A Tanker’s War: From High School Student to Sherman Gunner on the Front Lines of Europe

The first time he pulled the Sherman tank’s trigger as a gunner, he understood what it meant to take a life. As a loader, he had slammed shells into the breech without knowing what—or who—the tank was firing at. But when he moved into the gunner’s seat, lined up the crosshairs, and felt the heavy kick of the gun under his foot, the reality hit him. He would kill someone. It wasn’t easy at first. But once the enemy fired back—once his own tank was blown apart—that hesitation vanished. War had changed him.

His journey into that turret began years earlier, on a peaceful day in high school. He had spent the afternoon watching a movie with his closest friend. When they returned, his friend’s father, a doctor, met them at the door with a grave expression. “Pearl Harbor has been attacked,” he said. “We’ll be at war.” From that moment, everything shifted. He and his classmates finished school, took whatever jobs they could, and waited for the draft. By January, he expected his friends to be called up before him. Confident in his own cleverness, he volunteered to join the next group. Ironically, he departed first—his friends came later.

The Army shipped him from a train station in Wheeling, West Virginia, to Fort Hayes in Columbus. One night he was in his civilian clothes; the next morning he stood in a long line of bare, shivering recruits, handing over his belongings, receiving shots, giving urine samples, and being outfitted with Army boots and uniforms. His father had warned him not to mention his job driving trucks for Royal Crown Cola. “If they know you’re a truck driver,” his father cautioned, “they’ll keep you behind the wheel. Tell them you’re a student—they might send you to school.” So when he was asked his preference, he said, “Anything without a steering wheel.”

The assigning officer, knowing full well this young man was a truck driver, handed him his orders with a smirk. When the recruit climbed off the truck at his destination and asked someone what kind of unit it was, the answer came back: “Tanks.” So much for avoiding vehicles. He later joked that the officer was probably still laughing somewhere—Sherman tanks didn’t have steering wheels, only levers.

He was placed in Headquarters Company, 2nd Battalion, 80th Armored Regiment of the 8th Armored Division. There he learned the cramped, unforgiving layout of a Sherman tank: the driver and bow gunner in the hull; the loader, gunner, and tank commander in the turret. Space was scarce, and escape hatches were few. At night in combat zones, no one got out. They slept inside, propped up against steel walls with blankets wedged into corners.

He crossed the Atlantic on the Queen Elizabeth, landing in Scotland on D-Day. After training in Wells, Somerset, he shipped to France about a month after the Normandy landings. Assigned as a loader to an experienced crew, he relied on a single rotating periscope to see the world outside. The veterans in the tank rarely discussed what had become of their previous loader. He didn’t ask.

The unit moved quickly across France, circling Paris, then advancing toward Mons, Belgium, where they helped surround and capture large groups of German soldiers. Contact with the enemy varied. His first close look at a German soldier was a frightened teenage prisoner clutching a crucifix. He had wanted to tell the boy he would be fed and protected, but spoke no German. Once actual combat began, empathy faded; the Germans were seasoned and ruthless, and his job was survival.

His first tank was destroyed in battle. A shell ripped through the turret at the level of the gunner and tank commander, killing both instantly. Their bodies collapsed in the narrow space, blocking his only exit. With no hatch of his own, he had to crawl under the recoil guard to escape, blood from his wounded leg soaking through his uniform. A light tank crew bandaged him before he sprinted to safety and was eventually treated at a field hospital. The next day—less than 24 hours after losing his tank—he was back on the front line with a replacement vehicle and an almost entirely reassembled crew.

During the Battle of the Bulge, the fighting grew more savage. German SS units under Colonel Peiper were under orders to take no prisoners. Survival depended on firing first. His task force was later sent to relieve the surrounded “Band of Brothers,” the paratroopers of the 101st Airborne. As his column descended a hill toward a T-intersection, they met a German column crossing in front of them. The lieutenant ordered a high-explosive round loaded and told the driver to accelerate downhill. At the rear of the German line, a truck towing an 88mm anti-tank gun struggled to unhook its weapon in time.

The Sherman roared forward, gun ready. In war, seconds decided everything.