Charles Felix Herd Jr.

The prologue to my life narrative is set in November 1944, amidst the thickets of the Ardennes Forest in Belgium. Although I wasn't born yet, the story started there with my father, after whom I was named.

At that time, he was serving as a young Infantry lieutenant in the 335th Infantry Regiment of the 84th Infantry Division, known as the "Rail-Splitters". Having touched down and forged onwards from Normandy around four months prior, he found himself in the brewing storm of what would later be titled the Battle of the Bulge, or the Ardennes Counteroffensive.

The German Army launched its last notable attack in November 1944. The Luftwaffe commenced the assault with a bombing campaign aimed at weakening American troops in preparation for the forthcoming German offensive, which took off in full force on December 16, 1944. Just a few weeks prior, my father found himself in the crossfire as the Luftwaffe dropped fragmentation bombs on his unit. On a dark road, caught in the eerie silence before the storm, a fragmentation bomb detonated right behind him. The shrapnel penetrated his left ankle and right shoulder, scattering smaller pieces into his back and legs. In his condition, he could neither march as an infantryman nor effectively lead his heavy weapons platoon of mortars and machine guns. Having sustained what he termed as "the perfect wounds", he was evacuated from the front lines for medical treatment and recovery in England.

Once healed to a certain extent, my father made his way back to the Front in early April 1945. En route, he learned about Hitler's demise through a German radio transmission. On the eve of rejoining his unit, his replacement lieutenant, who had taken his place after the bombing, was tragically killed. It marked the concluding major battle of his regiment.

From that point forward, "There, but for the grace of God, go I," became his guiding mantra. He was imbued with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and humility, acknowledging that his life had been spared at the expense of the young officer who had replaced him.

This humility and gratitude stayed with him for the remainder of his life, influencing him to assist others whenever possible.

His subsequent posting was as the commander of a 3000-person internment camp for six months post the termination of the war in Europe. This detention center was established shortly after Victory in Europe Day on May 5, 1945. The camp was home to a diverse set of detainees, including the wife of an SS concentration camp commander notorious for her gruesome hobby of "collecting tattoos" from deceased prisoners. In his capacity as commander, my father oversaw the operation of the camp, helping identify the detainees, verifying their war involvement, and deciding their fate, whether that meant reintegrating them into society or dispatching them to other camps for prospective trials and confinement.

Upon the war's end, my father returned home, joining the ranks of those who built the "Greatest Generation". His inherent humility, gratitude, and urge to extend help to those in dire need never faded.

And, in due time, these values became an integral part of my life as well.

CFH