[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E99]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]

TRIBUTE TO FRANK GREGORIN

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HON. ASA HUTCHINSON

of arkansas

in the house of representatives

Wednesday, January 31, 2001

Mr. HUTCHINSON. Mr. Speaker, I am pleased today to rise to commend
the valiant service of a fellow Arkansan, Mr. Frank Gregorin of
Sommers, AR. A recounting of his World War II heroics was recently
published in the 65th Signal Battalion's July 2000 Newsletter which
follows below. I want to again thank Mr. Gregorin for his service to
our country during those difficult times and wish him all the best in
his future endeavors.

[From the 65th Signal Battalion, July 2000 Newsletter]

``March 29, 1945 began as an ordinary World War II day in
Europe, but on this day I was scheduled to become a cinder.
It was my turn to die unless some friend would help me. The
help I would need was nearly impossible to obtain. The friend
would have to put his life on the line, place himself in
worse danger than I who was about to die. And this was not
enough. He would have to have certain skills and be able to
summon super-human strength. He would have to disregard enemy
rifle fire and work patiently beside gasoline which was about
to explode. He would have to disregard all these dangers and
concentrate on a tough and complicated task. I had such a
friend and didn't know it.
The day was the one where we departed France and entered
Germany. Our convoy of 65th Signal Battalion vehicles moved
into Worms, Germany, a large city on the West side of the
Rhine River. The city appeared intact, but soon we noticed
that those tall buildings had no insides. All roofs had
fallen into basements. It was a city of shell buildings.
We arrived at the river and began a drive across it on a
two track bridge, one track for each wheel, supported by
flimsy pontoons. I was perched on a repair bench inside the
shop of a radio-repair truck. Slight waves in the river made
the pontoons roll back and forth. Movements of the convoy
made it worse. There was concern that trucks would tip over
and sink into the river, but all made it across. The convoy
began moving deeper into Germany. First roads wound through
the Hartz Mountains. Danger seemed past so I made myself
comfortable. A repair bench on the away from the cliff became
a bed on which I could enjoy forest scenery. It was
beautiful. What a pleasant way to fight a war.
Suddenly, the convoy stopped. Looking out the window,
forward, men were running away from me. To the rear, men were
running away from me. Obviously, I was in some kind of a
problem area. A view through the rear window told the story.
There was no view, only fire, and no ordinary fire. Yow!
Those were violent gasoline flames hitting the window. The
entire supply of gasoline on board the trailer of the radio-
repair truck was about to explode! The only exit was through
the one door, through the flames, to the outside world. All
windows had steel screening which could not be removed. A
small, six-inch diameter opening in the front of the show was
to small to pass me. I wasted precious time, wondering if
somehow I could fit through the little hole. No. I must dive
through the fire. I opened the door, slightly. A bunsen-
burner flame blew into the truck from the top of that tiny
opening to bottom. I dared open it no further.
At this point, a voice came to me from outside and beneath
the door, ``Stay in the truck, Oneby!'' Technical Sergeant
Frank Gregorin was beneath those wild flames unhitching the
trailer. This was no comfort. It takes a wrench to release
this type of hitch and at least two men to move the trailer;
the book says four. The trailer, besides having a gasoline
supply, held the entire weight of a fifteen-kilowatt
gasoline-powered electric generator. He had arrived at the
hitch too fast to have a wrench. He was trying to unhitch the
damn thing barehanded. I'd never seen anyone even try it.
I stared at the six-inch diameter hole in the front of the
repair shop. It was still too small for me to squeeze
through. Suddenly, success! The flames departed from the rear
window Sergeant Gregorin had removed the hitch and was
walking the trailer over to the cliff, single-handedly. If
one of the wheels had hit a pebble or the trailer became
unbalanced in any way, he wouldn't have been able to handle
it. I opened the door and prepared to join him in this four-
man job. What I saw was frightening. Flames were flowing off
the trailer in a vertical sheet. The sheet was inches away
behind him. He didn't know of this danger and was looking at
me. He yelled. ``Stay away from here, Oneby. That's an
order!'' He was so worried about me, he didn't realize that a
slight change in the direction of the wind, and he'd be
burned alive. No one could ever continue carrying a heavy
trailer with a bunsen-burner flame hitting him.
I closed the door, so he wouldn't look at me, gave him time
to look away then opened it again. Sergeant Gregorin had
already thrown
Everyone, including me, converged on Greg to see what was
left of him. He arose and moved his arms sideways proving to
himself and the rest of us that he was completely whole, not
a scratch. Unbelievable.
Sergeant Damrow couldn't believe he was unhurt. He asked,
incredulously, ``Are you sure, you're not hurt?'' Then, ``You
were a damn fool, Greg!'' I thought, ``Thank God for a damn
fool.'' Something holy and miraculous had occurred. My
wonderful sergeant had become a miracle man.
Sergeant Hess, who had been driving behind Sergeant
Gregorin, called us to see damage to his vehicle. Snipers had
put bullets into his windshield and wipers. Snipers had
started the gasoline fire. Snipers had hit vehicles ahead and
behind Sergeant Gregorin's vehicle. When Greg began his
rescue, the snipers ceased their firing. I like to believe
they were in awe of a brave man. Did they watch the scene
from the forest above the road?
Greg returned to his vehicle behind the radio truck. I
returned to the bench but didn't lie down and enjoy scenery
for a whole day. Later, I asked Greg, ``Would you like me to
report this event, so you receive a medal?'' He gave a
negative reply. It was war time, and there was little
opportunity for writing, immediately.
The war ended, and one day there was a big battalion
meeting. Medals were issued with no mention of Greg. I could
not imagine a more heroic deed, yet he got nothing. I asked
him again, and he stood firm on his previous commitment. Soon
he learned the folly of his way. With the medals came points
to get the men home, sooner. he lamented secretly to me,
``Maybe I should have let you report that event.''
A sad day arrived. Greg got kicked up the ladder,
transferred to higher headquarters and made into a master
sergeant. His heroism and great capabilities seemed to be
rewarded slightly. He disappeared from my life for a few
months, then returned one day for a visit.
The 65th Signal Battalion was stationed atop a mountain
near Stutgart, Germany. He visited during October 1945. Upon
his arrival, his replacement, Sergeant Valentine, called to
me, saying, ``A friend of yours is here.'' I was pleasantly
surprised to see him in great health and with the smile I
always like to see. Sergeant Valentine took our picture
together. It was the last I would see of him for many years.
We both returned home to busily take up where we left off. We
eventually began exchanging letters and again got to visit
together. Although not near neighbors, we do live within 800
miles of each other. I count him as my best friend. No one
could ever beat him at that.

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