Personal Reminiscences and the Retaking of Grandmenil

We left the La Gleize area after having participated with the 30th Division in a blocking action to contain the German Panzer column that was trying to break out to the North. We were Company D, 2nd Battalion, the 36th Armored Infantry Regiment, of the 3rd Armored Division.

 The column of half-tracks moved to a new location where the vehicles coiled, regrouped, and waited for the orders to move to our next engagement. It seemed as though we never really knew precisely where we had been, or indeed, where we were at that moment, and certainly not where we were heading. The state of not knowing seemed to be the unchallenged domain of the ordinary Infantryman.

 When orders did come to move out, everyone mounted up and our half-track crept slowly onto the roadway and fell into its assigned position in the Company order of march. Our half-track was D-23 with the name Dracula painted on its side. The significance of that name always defied me, except that it began with the letter D representing Dog Company. The number 23 meant that we were the 2nd Platoon, 3rd Rifle Squad.

The experience of life in the half-track, while traveling from one sector of the front to another, was an experience of a life with a quality all of its own. It might be, perhaps, more historically desirable to say that this squad of men now moving to its next engagement sat grimly and stoically in two ranks, silently facing each other on those steel seats in the open half-track, blessedly, this is blatantly untrue. In facing the dread of the unknown, one of the most marvelous salves for the pain of the fears, anxieties, and wonderings is the very diversity of human nature itself. It is that diversity with the spontaneous contribution that each individual makes that is in part the secret of the astonishing resilience of the human spirit. So, when I remember the hours that we had together in that vehicle, they were hours that were very much alive. There was always the reliving of the last battle, but then there would also be the teasing, the arguing, the joking, and usually some horseplay along with the somber moments that each of us in turn would have.

 In the Command position in the front of the half-track stood our Squad Leader, Sgt. Fickel. He was a man whose courage, conduct and performance never gave anyone license to take any liberties whatsoever with his unlikely name. He had a very strong sense of propriety and an equally strong sense of responsibility for his squad. The very qualities that made him a good Squad Leader also had aspects to them that brought amusement, and as is ever true, it is the humorous aspects that we remembered most vividly and enjoyed recounting the most.

In Stolberg, before he became the Squad Leader, Fickel was possibly the assistant. We were holding a house that was in a forward position. The only thing that separated us from the Germans was a glass and debris strewn street with the body of an American soldier lying right in the midst of it all. The machine guns were located in the front windows of the house, while those of us who were not on duty lived and slept in a back room on the second floor. The only accommodations that we had were a table and several chairs, but to the Infantryman, this was sheer luxury. If we sat on a chair, we were not permitted to lean back so that the chair would rest only on the two rear legs. This, Fickel insisted was not only improper, but was also damaging to the furniture, notwithstanding that parts of the house had already been blown out by shell fire and much of the rest of the house was in disarray because of other damage.

 To show his concern for our well being, he told us one day that in order to relieve the monotony of our usual rations he would prepare a very special treat. Replacing his steel helmet with a chef’s hat, he went rummaging through the 10-in-1 rations that we were issued, along with those of other squads, gathered every candy bar, every cracker, fruit bar and countless other food items, broke them up, mixed them together, and then heated this conglomeration and pronounced it a “Pudding”. We were then requested in command tones to eat it. Seated around the table with the four legs of every chair planted firmly on the floor, we ate this treat with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

A short time later we were alerted to move out of this position, that by now we had come to consider a place of luxury. Gathering our gear together, we made our way out of the rear of the house, through the back yards and over numerous fences and then through the ruins of a factory building to our half-tracks. We then moved to some high ground outside of Stolberg. Dismounting, we made our way past huge slag mounds, slipping into water filled shell holes, all the time trying to avoid tripping over what seemed to be miles of communication wire, since by this time darkness had already set in. We entered into a wooded area where we were to relieve another unit, and one by one, the squads were dropped off along the way to their assigned positions until we were the last to be placed. It must have been one of the dogmatic rules of our Company that the 3rd Rifle Squad must be assigned to the most remote and isolated spot that could be found. By this time we were well inside the woods so that the only way we could keep together was by maintaining actual physical contact because of the unusually dark night. Finally, after many whispered exchanges and many delays, we were finally led two by two to the foxhole assigned us and relieved those men who had occupied it. Fortunately, those whom we had just relieved had left some of their blankets in the bottom of the foxhole. This hole was located at the far edge of the woods area.

Moving into a strange area at night is always a most disconcerting experience because of the tension of not knowing precisely where the enemy is and how and when they will respond. It is then that the imagination really gears up and begins churning out all sorts of possible scenarios.

The foxhole assigned to my friend John Emmurian and I was a very shallow log and earth covered hole, barely large enough for one man. Because of the precarious nature of our situation, John and I decided to alternate in sleeping and standing guard. He would sleep first for two hours while I would pull guard, and then he would take his turn.

As I sat on the edge of the foxhole listening and watching, things began to settle down and become quiet as everyone adjusted to his new position. Sometime later I began to hear the sound of combat boots crushing dried leaves and the sound of breaking twigs from within our defensive position. As time went by, there was the sound of more scurrying about and this alarmed me because it seemed so careless of men who were experienced combat soldiers. I was sure that if this would continue there would shortly be a German flare hanging in the air over us. These sounds not only continued, but the tempo increased and I also began hearing the most uncommon sounds along with some very strange oaths filtering through the darkness. Trying to restrain myself to keep quiet, I thought, “What in the world is going on?”

It was then that I felt a sudden discomfort come over me. And then, just as quickly, I was seized with fiery convulsions in my lower abdominal region. All of a sudden the whole scene became clear; along with my comrades, I had been smitten with what each of us must have been convinced was terminal diarrhea. It was Fickel’s devilish concoction! Knowing that I was entrapped inside the webbing and straps of my combat harness, and also knowing that it would take superhuman effort to extricate myself quickly from all that paraphernalia, there was but one thing to do and that was to become momentarily hysterical.

At once all of those uncommon sounds and those very strange oaths not only became understandable, but also quite reasonable. Sometime later as I resumed my guard duties, I felt stirring at my feet and I perceived that John had awakened. There was the sound of movement in the foxhole and heavy breathing as John had evidently been smitten too, and awaking in an unfamiliar place, not knowing immediately where he was, had begun trying to escape from the foxhole. The sound of the struggle became altogether fierce as he tried to untangle himself from the G I blankets and make his exit. Then there was quiet followed shortly with the most pathetic and lamentable groans of dismay one could ever hear.

As the sun rose the next morning, it rose on a weary, weakened squad, but, remarkably, a squad that in these few hours of arriving in a completely strange position, now defended ground that had already been thoroughly reconnoitered. Every foot of ground within that position was now completely familiar by virtue of the numerous compelling excursions made across that treacherous landscape. For that memorable night, Sgt. Fickel would not soon be forgotten.

 Fred Dorsey was a quiet South Carolinian who had the great misfortune of not being able to read or write. This meant that he would have to constantly humiliate himself and ask someone to read to him the letters from his wife. It would not be an unusual sight to see Fred huddled with someone in the corner of the half-track to help him with his letters. He would take one of us quietly aside and we would then read to him those letters from his wife; loving words in which all their dreams and hopes and desires were shared, and we could not help but feel like embarrassed intruders in that sacred and intimate province that belong to husband and wife alone.

Fred seemed always to be occupied with a leather holster that he was making for a pistol that he had. Almost every spare moment would find him working on it with an intensity that was almost unnatural. I doubt whether that holster was ever finished, because within a short span of time, Fred would be lying beside a dirty black hole in the snow where the last earthly sound that he would hear was the whisper of that falling mortar shell.

There was no man that could orchestrate the feelings of everyone in the squad, as could George Sampson. He could plunge us into the very depths of the gloom of homesickness by simply reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out his small harmonica and playing for us some melancholy tune. And just as quickly we could be laughing and singing to one of the many novelty songs that he knew and of which he seemed to have an unending repertoire. Charles Craig was a large and gentle Missourian who found it impossible to be either impolite or discourteous, but that gentleness could explode into fearlessness if the situation arose. However, Charles made one serious error when he told us that he had studied geology while in college. We would take great delight in reminding him how eminently qualified he was to be an Infantryman, since digging holes in the earth was one of our majors too. 

Harry Clark was the family man in the squad. Coming from Alabama, he was also our beloved Rebel. His voice would rise in octaves as well as decibels as he would be constantly forced to parry the thrust of supposed Yankee wit. (His particular nemesis in this matter would usually be Jack Buss.) Harry always enjoyed telling us about his football exploits in his high school days, and when the occasion arose, he delighted in displaying his dancing prowess with the least possible incitement. When he would break into one of his light-footed jigs, we thought this absolutely remarkable considering his advanced age of thirty-two years. 

Although Jack Buss had been wounded at La Gleize, it would be unfair not to mention him at this point because of his contribution, no matter how questionable, to our squad in our half-track experience. Jack was the unquestioned scholar in the squad, and would not let us forget that his college career had been interrupted so that he might be with us. He was also the master provocateur. He seemed to find a strange and perverse delight in making a deliberately outrageous remark, usually in Harry’s direction, which he knew would turn that half-track into an inferno of debate, and then he would sit back and joyfully keep the fires of controversy stoked until we who were but the witless, khaki clad dolts had exhausted ourselves, and our miserable arguments. Then he would stretch himself out to his full intellectual stature and with his inestimable knowledge, he would ruthlessly flay this poor, unlearned peasantry whom the misfortunes of war had inflicted upon him. 

Traveling in an open half-track in the wintertime is a bone-chilling experience. This fact will bring you face to face with one of the most monumental challenges that you can expect to confront. Sooner or later you will be innocently overcome with the simple desire for a cup of hot coffee. Since convoy travel in combat areas means interminable stops and starts and delays, time to make a cup of coffee should be no real problem-that is until you try it. 

Among several of the squad members I was jokingly referred to as the “fastest coffee maker in the Army.” If this was a fair reputation, it was one that was earned with much travail and frustration, developed principally during this type of travel. 

As soon as the half-track would stop, I would leap out, fill my canteen cup with water, arrange the heating material, and get the fire going. Then I would hunch over this hopeful enterprise, peering into the depths of the cup waiting, coaxingly, for that first bubble that would indicate that the water was starting to heat, all the while looking over my shoulder nervously for any sign of convoy movement. Then invariably, simultaneously, bubbles would begin breaking the surface of the water, there would be excited shouts all along the roadway, engines would begin turning over and half-track door would begin slamming the full length of the convoy with a rapidity that gave the sound of falling steel dominoes. Grabbing the searing hot handle of the canteen cup, I would kick out the fire and begin pursuing the escaping half-track, hoping that my friends would not pull the stunt that seemed to bring them an endless source of amusement, and that was to slam the door in my face before I could mount and then watch with glee to see how fast and how far I could run without spilling any of the contents of my cup. When they would finally relent and I would bound on board, I would usually find myself standing in the back of the half-track clutching a cup of lukewarm water. But nevertheless, undaunted, I knew that the next stop would finally bring success and I could finally put my lips to that cup of delicious hot Nescafe coffee. 

Are these simply the irrelevant activities, along with the personal idiosyncrasies of a squad of men marking time before being plunged into the next battle, perhaps, unworthy of reciting? No! The sum total of all those things provided those essential ingredients that always served so beautifully to insulate the mind from that unspeakable dread that was ever present, lurking, waiting to overtake and to possess our thinking.

As our convoy continued slowly along toward Grandmenil, just before dusk, we came upon a sight that was startling because of the horrible implications of the scene. In a small wedge-shaped field by the roadway were the hulks of four burned out tanks, two German and two American. These tanks must have met suddenly and in complete surprise in that very small area. They stood there, muzzle-to-muzzle and hull-to-hull, having destroyed each other at point blank range. One can only imagine the horror of those last few seconds as each crew tried frantically to survive such an impossible moment. The unopened hatches were mute testimony to the futility of their desperate actions. One tank stood with a pyramid of molten metal beneath its rear engine compartment, looking as though it were the excrement of the tank itself, as if the vehicle had ingested the white hot metal that had destroyed it and then in its death throes, deposited it on the ground as it died within the perimeter of that small pasture. 

Darkness now settled over the convoy of half-tracks as it rumbled and screeched its way through the hills and forests of the Ardennes. But as we traveled that night, there was one great, profound truth that began to emerge in all its loftiness and with all its triumph. This was Christmas Night, and this great truth is that there is absolutely nothing that can overpower that indomitable spirit of Christmas. Neither the fresh recollections of our engagement at La Gleize, with its inevitable casualties, nor that ugly scene of those four charred, armored mausoleums as they stood silently on that postage stamp size battlefield, nor the dread anticipation of what lay ahead in the darkness, could suppress the joy of Christmas, because somehow we found ourselves in the cold darkness of that open half-track standing and singing Christmas carols. 

We approached the wooded ridge overlooking the village of Grandmenil in the early evening. The convoy of half-tracks left the roadway and began coiling among the trees, while we on board hurriedly gathered our equipment and prepared to dismount. What lexicon is adequate to describe the feelings that a soldier endures in the silent turmoil of his own heart when he approaches this moment. The unreal world of that half-track would now be translated into the harsh, ugly, reality of war, with the shouts, the explosions, the screams, and that almost terrifying staccato of the German Schmeisser machine-pistol. 

With several bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing your body, a full cartridge belt around your waist, the tug of the weight of several hand grenades in your pockets, and added to that several bazooka rounds, there is a momentary feeling of self-sufficiency – very momentary. 

After falling out on the roadway, there was the usual milling around, with both Noncoms and Officers darting back and forth as last minute arrangements were made. Each of us was wondering about the real nature of the mission, and at the same time also, confident that we would find nothing out about it. 

Finally, after what seemed to be ceaseless waiting, the tanks began positioning themselves at intervals along the roadway, and then sat with their engines idling. While the Infantry was waiting to move out, we knew that our 2nd Platoon would follow the lead platoon which would either be the 1st or the 3rd, giving us some solace that would not last for more than a few minutes. 

As the signal was given to move forward, the column began emerging from the cover of the woods. Ahead of us was a long descending roadway with the village of Grandmenil lying at the foot, already on fire from the artillery shells that were falling into it and the reports of the explosions echoing back and forth across the valley. 

One of the most irritating things for an Infantryman, who must work with tanks, especially at night when a quiet approach was so essential in the attack, was the incessant screeching of the bogey wheels of the tank. This sound was so loud and aggravating, even drowning out the noise of the tank engine, that you were convinced that every German soldier within a radius of 500 yards had now been alerted, and each one of them was peering over his rifle aimed directly at you. Nevertheless, in spite of that grievance, the very silhouette of that grotesque looking steel companion, with its cannon jutting like a feeler out into the darkness, was a very comforting sight, if not sound. 

To the right of the road there rose a rather steep wooded embankment, which fell off ahead of us quite abruptly down to road level. On the left side of the road was an equally sharp drop off. The embankment to our right served one negative purpose in that it robbed us of that split second warning that incoming artillery fire gives. In an instant, the roadway was erupting with exploding shells. Fortunately, there was a rather deep ditch on the right of the road where some of us found shelter. The volume of incoming fire was astonishing, and what compounded the awfulness of it was that it was our own artillery falling short. The dismay and the anger that one feels in such an ordeal are inexpressible. With shells falling in so fast and so close that the very heat could be felt, the feeling of helplessness is maddening. Tank Commanders could be heard over all of this noise screaming into their radios to lift the fire because it was falling on our own men. Cries and angry screams were rising all along the column, and especially among the forward platoon, which caught the brunt of the fire. The casualties among that lead platoon were so substantial that it could no longer function in the lead capacity, and our platoon passed through it and all the carnage that the damaging fire had inflicted on that lead element. 

The column again began to move forward toward the village. By this time the embankment to our right disappeared to road level, and now, in fact, the roadway was built up several feet above the level of the adjoining fields.

With our squad now in the lead position and our Platoon Sgt. Pop Waters at the very front, Pop gave the signal for the column to stop. He had noticed what appeared to be an outpost position dug into the side of the road embankment.

Pop Waters was an extraordinary soldier who did almost every thing unconventionally. We suspected that he was never issued a steel helmet, because all he ever wore was the G.I. wool knit cap, and all that the cap covered was a rim of reddish hair around his balding head. Before combat, back in Normandy, he had been a Pfc. BAR man who had a reputation for not caring too very much about anything, much less the rigors of military discipline and routine. But as the Division moved from the Normandy Beachhead to the Siegfried Line, Pop also moved from Pfc. to Platoon Sgt. Pop was one of those rare men with intuitive sense that some men, without any benefit of leadership training, come by so easily and naturally. No matter what the circumstances, it seemed he instinctively had the right response along with the courage to execute what needed to be done. He was a legend in the Company, but unfortunately never received proper recognition. It was a most reassuring sight to see that little guy with the wool knit cap, because then we knew all was well. 

When the column stopped, Pop took two men with him, George Sampson and Aloyisius Kampa, down off the roadway to the field level where the outpost was. Dug into the embankment was a hole in which two German soldiers sat sleeping with their rifles locked upright between their knees. Pop simply reached in with a hand on each rifle barrel and jerked them from their grasp. One soldier reacted in such an animated manner that Kampa interpreted his movements as hostile and shot him dead. The other man was taken prisoner in a state of absolute panic. 

The column again resumed its movement which would carry it the final 200 yds. to the village. By this time our squad had now spread out around the lead tank, with some of our men on both sides of the tank. In such situations, tension begins mounting to levels that are almost unbearable because you have no illusions that you will simply walk into the village uncontested. Very quickly the tension was broken with the unearthly scream of direct fire and a shattering explosion with an earsplitting metallic ring, as the lead tank was hit. The driver immediately threw the tank into reverse, and those who survived the hit began trying to escape the doomed vehicle. With the tank in reverse, it careened backwards off to the right of the roadway with me in its path, desperately trying to get out of its way. It is a most frightening experience to be caught in the path of an abandoned, out of control, 32-ton monster that is bearing down on you. After the tank left the roadway, it circled in tight circles in the adjoining field and then burned. To the left of the tank, at impact, was Charles Craig. In trying to get out of the line of fire, he jumped into a hole beside the road, which happened to be occupied by a German soldier, and killed him. 

The squad, being without its tank, moved off the left side of the roadway about 20 or 30 yards, to the dark shadows of a hedge line, waiting to decide what to do. We were there only a very short time when an officer approached us; it happened to be Maj. McGeorge. Several of us had been at his side one time during the La Gleize action as he stood by while several of his tanks were destroyed on a roadway that was impossible for them to leave to avoid the fire. We remembered the agony of that man as he counted the survivors of those tanks on that day, and, we saw the geniuses of that officer. Remarkably, at this time, he asked us if we would not join the other tanks because they needed the Infantry support. This Major asked us, he didn’t order us, but the earnestness of his plea was more forceful than any command could possibly have been. He also told us that he would reorganize the attack and have the tanks leave the roadway and move in abreast in the final rush to the village. This was done with one tank to the left of the roadway and the other tree tanks off to the right of the roadway, moving at a rush to the first buildings at the edge of the village. The tanks moved rapidly, delivering a heavy fusillade of fire as they made that final lunge to the village, with the Infantry following close behind. Our squad was dispersed among those tanks on the right of the intersection, with the foundation walls of those first houses as our line, also extending off to the right along a fence line. The firing was very intense, with cannon, machine-gun and rifle fire being poured into the village, intermixed with the responding German fire. 

One man who made his mark early in this action was a man who constantly boasted as to how much he hated the Germans. Whenever we were close enough to their position, he took great delight in shouting his feelings to them in the loudest and most colorful language. He was a good, reliable, and completely unselfish soldier. After I had been wounded in Normandy, I returned to our Company just after they entered Germany in early September. As of then, till some time later, all I had to wear was the old, flimsy field jacket. The weather became quite a bit colder and uncomfortable as the weeks went by. One night when we were in position outside of Stolberg, this man disappeared from our position; several hours later he reappeared and without a word, simply threw a mackinaw at me. I found out later that he had crawled out into a “no man’s land” area, which was under constant fire, to one of our knocked out tanks, located this mackinaw and crawled back with it. His name was Fred Suedmier.

Fred had his moment this night when a group of German soldiers was found to be in a small depressed area between some of the foundations just ahead of us. With fires in the village flaring and then dying and flaring again, it was at times possible to catch glimpses of some of them trying to flee to a more rearward position. Suedmier positioned himself prominently on a pile of rubble, and with the ever present trickle of tobacco juice at the corner of his mouth, began shooting and spitting and lecturing at the top of his lungs. He seemed to take particular umbrage at their dietary preferences and also at their hereditary flaws, because he continually taunted them with, “Come on you Kraut eatin’ sons of bitches, why don’t you come out and fight?” 

What with Suedmier’s performance and a feeling that we were in a pretty strong position, there was a rather light hearted atmosphere among us, especially after we had been there some time and someone called our attention to one house to our right rear that seemed to have been relatively untouched. The question was asked if anyone had checked out that house, and it was found that no one had been in it. A few men then entered it and in a short time emerged with at least ten or twelve German prisoners who had been in there all the while. There was quite a bit of joking and laughing as this party of prisoners was formed up to be taken back to the rear. After that was taken care of, several of us took a position lying behind a small earthen mound by the fence line to the right of the destroyed houses. As we lay there, there was an instant of activity right behind us. Then someone spurted right between us and with a few wild leaps disappeared into the darkness in front of us. This must have been one member of that party that had surrendered who had decided to make a run for it, and the fact that the action developed behind us caught us so totally by surprise that not a shot was fired. 

At about this very same time we heard a commotion behind us and found out that a new company was moving in behind us. It was a Company of the 75th Division. The fact that they were a new unit became quickly identifiable because of the way they were setting up. As the commands were shouted about, everyone was being addressed most formally. It was Sgt. so and so, Cpl. this and Cpl. that, and this gave the whole setting somewhat of a Basic Training atmosphere. This, too, added to what turned out to be a totally unwarranted feeling of confidence and light heartedness in our situation at the time. 

Ahead of us we could hear the sound of vehicle movement, an indication that the Germans were about ready to make their move. It sounded as though they were attempting to bring a tank around to our right flank where, if successful, it could have been extremely damaging. Our Platoon Leader, Lt. Mellitz, recognized this and called for the bazooka team, which happened to be George Sampson and me. He told us that he wanted us to move up the roadway, which ran off to the right, and to position ourselves so as to be ready to intercept the tank if it approached us from that direction. As George and I moved out, we passed another bazooka team and I tried unsuccessfully to cajole them to go with us to back us up in case the first shot missed; this they declined to do. But no sooner had we reached a suitable place when we were recalled. 

Occupying the tank on the left side of the intersection as we entered the edge of the village was an officer by the name of Capt. Jordan. He had ordered Lt. Mellitz to have our unit push further into the village. When George and I returned to the spot where Lt. Mellitz was, along with other members of our squad, we found out about these new orders. As we waited there to form up, there was a further exchange between Jordan and Mellitz. Mellitz called over to Jordan and asked him if he intended to send his tanks with us. Jordan replied that they would not be going with us, whereupon Mellitz asked “Then what will we have for support?” Jordan responded, “You have your rifles!” The reply that Mellitz then made would become his epitaph. “I’ll do it, but I don’t like it!” Within less than five minutes after he uttered that remark, he would be dead. 

After that conversation between Mellitz and Jordan, Lt. Mellitz formed us up and he led off with several men on the left side of the street and a few of us on the right, in the opening stages of this new attack. We hadn’t moved more than a few yards down both sides of the street into the village when there was an explosion of unusual force. It must have been a round of high explosive from a nearby German tank. That shell left Lt. Mellitz dead, as well as a man by the name of Lester Wertman, and a number of our men wounded, so the attack never really got under way. 

George Sampson must have been hit by a piece of flying debris that struck him in the arm with such force that it knocked his rifle out of his grasp. Convinced that his arm was broken, he made his way back to where Sgt. Fickel was, and reported his condition. Hoping against hope that his arm really was broken, was a short lived expectation because Sgt. Fickel told him to raise his arm, and when Sampson obediently raised it, Fickel informed him that his diagnosis was faulty, since he could not possibly have raised it if it had been broken. Sampson immediately compounded his problem by informing Fickel that he had lost his rifle in the course of that action, when it was blown from his grasp, and he wasn’t sure exactly where it was. Sgt. Fickel told him in no uncertain terms that the rifle was his full responsibility and no matter where it was, Sampson would have to retrieve it or suffer the consequences. By now the tank fire was supplemented with machine gun fire that was raking the street through which Sampson would have to crawl in order to find that errant rifle. Picking his way through the rubble, in the face of the continued fire, this good and obedient soldier somehow found it and brought this treasure back to display to his pleased Squad Leader. 

It was quite obvious that the round fired from that tank was the opening phase of what would certainly be a German counter attack, because we could sense the initiative being assumed by the Germans. Within a short time, in addition to the machine gun firing a grazing fire down the main street of the village, there was a gun that opened up on our left flank, and shortly thereafter another off to our right front. The fire from these flank guns converged behind us. The firing escalated considerably with direct fire now being thrown at tanks to the right side of the intersection, and within a short time the three were damaged to the point of being unusable. Our squad, by this time, had taken up positions inside the rubble filled foundation walls of the house in front of those disabled tanks. It seemed now that an all out infantry assault would be imminent. With the intensity of the fire, our position soon became untenable, and an order was issued for us to cross the street into the rubble of the foundation of the house directly in front of the tank occupied by Capt. Jordan. 

Crossing a street that is covered with machine gun fire is an unenviable prospect, especially when there are four or five men who must cross. The first man might take the enemy by surprise, but after that it can be a deadly situation. One man crossing a street strewn with debris and lots of broken glass makes as much noise as a whole squad under ordinary circumstances. Not being able to get a running start, but having to crawl over a foundation wall and immediately into the street carrying a Bazooka or the bazooka rounds, in addition to the rifle and the other gear, along with that psychological impediment of knowing that you must pass the bodies of your own two comrades as you cross that piece of ground, makes that short expanse seem a mile wide 

Fortunately, the four or five of us who made that dash across the road made it without incident, and joined those few men who were already there. Among those who were there, inside that rubble filled foundation, was also a very badly wounded tanker with a sucking chest wound, who had earlier been dragged from one of the knocked out tanks. Harry Clark and George Sampson helped carry him back for the help that he so desperately needed. That would leave the number in that position yet further diminished. 

We could sense that the Germans seemed ready to move in for the kill, because judging from the sounds, they couldn’t have been more than a house or two away. Captain Jordan, fully aware of our predicament, called to us and told us that there was really only one alternative, and that was to call fire down on our own position. At this point, those few of us who were there, felt so sure of the impending assault on our position, that we had little trepidation whatsoever about this. At least we knew that we would have some warning about the incoming barrage, giving us time to press into the rubble as hard as we could. Captain Jordan called in the co-ordinates for the fire, and, remarkably, it fell all around us, and not one round fell inside the walls of that foundation. Whatever reservations we might have had about the decision, it seemed to have done the job, because we did have a respite from any immediate action against us. 

One of the mysteries of that action that a few of us had wrestled with for years is, who had given the orders to withdraw, because unknown to those of us who were in that position at that time, not only had our Company withdrawn, but also the 75th unit that was behind us. To suggest that there was a mass abandonment of that position that night would be totally false for the simple reason, that there were too many men there who would never leave a position at all unless they were specifically ordered to do so. Some one gave the order. This was not an illustrious night for our unit, but whatever was done, was done at the behest of someone with authority. 

At daybreak, the order came to those of us who were there inside the walls of the rubble filled foundation of that house to fall back to a small stone barn that was to the left rear of the position we had been occupying. Again, who issued the order, I do not know, but I would adamantly affirm that there was not one move made on the part of those of us who were there that was not done under command. 

Once more we would have to brace ourselves to make a dash through that field of fire, which was laid down by that machine gun firing from our left front. The last few of us, who had been in that forward position, made the withdrawal without incident or casualty. When we reached the small stone barn, it was already occupied by a handful of men. Out back, behind this barn, was a light machine gun manned by two men; inside, there were several men in place in the hayloft in the top of the barn, and on ground level, the windows were also manned. In total, there couldn’t have been more than ten men now in that building. After having been up all night, and not remembering when we had eaten last, I was quite hungry and happened to have a small tin of cheese, the least desirable of all rations, in my pocket. I had just opened this can of cheese, when someone up in the hayloft called down that there was a German tank approaching down a roadway that ran east of the barn. (This would have been to the left of the roadway as we entered the village.) 

Soon a second tank was mentioned and then a third; by the fourth, my appetite was completely gone and I discarded the can of cheese. This counting continued until he had numbered thirteen tanks, each one carrying a compliment of Infantry. When this tank column was directly opposite us, one of the men on the light machine gun behind the barn opened up on this column. Several gun turrets swung over in our direction. One fired and with one round there were two dead men beside that weapon. As this column of tanks continued on its way, we knew that it would eventually bypass not only us, but would also move by the place where the half-tracks too would be cut off. This is what appeared to us as we witnessed the events in that barn.

As all of this was transpiring, there were some shouted communications between Capt. Jordan and the young Lieutenant whom I did not know, but who was now in command of our small detachment in that barn. Precisely what was said, we did not know, but from what we gathered, the Lieutenant must have suggested trying to return to the half-tracks, but Capt. Jordan must have ordered him to stay. The sum of it was that the young officer said that whatever we would do would be decided by those of us in the barn and no one else; most democratic, but a highly unmilitary concept. I must confess that the only time I ever voted in the Army was in that small barn, and the vote was unanimous to try to make it back to the half-tracks. 

With the events unfolding so rapidly, I believe we voted the way we did because of the electrifying effect that the news of the Malmedy massacre had on everyone. We had heard that the German units were killing prisoners, and some of our men had also seen some of the Belgian civilians that had been killed by the enemy in the La Gleize area. This, although not once mentioned, contributed most certainly to our decision. 

Since the German column was fully in view, we knew that getting out of that barn would not be a simple matter. One by one we made our way out of the barn, past the bodies of those two dead men on that machine gun, through a series of cattle fences, and then up that steep embankment that would bring us onto the elevated roadway. I knew that once we were up on the road there was a ditch on the far side that would offer some protection, but the question was, would the column take notice of this handful of men and do something about it. Fortunately, we must have been considered small prey, because nothing was done to hinder us. 

The burden of leaving a place that you have already taken is an immeasurable one, and that feeling, along with the sight that greeted me as I made my way back up that roadway was not only unpleasant, but even sickening. The ditch beside that roadway was littered with all kinds of gear, all of it just about brand new, that had been thrown away as the new troops had hastily retreated. 

When I got back to the half-tracks, I was surprised by the almost casual attitude that seemed to prevail there, in such a contrast to the desperate situation that we had just left and the serious threat that seemed to be developing so close at hand. 

There were already the brilliantly colored panels displayed on the vehicles for aerial recognition purposes, coinciding with the appearance of several P-38’s. I had always considered this aircraft to be the most beautiful and graceful in all of our aerial arsenal, and its appearance was a pleasant surprise. We had heard, however, that some P-38’s had caught one of our Companies in the Battalion and mauled it quite severely, so this tempered my feelings somewhat. One aspect of their performance, as they appeared to be working over the German column that was threatening us, was the contrast between the pilots of the P-38’s and those of the P-47’s. The P-38’s came in rather quickly and made dives that were quite shallow in comparison to the P-47’s. When the 47’s came in for close support, it seemed as though they circled endlessly, but when they came in, they came with long steep dives that seemed to make them most accurate and effective.

By this time I was feeling completely exhausted and so I climbed onto the hood of our half-track to rest, but no sooner had I done this when an irate officer, who I believe was a Colonel, pulled us in a Jeep. He demanded to know what we were doing there and why we were not down in the village. By this time the threatening German column must have been stalled by the air bombardment and eventually retreated. The Colonel told us that he would have the artillery pour smoke and white phosphorous into the village for about twenty minutes and then, without fail, we would take the place. 

Within a very few minutes we again were on our way down that roadway, this time in the daylight, moving at a very quickened pace. The whole valley was now shrouded in smoke, giving us some degree of protection. No sooner did we reach the edge of the village, when again we were greeted with heavy machine gun fire. The tanks, along with a few Bazooka rounds eventually silenced some of them, and we moved through quite rapidly. Once again we would have to pass the bodies of Lt. Mellitz and Wertman. The body of one man lay fallen over the hitch of a small trailer that had been abandoned in a previous engagement; the other man was right beside him. 

When we entered one of the first partially intact houses on the left side of the street, we were met by a Belgian woman, who had somehow survived that awful ordeal of fire. Standing in a large room with the floor literally covered from wall to wall with blood, she described a meeting that some of the German soldiers had in that room the night before, in which they were discussing the idea of surrendering. Evidently that counsel must have voted too, in favor of not being taken prisoner. What a haunting bit of information that was. We can only conjecture what would have happened if we had just prevailed a bit longer and more persistently. 

After we eliminated some of the machine guns that held up our initial entry into the village, the fire did subside a little, although there were other machine guns that continued to harass us continually. Later in the day we caught a particularly heavy barrage from what must have been that column of tanks that had withdrawn behind the village and then thrown this particularly heavy fire on us.

There was a troublesome sniper who made life rather difficult for us during the course of the night, especially when we were on guard duty by a water trough near the eastern entrance of the town. The next morning, we decided that he must have been in the steeple of the solitary chapel in the village, so we put a Bazooka round through the door of the church, and strangely, the sniper fire ended.

There was a particularly strange incident that occurred in the closing moments of the retaking of the village, when George Sampson and I were moving toward one of the few remaining houses in the village. We approached a side street, and literally bumped into an American coming up that side street, and who was it, but Major McGeorge, armed with nothing but his map case, and a .45. What a remarkable man!

That day we again mounted our half-tracks and headed for a rear area where we located inside a farm compound. This would be our first significant break since being committed in the La Gleize action. Since this was in a relatively well-protected area, our situation could now be much more relaxed, and this permitted us certain liberties that were otherwise unthinkable. The important one was simply to hook up the radio that we had, wiring it to the half-track battery and we could have the enjoyment of listening to music. 

After days and nights of that unceasing tension of the combat environment, we entered the kitchen of that Belgian farmhouse, we took off our gear, stacked it along the kitchen wall, slid onto the long wooden benches that surrounded the table, and just sat there wearily looking at each other. Someone had already hooked up the radio and brought it into the house and set it on the table in front of us.

The radio was turned to the Armed Forces Network Station, which was broadcast from London. What occurred next sounds so staged and contrived that I was reluctant to include it, but it was neither staged nor contrived, simply one of those inexplicable moments that life constantly produces. The woman’s voice from London then said, “I would like to dedicate this next song to the men of the Third Armored Division. The name of the song is “I’ll Get By.” “The words to that song were, “I’ll get by as long as I have you, through there be rain and darkness too, I’ll not complain, I’ll see it through. Poverty may come to me, it’s true, but what care I, say, I’ll get by as long as I have you.” At this time I was nineteen years old and single, but with me were a number of married men, some with children. The impact of that song at that moment was so emotionally devastating, so charged, that several of those men simply broke down, and without embarrassment, sat and wept.

Source:  http://www.battleofthebulgememories.be/

What a Difference a Day Makes…..” (Grandmenil)

 This part of my combat experience is tightly interwoven with a song that was very popular at the time. Its title was borrowed to head this segment of our narrative.

I was in the 174th Field Hospital, which was a tent hospital located about 7 miles southwest of Liege. It was there that I first heard the song. Margaret Whiting was doing the vocal. Later on when I was evacuated through the Medavac chain to the U.K, I heard the song done by Vera Lynn.

 I give a full account of its impact on me in my description of what it was like to be wounded; to be piped through the Medavac chain, and hearing the news of the disastrous sinking of the MS Leopoldville in an Appendix at the end of this volume. We marched away from that haunting edifice. However, we kept looking back at it over our shoulders until we saw it no longer.

 We went down the right road of the fork, and soon were under a heavy canopy of overhanging tree branches. We marched for about 100 yards or so before we came upon a road that bisected our road from the right. Ours came to an abrupt end at the juncture of the two roads. The latter looked to be nothing more than a fire lane to me.

 Without hesitation we crossed over this road or lane, and went down a slight embankment, maybe two or three feet, to a semi open space, which happened to be under a rather heavy tree cover. I say semi because we were in, and amongst a strip of trees, both large, and small, that were not tightly packed together. They were spread out thereby providing pieces of flat open ground between the trees for men to dig in. The ground cover was a mix of fresh snow, and Christmas tree branches, and needles… Loads of needles!!!

 There is a modern day saying that if anything can go wrong, it will go wrong! Well, on the afternoon of the 26th December, the company peeked into Hell, and came away scorched! Here is how it happened.

 1st Lieutenant Markowitz went into the grove first. He took up a position near a clearing that looked out upon the valley in Which Grandmenil and La Fosse were located. A mountain spine across the valley ran parallel to the one on our side. A two lane, all weather road ran along the valley floor connecting the two villages. I judged it to be, at the time, about 25 to 30 yards in front of where we were to take our defensive positions.

 Markowitz put his back to the scene and facing us as we cambered down the small slope, barked, and waved his arms for one, and all the “Keep moving down to your right… all the way until we tell you stop”! “Keep moving! Keep Moo-ving!! ”

 We weren’t moving down to the right to suit the XO. We were beginning to bunch-up which was an absolute no-no. On seeing this, he began to yell and curse, and to question people’s ancestry. “What in hell is the matter with you men? Can’t you follow a simple order to keep moving? What do I have to do? Go down to the head of the column, and lead you like sheep?? Get the lead out of your asses and from between your ears and move, damn it!!!! MOVE!!!”

I wasn’t to far from him, in fact he might have been 10 feet in front, and slightly to my left. He was a short man, stocky built with a round face, reddened by a rise in temper. He sent someone; I think it was Hammonds, to go down the line to our right and to get the men in the line to move further on. Dispatching whomever may have saved that man from what followed! A clarification is in order at this point.

The Combat “A” plan called for us to link up with the companies on either side of us. In this case, mistaken, and or otherwise, the company on our right, as we faced toward the Grandmenil – La Fosse valley, happened to be “H” Company. This “crossover” between “H” and “F”, was part of the Clough legacy of confusion!

 By trying to maneuver to tie up with “H” Company, we pinched off Company “G”. In addition, failing to link up as we did, with “H” Company, we left two gaps in the 2nd Battalion’s Defense Line, i.e., one between Croix St Jehenne and Masta which was our real assigned area, and a 500 yard gap between “F” and “H” Companies, in the vicinity of Sur Charmont (see map for G1 and G2).

 The Germans were quick to see this debacle. Taking advantage of our mistakes in field maneuvers, they infiltrated a very substantial force through the gaps. This force later took up a strong defensive position in the Croix St Jehenne – Masta sector. Our assault on their defensive position will be described in another section of the chronology.

Markowitz waited for a minute or two before launching into another tirade. This time he was unstoppable. Every curse invented by man came out of him! Finally, in exasperation he fell quiet and began to make small conversation with the men near him. It was during this quiet moment that hell suddenly bounded onto the scene, uninvited. As Markowitz was gabbing with us, a shell whistled over our heads, and landed on the other side of the Grandmenil – La Fosse road. Its impact was judged to be about 100 yards from us.

 Markowitz blurred out, “What the hell is going on?” he said as he and the rest of us, straightened up! Before any of us could say a thing, a second shell came in and exploded between the roadway and our tree covered area about 50 yards from where we stood. Needless to say we ducked and or squatted down, taking some comfort that a small of bushes that could have passed for a miniature hedge row was shielding us from the blast of the artillery shell. This movement on our part was in response to a natural instinct and out of fear.

 “Hey! That was close!! Let’s get the hell out of here, NOW!!” roared the XO. We quickly wheeled about and started to move back towards the slope and the fire lane that served as the back border of the area that was to be our defense line.

 Two things must be said at this juncture of this narrative. The first is about the background of our officers. Only two were trained infantry officers: Captain Tingley and 2nd Lieutenant Olsen. XO Markowitz was a trained Artillery Officer. 1st Lieutenant Thompson was trained as an Air Force Anti-Aircraft Officer and Anti-Aircraft Officer. 2nd Lieutenant Monore was a heavy Weapons Officer.

It was because of his background that Marckowitz reacted so quickly. He recognized the straddling technique viz a viz those two shots. The second thing that must be kept in mind as one reads this portion of the chronology is that a good part of the company was still bunched up in the area running from the base of the slope down to where Markowitz stood. Reason: we were all waiting for the rest of the company to continue to move down further, connect with “H” Company and thereby make room for the rest of us. In the area just alluded to where all the men of the 2nd and 3rd Platoons who were somewhat mixed up because of the bunching. We were packed for the slaughter that was about to enfold us!

 Had the movement “to the right” continued unabated, it would have allowed the third and second Platoons and elements of the first and fourth to get in line; to thin out and just maybe reduce the impact of what was to suddenly befall us. It would also have closed one gap in our line and again just maybe (there’s that word again), reduced the number of casualties we suffered in closing the second gap in the day that followed this mournful day.

 With Markowitz’s yelling for us “to move back, lets get the hell out of here, go back, go back”, we turned and all at once began crashing into one another, so closely packed were we in that tight rectangular area. Then as we began to spread out and move towards the fire lane in back of us, the third shell whistled in! It hit amongst us!!! Instinct and fear made us react to each incoming shell. We hit the ground, sometime hard, and tried to burrow into that frozen ground. We didn’t care if we landed on our equipment, on one another, or what. The main thing was to get down! A number of times I thought that we went down before each shell hit.

 Almost immediately after the third shell struck, I heard someone cry for his mother……”Mommy, Mommy!” I heard someone else yell … “Oh, God, I’m hit!!!” Another… “Help me! I can’t move!” Screams, running feet and hard breathing were all around me. So was mass confusion.

The fourth shell landed right behind me as I was getting ready to “hit the dirt”! It lifted my legs into the air and the force of its explosion drove my head first into a pile of snow and fallen Christmas tree needles. Moments after the shell exploded I got to my feet. I didn’t wait around to examine myself to see if I had been hit or was bleeding. The shock of what was going on along with the will to survive must have numbed all my thinking. I was moving on adrenalin and instinct.

Keeping my head down but my eyes on the slope leading up to the fire lane, I drove myself to run as fast as I could in spite of the conflict that had suddenly arose in me: freeze and stay down versus get up, and run!!!

 T/Sgt Tierney, 3rd Platoon Sergeant was next to me on my left. Cpl Joe Gil, BAR Ammo Bearer was in my right. Tierney was beside me through the short savage shelling until it ended. Sometimes we were so close that we were looking into each others eyes. Sometimes we were so close that on one occasion I literally felled down right on his extended arm, and rifle.

 The fifth shell came whistling in! It felt dam close! I taught that it was going to go down the back of my neck, i.e., between me and the scarf that I had draped around it. It went off in back of me and to my right. I was stung with flying needles, bits of dirt, ice and rock. The blast threw Gil, or should I say pushed Gil partly on top of me.

 Now, none thing has to be said about comradeship, love your buddy, etc. All the time that we were in non combat status, every man in the company, with exception of the officers, drew closer together, willingly shared what they had with one another and looked out for and stood up for each other.

 Gil and I were close buddies practically from the day that I joined the company in August of 1944. We got along great! We got along great! However, in this fiery kettle, it was every man for himself! So, I pushed him off me as if he were a bag of horseshit, got up and ran for my life!

 Men were yelling and screaming when the sixth and last shell hit in front of me. I felt as if someone had hit the middle of my helmet with a hammer. The pain resulting from that sound and the shell’s concussion went through me, from the top of my head, and down to my toes. I shook and or vibrated all over. For the moment I felt as if I were flour being shaken through a shieve.

 The screaming and yelling had stopped. There were just moans mixed with the sweep of a sudden wind through the trees.

 I got up dizzy and staggered up the slope onto the fire lane. Some guys were with me on my right. Tierney was not with me! I didn’t wait to find out what had happened. I started to walk, then trot; then run. I must have put 100 yards between me and that hell of piece of land that we had originally planned to defend. Suddenly, I heard Markowitz’s voice yelling way in back of us to “Come back! Your buddies need you! Come back”!

 It didn’t take long to get back to that horrific scene. The first thing that I encountered was Tierney sitting on the left side of the road just before it intersected with the fire lane. His legs were outstretched in a V before him. He was not wearing his helmet and he didn’t have his rifle. His face was a mass of sweat. He was looking up the road from whence we had returned. He kept saying over and over “Those Sons of Bitches! Those Sons of Bitches”!!! I walked up to him and placed my left hand on his shoulder to give him some comfort. It was then that I saw what had happened to him. His left eye was partially out of its socket and resting just below it on his cheek. I squeezed his shoulder and someone behind me said “Don’t let him move! Help is on the way”! Just then a Medic came up and began cutting the left sleeve of his Combat Jacket. I kept my hand on his shoulder while the Medic cut the hole and administered a morphine shot. I left Tierney soon after that.

 The next sight that I saw was of Lieutenant Olsen of the 2nd Platoon. He was standing in the middle of the same road in a Napoleon pose. His helmet was sitting on the back of his head and his face was bathing in sweat. He was looking up at the surrounding tree line. There was a blotch of blood just where his hand was sticking in his blouse under his combat jacket. I walked up to him asked him “If I could help him”. He lowered his eyes only to say “No! I’m OK. Look after the others”!

 I turned from him and it was then that I saw S/Sgt Al Leight, 3rd Squad Leader, 3rd Platoon. He was seated, his back resting against a tree. There were men, some of them Medics, kneeling down around him to work on him and the others that were on stretchers grouped around him.

“God! Where did all this help come from all of a sudden”?

 Al had no helmet or any other equipment on him. Like the others, his face was covered in sweat. Unlike Tierney and Olsen, he was aware of what was going on around him. What caught my eye was the cigarette he had in his mouth. It was sort of stuck to his lower lip. It was hanging nearly straight down from his mouth which was opened at the time. The cigarette was not lit.

 As I looked at him, I taught that I noticed that he was missing one boot. I later found out that both of his legs below the knees had been nearly cut through by a direct hit. His legs were hanging by sections of torn muscle.

 Then I saw two sites that almost caused me to heave my guts! Two buddies of mine who were very close to me were being set down just beyond Al Leight. One was in very bad shape. The other from what I saw at the moment appeared to be dead.

 I walked over to where these two men were. The first was sitting up crouched over with both of his hands around his belly. His mouth was open with his lips drawn back revealing a lot of his teeth. His hair was down over his forehead and all wet from sweat. Steam was rising from him like the rest that were around him. Blood was oozing out from between his fingers. His eyes were popping out of his head and he was moaning…. “Ohooo! Ohoooo! …..Ohoooo! As I bent down to drape a discarded jacket around his hands! An artillery shell had disemboweled him. He was Tom Darlington, Pfc, Assistant Barman, 1st Squad, 3rd Platoon.

 He was one of the men that used to go into Pembrey, Wales, with Simoleon, Duffy, Jones and myself to drink limey beer and go back to camp singing while walking down the streets of the town during the blackout, arm in arm. He was one hell of a great guy!

 A Medic shouted for me to leave him alone and get the hell away from him. So I got up and turned to look at the other man that was lying on a GI blanket near Tom.

 He was without a head!!! I wasn’t quite sure who he was just then. At that moment I was beginning to taste my stomach as I had to choke down what was coming up!

 Just then a man came over and threw a tent half over him. He was followed by a Medic who was carrying his torn head which was partly wedged in his helmet. They discovered it stuck between a tree trunk and some branches. The helmet had been knocking out of shape.

The Medic put the man’s head down where it would normally be. It rolled out from under the shelter half and it was then that I recognized who he was. It was Bob Duffy: Pfc, Rifle Grenadier, 2nd Squad, 3rd Platoon.

 Duff and I had trained at Camp “Lousy Howzie”, Texas. We had gone on a three day pass to Dallas. We saw the city, drank beer, and got laid. We were inseparable! Back in camp if one was on KP, the got the same detail. I felt very empty at this point. It wasn’t a good feeling for me to have, in lieu of what happened next.

 It was just as I started to cast my glance elsewhere that a group of men came up carrying a man who was moaning, choking, and crying pitifully. It was Pfc Calvin Cummings, Barman for the 2nd Squad of the 3rd Platoon. They asked me to give them a hand with carrying Calvin.

 I quickly grabbed Calvin’s left arm and head which was pointing down towards the ground between the men that were carrying him. The guys that were lugging Calvin were all from the company. Unfortunately, I don’t remember who they were.

We laid Calvin down near where Leight was. I still had his head cradled in my right arm when we put him down. His glasses which he always wore were gone. He was bleeding from everywhere, his mouth, his nose, his chest, down the sleeve of his right arm. He was choking on his own blood! He turned his eyes to me and lifted his left arm and closing his hand into a fist, tapped me twice on my chest and then his eyes glazed over and his head jerked to the right, and he was gone!!!

 Calvin was a man from Missouri. I first met Calvin while at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. We went through advance Infantry Training at Camp Howzie, Texas. He and I were amongst a dozen men who were placed in “F” Company when we came up from Texas to fill the gaps made by the mass transfer of men out of the 75th Division and the Company. We went over on the Franconia. We bunked together in the huts in the Harbor Camp outside of Prembrey in Wales of the U.K. We sailed on the Ill fated Leopoldville to France. We were “sardined” on the 40 an’ 8s to the combat zone in Belgium. Now, this! An end which neither of us taught would ever happen!

I had gone through a lot in the last hour: haunted with the fear of being shot in the back by a sniper hiding in the mansion; apprehensive over what was going to happen now that we were forming up to first hold and then to attack; the rain of artillery shells; the dash for life; the encounter with some of our wounded and now the death of two good friends.

 I lost control of the tight rein that I had on my emotions up to this time. I gently laid Calvin’s head down on a part of the GI blanket that was used to carry him up from the “Death Pit”. While on my knees beside his still form, I began to whimper, and then to cry. Someone put a hand on me, and told me to get up! “There isn’t anything more that you can do for him”. It was then that two men threw a black canvas like covering over Calvin.

 Trucks backed down to where the “quick and the dead”, the wounded and the dying were laid out along the side of the road. I took one more look at what was once a strong and vibrant man now tucked under a canvas. His left arm stuck out ending in a fist!

 As I type these words now some 57 years after this nightmare, I can still see Tierney, Leight, Darlington, Duffy in the throes of their suffering and or in the clutches of death. However, the memory that sticks with me the most is that arm sticking out from under the black canvas and the fist which knock a goodbye on my chest.

 They stacked the dead on the back of trucks like a core of wood. The wounded they loaded onto the hood of jeeps; into “meat wagons” and the back of Command Cars.

 The slaughter, the gathering of the dead, the wounded, the carting of them away was over in a matter of minutes! It was unreal! Those of us who were in on piece stood staring at all this as if we had not been a part of what had happened! It seemed to us as if we had been forgotten! No one was telling us to come here or go there!

 Then just as a numbness was setting in, someone barked an order for the no wounded, the able-bodied and those who were too stupid not to been hit, to go back down into the area where death and destruction had reined supreme for a while, and form up for roll call. They wanted to know who was and who wasn’t!

 In Memoriam

Before going on with the chronology on our combat time, I wish to say something about our fallen comrades. Those fine men, who were killed or wounded by artillery fire one day after Christmas in 1944, had yet to fire a shot in anger with the exception of S/Sgt Leight. They didn’t get a chance to find out what they were made of; mice or men; brave men or cowards.

They were for the most part some of the best that the Company had to offer. Many of them were held in high regard; were well liked by their fellows and would certainly have been selected for a leadership role when the time came.

They were cut down to soon, far too soon!

It would be a terrible sham; a stain on my personal honesty, and a disgrace therefore, if I didn’t set aside a special place in the history of “F” Company to remember them.

 “F” Company went into combat with 157 officers, and men. They had 6 Officers, 37 NCOs, 4 Technical grades and 103 Infantrymen. On that day that hell fell on them Captain Tingley and the men attached to his office, 12 men to be exact were not with the Company. They were engaged in important supportive duties such as serving as cooks, drivers, etc.

 The Company suffered 23 causalities on the afternoon of the 26th: 7 deaths and 16 wounded. Percentage wise, the causality load breaks down as follows:

Officers; 2 of 6 or 33%
NCOs: 7 of 37 or 19%
Ems: 16 or 103 or 15.5%

 Causality percentage for the Company: 23 of 145 or 16% (approx)

 When “F” Company followed 1st Lieutenant Markowitz down into the covered area to set up a defense perimeter, it did it out of the standing marching order, i.e., the 1st followed by the 2nd, etc. For some reason that I have not been able to fathom since I began writing this historical chronology some 13 years ago, the basis for the out of sequence order taken that day has escaped me. On that faithful day, the 4th Platoon followed by the 1st, then the 3rd and then the 2nd, trailed Markowitz down into that dark hole. The resultant: the 3rd suffered the most causalities.

 Here is the breakdown by platoons including the nature of the wounds and or the causes of the deaths. Data is presented in the platoon order used on that day.

4th Platoon:
2nd Lieutenant LaMar R. Monroe, neck wound.
S/Sgt Frederick O. Anderson, death from a head hit.
Pfc Daniel M. Fergus, leg wound.

1st Platoon:
S/Sgt Lyle A. Francomb, lower abdominal wound.
Pfc Jessey H. Allison, death from a chest wound.
Pfc James P. Haddad, death from a chest wound.
Pfc William C. Penn, stomach wound.

3rd Platoon:
T/Sgt Bernard J. Tierney, wound to the left eye.
S/Sgt Alfred C. Leight, severed legs below the knees.
S/Sgt Ellis L. Van Atta, wounds to head and neck.
Sgt Charles R. Clashman, death from multiple wounds to the head.
Pfc Clavin F. Cummings, death from multiple chest wounds.
Pfc Robert L. Duffy, death from severed head.
Pfc Herschell W. Sisson, death by concussion.
Pfc Donald Pruitt, wound to left arm.
Pfc John W. Officer, wounds to chest and legs.
Pfc Thomas V. Darlington, severe wounds to abdominal area.
Pvt Max Martell, wounds to both hands.
Pvt Dennis Profitt, multiple wounds to back and legs.
Pvt William Mc Crady, wound to right arm.

 2nd Platoon:
2nd Lietenant Kenneth Olsen, hand wound.
Cpl Curtis Smith, death from back and head wounds.
Pfc Lawrence W. Barnes, wound to face.

Source of “Friendly Fire” (Based on data supplied by Al Roxburgh)

According to the After Action Reports for the 25th to the 28th of December 1944, the 87th Chemical Mortar Battalion was supporting the 289th and the 290th Regiments of the 75th Infantry Division.

 Section 275 of subject report states that on 25 December 1944, a Chemical Mortar Company, Company “B”, which was attached to the Combat Command “A”, 3rd Armored Division, as was the 289th, was further attached to the 289th. As a consequence, after reconnaissance, it setup its mortar positions in the vicinity of SADZOT at 1515 Hours.

 By reference to the US ARMY HANDBOOK 1939-1945 as written by George Forty, Chemical Mortar Battalions were armed with 4.2 inch mortars capable of firing toxic chemical, smoke bombs and high explosive shell (HEs). These battalions served as the infantry commanders “hip pocket artillery”, capable of placing accurate and heavy fire on target up to the 5000 yard range. The Handbook contains a photo of the mortar and its crew.

 On the 26th of December, “F” Company of the 2nd Battalion, 289th Infantry, began to take up an assigned defensive position between Grandmenil and La Fosse. This position was parallel to the road connecting these two villages. Map below identifies this location as being near latitude 89 and between longitudinal line 55/73 and 55/74 on the map. The location was roughly 3 miles from the center of SADZOT. The center of this village is marked with a red dot on said same map. The number 6 on the map marks the approximate area where “F” Company was assembled. FL IDs the fire lane.

 Chemical Mortar Company “B” set up its mortar line on the outskirt of the village. (Their mortar line has been identified as MP on the map. Triangular lines, using the scale, below the map, show that “F” Company was within the mortar company’s firing range.

 The After Action Report for the 26th of December states in the second paragraph: “Company “B”, in operations with the 289th Infantry, 75th Division, fired 146 rounds of HE ….. unobserved fire on suspected enemy troop(s) assembly area in support of an attack by 2nd Bn, 289th Infantry in the direction of Grandmenil.

 Six (6) of those shell landed on the assembled “F” Company who were filing down into and under a strand of trees to take up a defensive position at the time.

Source:  http://www.battleofthebulgememories.be/

A World War II Diary –Battle of the Bulge

As you read this diary, much is written in the present tense; that is, as I wrote it during 1943 – 1945. Occasionally, you will find notations that I make in 1988 as I transcribed the diary in preparation for printing. December 16, 1944 – January 25, 1945

December 16, 1944: We have heard that the Germans have just begun some heavy action. We are told to get packed and get ready to move out on a minute’s notice. Our radio, which has been silent for over two months, becomes heavy with messages. The messages were trying to determine where the main thrust of the German attack was. Finally on December 20th we were told to move out. We picked up our tracks in a hurry. We were told over our radio that the Germans were shooting the works. Intelligence informed us that it was all or nothing. The Germans planned to take NO prisoners — it was killing or be killed. So, we were forewarned.

As we left Breinig and headed westward in retreat, it was a nightmare of muddy roads, bitter cold and heavy fog which limited visibility so that Carl Kieffer needed Tex and me to help him along the road. On many occasions we had to stop until vehicles in front of us were either winched back onto the road or, if mired too deep, they were left for the following maintenance crews to handle.

Tex and I being on the radio were hearing things we weren’t pleased to hear. Adding to the fog and pitch black night, hundreds of German buzz bombs were being sent our way. Several crashed nearby. We later heard from Captain Woods that one missed General Roses’s jeep by 100 yards and knocked his driver out of his vehicle.

There was an icy, paralyzing mist over the entire battle front, a cloud of fine driving snow that glazed the roads to slippery ribbons and many tanks, trucks, and half-tracks skidded off the roads. Snowdrifts covered extensive fields of anti-tank mines and hard frozen ground made digging foxholes a nightmare. The Ardennes look like a Christmas card, but it is agony all the way.

We have just learned about Company G being surrounded by Germans. After using up all their fuel and ammunition, General Rose ordered them to destroy their vehicles and, on Christmas night were advised to infiltrate back to friendly lines as best they could. 

NOTE: This action was later called “Hogan’s 400” and is in war movies today.

My diary here was written in January once we got a breather and the German attack finally was coming to a screeching halt. The diary says: When we left Breinig on December 20th, we retreated westward to Theux, Belgium. Here we bivouacked, using a textile mill wall as a windbreak. What a change. After being used to a warm bed indoors, here we are freezing as we try to get a little shuteye. There is so much fog we really don’t know what’s happening. Tex and I take turns manning the radio. Early next morning we take off, still foggy, cold and unsettled. We entered Spa, Belgium, and stayed in the “Casino de Spa”, a very ritzy place, which used to be one of the favorite gambling resorts in Europe.

I will never forget this place. Here we are, a war going on all around us, one big state of confusion and it’s Christmas Eve. The morale was a little low and someone found a whole truck load of champagne. Our Mess Sergeant, John Barclay, was preparing a nice turkey dinner. He started this about midnight, Christmas Eve.

By 2:00 a.m. we got orders to move out. The Germans were attacking. Unfortunately, most of the guys had been drinking champagne all night and weren’t in a position to perform their duties. Our Company Commander, Captain Paul Woods, was in a dilemma. How can I move all these vehicles when no one is in a position to drive? He asked us to radio Headquarters and explain the situation. We were given two hours to shape up. About 4:00 a.m. we were all ready to leave. Our mess sergeant had put the partially roasted turkeys in the truck. We got a message to unload. We did. The mess sergeant got the field kitchen going again. An hour later we were told to load again. Finally, by 8:00 a.m. we were told that we were safe; the German’s were knocked out by a company of our tanks.

We managed to enjoy our Christmas turkey. We left Spa about 3:00 p.m., December 25th. This day was the first clear day since the German’s started their attack. Our planes, for the first time, had an opportunity to fly their sorties. It was cold and crisp (about 10 degrees) and bombers left their vapor trails. Fighter planes all around us. Somehow, I felt the spirit of Christmas. Somehow, I felt this to be a beautiful day. Being so far away from home and under these unusual circumstances I had the Christmas Spirit.

About 6:00 p.m. Christmas evening we entered Louveigné, Belgium. (We came through this town in September.) We parked our half-track near the side of a Belgian house and immediately a man and woman invited us into their home for the evening. They not only wanted to show us their appreciation, but knew with us around they had protection. So here we spent Christmas night. They gave us supper consisting of bean soup and steak. (They went all out.) Steak was hard to come by. They wanted us to know they were treating us as if we were royalty.

The radio reports began to sound encouraging and we were now getting the upper hand of the Von Rundstedt counterattack. After supper we spent some time talking with this Belgian couple and later that evening they offered us a shot or two of Cognac. My, what treatment!

I had to stand guard at midnight. The night was clear, crisp, and beautiful. As I stood guard and looked at the moon, my thoughts were on home and wondering how my folks were spending Christmas. With the picture card setting I described earlier, I still was in the Christmas Spirit.

December 26, 1944: We left this Belgian family about noon, and traveled twenty miles farther south to a little town called Tohogne. Here again as we parked the half-track along side a house, we were invited to stay inside by another Belgian family. This family consisted of an elderly lady, and her son, who was an artist, and also a member of the Belgian underground. I will never forget this family. This little old 75-year old woman walked around the house constantly fingering her rosary beads. She was deathly afraid of the constant booming sounds of the nearby artillery guns. She and her 40-year old son (Lucien Dumont) couldn’t do enough for us. The lady was afraid the Germans would pick up her son. He had a radio transmitter in the attic and was tuned into Paris and London.

NOTE: To my children. It was this stop that I saw and admired the picture that Lucien had painted. He gave it to me and I eventually mailed it to Lale. It has been in our living room at Pinney Drive and here at the farm. It’s the picture of the water wheel and the line of trees. He signed this picture with the following comment: “Bien Amicalement a la fiancée Le William. Mai Eulalia. Avec mon meilleur bonjour mon eternelle reconnaissance.” Translated this means: The good friendship I have made with Eulaila’s fiancée. With my many good remembrances, I will be eternally grateful.

December 29, 1944: We left Tohogne about 1:30 p.m. We headed northeast for about twelve miles to a village called Bois et Borsu. Here we stayed at a farmhouse which showed no signs of the war nor did this seemingly well to do family seem to be war weary. They were not as congenial as other Belgians. Their name was Genon. We spent the New Year Holidays here. There is a nice little church here and I attended and heard my first High Mass in many a day.

January 4, 1945: We left Bois et Borsu and went back to Tohogne. I believe our Captain Woods felt this town wasn’t as friendly, that’s why we left. We didn’t stay at the same place but today paid the elderly lady and son Lucien a visit.

NOTE: I have all the letters I wrote to Lale. Maybe I should say she has them and is allowing me to use them to add to this story. The letters up to this date have very little information relative to the war because our mail was censored and we couldn’t say anything for fear it would fall into enemy hands. The contents of these letters consisted mainly of talking about our families and friends. A letter I wrote Lale on January 13, 1945, contains some information that I believe is noteworthy to record.

I quote a paragraph: “My latest news from home hasn’t been too encouraging. John getting ready to ship out; Bob being called into the service; my kid brother Paul about ready to enlist. It’s really unbelievable, but I guess we have to face reality. I know the Good Lord will watch over my brothers as He has done with me. I have the faith He will watch over us in the future.”The letter continues: “Dad’s new idea of V-mails is really working good. I received letters he wrote every day in December and he is keeping his promise and writing daily. (Even though Dad writes them daily, I get them in bunches.) Sure is a faithful dad, isn’t he?”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Before I left for overseas, Dad and I figured out a code that would tell him where I was and any other brief message I wanted to relay. The code was this. I would spell out my message by using the first capital letter in a sentence. Then my second sentence, the first capital letter would be the second letter of my message. The first capital letter in the third sentence would be the third letter of my message and so on. Our code worked very effectively.

January 16, 1945:We left Tohogne and traveled about 15 miles to a little settlement called Grand-Trixhe. Here we are staying for a few days and expect to pull out tomorrow. Here we made friends with a lady and her daughter, who published a magazine. The lady’s hobby was spinning wool. It was very interesting to watch her. Took a picture of her spinning. They were a jovial pair. The group and I played Rummy and Casino with them. The elderly lady was quite a joker. She had a little dog called Fifi. Fifi was a playful little mutt. We witnessed some of the coldest weather yet. The scenery is beautiful. The radio reports the Russians are making a big push at present.

January 17, 1945: We left Grand-Trixhe and headed back to Bois et Borsu. I asked the Captain why these last several days we kept going back to previous locations. He said “This is the bitter battle for billets in the Belgian Bulge.” Then with a smile he said, “George Herman, there are spies around and we must continually move so the German’s can’t get a fix on our supplies with their artillery.” This got me to thinking. As Tex and I manned the radio, we knew of the Hogan 400 retreat. We were well aware of the Malmedy Massacre, where the Germans shot a complete company as they were being taken as prisoners. And to think I could have been assigned to this company (Reconnaissance Company). We were aware the 33rd Armored Regiment had been operating in the hottest sectors of the Ardennes offensive (Battle of the Bulge). We were assigned to the most important routes of advance in the early stages of Von Rundstedt’s drive. And as the reports trickle in, the 3rd Armored was doing a full part to pinch off and eliminate this salient. Men of the “Spearhead”, the real victors of this campaign, were coming out of a triumphant campaign, were coming out of action with weariness steeped in their bones and pain in their quiet eyes. We felt an abiding hate for the enemy.Well, here we are again at Bois et Borsu. The three little Genon kids were glad to see us again. We stayed at a different home this time, but made frequent visits to the Genon family.

We are told that we will be here for a week or ten days, unless the Germans pull off something else. Our captain doesn’t think so. He feels the Germans have shot their wad. We are noticing fewer robot bombs, the incoming artillery shelling have diminished and the Luftwaffe seems to be non-existent.There’s busy work around these days. Many of our trucks that have been carrying ammunition, gasoline and rations have returned to join us. They have been following their respective tank companies to be on the spot to re-supply them as they run out of supplies. The orders were to refit, repair, and replace, in order to start a spring offensive. There seems to be a new feeling in the air.

While here two things have happened with me. One, I had a surprise visit from Warren Griffith. Warren lived on Bentwood Street in Geistown, Pa. and was a friend of the family. He was John’s friend. They did a lot of singing together. Warren was with a field artillery unit and heard the 33rd Armored Regiment was nearby. Being a lieutenant, he was able to track me down. We spent an afternoon together. Naturally, we talked about what had just happened this past month. We talked about home, our families, and just shared a great afternoon together. He left me, heading for Luxembourg.

The other thing that happened was quite unusual and painful. While standing in chow line our Warrant Officer, Buster Dodson was standing behind me. Buster was a big robust man who weighed about 250 pounds and stood about 6 feet 4 inches. He grabbed me in a bear hug, and raised me off the ground. As he did this, I heard something crack. After being in pain for several days, I went to the medics. I learned that I had two cracked ribs. They taped me up so that I looked and felt like I was wearing a corset. It was very uncomfortable and limited my mobility. My buddies, Tex and Carl, got quite a kick out of this.

As it turned out, maybe this incident wasn’t all that bad. Captain Woods had a quota to send to Verviers on R and R (Rest and Rehabilitation). He felt the rest would do me good. So on January 28th I departed for Verviers. I spent three days here chumming around with Joe Orient. Joe was from Imperial, Pennsylvania (near Pittsburgh). This is not the first time I visited Verviers. In fact, I was quite familiar with this town. We liberated the town back in September. We stayed overnight here. A family treated us to a nice breakfast that time. I looked them up and visited with them. It was a very awakening experience for Joe and me.

They were so glad to see us. They, as many other French and Belgians, had adopted us. They knew our patch, they knew who the Third Armored was. They worried about us. They knew some of our units took a shellacking. They knew about Hogan’s 400 (G Company), Bastogne, Malmedy, and others. They were saddened to know that we suffered heavy casualties. They were so grateful to realize that we Americans, not once, but twice, drove the Germans from their country and town. They overwhelmed us with kindness. Yes, this was quite an eye-opening and sobering experience.

While here we saw Marlene Dietrich in person. We were impressed with her personality and her down to earth demure. We also attended a dance at the USO. All in all, I had a pleasant time here. I attended a few shows, and had my first ice cream since I left the States, and bought some souvenirs.

When I got back from Verviers, I learned that Warren Griffith was here to see me again. He left a note. I had a hunch he would return. Sure enough, yesterday about 10:00 a.m., Griff showed up. We spent several hours together. Another nice visit. After Griff left, Tex, Carl Kieffer, and I went to Huy. We had a nice time.

Source:  http://www.battleofthebulgememories.be/

One day of Battle at Houyire Hill, January 3, 1945

This presentation is an attempt to give you an overall picture of “B” Company’s attack, its failure and possibly an explanation of what happened and why.

By December 24, 1944, the 1st S.S. Panzer Division is kaput. The 526th has helped to stop the best the Germans could muster in 1944. We have paid the price in men and blood for our battle star and Combat Infantry Badge.

 For the 526th and especially “B” Company the worst is yet to come. The German Army is not defeated and behind Colonel Peiper lay a veteran division pulled out of Norway for their drive into Belgium. They had taken the city of St Vith and now they were dug in on the high ground above Baugnez, Geromont, Otaimont and Hedomont. They are well equipped, well deployed and well dressed in their grey-green and white reversible uniforms.

The story really starts on the morning of January 2, 1945 when Colonel Irwin is notified that quote “in two or three days the 526th will conduct a raid using approximately 50 men.” End of quote. The company chosen for the attack is “B”.

 At about 11:30 the same morning the battalion is notified it would not be a raid but quote “A limited objective attack of company strength on Houyire Hill at 810007. The attack will be tomorrow January 3rd.

At 2 P.M. that day, Colonel Irwin reported to the 30th Division H.Q., here he was briefed and then went to the Regimental H.Q. of the 120th Regiment, our parent organization. There he received orders for the attack. It is now 3:30 P.M. At 6:15 P.M. he returns to Battalion C.P. and at a meeting of staff and Company C.O.’s issues orders for an attack at 8:30 A.M. January 3rd.

Also accompanying is in the attack area is “I” Company of the 120th Regiment. This is of considerable interest to us for two reasons.
1. We are now a part of and entered in the history book of the 120th Regiment and
2. The part played by the tanks assigned to “I” Company

I now quote from the history book of the 120th. “Company “B” 526th was to drive through Hedomont and Baugnez for the hill called Houyire 1500 yards S.W. of Baugnez. It was to be supported by artillery fire from the 1st Battalion and to be prepared to withdraw on orders. Company “I” of the 120th was to attack the area southeast of Otaimont. Its orders were to take prisoners and withdraw on orders to regular position.

Still quoting from their history. At 8:30 A.M. both companies moved out on schedule. The day was foggy, snowing and observation was difficult. Company “I” made good progress until they were well into German lines when the enemy opened up from well camouflaged positions that had been covered with snow. The tankers speeding through the town helped flush out the enemy and the company was able to extricate itself. Company “I” took many casualties and at 7:30 P.M. with 3 prisoners according to plan withdrew.

Resistance proved stiffer for Company “B” 526th. They reached Hedomont but just beyond ran into withering machine gun fire which made it clear the Germans intended to hold Houyire at any cost. Company “B” with at 5:30 P.M.”. End of report and quote.

Now let’s return to our story and the morning of January 3rd. We had been issued white long johns and white towels to put over our uniforms. We were issued extra ammo. I remember we commented about what good aiming points the green and white made. The C.P.’s have been set up; medical half tracks are placed for casualties.

Communication is to be by radio except for a wire line that is to be with Lieutenant Bernstein and the 1st Platoon. Captain Wessel will ride a tank with radio communication to others. It is cold, foggy, and snowing on occasion and visibility is limited. Our artillery from 1st Battalion 120th starts firing on predetermined targets and we are moving out.

At 8:30 A.M. and 8:40 A.M. the 2nd Platoon under Lieutenant Batt and 3rd Platoon under Lieutenant Halbin leave the line of departure in an area named Floriheid at 790033. They skirt a mine field at 790031 and head for Hedomont. The 2nd is on the right and the 3rd on the left.

Captain Wessel on his tank with the radio communication is to meet the infantry near Hedomont at point 795022. He arrives there too soon and is fired upon and withdraws to await the infantry. The 2nd Platoon has already taken three casualties from or own artillery and it has put a light machine gun out of action.

The infantry continues the attack and a German outpost starts firing and Joe Farina, the pointman, is killed. Felix Garcia returns fire and kills the German. The rest of the line moves forward until a machine gun opens fire. Warren Watson with Crugar and Gardiner giving covering fire kills the two machine gunners. Nearby another German jumping from behind a tree empties his burp gun hitting no one and is killed by bullets from several men.

It is now 9:15 A.M. and the infantry is in part of Hedomont. Captain Wessel on the tank platoon leader tank has made contact with them. He is to communicate with the C.P. using their SCR 238 radio. He has had no communication with Lieutenant Bernstein or the 1st Platoon. Apparently he has had none with his C.P. Time is taken here for reorganization of the 2nd and 3rd Platoons and the attack is continued.

At Baugnez 1st Platoon of “A” Company under Lieutenant Beardslee at 8:30 A.M. proceeded to 814020. They take two casualties from enemy artillery at 808023 but move on to set up flanking protection in a semi circle from 814012 to 814020. They are to receive intermittent small arms and mortar fire all day. They are finally ordered to withdraw at 8 P.M. and the last get back to their area at 10:15 P.M.

Things have gone very poorly with 1st Platoon under Lieutenant Bernstein. They leave Geromont proceed up the road to 810020 where they head south toward the objectif 810007 Houyire Hill. Enemy artillery hits soon after we leave the road. John Lopez is killed and Sergeant Magnuson is knocked for a flip but not hit by shrapnel and recovers.

We proceed on to 808015 where we are met by heavy machine gun and mortar fire from the woods ahead of us. The front line Johnny Hess, Ralph Iverson, Bill Duncan, D. J. Johnson and others are dead. The attack continues and one machine gun is captured and the two men are made prisoners. Some want to kill them but fortunately they are taken back otherwise 13 of us later captured would be dead.

Some are now in the woods and some of us are on the hillside in the snow. Art Allen come along side of me with his light machine gun. He is also out of ammo. He has already lost two loaders he tells me. John Bush is trying to work his way forward in front of us. He flops over in the snow dead. Art decides to go back for more ammo and a loader. I decide to try for the woods. It takes a couple of dive in the snow to escape an machine gun but somehow I made it. I later discovered the pants pushed under the long johns on my back have several holes in them.

It must be 9:30 A.M. Part of the platoon is in the woods and the rest are scattered over the hillside dead, wounded or pinned down. Back at Hedomont, the reorganization completed, the attack is continued and ordered. You continue about 200 yards to 797019. Here the leading squad becomes victim of a machine gun off to the right in a barn. Sergeant Schuster has been killed earlier by a hand grenade and now Sergeant Haefs, Bernard Ward, Warren Blankenship, Oliver Love, and Warren Watson are all hit. Sergeant Black returns fire with his machine gun but is also wounded with a bullet through his right eye.

The tank with Captain Wessel moves up to fire a couple of rounds at the barn with no result noted. The attack continues as far as 799017 but now we come under fire from another machine gun at 805016 which has also hit the 1st Platoon. Again the tank fires a couple of rounds with no results. We are pinned down and enemy mortar rounds are starting to drop around us. Artillery is called for but refused because men from 1st Platoon are in that area.

It is now 11:30 A.M. and Captain Wessel has had no contact with his C.P. in the rear at 790033 nor has he heard anything from 1st Platoon. He returns to the C.P. to make contact with Battalion. He is told to hold and defend Hedomont. He is also told the tanks will withdraw at dusk. He returns to Hedomont with the orders at 2:30 P.M. and then returns to the company C.P.

Meanwhile men of the 2nd and 3rd are trying to find any cover they can. Felix Garcia with bullets thumping around him decides to make a run for a barn. He makes it but his canteen doesn’t. In the barn are Sergeant Black and Walter Volinski both wounded. Joe Ricks from the medical detachment exposes himself to pull a man back to the cover of the dirt road. Just before he gets to the road near Lieutenant Halbin an enemy bullet kills him. Wounded men like Watson are trying to work their way back to the C.P. and medical assistance. Sergeant Horvat helps a badly wounded Sergeant Fazio back and returns to Hedomont with supplies. Lieutenant Halbin with a badly dislocated knee returns to the C.P. on way to an operation in Liège.

At about 11:30 A.M. when everything seemed to be stalled Colonel Irwin calls Lieutenant Batt away from 2nd Platoon and sends him to find out what happened to Lieutenant Bernstein and the 1st Platoon. He takes 3 men and goes to Baugnez. There he contacts Lieutenant Beardslee and 1st Platoon “A” Company. No one has heard from Lieutenant Bernstein since 8:30 A.M. Lieutenant Batt starts up the hill and contacts 3 men crawling back down who have been under the machine gun at 805016. They are from 3 different squads. One is a machine gunner who is out of ammunition. Lieutenant Batt asks how many men have been lost. They don’t know and say a lot. He can hear a fire fight going on up in the woods. He continues working his way up the hill and met some men with Lieutenant Johnson. None of these people had seen Lieutenant Bernstein since 8:30. Lieutenant Batt started to return and was pinned down for a time by machine guns at 805016 and 805018. They worked their way out and reported to Colonel Irwin. Lieutenant Johnson and the men and they build on the right flank of 1st Platoon “A” Company.

We in the woods find it is no sanctuary and we are trying to find any cover we can. At the same time with burp guns and hand grenades the Germans are trying to bring other machine guns in on us. Swanstrum and Sciarra working their machine gun help to discourage them. They are both to end up with shrapnel souvenirs. We are trapped and with no communication. We keep looking for the tanks or the rest of the company.

Finally Lieutenant Bernstein sends Warren Clutter out to make contact. He doesn’t get far before he is cut down. I just heard this year that he did make it back. Then Bernstein takes off heading down the hill but a bullet in his posterior puts him in a shell hole and he is later captured.

As we all remember shortly before dusk, the Germans started their counter attack with a barrage of mortar, rocket and artillery fire. The bombardment lasts 20 minutes. To those of us in the woods it was tree limbs, snow and metal coming down followed by hand grenades and burp guns. I take a bullet through my left foot and one through the right shoe. Near By Jim Coslett is cut up by four bullets and will die as a P.O.W. Behind me Sergeant Leo Day and Ralph Russel are killed. Sergeant Magnuson finally calls out Commeradon – the firing stops.

We are relieved of our cigarettes, candy, food, watches, etc. A German soldier about our age helps get my shoe off. We put the bandage on and he makes a tourniquet to slow the bleeding. We are marched back to an area where a medic looks at us but doesn’t do anything. There are 13 of us left. Eight of us have collected Purple Hearts.

We are sat in a semi-circle then taken to a small farm house where we are interrogated by a German officer who speaks very good English. He already knew more about us than we did. He told Lieutenant Bernstein “My men wish to honor your men for the bravery with which you fought but you never had a chance”. For us the battle is over.

 It is not over for the rest of you. Shortly before the barrage starts Ray Holderman, who has already collected one piece of mortar shell, decides they aren’t in a very secure place along side a small hedgerow. McCaslin, Morrow, Wood and Gattis all agree that the machine gun and mortars are getting too friendly and they manage to get back to safer ground. Cotton Potter discovers that the machine gun he has been packing all morning really wouldn’t have worked as a piece of shrapnel has destroyed the operating mechanism. Everyone is hunkering down now trying not to become a target. The cold is beginning to make itself known. Captain Wessel has a new radio and is just leaving the C.P. for Hedomont.

Now comes the bombardment and the tanks take off refusing to wait for any of our wounded. The counter attack comes. There are about 130 white clad Germans. They are hard to see. Orders are given to withdraw and by 5:15 P.M. we are back to the original line of departure. Lieutenant Jacques will spent most of the night trying to account for everyone and get the casualty lists.

When it is over “B” Company has captured 4 Germans from the 2nd and 3rd Companies of the 293rd Regiment of the 18th Volksgrenadiers. The official after action report says we killed approximately 25.

Our attack was a feint, not a main attack, but we were sacrificed to get the Germans to commit their reserves to our area. I understand it worked and they did commit them but we paid quite a price.

 Some conclusions I have reached on what went wrong.

 I – There was very poor intelligence and apparently very little organization. It appears the attack was conceived without real preparation. No one seems to have known what the enemy had or where it was located. We went from a 50 men raid to de done in two or three days to a two company attack the next morning with less than six hours of preparation.

 II – There was a real problem with communication. This is also a planning problem but apparently none of the equipment was tested or put together until we were in the attack. Lieutenant Bernstein was supposed to have a wire phone. What happened to that I don’t know but apparently there was no backup unit. Captain Wessel never heard from Bernstein after 08:30. Yet Battalion, if it knew the problem, did nothing until about noon when it took Lieutenant Batt from his platoon. Why not someone in H.Q., From the after action report quote “It was now 11:30 and because there had been no contact with his rear C.P. up to this time, Captain Wessel returned to his C.P.” He was starting to return with a 509 radio when the counter attack began.

III – The artillery and tanks. Others than the initial barrage on the prepared targets, we could apparently get no further help from the artillery. There is some question about the tanks. We supposedly had one platoon of medium tanks from the 743rd and one Tank Destroyer gun from the 823rd T.D. Battalion. Did we have them and if so what did they do? Even the SCR 538 radio, Captain Wessel tried to use apparently didn’t work. They wouldn’t even take our wounded back.

Remember I quoted from the 120th history. “”I” Company had become entrapped but the tanks hurrying through Otaimont had moved the Germans out so the company could extricate itself”. Well it seems we got a different kind of tankers? They sure didn’t contribute much to our attack or defense.

IV – The weather.

I suppose we can say the weather is the same on both sides of a field, so it didn’t contribute to our defeat, but the Germans were not open and exposed so they probably benefited the most. We all agree the weather was terrible and the Krauts were better prepared for it than we were.

V – We were green. This was our first attack.

Final Conclusion. 

It is interesting to note in this game of chess called war, if you are the General or player who gets to move the pawns, you can do the same thing over and over until you get it right or run out of men.

Let me quote you from the history of the 120th Regiment. “On January 13th the 3rd Battalion of the 120th of the 30th Division was sent in deep snow to take Houyire. The casualties sustained by all three companies reached a new high. They finally took Houyire. Company “I” strength was now that of a strong platoon.”

Source:  http://www.battleofthebulgememories.be/

AMERICAN PATRIOTISM

“If they won’t give us a flag, we’ll make one,” said First Lieutenant Samuel Lombardo, platoon leader Second Platoon, Company I, 394th Infantry Regiment, 99th Division, during the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. The platoon made this United States 48-star flag from scraps of cloth sewn on a white German surrender flag.

When Company I crossed the Remagen Bridge, their flag, only one side completed, became the first American flag in the 99th Division east of the Rhine River. During breaks in the battle, working mostly by candlelight, the flag was completed after two and one-half months, on the banks of the Danube River.

The flag is in the collection of the National Infantry Museum, Fort Benning, Georgia.

Back Row: Left to Right: Pfc. Gordon Wetherby, Charlestown, NH; T/Sgt Isadore Rosen, Pittsburgh, PA; Pfc. George E. Bellaire, Dayton, OH; 1^st Lt. Samuel Lombardo, Altoona, PA

 Front Row: Left to Right: Corp. Cury Beauvais, Chicopee Falls, MA; S/Sgt William Junod, Wyandotte, MI

Published by Lombardo Books, Carlisle, PA 17013

Printed by Beidel Printing House Inc. Shippensburg, PA 17257