By Gerry Kurth – The Sergeant’s Son
It was January of 1945, seven months after the Normandy invasion and five months before the German surrender. The 8th Armored Division was moving east from Le Havre to fight in the Allied counterattack following the Battle of the Bulge.
It had been a long journey from the training camps in the swamps of Louisiana. During the twelve-day crossing of the Atlantic on a Liberty ship, Sergeant Frank “Blacky” Blackston, proceeded to “feed the fish.” He stayed on deck whenever he could to avoid the smell and crowding below, wedging himself in so he wouldn’t slide or be thrown overboard by the waves. Food was served in the darkened hull below where the men were officially housed. They had dubbed the narrow hallway to the kitchen “puke alley.” His seasickness only disappeared when the White Cliffs of Dover finally rose on the horizon. His comment: “It was a good thing I didn’t join the navy.” In Tidworth, England, the Division was issued new equipment.
Frank was part of that movement east. He was a driver and later commander of a Sherman tank in Company B, 36th Armored Battalion. He and his buddies were “eager to see some action.” But during the five months of unpredictable combat that followed, the enthusiasm was met by the atrocities of war. They would leave dark and lasting memories on his mind and soul . . . .
The Thundering Herd
Fast forward 68 years to 2013. My neighbor was that same Frank “Blacky” Blackston. He was 90 years old. For nearly seven decades, his memories of serving with the 8th Armored Division – the “Thundering Herd” — had been largely bottled up inside.
Frank was just 21 during the war, but his battalion mates, many in their late teens, looked up to him as an “older brother”—steady and dependable when things went bad. And they did go bad. Fighting into Germany, his unit faced an enemy that was retreating, but still disciplined and determined… and deadly. In early March 1945, near Rheinberg, his battalion was hit hard. German 88’s and mines took a devastating toll; in two days, nearly two-thirds of the battalion was wiped out. Many of Frank’s closest friends were killed instantly.
Frank was wounded and received the Purple Heart. At one point, his tank took a hit so severe the turret was fused to the hull. With the gun locked in place, Frank was forced to aim by maneuvering the entire tank — an improvised adaptation that meant survival.
Grim recovery duty
But the image that stayed with him most came afterward. While on a recovery crew, Frank opened the hatch of a damaged tank. In the driver’s seat, where his best friend had been, there was nothing recognizable left. His buddy was simply a pile of ashes. . . .
March 5, 1945
Alongside that haunting image, Frank also carried the image of his commanding officer, Captain Kelly, who was badly wounded in the same fighting. In a moment that defied the surrounding brutality, a German soldier gave the injured officer a sip of cognac. That small act of humanity was never forgotten. After the war, Captain Kelly became the Commandant of the New Jersey State Police and, for the rest of his life, commemorated that day – March 5, 1945.
Captain Kelly’s annual tribute – Short video: Honor, Respect and Random Acts of Kindness
Years later, I was able to arrange a meeting between Frank and Captain Kelly’s children. It was a particularly rewarding moment; they were intensely interested in hearing Frank’s firsthand account of the day their father was wounded. In turn, they shared a poignant family secret: every year on the anniversary of that battle, their father would quietly retreat to his study with a single glass of cognac – a private salute to the German soldier who had spared his life.
The Final Record
Frank never talked about the war publicly for decades. Only at his family’s urging did he finally agree to record his account. I suggested filming it, and we put together a small production crew, all in their 80s!
Something unexpected happened during those sessions. As we spent time remembering, Frank decided that what we were doing mattered in a deeper way. He had three daughters, and he told me—not casually, but with great intent—that he had adopted me as his son. It was his way of marking a bond formed by trust and the act of preserving a lifetime of silence. That moment turned a historical interview into a family connection.
The connection with Frank didn’t end with his passing on February 9, 2016, at age 93. I remain in touch with his family to this day. His story — and now a spiritual part of my own — is preserved in the Library of Congress.
Frank at 90 with his buddies, including the “video production” crew.
Sources and Media
Library of Congress link (Search for “Blackston”): https://www.loc.gov/programs/veterans-history-project/about-this-program
75 minute YouTube video with Frank recalling his experiences:
Booklet describing Frank’s trip across Europe with the 8th Armored Division: https://www.8th-armored.org/books/blackston/project-blacky.pdf
