“Compared to war, all other forms of human endeavor shrink to insignificance,” remarked Gen. George S. “Old Blood and Guts” Patton Jr. as he drove past the battle-scarred fields of France. “God, how I love it.” By August 1944 Patton was commanding the Third Army as it barreled through France toward Berlin. Allied troops had punched through St.-Lô and Caen in July and liberated Paris in late August. Hammered by the Allies in the west and the Russians in the east, German forces were disintegrating and their high command was corroding from within. (On July 20 Hitler narrowly escaped an assassination attempt by his own officers, who had planted a bomb in his East Prussian headquarters. Hitler, partially paralyzed and deafened in the blast, had 5,000 suspected co-conspirators, including Erwin Rommel, executed.) So depleted was the German army, sixteen—and even fifteen-year-old boys were being thrown into combat. In October the Allies captured their first German city, Aachen, and total victory seemed imminent. No one was expecting a massive German counter-offensive. But in a last, desperate attempt to inflict catastrophic losses on the Allies, Hitler ordered 250,000 troops to strike the thin line of Allied forces stretching from Belgium to Luxembourg. It would prove to be the largest battle ever fought by the U.S. Army. Eleven days before the German blitz, Pfc. Richard Cowan, in Belgium with the Second Division, was celebrating his twenty-second birthday. Finding himself in a pensive mood, Cowan responded to a letter his mother, back in Wichita, Kansas, had recently sent him about the importance of adhering to certain values in life. (“Chas.” is his brother Charles.)
December 5, 1944
Dear Mom,
I guess 22 years ago was a pretty important day for both of us. But after all, it was only the start—the days that have come since—all 8036 of them—have meant as much, I think—a whole lifetime in one sense—because you and I shared the same life and it’s left me wanting no more.
It’s an awfully solemn mood in which to write a letter, Mom, but then it’s not that I’ve lost the willingness to look at the humerous side of it, so much as to agree with your slant of things as in your last letter.
It makes a guy think, all right, all of it. Like today—of all days—the rather determined and prolonged efforts of a sniper to erase me from the company roster. Artillery and machine guns can never be quite so personal as a persistent sniper. And it makes every fellow here play his real part—not that part that he’d like to play.
It’s like you wrote, Mom, you talk your ethics and you live them; and then the day comes when you feel they ask too much—they ought to be modified—they’re right but they’re superhuman.
And believe it or not, Mom—it sounds like a very irrelevant reason, perhaps, but that’s really the main reason I tried so long to get into the army. To join so much in the action that there would be no moral tie to the ten commandments, as it were—to base my actions on a rawer creed—or rather lack of creed—as Chas would say, live honestly with myself.
But I think the beauty of it is that when the going shades off into the rough, then the old creed comes shining through. And it’s easy to see that nothing’s changed. Quite the contrary—that the old law was built from out of the same indecency; that it is quite the logical development from this realistic off-color life of ours. In fact I think it is proof that to know one extreme, its antithesis must first be realized.
And it means that everybody shares the same universals—hope, love, humor, faith. Being 22 is to have a chance to hit everything no holds barred. And it’s damned comforting to have made the loop of most of the attitudes towards things, and come out near where you started.
Pretty convinced I’m grown up, ain’t I, Mom? Well, I still count on your tucking me into bed when I get home.
Love,
Dick
The next message the Cowans received was from the War Department, stating that their son had been missing in action since December 18—two days after the Germans launched their sweeping assault. Mrs. Cowan contacted the Red Cross and was told not to worry; there was every possibility Dick was still alive. In February, an elated Mrs. Cowan wrote to Dick’s older brother, Bob, and his wife, Dot, to say she had received a newspaper clipping announcing that Dick was a bona fide war hero. The January 23 Stars and Stripes army newspaper reported that as a Tiger tank and 80 Germans closed in on Cowan, he machine gunned half of them and held off the rest, allowing his comrades to retreat to safety. Cowan himself only pulled out when his ammunition had been exhausted. Mrs. Cowan, in her letter to Bob and Dot, could not have been more proud:
Gosh, I don’t know how Dick had the intestinal fortitude to do such a thing, unless he had his old Irish up, and could have licked all Hitler’s army, after what had happened to his pals. For my part, I think all the Germans would ever have seen of me would have been my heels. Well, it’s pretty grand to have a son like that.
But the Cowan family’s worst fears were realized when another telegram came informing them that Dick was no longer considered missing; it was now confirmed that he had been killed the very day of his courageous action, for which he was posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. “It is such a bitter dose to have to take,” mourned Mrs. Cowan in another letter to Dick’s brother, “and I am not a bit brave about it.” The Cowan family was not alone in their grief. Tens of thousands of soldiers were killed, seriously wounded, or captured by the Germans, who had pushed the Allied line back—in a “bulge” shape—forty-five miles. Unprepared for the harsh winter conditions, American troops fell ill and, in some cases, froze to death. Even General Patton, who had arrived with his Third Army, was growing anxious, and on December 23 he appealed right to the top: “Sir, this is Patton talking,” the general prayed aloud in a Luxembourg chapel “The past fourteen days have been straight Hell—rain, snow, more rain, more snow—and I am beginning to wonder what’s going on in Your headquarters. Whose side are You on anyway? … [I]n exchange for four days of fighting weather, I will deliver You enough Krauts to keep Your bookkeepers months behind in their work. Amen.” The weather cleared the next day. Christmas Eve, no less. By the middle of January the Germans were in full retreat, having suffered an estimated 120,000 to 200,000 casualties. Pfc. DeWitt “Chick” Gephart, one of 40,000 Americans wounded in the month-long battle, described his injury in the following letter to his parents back in El Reno, Oklahoma. (“Vi,” short for Violet, is his wife.)
Feb. 3, 1945
France
Dear Folks,
I’m really ashamed of myself for not writing but it is rather hard to write left handed, and then I thought Vi would tell you everything.
On Jan. 13, we started out to attack a town before dawn, it was daylight when we reached an open field on the approach to the town. When we got about 600 or 800 yrds. from there, they opened up with small arms fire on us. We dropped flat on the ground but couldn’t dig in because the ground was frozen and covered with several inches of snow. Jerry then opened up with mortar and artillery and just started blasting us with everything they had. I was lifted off the ground twice by concussion but not hit. Then, about 0900 a mortar shell landed quite a ways from me, and I got a piece of shrapnel in my left side just above the hip. It wasn’t but a few seconds and another piece got me a couple of inches above the wound. There was hardly any pain and I kept on firing my weapon.
About 0930, an 88 MM zoomed past me. I looked down and my rt. hand was gone. Well, it was about 1500 before I got back to a station to get morphene, and my stub bandaged. They gave me blood, fixed me up, and sent me back to an evacuation hospital. They operated about 2000 that nite, took the shrapnel out, trimmed my arm up, about one half inch above the waste. So from then on I decided I would be left handed.
I thought I would wait to tell you about it on my arrival in the states but then changed my mind. I didn’t write Vi to tell her this because I knew she would be alone when she read the letter. You can let her read this or tell her about it whichever you think best. Hope I didn’t break the news too abruptly but couldn’t think of any way to do it except the way I did. Don’t worry about me because I have the best of medical care, and my morale is very good.
After I get to the states, I will be given a pretty good furlough, and then will have to report to a hospital probably in Calif. for three to six mos. to learn how to use my left hand, and also my artificial rt. hand before getting my discharge.
The cookies arrived today, and they were surely good. Have a few left yet.
Keep smiling and I’ll do the same.
Love to all,
“Chick”
Dad: You’ll have to be patient with me until I learn to bowl left handed.
Frank J. Conwell, a thirty-four-year-old warrant officer, also survived the fighting and was fortunate to have come through unscathed. The snow-covered Ardennes Forest, where much of the Battle of the Bulge occurred, inspired Conwell to reminisce on his childhood, when wintry conditions meant frolicking outside in the snow. Struck by the surreal juxtaposition of the war-related horrors he had witnessed amidst the beauty of the Ardennes, Conwell wrote a lyrical, almost whimsical letter to his aunt and uncle that masked great sorrow over the buddies he had lost during the war.
February 6th 1945
Hello John, Ann and all the Little Ones:
Greetings and salutations.
I received your most welcomed letter of Jan. 11th today and it was good hearing from you. When I read your letter I re-read it again and again for I really couldn’t believe so many changes have taken place since our last meeting. Just as you said John, it has been difficult for me to know where to start. So light up a Camel, be calm, cool and collected and I shall try to give you a bird’s eye view of what yours truly has been doing these past 34 months, which I have spent overseas. Hold your hat here we go.
This will be the third invasion to my credit. I went through the No. African, Sicilian, and present invasions and without a single scratch, what a lucky guy and I sincerely hope my luck holds out. During these campaigns I have been all over Ireland, England, Scotland, Algeria, Tunisia, French Morocco, Sicily, France, Belgium, and Germany. Sounds like a Cook’s travel tour—but definitely. I have seen plenty of the sights of the various countries and Paris is on the top of my list. I managed to spend a few days there and had the time of my life. I also visited the Cathedral of Notre Dame and paid my respects to where the boys of the last war use to hang out, need I say more—ahem. I also have seen plenty of action and have just about had my fill. It’s pretty tough stuff to take to see some of your buddies getting knocked off; especially the ones who sweated it out together away back in our training days, but as the french say “C’est la guerre.”
Thanks for wishing me the best for the New Year, I’ll need it. While we are on the subject I’ll give you a vague idea of the jolly New Year’s Eve we had. Wined and dined on the Siegfried Line. Visited the Club Cologne on the Beautiful Rhine. Big “88” (heavy mortar guns) piece band and that famous singer “Screaming Mimi” (shells). All came—the mortar the merrier.
Well what can I talk about now. As a last resort we can always talk about the weather. The weather has been very cold over here with plenty of snow, snow, and more snow. As I look at the kids sledding, throwing snow balls, etc., it brings back many memories of the good times I had when I was a kid. All us lads from the Northern states remember it well. As kids we loved it. Took out our Flexible Flyers and went belly whopping down the hills. Made snow men with it. Packed it into hard, round, balls that caught other kids in the head and melted down the backs of their necks. When our hands got red and our feet got cold we would call it a day. We would go indoors to a hot fire and a good scolding for getting our feet wet. We would put on dry socks and shoes and eat hot chow to take off the chill. When we were kids snow sure was fun.
There’s a lot of snow on the Western Front these days and the country looks like a Christmas card. The trees are like old queens stooping from under the weight of their ermine robes. The wires loop from pole to pole like tinsel on a Christmas tree, except where the weight of the ice and snow has pulled them down and the signal repairmen are patching them. Snow lies smooth on the hill sides—it’s beautiful.
But the Flexible Flyers have turned into tanks. The snow men are Schutzstaffel. The snowballs are grenades. The wet stuff trickling down the back of necks is often blood. And when you’re wet and numb with cold there’s no place to go to. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing but snow, Cold, wet, beautiful snow.
The news certainly is good these days and I hope it continues. With so many Nazis dying for Der Fuehrer there is a possibility that Hades is beginning to look like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. And with all the bombing and shelling of Germany today, Hitler has achieved what he always strived for A CRATER GERMANY.
Well folks this is all for now so I’ll say so-long for awhile. Hoping this letter finds you all in the best of health, I remain
Sincerely,
Frank
P.S. Gosh darn I almost forgot. I am the Asst. Adjutant of my outfit and that means plenty of paper flak—but definitely.
His citizens starving to death and virtually homeless and his army all but vanquished, Adolf Hitler refused even to contemplate surrender. Any officer who ordered a retreat was to be shot for treason. Hitler celebrated President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s death on April 12, 1945 as a harbinger of good fortune, a notion seconded by his propaganda minister Paul Joseph Goebbels. “It is written in the stars that the second half of April will be a turning point for us,” a cheerful Goebbels told Hitler. Indeed it would. By the end of the month both men would be dead and the Nazis’ “Thousand-Year” Reich would be soundly annihilated.