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Co. D, 369th Medical Battalion
Fred Bock, Major MC
Company Commander,
(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 were set. 

     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 few.  

     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 sight. 

     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 the ocean? 

      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 landing indeed! 

     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 impossible.   

     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 clearing station. 

     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 cared for. 

     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.                                                                  


Summary of Travels


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

Dec   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

Feb  1 1945 – Left Forge-les-Eaux

Feb  2 1945 – Arrived at Liesse-Gizy and St. Ermo, France

Feb  8 1945 – Left St. Ermo

Feb 10 1945 – Arrived at Pepinster, Belgium, and motored to Montenau


                    1st Platoon                                              2nd Platoon

Feb 10 1945 – Montenau, Belgium                                              Montenau, Belgium

Feb 11 1945 –                                                                                 Waimes, Belgium

Feb 17 1945 – Krinkelt, Belgium

Feb 19 1945 –                                                                                   Krinkelt, Belgium

Mar  9 1945 –                                                                                  Schmidtheim, Germany

Mar 10 1945 – Schmidtheim, Germany

Mar 24 1945 – Bad Neuenahr

Mar 26 1945 –                                                                                   Neuwied

Mar 28 1945 – Niederberg

Mar 30 1945 –                                                                                   Obertiofenbach

Mar 31 1945 – Obertiofenbach                                                                     

Apr  3  1945 – Heimarshausen

Apr  5  1945 –                                                                                     Heimarshausen

Apr  6  1945 – Bettenhausen (Kassel)

Apr  7  1945 –                                                                                      Bettenhausen (Kassel)

Apr  9  1945 – Witzenhausen

Apr 10 1945 – Heiligenstadt                                                               Heiligenstadt

Apr 11 1945 – Greusen (2 hours)


Apr 12 1945 –                                                                                        Koelleda

Apr 13 1945 –                                                                                        Naumburg 

Apr 14 1945 – Naumburg

Apr 16 1945 – Pegau

Apr 17 1945 –                                                                                        Pegau

Apr 18 1945 –                                                                                        Borna

Apr 19 1945 – Naunhof

Apr 20 1945 –                                                                                       Brandis

May 11 1945 –                                                                                     Weissenfels

May 12 1945 – Weissenfels


Editor’s Note 

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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