I went through Basic and since I was big enough to meet the requirements for a paratrooper, I went on to jump training at the Fort Benning base in Georgia. That lasted about nine weeks. Parachutes sure were different back then. We came blasting through the air about 18 feet per second, much faster than the drop rate today.

The thought of losing the war never entered my mind. We were schooled much like a football team. You know, we believed that the Americans were bigger and stronger than the enemy. So did the brass. I remember the story of the military heads meeting with Eisenhower the night before the invasion. In Bastogne, France, General McAuliffe was given a note by a German General who asked him if we wanted to concede defeat. McAuliffe responded, "You’re Nuts!" The German General replied that he didn't know what that meant. General McAuliffe explained that meant, "Go to Hell!"

My first jump was during the invasion of Normandy and my job was to jump and clear Omaha Beach so the ships could land and invade. I was able to do what I was supposed to do. I was part of the 101^st Division of 10,000 paratroopers who jumped into Normandy. One paratrooper who came down landed on a steeple and pretended he was dead. The jump sight had been miscalculated and he, along with a lot of other guys, came down in the middle of a town and most of them were cut to pieces. When it was safe, he was helped down by the townspeople. To this day, they have a dummy of the American on that steeple to commemorate the invasion.

In between jumps we were in training camps, honing up on our combat skills and practicing our jumps. We got to relax a little and enjoy some entertainment. Sonja Heine, the figure skater and movie star, visited us once.

My third jump into the Rhineland was my last, because near Essen, Germany, 13 days after my jump, I was severely wounded. I got hit with a mortar shell on my right arm, leg and side. I was taken to a hospital in Verdun, France and spent four months there. When a mortar shell explodes the steel breaks apart and I still carry some small pieces of shrapnel in my leg. A fellow Kansan operated on me while I was there. Turns out he was a friend of my wife’s family.

My parents were Slovenian and though they forbid me to speak the language at home, I could understand it. While I was in the hospital, a Russian pilot who had been shot down was brought there too. I served as his interpreter and he was really glad to have me there. Parents at home were constantly afraid of getting a Western Union telegram, which either stated your son was injured, or worse, had been killed in action.

I was still in the hospital on both VE and VJ Day. They were trying to rehabilitate my leg enough for me to return to combat. I was glad it was over.

Once I returned home, I spent another three months in a hospital in Colorado before I was discharged. I went into town after my discharge and bought a wool suit to wear home. That suit ended up stretching out so badly I could have carried my lunch in the knees!

My happiest moment came on the 4^th of July, 1945, when we came into New York Harbor and I set my eyes of the Statue of Liberty. It was good to be home.

Several years ago I made a trip back to Europe to retrace my steps through the war. I came across a lady in France who thanked me for liberating her country. That made me feel good. There is a cemetery at Omaha Beach in Normandy with the graves of the nearly 10,000 Americans who lost their lives during the invasion. In my unit of 150 guys, only 13 of us survived, and I’m grateful to be one of them.