The Viking Battalion, page 24
One morning, while standing on the steps of the mayor’s office, I turned around facing the street just in time to see the back of the head of “old blood and guts” as he drove by in his jeep. In the afternoon I was standing beside the road when an unguarded convoy of German trucks of all sizes and descriptions passed by. They were loaded with soldiers packed in like sardines. It looked as if most of them had been wounded and many wore bandages. Though the townspeople lined the route waving, shouting, and cheering and some crying as the trucks bounced down the cobble street road, the German soldiers had only a look of despair. It was a sorry sight to see and, in a way, a sad one too.
***
On Saturday evening, May 12, I was standing on the banks of the Regens River talking to a German boy who had been a member of the Hitler Youth. A messenger came and told me everyone was to report back to the company. We were to pack our gear and be ready to move out the next morning.
We left Regenstauf early Sunday morning, drove through Regensburg and north to Nurnberg.11 We continued northwest to Aschaffenburg where we bivouacked the first night. We camped near the river. It had been a hot day and it wasn’t too late so several of the men decided to take a swim. Unfortunately, the swim ended in tragedy. One of the men from another company drowned. Such is the irony of fate. A man endures all the hardships and hazards of war and survives only to die a few days later in the pursuit of a little recreation.12
We left Aschaffenburg the next morning and traveled west. We crossed the Rhine at Oppenheim near Mainz and proceeded on into France, stopping at Metz only to refuel. We then drove onto Verdun where we spent the night. Verdun was the site of one of the fiercest battles of World War I. After settling in we were given leave to go into town if we wanted. I decided to go in and have a look. On the way, I came across a sergeant whom I had seen before, back in the States. He was a medic at Camp Beale, California when I knew him. He was assigned to the hospital there and issued me my first pair of glasses. Though I didn’t remember his name, he remembered me, or so he said and we enjoyed a few minutes of conversation.
Tuesday night we bivouacked at Soissons again. This was the second time we had stayed here. The first was the night of April 3. That too was a Tuesday night about a month and a half ago when we passed through here on our way back to Germany.
Wednesday would be our last day on the road. We passed through the ancient city of Rouen in the afternoon and continued on for a few more miles to Camp Twenty Grand. Here we spent 13 days of rest and relaxation with practically no duties at all. We were issued new clothing and equipment and had our money exchanged. Now that the war was over, one of the prime concerns was when will we be going home. Eligibility for going home would be determined by the point system. The number of points would be determined by such factors as length of service, time overseas, etc. However, this was not the concern of the men of the 99th. Many of these [soldiers] WOULD be going home, but not to their home in the United States but to their ancestral home of Norway. The men of the Norwegian American Battalion could not have been happier, including those other Americans who joined as replacements.
Camp Twenty Grand was visited almost every day by swarms of airmen anxious to buy or trade for any German souvenir they could get their hands on. Anything with a swastika on it was worth at least a bottle of scotch to them. No telling what stories (lies) they may have told their family and friends as to how they came by their trophies of the war.
Liberal leave was granted while at Camp Twenty Grand. One afternoon, I obtained a pass to visit the ancient city of Rouen. After visiting several points of interest including the magnificent Gothic cathedral and the market square where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake (May 30, 1431), I decided to look up the Boy Scout Office. I was given an address of Rue l’École and told to ask for Monsieur Gilbert. On the way there, I passed under the famous clock built more than 400 years ago in the arch spanning the street, Grosse Horloge. This clock, built in 1511, has only one hand which shows the hour. Beyond that, you have to approximate the minutes. Monsieur Gilbert was not at the address given but workmen there referred me to another. At this address I met a tall slender man who looked more like a mortician than the rug merchant he was. This gentleman escorted me to another address which was a small shop just under the ancient clock. The gentleman there gave us directions which led us to a French military garrison in the city. There I met a French sergeant who was connected with the Scouts. After the introductions, my guide left. The French soldier and I spoke for a while then he gave me another address and asked me to meet him there at six o’clock in the evening.
I arrived at the new address at the appointed time period. The sergeant had already arrived and with him was another gentleman. This gentleman was Monsieur Gilbert whom I had been looking for. He was the Commissioner of Scouts of France and the Province of Normandy. We were introduced. After some discussions, I was given several Scout insignias, a Scout pin, and a card designating me as a member of the Friends of the Scouts of France. Later, I was invited to a glass of wine at a nearby sidewalk cafe. The soldier had to leave shortly thereafter. To further entertain me, Monsieur invited me to a theater to see a variety show in which friends of his were playing. I had to leave about nine to meet the trucks for the trip back to camp.
Norway
Early in the afternoon of May 29, 1945, the 474th Infantry Regiment left Camp Twenty Grand and traveled in convoy to the port of Le Havre. Pulled up on the shore, with their big double-bow doors open wide and their ramps down ready to receive us were several LSTs. It was late in the afternoon by the time all vehicles and personnel were loaded on board. The next morning the convoy of ships formed in the harbor ready to sail. The weather was good as the ships began to move slowly northward up the English Channel and through the Straits of Dover. As we sailed into the mine-infested waters of the North Sea a couple of days later, armed lookouts were posted on the ship’s bow to keep watch for floating mines. A few were spotted but they were too far away to be a threat to the convoy.
The voyage to Norway took about four days and was relatively uneventful. On board the ship I met two sailors with whom I became friends. One was Carl O’Gara the radioman, the other, Jack Dowd, a signalman. The three of us spent [as much] company with each other in as much as their duties would allow. One evening I took Carl below where the vehicles were parked to show him the armored car. When I slipped into my position next to the radio, I noticed the beautiful chrome German dress bayonet I had kept as a souvenir was missing. I had wanted to show it to Carl. No doubt, the sailors, much like the airmen back at Twenty Grand, were hunting for souvenirs also. I suggest they may have plundered all the vehicles they could for whatever they could find.
June 5 would be our last day at sea. About three o’clock in the morning as our convoy steamed its way up the Oslofjord, I was on my way to the ship’s radio room to keep Carl company. As I did so, I saw several German submarines pass by going out to sea. I could also see a number of German seaplanes moored in coves along the fjord.
It was early afternoon when we drove our M8 off the LST and onto the dock at Oslo. Carl and I had planned to keep in touch by radio and I would describe everything I saw as we drove through the city and onto our camp area. Carl’s call sign would be “Sailor” and mine was “Soldier.” As we drove away, I could hear Carl loud and clear but for some reason he could not receive me. We discovered later I had failed to align my radio frequency to his. We never made contact.
Driving through Oslo seemed like any other American city—the houses, the shops, the parks, and even the Gulf and Esso gasoline stations. It was almost like being at home. There were very few civilian cars on the streets because there was no gasoline to run them. We continued through the city and on for about 2 miles into a suburban area called Smestad. There was a former German Luftwaffe camp here which would be our home for the next five months. As soon as we had settled in, several of us decided to go into town and have a look around. I wanted to return to the ship to see Carl and find out what had happened to our radio communication.
Hans Larson, and another fellow whose name I can’t recall, and myself, caught the Trikk (street car) into town. Hans had been born and raised in Oslo and pointed out various places to us as we made our way to the ship. My companions were not particularly interested in going on board again so they went on their own way. When I boarded the LST, I learned the crew had been given shore leave and Carl had gone into town. I went ashore and waited, hoping to see Carl as he returned to the ship.
After waiting for quite some time and he didn’t show, I decided to return to camp. My friends had left me and I was on my own to get back as best I could. I found the station, but thinking all the trains went the same way, I took the first one that came along. As the train rolled on into the suburbs I didn’t recognize any familiar scenery and I had also forgotten the name of my station. Finally, I decided I had gone far enough and got off at a stop called Holmenkollen and took the next train back to Oslo. I found someone who spoke English and was put on the right car and told the name of my stop: embarrassing ain’t it?
The next day Nordby13 and I went into town again. We arrived at the ship about chow time. A deck officer asked if we had eaten. We told him no. He ushered us to the ship’s kitchen and told us to help ourselves. When we had finished, Carl had shore leave again so the three of us went back into town. We spent most of the time watching a parade, honoring Denmark. About mid-afternoon Carl returned to his ship and Nordby and I returned to our camp at Smestad. This was the last time I saw Carl until I returned home. In the meantime, we kept in touch.
When Nordby and I returned to camp, we found the company had moved to more permanent quarters. Company headquarters occupied [buildings that resembled] barracks [and were] somewhat set off all by [themselves]. My M8 crew, Sergeant Hoiem, Ordean Halla, Elias Popjoy, and I were located on the second-floor front. The medics, Arnie Thomassen, Tony Sciacca, and Clarence Becker, who were attached to company headquarters, had a room on the second floor.
The King Returns to Norway
When the Germans invaded Norway in 1940, King Haakon VII, his family, and cabinet fled to England to avoid capture. The war was over now and after five years living in exile the King of Norway was returning to his native land. The Norwegian people were excited and feverishly preparing for the celebration. The 99th Infantry Battalion, the Norwegian Americans, would also take part in this momentous occasion. Select members of the 99th were picked to serve as the Honor Guard for the King upon his arrival. The rest of the battalion would serve as security guards along the parade route from the ship to the Royal Palace. Hundreds of thousands of people jammed the streets to see their king. This was a great day for the King and his people. This was a great day for Norway. The Norwegian people, in the spirit of celebrations, paraded through the streets far into the night. Every lodge, club, and organization marched in the greatest parade in Oslo’s history.
After the King arrived at the palace and all the other dignitaries had passed by, the security guard was dismissed and given the afternoon off to witness the rest of the parade. While standing on the steps of the National Theater watching the parade, a gentleman spoke to me in clear English commenting on the parade. He told me he was waiting for his wife who was marching with the American Woman’s Club. He told me he was a Norwegian and had lived in Galveston, Texas for many years. He married an American girl there. They had been visiting in Norway when the country was invaded and were forced to remain. The man told me his name was Harold Hansen. He introduced me to his wife, when she had finished with the parade. They asked me to visit them sometime. I was able to do so on several occasions.
My first visit to the Hansen home was on a very warm Sunday afternoon. I took the Trikk to the Hellerud stop, a small community in the suburbs of Oslo. Mr. Hansen met me at the stop and escorted me the few blocks to his house. Mrs. Hansen had dinner waiting for us so we sat down almost immediately to a big feast prepared especially for my visit. There was so much food on the table there wasn’t room for another thing. It was, indeed, a feast to behold. Everything was most enjoyable, especially the mackerel. I think it was as much a treat for them as it was for me. Mrs. Hansen had been able to get some white flour to make rolls. That was a rare treat for the Norwegians too, since all they were able to get for the past five years was black or brown bread.
After dinner we sat around, had pleasant conversation and a few drinks. About six o’clock I thought it was time I should leave. The Hansens suggested we should first have a little snack. The table was set and we had, not just a snack but another complete meal. I couldn’t get up and just leave after that so I stayed another couple of hours. At about nine o’clock I suggested again I must leave. Again, they suggested we should have a cup of tea and a sandwich. Out came the dishes again and more food. When this was over, I told them I just simply had to leave. This time they allowed me to leave without too much protest but on the promise I would visit again, and soon. Such hospitality I had never experienced before.
The Hansens were the first family I met during our tour of duty in Norway but by no means the last. We were welcomed everywhere and the people were anxious to have us. However, our tour was not all fun and games and socializing. We had our many duties also.
Our Duties in Norway
Our main duty in Norway, aside from being good guests in the country, was guard duty. The Germans had established many installations in and around Oslo, such as radar and radio stations, motor pools, warehouses, etc. to prevent further damage and looting. We were also there to help repatriate the German soldiers who had occupied this country. When the war was over the soldiers had been disarmed and confined into several camps around Oslo. They were allowed to keep 10 percent of their weapons and provide guards for their own camps. Three camps that I knew of were at Roa, Sognsveien, and Holmenkollen. In time, with few exceptions, these soldiers would be returned to their homeland.
During the five years of occupation there were crimes committed by some German soldiers against the Norwegian people. In order to locate and weed out those responsible and bring them to justice, early morning raids were made on some camps. The soldiers were routed out of their beds and lined up in front of their barracks. Hooded informers would be escorted down the formations to point out any suspects. Those found would be taken to prison camps to await trial. The prison camps were compounds surrounded by two wire fences, separated by about 10 feet with two watchtowers overlooking the compound. A .30-caliber machine gun was mounted in each tower. Two guards watched from the towers with Tommy guns while other guards patrolled the perimeter. When I was on guard detail, my watch was in one of the towers. Guard duty at the prison camps would be for a week at a time.
Some of the prisoners were used for special details outside the compound. One morning, as several of them were working around our barracks, I spotted a young prisoner about 18 or 19 years old standing on the porch by himself. Thinking to test my limited knowledge of the German language, I went up to him and said, “Achtung.” The German lad immediately snapped to attention. Very good, I thought. Now what do I do? I walked away for a minute or two then came back. The young soldier was still standing there. Gad, How do I tell this guy, “At ease.” Stupid me, I ain’t so smart, is I? I quietly walked away thinking, “What a lousy thing to do to that guy.” I think that poor kid must have stood there for half an hour or more before someone gave him an, “At ease.”
For the more serious crimes and notorious prisoners, such as Vidkun Quisling, the Norwegian traitor and Nazi collaborator known as the Benedict Arnold of Norway, German SS and Gestapo agents, [they] were imprisoned in the Fortress of Akershus in Oslo. There were also other prison camps located within a few miles from Oslo.
Late one afternoon a shipload of prisoners arrived in Oslo from the north of Norway. I was part of a guard detail dispatched to meet them. The authorities determined it was too late to unload them at this time and sent the ship to anchor offshore. Early the next morning we were on hand when the ship tied up at the pier. As the prisoners were unloaded, we ushered them to an awaiting train and loaded them into boxcars. As each car was filled, the doors were closed and locked. The guard detail rode in another boxcar. The train took us to the town of Josheim some 30 or 40 miles south of Oslo. There we unloaded our prisoners and marched them in groups of about 50 to a camp a half-mile down the road. The route from the train yard to the prison camp was lined on both sides of the road with security guards spaced about 10 yards apart. Only one other guard and I, with Tommy guns and pistols, escorted one of the groups of prisoners to the camp. My partner walked in front of the group and I was in the rear. At one point a fat little German colonel in full uniform bedecked with medals was huffing and puffing trying to keep up. Somehow, some of his precious metals came loose and fell off his uniform. As he stooped down to retrieve them, he was also holding up the line. One of these security guards came over and gave him a swift kick in the butt sending him on his way. He didn’t recover his medals.
It was said that these were some of the more ruthless offenders among the German prisoners. It [was] suggested [that] some of these were involved in the tragic story told to me by a Norwegian friend as we walked around Oslo one day. My friend pointed to a man and a woman walking through the park by the National Theatre. He told me that sometime after the Germans had invaded the north of Norway, they went about moving some families from their homes. This particular family lived in a section which was more accessible by boat than by road. One day a German patrol came to their house to take them away. They put the man and his wife into a small boat and started out from the landing. The wife begged and pleaded with the Germans to wait for her six-year-old son who had been playing some distance from their house. The child showed up just as the boat left the dock. He ran to the pier and called to them, but the Germans would not turn back. One of the soldiers who remained at the house aimed his pistol and shot the little boy. He then walked down to the pier and rolled the body of the young child into the water. It was such men as these that were kept under heavy guard in what used to be the concentration camps which they built for their Norwegian prisoners.
