Sgt. James Farmer
Army Correspondent

(The following was written by Army Correspondent James E. Farmer in the Spring of 1944.)

WITH THE 36TH INFANTRY DIVISION IN ITALY - A strange type of German shell or bullet which bears no certain soldier's "number" has been described here in a grim jesting by infantrymen of the 36th (Texas) Division. This kind of missile bears a number which is either one digit above or one digit below "your number."

The shells and bullets are those mentioned in the narrow-escape stories of combat veterans. Some sound like tall tales, but they're all true.

Probably the "Prince of Close Calls" is a Texas Irishman called "Old Folks" by his buddies. He affirms that he has foiled German attempts to do him in with concussion grenades, artillery shells and land mines. And all he has had to show for the experiences have been a few bruises and a hole in his helmet.

Here is Old Folks' story:

"Our platoon was pinned down behind a ridge by a machinegun. I was sent forward to locate it and knock it out. The moon was so bright you could read a newspaper by it. I crawled over the ridge and up a small incline toward a wall-like structure at the town's edge.

"All was quiet, strangely quiet. I quit crawling and decided to lie flat, to locate the machinegun's crew by sound by waiting and listening. Then I heard something plop at my side. It was an egg-shaped object, a German concussion grenade. I knocked it out of my range with my hand and then it exploded. Another plopped at my side and I knocked it away, too.

"I knew there must be a German looking down on me from above, carefully tossing grenades at me like he was throwing cards into a hat. The third grenade plopped farther from my side. I picked it up and tossed it in the direction of the German. A fourth grenade landed out of reach. I ducked my head in a shell hole and waited for the explosion.

"There was a 'bang' and I felt something hit my leg. It seemed like my leg was partially torn off. I dared not move it. I was afraid it might not be there at all. But when I did feel it, I discovered it was completely whole and only bruised—not even any blood! I aimed where I thought the German was peering over at me and fired. All was quiet again. Then I was ordered to rejoin my platoon."

Old Folks' story goes on with him in position on the flat top of a knoll where four German artillery shells hit within a 400-square-foot area. Luckily, they were all duds. Said Old Folks, "I've heard of two duds falling in succession. And maybe now and then three duds, one after the other. But that was the first time four ever fell like that."

His platoon was crossing an open field when a buddy in front of him stepped on a mine. Somehow by instinct Old Folks dropped his head forward as the mine exploded. A fragment hit the front of his helmet, penetrated the steel and inner liner and then stopped just short of entering his forehead.

Another infantryman owes his life to a small Bible he was carrying in his shirt pocket over his heart. A German bullet spent itself in the book's pages. Similarly, a map saved a signal wireman who had driven through an intense shelling. He stopped his jeep to refer to a map in his hip pocket. Lodged in the folds of the map was a piece of shell fragment.

A shell hit inches away from one "double foxhole" in which two soldiers were lying. It burrowed into the ground under their hole, threw them into the air and then peeked its nose out on the other side of the hole. The shell was a dud. The two shaken GIs offered their thanks to what one called "a worker in the Czechoslovakian ammunition factory."

Another dud landed between the legs of an artilleryman who was crawling up a mountain slope to his observation post. The shell came so close it bruised both legs.

By what they called "instinct or just plain luck," two doughboys told how they were at the right place at the right time. They'd been lying in their front-line foxholes for many hours under many shellings. They decided they'd give their bodies a stretch by crawling a few yards behind them to a building. Another shelling opened up after they reached the building. When they returned to their holes a few minutes later, they discovered a shell had made a direct hit on one hole and that a tree had fallen into the other.

Many soldiers here have marveled at the luck of Sergeant Charles (Commando) Kelly, the Congressional Medal of Honor winner, who went through more than 70 days of the fiercest combat with no more than a scratch on his nose.

Kelly's complete lack of fear meant he was "sticking out his chin" at the Germans more often than most soldiers, they rationalized. Once when the Pittsburgh hero was out on a patrol — and closer to the enemy than the buddy who shared a foxhole with him — the pal was killed by a direct shell hit on the hole. At one time his company encountered such deadly resistance, the casualties narrowed down its non-commissioned officer personnel to only Kelly.

Most of the narrow-escape survivors make the same observation as Old Folks: "I don't know how I could be so near 'my number' and yet be so far from it. I really believe a sort of Divine guidance has brought me through."