A bridge towards the Oste - Sandbostel

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Memoir of Randolph C. Pierson

22 December 1944 - Evening: 203 AAA Half-track hit by Mortar: 2 KIA

During the early evening, probably about 1730 hours, one of the anti-aircraft half-tracks, assisting in the defense of Baraque de Fraiture, received a direct hit from a German round. I suspect it was a large caliber mortar round, but of course I don't actually know what type of round it was. The results of this direct hit were swift and severe. From the command post we could hear the wounded men of the anti-aircraft crew screaming for help and also hear their 50-caliber ammunition starting to explode. The sight in the dark night was dazzling, but grisly dazzling -- of the half-track slowly becoming engulfed with flames fed by its gasoline and motor oil, and of the spectacular flight of exploding 50-caliber incendiary rounds as they arched high into the cold winter sky.

I was stationed just outside the command post building, trying to make up my mind what I should do. Move to the half-track and try to assist the wounded men stationed there, or remain at my assigned post? The front door of the command post burst open while I was debating with myself, and Technical Sergeant Frank Tacker, the Battalion Inelligence Noncommissioned Officer, ran past me in the dark, shouting for someone to help him assist the wounded men in the half-track.

My doubts now gone, I followed Sergeant Tacker into the night toward the burning half-track and its exploding ammunition. Frank Tacker reached the burning vehicle moments before I arrived, and with one powerful leap, cleared the armored side of the vehicle and landed feet first in the fighting compartment. In one fluid motion he lifted one wounded G.I. over the side of the half-track and dropped him into my outstretched arms. I barely had time to lower the body on his back in the snow when the second body came over the armored side of the half-track, quickly followed by Sergeant Tacker himself. At this point my heart was pounding and my breathing labored. I was terrified. Of course, I cannot speak for Frank. Outwardly he was calm as we checked the two men for wounds. It did not take a medical doctor to determine that one man was dead and the other badly wounded.

I helped Sergeant Tacker place the badly wounded man on his shoulders, and he started carrying this man on the long, slippery, and dangerous trek back to the command post and to a waiting medic. As I tried to drag the dead G.I. body away from the fury of the burning vehicle and the exploding ammuniition, the badly burned flesh of the man's wrists and forearms came off on my woolen gloves. I quit dragging the body, moved away from the burning vehicle, leaned over in the darkness, and retched in the snow. The terrible sight and horrible smell caused by the burned flesJh was too much for my stomach.

How my friend Frank Tacker managed to carry the heavy weight of the wounded man back to the command post through the ice and snow, and in the darkness, is beyond me. ...

Fiction writers would give this incident a happy Hollywood ending. History does not. The severely wounded man died on Frank's shoulders before they reached the command post. ...