The History of the 398th begins: "After a comparatively rough Atlantic crossing (Comparatively? we spent several days in a hurricane!), the 398th Infantry Regiment, together with elements of supporting units, disembarked from the Army transport General William H. Gordon, on 20 October, 1944." Actually, the crossing included a brush with a hurricane, that introduced some of us to the joys of seasickness, and the ship's canteen ran out of soft drinks and candy (or said they did) on Day 2 of the ten day crossing. After an all-night march with full field equipment, we reached our staging area, Septemes, just outside of Marsailles.
We stayed in Septemes through the 29th and got some time off to explore the countryside. Marsailles was off limits, so some of us took a tram to the town of Aix en Province (where Monet developed Impressionistic painting in the 19th Century).
(Of course, we didn't go there to visit Monet, but to search for some of the SIN the French are known for. After recovering from the effects of spending the tram ride nose to nose with a very verbose Frenchman who had apparently subsisted for years on a diet of garlic, I swaggered into the nearest bar and, using my entire French vocabulary, ordered "Cognac." (This takes some explaining. I had dreamed about swaggering into a French bar since my childhood days when I learned from my favorite pulp magazine "World War Flying Aces" that about all the intrepid flyers did for recreation was gulp down bottles of cognac prior to battling the Huns in the air war of WW I. There was never any mention of this affecting their flying, let alone causing watery eyes, so I had always assumed that cognac was some sort of light wine. Accordingly, I disposed of the tiny glass in one gulp, whereupon I choked, was blinded by tears and staggered about the bar trying to get my breath back. The collected French barflies must have viewed this spectacle with alarm. I imagined them saying "We endured four long years of German occupation, then THIS is what they send to rescue us."
On October 29, 1944 we departed by the very same "40 & 8's," our forefathers probably used in 1918, and completed the 400-mile trip to our next staging area near St. Gorgon in three days. We learned that the division was to be attached to the VI Corps, Seventh Army, 6th Army Group, European Theater of Operations.
November 1-6, 1944. We began relieving the 45th Division on November 2 - my 19th birthday - at the edge of the Vosges Mountains. My introduction to this did little to improve the self image I had destroyed in Aix.
[I will always remember my introduction to War. As I jumped off the truck with full fifty pound field pack, my 125 pound frame became badly unbalanced and I greeted combat flat on my behind. The guys in the 45th pretended they didn't notice.]
The first few days were spent learning how to climb - and far more important, how to get back down from - mountains. Our first experience under fire demonstrated the paradox that it is easier to climb a mountain than it is to descend. We had labored from the top to near the bottom of this steep one when we heard the unmistakeable sound of a German machine pistol it sounded like someone tearing canvas. No one was hit, but no one remembers getting back up the hill, and everyone agreed it was easier than coming down.
We also learned the art of living while soaking wet with temperatures near freezing (nothing the Army has ever issued has been waterproof) and how to open a C Rations can with hands that refused to cooperate (I made use of the a knife they issued me, presumably to kill people, and I would have gladly used it for that if the guy who invented C rations had been there!).
The immediate division objective was to outflank the town of Raon-l'Etape, which was near the juncture of the Meurthe and La Plaine Rivers, and about 50 miles southwest of the Maginot Line and the town of Bitche. Company A's was to cross the La Plaine River, to help the regiment outflank Raon-l'Etape.
I wouldn't know about this, because no one bothered to show me a map and explain the situation. All I knew was when someone said "Move Out," I would pick up my gun, which by now weighed 385 pounds, and trudge up and down mountains until someone said "Fall Out," at which time we would drop to the ground, head on helmet, and catch some rest (a wise old soldier once told us "never run when you can walk, never walk when you can stand, never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, and NEVER stay awake when you can sleep. I've chosen to retain that wisdom right up to old age, and it has stood well the test of time).
We had been moving along a road with forested mountain slopes on one side, and stopped so the scouts could reconnoiter. In keeping with custom, I dropped to the ground, pillowed my head on my helmet and rested. With no warning except a swishing noise, a tree burst from a German 88 \<(some swore it was a mortar, but I don't think the 1/4" cube they took out of my leg later could have come from a mortar shell)\> showered our Weapons Platoon with shrapnel, killing Sgt. Malavasi, wounding others including me.
[There was no real pain at first. It felt like someone had hit me in the calf with a 2x4, but then I realized what had happened, and that I would no doubt be leaving for the hospital. I donated my prized possessions (such as a K ration) to my buddy and tent mate Ed Rawlings, boarded a springless ambulance and was taken over nonexistent roads to the evacuation hospital].