Excerpt
GETTING RID OF A SALESMAN Told by David Ryan, Atkinson, Nebraska.
Sam Brady was a good fellow, but occasionally he did lose his cool. He ran a tractor salvage shop in Atkinson, and I worked for him. One day a salesman came to the shop and began showing Sam his leaflets and pamphlets. Sam glanced briefly at the pictures. “I don't want any of your products,” he said. “You just as well save your time and mine and move on.” Sam bent over his work, poised his welding rod, and pulled down his hood. Of course, once the hood was down, he couldn't see anything until he was able to strike an arc with the welder. The salesman took advantage of the moment of blindness and placed his foot on the exact spot where Sam meant to weld. I thought, “Oh, boy. Oh, boy. This isn't good.” Sam tapped the welding rod. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Perplexed, he shoved the hood up to identify the problem, and there was the salesman's shiny shoe sitting on the bar he meant to weld. He stepped back. Sam was mad! His eyes were spitting fire, and his big shoulders were hunched forward. “Are you still here?” he roared. “Why, sure,” purred the salesman. “I haven't shown you all my products yet.” Sam picked up a wrecking bar. “I'm not very fast moving,” he said, lifting it into the air. “But if you aren't gone by the time I count to three, I'm going to straighten this bar over your head.” The salesman reared back, jumped in his car, and his wheels spun as he took off. I didn't dare laugh, but I could hardly hold it. I sure have laughed about it a lot since, though.
MORE WAR MEMORIES THAT TIME DOESN’T ERASE Told by Mark Romohr, Gresham, Nebraska.
We were supposed to receive fifteen weeks of infantry training, but for me that period was shortened because of the tremendous number of casualties in the Battle of the Bulge. After thirteen weeks of training, we were given four days leave over Christmas and then we headed for Europe. We docked in Scotland on my nineteenth birthday and went by train to England. From there we went across the English Channel into France. Our unit was broken up to fill the holes in other divisions that had been hard-hit by the surprising, on-going battle. I was an infantry rifleman. A full company consists of 250 men. The one I joined, had only 7 men left, the others having either been killed or wounded in the Bulge. The squad leader, who had been with that company since it had been in the USA, was an emotional wreck. He had to be replaced. As we traveled by foot through the drifts, we came upon bodies, half buried in the snow. No wonder the various divisions desperately needed replacements. After a couple more weeks, the Allies were back in charge of the situation, but our losses up to that time were terrible. Why some of us survived is a miracle. Once I jumped behind a huge tree to escape enemy fire. Gunfire cut the tree nearly in two at the height of my waist. Another time a number of us were crossing the Rhine River in boats. It was in the night, and about ten fellows were in our boat. We wanted to gain the other side so we could hold the Germans back while our engineers built a pontoon bridge. It was needed to get the tanks and heavy artillery across. Everyone in our boat made it in spite of heavy enemy fire, but other boats weren't so lucky. Several times the engineering unit got the bridge about halfway across the river, but each time it was blown up by the enemy. Finally the engineers chose a different place. Once, in taking a pillbox, only three of my squad arrived uninjured. When morning dawned, someone brought in a group of German prisoners. I was going to take the prisoners down the hill, but one of my good friends offered. “I'll do it. You're needed here.” I was the squad leader. When the group came to the railroad tracks, the prisoners decided to make a break for freedom. Someone on the Allied side opened fire. Unfortunately, all of them were killed, including my friend. He died instead of me. I will never know why I survived so many near misses. After I was on the front for about four months, the Germans surrendered. Later, I was one of the guards that escorted Nazi leaders to and from the Nuremburg Trials.
A CLOSE CALL Told by Mike Krysl, Atkinson, Nebraska.
Bernice Dobias of Verdigre, Nebraska, was standing by the kitchen sink, washing dishes. Since it had begun to rain, her husband, Norbert, had come inside and was talking to her as she worked. He was sitting on a kitchen chair that was tipped back on its two rear legs, a position that allowed his shoulders to rest against the refrigerator. Suddenly there was a bright flash of lightning accompanied by a deafening clap of thunder. “Wow!” exclaimed Bernice. “That was close!” No answer. “It must have struck near here!” Still no answer. Thinking it odd he didn't comment, she turned to look at him. He was still propped against the refrigerator, but his face was pale and he was staring straight ahead with empty eyes. Smoke was coming off his shoes. She ran to him and shook him. “Norbert! Wake up!” Finally he began to stir, and though he was confused for a time, he soon recovered his senses. Apparently, electricity from the lightning bolt had followed the wiring through the refrigerator, then through his body, and had exited from his shoes. That was the lightning bolt Norbert will neither remember nor forget.
|