Sammy and I were winding down into small talk, when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder that spun me around sharply. I was looking into the grinning face of a man I hadn’t seen in forty years, resplendent in the uniform of an Army Brigadier General. “Doc, you old son of a bitch. I’d know you anywhere.” the general shouted gleefully as he hugged me with bone-crushing force. He released me to the sound of volleys of hearty laughter. I was gasping for air as the spark of recognition ignited. “Bud,” I yelled. “Bud Taylor.” “Right,” he answered, white teeth flashing beneath a black military style mustache. That was a new addition to someone I had last seen when we were young men fighting outside of Metz in Germany, so many years ago. “We were both First Lieutenants Bud when the war ended. How the hell did you become a General, I asked delighted by what I was seeing? “I just got lucky,” he replied, his blue eyes shining brightly against the handsome soldier’s tan. His understated modesty was one of the things that had always made me like and admire this man. “Bud, you have a scar right there,” I said, holding him by the shoulder as I pointed to a spot on his tunic immediately above his heart. “is that right, “ I asked, waiting for validation? “You ought to know Doc, “ he said smiling broadly. Do you remember anything about the last time we saw each other in 1944” I asked, suddenly getting serious? “I’ll never forget that day, never,” Bud replied. The sounds and spirit of our reunion had attracted a circle of onlookers who surrounded us, eager to hear everything we said. “What happened Doc, “ Sammy Norton asked? “Oh boy, a war story, one of the men in the group of listeners announced good-naturedly. “I took a deep breath and began. “We were fighting outside of Metz. You all remember Metz? The so-called fortress City in Germany? Hadn’t been taken in over one thousand years.” The sights, the sounds, and even the dank smell of the aid station I had set up in the basement of the stone house set low in a natural gully, came back to me in exquisite detail. It was winter 1944. The frightening explosive sounds of war were playing too close as was usually the case for a front line medical position. I had just finishing sterilizing some surgical instruments, when I felt a cold draft hit my legs as the basement door to the sid station opened, allowing a gust of wind to blow some of the falling snow halfway across the room. “Close the God Damn door, “ I heard my assistant Sergeant Warren yell. Then, in a voice suddenly altered, respectfully adding, “Oh Lieutenant, come on in.” I turned to see First Lieutenant Bud Taylor remove his steel helmet, pausing as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light in the basement. His carbine was slung over his left shoulder and he was carrying some sort of box in his right hand. “What have you got there Bud,” I asked as he kicked off some of the freshly fallen snow still clinging to his boots? “Got something I have been saving for you, Doc,” he said as he approached me, white teeth flashing. “It’s a boy, Doc,” he exulted joyfully as he removed a cigar from the box, and with perfect aim, thrust it into my mouth, wrapper and all. “Congratulations Dad,” I yelled, whacking him happily on the back. “I’m thrilled for you and Jane,” all this said playfully with the cigar still between my teeth. “you know, Doc” Bud continued. “I had two boxes of cigars, one with blue wrappers for a boy, and the other with pink ones for a girl. I have been carrying them with me ever since I left the States.” “When did you find out, “ I asked, thrilled to be sharing my friend’s happy and blessed event? “I received this letter from Jane today. It was mailed two weeks ago. She also sent me these,” he said, pulling out a thick bundle of snapshots from his left breast pocket. He handed them to me, eagerly awaiting my comments. I was happy that I could be truthful with him when I said, “He’s a beautiful baby,“ which he was. “He looks just like you.” which he did. “He does look like me, doesn’t he,” Bud agreed, breaking into a broad smile of satisfaction? “Gosh, I can’t wait to get my hands on this kid,” he said wistfully, as he gazed at the black and white picture of his son. Sensing his sadness, I again said, “He looks just like you, you handsome son of a bitch.” Bud was a genuine hero who I had come to like and respect under conditions that usually brought out the worst in men. I had personally seen him risk his life on several occasions helping to rescue members of his platoon who were cut off and in a desperate situation. He had already been recommended for the Silver Star for gallantry in action. All this done with a quiet modesty that was most becoming under the circumstances. After the precious snapshots, twenty-four in all, were safely tucked into his left breast pocket, I shook his hand warmly and said, “Be careful out there. It sounds like things are heating up.” “They haven't made the bullet with my name on it, Doc,” Bud said breezily. “Don’t take any crazy chances. You’re a Daddy now, “ I threw at him as a parting shot before I let go of his hand. “I’m always careful. You know that Doc. See you.” His figure was briefly silhouetted in the doorway against the white snowy landscape outside. He waved, and then was gone. The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun and the cough of the mortars had suddenly gotten louder with the open door and quieter again when the door was closed. Just then, German artillery shells landed very close by. I always marveled at how much they sounded like a line of freight rains being coupled together by the charge of a locomotive behind them. We were kept very busy for the next thirty minutes working on the casualties who had been the targets of the shells I had heard exploding. No question about it. It was very dangerous out there. I had finished setting up a line of blood plasma into the arm of the last wounded and slumped down onto a litter, hoping for a few minutes rest. Then I heard another of my medical evacuation jeeps pull up outside the door. “We have some more customers, Sarge,” I shouted, groaning with fatigue as I stood up. The door swung open as three men carrying a litter with a familiar figure on it came in. One of the enlisted men carrying the litter was crying hysterically. “The Lieutenant’s been hit Doc. Oh Doc, Lieutenant Taylor has been hit,” he said louder and wilder, the whites of his eyes now showing. “Get him out of here right now,” I whispered to my Sergeant. Fear in combat is corrosive, and very contagious. I didn’t want Bud in his present condition to be exposed to that kind of outburst. To the distraught soldier I said in a voice as calm as I could, “Why don’t you wait outside. We're going to take very good care of Lieutenant Taylor. He’s going to be just fine.” Turning back to Bud, I asked crisply, “Where were you hit?” I spoke in as even a tone as I could manage, trying to conceal my anxiety. “Right here Doc,” Bud gestured weakly pointing to his chest just in front of his heart. It’s quite different when you have to give medical attention to a family member or a close friend. You must guard against losing objectivity. I had to try to put the brakes on the panic that was rising within me. “Steady, old boy. Don’t turn stupid on me now,” I silently berated myself. With professional efficiency, I picked up the bandage shears and began cutting away the clothing in order to expose the wound area. “is it bad, Doc, “Bud whispered hoarsely? “In a minute Bud. Your color is good, “ I lied. Something was preventing me from cutting into the blood stained clothing surrounding the site of his injury. No matter how hard I squeezed the handle of the scissors, they wouldn’t cut through. Then I saw the ripped edges of the packet of pictures he had so cheerfully shown us a scant half hour before. I withdrew the lower edges of the now bloodied bandage sheers and concentrated on cutting away the cloth that covered his breast pocket. I gasped when I exposed the contents of his pocket. Centered in the middle of the pile of pictures was a jagged round ugly piece of shrapnel about the size of a half dollar. The metal had pierced the pile of photos and cut a crater into his ribs, and intercostal muscles, one half inch deep. There was no doubt in my mind that the pictures of his son that his wife had sent him had saved his life. “Bud,” I said, my voice quivering with emotion. “this is one for Ripley’s Believe It or Not.” I described what had happened, explaining just how lucky he was that the snapshots had stopped the entering velocity of the shrapnel. Immediately below his ribs, just under the wound, was the ascending aorta. If that had been punctured, nothing could have saved him. I carefully removed the pictures with the piece of shrapnel and dressed the wound. I wrote out a medical tag, covered him with a blanket, and prepared for evacuation back to a field hospital. “Doc, can I have that piece of shrapnel.” Bud asked in a voice just above a whisper? “Sure Bud, “ I answered softly, reaching under the blanket and placing it in his hand. He smiled and closed his eyes, saying , “Thanks Doc.” “That was the last time I saw you until today, isn’t that right Bud?” “That’s right Doc, and that’s exactly the way it happened fellas,” he said somewhat pleased by all the attention he was getting. “What ever happened to that piece of shrapnel Bud? Were you able to hold on to it?” In answer to my question, he loosened his tie, opened the collar, and reached down inside his shirt, groping for something. A look of satisfaction crossed his face as he withdrew his hand, pulling out a thin gold chain at the end of which suspended by a tiny gold ring, hung what appeared to be a half dollar-sized gold nugget. “Here it is Doc. My eleven kids all chipped in and had it gilded for me on my birthday.” “I’ll take this with me to the grave,” he added with ironic good humor. “You almost did, “ I responded wryly. That evening as we were sipping an after-dinner brandy in the hotel lounge, I said, “many people I tell this story to don’t believe me. They think it’s something that I made up. It’s too pat---too coincidental. That’s what they say.” Bud took a long puff on his cigar, smiled, his eyes crinkling merrily, and said, “We know better, don’t we Doc?” “We sure do Bud,” I answered, We sure do.” Campagnes : Northern France, Rhineland, Ardennes-Alsace.
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