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an exchange of about a half-dozen rounds each, the Jerry suddenly went up in flames. Two Krauts crawled out of the tank’s belly escape hatch and ran back for the corner. Both were knocked down by machine gun fire from our tank.
    The German tank commander, a sergeant, then jumped down from the turret—and charged right at me. I struggled to my feet but could not raise my M-l rifle to my shoulder. As I shook with excitement and fright my rifle came up to my waist and fired three times—and was empty. Had I been more experienced, I would have reloaded my rifle before walking into the burg with a clip of eight bullets.
    On the other hand, it was probably better for my peace of mind that I didn’t have a full clip, for I probably would have killed him. After he had fallen, I did my best to reload but was all thumbs. I just couldn’t get that damned clip to fit into the breech.
    The Kraut sergeant had blood seeping from his ears and mouth due to the concussion of his tank being hit, and, with his eyes staring directly into mine, he grabbed his thigh where my bullet had struck and then hobbled across the street into a doorway—all before I managed to get my rifle reloaded.
    Luckily, he never attempted to shoot me with the pistol he wore as a sidearm. He must have been in much greater shock than I and had every right to be unable to function. We didn’t pause to search the buildings, so I don’t know how badly he was hurt.
    The shooting of my first man, face-to-face, was not covered by the infantry school back at Fort Benning, and I was deeply shaken. I’m glad I didn’t kill him. The shockwas bad enough. Going through the slam-bang tank duel beforehand hadn’t helped. I was still trembling a few seconds later and would have been unable even to defend myself. My first hour in combat had been enough for my lifetime, and I was wondering if I’d last the day.
    Because of the burning Mark IV in the middle of the street, another rifle company from our Second Battalion detoured around the buildings on our right. When this company came to the crossing road, they turned to their right and continued the attack toward Canisy. The artillery forward observer flying in a Piper Cub overhead mistook this company for Jerries retreating out of town and called down a very heavy barrage of 105mm artillery on them.
    This blasting of our own men was stopped as soon as possible, but not in time to prevent many casualties. I’ll never forget one GI lying in the road with a huge gash all the way through his shoulder, one leg badly mutilated near the ankle. A medic gave him a shot of morphine and slipped a cigarette into his mouth. The wounded man raised his good arm to us as we passed and yelled at us to go get the SOBs. Of course, he didn’t know he was talking about our own artillery. Most of the time our flying forward observers were great, but identification from a maneuvering plane can be tricky, and mistakes resulted in a few tragedies.
    Our progress was good, and we had taken quite a few prisoners as we approached the next town, Canisy. It was getting along into the late afternoon of a long, long day, and we were near exhaustion when one of the commanding officers gave us a chance to rest. He called for fighter-bombers to hit the town before we went in. We flopped down where we were in an apple orchard and sprawled out with our backs against a hedgerow, hoping we’d never again have to move.
    During this delicious respite, one of my sergeants had apremonition. He came to me and asked if I’d make sure his personal effects were sent home if he didn’t make it. I tried to talk him out of his obvious depression but got nowhere.
    A little while later, as we rested against the hedgerow facing the front, we heard one of our tanks making a big racket coming up to the hedgerow behind us. We got out of there fast, except for the sergeant. We yelled at him to get moving, but he just sat in a daze as the tank plowed through and buried him