Don Greenbaum — From Omaha Beach to the Liberation of Dachau
Don Greenbaum entered World War II at eighteen with military-school training, a rifle he already knew how to use, and the same patriotic optimism shared by nearly every young American in 1943. That optimism vanished the moment he landed in Europe and saw the bodies on the beach. “The game is over,” he remembered thinking. “This is kill or be killed.”
Don trained as a forward observer — one of the most dangerous roles in the artillery. He rode ahead of the main forces in a jeep with a .50-caliber machine gun, binoculars, and a radio he could take apart blindfolded. His job was simple: find the enemy, call in coordinates, and adjust fire until the shells hit their target. He and his driver, Smitty, spent months moving through France, Belgium, Holland, and Germany. Towns greeted them with flowers and wine — at least until they crossed into Germany, where everything changed.
On November 9, 1944, a German spotter found them first. Their jeep was destroyed, and both men were hospitalized for weeks before returning to combat. They barely had time to breathe before being rushed back for the Battle of the Bulge. Afterward, they pushed into Germany again, attaching themselves to Patton’s fast-moving army.
Nothing prepared Don for what came next.
On April 29, 1945, his unit approached what they believed was a supply depot outside Munich. Instead, they found Dachau.
Long before seeing the gates, they smelled it — a heavy odor they couldn’t identify. Then came the boxcars. Hundreds of decomposing bodies were stacked like wood, the sky black with smoke from the crematoriums. Don had never seen a dead body before the war. Nothing compared to this.
Inside the camp, starving prisoners in striped uniforms tried to reach them through barbed wire. Many weighed barely 80–90 pounds. Don radioed urgently for medical supplies, blankets, and liquid food. The guards had stripped off their uniforms and tried to hide among the prisoners, but the prisoners recognized them — and dealt with them.
Dachau changed Don forever. He had worn a mezuzah on his dog tags; when survivors saw it, they tried to kiss it. He never forgot that moment.
When the war ended days later, Don returned home, went to college on the GI Bill, raised a family, and — like many veterans — kept quiet. For nearly 45 years, he didn’t speak about what he saw. People didn’t want war stories. Survivors rarely talked about their trauma. But as Holocaust denial grew louder, Don knew silence was no longer an option.
He dedicated his later years to telling the truth — especially to students — because the next generation must understand what hatred, dehumanization, and indifference can become.
“There will come a day when none of us are left to speak,” he said. “So tell your parents what you heard. Tell your kids. Help carry this forward.”