t was near the end of June 1944, and as I was waiting in line in my jeep to cross over a bridge repaired by the army engineers in Normandy, my eye caught activity in the ravine below. I could see four jeeps scurrying like red chiggers churning up dust below. Squinting against the bright overhead sun, I could make out red painted jeeps emblazoned with white letters reading “BDS.” It was a bomb disposal squad, considered by us infantrymen to be among the bravest of the brave, rightfully belonging in the Pantheon of Heroes, along with the paratroopers, commandos, Rangers and amphibious engineers.

As the Normandy Campaign unfolded, I had the privilege to meet members of this elite, unique group, whose life expectancy would undoubtedly receive a not very high insurance risk rating. Capt. “Red” Ethridge appeared at our sick call infirmary one day dragging a most reluctant master sergeant who we will call “Willie D. Wilkes” and who was wearing a sling on his left arm, the result of an accident while removing a large unexploded U.S. Army Air Force bomb.

One of the other identifying marks of this group is that they would carry on their person a bell-shaped medical stethoscope to listen for unusual sounds emanating from the munition they were trying to disarm. Both Sgt. Wilkes and the captain were sporting these detectors partially hanging from one of their pockets. I arranged for one of our medical officers to see the sergeant and inquired whether the captain might like some liquid refreshment while waiting for his sergeant to be seen. Receiving a laconic stare and a muttered “absolutely,” he went to his bright red jeep and informed his radioman that he would be with me for a while and where he could find us. We then repaired to a tent that served as a patient triage area as well as a medical supply center. I opened one of the medical chests, found a bottle of Spiritus Frumenti and poured him a slug in a canteen cup.

In the half an hour that we conversed, I found out that the carrot top Capt. Ethridge was, as I suspected from his accent, a fellow native of Brooklyn, that he graduated from a competing high school named James Madison (mine was Abraham Lincoln High School) and that he received his mechanical engineering degree from a university in upstate New York. After entering the armed forces, he volunteered for service in military explosive disposal, and after training in the United States, he was sent to Great Britain for six months to study the techniques used by the experienced British forces in disarming all types of bombs. One of the problems these BDS units had concerned itself with was the Germans booby-trapping these munitions with delayed-action triggers or changing the arming schematics to cause the bomb to explode during the disarming process.

The U.S. Army BDS organization that I encountered was modeled after that in the British Army. Capt. Ethridge explained to me that his squad consisted of two teams of men — an officer, a sergeant and four technicians, each team having two jeeps and a truck equipped with devices to remove these bombs. These units had the right to go into any part of the battlefield, and the officer was authorized to requisition any equipment or personnel needed to help them in carrying out their mission.

When a bomb was being disarmed, an officer and a technician were always present, with the technician not only assisting the officer but describing by telephone all the steps taken, which would be logged in by a technician at the other end of the line a goodly distance away. Thus in the event that the bomb would explode prematurely, a record would be available of the disarming steps taken, so if a booby trap was involved, it could be established when the mishap took place. Red Ethridge further explained that most of their work had to do with unexploded American or British bombs since these combat areas had experienced heavy saturation bombing. Since the Allies still did not have total air supremacy, however, the Luftwaffe would still make its appearances, especially at night. One of our not so favorite nocturnal visitors was called “bed-check Charlie,” and this German Dornier bomber would punctually make an appearance at 10 p.m., dropping its cargo on bridges, supply dumps and other installations.

One day, while we were deep in France, I noted a BDS unit working not far from our encampment and stopped by to say hello. To my pleasant surprise, I encountered Master Sgt. Willie D. Wilkes and inquired about Capt. Ethridge. His face clouded, and taking my elbow, he walked me to a shed and then proceeded to tell me an unbelievable tale.

About a month before, they were ordered to remove a 500-pound unexploded German bomb that fell on a nearby French civilian hospital. The team first ordered all the patients and personnel to be evacuated, and then the sergeant and the captain went to work on the bomb with the rest of the team setting up a communication module a good distance away. Wilkes said that from the onset they had problems trying to disassemble this bomb. They continuously had to search through the updated Army field manuals and bulletins looking for this type of bomb, and at one point, Capt. Ethridge made a cryptic remark that he did not know how far he will have to go with this type of a bomb. It was only later that Wilkes realized the impact of these words —Red Ethridge believed that it was booby-trapped! One of the alternatives was to purposefully explode the bomb if it was thought that it was not possible to disarm it manually. But since the bomb was located in a heavily populated area right off a critical highway and in a hospital complex, Red Ethridge decided to try a different mechanical approach. He told Sgt. Wilkes to join the others at the communications center, and when the sergeant said that he wanted to stay, the captain ordered him to leave. Again Sgt. Wilkes tried to convince Capt. Ethridge to allow him to help with the disassembly, but to no avail. The captain proceeded with his efforts, reporting every step he was taking, when suddenly there was a large explosion, the line went dead, and many in the team were knocked over by the force of the explosion. This quiet professional-type of engineer was vaporized!

Eyes tearing, Willie D. Wilkes walked away, knowing that his life was saved by the duty-bound, knowing sacrifice of “Red” Ethridge. Requiescat in pace, bro…!

Maurice S. Albin, M.D., M.Sc., is Professor of Anesthesiology in the David Hill Chestnut Section on the History of Anesthesia, University of Alabama School of Medicine, Birmingham, Alabama.