Rothacker C. Smith Jr.

World War II veteran Rothacker C. Smith Jr. in his Pine Forge home in September 1999. He's shown with the shirt he was wearing when he was wounded in Sommocolonia, Italy. (Morning Call file photo)

I got the water and, returning to the house, placed the bucket over a fire in the fireplace. The mortar shelling intensified, and three of us in the room had our helmets on.

Our platoon sergeant was standing in front of a shuttered window, drinking water from a dipper. A private was standing near the fireplace. I was bending over to retrieve my aid kit pack from against the wall opposite the window.

A 120mm mortar shell hit the window, and the explosion sprayed into the room.


I felt as if a force slammed me against the wall. I could hear metal clang against my helmet. A piece of shrapnel hit my right cheek. A piece of glass embedded itself under my eye. Something made a cut on my earlobe.

Another piece hit my elbow and made my right hand useless for about three days. One piece entered my back near the right shoulder blade and traveled about 5 inches toward my spine. Four or five pieces, mostly parts of the tail fins, entered my upper leg just below the hip bone on my right side. There were other minor cuts.

The sergeant had some holes in his chest, a hole in his upper thigh that a 4 by 4 bandage did not cover, and the little finger on his right hand was hanging by a piece of skin.

The private had a small cut on the back of his head.

We could look out of the window that the mortar shell had opened for us and see German soldiers in the dawning light.

I had to bandage the sergeant, using my left hand and my teeth to tie the bandages. No one could dress my wounds.

Very soon we heard feet running past the door of our house -- a group of partisans in retreat. Then we heard voices speaking German.

Men were screaming, bullets were ricocheting and the rest of the squad members told us that they were going to try to make it out of the back of the building. I don't know how many of them made it.

The Germans placed a machine gun in front of our door, firing it into the town. They then advanced it, and then we could hear them winding up a field telephone and shouting over it. Every once in a while, they would kick the front door of our house and shout something, but they did not enter.

From the time I had gotten hit, I was trying to pray, trying to make things right between me and my maker.

I knew that if my wounds didn't kill me, or I didn't bleed to death, I would be shot by the Germans. We had been told that the Germans did not take black prisoners.

The Bible says that it is given to man once to die, and after that, the judgment. I was trying to get ready for that judgment.

What with the battle going on, trying to dress another man's wounds, and feeling my blood running down my arm and my legs, I was having a hard time concentrating on a conversation with Jesus. Also was the terrible feeling that I had been neglecting him by not having kept the channel between me and heaven open.

The sounds of the battle receded as the Germans took the whole village. A little later, we heard the sounds of the women and girls of the town being escorted toward the German rear. Every now and then our front door would be kicked or knocked upon, but no one entered the house that day.

I don't know how long it took, but I finally received from heaven the peace that comes when one gives himself completely into God's hands and asks him for forgiveness.

Then I wasn't afraid anymore.

But I did not want to suffer pain. I was still praying that our men would rally to drive the Germans back and rescue us, but I wasn't afraid to die, and, whatever happened, Jesus would be with me. We heard shelling from our own artillery. Two shots were directed onto our position.