Footsteps of a Soldier

By Joseph Small

" Heartbreaking and heartwarming - a story of struggle and triumph, victory, and losses."-New York Times Bestselling Author Tosca Lee, co-author of The Long March HomeFootsteps of a Soldier is a story of faith, hope, and perseverance for all who have served, all who have loved, and all who have lost a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Tree Publishing
• Release date: Sep 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781956823509

Book preview

9781956823424_CVR-Full.jpg

Footsteps of a Soldier

Joseph Small

Published by

Joshua Tree Publishing

• Chicago •

JoshuaTreePublishing.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

13-Digit ISBN Trade Paper: 978-1-956823-42-4

13-Digit ISBN Hard Cover: 978-1-956823-47-9

13-Digit ISBN eBook: 978-1-956823-50-9

Copyright © 2023 Joseph Small. All Rights Reserved.

Front Cover Image Credit: Smulsky Adobe Stock

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To my four children.

To all military branches

that preserve our freedom.

To all people who have lost

a loved one too soon.

Special Dedication

Footsteps of a Soldier would not have been possible without the bits and pieces of World War II memories shared with me by a combat veteran and his wife. They have chosen to remain anonymous because many great men died for their fellow man. They are the heroes of heroes.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Walk on Costly Soil

Chapter 2 The Train Ride

Chapter 3 Stay at the Barn

Chapter 4 Truck Ride to Front Line

Chapter 5 Engagement

Chapter 6 Stay with French Family

Chapter 7 The Red Night

Chapter 8 Stay Over at the German Home

Chapter 9 The Firefight

Chapter 10 Footprints

Chapter 11 Going Home

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 Walk on Costly Soil

Iam H omer, a teenage soldier. My thoughts are racing through my mind as we head for the front line to battle the enemy in World War II. Next to me are my Army buddies, Harry and Bode. Harry is my best friend. We are part of the reinforcements for the Third Army under General George Patton. We have been preparing for what lies ahead on our destination to the front line in Luxembourg—a battlefront nicknamed the Battle of the Bulge.

While embarking on a duty to preserve our existence of freedom, we are about to be exposed to our true identities and to the ultimate test of our characters. We are our country, and our country is us.

Once we unload from our transport ship in the English Channel, we board a Higgins boat where we lie like sardines, ready to brace ourselves against the unceasing knock from the tossing of ruthless yet effortless waves. My mind is as unsettled as the sea. On the cold, hard surface of a metal floor, as I lie against the next man to prepare for the incoming waves, my pinnacle thought is, What the hell am I doing here? The reflections of a safe, secure home back in America seem mind-controlling.

We are coming inland in a flat Navy boat with over thirty young, anxious men next to us. With several other Higgins boats alongside, the wind is blowing relentlessly, creating hostile waves. I slowly maneuver to my knees and advance to a standing position. With a glance, I see the beach of Normandy. This French beach has been secured by men before us. I awkwardly sit back down and once again brace myself next to my Army buddy Harry. With his head bowed slightly in dismay, Harry moves closer yet, overlapping my shoulder, fearing even now that we might get separated. The scent of salt water is in the mist about us, dampening our faces and fatigues. My seasickness becomes even more apparent from the ride in this boat after my eight-day voyage over the Atlantic. I’m now wearing baggy pants and a loose-fitting shirt.

The gray Higgins boat draws close to its objective landing as we make ready. We stand carefully, trying to balance against the guy next to us. I can see the beach as the man-filled boat rocks about near the shore. During the D-Day invasion, those soldiers must have also known the fear of facing death. The sense of sacrifice of fellow American soldiers lies heavy in the air. The water is thick and unclean as debris washes up to the edge of the coastline. While approaching the beach at Le Havre, France, I remember the great men who died on the Sword, Juno, Gold, Utah, and Omaha beaches.

My thoughts channel to what it was like at the most severe battles on the beaches of Omaha and Utah. Their reality becomes my perspective.

During that instance, I sense the waters are mourning the childlike men who gave the ultimate sacrifice of their lives for the rights of all people. The air also acts like a brother to the water, restless and violated, like the uneasiness before a storm.

As the boat slides onto the sand, many nervous soldiers wait and watch as the end gate unlatches and falls. I imagine the men who were here seven months earlier on D-Day. With the end gate down, my eyes are drawn to the place where men before us faced head-on a bullet-filled space from the enemy’s arsenal. Bullets came at them unceasingly like a wind-driven rain, unsparingly hitting their targets with no hope of stopping. Their only alternative for survival was to instinctively move in, facing the enemy and withstanding their fears. I have great admiration and respect for the foot soldiers who had to overtake a relentless enemy.

Now it is my time. I shift about, unloading onto the sand with my M1 rifle held securely in both hands. Attentive and spellbound, I step into unfamiliar territory. The brown sand sifts beneath my feet around the bottom surface of my black shoes as they submerge in ocean water. Under my weight with each step, the sand repeatedly sifts again, mixing with the salt water, swirling, creating a cloudy displacement. Each step on unknown soil brings uncertain and unpredictable times. My off-green Army backpack is the only comfort of belonging that I am entitled to. My emotions shift with a sense of relief from the rough, wind-drawn, blue waters. Many men died securing this beach. We are walking on costly soil.

Breaking the men’s fearful silence, I glance at Harry and, with a searing look, remark, So you feel that?

Without turning and walking in sync beside me, Harry whispers, Oh, man, yes!

Have you ever sensed anything like this before? I ask.

Never, says Harry as his eyes search the coastline. As we walk silently, our thoughts linger on the fallen and the wounded.

The invasion was seven months ago, yet the red martyrdom image of an invisible vale continues to etch a battle that remains fresh in time. It is hidden in the mysterious eyes of the wind and the touch of conflict in the air. The ground holds the weight of pain, sorrow, cries, and fading breaths of men giving way to the Spirit. Solemnly, we walk inland, each step bringing us closer to our ultimate mission.

While enduring one hundred yards of strong, wind-swirling, irritating sand, we reach the clay bluff. Its light blonde grasses sway to the wind’s invisible, sultry breath. The wind welcomes us to a land of desolation, a land where no explanation is needed. We weave around the brown and gray soil craters. Due to the American air-dropped bombs and the Navy ships’ barrage of heavy shelling, the landscape bears irregular scars. The city of Le Havre looks like a brick, board, and metal graveyard from the initial bombardment of Germans capturing the city and from the Americans and their Allies taking it back.

The foot soldiers destroyed the seemingly indestructible German-made bunkers and left them quiet and dismantled. These are the bunkers that the Air Force and Navy ships missed.

Walking along the war-torn land, I reach into my pocket. Harry’s watchful eye catches my movement as I briefly reveal a curved, grayish object the size of a half dollar. Harry looks at my face, hoping for our eyes to meet, longing for me to let him in on my possession. This is the most Harry has seen of it so far. The token is my source of comfort whenever I am distracted by homesickness. I feel Harry’s eyes upon me, so I turn my head, not wanting to reveal my confidential belonging. Harry notices my eyes move away and recognizes the reflection of himself—a blend of youthful innocence and grownup responsibility gleaming in his gaze. A look of worry is held in and carried about like men twenty-five years older.

When I look into Harry’s eyes, I see my reflection as a mirror image, as if I am someone with an immature face, akin to that of an adolescent, with a touch of smooth and baby-like skin absent of any facial hair. My profile reveals a medium-height, grown-up boy with a lean body mass constructed on a medium frame. Having fairly broad shoulders, this person steps precisely with an athletic walk. This is a young man who has a square chin and a fairly long face. His light brown, sandy hair sports an Army haircut covered by an Army helmet. His eyebrows are light in thickness and blond, highlighting light green eyes that focus keenly on his surroundings. These eyes reveal kindness and goodness. At first, I didn’t recognize the image as being me, but it is, and in a flash, the vision disappears.

Hey, Homer, whispers Harry. Do you think where we’re headed will be as tough as this?

Not wanting to make him feel uneasy, I say, I don’t know. I hope not. As we walk on, I pause a bit and then say, But where people die, would there be much difference?

Only in numbers gone, says Harry in a sure-telling voice.

You’re right there, Harry. War is quite a solution. It’s the result of evil men in leadership roles.

So what are we going to do about it? asks Harry.

That’s why we are here, I say.

Yeah, I know what you mean, Harry says. Changing the subject, he asks in a slow, gingerly manner, I don’t mean to pry, but maybe someday you could fill me in on your lucky piece?

With a faint grin, I look at Harry and say, I will later, okay? as we walk amid the mist of silent men, all wishing to be back home.

Harry’s deep-set eyes and dark brown eyebrows portray a physical toughness. His dark brown crew cut complements his chocolate-brown eyes, and his solid, prominent chin adds to his overall bold appearance. His clothing is a little loose, but he appears to be a well-built man. His backpack only adds to his physique. He carries his only possessions with him, the tools of war: an M1 rifle, backpack, and commitment.

Harry is a person who perseveres despite hardships. His perception is steadfast in confidence in his abilities, and he is one you can trust with your life.

With temperatures in the twenties, the air seems colder than usual. It isn’t the extreme cold I see every winter at home. In Nebraska, where Harry and I live, temperatures in the twenties are actually a warming trend and considered a break in temperatures from ten below to five above zero. The cool January air, accompanied by a gentle breeze, inflicts a chill onto our nervous bodies. After some distance of walking, the chill is displaced with muscle heat. It is mid-January in 1945, and the war keeps getting more complicated.

***

Harry and I met in basic training at Mineral Wells, Texas, in July 1944. Feeling alone in the barracks, I yelled out, Is there anybody here from Nebraska?

A faint voice replied, I am. It was like finding an old friend.

At Fort Wolters, we prepared for what lay ahead. Twelve weeks of training made us not only physically hardened but also more resistant to hardship, especially the exposure to constant laborious treatment in order to be ready for the mental strain of war.

***

I walk on with only glimpses of what was and is now. I start to realize the reality of why we came from a distant land to embark on this perilous journey. This place where people used to dwell is now just wasteful rubble.

Their homes were invaded, forcing them to leave a land where people once reveled in life by the cheerful and vibrant blue ocean. Children played, and birds sang, painting a scene of tranquility. Men and boys fished while women and girls waded and walked along the beaches, lost in quiet and soul-searching thoughts. This was a land that enhanced the beauty of all life. Now it is barren, devoid of its citizens who loved their country. The once swaying green trees are now just stumps, with only the hardiest of limbs remaining after the heavy shelling. This scene is similar to a violent thunderstorm on the plains, unleashing hail that relentlessly pounds and crushes eight-foot corn stalks into six-inch stubble. The smell of torn corn mixes with the passing hail-cooled air. In this place, there is also a residual smell of tree sap, the lifeblood of all trees, emptying itself into the cool breeze.

Our squad stays close together, following the lead sergeant. The sergeant is a war-experienced veteran with deep wrinkles from the strain of war, which gives him the appearance of being much older. With eyes holding the horrors of war, he is leading us to the location of the train checkpoint only two and a half miles away. This train will transport us to the next checkpoint, which is the final one before reaching the front line. As we walk over a mile, we stay on course following our tight-fitting group. As we walk in silence, my thoughts are filled with worry and uncertainties. My mind focuses more on home now that I am heading to Luxembourg, a land bordering Belgium and France.

While I walk, I place my hand into my pocket for reassurance that my token is still there in the same manner a child would check his pocket after receiving a silver dollar from Grandma for Christmas, a prized possession. After being reassured, I pull my hand out slowly. When my hand leaves my pocket, I add a couple of taps to firmly settle the object into place.

The train is now in sight. Some of the men and I glance back to recall a land deserted by all its normal creatures. The birds are nowhere to be found. The off-white clouds silently drift overhead, seemingly as if saluting. This land can now be reclaimed by its inhabitants, renewed but with a sense of loss. It is a place on earth like no other, a place of silent faces. We continue walking.

The man beside me, who is positioned a step behind the sergeant, is the man I am assigned to assist with the machine gun. Bode, our machine gun operator, is a big-boned, heavy-framed man around six feet four inches tall. He has a rigid face with marble blue eyes and a deep, solid voice. With big thighs and iron-hard arms, he looks like he could carry an oak tree if needed. This is a job he doesn’t want but for which he is chosen. Being a machine gun operator is an unwanted task because he is the first target sought out to be eliminated during heavy fighting.

They need a person with keen vision who is capable of carrying a heavier load of responsibility for the care of the men around him. Bode will remain steadfast no matter the fight. He is reliable to a point where we know if we ever have to retreat, he will be the last one out and our shield of protection watching over us until all measures are exhausted. Even though he is a green soldier from Texas and not yet proven, Bode