About the Author

Raised one of eight siblings on a farm in Lodi, Wisconsin, Louise graduated from St. Norbert College in Psychology with minors in Mathematics and Education. She taught in the Waukesha and Wauwatosa school districts until the births of her two daughters. She later completed a Masters in Computer Science Education from Cardinal Stritch University as an adjunct instructor at Milwaukee Area Technical College. Her father, Alfred, was in his 80s before his family understood that beyond being a barber, chauffeur and translator in World War II, he also had served as a front-line machine gunner.

After Louise's first five years of research into his experiences, her father was awarded the French Legion of Honor, and she thought she had arrived at a complete understanding of her father’s history. Three months later, he unexpectedly described seeing “dead bodies in water,” which launched her back into deeper research. 

She discovered a 1944 letter mailed from Lodi, Wisconsin, that had been forwarded at least nine times in search of her father in Europe, suggesting him being lost in the replacement system. In turn, that meant that her father could have fought in battles not associated with the 35th Division. Despite some historians believing the theory to be impossible, Louise was determined to uncover her father's true route through war. After nearly 20 years of research, interviews, and World War II archives, we finally know a more complete story of her father’s history and better understand his reluctance to speak of it.

Louise lives with her husband, Kelly, in Cedarburg, Wisconsin, and has two grown daughters, Meg and Kate, who both live in Kansas City.

“Alfred” has been honored as a #1 Best Seller in Biographies of the Army on Amazon, Book Excellence Awards Winner, Eric Hoffer Award Category Finalist, IAN Book of the Year Awards Finalist, and with a Readers’ Favorite 5-Star Review.

A Note From the Author

If good fortune can be measured by my mother’s death and my father’s broken hip, my siblings and I have been fortunate.  Without these two occurrences, my father would most likely have taken the majority of his World War II experiences to his grave.

            When Mom’s cemetery marker was designed, we were surprised by Dad’s comments about the symbols being chosen, praying hands for Mom and military medals for Dad.  Dad quietly commented, “One is for praying and the other is for killing.”  A couple of months later, Dad broke his hip and during my four hour visits with him in the rehab wing of the Good Samaritan Center in Lodi, Wisconsin, I read Dad’s Story of the 320th at least three times before the military style of writing and the numbered groups made sense to me.

            We knew so few stories, but they were all joined by a commonality of what they were not, no stories of bravado or heroism or pride or even patriotism.  Those types of stories are left to those who speak more freely.  I believe those who silently return from front-line duty have the most important stories to tell and also those that few people want to hear.  Heroism, pride, and patriotism feel good while the realities of war are disturbing.

            As we were growing up, my father told us about translating and being a barber and a chauffeur, about giving army rations of chocolate and fruit to a Frenchman to be used as his sole Christmas gift for his children.  There was a story about newly released prisoners of war eating chicken guts off a manure pile as if they were good meat.  But Dad neglected to tell us he was a machine gunner, and we had never asked what he did at the Battle of the Bulge.  He mentioned an officer who ordered him to carry rotting bodies over the hill so the stench would not impose on his quarters, whether it cost the lives of the litter-bearers or not.  Never once did Dad brag, or even mention, being in rooms with Patton or in the presence of Eisenhower.  And never did we hear about his gunning into snow banks at the Battle of the Bulge, killing Americans as well as the enemy holding them prisoners.

            And so we continued, finally, to listen carefully, to research the path of the 35th Division, and to learn the most important stories of the gentle man we knew as our father.  The most important stories are held in the souls of the front-liners who are most likely to be silent.  Listen carefully.  War does not feel good to those who have given the most, and I believe it should not feel good to anyone.