There was no doubt about itat 56, cavalry-trained Colonel Harry A. Flint was overage to command infantry in battle. Yet there he was, in France, a happy dust-caked fugitive from half a dozen cushy supply and liaison jobs that were always threatening to keep him out of combat.
In France, as in North Africa and Sicily, "Paddy" Flint's aging, horse-bowed legs sometimes let him down in battle. When they did he would sit down for a spell. His men knew, and they loved him for his nerve. It was soldier's talk that "Ike"...
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