In my last post I stated that I would write next about my encounter with God on the Yosemite trail. Before I do that I need to give you some important background information. Below is the account my grandfather, John Kellogg, wrote regarding the events leading up to his capture by the Germans in World War II. My aunt Karen sent this to me around Memorial Day this year after I expressed my regret that I never got to know my grandfather.
(unfinished – found papers in his desk)
The morning of Dec. 17th or 18th, memory fails me as to date, I found myself alone with three buddies on the east side of a swift moving stream in the Ardennes, near Clerveau. It had been an exceedingly tough night. The remnants of our battalion had fought all day in a small village east of Clervaux and we had finally been pushed out of the village into the meadow beyond where we dug in for what the morning might bring. The line such as it was had gone far beyond us and as far as we knew we were an isolated unit. We expected nothing but to fight until the end whatever that might be. The outlook was anything but heartening. The village we had just left was but a mass of flame. God knows whatever became of the villagers. The last I saw of them they were all huddled in the basement of the last house in the village. They weren’t a bad bunch. I only hope that when I can look into the face of utter ruin I can be as stoical as they.
To get back to my story : The terrain was fairly well-lighted from the flames of the village and it was possible to see our outfit digging in for quite some distance. We had dug our machine guns in on the perimeter and Johnny Zero, my buddy and I had dug a slit trench nearby and filled it with straw to lie on. We stood guard on the guns for quite some time. When we considered our duty was about up, I endeavored to find our relief. It was quite a job as the ground was covered with slit trenches and the platoons and companies pretty well intermingled. We finally found our relief and then retired to our own private slit trench. Johnny had left his coat with our jeep which was back in the burning village, as were our packs, so my overcoat had to cover the two of us. It had been two nights since I had had any sleep and now I can’t remember whether I dropped off or not, but I recall Lieutenant Mason, our platoon leader telling us to knock our gun down and load it on the jeep of H company and to round up the rest of our boys. As we were pulling out, finding the boys was a difficult job but I know all of our squad was there. The boys burrowed so in the hay in their holes that it was impossible to tell if there was anyone in the holes or not. I missed some of the boys in the other squads and it was difficult to say if some were left sleeping there or not. We finally found one of H Company’s jeeps and loaded the gun. I doubt very much if that jeep ever got back to our lines. Orders were given in a very low tone and passed from one to another. We filed away from the area, single file. Except for the burning village, it was extremely dark and very difficult to maintain contact. The hills in the Ardennes are reforested and covered with drainage ditches. We went down one single file. Our leader found that that way was blocked and we reversed the line of march and fled back to the top of the hill. Originally I had been near the head of the line, but when we reversed file, I was near the end. We slowly filed down another ditch and across a road. Our march was continuously halted as the way would be blocked and we would have to wait until whatever was holding us up moved on. When we finally crossed the road, the crossing was made available by men with bazookas who knocked out jerry patrol tanks which we found burning and exploding on the road. The march at this point was down at a position which might be called a half crouch. We filed down another ditch and eventually came to a railroad. We marched single file along a northerly direction. It was quite misty and here the line moved fast making it more difficult than ever to maintain contact with the man preceding me. Finally the line left the railroad , went over a fence and came to the edge of a swift moving stream. Here things were in what might be called something of a mess. Someone up the line had lost contact in crossing the stream and there were several hundred men milling up and down the stream not knowing what to do. We were in a valley which was paralleled by roads covered by Jerry patrols. These patrols were continually throwing up flares and covering the intermediate area with guns. I decided for myself that I would rather be on the other side of the stream. My sergeant and I picked out what looked like a likely spot to cross and I started out. I’d say at this spot the stream was about ten feet across. I had on my overcoat around which was my ammunition belt and in addition had my Carbine. I took one step which wasn’t too bad, but which informed me that I was up against a terrific current. I took another step and went in over my head and was swiftly swept downstream. As luck would have it my carbine was full and when I finally came to my wits I held that out and Ledycat Eaton, our instrument man, grabbed the butt and pulled me out. All went very fine, but I was still on the wrong side of that stream and time was marching on. Our Section sergeant, Hardy Balls, as we affectionately called him, lined us up and we started to march north along the stream. We marched fast, too fast for me with my soaked clothing and I had to drop out to take off my overcoat. I had a very good coat, by the way, it came nearly to my ankles and when soaked one can well imagine my handicap. By the time I had my ammo belt off, the coat off and the ammo belt back on, the line had disappeared, all except three fellow who stuck with me. These were Sergeant Eaton, our instrument man, Private McCarlay and one of our Ammo bearers, whose name I should well know but memory fails me. We tried to figure out where the boys went but soon found the terrain near the stream impassible and we did not care to march up the track.
The story remains unfinished. From what I recall, my grandfather later stayed behind to help a sickly soldier who was hiding in a barn when the Germans investigated and heard a cough. My grandfather was captured and spent far too long in a prison camp where he was starved to the point of eating his tooth fillings. Eventually he was freed and returned to the States with head full of gray hair. There’s so much more I could write about, but this is sufficient preparation for writing about my encounter with God on the Yosemite trail.