Bamberg is the hometown of Willy Messerschmitt and so it´s no wonder that he began his carreer as an aircraft builder at the site where Bamberg Army Airfield is presently located.

Little is known about the history of this Army Airfield except that during the years 1950 thru 1955 the Army Airfield capacity was increased by one wooden hangar. It was dismantled at the Coburg Army Airfield, hauled to Bamberg and re-erected as the third hangar. The original grassy landing strip, taxiways and apron were improved by the installation of Pierced Steel Planking, which later were partly replaced by asphaltic surfaces.

I'm remembering a little more---as I recall, the tracked vehicles had a small crane attached which was used to lift the 8-inch shells. I rotated back to the States in January 1964. The scuttlebutt as I was leaving was the 3d battalion was going to get SP guns.

Dolan Barracks was actually an old Luftwaffe base. The EM club was converted from the old German Officer's club. It was a beautiful building (sadly, I have no photo of it). One Spring, workers were taking down an overgrowth of vines around the building and discovered a small bronze marker on the side of the building. It was engraved "Adolph Hitler Strasse". Somebody got a great WW2 souvenir a couple of decades after the fact.

I believe we had nuclear rounds, as well, although I never saw one. They were called "special weapons". The information was kept secret (from the Soviets as well as from the local Germans). Speaking of Soviets--according to treaty, the Soviets had the right to visit some US bases in West Germany, including ours. They were required to have special tags on their cars. We were all issued a facsimile of their license plate and told to report if we ever saw one of their cars. I don't think I ever saw one, but some guys said they did.

I heard that Dolan Barracks is long gone and shopping centers and apartments now occupy the space. I guess the Germans want to erase all reminders of their past.

I was assigned to the 3rd BN, 37th Artillery, 7th Army in 1966 to 1968 at Dachau, Germany in the former Prison Camp.

We had a BN of 8” Self Propelled Howitzers. The commanding officer was LTC Baker and the European Commanding General was Gen. Poke.

Battery “A”, 2nd Howitzer Battalion, 37th Artillery

By Tim Richards

I was stationed with the 35th Field Artillery Group Headquarters, S-2 Section, in Schwäbisch Gmünd, Germany. I knew a guy in my section by the name of Hauserman who spoke Deutsch. I was in Schwäbisch Gmünd for about six months, before I transferred to Dachau with Battery “A”, 2nd Howitzer Battalion, 37th Artillery from approximately October 1962 to May 1964, when I rotated back to the States and out of the Army. I worked in FDC (fire direction control) under the leadership of 2nd Lt. Hill, a graduate, I believe, from Clemson University, who had a degree in chemical engineering. He was a delightful, friendly officer, slight of build and short, who blended well with the men in our section. When he transferred, Lt. Sudick replaced him.

The battery executive officer, 1st Lt. Lombardo, affectionately known as “Lumpy,” was an outstanding leader, a West Point graduate, I believe, and was well respected by the men. He was Italian, had olive-tone skin, and a husky, stocky build. His stature appeared as slightly hunched — he’d lumber along with moderately slow, deliberate steps. Capt. Gosnell, I believe, was the battery commander.

To the best of my recollection, which is somewhat vague, I first arrived in Dachau to a battalion of 155 mm howitzers (towed) that got replaced with 8” guns soon afterwards. Whether the towed guns were replaced with self-propelled tracks, I don’t remember. There was also a 280 mm gun battery located on base. It had two guns, which were towed by independent “A” and “B” units. I was impressed with the gun’s enormous size upon its hooking up with its towing units each month when ALERT sounded. Remember those? Hurry up and wait.

A few of the names in the FDC section that I remember are: PFC Floyd Pettijohn from Missouri, who was assigned to our section as executive officer driver; PFC Gilbert Diaz, a Mexican man from Texas, who manned the radio; SP/4 Dale Dinger, the horizontal and vertical chart operator; and SP/5 Yarbrough, chief computer of firing data and section chief, until I replaced him when he rotated back to the States. He was from the New Albany, Indiana (area), and became a fireman after he got out.

Another name and good friend of mine was Ron Comstock. He was in Service Battery and rotated on the same day as me. We bought civilian clothes in New York City when we got out, partied and drank for several days, and otherwise spent our mustering-out pay on women before parting separate ways home. He and I nearly reenlisted for warrant officer helicopter school in April 1964, naively not knowing about the escalating war in Vietnam. Luckily, we didn’t re-up. But twenty years later, when I located Ron in Rochester, New York, I discovered that he was a disabled combat veteran. A short time after we got out of the Army, he decided to reenlist, but as an officer. He felt a genuine calling to serve his country in its effort to fight communism in Vietnam, but was cut down in a firefight by machine gun bullets across his knees.

Marty Pesek worked in Headquarters Battery survey section. He and I became good friends and college roommates at Youngstown College when I got out in 1964. Another guy, a happy-go-lucky Italian named Frank Ceranni, hailed from New Jersey. I nicknamed him “Ming,” and we shared a personal phrase, a saying between us when we both agreed on a subject. “Straight,” we’d say laughing, while we flattened out our hands towards each other.

I remember one guy in Headquarters Battery who smuggled a fraulein into his barracks room that faced a railroad track behind the building. She wore his green Army rain poncho over her head and walked up the tracks to the soldier’s room, where he pulled her up through the window and plunked her down gently on his bunk. Das ist sehr gut!

Another time my buddy and I were in München dancing mit frauleins. We got caught up in the fun, forgot about the time (we probably didn’t care), and had to catch the last train to Dachau, which was not good, especially if you had no money for a taxi. It took thirty minutes to walk from the Dachau train station to base, which was too long to get back in time for bed check. In desperate straits to beat the clock on that very foggy night, he and I decided to take a taxi anyway, knowing we had no money to pay the fare. When the taxi stopped in front of battalion headquarters on the quadrangle, we bolted into the dense fog, disappearing quickly into the dark night, then circled around to the back door of our building and got to our rooms in time for bed check. For the next twenty minutes, I could hear the taxi driver repeatedly honking his horn. I guess the CQ finally came out to see what the matter was, because in the morning when we fell out for work call, the first sergeant made an announcement concerning the unsavory deed committed against Kamerad taxi driver. Nothing became of the incident, but it was the last time I took the last train from Munich to Dachau.

One Friday evening at the enlisted men’s club, a pretty young fraulein sat at a table with another soldier. I asked her to dance and soon got to know Ingeborg, a short haired blond with an attractive figure and friendly smile. After dancing several times — and with her assurance that she was not romantically involved with the other soldier — we made a date to meet in the Munich Bahnhof (train station) the following week. I worried about being stood up after waiting twenty minutes beyond our scheduled meeting time, but she hobbled in late on a pair of crutches with a plaster cast around her ankle. She had twisted it a few days earlier. Inge and I became more than friends and wrote each for several years after I rotated back to the States. The last letter I got from her included pictures from her wedding. She married a dentist with two children.

Auf Wiedersehen

This article in response to an earlier article submitted by Spec 4 Timothy J. Richards that I had found on the "US Army in Germany, 1945-1989" website in February 2009. Tim and I served together in the 2nd Howitzer Battalion, 37th Field Artillery, 7th Army, APO 108, Dachau, Germany, from the early to near mid 1960’s. After discovering his article we have since communicated with each another.

Dear Tim,

While I was visiting a long time friend in Kansas who was dying of cancer, he helped me discover our old army unit at Dachau, Germany. When I saw your name on the Walter Elkins’ website, I went nuts. I could not believe my eyes! But things looked dim, since there were no addresses of people who wrote about their units. I had told my older brother and this friend in Kansas that Tim should remember me, and I could tell him a couple of stories.

If you don't quite remember me, I’ll tell you a couple of stories. I was outside the mess hall visiting with another fellow. You and PFC Floyd Pettijohn were having some words, when Floyd took a small swing at you. You quickly hugged him, securing your arms around his body, and said "cool down baby," avoiding a fight and probably extra duty.

Here's the other story. One day when I was in the motor pool, you were working on something and needed your 2½ ton FDC truck. I volunteered to get it; you said ok. I had to drive from one outside area of the motor pool to another outside area through a building with two doors to reach the other side where you were waiting. As I speedily traveled through the door openings, I tore the canvas on the driver’s side of the vehicle all the way down, about ten feet I guess. I thought that was it for me! You came to my rescue and fixed it, saving me from who knows what.

Here are some of my memories while stationed in Dachau.

For the record, I arrived at Dachau in October 1962, coming from “A” Battery, 1 st Howitzer Battalion, 14 th Artillery, 2 nd Armored Division, Fort Hood, Texas, and remained at Dachau until our battalion rotated back to Fort Carson, Colorado, in July 1964. A short time before our battalion gyroed back to the states we closed out our assignment under the 2nd Howitzer Battalion, 37th Artillery, 7th Army, remained the same Battalion, and then became the 35th Artillery, 5th Army. The rumor was our old colors were being retired.

I was assigned to Staff Sgt. Leon Lido's unit upon arrival. Our track driver was Philip Maxey and our gunner was buck Sgt. Gaines. Other members of this unit were PFC’s Royal Gant, Charles Vincent, and Morrell. I don’t remember his first name but he was from Texas. Gaines and Gants were black fellows. Gants and I got along real well. I did not get along with Staff Sgt. Lido and was later reassigned to SFC Sgt. Duke's unit and bunked with Frank Ceranni of New York. As I recall, Tim Richards and Frank Ceranni left for home in advance of the battalion being gyroed back to the states. Spec 4 Hector Rosado Diaz was our track driver. He was another New Yorker. I think we had PFC Ron Okerson in our unit as well? He was a short but stocky fellow. I remember Spec. 4 Ron Comstock too. Three others I don’t want to forget are First Sgt. John P. Wilson, SFC James H. Francis, and Spec. 5 Ron Yarbrough. What a classy guy. We had a lot of fun for about one year before he went home.

Two other track drivers I remember were Spec. 4’s Rosie (cannot remember his first name) and, I believe, Ernest Hickey. They went home early as well. Another was PFC Owen. Toward the end we hung around together. We played a lot of pinnacle at the servicemen’s club on the weekends. Tim Richards played there too. A buck Sgt. named Hatfield (a tall slender fellow) was in charge of the ammo and arms room, but Spec. 4 Purdy ran it. A short fellow named PFC Huber was in the ammo unit. I remember 2 nd Lt. Hill. He was easy to converse with. His genuine respect and politeness to lower-ranking personnel was fantastic.

Another person I think of several times a week was a black fellow named PFC Swales. I forget which battery he was in. Here’s the story. One day while on guard mount, I just got off duty and came into the guard house located in the basement of battalion headquarters when the staff duty sergeant advised me and others coming off guard that a civilian taxi roared through the main gate without stopping. The sergeant wanted a couple of volunteers to head out in the ¾ ton truck to apprehend the cab. I passed on this and went into the guard house. Within just a few minutes, one of the people who rode in the truck came running into the guard house saying they got in an automobile accident and needed an ambulance. Several of us ran out and found the ¾ turned over on its side. We were told that the cab was coming head-on toward the truck. The truck swerved and landed on its side. PFC Swales was thrown out from the back of the vehicle headfirst onto the pavement. His helmet liner was off and he was moaning and groaning while waiting for help. The next morning our battery executive officer 1 st Lt. Mike Lombardo had a special formation in our day room advising us that PFC Swales had died. Talk about feeling low! Swales was a real nice fellow. He kept talking about the girlfriend he was going to marry when he went home in a few months.

During the fall of 1963 our service club put on dances every Friday night for several weekends. A German band was brought in and 4-5 German ladies were picked up and brought to and from our post by PFC Pughs in an Army staff car. On one Friday Pugh asked me if I wanted to make the Munich to and from run with him. I said yes. Off we went. After leaving the service club and dropping off the girls in Munich, Pughs asked if we go in and out of a couple of Kasernes. Sure, why not. I was in the back seat with civilian clothes on. As we drove in and out of these two Kasernes I said to Pugh that I thought I was getting some real sharp salutes from the gate guards and wondered why. He burst out laughing and told me that when we dropped off the last couple of girls he took off a canvas cover covering a two star general plate that was mounted to the front bumper. After having some sharp words with him we both laughed all the way back to our post.

I went on a bowling tournament to Schwabisch Hall with our assistant executive officer in his vintage VW. We were gone about a week. He didn’t talk very much. I stayed with him in the officer quarters at that post. Everyone was always saluting me in my civilian clothes. I’m sure this is because of where we were staying. Although we won nothing, it was quite an experience. I cannot remember the officer’s name.

One day in the summer of 1963, our entire battalion was doing personal training on the grounds behind our barracks’ building. One of the tasks our battery was doing was the horizontal rungs. These were overhead bars off the ground staggered about every 18 inches apart, 15 feet long. I had just completed 110 rungs. As soon as I let go to jump to the ground, my hands felt like they were on fire. It was a warm day. All of the skin on both of my hands peeled off my palms. How they hurt! I immediately headed for the dispensary located near the main gate. My hands were treated and wrapped up by Capt. Doc Weaver himself. He was a swell person. We bowled in a league together on the post.

On another day in the summer of 1963, a few months before I went to demolition school, I was picked to serve as a guard on the post main gate for 30 days. The two fellows I served with on my watch were PFC’s Spears and Meebach from HQ’s battery. We all got along great and had a fun time. I remember the three of us having visited the off-limits DP camp (displayed persons). What a sight! They were the smallest living quarters I had ever seen. Everything was in one room.

Also, we observed the building that housed prisoners during the war. The building was long and narrow and had about a dozen wooden jail cells. There was straw scattered about the floors. I was thinking back to the early WWII, thinking what life was like in the camp. I felt goose bumps for a short while.

In December of 1963, I was taking it easy in the day room. As I began to sit and get comfy, I picked up an October or November issue of Saturday Evening Post magazine, and as I started to thumb through it, I stumbled across an article about a murder in my home town. It was the Carol Thompson murder case. To this date our Minnesota Historical Society considers this to be the state’s number one all-time murder case.

While I was attending the Demolition and Mine Warfare School in Murnau, Germany, not far from beautiful Oberammergau, I hitched a ride home on the last Saturday in August 1963 for pay day. It was a beautiful day and it was fun to see my friends. On the next morning, around 2 a.m., we had our monthly alert. I decided not to do anything but standby and watch everyone hustle. All of a sudden SFC Francis came up to me and asked why I wasn’t helping with anything. I told him I was on TDY and should report back to that unit. He said, “You’re staying here. Now get moving.” So, I got what I was responsible for, and away we went into the dark of night.

It was sometime during the early part of the winter of 1963 that we again had another one of our monthly alerts. This one came on an early Sunday morning (about 2 a.m.) and turned out to be thoroughly embarrassing? Our battalion executive officer Maj. Philips took us to a location where all of our tracks got stuck in deep snow, like in a low valley. We couldn’t move an inch. Talk about being sitting ducks for the enemy. We most definitely needed the big retriever to pull us out. It took almost all night.

I remember riding in our tracks in the early mornings down the streets of Dachau during our monthly alerts with our gun tops open like convertibles during all the weather climates? How about the one-month, once a year field training during the summer at Grafenwoehr, Germany, and one-month, once a year training in the winter months at Hohensfels, Germany? This later site was near the Czechoslovakian border.

When our battalion left Dachau for the last time in route to the USA, the departure site, when leaving the post on an old steam locomotive with its cars in tow, was definitely a sight beyond anyone’s imagination. In the beginning, the train arrived at our post around the 1st part of May 1964, pushing flat cars, box cars, and passenger cars across the post, closing down the street that ran parallel with the canal. It stretched out from along the side of the main gate to just beyond battalion headquarters. The train used the same track it used during World War II when bringing prisoners into the camp. Although the cars sat idle and empty for several days, once the loading of the guns and equipment began, it left me with an unusual feeling. On our day of departure from Camp Dachau, it was sunny and beautiful. German civilians and other soldiers from the engineering battalion on our post were stretched out along the tracks waving at us and throwing flowers. Handkerchiefs were galore and tears were falling from the faces of many people. As the engine began to huff and puff and the cars started moving, I felt alone and empty. The loss of 500 troops to the City of Dachau had to be devastating. Oh! how I wish I had a photograph of this departure. Does anyone out there have one? I’d pay dearly for one! We were now heading for Munich to get an electric engine and then head to Bremerhaven, Germany, to catch our troop ship home to the states on the General William O. Darby. After five days at sea, we reached New York where some of us went on leave, including me, for a few weeks before reporting to Fort Carson, Colorado, with less than six months to go before being discharged from the service after a three-year hitch.

After my two-week leave and returning back to Fort Carson, I had noticed that our daily schedules were different than the other troops around us. They did PT (physical training) in the morning, including running around the block. It wasn’t too long afterwards we were complaining about how much free time we had. Things then changed. I remember it was a Friday afternoon and some kind of holy day. A lot of fellows in our unit were just getting ready to go to a one-hour afternoon church service of different denominations, when SFC James Francis came running out of the orderly room yelling, “What’s going on? Where’s everyone going?” Some of the guys responded “Were going to church sergeant.” Sgt. Francis was as mad as one could be. He immediately called “attention” and ordered everyone to fall in for formation. He said, “Who said you could all go to church?” One guy replied, “Jesus says we should go to church on all holy days.” Sgt. Francis then yelled on the top of his lungs, “I’m Jesus Christ, you to listen to me!” That drew a 1000 laughs. Nobody went to church.

I was 21 when I left the service in January 1965. First Lieutenant Mike Lombardo was promoted to captain and became our new company commander at Fort Carson. I always felt his face was a close resemblance to movie actor Glenn Ford.

In closing, I’m grateful for finding Tim Richards’ article and having talked to him at length on the telephone. I do plan on visiting Tim this summer. I can hardly wait to see him. For decades I’ve wondered what happened to him and so many other friends I had at Dachau. One would think you would bump into someone from our battalion somewhere, sometime. I regret not having taken addresses back then. Here's my number in St. Paul, Minnesota: 1-651-739-9788 for anyone who wishes to contact me. I’d love to talk to you and maybe share some old stories. If you do not want to call, but would like to write me, you can reach me at my e-mail address, jpk2249(at).com. (Webmaster Note: replace the '(at)' with the '@' sign.)