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* it had been blown away. I had had a feeling the morning that we
moved out for the river crossing that something would happen as I told
my friend Arthur Bibeault, if something happens to me to be sure that
all my belongings get home. As I entered the minefield that night I
turned to Frank Woods and said. "Stand by, if you hear a bang it will
be me." The boys heard a bang and they were at my side with the stretcher
almost as soon as I hit the ground. I heard Woods say " Its Dube and he's
a mess." They put me on a stretcher and carried me nearly a quarter of
a mile using a slit trench that the Germans had been using the day before.
All along the way they kept telling me we are nearly there, but I had
gone over the area twice before that day, and even though I was blinded
by the blast I knew where the men were. Finally they reached the foot-
bridge that C Co. 1st. Platoom had thrown across, carried me across and
put me on the hood of a jeep waiting at the bridge for me. They took me
to the first aid station which was the house I had left from early in
the morning for the crossing, and carried me into the cellar. I recall
having an awful time trying to hang on as they carried me down the steps,
the steps were quite steep. As they put me down on the floor I remembe r
as though this happened yesterday the doctor saying. " You have a bad leg
son, I have to take." I said to him " Go ahead if you think you can’t
save it." He called for one of the sargents to bring a bucket, and you
may think that I am exaggerating but the doctor proceeded to cut off the
leg with a saw, I can just see myself rocking back and forth on the
stretcher every time he pushed down and up until I heard my leg fall in
the bucket. I had been given one shot of morphine and of course was in
state of shock and during the amputation did not feel any additional
pain. I was brought upstairs and brought outside in the yard where a
Catholic priest administered the last rites. After a farewell with
men around me, I was put on the hood of a jeep and driven to Aachen
where I was put board a freight train and taken all the way to Paris.
This ride was where I did most of my suffering. I did not think I would
make it. It was during this journey that apparently I was coming out
of the shock and was getting the intense pain that followed for the next
week or two.

ed to shoot him the next time he takes the pistol instead of his M1 rifle.
It was in this same area that I asked George Burnham of Waterbury, Vt.
if he had anything in his canteen that mine was dry. I thought he had
water in it, well apparently George had found a wine cellar and had filled
his canteen with cognac. I had never tasted anything stronger than soda
pop in my life, and when I took a great big swallow from George's canteen
my steel helmet came right off my head. I recall a short while after we
landed, we were moving down the beach until we were stopped by machine
gun fire. We all were in a prone position on the beach as close to the
small bank facing the hillside as possible trying to get some cover,
when I see Sgt. Hunnefeld, he was the 7th squad leader removing a few
of the pebbles and making a small place for himself, he then turn on his
back, put his hands behind his head and was enjoying the scenery, he
looked so comfortable that I joined him, here we were seemingly enjoying
a day at the beach, sunning ourselves. I recall a drowned sailor being
washed ashore at my feet and not thinking too much of it. However this
lasted 10 minutes at the most, until General Cota appeared on the scene.
Here was the bravest man I saw all day. He was the only one standing on
the beach, he said" Let’s get off our ---, up and at em we can’t win a
war resting on this beach." I don’t mind telling you that we got up and
we didn’t sit down or stop again until we reached D-1 exit. Many othe r
things happened such as trying to find La belle blonde which I was hea r-
ing so much about, taking the chief of police's horse and buggy back from
a reconnaissance. The one thing that will stick in my mind is what I saw
the morning after D-Day, D plus one.