1944: A veteran's story.

Getting the message through

Veterans Day Weekend

My father, Robert Sage, was born in 1919 and was drafted into the U.S. Army out of college at the beginning of 1942. He served "for the duration" and was mustered out in 1946. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge.

He delivered messages between battlefield commanders and front-line officers. He credits having survived so long amid fierce fighting to his assignment as a messenger. His job was not direct engagement with the enemy. It was to get the message delivered, and to do that he needed to avoid the enemy and stay alive.

Robert and Anne Sage, 1944. Married, and just before he shipped out to go to England and then over to combat in Germany.

When he turned 80 he began dictating his memories to me. His four years in the army constituted about 30% of his 319-page memoir. Today's post is the story of one night and one message.

Guest Post by Robert Sage, 1919-2012

Delivering a message to Company F

Our convoy pulled to a stop in an apple orchard in the vicinity of St. Aens in France. We were told to put up pup tents. It was raining. Corporal Charles Montgomery from Kentucky was my logical partner, as we were both to be runners or messengers. We fastened our shelter halves together, spread out our sleeping bags, and crawled in.

A rifle shot rang out. A sergeant a hundred yards or so away had sat up in his tent, probably to light a cigarette. The round went through his back, piercing his heart. The next day Sgt. Sullivan moved us to a less populated area. The rain continued. We discovered that the wet canvas became almost air tight, and a lighted candle kept it cozy warm inside. My first letter to Anne from France requested candles.

From the apple orchard we moved to Metz. Several German forts had been bypassed here but still held German troops. One of these forts surrendered to our 345th Regiment. We moved into a walled area. About half of our battalion was crowded into a roofed area. I needed a latrine break. Behind me I saw a large window with a wood covering, secured by a two-by-six crossbar. I lifted the bar, opened the door-like cover, and stepped out into the darkness. What a relief, I thought, as I reentered the dimly lit area.

An officer was talking on a bullhorn. He was saying, “And just last night a soldier went out that window,” pointing in my direction. “His throat was cut.” A shot rang out. Someone had dropped an M-1 rifle; it had discharged. Another soldier was dead.

Sgt. Sullivan said, “You and Montgomery are to take the O-Two-Hundred to O-Four-Hundred guard duty.” The yard inside that walled area was so dark that one could not see a person standing four feet away. We held hands to keep from bumping into each other. In my right hand I held my trench knife, feeling that the rifle on my shoulder would be useless.

The next day we moved up to Nancy, France. That night we learned what it was like to experience incoming artillery fire. I slept on the floor of a partially destroyed building. The floor was at the same level as the street. Several rounds hit in the street outside. The shrapnel went up, hitting the walls above us. 
Pfc. Moss appeared. It was after midnight, and pitch dark. He led me to a tent inside a larger tent. It was Second Battalion headquarters. Sgt. Major Jones handed me a piece of paper. “Take this to Captain Dahlke, F Company.”

I stood looking at him. “Where is F Company? Have you seen how dark it is out there? I wouldn’t be able to find my jeep, much less drive it anywhere.”

“Then walk. It should be no more than a mile or so.” He picked up a compass with a luminous dial. “Come with me.” After a time he said, “F Company should be in that direction.” The guns behind us fired. “And I can  assume the Jerries are in that direction,” he added, pointing in the direction that it appeared the guns had fired, but it didn’t matter since we were both blinded by the flash of light.

I walked slowly in the direction I assumed would be about halfway between the front, as determined by our gunfire, and our position. F Company would be somewhere ahead of us.

After walking for some time I heard muffled voices, then the click of a rifle safety. I dropped to my hands and knees. “Who goes there!” a voice rang out. My throat was closing.

“Abbott,” came out in almost a squeak. 
“That’s not the fucking password we got,” a voice seemed to be asking a buddy. I was now flat on the ground.

“Hell no, it’s—”

“Shut up!”

“He doesn’t sound like a Jerry to me.”

Now I knew. I had walked into the lines of the division we were to relieve, the Yankee Division. “I’m from the 87th. We are your relief,” I said.

I got back to my feet and walked quietly away. Again, I heard safeties click, and a voice asking, “Did you hear anything?” I stood quietly for several minutes before moving on.

I came to a stream. I stepped in. The water was cold. I had no idea how wide and deep it would be. As I stepped in further it became near knee deep and fast moving. I knew I was on a riffle. I had fished many riffles in the Rogue River, and knew the general contour they took. When I stepped into the still water that went over my knees, I knew the bank was close. I felt the limb of a tree and followed it up the bank.

Now I could see the outline of a large building. Then a voice. “Who goes there?”

“Abbott.”

“Costello,” came back.

“What’s your company?” I asked.

“F.”

“Do you know where Captain Dahlke is?”

“Right here in this barn,” was the answer. He called for someone.

I was led through the darkness over loose hay. He stopped. “Captain?”

“Yes.”

“Guy’s here with a message.” A hand reached out from the darkness and took the message. I saw a dim light at the edges of a canvas, and then it went out.

“What’s your name?”

“Corporal Sage,” I answered.

I turned and began the return trip, guided by the flashes from the firing guns. I had been told how to make the return trip over a bridge. It was a longer route, and daylight was starting to break by the time I returned to the spot where my pup tent had been. I threw away the wet socks and put on a dry pair that I had in my pack. 

Afterwards:

1945. Germany had surrendered. My father posed upon a pile of German rifles.

Survived and victorious. My father is second from the left, standing.