This is an excerpt from a letter sent from my grandfather, Franklin Hepworth, back home to the States. It ran in a local newspaper at the time. Part of this letter recounts the events that earned Grandpa a silver star.

I came back here to the rear guard this morning. I sprang my foot and so have to stay off it for some time. They would have sent me to the hospital but I was afraid that in case I'd be sent to a new outfit instead of my own and so asked to come here and be carried along just so I won't have to be on my feet.

You see, what actually happened is that I had an argument with an 88 up here in the front... but three more takes his side before I could get any on my side. Well, my tank sits by the side of the road but so do four 88's. Two of my men went to the hospital and 50 of their men went to (hell, I'm afraid), at least they'll never be able to argue with an American soldier again. I figure that's a pretty good ratio - two of ours wounded to 50 of theirs killed. Only I hate it for my men.

I was leading in the point vehicle when this 88 appeared. I started at him and was stopped by one in front of me. I started bailing out. A captain on top jumped off the rear. By the time I was in the ditch, three shells had hit my tank. I looked up to see if my men had gotten out and saw one tumbling from the tank. He rolled in the ditch. I noticed that one never came out and the tank was ablaze.

Then I heard a scream for help from inside. Machine gun bullets whittled off the tank and flames shot from the turret. I yelled back "I can't do a thing." Another yell came: "Someone's got to help me." I turned to the captain and said "Captain, I can't do a thing" and he said "I know you can't, Heppy".

Then I saw a hand wave above the tank and yelled, "Oh my God, give me strength. Stay those shells. Oh my God, my God, help! Give me time, give me courage."

As I yelled this, I climbed the tank, reached down, pulled out my leader - minus both his legs. He was still conscious. When I saw the condition he was in, I said, "Oh my God, he'll bleed to death." My leader said "We've got to get down from here." I called back, "I know it. Oh my God, help, I can't, he'll bleed to death (Many afterward said that they heard me cursing, but I told them they may have heard me from praying and I wasn't ashamed of it either)." I jumped from the tank and lay him in the ditch, thinking, "He'll bleed to death before we can help. But thank God he won't burn to death."

I dashed up to see how the other man was that had tumbled off the tank and rolled into the ditch. I thought that I could at least save him. I found his wounds fairly slight and yelled to tha captain if we could get my loader to help. His answer was "Sure can." He ran his jeep up. Several men loaded him into the jeep and the captain drove like mad to the rear about a mile where our doctor was. There two medical men put tourniquets on while the doctor gave him a unit of blood plasma.

All this was done in 10 minutes from the time the shell hit our tank. The report came back, "He is doing fine. He has never lost consciousness and is talking and looking well." Oh how I thanked God for His strong arm, His power to stay the bullets from me, and His power to hold the man from bleeding to death before help could be gotten. I also thank Him for the givers of blood plasma that it could be there so quickly after needed...

My first encounter with a German is one that I'll never forget. I was scared to death. I was on guard with several of my men. The men were nearly dead for sleep and so to encourage and keep them awake, I never lay down all night. Early in the morning, I heard a yell for me and so rushed to where the guard that yelled was. He said that a man claimed to be a Frenchman and wanted to pass. It was pitch dark, so I could scarcely see.

The man stepped up and asked if I was an American soldat... I spoke a minute with him and noticed him getting closer. When he got about two feet from me, I noticed his German eagle on his hat. Boy, did I act quick! And his hand came off his pistol into the air. I told him to order the rest of his men to come forward with hands up. He said they were Russians fighting for him and wouldn't mind him.

I gave him the order to call them forward. Instead, he told them we were British and to run. Well, they ran, what didn't crawl, or stay there. But oh, I hated it. They were Russians fighting for Germans and had forced him to surrender because we were Americans and he told them we were British. They're afraid of the British.

Oh Mom, why does this have to go on? Why can't people live and let live? I searched the first 'good German' I was to blame for and the first thing I saw was a beautiful picture of a very sweet little woman and a little boy about Henry's size. I had made that little fellow fatherless. I looked up and cried "Oh, God, don't hold me to blame for this." At once the answer came back. "It was either the little fellow or a little redheaded toddler in the States." Well, thank God, by His help, it won't be the little redhead back home.

The French people treat us as if we were angels from Heaven. My, when you see the awfulness the Germans have inflicted on them there is no wonder. Everybody from the baby on up want to kiss the American soldier - men, women, and children all alike. We pass through a town and mothers feel that if we look at their children all will be all right. They cover the highways with flowers, apples, pears, plums, and anything they think we'll like. Old grandma sits in her wheelchair in the yard throwing kisses at us. Old men toddle out and clasp us in their arms and cry. One town went I went through, a little girl came running out and, jumping into my arms and, laughing and crying together, just showered my black face with kesses (her face was black when she got through).