My stepdad was there, it's where he got shot in the shoulder and spent months in the hospital fighting to keep them from amputating it. Him and his best friend were in a jeep and got caught in an ambush, his friend did not live to tell about it and dad was damned lucky to have made it back to friendlies who got him to an aid station.
I still remember, as a kid, seeing that huge scar, front and back and asking him about him only for him to say he didn't want to talk about it. Many years later when he came to visit me in DC, we went to the Smithsonian which was doing a WWII exhibit. He saw a full-sized diorama with a jeep, decked out in 45th Infantry insignia and started crying. First time he ever talked about losing his best friend that day to either me or my mother.