A 4F Goes to War with the 100th Infantry Division
by John C. Angier III
A Merriam Press Original Publication
Military Monograph MM225
Join Sgt. Angier (who heard from his draft board, after he had enlisted and was overseas, that they had classified him 4F, hence the title of this book) and his men in the Vosges Mountains of France, as they advance towards Alsace in the face of bitter and determined German resistance.
Finally, they take Bitche, stronghold on the famous Maginot Line, and enter Germany itself.
Alive with drama, told with understanding and a keen sense of humor, and in the down-to-earth language of the soldier.
The main text of this monograph, Chapters I through VII, originally appeared in book form under the title MOS 1542: A Dramatic True Story of Combat in World War Two, published in 1959 by Greenwich Book Publishers, New York—long out of print and quite scarce. That edition had no photographs or illustrative material. Later, it was reprinted in serialized form in the Mustang News, publication of the National Order of Battlefield Commissions.
MOS 1542: The "MOS" stands for "Military Occupational Specialty" and 1542 referred to a Rifle Platoon Leader.
Contents
- Dedication
- The Rifleman by General Omar Bradley
- Route of 399th Infantry Regiment in ETO (map)
- Making Men from Boys
- Trip Across
- Hit the Line
- Wiped Out
- Bitche
- Heilbronn
- Surrender
- Aftermath
- Appendices
Excerpt from the Book
Chapter 1: Making Men from Boys
It wasn’t until I was turned down for the Navy that I realized that I was nothing but cannon fodder for the Army. I had just left school in February 1942 to go to work at a defense job in the ship yards of the great city of Baltimore and, at the time, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. I knew that the Army would get me sooner or later, so I took an indifferent attitude toward life, trying to make the best of it until that day came.
Having left a medium-sized tobacco town in North Carolina to live and work in a metropolis such as Baltimore was something of a change and something which I was not accustomed to, I assure you. I knew a few folks there who, at the time, were very considerate. It was this small group of nice people that kept me wandering from party to party and introducing me to such fine, beautiful, entertaining young damsels, until finally I met the one. I stayed in Baltimore for about six months, maybe more, I don’t remember, and by that time I had had my fill of the big city. I packed my bags, what few I had, kissed all the girls good-bye and left in a cloud of Chanel Number Five, winging my way south again.
When I returned home, naturally the first thought of an eighteen-year-old boy was to check with the Draft Board. That I did, and much to my surprise I was told that my number was coming up the following week. I don’t think that this was according to Hoyle, but nevertheless I was so informed by a very dear friend of mine. I had already had my physical but had not been notified as to my classification. That didn’t bother me half as much as knowing that if I were drafted I wouldn’t have the same chances I would if I enlisted. Having had four years in a military prep school, I felt that my chances were better if I enlisted. That I did. Off I went to Fort Bragg with about twenty-five other men and boys, not knowing what the future had in store for me. At the time I didn’t give a damn.
After wandering around the reception center, taking shots, picking up cigarettes and the like, I found myself suddenly thrown on a train, and without a word of warning, started for places unknown. There I sat with sixty other men, in a train car that was made to accommodate forty-five. Anyway, it was crowded as hell and just as hot. I heard the train whistle blow and as the train rolled along, the thump, thump, thump of the car wheels almost put me to sleep. But not quite. As I started to doze, I began wondering where I was headed and what I was going to do. Casually I thought about the type of men I would be with, what the weather would be like, and what kind of women I would meet, if any.
At ten o’clock at night two days later, we debarked from the train in a rainy, cold, desolate, muddy, God-forsaken place on top of a mountain. I spent the night on a hard, cold, cement floor of one of the new supply rooms, along with the other rats.
Early the next morning I was awakened by a loud shriek of a whistle and the unforgettable soft and sweet tone of the Sarge’s voice as he calmly growled, “Get the hell off your asses and on your feet, you’re paratroopers now.” I sat up, shook my head, and groped for my glasses like a man trying to feel his way in the darkness, before I realized that they were going to teach me, of all people, to jump from an airplane.
It wasn’t until later that day that I finally got up enough nerve to ask those muscle men from the sky what camp I was in and what town was near by. It was the most beautiful spot in Georgia, without a doubt, Camp Toccoa; that is, if you like red mud, rain, cool, sharp air, and mountains.
Well, for three months I managed to make out with the Charles Atlas course, as I was quite a man myself. At the time I was about six feet and weighed about 205. There was no fat; all muscle and all in the right places, thanks to football and my work in the shipyards. Some of those muscle-bound babies thought they could ride me and get by with it because I had to wear glasses. I finally put a screeching halt to that one night at the PX.
I had made friends with a guy named Jack, a mountaineer from the hills of North Carolina who couldn’t even write his name, but was as much of a man in size as I was. He wasn’t much from the outside but brawn, although he had a heart of gold. “Jack,” I said, “let’s go down to the PX and have a beer and look around. Might see someone we know.”
Just as I stepped up to the counter to order our beers, this bird-brain, who called himself a sergeant, came up to me with a peculiar grin on his face and a beer in his hand and said, “You are a little young for that stuff, ain’t you, buddy!” I looked at Jack for a moment without saying a word. We were both thinking the same thing. Now is the time for me to take this stripe-happy guy down a few pegs.
I could tell at a glance that the beers had taken an effect on the sergeant, and thought it best that I forget it. I told him to mind his own business, and turned to drink my beer. “You want to make something of it,” he said as he grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. That was enough.
In fact, it was too much for me. I told Jack to watch the beers, and proceeded to clean the floor with him. The audience was very nice, in that they moved the tables as we tussled. Jack was intently watching the other men for fear that some of them might jump me. Fortunately enough for me, they didn’t; I guess they were too interested in the fight.
After a few licks here and there, I managed to maneuver him and myself into a position that finished the fight. Quick like a rabbit I lunged forward, and with my right hand under his right arm pit and my left hand between his legs, I managed to turn him and at the same time lift him above my head like a weight lifter pressing a set of barbells. I held him there a few seconds, then, with a tremendous thud, he hit the floor. Everyone was amazed, and when the sergeant came out of the fog and got his breath, he quietly went to his quarters.
About ten minutes later the MPs arrived, but it was all over, and the PX was humming as usual. Never again did I have any trouble with the good sergeant or any of his cohorts. During my three months stay at Toccoa, men wearing glasses could draw jump pay. They would merely take their glasses off before jumping, or stick them to their face with adhesive tape. Later in the month, an order came from higher up that all men wearing glasses would be shipped out to regular infantry units. Lucky for me, I was one of the first to leave under this new order. I had gotten to like the place pretty well; running up to the flag pole at the top of the hill fifty times a day, mud, more mud, working hard, good chow, but I knew it was the best thing.
Later on I was very glad I did leave. You see, I was in the 501st Parachute Battalion, and when this great outfit jumped in Africa, almost all of them were wiped out before they hit the ground. At least, that is the story that I have received from other troopers with whom I have talked from time to time.
I was sitting in the rear of a six-by-six with my duffel bag under the seat, getting ready to light a cigarette, when one of the other men asked the sergeant in charge: “Where we headed, Sarge?”
Immediately he turned to reply, and with a grin on his face and a chuckle in his voice, he replied: “You’ll be going to Fort Jackson, buddy. Seems like they are going to form another infantry division.”
“Do you know what it is?” I asked, as I took a long puff on my cigarette. “The number, I mean.”
“I heard the colonel down at battalion say it was the 100th, I think. You guys will be the first there except for the cadre.” As he slammed the tail-gate closed, the truck moved slowly towards the train station.
On the train, most of us were pretty excited about the transfer. New faces, new places, and for me, it was nearer home. I had left my best pal, Jack, behind at Toccoa, and became a little upset about it because I had grown to know him from the ground up. He was as close to me as my own brother, but “Das ist der Krieg.”
We finally reached Fort Jackson. The way the train engineer kept switching from track to track, I thought we would never get there. As I stepped off the train my first impression was a complete blank. To think that I had left all of that good rain and mud for acres and acres and acres of sand, scrub oak, and more sand! Well, I was in the Army, and what more could I expect? Anything any better than this would have surprised me so much that I would have fainted. That would have been most embarrassing, don’t you think?
We managed to get off the train without getting stuck in the sand, and climbed into waiting trucks, duffel bags and all, and away we went to our new homes. We rode for about ten minutes, when suddenly the truck swerved into a street lined with tar-papered huts. The driver put on his brakes, the way all Army drivers do, and I knew this was it. Having picked myself off the floor of the truck, I heard the sergeant say, “O.K. You men wait here until we find out who’s going where.”
Suddenly, the truck pulled off and left us standing there covered with dust; we looked as though someone had dumped a bag of flour on our heads. Presently the sergeant returned and began calling out names. “Jackson, you go one street over, that’s ‘E’ Company. Wait there. Anders, you stay here, this is ‘F’ Company, and the lieutenant in charge will be here in a minute. The rest of you guys follow me.”
I took it for granted that the good sergeant was speaking to me, so I remained behind. I’ve been called everything from “Andrews” to “Algiers” so far in this man’s Army, so I had a pretty good idea that he was speaking to me.
I waited around for a few minutes, and along came Sergeant Johnson, an old Army man who was part of the cadre from the 1st Division, then stationed at Fort Miles Standish, Massachusetts. “Is your name Angier?”
“Yes. I congratulate you, Sarge. You are the first to pronounce it correctly.”
“Lieutenant Ackerhouse says to put your stuff in the hut and, as soon as you can, come up to the supply room. He wants to talk to you a minute.”
I immediately did as I was told, and without unpacking a thing, I dashed to the supply room to see what the good Lieutenant wanted. As I neared the door to the supply room I slowed down to a walk, and without knocking, entered. Standing in front of me, supported by the wooden counter, was a small but handsome man about thirty-two years old.
“You wanted to see me, Sir.”
“Yes,” said the Lieutenant. “I understand from your records that you have had previous military experience. “Yes, sir, that is correct. I had four years at a military prep school in Virginia.”
“Was that an ROTC unit?”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“Then why didn’t you get a commission in the reserve?”
“Well, sir, I simply didn’t go to summer camp at Fort Meade. Is that reason enough?”
“You realize that you did the wrong thing by not going to camp, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We are going to need some good men around here to do a lot of instructing, teaching these new men a little about the Army, and making them the best damn soldiers in this man’s Army. We’re counting on you to help out a whole lot. Do you know anything about the AW’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about your weapons? Know your close order drill, extended order and tactics?”
“Yes, sir.”
Well, things went along pretty smoothly during basic training. Lieutenant Ackerhouse saw to it that I was assigned to his platoon, which I thought was very nice of him, as he was the only officer I had met. Maybe he had plans. Maybe he was going to overwork me with instruction. I didn’t know what was in store, but I had made up my mind that I was going to be the best damn soldier in the whole blasted Army.
I started up the long ladder of ranks, beginning with private. A couple of weeks later, after many hours of instructing the third platoon in everything from military courtesy to field stripping a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle), I was recommended for corporal. I gave much instruction in close order drill, PT drill, and all the rest, while the lieutenant stayed in the company area working with the Company CO. I think Lieutenant Ackerhouse had complete confidence in me, and of that one fact I was very proud.
I didn’t mind the work; as a matter of fact, I loved it. I tried to be an example for my men. Everything I would ask them to do, I would also do myself. I showed them that I wasn’t the type to sit back with my arms folded and tell them what to do. They liked that. Slowly but surely, I could see that group of civilians forming into an efficient fighting force, welded together in friendship, comradeship and confidence in one another. They were men learning and working together as a team to do a job that can only be done by working together. I was determined to have myself ready for combat, and as my responsibility I was going to have the third platoon ready for combat also.
During this period of adjusting myself and others to this rugged Army life, I managed to find time to ask my favorite girl in marriage. Of course, this was a very big step in my life, but I was prepared for it and thought that I could handle the responsibility without any trouble. She was a wonderful girl, full of charm and beauty, and the type of girl I thought would make a perfect mother for my children.
I sent her a wire to come to Fort Jackson as soon as possible, as I wanted to make her a Mrs. When she finally arrived, everything was all mixed up. To start the ball rolling, I couldn’t get off the post to get her a room. She couldn’t get one at the hotel. I was flat broke.
We were confined to the company area for nothing in particular; that’s the way the Army works. I wasn’t sure of getting a three-day pass, which was a very important item at this stage of the game, and because of some bird-brain idea from higher up, we all had to wear our gas masks at all times. Wasn’t that something, to be married with a gas mask hanging around your neck? The Chaplain approached me, and informed me that he thought it would be all right to dispose with the mask until after the ceremony. Now, wasn’t that nice? Do you suppose he actually thought that I was going to wear it? Our reception consisted of a couple of Cokes at the Service Club, while waiting for a taxi, and dancing to the music of Charlie Spivak on the juke box. The taxi finally arrived and, as things always turn out for the best, we went into a three-day seclusion at one of Columbia’s more elite hotels.
As the months passed by, the Lieutenant and myself selected our squad leaders, men who were capable of leading men, and could make decisions as situations arose. We chose the best men for our scouts, BAR teams, and assistant squad leaders, and everyone was well satisfied with all the appointments.
We kept them on the ball by giving them instruction and quizzes in military subjects that pertained to them and their squads. Our squads made very high scores on their Corps test. The third platoon made one of the highest ratings in the regiment on the platoon problem and test. We had a damned good platoon leader, so naturally we would have a good platoon. Being the platoon sergeant, I was confident that I had a good platoon. I was proud of them, and they in turn were proud, which was an excellent morale factor. Here we were, the third platoon, Company “F,” 399th, which was a part of the best damned division in Uncle Sam’s Army, the 100th.
Our training consisted of the usual infantry stuff like twenty-five mile hikes, RCT problems, and even guarding the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad for President Roosevelt. During these rugged months of training, I managed to become one of the first to receive the Expert Infantry Badge, selected along with Mula to attend Ranger School conducted by Rangers from Camp Forrest, Tennessee. I went to Division GAS school and became Company and Battalion GAS NCO. I became an instructor in the Nazi village, teaching men to fight in a village with live ammo.
Among all these duties, I was also selected to carry the Regimental colors for reviews and parades. This was indeed an honor, and a great big gravy train. I did manage to appear in several special events, which in turn would get me away from the everyday grind of Army training. I was selected to appear in the New York City Army Day parade, but said “to hell with that,” as I had a leave coming up. I assure you that nothing was going to interfere with that.
Having been in this sand trap of South Carolina almost a year, we were sent to Tennessee for maneuvers by way of the WAC Camp at Oglethorpe, Georgia. I must say that the topographical structure of this great state was a lot different from the sand and scrub oak of South Carolina. We finally landed at a place east of Nashville called Cumberland, full of rocks and red mud. Yes, we had over 15,000 square miles of rain-soaked mud to wander in. I almost thought I was back in Toccoa, Georgia.
To me, maneuvers was the most important phase of our training. It was the phase that separated the men from the boys. I knew that the third platoon was made up of men, so I wasn’t too worried as to the outcome. It was true that we were constantly wet, cold and utterly miserable. The more we suffered, the more matured mentally we became, and the more physically hardened we became, until we were hard as nails.
Day after day it rained, and the mud got sloppier and stickier. As winter set in, we were hampered with zero temperatures, hail, sleet and snow. Several days before Christmas we had just finished a problem, and were taking a well earned rest in the Cedar Forest of Lebanon. We had settled ourselves down in our wet, frozen clothes under what was supposed to be a rain-proof shelter before we got word that we could build fires. You know, you can’t do things like that without orders from headquarters. We immediately began to collect all the cedar we could find for our fire and man, oh man, it not only smelt out of this world, but it was warm, something we needed badly.
After we had started several roaring fires, we proceeded to warm up, wash, shave, and clean our equipment, as good soldiers should do. Jim, our platoon guide, and I had just flopped down on our wet blankets to catch a few winks, when all of a sudden we heard several men give a loud yell. “Here’s Abe with the mail.” That was the last of our nap. Jim and I put on our cold wet muddy boots and slopped our way to the old man’s tent.
The captain came from under his bennie long enough to grab several letters that Abe had for him. We hadn’t received mail for quite some time because of the problems we were having, so I was sure that I had several letters. I only had one person who would write, my wife. She was expecting by now and I was anxious to hear some news from her. Abe reached deep down in his bag of miracles and pulled out a large box. “This is a cake for Sergeant Angier; help yourselves, men.” I reached for it like a baby reaching for a toy, and told the fellows to come up to the tent for a piece.
Jim said that he would go back to the PX truck and get a case of beer. While he was wandering through the woods looking for the truck, Sol, one of the best natured boys you ever wanted to meet, came over with a package that he had just received. He had four salamis, pickles and all the rest of the stuff. When Jim returned with the beer, we had quite a party.
Neatly under the strings of my package were placed four letters of various sizes. Two were saturated with “Toujours-moi” and covered with lipstick. There was no doubt as to who they were from. One, in beautiful longhand, was from my grandmother. The last one was a long envelope with “WAR DEPT. OFFICIAL USE ONLY” in the upper left hand corner.
Having read all the news from home and knowing that I wasn’t a father yet, I proceeded to ponder as to the contents of the correspondence from General Marshall’s office. I was in the Army—what else do they want, blood? Slowly and cautiously I began to open the letter so as not to tear any of its contents. I read the paper carefully, then gave it to Jim to read to make sure that I was reading it correctly.
Sure enough, the Draft Board back home had finally sent me my classification and was casually informing me that I was definitely 4F, with a notation that I would never be called into the Army. At the moment, I was dumb-founded. I didn’t know what to say. Here I had been in this man’s Army over a year, and had done a lot more physically than was expected of the normal soldier—Ranger School, Gas School, Nazi village, Expert Infantry Badge, and numerous others. Yet I, of all people, was 4F.
“Maybe you can get out, Sarge,” says Sol.
Jim says to see the captain. Brown says to go see the chaplain and get him to punch my TS card. I thought it over for a while and came up with the idea that I couldn’t get out of the Army now even if I had the Lord Himself on my side. I was sure that the Captain didn’t want to be bothered with trivial matters and that Brown’s idea was the best. I didn’t see the Chaplain, but I did get my TS card punched and left things as they were. All the guys got a big kick out of knowing that their platoon sergeant was a ‘4F’er, but they knew better. Suddenly my name changed to “4Fer,” but I didn’t mind.
Since we had walked over Hell’s half-acre and part of Tennessee, I guess the big brass had decided that they, not us, had had enough. So, it was away we go in a cloud of Chanel Number Five to Fort Bragg in the land of the long leaf pine. Clean barracks, soft cots, hot showers, passes to Fayetteville, USO clubs, dances and women! Everyone was quite thrilled about the move. Who wouldn’t be, after spending the winter in the open in Tennessee?
The first two or three weeks was devoted to care and cleaning of equipment and sleeping. I proceeded to get all my gear straightened out, and then went to check on the men to see that they were doing the same. We played cards, wrote letters, shot the bull and thoroughly enjoyed a well-earned rest. During off-duty hours I would find myself at the NCO club guzzling beer and eating pigs feet, the pickled kind.
After our rest period was over, we immediately went into an intense physical training program. Lord knows why, because we were all hard as nails. If the big brass wanted it that way, who were we to stop them? There was a war going on. While at Fort Bragg, we somehow got the reputation as being a spit and polish outfit, and those reputations can become an awful pain in the rump, if you know what I mean.
From time to time it seemed that the Army was using the 100th as a sort of repple-depple or something. During our stay at Fort Bragg it was said that twenty-five percent of our outfit had been used as replacements overseas to the 3rd, 36th, and the 45th Divisions, which someday the 100th would be fighting with. We only lost a few from the third platoon, and they were soon replaced with men from the Air Corps, MPs, AAA’s, and the brain trust from the Army ASTP program which was folding fast from the lack of men in the fighting units. But “c’est la guerre,” so the French say, and we started out training all over again, in the event we were needed across the pond.
By late September 1944, we were in Camp Kilmer POE [Point of Embarkation], keeping ourselves busy with latrine rumors as to which way we were going. First it was Alaska, then the Pacific, then England, and between the rumors, shots, inspections, wills, we had a gay time.
The only thing I could remember about the POE was that the night we had readied ourselves for the boat, it was rainy and the night was full of chill. Never have I been so outdone. Imagine men trying to maneuver around with a full field pack, overcoat, gas mask, rifle, steel helmet and half the company property on your shoulders! But that’s the Army. We boarded a train and in a few minutes were unloading on the Jersey side of the Hudson for a ferry ride to the boat.
As we crossed the river, we could see the bright, flickering lights of the world’s most famous city. The city was quiet, and the tall buildings looked as though they were reaching up to the heavens. As the lights in the elevators of the buildings climbed skyward, they looked as though they were lightning bugs crawling up the side of a house. In the distance we could hear the sound of boat whistles and horns, as the river was full of traffic that night.
Slowly we nestled near the dock on the New York side, and as I looked up, I could see nothing but a great mass of gray steel, a part of the USAT George Washington, which was to take us safely, we hoped, to far away places. That night was our first aboard ship, and we didn’t move until morning. We were packed in the ship in typical Army fashion, like sardines, with no place to sit, much less sleep.
Later that night there came a blare on the ship’s intercom: “Now hear this. Now hear this. All personnel go to your compartments. All portholes and doors will be closed and remain closed until further notice.” Right away, I knew that I wouldn’t get a last look at the Ole Gal, so I got a good book and read until I fell asleep.
Early on the morning of 6 October, the USAT George Washington slid through the narrows of New York for places unknown to me, but to the skipper, he was sure of the Azores, the Big Rock, the Mediterranean, and into the ship-guttered harbor of Marseilles, in southern France.
The Author
John C. Angier III was born in 1922. After attempting to enlist in the Navy, who turned him down due to his being color blind and short-sighted, he enlisted in the Army in October 1942 and entered the service on 19 November 1942 at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
While serving overseas he received word from his Draft Board that he had been classified as "4F" due to his being color blind and short-sighted, as well as having flat feet and a spur-like growth under both feet.
He served with the original 501st Parachute Battalion, trained with the 2nd Ranger Battalion and spent the rest of his active duty with the 100th Infantry Division.
John was promoted from Private to PFC on 19 January 1943, to Corporal on 20 March 1943, to Sergeant on 26 April 1943, to Staff Sergeant on 7 September 1943, to Technical Sergeant on 2 February 1944, and received a Battlefield Commission to Second Lieutenant on 2 May 1945 at Bad Constadt, Germany.
Separated from the service at Fort Meade, Maryland, on 28 March 1946.
Promoted to First Lieutenant in the North Carolina National Guard on 11 February 1949 and in the National Guard on 23 March 1949.
Honorably discharged as a First Lieutenant, Infantry, National Guard, on 11 September 1951.
He served twelve and a half years in the North Carolina National Guard and the Virginia State Guard.
Retired as a Major in 1958.
During his tenure in the service he received thirteen decorations including the Combat Infantry Badge, Bronze Star with Cluster, Good Conduct, Victory Medal, Occupation Germany Medal, Expert Infantry Badge, American Defense Medal and National Security Medal. He fought in three campaigns: Southern France, Alsace, and Germany.
John is widowed and currently living in St. Augustine, Florida, where he is a member of American Legion Post #37 and a life member of VFW Post #2391.
He is serving his fifth term as National Adjutant for the National Order of Battlefield Commissions.
John has three children: John, Charlotte and Charles.