In March 1945, following six months of service at the Armored Forces Replacement Training Center in Fort Knox, Kentucky, I was granted a two-week furlough, returning to my home in Jacksonville.
When time to leave, I caught a train to St. Louis, then on to Washington, D.C., reporting at a major Army base outside the nation’s capital. A short time later, I travelled to New York, boarding a crowded troop ship for a rough, miserable five-day voyage across the Atlantic to Le Havre, France. In company with other replacements, I continued by train into Germany where, on April 12, we learned of death of President Roosevelt in Warm Springs, Georgia.
The following morning, in company with another replacement, I mounted an Army 6-by-6 truck, part of a line of vehicles hauling supplies toward the area where I would join my company of medium tanks. The trucks were carrying a variety of military supplies: foodstuffs, artillery shells, cans of fuel and miscellaneous cargo. Not a great idea riding atop a truck carrying high-octane gasoline, but we were not given a choice of assignments.
After five or six days of travel, I finally reached Company A, 37th Tank Battalion, part of Gen. George Patton’s Third Army, where I’d been assigned. The 37th consisted of a dozen or so M-4 medium tanks, several light tanks, two or three anti-aircraft half-tracks and a few Jeeps.
It was late afternoon when I arrived in a small hamlet consisting of some 20 or 30 houses. The inhabitants had fled, allowing our company to take possession of the recently vacated buildings. Following a brief evening meal, I began looking for a place to sleep. Since the “old timers” in the company had latched on to the beds, as it began to grow dark, I went to the second floor of one house, spreading my sleeping bag in the corner.
Thoroughly exhausted from the day’s travel, I was dozing when the door opened and a soldier entered the room, indicating — to my great surprise — he was looking for Underbrink.
I struggled awake and sat up.
“That’s me,” I responded.
“I’m Sergeant Braker and my folks buy their groceries at your grandfather’S store in Literberry, the small village located eight miles north of Jacksonville, Illinois, my hometown.
To say I was astonished would be an understatement. I never dreamed I’d meet some from back home.
When I began to get out of my sleeping bag, he continued: “you go back to sleep. I’ll sign you in tomorrow.”
My mother’s maiden name was Liter and my grandfather, Joseph Liter, had operated the store in Literberry for many years. Needless to say, I was delighted to come upon someone who knew my folks.
When I met with Braker the following day and officially became a member of company, I soon realized I had found a true friend. As a replacement, I would be traveling in one of the half-tracks until a position became open.
Sometime later, I learned the tank battalion crossed the Rhine River at Frankfurt and was approaching Gotha when I came along. “A” Company continued through Erfurt and Jena, our last drive being toward Leipzeig and Dresden, actually about 6 kilometers east, within sight of Chemnitz.
We then travelled through Bayrueth, coming to a halt below Munich, where fighting actually continued. Enroute to Czechslovakia next day, the 37th passed through Deggendorf, finally coming to a halt about 40 kilometers south of Pilsen. Not only was western Czechoslovakia gorgeous countryside, but all along the roads, its occupants welcomed our column. Occupied by the hated Nazis nearly five years, they wanted us to come and stay.
It was late afternoon when our company came to a halt on a broad sloping pasture, vehicles well dispersed, everyone alert for enemy aircraft. That was when someone shouted that radios in their tanks were giving Winston Churchill’s victory speech in London.
Hoping and hoping that maybe the war really was over, tankers were quick to produce schnapps and other alcoholic beverages. If after so very long the war had finally come to an end, it was cause for great celebration.
Suddenly, an officer in a Jeep appeared with word that an enemy column had been sighted in the next village and that our company had been ordered to launch an attack.
From my half-track driver came, “I’ve been through enough. It’s time for this war to come to an end. I want to get back home.”
Having been with the company more than 18 months, through some terrible fighting, it was clear he’d simply had enough.
In company with another replacement in the half-track, all vehicles — especially the M-4 tanks — cranked up engines ready to move out.
Then — to our great relief — a second Jeep brought yet another officer, who shouted it was actually one of our tank detachments in the village to the north.
Once again, the company guys began a second celebration, assuming, hopefully, that the war really, really was over.
And it was.
