My chance came in April of 1943, when I was drafted into military service. Having had two years of pre-med college education, I was told that I would be sent to medical corp training. Here I learned my FIRST LESSON - the militaries' right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. Due to someone's 'greater wisdom' I ended up in combat engineering basic training at Camp Abbot, Oregon.

Early in 1944 I boarded the H.M.S. - Queen Mary out of the port of New York. She was a fast ship, and could out run any German submarine, so we needed no escort. We did have air coverage the first 2 days out, no coverage the 3rd day, and air coverage from Europe the 4th and 5th days. When we landed in Scotland we were met by Airborne recruiters, Paratroops and Gliders, which were in the redeployment camp. I joined up with the Paratroops and continued my training at Basildon Park, England.

I was there for the invasion of the European Continent on June 6th, 1944, the Netherlands Campaign, Argonne, and Bastogne (the Battle of the Bulge). And I knew Fear. Death was all around me. My early childhood and teen years Southern Baptist background served me well. It was my anchor in the chaos swirling around me. In December of 1944 I was manning a machine gun nest on the road to Arlon, which is the outskirts of Bastogne. It was very cold; my feet, hands, ears, and face all suffered frostbite. The snow was falling and visibility was poor. Hitler youth, dressed in white snow suits, crept up on us. Sgt. Balboui ordered a retreat. I hoisted up my 30 cal. gun and headed back to the protection of a farm house. The assistant gunner carrying the tripod did not make it. Sgt. Balboui was killed while giving covering fire. Friendly mortar rounds where landing all around us. The concussions threw me and my 30 cal. machine gun against a rock building. I was saved from the worst of the fragments by th hedgerow. When I regained consciousness, I was surrounded by German youth soldiers. At that moment, I accepted my death. "Kamrad Kamrad - I surrender."

I spent the rest of the war marching deeper into Germany, from one POW camp to another. We were on a starvation diet, consisting mainly of potatoes. We were strafed daily by friendly fire from air attacks until we convinced the armed guards to allow us to carry large POW signs above our heads.

Liberation came in April of 1945. I looked like a skeleton, weighing only 108 pounds, down from 165 pounds. We were flown to the Port of Le Havre on the coast of France. I boarded the victory ship Alex Graham Bell, and joined the last convoy in the Atlantic. We took the northern route home and were plagued by icebergs. We had a near collision with another ship, which cut across the convoy. All of our lifeboats were knocked off the port side. Our captain came on the loud speaker and told us that if a ship in a convoy had an accident it was on its own, left by the rest of the convoy, So, if we were going home, everyone on board the ship would have to work together to see that we made it. We were the first ship of the convoy to arrive at the Port of New York. What a welcome, Mayor LaGuartia and many dignitaries were present. A Red Cross Lady asked me if there was anything she could do for me. I asked for a bottle of fresh milk. It was the first I had since leaving the USA - it tasted sweeter than honey. Soon I was on a fast train home to Oklahoma and a reunion with my family and childhood friends. How sweet it was.

Upon reflection, I know that I would not have survived without the early childhood Christian training I received from my family and church. It was essential to a personal relationship with God.