Battered Bastards of Bastogne

by George Koskimaki

  There were other wounded lying in the snow along the MLR, some screamed in delirious agony. I asked T/Sgt. Bonner if anything could be done for these men. He said it would be suicide for anyone to try to help them under the circumstances. I said I would try if a medic would go with me. Pvt. Everett Padgett volunteered.

  We crossed the main road and started down the slope to 2nd Platoon’s foxholes, wriggling through the snow on our stomaches. As soon as the Germans spotted us, their volume of small arms fire dramatically increased with bullets ripping through the snow around us. We got up and ran back to the cover of the road, the screams of the wounded ringing in our ears. Padgett told me to stay put, perhaps the Germans would respect the Red Cross on his helmet and arm band. Then he went back.

  It was one of the bravest acts I ever witnessed in combat, characteristic of our medical section and one which, to my knowledge, was never recognized for an award. With German bullets tearing up the snow around him, Padgett got to the wounded, checked each one and made it back to the road. He told me there was no point in trying to bring them in, as two had been shot through the head and were brain dead. The other was so mutilated that any effort to move him would be fatal. One of them was Pvt. Joseph Cammarata. We called him ‘Pep-pernose.’ The other two were Sgt. Robert Rehler and Sgt. Fred Poling.

  The second TD attached to the company started up the main road to help 2nd Platoon. As it tried to rotate its gun turret, it couldn’t. It was frozen in place. The commander decided to find a safe area to thaw the turret, turned and made off in the direction of the battalion CP. It came under German tank fire immediately and, as it reached a rise of ground, a shell grazed the back, sending blanket rolls flying. The TD wasn’t damaged, but never rejoined the fight that day.

  The day dragged on with 2nd Platoon’s fire gradually diminishing. I went to the aid station and talked to the wounded tank commander telling him something had to be done or else the roadblock was doomed. I said I had some artillery training and could probably operate the 75mm gun on his tank if someone could get the tank from behind the house. He said it wasn’t possible as the turret was jammed and the gun was out of commission.

  Wagner, Gwyn and I had a meeting in the courtyard, agreeing that something must be done to keep the German tanks at bay. The TD was nearly out of ammunition and was drawing a hail of cannon fire each time it came up the courtyard ramp for a shot.

  As we talked, I noticed a half-track from 10th Armored nearly hidden in the big fir trees to the rear of the courtyard. It’s crew was in position along the main road. On the side of the vehicle was a bazooka and a canvas pouch holding three rockets. I suggested that I take the bazooka and try to get a shot at one of the German tanks which had come within a hundred and fifty yards of the MLR where it fired point blank into 2nd Platoon foxholes. Wagner gave the okay, so we loaded the bazooka and I headed for the elevated road. I could see a part of a tank which was in a defilade spot with just the turret showing. I set the sights, took careful aim and fired. The rocket left the tube with a blast which singed my face. The rocket grazed the turret without exploding. Hearing the blast of the bazooka, the tank hurriedly backed below the rise and out of sight I went back to the house.

  ‘Save the other rockets, we might need them later!’ Wagner said, after witnessing the withdrawal of the tank. The other tanks were too far away for an effective shot

  2nd Platoon was taking a terrible beating. Had it not been for the TD, their foxholes would have been overrun by the German tanks. PFC. George Kalb had fired every clip of BAR ammo he and his assistant possessed, then watched helplessly as the Germans inched forward. When darkness fell, he managed to withdraw with PFC. Frank Marino, a stocky Philadelphian. Once clear of their foxholes, they made a mad dash over the deep snow to the rear. But the night was bright and clear with the moon shining like a giant spotlight. Marino was killed while climbing over a wire fence by bullets which miraculously missed Kalb.

  2nd Platoon was nearly in a state of chaos, although we didn’t realize it from our position in the courtyard. A direct hit by a German tank had blown up the CP, nearly tearing the shoulder off S/Sgt. Grayson Davis, the acting platoon leader. Ammunition was low and casualties were mounting. Wagner had requested more artillery support but the appeal went unanswered. Every shell was being rationed. Gwyn continued to direct Sakwinski’s TD. The house, outbuildings and huge fir trees were hit, scattering debris in the courtyard in a rain of rubble. S/Sgt. Louis Butts, squad leader in the 2nd Platoon, who had taken over for Davis, managed to wriggle up the snowy slope and into the courtyard. A stunned expression was on his face. Short and rotund, he was a veteran of Normandy and Holland and knew what he was doing.

  ‘Half my squad is dead or wounded and the rest of the platoon is no better. I think we should pull back,’ he said, not too coherently.

  Wagner was on the spot. Like me, he had been sent by Capt. Towns to help 2nd Platoon. But what help could we give without more support from our heavy weapons? I think he realized, also, that by withdrawing now would only mean more casualties. Any withdrawal would have to wait until dark and then only if Capt. Towns gave the order.

  Wagner looked sympathetically at Butts. ‘My orders are to hold this position, Sergeant. If there is a change in that order, I’ll let you know immediately.’

  Butts stared at us with disbelief on his face. He was too good a soldier to argue with an officer, although, under the circumstances he should have. Getting all his men killed wasn’t going to save the roadblock. 2nd Platoon needed help. Anger flooded Butts’ face. He gritted his teeth, turned and headed back for 2nd Platoon’s foxholes. Somehow he made it

  The tempo of the battle increased, as the Germans sensed the resistance against them was crumbling. Tank and mortar shells were exploding with regularity around our stone house. I watched a huge fir tree near us disintegrate after being hit, showering us with bark and needles. It should have been a warning, sending us to cover, but we ignored it, as we discussed the situation. Sgt. Joe Damato had come back from his position on the elevated road, telling us that 2nd Platoon couldn’t hold out much longer. Then, the world seemed to blow up around me. I found myself on the ground, choked by acrid fumes and my ears ringing. A shell had dropped less than ten feet from us, throwing me against the side of the house and bowling over like ten pins, Wagner, Gwyn and Damato. My chest and stomach were on fire and my right arm hung limp. Gwyn lay in a crumpled heap, having taken most of the force of the blast. Wagner and Damato limped toward the cellar as a medic rushed to help us.

  Gwyn was the most seriously wounded, having shrapnel shards throughout his body. He was placed on a litter, sedated and moved into the aid station. Wagner had a foot wound which, although not serious, later became infected and caused him to be sent to the hospital. Damato had a wound the size of a silver dollar in his left thigh. I was lucky, my web equipment stopped the shrapnel from tearing deep into my torso, but a big piece was buried to the bone in my right wrist. The medics took us inside, gave us morphine and dressed our wounds. For us, the battle was over.

  It was nearly dark. Wagner had been treated and was outside some-where trying to round up stragglers from 2nd Platoon and men from the half-track which had dropped back from the main road. I understood him to say the wounded would be evacuated when it was fully dark, but time passed and only random shots were coming from in front of us. Joe and I limped to the doorway of the basement and went outside to see what was happening. We thought Wagner had gone to 2nd Platoon, as no more stragglers were coming back. A full moon in a cloudless sky made the scene around us look like a postcard picture.

  Joe looked across the moonlit field behind us and said, ‘I think we ought to try making it back.’

  I looked at the distance we would have to cover and Joe’s gimpy leg and knew he would never make it. Going back the way we had come was out of the question. Small arms fire had broken out along the road in 1st Platoon’s area, the route we would have to take. More importantiy, I wasn’t going t
o leave until Wagner said the aid station was going to be evacuated. ‘C’ Company had never before left its wounded behind in any withdrawal. It was a decision that was to plague me for years later, but one which I was to finally rationalize later as the right one under the circumstances.

  I helped Joe back to the basement, which had become a scene out of the ‘Inferno.’ The civilians were hysterical, crying and praying loudly and couldn’t be quieted down by the medics. Our wounded were in such pain, despite the morphine and solace of the medics. Joe and I went to a corner and waited for Wagner to arrive with orders to evacuate the place, not realizing 2nd Platoon had withdrawn as best it could, leaving the MLR unoccupied. Wagner had been cut off by infiltrating Germans and was unable to return to the aid station. There was nothing to stop the Germans.

  The civilians had some candles, the only light in the basement. I took my .38 Smith and Wesson from its shoulder holster and held it in my lap, as one of the medics went to the doorway and looked out. When he shouted to someone, ‘All verwunded. Das ist gute!’ I slid the pistol into the sling holding my wounded arm, as Germans poured through the doorway.

  One of the medics spoke German. He talked with the Germans for a few minutes, then told us we were being taken prisoner. I wasn’t sure because we had heard about the Americans who had been murdered at Malmedy. However, the medic said that we would be treated as prisoners of war and that the Germans wanted all the wounded who could walk to leave the basement. As I got up, I slid my pistol under some straw, deciding to take my chances with the rest.

  ‘Hande hohe!,’ a burly German said to me. I painfully raised my arms. He motioned for me to lower the wounded one. I did so, gratefully.

  The ambulatory wounded were marched through the snow to the area from where the enemy tanks had been firing. Our watches, rings and other valuables were quickly snatched away while our captors complained about ‘under kamarades kaput!’ and ‘verdammen Amerikaner swinehund.’ It was a ticklish moment and I was sorry I had left my pistol behind because the Germans seemed that mad. However, cooler heads prevailed and the verbal storm blew over.

  While this action was going on during the night of December 22nd, “B” Company of the 401st had been ordered to pull back from its forward positions out in front of the main body of its battalion so as not to be cut off by the enemy, which was now threatening the positions of Companies “A” and “C”. The move was made during the night with “B” Company appearing on the scene at first light.

  PFC. Carmen Gisi of “B” Company remembers the incident of the bombing by American planes on the first morning when the weather cleared. He wrote: “I remember Company ‘C’ being hit by our own planes and, after that, we had to put color panels in front of our foxholes.”

  A Mistaken Target

  Meanwhile, down the road a few hundred yards, eight-year old Andre Meurisse was about to become an innocent victim of the heavy fighting which had engulfed S/Sgt Robert M. Bowen and his “C” Company comrades. During the sleepless night, another group of German soldiers had come to the house in Mande St. Etienne, gotten one of the Cawet brothers to hitch up his horses to pull their truck out from where it was mired in mud. The fighting intensified with the coming of daylight on the morning of the 23rd. The Americans were now attacking the village and pushing the enemy soldiers out. Andre Meurisse continues his story:

  After waiting a while, my father and mother took me to the main stone farmhouse and there I was given some food. My father was talking to one of the Cawet brothers. I remember him saying that things would be better now. It was December 23rd and, now that the village was back in American hands and the Americans had pushed the Germans some distance back toward Germany … suddenly, terrific explosions, one after another, ripped through our location. The farmhouse building jumped under my feet, bowls on the shelves flew in every direction. Plaster fell from the ceilings, window glass flew every-where. I ran out of what was left of the doorway, toward the stables. My father told us all that the cows stable was probably more strongly constructed and we would be safer there. He must have been right because the people who had been in the stable were unhurt, but a few of those who were in the house with me had been wounded by flying glass and some others were almost crushed when a portion of the house collapsed.

  By now we could hear airplanes some distance away and the explosions had ceased as suddenly as they had started. I looked out of the stable through a dormer window in the doorway and saw a large strip of red canvas rolled out right in the middle of the main street next to our building. A few American medics were carrying litters past the adjacent barn with wounded soldiers on them. The portion of the building used for their living quarters by the two brothers was almost leveled to the ground. A putrid smelling smoke was drifting through the air, coming from the burning manure pile nearby. Two more buildings had been hit, one was burning, all of that done with just two or three bombs.

  It wasn’t until sometime later, after the shock of the building coming down around the heads of Andre Meurisse, his parents and the other civilian refugees in Mande St. Etienne, that Andre realized he had been injured during the bombing. He remembered:

  It was sometime later that I began to feel a pain in my right shoulder. Slight at first, but growing worse with each minute as time was passing. Finally, I told my father about it. He thought, at first, that I had banged my shoulder against the wall when the bomb had blown out the house. But the ache became so intense that he finally took off my shirt and heavy winter clothes. As my underclothes were being taken off, they saw that all the under garments were soaked with blood. It had been an hour or so since the bombing and the blood was matted and coagulated now. So, he got some water and cleansed the wound. I was not crying, nor afraid, so I was sure that my father knew all the right things to do to protect and care for me. Also, as I was barely eight years old and had no idea of what was really happening in the world. After the wound was cleansed, I could see my shoulder. There was a bloody hole just slightly larger than my thumb. My father made me move over to the window where the light allowed him to look at the wound more closely. He knew that there was a piece of metal there in my shoulder for there was no exit hole, so that piece of shrapnel was still there. I could still move my arm somewhat so he felt that at least my arm was not broken. He took and opened his pocket knife and passed the blade through an open flame and very carefully tried to contact something metallic but to no avail. He told my mother, who was standing there expressing more anguish than me, that she clothe me while he went out to search for help. He came back about fifteen minutes later with an American medic, who applied a sterile bandage dressing to the seeping wound. My father tried to explain to the American that his son must be taken to a hospital but the medics said that my father could not go along, only wounded were allowed there. My father got mad and yelled at them. The medics finally agreed to let only my father go along with me; my mother had to remain behind. So I was loaded into the rear of an uncovered GMC truck and, with my father, we left my mother and went to Bastogne. (Even years later, when I think of that parting from my mother, tears come to my eyes, not for me but for her.)

  I was taken to the military compound in Bastogne that the American Airborne Division was using as headquarters. The only thing that took my mind off of my pain was watching from the truck as an American dispatch rider, riding his motorcycle through the front gate of the compound suddenly slip and fall on some ice patch. With all the excitement of the last few days, I was worried about that unnamed rider lying there on the ice, but he got up under his own power and was all rights.

  Senonchamps

  With the arrival of the larger enemy force to the woods to the southwest of Senonchamps on the 21st, the positions of “C” Company and the other defenders came under heavier artillery bombardment, most likely from die enemy tanks hidden in the woods.

  This was the morning when there were several casualties from one of those artillery barrages as will be related by both Captain Walter
Miller and Donald Woodland. Both also remembered the use of a “quad-fifty” that brought in artillery responses. Captain Miller related:

  The ‘Choo-Choo’ artillery also provided us with a quad-fifty which we would run up from defilade and catch the enemy in the open. This technique lasted only a few days—on about the third day they were laying for us and they threw a shell and hit the end building where I was standing with two observers from the 10th Armored Division. It killed both men, one of whom had been all through Africa and Sicily. I was totally paralyzed temporarily by the explosion and was taken to the 10th Armored Division aid station in the village but returned to my unit.

  Acting sergeant Donald Woodland had been out at a machine gun position and, after being relieved, had returned to the house to warm himself and get something to eat. Just as he got near the house, a shell hit between him and a tanker who was trying to thaw out the turret on his tank. Woodland wrote:

  I was just inside the door with most of my body shielded by the stone masonry of the door jamb. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed the tanker who had been working on the frozen turret, slowly collapse. His body had received most of the shrapnel, but I was hit in the left side of the face, arm and wrist.

  MAP 11—Senonchamps

  My mind told me to get away from the house and back to the machine gun position; I believed that an attack was underway. I crawled over toward Blackie. The blood from my wounds was dripping in the snow. More shells landed on the position.

  A team of medics soon arrived to evacuate the dead and wounded. I followed them on foot up the road to the aid station. They had me wait in a farm building. I went inside and reclined on the dirt floor. Across from me was a dead tanker from the 9th Armored Division. The two medics soon returned and stripped the tanker of everything of value. His personal effects were placed in a bag along with one of his dog tags. Then his body was carried outside and placed in a small shed on top of a half dozen other bodies.