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To look at them, one would never guess that many of the veterans of the old 75th Infantry, who gathered in Fort Wayne last week for a mini reunion, were well into their 80s.
But then, they’ve always been the youngest people around.
Back in the fall of 1944, when they were first shipped to Europe, other soldiers affectionately called them the Diaper Division. They were all so young, most just 18, with only a little training and little equipment.
At the time, of course, some generals didn’t think there was much fighting left. Germany, it appeared, was on the ropes. The war in Europe would be over by Christmas.
Then came the Battle of the Bulge, the biggest battle of World War II, perhaps the biggest battle that has ever taken place, some of the veterans say. Germany, with hundreds of thousands of soldiers, hundreds of tanks and parades of artillery, crashed through the American lines in a desperate attempt to get to the port of Antwerp, Belgium, and a wealth of supplies there.
So the 75th Infantry, the Diaper Division, which had never seen combat, was ill-equipped, lacking winter gear in the worst winter in 100 years, and was thrown into the fray to stop the German army.
Late last week, nearly 64 years after their initiation to war, a handful of those veterans gathered in the city to plan their national gathering in Virginia in September but also to get reacquainted and try to get the word out to any members of the 75th Infantry Division they might have lost touch with.
There wasn’t a flood of war stories. Oh, there were anecdotes. It was so cold, if you were wounded, the blood froze, said Art Steffenson, part of a rifle squad, one of the guys at the very front, face to face with the Germans.
Charles Woodman, also part of a rifle squad, was what you’d call a point man. His job was to draw fire, he joked. But nobody ever hit him. The cold got him instead. He ended up in a hospital, his toes black from frostbite. There was a German in the same hospital, and he would yell the same word over and over all night. Then he died. That German word he kept yelling was “mother.”
Ernie Ingles was in a mine-sweeping division. His job was to clear roads and fields of mines, but the whole time he never had a metal detector to find the mines, he joked.
John Pildner, called the youngster in the group because he’s only 82, recalled having to dive into a ditch to avoid a mortar attack. He got up unscathed when it was over, but a man behind him was dead. A piece of shrapnel had pierced his helmet. But he couldn’t remember the name of the little town where it happened.
They drop the unfamiliar names of little towns and places – the Colmar Pocket, Grandmenil and others, but they don’t regale you with tales of gore and heroism. Ingles pointed out a small medal pinned to his hat. It was a combat infantry badge. When soldiers dress up with all their medals, they always put that one on top, he said, even generals.
It shows you actually got shot at, that you were in the thick of it.
That medal does the speaking for them.
For the 75th, the war was deadly – their casualty rate was nearly 60 percent – but short.
Most, still kids by today’s standards, made it home within a year and went on with their lives.
Steffenson, the gun squad member, became a corporate accountant and today grows raisins in California. He had several small bags of raisins in his pockets and handed them out.
Woodman, the one with the frozen feet, became president of a crane-and-hoist business in Brooklyn, N.Y.
John Pildner, still regarded as the kid of the group, started a machine shop.
And Ingles became a teacher, teaching shop and math for 30 years, and opened a skating rink.
But that’s what they were fighting for.
