For 56 years I have been haunted by the memory of a human leg, torn off at the knee, sticking out of a soldier’s combat boot. The grisly limb was on a pile of bloody GI field jackets, trousers, helmet liners and boots at a French village in Normandy on January 17, 1945. Near the pile of debris lay two long rows of bodies — one row for the dead, one for the injured. The able-bodied scurried about and searched frantically for blankets and first-aid kits. It was, no doubt, a sight commonplace on the battlefield, but this was not a scene of combat. This scene of death and destruction was a train wreck, and these were the bodies of men who had been on the Continent for only about six hours.

By late December 1944, the initial success of Adolf Hitler’s Ardennes offensive spurred the Americans to ship all available reinforcements to the European Theater of Operations (ETO). Army units of all descriptions hastened to complete their training in the United States and were ordered to Europe instead of their original destinations in the Pacific. The first convoy to proceed directly to France from the United States cast off from New York on January 1, 1945.

Among the ships carrying personnel and war material in that first convoy was Henry Gibbons. She had been built in 1943 as a troop transport, and New Year’s Day saw her loaded with armor, medical, engineer and quartermaster units. Sleeping arrangements belowdecks were cramped and uncomfortable, and meals were served only twice a day. Most soldiers, having trained together as a unit, stuck with their group during the voyage. Cards and gambling brought some of the men together, but the real social catalysts were the 40 nurses who were also on board. The nurses helped to forge friendships across unit lines and danced with the men to all the music played by impromptu bands formed during the voyage.

The largest outfit on board was the 782nd Tank Battalion. Sporting a reputation as the best-trained group of tankers in the Army, it was made up of 695 enlisted men and 42 officers. Next in size was my own unit, the 134th Evacuation Hospital, numbering 388: 40 nurses, 35 doctors, a warrant officer, 305 enlisted men and seven medical administrative officers — of which I was one. The 1471st Engineer Maintenance Company and the 565th Quartermaster Railhead Company followed us in size. Finally there was the 553rd Ambulance Company, consisting of 80 men and three officers.

By the time Henry Gibbons came into Le Havre, France, on January 16, there was an atmosphere of friendly familiarity aboard. However, the discomfort of a lengthy voyage in stormy seas made the troops anxious to disembark and get on with their wartime responsibilities.

My unit was called first. Once down the gangplank, we were loaded onto waiting trucks. We understood that being the first to get off and loaded onto trucks was special treatment due to the presence of the nurses in our ranks. Nevertheless, it was not an easy trip. We sat on hard wooden benches in the back of open trucks with only a canvas covering overhead as we rode through darkened villages in a freezing wind. We were en route to a newly activated staging camp named, as they all were, for a popular American cigarette brand.

We arrived at Camp Lucky Strike at 2 a.m. and were assigned to tents pitched on the frozen ground. Miserable and complaining, we bedded down as best we could. Our bedrolls were back with the rest of the troops, but we opened up the musette bags we carried, which contained extra socks and underwear, toilet kits, a blanket and half a canvas pup tent. We officers chivalrously gave our blankets to the nurses and wrapped ourselves in the thin shelter halves, which did little to help us through the cold night.

Back in Le Havre, Henry Gibbons was relieved of the rest of her cargo of men and materiel. The troops came down the gangplank into a grim and silent port. Quietly, unit by unit, they trudged from the dock in biting cold to the railroad station through streets strewn with rubble of the war-damaged port city.

It was 11 p.m. when Lieutenant Reed Morse of Company C, 782nd, marched his platoon away from Henry Gibbons. At the station they were loaded into ‘Forty and Eights,’ French boxcars built to carry 40 men or eight horses. The forward 24 cars of the train were wood, with sliding side doors and single pairs of wheels at either end. Simple couplings linked the cars, which were fitted with rounded steel bumpers to absorb the force of stops. As uncomfortable as these unheated railroad cars were, they were welcome refuge from the wind and rain. Lieutenant Morse and 20 of his men climbed into one of the boxcars toward the front of the train. Other units from Henry Gibbons loaded in turn as they arrived at the station.

Trained in the repair and maintenance of heavy rolling stock, Lieutenant David Matteson and the members of the 1471st were not impressed by the French boxcars. The 1471st’s Sergeant Lowell Sell vividly remembered the events of that night: ‘The 4th Squad of the 2nd Maintenance Platoon was given an empty car, Number 13. Thinking we had plenty of room, this seemed lucky, so we spread out over the floor. Suddenly, the door slid open and two groups from the tank outfit filled our car. Fortunately, our squad decided to stay in a group. We moved in tight, sitting with our backs against the front of the car. Stafford was on my right, while Schonce was in the corner and on my left. Our 4th Squad and the tankers were jammed in tight. I remember a major in their group at the left side sliding door.’

Meanwhile, the 553rd Ambulance Company climbed onto the train. The four officers and 170 men of the 656th Quartermaster Railhead Company were among the last to arrive. Activated in March 1944, they were well prepared for their mission to distribute rations to units operating on the front lines. Sergeant Horace Wesche recalled, ‘We boarded the train near midnight in cold rain turning to snow.’ Arriving at the station after most of the other units, they were allotted the metal cars at the rear of the train.

After what seemed like a wait of hours, around 2 a.m. the engine jerked the cars into motion and Troop Train 2980 began to roll. The men removed their steel helmets and used their field packs as back cushions. The cold, the train’s uneven motion and the hard floor guaranteed a sleepless ride.

They did not know that their impatience to get underway was matched by that of the officials who were responsible for the train’s schedule. The pressure was on. During January 1945, Le Havre had become the principal debarkation point in the ETO. Within a two-week period, the capacity of the port was almost doubled. Not far away, Camp Lucky Strike was designated the largest staging camp in Western Europe, with room for 66,000 military personnel. The plan was to move GIs by truck or rail from the port to the camp, where they were to remain about six weeks to assemble equipment and prepare for movement to the front.

Hard-driving Maj. Gen. Frank S. Ross, the ETO’s chief of transportation, demanded that the troop trains move quickly. Any delay had to be explained in detail to transportation officials.

Troop Train 2980 was no exception. To assure continuous operation along the train’s route, a second engineer and fireman rested behind the coal car in a passenger car equipped with a small stove and bunks. The train’s two French crews rotated duty under the direction of a U.S. Army transportation officer. An English locomotive powered number 2980, drawing 45 Forty and Eight boxcars — 24 wooden cars with well-worn mechanical brakes and 21 steel cars in better mechanical shape. In the face of wartime demands, the British engine had been placed in service without a speedometer or speed-recorder.

After departing Le Havre, the train crawled the 32 miles east to Motteville. It took five hours to cover the distance. A rest stop at Motteville allowed the engine crews to rotate duties. Some soldiers warmed themselves by exercising along the tracks while cocoa and doughnuts were served to the engine’s crew. During the pause, one engineer took a moment to protest about what he considered the engine’s poor brakes, but he was reassured by his superior that there was nothing to worry about and sent on his way to St. Vaast. The stop at St. Vaast brought additional queries from the concerned engineer about brake safety, but he was again ignored and told to head for St. Valery.

Sergeant Sell remembered: ‘The night was long and cold. It seemed like most of the night the train moved very slowly or was stopped a lot. I supposed the devastated rail yards we crossed made movement difficult. It appeared that after daybreak we did move a little faster and more steadily, perhaps 10-15 miles an hour.’

The train stopped and started, swayed and creaked through the early morning. Twice it stopped in villages and soldiers climbed on board, yelling to nearby buddies and smoking. Dawn broke while they were at one stop. The engine was uncoupled and sent to the rear of the train. It now took off in another direction, with the engine leading what had been the rear. The engine was later returned to its previous position.

Toward the front of the train, Sergeant Julius Farney asked Lieutenant Morse, ‘Lieutenant, how long will we be in this cattle car?’ ‘Sergeant,’ responded the lieutenant, ‘your guess is as good as mine. But if you think about it we’ll have to stop somewhere to get our tanks and equipment, so relax.’

A few minutes after resuming the trip, the train seemed to pick up speed. The men of the tank battalion agreed that things were finally progressing. Troops in the other cars opened the sliding doors and sat with their legs dangling out. Lieutenant Morse’s men worked to open their door, but it was stuck tight, so they settled back to await the end of the ride.

The six miles of track from St. Vaast sloped unforgivingly to St. Valery and the English Channel. Although the engineer appreciated the need to limit his speed, his brakes did not respond adequately, and the train gradually gained momentum. The cars with air brakes slowed, but the rest gained speed and neutralized the engineer’s efforts. The engine and trailing cars soon began to weave and sway. With brakes on, sparks flew from the wheels and tracks. The engineer blasted his whistle, but the troops on the train, joyful to finally be moving, ignored the warning.

In car 13, Sergeant Sell’s platoon noticed: ‘After one stop, perhaps this is when the train relief crew took over, we did finally move faster, maybe 20-25 mph. We all commented that it would not be long now. Soon we began to move much faster and we were pleased.’ Sergeant Wesche in the quartermaster company recalled, ‘The train moved slowly most of the night, but about 10 a.m. on the 17th it picked up speed.’

The acceleration, however, soon began to seem excessive. The cars started to rock and the snowbound countryside flew by. Gaining speed on the downhill grade, the whole train pitched and rocked, building momentum every minute. The relief crew in their rest car realized the rate of speed and motion was dangerous. In preparation for an impeding crash they wrapped themselves in their bedrolls and lay against the wall of their car. Horrified at the sound and sight of the train hurtling toward their town, the villagers in St. Valery crossed themselves and watched the troops sitting happily in some of the boxcar doors, legs and feet hanging out.

As the train picked up even more speed, Sell realized ‘the car was skipping on the tracks. Then there was this jerking and lunging. Then the sense of being airborne.’ There was a squeal of metal on metal, and sparks were now flying from around the wheels. The men in Sell’s car could see other men jumping. When Lieutenant Morse’s car began to pitch and rock, he tried again to open the sliding door, but it would not budge and he shouted to his tankers, ‘You men put on your helmets!’ Suddenly, the screech of metal on metal pierced the car. There was a scramble — and then a crash.

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