Tom Brokaw called them “The Greatest Generation,” and I am inclined to agree with him. They were the men who grew up in the hard days of the Great Depression and came to manhood in time to be drafted to fight in World War II. They were pushed into war by a sneak Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Probably none of them knew that they would end up stopping a holocaust, the genocide of millions of Jews in Europe.
It is strange how things work out. Out of all of history’s wars, not many can claim to be truly heroic, although they may have been necessary for our safety; but World War II really was fought against an enormous evil.
These men risked, and some gave, their lives for a genuinely noble cause. Then they came home, picked up their stories, and got on with things. Many never talked about their harrowing experiences. Many could not.
Occasionally one can. It is unforgettable to listen.
My interest was ignited by the story recently printed in The Commercial Dispatch and several other regional newspapers about the Mississippi Chapter of the Battle of the Bulge Veterans who are still serving by establishing six $1,000 college scholarships — with more to come — for descendants of that battle’s veterans. Their enduring patriotism and action, which will continue in the future, clearly mark them with the greatness of their generation.
I was privileged to have one of these veterans talk to me about his experiences. It must have been difficult for Dr. James Hunt of Columbus to go back in memory to recount the Battle of the Bulge, and I am grateful to him.
Winston Churchill called the Battle of the Bulge “the greatest land battle of World War II.”
Hitler’s last ditch attempt to establish German armies in ports needed supplies. That had to be stopped.
Jim Hunt was with the troops traveling from Le Havre, France, to Liege, Belgium. They were infantry replacements. Casualties of soldiers coming through Normandy, France, had been extremely heavy. At the time they thought they were the first replacements, but earlier replacements were already among the casualties.
They were in an abandoned sugar beet factory, waiting to find out where fighting would be. Jim was assigned leader of a squad with only three men left. All the others were dead. He had had only two weeks of infantry training at Camp Gordon, Georgia! He said one of the others needed to be leader. They had more experience. One of them said, “Not to worry, son. If you live a day, you’ll be experienced.”
Soon after, they were fighting in deep, freezing snow. Jim said, “I have never lusted after a piece of clothing in all my life, but one old vet was wearing a white parka he had taken from a German soldier he had killed. It hid him in the snow that covered everything, and I really wanted that parka. My olive drab uniform made me a big target.”
He was assigned to the First Division, marching to Malmedy, Belgium, a small town in the Ardennes, where the hills and forest made good cover. Coming to a firebreak, they saw eight or nine trailers pulled by jeeps. They were filled with dead, frozen, snow-covered American boys. They had been an artillery outfit captured by Germans and taken to a field where all were machine-gunned. If they fell on their backs, the ones still living could be identified by the water vapor on their breath. They were shot. Those still living who had fallen on their stomachs — only five or six — escaped to tell the tale.
As a thoroughly scared 19-year-old, Jim had witnessed the famous Malmedy Massacre. The Germans were taking no prisoners.
After this, the infantry took no prisoners, either.
They crossed the German border and took Achen, then Cologne. In Achen they saw no human, no dog, no thing alive.
Out of Bonn, Germany, they built a fire. Warming his feet, Jim discovered his frozen feet had developed gangrene. That usually meant amputation. Jim kept a knife beside him with the intention of fighting off anyone who tried to amputate his feet. He was sent to a field hospital but agonized about leaving his troops. After a couple of months he was loaded onto a hospital ship back to the U.S. He recalls the same music was played on board day after day: “One Meat Ball.”
Finally, he had a glorious homecoming to Buckner, North Carolina, via Charleston, South Carolina.
The Red Cross was present, handing out half-pints of milk. Jim said he must have drunk a dozen.
We rejoice every time someone we care about comes home from the obscenity of war, but we never know what scars, seen and unseen, they carry. Jim said he had nightmares until he was 66 years old.
When I moved to Columbus and was in the fifth grade, we were still calling Nov. 11 Armistice Day, commemorating the day World War I officially ended. Everyone had high hopes that there would be no more wars after that. But by the time we had moved to Columbus, World War II was already brooding. Now many years have passed. We still yearn for peace, but parts of the world are fighting or fleeing, and new threats disturb all of us. As we thank those who once protected us at their own peril, we pray that today’s frictions can be resolved without such dreadful means.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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