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Co. D, 369th Medical Battalion
Fred Bock, Major MC
(Photo not available)
To the readers of this history will be unfurled a review of the life of Company
D, part of the 369th Medical Battalion, in World War II.
The basic elements will be work, anxiety, fatigue and humor.
My sincere hope is that it will be enjoyable.
My labors in compiling this edition are voluntary in my own time.
Full credit must go to those who have participated.
As you peruse its pages, bear in mind that some of the incidents in the life of
Company D can never be fully expressed in words.
The men of this organization all experienced emotional reactions, tension
and fatigue. Through the many
trials, each man was unselfish and devoted to his duty.
Because of this loyalty, Company D has a record to be proud of.
The work was well done. The
success of our unit was due to each individual’s efforts.
To all of the officers and men, I extend my sincere appreciation and thanks.
Fred Bock, Major M.C.
On 23 November 1944, all scoffers were silenced:
Company D of the 369th Medical Battalion finally left Camp Shelby,
Mississippi. Weeks of feverish
preparation made this possible. Packing
and crating, crating and packing, endless inspections and examinations,
last-minute instructions and waiting made the day of departure almost welcome to
us. We boarded our train on
Thanksgiving Day, and with grim thanks, we ate our turkey on the train.
It was good turkey, too.
Within two days, we exchanged the warmth and beauty of Mississippi for the
bitter cold and rain of Camp Kilmer, NJ. We
marched from theater to barracks and from barracks to the PX (Post Exchange),
and everywhere we slipped in puddles. The
“Rain of Terror” never ceased, not even when we got that one precious
12-hour pass out of Kilmer. On most
days, the phones seemed to be paralyzed, and on other days the waiting line
looked too formidable. With a shaky
heart, we followed 499 others and stepped up for our Overseas Physical.
The examining doctor wearily repeated, “Cough!
Bend over! Move on!” and
the physical was over. To drown our
woes, we drank quart after quart of ice cream sodas, went on a spree for
cigarettes and razor blades, made dates with PX girls whom we’d never see
again, and looked dizzily down the rope ladder as we practiced debarkation.
Doctors grew tired of inspecting our infected chigger bites, backaches,
fevers and various other ailments commonly known as “Boat –it is” or
“Gangplank Fever.” The
censor’s stamp also added to our woes. Homesick
lads wrote whole volumes instead of letters, only to find that the censor had
snipped all the pages out. In those
days, the censor was very censorious indeed!
Finally, in a driving rain, we stood outside the dispensary and waited
for our typhoid shots. Then, we
Late in the evening of 30 November, we rolled full field packs, shivered outside
our barracks for three hours waiting for orders, and boarded a train again.
The train had dilapidated, creaky, unpainted cars that had been
discharged from service after the last war.
They had more space for duffel bags, gas masks and equipment than for us,
just as they’d done for our fathers in the previous war.
Some of the men glued their faces to the window, mumbling something about
“home” or “Elizabeth” or “Newark,” but most of us didn’t feel in
the mood for sightseeing. Our
throats were a little too dry. A
few hardy souls were tense with thoughts of the great adventure, but just a very
At Jersey City, we slung our duffel bags over our shoulders (dragged them along
the pavement would be more accurate), picked up our equipment and shuffled along
for half an hour to the ferry. Ah,
that ferry ride! The more naïve
ones, expecting an ordinary ride, patiently stood up for an hour, in full field
dress. Wiser ones shed their stuff
and sat down to admire the thousand twinkling lights of Brooklyn and Manhattan.
In time, we docked at Staten Island and marched into a huge warehouse, with a
gangplank on each side of us. The
one on the left was rumored to lead, the next day, to the war in the Pacific.
We chose the gangplank on the right.
While waiting, we gratefully accepted the hot coffee and donuts handed
out by the Red Cross women, and listened to the band cheering us on.
At last our last name was called, we swallowed hard and blurted our first name
in answer, and slowly clambered up the gangplank.
It was then that we noticed the 10 feet of water separating our ship from
the land. And even the most
hardened skeptic admitted then that this wasn’t a dry run.
We were on the good ship “USS LeJeune,” formerly a supply ship for the Graft
Spee. MD 15 was our “room” –
a big compartment packed with four-tiered canvas bunks.
Between the bunds ran narrow aisles.
Wedging into your bunk required a special technique, especially if the
man above you was a big heavy.
In the morning, we crowded on deck, watching the ship leave the harbor.
It was precisely at 0945 on 1 December 1944 that we set sail.
In fascination, we saw the convoy forming, with ships swinging in to the
right and left of us. Brooklyn boys
kept on staring at Coney Island until the top of the Half Moon Hotel faded from
As the water swept all around us and into the horizon, we felt a sense of
release. Adventure stirred in our
blood. Our thoughts turned to
Europe. We listened respectfully to
veteran sailors as they laid down the law on England and France. How were we to know that this was their second voyage across
Day after day, we scanned the horizon, trying to chart our course. The weather was cold at first, and then turned warm.
Tiring of navigation, we crowded into the “heads,” where, amid dense
clouds of smoke, poker and craps games were going full blast, and the latest
rumors circled high above them: We weren’t headed for England; we would reach
Antwerp directly, plunging at once into combat.
We listened gloomily, distracted only by the quaint calls of the
loudspeaker system. Who will forget
that magic cry thundering night and day – “Sweepers, man your brooms!”
Each morning, we climbed upstairs during inspection to exercise on the rocking
deck (no mean feat) and practiced up on our French.
“Beaucoup ennui” was our motto.
Every morning, we expertly surveyed the sea, nodding approval as we
checked the positions of the different ships.
Some admired the trim lines of the British aircraft carrier; others
praised the tiny tankers as they bravely rode out of a deep trough, shaking,
terrier-like, the water off their deck.
Food on the ship was surprisingly good, but the waiting line that wound like a
snake or a conga line throughout the ship was a nightmare.
In time, we learned our destination: Southampton, England.
A wild cheer rose from every man. Latrine
rumors died a sudden death, fittingly in the latrine.
On December 3rd, a storm came up. The
ship tossed like a cork. The aisles
became dangerous, especially if a buddy was sick right above you! But our ship rode out the storm like a veteran.
Seasickness was not our only woe; we had to take typhus shots.
The sea at the time was choppy and the ship rolled from side to side.
It was then that the fine art of giving shots reached a new height of
perfection and horror. Many of our
best technicians sprouted gray hair at once, and many shudder even now as they
recall those dreadful shots.
Our trip was rounded out when more than a dozen depth charges exploded around
us. Destroyers suddenly raced in a
top speed while the ships of the convoy scattered and veered. We heard nothing more about this.
The day before we landed, part of our convoy disappeared.
Birds wheeled over us. A
lovely countryside stretched away on both sides, with ivied old castles and
towers rising above the foliage. We
had reached the coast of England and were entering the port of Southampton.
We anchored on 12 December 1944. As
ropes were tied to the wharf, we breathed a sigh of thankfulness.
Gazing at Southampton, we saw for the first time the desolation caused by
war. Never would we quite get
hardened to it, neither in England nor later in France or Belgium.
We debarked on the 13th of December, curiously eying the British Bobbies, the
workers peddling everywhere on bicycles, and our sailors (now smartly dressed)
as they sauntered off to town. The
weather was frosty and deep in fog as we boarded the “Southern Railway.” Quite a few of us got a big kick making comparisons between
the Southern Railway and its illustrious counterpart in Mississippi.
We all agreed that there was very little difference in speed.
Passing through Winchester, we left the main track and reached the little
town of Alresford (pronounced “Allsford” in case you’ve forgotten!). Four miles away was our Castle.
“The Castle,” properly known as Northington Grange, was an old and dignified
mansion set amidst lovely scenery and hunting grounds.
It contained 164 rooms – as those of us who got lost soon found out!
It was rumored to be 350 years old, and looked every bit if it until we
scrubbed it out. Students of architecture were deeply pained at the exuberance
of the designer, who had flung together Doric, Ionic and Corinthian pillars with
carefree zest. Our sanitary experts
were even more pained, for the sanitation was typically British and medieval.
Many a dispute arose over the use of the two bathtubs, until someone
wisely suggested a bathtub schedule by rooms.
One problem that was not so easily settled was what constituted four
inches of hot water – the maximum permitted each bath-tubber.
Our more skillful lawyers argued that cold water was extra and
permissible; but if so, what about hot water that became cold, etc., etc.? Those arguments, ridiculous as they were, did not in the
slightest degree dampen our spirits. We
cared naught for architecture or sanitation.
We were very happy in our Castle.
Call the Castle a symbol, if you wish. For
the men of our company it was England.
The scenery haunted us – the picturesque lane leading up to the Castle,
an arch of trees, the little mirror-like brook winding nearby, swirling in mist
in the morning; the fir and oak trees, the pheasants and rabbits scampering
about, the venerable moss-covered church. Many
will recall the Wednesday evening dances in the huge, cold ballroom, and the
roaring old fireplace at one side heaped with logs. Sooner or later, everyone drifted around it.
And then the Sunday evening recordings of Beethoven, with the crackling
of logs as accompaniment.
Many of us went to Alton, a nearby town, chiefly remembered because its people
were so hospitable and its beer so poor. Some
of us hopefully sampled ‘alf and ‘alf, bitters, brown ale, stout, ginger
wine – and came away with a wistful longing for Hattiesburg. Others cannot easily shake off the nightmare of breakfast.
With sleepy eyes, we would wander uncertainly in the darkness up the
hill, clanking our moss gear (like ghosts in chains) to prevent collisions,
bumping against fences, stumbling against rocks, sinking into mud or grass until
we finally toiled up the hill and into the deep mud near the moss hall.
We would curse the powdered milk, the peculiar taste of powdered eggs; we
would vow time and again that the food wasn’t worth the climb, and time and
again toil up the hill in the darkness. Later
on, the early morning breakfast became something to remember pleasantly, as a
feat accomplished. Some of us made
the daily evening pilgrimage to the Woolpack Inn, dropping in at the Friday
evening dance nearby. Others still
curse their luck with pheasants and makeshift rabbit traps and sticks and stones
that never brought home the bacon. At
this point, for no particular reason, we shall record the fact that we were now
issued seasickness pills.
For natural-color photographers, one of the loveliest sights in England was the
blood-red tint of hundreds of comets circling overhead each morning –
stooping, circling and finally streaming in V-formation eastward.
These were our bombers forming up for a raid on Germany; their blood-red
tint often perplexed us. It was
merely the condensation of air over the leading edge of the wings, shot through
with early morning sunlight. We
took great pleasure in the thought that the Germans, on beholding this lovely
tint each morning, were in no mood to admire or photograph it.
We saw our first battle casualties while helping the overburdened technicians at
the 34th General Hospital near Winchester.
Many a time we came in vain; casualties were light.
Then we ate heartily and thankfully.
At other times, we worked hard as plane after plane swooped down with its
cargo of wounded men. Here we
learned to recognize trench foot and frostbite. We were proud to work here, knowing that for the first time
we were putting to practical use the long hours of basic training, and
performing work that was vital and appreciated.
The biggest event in our stay in England was, of course, the pass to London.
We forgot the strain of military life as we wandered through St. Paul’s
Cathedral, the Tower, and Westminster Abbey; watched the changing of the guards
at Buckingham Palace; and most interesting of all, gaped at the sights along
dimmed-out Piccadilly Circus, the Times Square of London.
We never quite got accustomed to the buses going on the wrong side of the
street. Some of us bought curious
little blackout flashlights, or scouted around Woolworth’s three-and-sixpence
store. In these shopping sprees,
hardly any of us is daring enough to say that he wasn’t confused at least once
by the intricacies of English currency. But
London for the most part was disappointing.
It was drab, a city under wartime conditions, its stores empty, its
historic monuments piled high with sandbags, its taverns depressing, and whisky
unobtainable. But it was something
to write home about, and that was the main thing.
On 15 January 1945, Major Frederick relinquished command of the company to
become battalion executive officer, and Major Bock assumed command. Eight days later, we bade England farewell.
On a cold, snowy morning, we moved in darkness by truck to Winchester and
entrained for Southampton. The hike
from the station to the pier at Southampton showed that our training in
Mississippi had not been in vain. Part
of the way, we dragged along our duffel bags, marching a good distance with full
packs, medical kits, gas masks, on a glassy pavement against a sharp wind.
We boarded the English boat “Empire Lance” and woke up the following
morning off the coast of Le Havre.
Never had we seen such frightful destruction as greeted us at Le Havre. For miles in front of us, buildings had been leveled.
The piers were all wrecked, and our ship could not dock.
Instead, we clambered down metal-rung ladders slung over the side of the
ship into a swaying LCCCI. The wind
was strong, and the boat rocked to and fro while our men, loaded down with
equipment, tried to jump across the shifting space of water between the ladder
and the LCI. Our duffel bags were
flung down on top of each other from the ship to the LCI.
Many, many a good bottle of wine perished in the fall, not to speak of C
rations and mirrors. A miserable
During the afternoon, we cowered near some ruined buildings at Le Havre, eating
cold K rations while the wind froze our fingers.
In time, our transportation came: long, open cattle trucks into which we
were packed more tightly than biscuits in a K ration box.
For 77 miles, we traveled like this, hardly able to move a muscle; yet no
one could keep warm. We rode and rode through the night, and the road glittered
like porcelain, and in time we got lost, and it was bitter, bitter cold.
At 0100, 24 January 1945, we arrived at Forges-les-Eaux, France. A sorrier and unhappier outfit could scarcely be imagined.
Ahead of us lay a steep, shiny hill.
We slithered up, carrying our duffel bags and equipment, and found “The
Casino.” The Casino may have
formerly been a lovely villa: picture postcards that we bought later convinced
us of that. But the Germans, who
had used it as a hospital, left it a most unlovely stable.
We packed straw into a huge, gusty room and, depressed and tired, we sank
down on it and slept. At least we
had a roof over us, and for that we were properly thankful.
It was at Forges-les-Eaux that the sight of little children digging hungrily
into our garbage cans first dumbfounded our men.
It took us some time to get used to that.
We left Forges-les-Eaux on 1 February 1945, traveling by rail and passing
through Cambrai and Amiens on our way to Liosso-Gizy, a tiny junction.
From this point, we motored to St. Ermo, setting up our dispensary in the
Convent of Notre-Dame. Our men
remember St. Ermo chiefly because it was at the nearby military camp of Sissone
that we took our first shower in a month.
We left St. Ermo on 8 February 1945, traveling in “40 and 8” cattle cars to
Pepinster, Belgium – a two-day journey. In
one car, the men argued over the fitness of the phrase, “40 and 8” (meaning
40 men or 8 horses could be loaded into a car).
Why should “40 men” precede “8 horses,” they contended.
It was finally decided that the reason was simply that deference should
be shown to men; they outnumbered horses. In
every other respect, horses were given more consideration than men.
We were jammed 28 men and an officer, duffel bags, equipment and crates
of 10-in-1 rations – all in one car. We
were so tightly packed that men felt lucky if they could sleep head-to-foot;
others slept sitting up, their legs cramped.
Although the floor of the car was covered with straw, the jarring of the
train and the cold wind sniping through the holes and boards made sleep almost
On the way, we caught a glimpse of St. Quentin and Liege, and admired the quaint
beauty of Belgian steams winding through valleys, mountains and hamlets.
Reaching Pepinster, we motored through Spa and Malmedy, following the
infantry so closely that we still saw the dead huddled along the road, clutching
a rifle or grenade. Drivers stuck close to the road, since the shoulders had not
yet been cleared of mines.
At the railroad station at Montenau, Belgium, we set up our first clearing
station on 10 February. This
station operated for but two days. One
platoon proceeded on the 11th to Waimos, 10 miles further, and opened a clearing
station the next day in one room of a brewery.
We had to toss out the beer kegs, dynamite and hand grenades that
cluttered the place up, but even so, the room was far from ideal.
Its walls were of bare brick, its floor made of cement, its ceiling high,
and both walls and ceiling were hard to black out.
Litter patients were carried in with the greatest difficulty, owing to
the number of thick posts and steps in the way.
Roads were rutty, broken-down and deep in mud, making ambulance driving
slow and hazardous. Here we
received our first battle casualties and German prisoners of war.
Waimos was strictly a combat station.
On 17 February, the platoon at Montenau motored to Krinkelt, Belgium. It had to wait two hours while the Engineers cleared the
field of mines before tents could be set up.
The location of this station made us very uncomfortable. Around us lay putrefying dead cows and horses.
A hundred yards away was an artillery emplacement, with other
emplacements scattered not far away. Five
miles away was the front. Night and
day, V-2 bombs flew over us. At
night, they resembled large, bright, slow-moving stars.
During the day, they left smoke trails.
Each night, an enemy plane, which we nicknamed “Bed check Charley”
(it usually came over about 2300), swooped low over our station.
At Krinkelt, we received many casualties.
Our Division was then attacking the Siegfried Line.
Ambulance followed ambulance to our station.
Then constant rain and snow turned our field into a quagmire, making it
impassable for the ambulances. We
obtained shale, pounded it into small bits, and built a rock road through the
clearing station – a casual engineering feat for our technicians.
For the sake of the record, we must add that we now suffered our first
clothing exchange – a harrowing experience!
On 9 March, one platoon set up tents well within the Siegfried Line at
Schmidtheim, Germany. Again the
Engineers were called upon to clear a field for us.
Schmidtheim is remembered as the place in which we had excellent fresh
venison – no thanks to the QM Corps. Our
men sallied forth in the wee hours each morning with German rifles or carbines.
When the red flag fluttered over the troops, we moved about carefully; we
feared each other’s aim more than the deer did.
Schmidtheim is also remembered as the place in which our men sipped their
first beer and Cokes, for which our drivers made a heroic trip through knee-deep
mud to Liege, Belgium.
On 24 March began the long trek across Germany.
We sped from town to town, opening a station and closing it perhaps two
hours later as one platoon “leapfrogged” the other, but always making
certain that one station was open for patients.
To most of us, the many towns we passed through are a confused blur. Our advance parties were often exposed to enemy fire.
Our men know only that they rode continually, loaded and unloaded
equipment each day till their shoulders ached, had little sleep and less rest.
Generally speaking, we found that accommodations for patients and our own men
were better than in France or Belgium. Bad
Neuenahr was a striking example of this. We
set up a clearing station there on 24 March in a comfortable civilian hospital.
The men enjoyed warm mineral baths in a sumptuous tile-lined bathhouse,
each of us having the glorious pleasure of privacy.
Servile German attendants scurried to clean up after us.
We stayed at Bad Neuenahr four days.
We might also add that it was at Bad Neuenahr that our men had their
first taste of Rhineland wine. (For
some, it was more than a taste.)
Some of us caustically noted that, acre for acre, Germany was far less damaged
than Belgium. The Germans are a
prudent and far-sighted people, knowing how to take care of their own homeland
as well as other people’s homeland. In
Belgium, we saw not one living horse or cow; in Germany, they grazed peacefully,
sleek and fat.
On 26 March, the platoon remaining at Schmidtheim crossed the Rhine on the
Victor pontoon bridge at Neiderbreissig. The
hour was 2030. The rumble of
artillery could be heard not far off, and red flares set off in the darkness
vividly showed up the empty ruined skeletons of houses across the river – a
ghastly scene. Powerful
searchlights probed the surface of the Rhine restlessly, hunting for saboteurs,
and their lights swept like sudden fires across the river.
We set up quarters in a big schoolhouse at Neuwied.
This platoon was detached from the company and supported the 272nd
Infantry Combat Team, which was then attacking the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein.
The detached unit at Neuwied, its work accomplished, rejoined the company at
Obertioftenbach. Here, it set up
tents on the outskirts of the town, the men being quartered in a nearby
schoolhouse. Here, we received many
sniper casualties and prisoners of war. One
platoon moved further to Heimarshausen, which was very close to the front lines.
The main supply road near us was repeatedly strafed,
and enemy planed flew low over our station.
Our infantrymen captured German soldiers in the neighboring woodland.
On 6 April, one unit moved up to Bettenhuasen, a suburb of Kassel, shortly after
the city was taken over by the infantry. We
occupied several civilian homes. The
flow of casualties poured in – French, Polish and Russian laborers, as well as
Allied and enemy soldiers Men
working on day shifts volunteered for the night shift as well. Our Army
ambulances were hurriedly dispatched to the front lines to assist in the
evacuation of wounded from the collecting stations.
On 9 April, we took up quarters at a civilian hospital at Witzenhausen, and
departed the next day for Heiligenstadt. Civilian
nurses reigned over the top floors of the hospital, while we occupied the ground
floor. Heiligenstadt had a
remarkable number of hospitals, judging by the number of red crosses on almost
every building In most cases, they turned out to be houses belonging to dentists
or doctors, or mere drugstores. One
platoon preceded on the 11th to Grousen, set up a station, and two hours later,
was compelled to pack up. We were
moving very rapidly those days! We
moved on to Koolloda. In a
schoolhouse, we received our first casualties from Weissenfels
On 13 April, one platoon proceeded to Naumburg and was among the first American
units to enter the city. It took up
quarters in a youth training center in the heart of the city. As one of the first units to enter Naumburg, we were given a
superb stock of wine, which was served to the men at dinner.
As each man came to the mess table, he was coolly asked which he
preferred, coffee or champagne. Many preferred coffee. This
is mentioned simply to show the sterling character of some of the men in our
company. Each, by the way, who
asked for champagne was given a full cup, bubbling at the brim.
The Associated Press has recorded some for posterity in one of its news
dispatches. Needless to day, the
reporter did not get champagne.
Some of the men were addicted to taking photos of ruined homes, factories, etc.
The strange thing was that photos of destruction anywhere – whether at
Diessen, Kassel or Naumburg – had a sad sameness about them.
On 16 April, one platoon moved to Pegau and found itself under severe shellfire.
It halted at a crossing on the outskirts of the town.
To go back was out of the question.
An armored column moving up with supplies and reinforcements for the
battle of Leipzig blocked the road behind it.
Ahead of us lay our artillery. 88s
lashed the crossing, and we were forced to scatter.
The trucks dispersed; the men were lying in ditches.
For five hours, we lay there, waiting for the shellfire to cease and the
town to be captured. When enemy
fire quieted down, we moved into town.
Finding no adequate housing facilities, we went on to an open field and began
setting up ward tents. In the same
field was a tank unit, which continually drew enemy fire.
While setting up our tents, we treated new arrived patients in a ditch.
Several times, we all dived into it for safety.
In spite of the shellfire, we managed by working at top speed to set up
the tents and begin operating 45 minutes after we arrived.
To make our problems easier, a friendly observation plane flew low over us, and
immediately was the signal for a display of ack-ack fire over our heads by the
Germans. We dived into the ditch
again. Between midnight and 0300, a
terrific barrage rocked our station. Our
men raced out to their foxholes, taking patients with them.
At 0800, firing ceased, thanks to the action of our artillery.
But we were warned that enemy troops were infiltrating through our front
lines into the town, and that we should be on the alert, ready to move at once
in case the Germans should be on the alert, ready to move at once in case the
Germans should return in force to the town.
At that time, the only American troops in Pegau consisted of three tank
crews, our own men, and a few MPs. We
felt very uneasy. Luckily, our
infantry held back the Germans, and the threat was removed.
We should add, by the way, that at this time, battalion aid stations and
collecting stations had the novel experience of evacuating forward to our
On 17 April, our other platoon joined us at Pegau, remained overnight, and
leapfrogged to Borna. At Borna,
many liberated prisoners of war were processed.
Just released from confinement, they milled around our men, begging for
cigarettes. Many of them needed
blood plasma to sustain them. This
platoon soon after moved to Brandis. Technicians
were sent out to Polenz, Altenheim and Grimma to take care of recovered
prisoners of war. The platoon
remaining at Pegau moved to Naunhof, setting up a clearing station in a
gymnasium opposite a civilian hospital. Through
our station at Naunhof came the more-serious cases of malnutrition. At one time, the station was taxed to the limit when a whole
camp of recovered prisoners of war came through, all suffering from
malnutrition. They were promptly
Our combat history ends on V-E Day: “Mission accomplished.”
That is the cold truth of statistics.
It speaks well for our efficiency. The
spirit behind that efficiency is something else.
Many a time, in our race through Belgium and Germany, we had inadequate
facilities, worked under hazardous conditions, were rushed for time, lacked
personnel. Yet our men rose to the
occasion without hesitation. It wasn’t a question of statistics or pride in a job well
done. What spurred us on was the
sight of that wounded soldier on the litter, looking to us for help.
We did not dare fail him. That
was the spirit of the men in the Clearing Company of the 69th Infantry Division.
Nov 23 1944 –
Left Camp Shelby, Miss.
Nov 24 1944 –
Reached Camp Kilmer, NJ
Nov 30 1944 –
Left Camp Kilmer and embarked at Staten Island
1 1944 – Left the U.S.
Dec 12 1944 –
Reached Southampton, England
Dec 13 1944 –
Debarked at Southampton, entrained to Northington Grange
Jan 23 1945 –
Left England via Southampton
Jan 24 1945 –
Arrived at Le Havre, France, and at Forge-les-Eaux
1 1945 – Left Forge-les-Eaux
2 1945 – Arrived at Liesse-Gizy and St. Ermo, France
8 1945 – Left St. Ermo
Feb 10 1945 –
Arrived at Pepinster, Belgium, and motored to Montenau
Feb 10 1945 – Montenau, Belgium
Feb 17 1945 – Krinkelt, Belgium
Feb 19 1945 –
Mar 9 1945
Mar 10 1945 – Schmidtheim, Germany
Mar 24 1945 – Bad Neuenahr
Mar 26 1945 –
Mar 28 1945 – Niederberg
Mar 30 1945 –
Mar 31 1945 – Obertiofenbach
Apr 3 1945
1945 – Bettenhausen (Kassel)
1945 – Witzenhausen
Apr 10 1945 – Heiligenstadt
Apr 11 1945 – Greusen (2 hours)
Apr 12 1945 –
Apr 13 1945 –
Apr 14 1945 – Naumburg
Apr 16 1945 – Pegau
Apr 17 1945 –
Apr 18 1945 –
Apr 19 1945 –
Apr 20 1945 –
May 11 1945 –
May 12 1945 –
There were two platoons of 110 men in Co D, 369th Medical Battalion, at the end of WWII. Their names and last address upon entering the military were listed in a “roll call” issued with the history. Undoubtedly, these have changed. The Webmaster, Joe Lipsius, and Editor, Amy Rose, have these names and addresses for interested persons.
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