by Leo Barron
“Lutz” Lindemann, however, had much more immediate concerns, as he and his men crept down to the banks of the chilly Our River. He wanted to be warm tonight. It was midnight, and it had started to drizzle. This added to Lindemann’s general misery.
He looked around at his men. There was a sprinkling of surviving veterans like him who had made it this far in the war, having survived the dreaded Eastern Front. Unfortunately, there were even more of the younger men, brand-new conscripts from the Heimat (homeland). Here and there, a new face—previously a member of the emasculated Kriegsmarine (German navy) or Luftwaffe ground crew forced into the Wehrmacht.
“Many were ersatz [replacement] soldiers and were from flak [antiaircraft crews], naval, [and] excess personnel from the Luftwaffe,” Lindemann recalled.39
Sadly, these men were proof that Hitler was indeed scraping the bottom of the barrel for everything he could throw into this massive effort. Many of these men had been handed a rifle, given rudimentary training as a soldier, and transferred without choice into the 26th.
Lindemann was much happier to see that his men had been well supplied. They wore white camouflage snowsuits, and most of them were armed with the new Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifles—the latest deadly surprise from Hitler’s bag of tricks. Ammunition seemed plentiful, warm food was in their bellies, and there floated a certain excitement in the air, as if the victorious ghosts of 1940’s blitzkrieg were surrounding them.
The same could not be said for many of the other German regiments and divisions tasked with supporting the great offensive. Several divisions of Volksgrenadiers were supplied with bicycles. Bullets, grenades, bombs, and artillery shells were rationed. Even captured equipment, including obsolete French, Italian, Russian, and Polish war materials, was used. In some panzer units trucks had to stand in for half-tracks or even tanks.
The engineers in Lindemann’s unit had already erected a makeshift bridge from rafts and planks to span the river, which allowed the grenadiers to file across it. Once they were on the other side, Lindemann marched with his company westward toward a valley just east of Hosingen. By 0300, they had reached their assault positions. The entire company went into the prone position on the damp earth and waited for the opening artillery barrage to signal the beginning of the offensive. A remorseless chill gripped them as they waited like runners, straining in the starting blocks and waiting for the gun to go off.40
0530 hours, Saturday, 16 December 1944
77th Volksgrenadier area of operations
Opposite the town of Hosingen, along the Our River
All was set for Hitler’s great offensive in the west. German Volksgrenadiers, panzer crews, artillery gunners, and engineers waited for the word to attack on the east bank of the Our. Some had even moved to the west bank in rubber boats and across rope bridges, getting the jump start on their assault positions near many vacant American forward observation posts. The artillery gunners had laid their barrels on their primary targets along the west bank, calibrating their first targets on hastily folded maps and opening the breeches of the 105mm howitzers. Meanwhile, nearby heavy mortar crews elevated their tubes skyward. Everything seemed to be going to plan. As predicted by the meteorologists, the sky was cloudy and would be an ally of Germany that day, grounding Allied airpower. Down on the earth below, the officers stared at stopwatches as the minutes clicked down to seconds: 10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…0530… Feuer!41
Suddenly night became day, as man-made thunder and lightning crashed and roared across the desolate winter landscape like a hurricane making landfall. Loaders shoved round after round into the breeches of the guns, while the gunners yanked the lanyard with each pass. Like a metallic mule, the barrel of each gun would kick back, and then return to its former position as the soldiers loaded still another shell. On the western side of the Our River, Volksgrenadiers crouched in their foxholes while the rounds whistled over their heads, relieved they were not on the receiving end of such a tempest of steel. In the sector of the 26th Volksgrenadier Division, a chorus of three hundred guns boomed their refrain, while the American side responded with only muted surprise. There would be no duet this morning.
To add to the maelstrom of confusion, the German soldiers switched on the antiaircraft searchlights. This effect created a cathedral of light as their rays bounced off the clouds above them and illuminated the ground below, providing the first waves of assault infantry with much-needed light. The initial barrage lasted seventeen long minutes, and then the guns fell silent. During the cannonade, the assault teams in both divisions had rushed from their starting positions to their next phase line. There, they waited. Forward observers, moving with the assault companies, radioed back to the fire direction centers that the initial waves had reached their first phase line. Then the next barrage opened up, this time lasting another ten minutes—ten minutes that provided enough time for most of the assault teams to infiltrate between the American positions.42 These positions fell quickly and effortlessly.
Lindemann recalled the attack early the next morning as the German offensive in the Ardennes kicked off with a roar:
“Around 0530 artillery and nebelwerfers [rocket launchers] fired for about half an hour. We were woken up at 0600 and our company was ordered to march to engage the enemy. Our goal was to take over Hosingen.”
Lindemann and his company then moved out. Each man slunk forward, hoping that his next tentative step did not trigger an American antipersonnel mine. They had lost track of their engineers who were supposed to clear the minefields they all thought were out there, becoming separated from them during the approach march. It did not matter, as the Americans had failed to mine this particular dismounted avenue of approach. As Lindemann closed in on Hosingen, he could make out the various buildings and, in particular, the water tower that dominated the skyline. When they reached the southern edge of town, several American soldiers appeared wearing only their undergarments. Before Lindemann and his men could react, the surprised GIs bolted off into the murky darkness through a garden. The grenadiers halted after this incident and waited for orders. They had already achieved their morning’s objectives.
After several hours, Lindemann’s company then moved westward toward the next town. His company had sustained only a few casualties in the initial assault, and the great counteroffensive was proceeding according to plan. Lindemann could not have known on December 16 what lay ahead at Bastogne. On Christmas morning, he would find out.43
CHAPTER TWO
“I Don’t Think This Is a Feint.”
“We should (not) leave a vast extent of fertile country to be despoiled and ravaged by the enemy, from which they would draw vast supplies and where many of our firm friends would be exposed to all the miseries of the most insulting and wanton depredation. A train of evil might be enumerated; these considerations make it indispensably necessary for the army to take such a position.”
—George Washington, writing about his choice for the location of the Continental Army quarters at Valley Forge, 17771
2030 hours, Saturday, 16 December 1944
Headquarters of U.S. Army VIII Corps, Heinz Barracks
Bastogne, Belgium
Major General Troy H. Middleton, the U.S. VIII Corps commander, certainly didn’t look like a general. In fact, with his shock of pepper-gray hair and his horn-rimmed glasses, he looked more like a small-town doctor. His looks were deceiving, though. Middleton’s corps had played an important part in the Allied breakout from Normandy and subsequent drive through France. By December, Middleton had three divisions resting and refitting on the frontier of Germany: the 28th, 4th, and 106th infantry divisions. Both the 28th and 4th had suffered horrendous casualties in the Battle of Hürtgen Forest, while the 106th was a green division, newly arrived from the States. Middleton also had half of one armored division, the 9th, in reserve. Unbeknownst to him, the Germans had chosen his area of operations to launch a major counteroffensive.2
The morning and afternoon of th
e sixteenth, Middleton had spent much of his time in his tactical operations center (TOC) in Bastogne, the center of his corps area of responsibility. He had established his headquarters at the Heinz army barracks on the northern outskirts of town. Like many barracks, the Belgian buildings were austere affairs, constructed of dour sandstone and dull mountain-red bricks. Their previous occupants had been the Wehrmacht, and evidence in the form of painted Wehrmacht signs and unit symbols on the walls still abounded in several of the structures. Middleton had set up his TOC in one of the two-story buildings, located in the eastern end of the complex. Unlike the rest of the barracks, the building looked like an administration building—a fitting place for a corps staff.3
When the German offensive kicked off that morning, Middleton telephoned all his division commanders to get situation reports. As information came into his headquarters, the telephone lines on the switchboard buzzed with activity, and his staff handed him update after update. He and his staff continued this routine throughout the day and into the night.4
Middleton was closely monitoring the situation with his 28th Infantry Division. The “Keystone” Division, as they were known, was apparently being hit hard by the initial German attacks. At first, the news coming out of the 28th’s sector was not serious. Middleton was more concerned with his green division, the 106th, to the north, which was also under enormous pressure. Around 1840 hours that night, the corps commander issued Sitrep (situation report) 505 to his division units and to his higher headquarters, First Army. In it, he passed on reports from his faltering 28th, which reported German units west of the Our River.
The complete picture, though, was still vague. The Allies had gone into December considering any German strategic offensive unlikely. For Middleton, the initial news indicated a large spoiling attack to upset Allied offensive operations like Patton’s Third Army offensive to the south. Still, the size of the attack against his regiments in the 28th’s sector was troubling: The 3rd Battalion of the 112th Infantry Regiment reported the enemy attack in their sector to number around three battalions, giving the Germans three-to-one odds.5
Staring at the map in his command center, Middleton wondered what the Germans were up to. An intelligence officer handed him his answer. A report found on a dead German officer showed the 116th Panzer Division was planning to capture St. Vith today and Bastogne tomorrow. To make this attack, the Germans had massed three panzer divisions in the central part of Belgium. The Germans were out to secure two major towns in Belgium, and probably points beyond. With this new information, Middleton realized this must be more than just a mere spoiling attack.6
Deep in thought, Middleton traced his finger along a line on the map. It was all becoming very clear now. If this was a German offensive, he had to slow it down so that SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) had time to send in reinforcements. Middleton realized his corps area was about to become the eye of the proverbial hurricane. The Germans had picked a good spot to mass their forces. Because supreme allied command thought this sector was “quiet,” Middleton was defending an eighty-eight-mile front with only three infantry divisions and half an armored division.7
Now, if he didn’t act soon, the Germans would have the full advantage of hitting unprepared units all up and down his line. Middleton dictated his orders to his alert staff scribes. He wanted it crystal clear that none of his divisional and regimental commanders were to withdraw unless their positions had become completely untenable. Looking at the map, he traced an imaginary line that bisected the towns of Holzheim, Setz, Maspelt, Bockholz, Colmar, and Wecker. The Germans must not be allowed to cross this line. If they did, they would be able to break out on the plains to the west of the Ardennes and tear freely toward Antwerp or Brussels.
“These towns will be held at all costs,” he told his staff. The six communities stretched along a line several kilometers west of the Our River.8
On his operations map, two larger towns stood out. One was St. Vith, which was the road hub behind the 106th Infantry Division, and, more important, Bastogne, the location of his own headquarters. These were the two towns that intelligence had revealed were targeted by the Germans to be overrun tomorrow. Middleton knew the twin towns would soon become decisive terrain. He knew he had to hold them no matter the cost. If he held them, he might be able to bog down the entire German offensive, since both towns controlled the road networks east of the Meuse—likely the reason the Germans wanted them so soon. In his own sector, it was glaringly obvious from the map that Bastogne lay directly in the path of the German advance. Middleton clenched his jaw. I would sacrifice a division to hold Bastogne, he thought grimly. Having made up his mind, Middleton needed approval from his higher headquarters. More important, he had to find a division to sacrifice. Luckily for him, his bosses were thinking some of the same things.9
16–18 December 1944
Area of operations, U.S. Army VIII Corps
Northern Luxembourg/southern Belgium
Prior to late 1944, no one could have guessed the crossroads town of Bastogne would play such a crucial role in the war for Europe. In medieval times, Bastogne was the center of religious and economic matters in the pastoral Luxembourg province of Walloon. Numerous abbeys and monasteries dotted the rolling hills and fields about the town. Every Sunday, the tolling of bells in local churches brought the nearby farmers and their families to worship from the outlying towns.
By the 1200s, the Holy Roman Emperor Henry VII authorized the minting of coins in Bastogne. In 1332, his son, known as John I (John the Blind) of Bohemia, built defensive walls around the heart of Bastogne, part of which, known as the Porte de Trèves, can still be seen today. In 1602, John the Blind’s construction efforts were appreciated by the populace, as the walls helped repel a Dutch invasion.
As a typical European feudal center, the quiet town became well-known for hosting cattle fairs during the sixteenth century. By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, roads and railway lines spider-legged out from Bastogne as the town’s economy surpassed that of her neighbors. Even during its occupation by the Germans during World War I, Bastogne’s population continued to grow and prosper right up until after the Great War.
On May 10, 1940, the Germans captured the city at the start of the blitzkrieg that swept through France and the Low Countries. For the duration of the war, the population of Bastogne endured Nazi occupation, most of her 3,500-some citizens waiting for the promise of Allied liberation. American forces liberated the town in September of 1944. Many of the Bastognards (as they call themselves) considered themselves lucky that the fortunes of war had spared their town. In December, their luck changed.10
After the war, German General Fritz Bayerlein commented, “Bastogne was a particularly indispensable point for German supplies, as a traffic hub and staging point…. A glance at the map is sufficient for someone with no military training to realize that Bastogne was vital for the offensive.”11
The town was one of the largest urban areas directly in the path of Fifth Panzer Army’s advance. Certainly von Manteuffel’s tanks would be dependent on a firm road network in order for Wacht am Rhein to move quickly, especially in winter. Hitler and his commanders knew that control of the crossroads town would prove vital to keep the drive toward Antwerp intact.
Unfortunately for the Germans, almost immediately things started to go wrong for von Lüttwitz’s XXXXVII Panzer Corps. According to Bayerlein, the dogged defense of the towns of Hosingen and Holzthum by the U.S. 28th Infantry Division stymied the German plans to capture Bastogne early—in one fell stroke. In fact, Bayerlein estimated the defenders of Hosingen had delayed his Panzer Lehr Division thirty-six crucial hours. Due to the fight put up by the Americans, the Germans’ carefully calculated timetable was already starting to unravel.12
The Germans knew the work of the 28th would be in vain if VIII Corps, their higher headquarters, could not send them reinforcements. The next few hours would determine whether Bastogne would fall suddenly
or through a protracted siege. That evening, the men on both sides who would decide the fate of Bastogne made the first of many difficult decisions.
Late afternoon to evening, Saturday, 16 December 1944
SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force), Trianon Palace hotel
Versailles, France
Bastogne had been lucky. The war had wrecked many of the ancient cities of Europe, forever changing the landscape and history of the centers of Western civilization. Another, larger population center—the city of Versailles—had also survived two of the most cataclysmic wars in modern times. Amazingly, the early years of World War II had spared most of the city, as if God had deemed its fate too important to be left to the whims of capricious and vain men. As a result, the palaces of the Bourbons remained inviolate, even though much of France now lay in ruins.
Not far from the palace grounds was the Trianon Palace hotel, which housed General Dwight D. Eisenhower’s (SHAEF) headquarters. Ike had chosen well. The hotel was a magnificent and luxurious edifice that was one of the finest buildings of Versailles, as if it were one of Louis XIV’s own palaces. It opened in 1910, and during the First World War it served as a hospital. At the beginning of World War II, the Royal Air Force had turned it into their headquarters. When France fell, the victorious Nazis found the British tastes agreeable, and the Luftwaffe became the new owners of the Trianon hotel. However, their tenancy was short-lived, and in 1944 the Allies returned, and this time it was the Americans and British who moved into the Trianon Palace. One of them was the supreme commander of all Allied forces in Europe, General Eisenhower.
That late afternoon, as Eisenhower stared out the window of his office in the Trianon, cold and gray weather blanketed the skies and the city below. The clouds and rain had grounded the Allied air forces. Without the crucial daily reconnaissance flights, the Allies were somewhat blind to Hitler’s wild intentions.