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We left the LaGleize 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 me 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 LaGleize, 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 LaGleize, 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
Schmeiser machine-pistol.
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, whom he shot dead.
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 LaGleise 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 genuiness 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 Malmady 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 LaGleize 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 LaGleize
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.
END.
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