The Potato Masher Incident by PFC Max Garber (born 1919)
It was late April 1945 and the area around Munich, Germany was covered with snow from a freakish storm. I was leaning wearily against a wall while guarding 35 German prisoners, bone tired and my feet were killing me. My company had been on a task force speeding from Nuremberg to Munich, bypassing burning tanks and enemy batteries to outflank the Nazis. We launched a surprise assault on the city, marching all night through swampy fields and bombing autobahn roads. After a fierce firefight, we charged over a railroad bridge and helped capture Munich.
Earlier that afternoon the entire platoon had been sprawled on the ground resting when Sgt. Jones approached me and said, “Max, you’ve got to guard some prisoners.”
“Why me?” I exploded. “Just because you and I are replacements from the Air Force, I get all the chickens–t details! In the Air Force, you were a pencil pusher, but here on the front lines, you’re afraid to order these combat infantrymen around, so I’m always IT!”
“You better watch your mouth, soldier. This is a direct order.”
“Look Sarge, I haven’t had my shoes off in over a week; my feet are killing me.”
“I won’t repeat my order. Move it!”
So there I was, rifle slung over my shoulder, guarding the prisoners lying in the field. Suddenly, a scrawny, scared looking kid hesitantly approached, with his hand in his overcoat. He plaintively muttered, “Bitte, bitte” as he slowly pulled a potato masher grenade out of his pocket.
This was a deadly weapon the Germans used in both world wars. It was called a potato masher because its long wooden handle, which enabled it to be thrown far, made it resemble a kitchen implement. It could mash a lot more than potatoes! Instantly shaking off my lethargy, I pulled my rifle off my shoulder and motioned him to put the grenade on the ground.
Then I bellowed, “Achtung! Achtung! Allemen aufstanding! Schnell! Hant offen kop!” (Attention! Attention! All Stand, Quick, Hands on Heads!) This was my version of German mixed with a little Yiddish. I cocked my rifle; the Germans got the message and scrambled to their feet.
“Corporal of the Guard!” I yelled. The Corporal came running to see what was up.
“Who searched these prisoners?” I asked. “Look at that live grenade!”
The Corporal, after a few well-chosen remarks, rounded up a dozen men and thoroughly searched the Germans again.
The next day I was sent to the field hospital where my shoes and socks had to be cut off because all the skin was blistered on both heels. I spent the next couple of weeks recuperating. Lying there, I relived the last few weeks of combat. How unreal it all seemed: the chips flying off the wall behind my head, the mortar shells exploding nearby, the platoon slowly advancing past broken walls and craters, marching against an unseen enemy. It seemed like a game we were playing. However now, visions of what could have happened haunted me. Boy, I could have been a mashed potato!
You could say I felt a little bit uneasy about rejoining my outfit which had moved on to Austria. Then came the lucky news: the Germans had surrendered! The war was over and in the future, the only potato mashers I would face would be in the kitchen.
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