Writing stories for the Times News has given me the opportunity to interview some interesting people the past 10 years and no one has made more of an impression on me than World War II American hero Clarence Smoyer of Lehighton.

What made my meeting with him so special was that I had the privilege of interviewing him in a room where only the two of us were present along with the late, great, award-winning Times News photographer Bob Ford.

I expected to find Clarence to be a man with a tough guy image, a John Wayne type with steel eyes and a stone face. After all he had disabled six German Panther tanks with his dead-eyed turret gun shots, but I found him to be quite the contrary as the only living member of the legendary Spearhead tank division.

If you were in a room of World War II veterans, Clarence might be the last man you would think to identify as the “Hero of Cologne,” in which he and his tank crew had a face to face standoff with a German tank on March 6, 1945. Author Adam Makos of the book, “Spearhead,” had called Clarence the “Gentle Giant,” and he was that man in my presence. He was as unassuming as any man could be, not one you would think had destroyed the German tank in Cologne with two blasts from his turret gun.

The back story to what happened that afternoon in 1945 might be more fascinating than the top story. Clarence was a man who had been filled with terrible guilt for more than 40 years for gunning down a car that had come between his tank and the German Panther. Inside the black car to his dismay was a young woman who was trying to escape the city. He watched her die as I did in an historical Pulitzer Prize winning video taken during the battle. Following years of nightmares and at age 89, Clarence traveled back to Cologne to ask for her forgiveness at her gravesite. He was surprised there by Gustav Schaefer, the gunner of the German tank that was destroyed by Clarence the day the woman was killed. Gustav told Clarence that he too had fired upon the car. He told Clarence it was an act of war and that both he and Clarence should no longer carry the guilt about her untimely death. The next day, Clarence and Gustav had lunch with descendants of the young woman’s family.

I could tell early on in my interview with him, Clarence didn’t really want to talk about war. His eyes lit up when he talked about his wife, Melba who had passed away in 2017. Together, they had enjoyed having fun at a place called Graver’s in Lehighton where the two of them had spent many a day roller skating. This war hero spoke in a whispering voice which removed any nervousness on my part during the interview. I felt I was not conversing with a soldier who had witnessed gory sights of men blown to pieces or burning to death in red hot flames while trying to escape through the hatches of tanks that he had incapacitated with his turret gun.

Clarence was an easy-like-Sunday-morning kind of guy. I could tell that his visit to the grave site in Cologne had become a moment of redemption and that his nightmares were finally gone. He was truly a man at peace within himself. We talked about the medals and honors he had received after the war, but the one that had never been given at the time of our interview was the Bronze Star for heroic achievement during battle. When I asked him why, he folded his hands upon the table.

He said, “A few days after our tank standoff, I was walking down a street in Cologne and a group of German children came running up to me looking for some candy. I searched my pockets for some gum.”

Clarence was unaware that a member of the American military police had observed him and charged him with fraternizing with members of the enemy. This minor disciplinary issue prevented him from being awarded the Bronze Star until 75 years later, when the medal was finally pinned upon his chest in 2019.

I ended my interview by asking for his opinion about his time fighting for our country. “War is hell,” he said. “They send young men out to die and they never come home. Me and my crew were lucky. We all came back. If the old men want to have a war, then let them go fight it.”

Clarence was honored at several events in Lehighton and in Allentown where he lived with his daughter. He was surprised one afternoon when a tank, similar to the one he had manned in Germany, was parked in front of their house. He was given a “victory” ride around the block in front of people who had lined the streets cheering as his tank rumbled by with him perched on top.

Clarence died in October 2022 at age 99 and was buried with full military honors.

On this Memorial Day weekend, I look at a framed picture of him, me and Adam Makos taken by Bob Ford that I have sitting on my fireplace mantle. When I notice the radiant glow from his eyes, I do not see Clarence Smoyer, the “Hero of Cologne.” I see Clarence Smoyer, the “Gentle Giant,” from Lehighton, Pennsylvania, a man who would rather be remembered for having a soft heart than one who was killing enemy soldiers with a 2,000-pound, seven-foot tank gun.

He shall not be forgotten for his service to our country, but I would believe that Clarence Smoyer would choose to be remembered as a loving husband who spent his happiest days of his life roller skating with his wife, Melba, at Graver’s in Lehighton.

Rich Strack can be reached at richiesadie11@gmail.com