As an immediate result, this defense delayed the timing of the larger German offensive, which depended on a very quick thrust through our lines. Blocking the passage at St. Vith channeled four German divisions and supporting troops into a narrow, ten-mile corridor, which severely limited their maneuvering and resulted in a monumental traffic jam. As most of the German brass realized, their offensive was lost by the first or second day.
Initially, the plan was to attach the 82d and the 101st, the only reserve SHAEF had in continental Europe, to VII Corps and move them to Bastogne. But very early, Lt Gen Courtney Hodges, the commander of the First Army, decided to send one division farther north. As the 82d was ahead of the 101st on the road, we were designated to continue to the crossroads at Werbomont. Our role was to create a forward defensive line, filling a ten-mile gap between Stavelot and St. Vith, where the 7th Armored Division and elements of the 106th Infantry and 9th Armored Division—and others—were under heavy attack by the Fifth Panzer Army.
Once we got within ten or fifteen miles of what had been the rear of the front lines, we started running into the debris of battle. U.S. Army units were withdrawing in panic. We didn’t see many combat units ten or fifteen miles back; these were logistical support units normally positioned miles behind the line. Army and Corps headquarters included, they were in a greater panic than those units usually positioned closer to the front. I saw large-caliber artillery pieces traveling very quickly to the rear. I later heard that in order to get our column through the withdrawing mobs, truck drivers in the retreating Army, and even officers in jeeps who did not get their vehicles off the roads, were threatened with shooting.
The closer we got to the front, the worse the panic became. Riding in the open cattle trucks, we saw it all. The sides were three or four feet high, and there was no top or covering. We leaned out and hollered to the retreating men, “Hey, you guys are going in the wrong direction.” They would look back at us and earnestly say, “Oh no, you guys are going in the wrong direction.” Their remarks made us very apprehensive about what we might encounter as we headed toward the splintered front.
We traveled into Belgium, pulled off to the side at dark, and bivouacked right beside the road. We had more than usual local security as we awaited orders. To add to our demoralization, it was a cold, wet, snowy night.
During the night, the new company commander, Lt Harold E. Case, called a meeting of officers and NCOs. He started by saying the Germans had launched a major offensive. He tried to explain what was happening but admitted no one really knew. The words “very fluid” kept recurring. We only knew there had been a major penetration of the front, and contact with friendlies and the enemy both had been lost. He also said that we now had reason to believe the last town we had passed through, just a few miles to our rear, had been occupied by German armor, but this turned out to be incorrect. One thing that did seem certain that night was that a regiment from the 30th Infantry Division was to move from our northern flank into our general area. This never happened. When the 505 did go into a defensive position, the 504 was on our left flank, but much farther north, so large gaps in the lines existed on both our flanks.
We didn’t get much sleep for the remainder of the night. We had to keep moving just to keep warm. At daylight, the 2d Battalion, 505, moved off, with Company F forming the advance guard. My squad, the 1st, was the point, with the remainder of the 3d Platoon as the forward elements of the advance guard. I was the number-three man on the point.
And so it was that I found myself at dawn on my twentieth birthday, December 19, 1944, at the head of an approach march formation heading towards Trois Ponts, Belgium. Trois Ponts means three bridges. I later learned the town was a key road center and communications point at the intersection of two rivers, the Salm and the Amblève. If we could hold it, we would be in a good position to block enemy movements to the west. This was all the information we received. It was thought that a German armored unit of unknown strength was running loose behind the lines, but we had lost contact with this spearhead.
Moreover, we were moving through some awfully damn big hills, following roads that generally conformed to the valleys. The forest butted both sides of the road, and steep banks ran up into the woods. Those of us at the head of the march were particularly vulnerable because the terrain, bad weather, and necessity to move very quickly made it impossible to put out flank security. We simply marched on down the road, totally exposed to all the ambushes the enemy could easily have set up.
We marched most of the day until we reached the outskirts of Trois Ponts. I halted the column on orders just prior to moving into town, at the hamlet of Basse-Bodeux. The word got down that Trois Ponts was being held by elements of an engineer battalion, which had prepared the bridges for demolition. They had been engaged and had made contact with the German armored column.
On the night of December 19–20, the 2d Battalion was ordered into a hasty defensive position on the first ridge west of the Salm River. After some study, I thought this was much too far back. Once we got to the top of the mountain, our platoon leader, Lieutenant Hamula, was given instructions to take a patrol back down the slope, cross the road in the valley, and proceed through a group of houses where the river ran through the back yards. Here he was supposed to destroy or booby-trap a footbridge.
The lieutenant had a devoted runner with him, Pfc John Stratton, and a close relationship had developed between them. Stratton was going to accompany Hamula as usual, but because the patrol was small and Hamula knew his runner was very tired, he told him to remain in the defensive position instead.
The lieutenant took the patrol down the mountain, and the remainder of the 3d Platoon began to dig in on the ridge. Stratton was within forty feet of where I was digging in along a tree line. He leaned his rifle against one of the trees and started to dig. While we were working, someone on the ridge was trying to range in artillery support, of which we had precious little. I think it was the 456th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, which had 75mm pack howitzers. It was a quiet night, and after the first shot landed, our ears were attuned for the second one. The damned thing was a short round. It came right into the middle of the company area and hit Stratton’s rifle square on.
The hit killed Stratton and shook me up considerably. I had partially dug my slit trench, so I got a little protection. Stratton suffered many wounds, but I particularly remember a terrible sucking wound to his chest. We heard every breath he took because of the holes in his chest and lungs. The sound was very loud in the stillness of the night. Lieutenant Hamula came back from patrol to discover his kindness had led to the death of his runner and close friend. He truly grieved.
The terrain on the ridge was a mixture of open fields with wire fences and tree lines. The heaviest tree line was on the forward eastern slope. The following morning at daylight, a German sniper from way across the valley hit a soldier in the next platoon to ours who was climbing through a fence on the mountainside.
The regiment and battalion were so spread out in their defensive location that there were gaps from half a mile to three miles between units. Our own regiment’s defensive line was about eight thousand yards long, and we sent out contact patrols to observe and report on action taking place in the gaps. I patrolled all night. It was bitter, snowy weather. We were exhausted, so we didn’t take all the necessary precautions. We used the roads in the valley, periodically patrolling for up to forty-five minutes before making contact with our neighbor’s patrols or one of their left-flank units, and then turning back.
We sustained some pretty bad sniper fire from houses in the valley, so I was given the mission of taking out a strong combat patrol. We moved to the north down the ridge and got on the road to the outskirts of Trois Ponts. There, one or two tanks were to be attached to our patrol, coming under my control. We then were to continue down the valley road, where the 2d Battalion occupied the ridge on one side, and the Germans held the ridge on the other. Along the way, we were to clea
n out houses that were said to contain enemy snipers. Even with a tank or two, this was a tough mission because we could only advance on the road itself, in ditches alongside it, or on the steep banks along its verges. This meant we would be exposed to short- and long-range small arms fire, and the tanks would be exposed to antitank fire the length of our advance.
I had just arrived at the rendezvous point with the tanks and was getting ready to move when up came General Gavin. This was typical of his behavior all during the war. I don’t know how he managed to survive. He often went out on patrol by himself. I don’t ever remember a bodyguard or aide being with him. But there he was, materialized out of thin air, carrying an M1 rifle with a .45-caliber pistol on his hip and a bandoleer of ammunition on his chest. He asked me my mission, and I relayed my orders. He was smiling while I answered him. He told me to hold up until he spoke with Colonel Vandervoort. The mission was canceled, and I returned to the company’s defensive area.
I believe it was during the night of December 20–21 that other companies of the 2d Battalion set up roadblocks. I heard later this was a very tough assignment, for there were still a lot of U.S. Army stragglers, and men from many different units kept coming through. The situation was fluid, and these people had no idea what the current sign and countersign were. Wheeled vehicles were also coming through with U.S. soldiers hanging on all over them. Some were even holding on and being dragged to reach the rear all the faster.
That night, we heard fighting across the river to the east from our position on the west ridge of the Salm River. By daylight, Company F had received orders to move across the river and up to the top of the mountain. We were to tie in with Company E, which was already engaged in a pretty hot fire-fight. We couldn’t use the road up, which led to Company E’s area, but had to go cross-country over steep, broken terrain to an area on Company E’s right. I don’t recall how we crossed the river, but I don’t remember getting wet. We may have used a footbridge or the one remaining bridge over the Salm. We climbed the mountain in a column of platoons, with the 3d Platoon in the rear, heading into the unknown. The side and the top of the mountain were heavily wooded. The weather was foggy, with visibility at times down to fifty feet, or even less. I believe this is what saved us when we moved up the face of that mountain.
There was some distance between the platoons as we moved up. My squad was leading the 3d Platoon. Lieutenant Hamula was at the head, and we were all quite close together. The whole time we heard heavy firing up to our left front. The 1st and 2d Platoons began to deploy into company defensive positions as soon as they got to the top. As the 3d Platoon came up behind them, Lieutenant Case ran over. He was afraid the Germans would pull a flanking attack on Company E, and then run smack into Company F. He ordered Lieutenant Hamula and the 3d Platoon to move forward of the company’s proposed defensive area and to make contact. In other words, we were to delay the Germans long enough for the other platoons to get into position.
This was not a nice order to have to carry out, but we moved out fast with rifle squads in columns abreast. The 1st Squad was to the right, the 2d Squad was to the left, with maybe thirty to fifty feet between the columns. We threw scouts out, but no flankers. I can only guess how far forward we had moved, possibly four hundred yards, when the scouts came across what seemed to be the edge of the woods we were crossing, although this was impossible to determine in the fog.
The scouts held us up at the edge, and then went out a little farther into what appeared to be an open field, although we couldn’t be sure. Lieutenant Hamula decided to throw a hasty defense, going into skirmishers spread along the wood line. There were some smaller trees along the border, with branches three to five feet above our heads once we were prone. We were pretty well spread out, ten to fifteen yards between individuals. On my left was a rocket man named Beckman, a young replacement.
Very soon we heard armored vehicles to our direct front and left front, moving in our direction. Lieutenant Hamula passed the word there was to be no firing until he ordered it. We couldn’t see anything anyway; all we could do was listen. It was very frightening. We never had time to dig in.
It seemed like we waited for five or ten minutes, but it could have been only two or three. The armor got so close we could hear the voices of the infantrymen over the roar of the tank engines as they rode the tanks or walked along beside them. Beckman kept looking over and whispering, “Should I shoot? Should I shoot?” I said, “Shoot what?” We still couldn’t see a thing in the fog; he could only have fired in the general direction of the armor.
Finally, Lieutenant Hamula gave the order to fire. When we opened up with our small arms, all we could do was hope the field to our front was level. We were lying prone, and tried to keep our rifles as level as we could. Aiming at nothing in particular, we fired into the fog bank. We had two rifle squads firing rapid-fire with M1 rifles, a machine gun and two to four BARs. We laid down a pretty good curtain of fire, and it was not long before we got return fire in great volume. Of course, the Germans couldn’t see what they were shooting at either. Luckily, their fire went high, about six to eight feet off the ground, although they occasionally got a few closer than that. This took a heavy toll on the trees we were under, showering us with shot-up branches, tree leaves, and chunks of bark.
I got the impression that the incoming fire was mostly from the tracked vehicles, but it was impossible to tell whether they were tanks or half-tracks. Machine guns mounted on armored vehicles are four to six feet above ground level, so I told myself the Germans were also leveling their guns, which was why they were shooting high. On the other hand, I was surprised not to get cannon fire. Maybe we weren’t shooting at tanks or self-propelled guns, but at half-tracks used as personnel carriers, which only mounted machine guns. Later I discovered we had encountered the tail end of Lt Col Joachim Peiper’s column, the 1st SS Panzer Division—and Sixth Panzer Army—spearhead. They were already running especially low on tank ammunition. Cannon fire, and especially high explosive shells, would have been very effective even at that close range. If high explosives had hit the trees we were under, it would have wiped us out.
I cannot say how long the small arms fire continued. It might have been two minutes or it might have been fifteen, although I think we would have been out of ammunition in fifteen minutes. Someone, either Lieutenant Hamula or myself, thought about using grenades, but it was a very tight spot. We didn’t know what they would hit once we threw them. To leave the prone position was to commit suicide, so we had to lob them lying down. To make matters worse, pieces of branches remained overhead. Nevertheless, we attempted to throw grenades to our front, and managed to get some out without much harm to ourselves.
The sounds of the fire-fight to our left, in Company E’s area, now became even more intense. Part of an armored battalion had run right into their roadblock with tanks, half-tracks and infantry. We also heard some small arms to our right rear, which told us the other two platoons from Company F were having a fire-fight. It looked like the enemy forces to our left and right were cutting us off from Company F’s defense position.
I later learned that some of the firing came from a BAR man who had moved forward as part of a two-man outpost covering a small break in the woods. He had just gotten into position when he caught sight of a German column moving along the opening. The Germans appeared to be trying to outflank those of us up front. Evidently, he put his BAR on automatic and fired two or three twenty-round magazines. It was said that none of the group got away.
I don’t know how long it was after we opened fire that a runner came up—crawled up, more or less—to say the company commander had ordered our withdrawal. Lieutenant Hamula was very professional and did not rush things. He ordered us to withdraw by squads. We left one squad in position temporarily, while the other withdrew a ways, then the first squad leap-frogged the second squad’s position, and so forth. For quite some distance, we had to crawl in order to stay below the line of fire.
; Lieutenant Hamula had issued orders that once we got to our feet, there would be no running. The quickest we could move was a fast walk. In a situation like this, it takes only one man to start a panic. I think my squad was the second to withdraw, and as we started out, one of my men began running. I shouted at him to stop. He slowed down to a fast walk, and then after a few steps started running again. I yelled his name and said, “If you don’t stop running this minute, I’ll be forced to shoot you!” He took me seriously, for he started walking again. We proceeded back to the company defensive area without mishap.
Once we arrived, the company commander put the platoon in position, and we dug in. For the second time during World War II, I fixed my bayonet, mostly for the benefit of the men around me. I honestly thought we were going to make a last stand. Company E was having a tough time, and there was firing from Company F’s position as well. The company exec officer, the second in command, had come into my squad’s position. As we were digging in, it became evident that Company E was withdrawing, for the sound of their firing was moving off to our left rear. This was a matter of great concern to the exec. “Why are they withdrawing?” he kept asking. “We don’t have orders to withdraw.”
If communications had been better, we might have learned that Company E had indeed received the order to withdraw, and part of our function was to help get them out by providing supporting fire. Company E was a ways to the rear, but not all the way down, when we finally got the order to withdraw as well. We started back down the mountain late in the afternoon. This was a tricky operation, and it was a good thing that the fog covered our movement. It was quite a distance down, and if the Germans had moved quickly over the top and to our side, we would have been under their direct small arms fire all the way. As it was, we didn’t sustain small arms fire from the top and forward western slope until we had reached the bottom.
Descending from the Clouds Page 25