Memoirs from a World War II Soldier by: Dr. Kenneth A. Falber.
On January 12, 1945 I was evacuated from the front lines on the southern flank of the Bulge in Luxembourg with multiple wounds, burns, severely frozen hands and feet, and a concussion from an artillery shell that killed four men in my platoon. From a first aid station located a short distance away, an Army ambulance raced me and three other wounded soldiers to a railroad siding. We were then unceremoniously carried aboard old box cars while still in our stretchers and the handles at each end were placed into leather straps that hung from the ceiling. We were stacked in twos on each side with 12 stretchers to each of these rickety old box cars withprinting in French designating the cargo meant for each car.
We were then informed that we had the singular pleasure and honor of riding WWI box cars built to carry forty soldiers or eight mules. Nothing but the best. There were no windows for us to view the countryside, just high vents.
We stopped over for one night in Paris and I had the shock of looking into a mirror to see my drawn face, unshaven for several weeks, sunken black rimmed eyes, and long matted hair. A frightening sight.
After a change of bandages and a sponge bath on the following morning, we were once again loaded onto the forty and eights. Several hours after we departed, I was napping as a result of the pain medication when I heard a woman’s soft voice say to me, “You made it, Yank. Welcome back.” I opened my eyes to see a blonde haired lady with a beautiful face. She touched my brow with a cool hand and with her other hand she reached into a basket held by another woman in an unfamiliar uniform and took out a doughnut that she gave me. I thanked her and she moved on. Right behind her came a young American 2nd lieutenant who informed each of us, “Do you know who that was? She is the famous British actress Madeline Carroll.” I shall always remember this incident so well because that doughnut gave me the worst heartburn I have ever experienced.
A day later found us in the French city of Cherbourg where I had first landed in June 1944 and we were transferred aboard a British ship to cross the English Channel. Once again we found ourselves in an Army ambulance on our way to an American military hospital in the Yorkshire city of Harrogate.
US Army and British nurses (called sisters) worked as a team to bathe us, shampoo our dirty scalps, trim our hair and shave us. My bandages and dressings were changed. It was then that I had the shock of seeing my bare feet. They were both black with gangrene up to the instep and my toes looked like dried black prunes. The wounds were kept clean thanks to the nurses’ very good care. In order to save my feet from possible amputation, I was to get injections of penicillin at three-hour intervals. Thick hypodermic needles were used because in those early days of penicillin, the antibiotic was suspended in peanut oil. Whenever a nurse approached me to deliver the injection into my terribly sore rump, I kept saying to myself this will save my feet—and a miracle happened, the penicillin worked and my prayers were answered.
In the bed to my right lay a very young soldier who had just turned 19. He was a farm boy from Idaho and had married his childhood sweetheart just before leaving for overseas. In Germany he had stepped on an anti-personnel mine that blew off his right leg and genital organs. Day and night he cried over and over, “I’m not a man anymore.”
The last I heard, he had written to his young bride back in Idaho asking for an annulment to their marriage, claiming that he’d met another woman in England. He also wrote to his parents that he did not want to return to the farm in Idaho. In truth, he did not want anyone to find out what had happened to him.
When we said our last goodbyes with hugs, he said that a Mr. Benjamin Lazarus, owner of the Benrus watch company, had a plant in England where he taught watchmaking to disabled veterans. He was scheduled for more surgery to cope with his injuries. After surgery he was to become a watchmaker. He said he wanted to live out his life alone and warned that he would not answer any letters. As he was wheeled out of
the ward and out of our lives, there wasn’t a dry eye among the patients and the nurses.
One afternoon, I was experiencing a bad day—depressing memories just wouldn’t let go, when one of our nurses burst into our ward flushed with excitement as she announced a special guest, the great British comedienne Beatrice Lilly. In danced a slim, middle-aged lady. She whirled around the ward and stopped at each bed to give us a warm and exuberant gesture of encouragement.
She referred to us as “Yanks” as she told some cute jokes and then while bidding us goodbye, she backed out of the ward and went on to entertain the rest of the hospital.
We were all amazed at this jovial lady with unlimited energy when the head nurse walked in and said, “Never forget what you have just experienced. This woman who laughs, dances, tells stories, and sings for our troops lost her only son in this war. He was shot down in the Pacific Theater.”
Several weeks later, we received an announcement to welcome another British comedienne. It was supposed to be a secret as to her identity, but a number of us guessed that she might be Gracie Fields. Sure enough, she was accompanied by a man who played the concertina. She strolled into our ward and performed a wonderful show. Needless to say, she was much appreciated, especially when she made the rounds to wish for our return to good health and to her homeland. G-d bless her.
Knowing I was soon to be discharged from the hospital after a three-and-a-half month stay, I contemplated my good fortune to have survived many months of constant combat, received wonderful medical care, my feet were saved, and it took a war for me to meet those wonderful British performers. Their warmth and empathy will long be remembered by those whose lives they touched.
Originally published in the Three Weeks 5783 issue of The Jewish American Warrior.
