By Bob Murphy
MUCH HAS BEEN SAID ABOUT the “band of brothers” relationship formed among men in frontline units. In my particular case, this memoir would be incomplete without a personal tribute to my friend Sgt. William D. Owens. Billy was approximately 35 years old when I came into A Company 505, 1st Platoon, in Africa at the age of 17, and he treated me like a son because of our large age spread.
We dug in and fought together in Italy, and bunked in the same tent in England along with co-radio man and runner Darrell Franks, who was a practical joker. During mid-May 1944, after a long, hot day of training exercises, Owens sat down by a tree, took off his heavy helmet, and put on his field overseas cap. He was shy because he was going bald. I, at Franks’ coaching, cut the long hair off a horse in the field and tucked it under the cap of the now-sleeping Sergeant Owens. The loud laughter from the squad caused Owens to wake. He saw the horsehair over his eyes and sleepily imagined it was his own hair until he saw the squad rolling in laughter, pointing their fingers at me. Fortunately, he could take a joke and the incident offered a moment of jovial relaxation for the co-conspirators in the squad and other platoon members.
Another incident, only a little more serious, occurred after our combat jump in Holland on September 17, 1944, when Billy and I got stuck behind German lines on patrol one night and the entire next day. We were in a tiny preserve cellar, about four feet square and four feet high, located beneath a house. Sitting with our backs to the wall and our legs spread, we were having a snack and cleaning our weapons, when Owens by error discharged his .45 pistol after putting a round in the chamber. The bullet ricocheted off the cement floor into my jacket and stomach. Owens turned white. I reached in to feel for the blood, but pulled out the .45 round, which had bounced off the German “Gott Mitt Uns” metal belt buckle I always wore with my captured German P38 pistol.
Owens never forgot that misfire, and he wrote to me about that incident (and others) in June 1964, after a news article was published about the 20th anniversary parachute jump I made in Ste. Mère-Eglise on June 6 of that year. From that time on, we corresponded and spoke frequently until Owens’ death.
Bill Owens was like a father to me and he should have been awarded the Medal of Honor, or at least the Distinguished Service Cross for his heroic action at La Fière bridge for two days. Courageous leadership, that’s why we followed Owens, “Red Dog” Dolan, and all our officers of A Company, 505 PIR.
Bob Murphy
Proud I was in the A/505