WWII Tank Gunner Describes Fierce Armored Combat Against Germans | Army

One of my friends once described what it was like to go from being a loader to being a gunner in a tank. He and I had gone through the same thing. When you’re a loader, you don’t know what you’re shooting at—no idea at all. All you do is keep slamming shells into the breech, putting .30-caliber machine-gun belts into the gun. But when you move from that seat over into the gunner’s seat, you have the crosshairs. And the first time you pull the trigger—or step on the trigger in a Sherman—you know you’re going to kill someone. It isn’t easy.

But after you’ve done it a few times, and they shoot back, and you lose a tank, it becomes a different story altogether.

Pearl Harbor and Choosing to Volunteer

The day Pearl Harbor was attacked, I was at a movie with my best friend. When we came home, his father—who was a doctor—had a look on his face that made us wonder what was wrong. He told us Pearl Harbor had been attacked, and that we’d be at war. At that point, we were still in high school.

When we graduated, we all got jobs right away. We were registered and waiting to be drafted. None of my friends had been drafted by January of the next year. Thinking I was smart, I figured surely they’d be called in the next group. So I went down and volunteered for the draft—told the board I wanted to go with the next bunch. I did. They didn’t. They all came later.

Entering the Military

I got notice to report to the train station in Wheeling, West Virginia. From there, we were transported to Fort Hayes in Columbus. We spent the first night in civilian clothes. The next day, they gave us boxes, had us write our home addresses on them, and we put all of our clothes inside. Off the boxes went. And there I stood with around a hundred naked men, beginning the intake process—urine samples, shots, fitting for shoes and clothes. After that, I was officially in the military.

Before entering service, I had been driving a truck for Royal Crown. My father advised me: don’t tell them you’re a truck driver. He said to tell them I was a student. “Maybe they’ll send you to school,” he told me. So when I went in to be assigned, I said, “I don’t want anything with a steering wheel.” The officer said okay—because he had my record showing I was a truck driver. He handed me a ticket. I got on a truck, was dropped off, and the first guy I met told me what kind of unit it was.

“Tanks.”

“Oh boy,” I said.

I still think that officer who assigned me there is probably laughing somewhere. Tanks didn’t have steering wheels—they had levers.

At that point, I was assigned to Headquarters Company, Second Battalion, 80th Armored Regiment of the 8th Armored Division.

Inside a Sherman Tank

A Sherman tank had two main parts: the hull and the turret.

Down front on the left-hand side was the driver.

On the right-hand side down in the hull was the bow gunner, also called the assistant driver—even though he couldn’t actually drive. He manned a .30-caliber machine gun.

In the turret, on the left-hand side, was the loader.

In the turret front right was the gunner.

Standing behind the gunner was the tank commander.

That made a crew of five.

It was crowded—very little room. But we were young and agile, and we managed. In combat, at night, you couldn’t get out. So we had blankets and would lean against whatever surface we could find, finally getting comfortable enough to sleep.

Sherman tanks I served in had:

a hatch for the driver,

a hatch for the bow gunner,

and one hatch on the turret—on the right side, where the tank commander stood.

If you wanted to get out fast, the tank commander exited first, then the gunner, then the loader—who had to crawl under the recoil guard of the cannon.

There was an emergency escape hatch under the bow gunner. Once, when we were in a rest area, we dug a pit and planned to use that hatch to get into a sheltered space below the tank to play cards and smoke. But the escape hatch was frozen and rusted shut. We finally broke it open with a hammer. It was only around 16–18 inches from the bottom of the hatch to the ground. We were young—someone could squeeze out if needed.

Ammunition and Roles

I don’t remember the exact number of rounds a Sherman carried, but the categories were:

Armor-piercing (AP)

High explosive (HE)

Smoke/phosphorus (we typically carried just one)

For .30-caliber machine guns, we had plenty of belts. The bow gunner had ammo stored down at his position that he could hand up to the loader.

But in combat, bow gunners rarely fired their .30-caliber gun. The sight was above his head, while the gun was below his waist—hard to aim accurately. And he usually had more important tasks, like handing up ammunition.

Crossing the Atlantic and Joining a Tank Crew

I went overseas on D-Day—crossing on the Queen Elizabeth. We docked at the Firth of Clyde in Scotland. The next day, I was sent to Wells in Somerset County. After three weeks, replacements like me were moved to Portsmouth and waited another week. So when I finally reached France, it was about a month after D-Day.

I was assigned as a loader to a tank whose four other crewmen had already been through combat. They never talked about what happened to the previous loader. I never asked.

My only view outside was through a rotating periscope. Usually, though, I was too busy grabbing whatever shell type the tank commander called for.

We had some light skirmishes. Then one night, we drove for hours. The next morning, alongside the 1st Infantry Division—the Big Red One—we surrounded Mons, Belgium, capturing large numbers of Germans.

From Mons, we moved to the Siegfried Line. Fighting was relatively light for us then. We’d gotten behind the Germans, leaving pockets for French forces to deal with. If we reached the Siegfried Line first, German forces couldn’t fall back to defend their homeland.

First Encounters with Germans

The first German I really saw up close was a kid—maybe fourteen or fifteen—just a few years younger than me. He’d been captured and sat on the front of a Jeep clutching his crucifix, shaking with fear. I wanted to tell him he’d be okay, that we’d feed him and send him to a POW camp. But I didn’t speak a word of German.

In combat, it was different. They had years of experience, and we were still learning. I disliked them intensely then. I focused on doing my job.

Becoming a Gunner — Killing for the First Time

When I became a gunner, everything changed. As a loader, I never knew who I was shooting at. But as a gunner, I had the crosshairs. The first time I pulled the trigger, I knew I was killing someone. It wasn’t easy.

But once they shot back… and once I lost a tank… everything became different.

The First Time I Was Wounded — Tank Destroyed

My first tank was hit by a shell that passed straight through the gunner’s midsection and then through the tank commander’s midsection, killing both instantly. The gunner fell backward. The tank commander collapsed forward. They blocked my exit.

I had no hatch, remember. I had to crawl under the recoil guard to escape, but the bodies were in the way. In my peripheral vision, I saw daylight—the driver had escaped. I dropped down inside, got out of the tank, dove over the side, and started running.

When a tank is hit, you have no helmet, no weapon—nothing. You stand exposed on the front line, a perfect target. So you run.

I tripped on a root, fell, dislocated my shoulder, put it back, and saw my leg bleeding.

I reached a light tank and asked for a bandage. He yelled for me to climb up and get it. Just as I got up there, a German shot at me with a submachine gun. I saw him, shouted his position, and the light tank gunner fired and killed him.

After bandaging myself, I ran for a half-dug foxhole. A medic arrived, asked if I could walk. I said yes. He sent me to a halftrack. Three of us were on one side, a badly wounded infantryman on the other. We were taken to a field hospital, treated, and then I spent the night in a tent with cots.

The next day, I returned to my company’s CP. When the first sergeant asked if anyone was hurt, I told him the lieutenant and gunner had been killed. “Just take it easy,” he told me.

It was September 17th or 18th.

Back in a Tank Within 24 Hours

The next day, they needed tanks badly. The first sergeant told me they had one I could retrieve from ordnance. I’d be tank commander—get the crew, bring it back.

We brought the tank back. Then the sergeant said:

“I hate to do this to you, Walter, but tanks are needed. You’re the gunner.”

And just like that, I was back on the front line.

Same driver. Same bow gunner. Same loader. All four of us had survived the previous day’s tank destruction. Within twenty-four hours, we were back in combat.

Battle of the Bulge — Fighting Peiper’s SS

During the Bulge, we fought Colonel Peiper’s SS troops. They’d been ordered not to take prisoners—no food, no time, too dangerous. Word got down to us. So it became kill or be killed.

Our task force swung around to help relieve the Band of Brothers. I was in the fifth tank. Our tank commander was low-ranked.

We reached a T-intersection where a German column was passing. Our lieutenant ordered a high-explosive shell loaded, told the driver to accelerate downhill. The first tank rounded the corner and destroyed the 88mm gun at the end of the column before its crew could react.

The explosion was incredible—like the Fourth of July.

We waited forty-five minutes, then tried going around the wreck. The first tank got around. When we tried, I had forgotten to switch the power traverse back on, so the gun swung loose and jammed in the bank. We had to back up, check the barrel for dirt, and then continue.

When we reached a village, four tanks ahead of us went under a railroad underpass. The Germans, masters at ambush, were ready. They knocked out all four tanks. Lieutenant Hope was killed—his first day in combat.

My tank didn’t go under the underpass. We stopped and joined another platoon. Then we headed south to meet Patton’s troops and help close the Bulge.

Every day, we took another village.

The Day I Was Wounded the Second Time

The last day I was in combat, we entered a village—Frere or something like that. I was again the fifth tank.

We came out of the woods, crossed a field. The tank commander was listening to the radio. He ordered me to put a shell into the upper story of a house. Then he told the driver to pull up beside it, and he threw a grenade into the second floor. A German ran out—we shot him.

We crossed the road, went over a stone fence into a field. Infantry were taking fire from another house. I swung the gun to the left. A German stood up with a Panzerfaust and fired. He missed.

I tried to aim at him, but the crosshairs wouldn’t align. He fired again—and this time hit.

I was leaning far forward to aim. The shell struck behind my head. The blast killed the tank commander instantly—he slammed his fist into my back before collapsing on me and then into the turret.

Outside, I heard infantry shouting, “There he is! There he is!” But none of them fired. I understood why—it’s hard to kill a man deliberately.

The driver and loader escaped. I climbed out, the loader behind me. Still taking fire, I yelled at the infantry to get into the house. Then yelled again for them to get away from the windows.

Inside, we bandaged each other. My head felt cold. I touched it—blood. A kid next to me said it didn’t look bad.

A wounded infantryman’s leg was bleeding badly. I carried him across a field to safety. A Jeep arrived with a wounded major, picked us up, and took us to the aid station. At the triage, the doctor sent me to an ambulance, then to a field hospital.

There, they pulled steel fragments from my head, dropping them into a metal tray. I asked if I could have one. The doctor handed it to me. I pocketed it.

They told me to lie down. I did. Four or five of us lay there, happy just to be warm and safe for a moment.

Then a sergeant came in and barked, “Out in the truck!”

We protested—we were wounded. Didn’t matter.

Back to our companies we went.

End of Combat and Evacuation

That night and the next, I had severe diarrhea. The first sergeant told me he was sending me back as tank commander. I refused—I wanted to be a gunner. He said I’d be a sergeant. I still said no.

As I sat up for breakfast, I passed out—dehydration.

Medics took me to a Belgian house. An elderly lady put a warm brick from the stove at my feet. It felt wonderful.

Then ambulances took me to Liège, where it was decided I’d had enough. I was sent to Paris, then back to the coast, then by ship to England. I spent the rest of my time there with the 95th Bomb Group.