A WWII Army Court Martial Story You Wouldn't Expect

Phillip Leveque has spent his life as a Combat Infantryman, Physician, Toxicologist and Pharmacologist.

(MOLALLA, Ore.) - An Army Court Martial is the main means by which an Army, or Navy, officer can intimidate anyone under his rank. Many officers seem to get a cerebral orgasm by throwing their rank around. My Battalion Commander, in my North Carolina camp, court marshaled 19 soldiers. More than all of the other officers in our division, combined.

I couldn’t get out of his way. He tried to “get” me in North Carolina, the day before I left for a 20 day leave, before going to France.

In Germany, he “got” me to sit on the hood of his jeep as we entered a small German town, which I didn’t think had been cleared of “krauts” (our pet name for German soldiers). I felt I was committing suicide. (If the “krauts” were still there, I wouldn’t be writing this.)

He “got” me again after we reached another small town in the rain. He ordered me to guard his jeep in a torrential rain. I did and I found he had a secret food box. I liberated enough good sausage, etc. so that my six buddies could have a decent meal for once.

Two days later, he ordered me to guard the house he had commandeered. I was practicing my German with the owner of the house when he came by and chewed me out and told me to stand by the door, “at the ready” (ready to shoot). After about 10 minutes it started “raining buckets”. I said “to hell with it” and crapped out on his bed for an hour or so until his driver came in and let me go.

The last time was the real Tour de Force. I was in an observation post about a mile in front of the nearest foxhole. General Patton’s orders were: shave everyday, even if you don’t have water. (Try it sometime. A real bitch.)

This was the first time I was in a real house with running water and a place to heat it. I was at the kitchen sink, looking out at a German highway and had taken off my belt, my field jacket, my steel helmet and my shirt for the first time in six weeks. I just started to shave when I saw three German soldiers walking down the highway. I said to my buddy Earl, “go get them”. He said, “If you want them, go get them yourself.” I was supposed to be in charge of him and two others. Mac Byrd was close by. “Mac, let’s get them”, and out we went. They were armed with pistols, which we took. Just then my Battalion Commander drove up in his jeep. He had NEVER been in the front lines before.

I came back and gave him a “red hot salute”. He said “Tell these Germans to stay on the highway and keep going.” Then he took off.

Late that afternoon, his jeep came out to get me. Back at his head quarters my First Sergeant told me I was getting a Special Court Martial for capturing prisoners while I was out of uniform. I was confined to a house. I could only leave for “chow”. I had a warm room and bed, a stack of magazines, opera records and a phonograph.

When a German Division came through I could have acquired a pack sack full of pistols.

I’ve got to thank that son-of-a-bitch Colonel. I think I was about to crack. In the previous two weeks I had been a point man on a battle advance for 4 or 5 days, all day. I had captured 26 German officers and spent 10 days as a forward observer. Anyone of those days was a suicide mission. I said the Court Martial save my butt. It was really my psyche or soul which is the damage site of PTSD. I don’t think I could have withstood that same crap for even a few days more, without really blowing up.