A Soldier's Story; A Son's Gratitude

Memorial Day inherently is a time of reflection. Honoring what our soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen have done for the sake of our freedom is not a single-day activity, but one that should be in the hearts of all of us, all year round.

Whenever this holiday comes, I invariably end up thinking about my dad. He was a Private First Class with the 106th Division, assigned to the Ardennes Forest in Belgium. On the morning of December 16, 1944, the German army committed an all-out assault on the thinly-stretched American forces. It became known as the Battle of the Bulge, and my father was on the front line of the attack.

Dad trained as part of a cannon crew back in the States before being shipped off Europe. But when he arrived on the Continent, he was informed there weren't enough artillery pieces in theater, so he was handed a Garand and was told he's now a rifleman. A few days later, his company commander assigned him to a 50-calibre machine gun, and was placed on the line near the town of St. Vith.

He didn't talk much about the fateful day when the Nazis attacked. Growing up, I only heard small bits and pieces of his wartime experiences; one of my most vivid memories was his description of what it was like to have to kill another man. He was typically low-key about it, merely outlining that you had a job to do, and once you realize the enemy was trying to kill you, and you saw him killing your buddies, it wasn't too difficult to pull the trigger.

On the 50th Anniversary of the first day of the Battle of the Bulge, my dad wrote a first-person account of his action for a newspaper. It was the first time I learned what really happened. Early that morning, the Nazis came at the Americans with everything they had. My dad was "crewing" the 50-cal, feeding the belt through the gun as his trigger man was firing away. Dad said there were targets everywhere.

But the Germans knew the locations of many American positions, and laid out an effective artillery barrage. One shell exploded near his position and the triggerman was badly hit. Dad moved his wounded mate aside and took control of the weapon. He said he got off about 20 rounds before another shell exploded nearby, sending shrapnel over his position. He was hit in the shoulders and face, a deep cut split is upper lip and he was bleeding profusely. He reached through the small slit where the barrel of the 50-cal was poking through and grabbed a handful of snow to freeze the wound.

His sergeant ordered Dad to pick up the other injured soldier and get him back to regimental headquarters to seek treatment. Neither could do much good in their condition. In the middle of the furious battle, Dad picked up the man, took about five steps from the foxhole and realized he had no idea where the HQ was. With shooting and soldiers of both sides all around him, the only chance he had was to choose a direction and get to a quiet place as soon as possible.

As luck would have it, he guessed correctly and found a road that seemed familiar. His company commander, Captain Freesland, happed by with a jeep, picked them up and transported them to the hospital at HQ. Because his wounds were determined not to be life-threatening, dad was told to wait for treatment at the triage area. Not long after, the Germans started shelling the hospital and he was hit again, mostly from flying glass. He once joked he was wounded worse at the hospital than he was on the front (but I have a feeling that wasn't true).

The wounds he got on the line turned out to be a blessing. When he went back to the front a couple of weeks later, virtually all of his friends who remained that first day of the battle were dead. Obviously, I wouldn't be here if he could have held his position that cold winter morning. Dad said it was terribly difficult to go on at that point, but what choice did he have? There was still a war to be won.

My father, PFC Richard R. Robinson, fought four major battles in Belgium and Germany. He was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery in battle and the Purple Heart for the wounds he received in action. In some respects, he wasn't the greatest dad in the world. He had his issues. But he, like hundreds of thousands of other men, rose to the occasion and did what was necessary to defend freedom.

I have been fortunate not to have to do what he was called on to do. I'd like to think I'd be as good as him if placed in the same situation. And I will always honor what he and his fellow servicemen have done for all of us, and the cause of liberty.