The many battles and lives lost during World War II are now a matter of record. Future generations can appreciate the fact that the freedom we now enjoy did not come without a price, the blood of our nation’s young heroes. After all of these years, many veterans have passed on. However, thanks to them, our country is one of the freest nations on earth.

I have now reached the age of 83. As the years passed, I have been fortunate enough to retain a sharp memory of my World War II experiences. Many films have attempted to give their account of what occurs in combat, and, sadly, most of the fictionalized accounts are very inaccurate.

At the time of the Battle of the Bulge, December 16–26, 1944, I was for a short while in Paris. Having been in the Armed Forces since 1940, I felt the need to ask for front-line duty. At that time, I did not have a fear of dying in battle. However, when I arrived in Belgium during the worst blizzard in recent times, I had second thoughts. Of course, it was too late. I was now near the heat of battle, and it was time to do my part for my country.

When I arrive at Elsenborn Ridge, I was assigned to L Company 394th Infantry of the 99th Division. The first orders I had as a sergeant were to set up a defense out in the snow. I asked the commanding officer about the men who were to be assigned to my platoon, and he said, "Sergeant, you are the platoon."

Time passed, and we were walking across the Cologne Plains in Germany. Luck was with our unit because we were following up in the rear of one of our regiments that was fighting miles ahead of us. In the distance we could see the steeple of a church and what remained of the city of Cologne, Germany, on the Rhine River. Night was falling quickly as we turned to the east of the city, which followed the banks of the Rhine. To prove to our division commander that we had really reached the river, one of us filled a bottle of water from it and presented it to him.

Our regiment was in the area of Neivenheim-Gohr on March 7 when, unknown to us, the dramatic message came through from division: "Corps to G3-9th. Armed capture RR bridge at 6520. In good order and convertible. They have one and a half Bn of Infantry across the Rhine River."

We had no way of knowing about the captured bridge as we walked most of the night along the banks of the river. However, as we approached the bridge at Remagen, the Germans were firing their 88s over to our side of the river. I feel that it is only fitting to record here the words of a medic, T/5 James Johnson, who wrote an account of what happened: "The war is moving plenty fast and furious; my hands have been literally steeped in the blood from the wounded. It is pitiful to hear four or five wounded men screaming, ‘Medic! Medic! I’m bleeding to death!’ It is bad enough during the day, but at night a wounded soldier is terrified by the utter separation in the pitch blackness lit only by bursting shells (whether he be German or American). There may be a hell in another world, but this one is sure putting up some stiff competition. Compare ‘fire and brimstone’ with twisted steel and bodies, spattered chunks of brains and intestines, shambled buildings, the screams of shells and the cracks of bullets, the stench of death, the earnest soul-searching prayer of the dying. The longer this war lasts the greater toll and hole this living hell will be cut into humanity."

I wasn’t alone when I felt the fear of death as those 88s kept coming in so near to my platoon. I will never forget jumping into a ditch of water and soft mud in an attempt to get away from them. There I was, covered with mud from head to foot. That I could live with. But when I discovered my M1 rifle filled with mud, I knew I had to find a clean one and fast. I got one from a Jeep driver as we crossed the river. I was still afraid that I would not be able to hit a target with it because I had never zeroed this rifle in.

After that eventful dip in the ditch, we soon were approaching the embankment that led to the rail line. Believe it or not, I thought we would make a mad dash across the bridge, but our company commander gave orders for us to walk across and to be sure to keep our distance. Try to imagine having a migraine headache all day and then finding you have to cross a bridge like this under heavy fire. To relieve my backpack, I dumped most of my equipment except for some ammo, hand grenades, and rifle.

Those truly brave men who tried to keep the bridge in one piece deserve the credit for getting us over to the other side of the river on March 7, 1945. I have often wondered how many of those boys lived to tell their story. From what I remember of the heavy fire as we crossed the river, I doubt that many of those young men survived.

As we approached the other side of the river, we saw the train tunnel which gave us courage to continue on. We thought we could take cover in the tunnel, but instead we turned eastward and walked along the river to find a city that was on fire.

After we crossed the river, we advanced and took more German prisoners. From our vantage point, we could see P38 fighters chasing the German planes away from the bridge. We watched the Ludendorff Bridge as it collapsed on March 17th and saw its crumpled remains in the Rhine River.

The medic James Johnson lived what he wrote. He was at Remagen as the enemy peppered it with high explosives as the 394th walked across. Shells came at the rate of one every 30 seconds that night. The 394th Regiment was one of the first units to cross the Rhine River, and they are an example of the individual heroism of men risking their lives to keep traffic flowing across the bridge as they treated and evacuated casualties and rallied the shell-shocked soldiers.

I hope that this essay will be kept as a record for future generations. I have heard and read about how brave soldiers are in combat, but, honestly, I was scared as never before or since, and being only human, I was afraid to die on a foreign battlefield.

I am writing this account of the crossing of the Remagen Bridge while my mind is still clear. Age is taking its toll on me. I am now almost 84 years old. I crossed the bridge when I was 29.

Leo J. Ghirardi was raised in Doric Lodge No. 205, Morgan City, LA, and became a 32° member of the Baton Rouge, LA, Scottish Rite Bodies in 1960. He has conducted some 76 Masonic memorial services for his Lodge. A veteran of World War II, he first saw front-line duty at the Battle of the Bulge. He is retired from the paint business and has applied for patents on several potentially important inventions.