[Congressional Record Volume 147, Number 14 (Thursday, February 1, 2001)]
[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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