Relief eventually came to PFC. Sherrard after several days of MLR duty when he and his partner got an opportunity to get some rest in Bastogne. He wasn’t far from Division Headquarters, which was across the road from the town cemetery, Sherrard adds to his story:
Walters and I were relieved from this OP position and were sent into Bastogne for some rest in some row houses in the east end of town, just west of the cemetery from the Belgian army camp which Division had taken over for headquarters.
After a night in which Bastogne was bombed on two occasions, Sherrard and Walters were anxious to return to the relative safety of their front line positions the following morning.
Lt. O’halloran’s Platoon
On the 23rd of December, strong enemy forces, supported by tanks, had driven “C” Company of the 401st Glider Battalion from their roadblocks west of Mande St. Etienne. S/Sgt. Robert Bowen and others had been taken prisoner along with several medics and members of the 705th Tank Destroyer team when the enemy overran the aid station. Captain Preston E. Towns had been ordered to pull his men back so as not to be outflanked. On Christmas Eve, his unit was in battalion reserve near Colonel Ray Allen’s command post.
The hilltop position occupied by Captain Robert McDonald’s “B” Company enabled his men to observe enemy soldiers moving into a farmhouse complex on the far side of the valley. Artillery fire called on the position did not move the enemy from the position. Several of the “B” Company men witnessed a platoon attack on the farmhouse from their positions on the hillside.
S/Sgt. Roger Seam on remembers the attack ordered by the company commander to get the Germans out of the farm buildings because those troops were a potential threat to the 401st positions. Seamon wrote:
The next day, we observed a large number of enemy troops entering the farmhouse and bam across the valley from us. We got some artillery fire on them but it didn’t seem to bother them much. Captain McDonald figured they were going to attack us so that afternoon Lt. O’Halloran led a platoon backed up by a TD in an attack on the buildings. The platoon advanced to about 100 yards from the house, laying down a heavy fire as they moved up. The bam was soon burning. After about a half hour, the platoon moved back to our positions and we received no attack as the Germans withdrew that evening. S/Sgt. Joseph Sopczyk was killed in this operation. Sgt. Tom Leamon of ‘C Company was also in on the action.
From these same positions, we got a lot of long range shooting at small groups of Germans who would come across the far side of the valley not knowing we were there. We would fire at them and they would hit the snow and lie there all day, either wounded or afraid to move. At night, German ambulances would come down and pick them up. We could see the crosses on the trucks, plainly.
Also in position to observe the action from the same hilltop area, PFC. Carmen Gisi relates what he witnessed:
Our 1st Platoon went out on an attack on a farmhouse. A tank from the 705th TD was with them. I could see the action from my foxhole. The house was being used to direct fire on us. The platoon had to withdraw because of heavy German fire power. We lost some people. Norman ‘Blimp’ Blimline was hit and was left there but managed to crawl back to our positions and was sent back to the rear.
In the “B” Company history, which he had written, PFC. Marshall Griffith had this brief description of the action involving 1Lt. John O’Halloran’s platoon:
On December 24th, after observing the Germans moving into a house, the CO. ordered Lt. John O’Halloran’s platoon, supported by a TD, to attack and wipe out this strong point.
As one of the actual participants in the platoon raid to rout the enemy troops from the farmhouse complex across the valley, PFC. Richard Bostwick had recorded the actions in 1946 when memories were still fresh. He wrote:
I should judge two hours of daylight remained when our platoon was summoned to the CP for a patrol briefing. Blimp always groaned when he shouldered his BAR—the thing seemed to weigh a ton. The Captain was generous. He passed around a bottle of cognac. I hadn’t had a drink for some time. The liquor burned all the way down. We were briefed concerning a Kraut observation post believed to be in a farmhouse directly to the right front, beyond the crest of the rise above the water hole.
We filed out of the CP and entered the firebreak in single file, near the well, and started up the draw toward our objective. The snow was deep. I was ahead of Blimp and I heard him cussing the snow as well as his heavy load. We followed a route that gave us the maximum protection from being observed; however, we were out in the open and vulnerable to artillery.
Near the crest of the draw, we held up for last minute instructions. Sgt. Watson called for a skirmish line as soon as we came into view of the farmhouse. There were about twenty of us, including Lt. O’Hal loran, a freshman officer; probably his first combat assignment.
As soon as we came out onto open ground in view of the farmhouse, we formed a wide ‘kick-off’ formation and advanced at a slow pace with rifles ready. Several hundred yards away stood a farmhouse above which was a haymow. The upper end of the structure had been blown away earlier and a great bunch of hay was hanging out. Two small buildings covered by tin flanked the main building. I was in the middle of the formation. We had to cross a barbed-wire fence and there was cussing that went with torn garments. It was too damned quiet; the only sound was the crunching snow under our boots.
Near the farm buildings Watson barked, ‘fire and movement’. Firing from the hip and spacing shots, we walked forward. Suddenly, a figure darted from the farmhouse, running straight across in front of us. He spun crazily with his arms flailing as he was hit by a storm of bullets. The shot that I sent after him was a tracer bullet that seemed to curve gracefully as it passed through his body and into a nearby tin shack.
Instantly, an MG opened up on us and took down about six men on my left. The rest of us made a wild dash to the barn and stood there against a stone wall, out of the gunner’s sight. The enemy fire appeared to come from one of the farmhouse’s basement windows. Blimp and I became separated; he was on my right flank. He called to me but I couldn’t see him because of a row of shrubs. While running, my thought was to put the farm building between myself and the gunner. There I stood, wild-eyed and hay hanging above my head. O’Halloran asked if I had a tracer bullet left. He wanted to ignite the hay. In the absence of tracers, I hoisted the lieutenant high enough to touch a match to the hay.
As the fire began to gather speed, we could hear German voices above us. Several concussion grenades were thrown from the hayloft but no damage was done.
Blimp gave out a yell to warn of reinforcements coming over a hill behind the farmhouse. He began firing the BAR and our light MG joined in.
I was looking in the direction from which the sound of Blimp’s voice had reached me when the chatter of a machine pistol sent a stream of orange tracer bullets at the area from which Blimp had been firing. Blimp screamed, ‘Oh my head, my shoulder, my arm!’ The Krauts had hit him. I wanted to go to him but enemy small arms fire was showering the area. From the protection of the brick wall, I continued to fire at anything that moved.
It was getting dark and the flaming farmhouse lit the area. I continued firing at shadows as the Krauts dashed across the field behind the building. I suddenly found myself to be alone. Looking around, I discovered our men had taken to the foxholes that had been dug by the Krauts. They were directly behind me. I made a mad dash for a black spot in that sea of trampled snow; not much of a hole but it was better than no hole at all.
The burning building continued to cast weird shadows on the snow. Bullets were flying and hand grenades were exploding. The Kraut MG continued to blaze away. The word was that we were badly outnumbered and the odds weren’t getting any better.
It was becoming darker as the fire began to bum itself out. From out of the darkness, an American 75mm mobile cannon appeared. It could have run right over me but stopped when it’s front wheels were about ten feet from my hole. The gun barrel was right
over me when it began firing. The noise was deafening. Pieces of the stone wall were flying like shrapnel. The big gun withdrew and left us alone in the darkness. The tempo of battle was more intense; all hell was breaking loose and there we were in the middle of a roaring farmyard.
The Lieutenant had had enough and above the unbelievable noise came the order, ‘Every man for himself!’ It was the first and only time I was to hear such an order during my days of combat. It was getting so bad that I didn’t dare look over the edge of my hole but for an instant. I felt sure at this point we would be overrun. I unhooked my gun belt, which by this time was empty, and removed my overcoat. If I was going to run, I didn’t need anything but my rifle.
I am sure I was holding my breath as I lunged from the hole in the ground. Expected to feel a bullet at any time. Through all that hell, I ran as though possessed—I bobbed, weaved, fell down, rolled, got up, stumbled, fell down. I had a helluva time!
What was left of our group reorganized when we reached the shelter of the draw. We had lost a dozen or more men, including Blimp. Poor Blimp!
It was a sad looking group that straggled into the company area. Capt. Mac was very displeased. The lieutenant reported to the captain. I returned to the hole that Blimp and I had dug.
It was midnight when O’Halloran checked the troops to see if there were any wounded men. I asked him if we could form a patrol and go back for Blimp. The Krauts hadn’t followed us and it seemed as though two or three men could return without too much of a struggle. No way!104
Aid Stations
The 326th Airborne Medical Company field hospital, with its attached 3rd Auxiliary Surgical Group, had been captured on the night of December 19 at its site about eight miles west of Bastogne. With the loss of about 150 medical personnel, the defenders of Bastogne were in tough straits when it came to providing proper care for its wounded, injured and those suffering from the extreme cold weather with pneumonia, bronchitis and frozen feet.
Aid stations were set up at various locations including garages, riding halls, a seminary, St. Peter’s Church and private homes. Eventually, the facilities were taxed with 1,500 casualties before the siege was broken.
Medical officer for the 20th Armored Battalion, Captain John T. Prior had evacuated his patients from Noville on December 20th when the combined 10th Armored and the 1st Battalion of the 506th had pulled out to more defensible positions. Prior was now in Bastogne, He wrote:105
Bastogne, on this date, was an intact but somewhat deserted city. The sight of the residents dragging their belongings with them on little carts, leaving as we entered, was recognized as a bad omen—rats leaving a sinking ship. Many of these people faced the difficult decision whether to retain the American flag over their doors or to put the Swastika back up. My aid station was initially in a garage on one of the main streets. Two days later I had to move into a larger area in a private three-story home as the casualties increased and because I could not heat the garage adequately—the weather was very cold and there was about a foot of snow on the ground. My diary indicates we worked twenty-four hours a day in the Aid Station, that the plasma froze and would not run, that we had no medical supplies and that the town was continually shelled. It was a major decision to run up the street one block to the Battalion Command Post. German artillery fired propaganda leaflets into the town, urging us to surrender. These were regarded by the GI’s as humorous and were collected and swapped like baseball cards. One of these had a photograph of a little girl and her letter to her daddy.
In regard to the care of the wounded in Bastogne, 1 have always believed, and still do, that this did not constitute a bright page in the history of the Army Medical Department. I operated the only aid station for the Armored Division Combat Command (in Bastogne) although there were at least three other battalion surgeons with the armor. I was holding over one hundred patients of whom thirty were very seriously injured litter patients. The patients who had head, chest and abdominal wounds could only face certain slow death since there was no chance of surgical procedures—we had no surgical talent among us and there was not so much as a can of ether or a scalpel to be had in the city. The extremity wounds were irrigated with a preciously low supply of hydrogen peroxide in an attempt to prevent gas infection. I attempted to turn my litter bearers into bedside nursing personnel—they were assisted by the arrival at our station December 21st of two registered female civilian nurses. One of these nurses, Renee LeMaire, volunteered her services and the other girl was black, a native of the Belgian Congo. She was ‘willed’ to me by her father and when we eventually left Bastogne, he was most distraught with me for refusing to take her along. They played different roles among the dying—Renee shrank away from the fresh, gory trauma, while the Congo girl was always in the thick of splinting, dressing and hemorrhage control. Renee preferred to circulate among the litter patients, sponging, feeding them and distributing the few medications we had (sulfa pills and plasma). The presence of these two girls was a morale factor of the highest order.
This decaying medical situation was worsening—with no hope for the surgical candidates and even the superficial wounds were beginning to develop gas infection. I never did see any tetanus develop during the entire siege. It was at this point that I visited the acting Division Surgeon of the 101st Airborne Division and requested he make an effort to bring medical help to us.
I had not visited the Airborne area up until this time, December 23rd. Their headquarters and hospital were in a former Belgian army barracks compound. Major Douglas Davidson, their surgeon, listened as I detailed our hopeless situation and he assured me it was impossible to bring a glider surgical team into the area because of the weather and because the Germans would knock down anything that tried to fly in. He also stressed the fact that his paratroopers were used to being cut off (Normandy and Holland) and this situation was the expected. He then brought me to a riding hall where I saw the unbelievable! There, on the dirt riding floor, were six hundred paratroop litter cases—I cannot recall the number of walking wounded or psychiatric casualties. These patients were only being sustained, as were mine. I did see a paratroop chaplain (armed with a pistol and shoulder holster) moving among the dying.
Gas gangrene was rampant there, aided and abetted, I am sure, by the flora on the dirt floor. Major Davidson did drive into the German lines, later, with a white flag in an attempt to arrange a truce for medical evacuation. He proposed to take out one German to two Americans but it was refused by the ranking German medical officer.106
Members of the 101st receive emergency treatment in an improvised aid station in a riding stable.
The loss of the 326th Airborne Medical Company field hospital the first night left the whole medical set-up in chaos. Describing the situation at the 101st facilities in Bastogne, Captain Bernard “Barney” Ryan, surgeon for 3rd Battalion of the 506th Parachute Regiment, had this recollection of the situation:
The second echelon medical set-up collapsed completely. The next day, we were completely surrounded and there was no evacuation of wounded out of Bastogne. As fast as men were wounded in the fierce fighting on the perimeters, they were brought into the town where places were found for them in warehouses and cellars. Captain S. C. Feiler organized the walking wounded department and cared for several hundred wounded men in an empty warehouse with parachutes (resupply chutes) for warmth until the siege was lifted. (He never got proper recognition for this feat, by the way.)
Seriously wounded and litter cases were treated here and there throughout the town of Bastogne, wherever warmth could be afforded. One of the depressing experiences was ‘making rounds’ on these patients during trips into town and seeing so many in need of definitive surgical or medical treatment which was, of course, unavailable.
Captain Richard P. Meason, of Tucson, Arizona, was a very good friend whose face I shall never forget as he lay on a litter with a full blown acute peritonitis secondary to a bullet of the abdomen incurred three days before. Surprisingly
, he lived to be evacuated and recovered probably because he did have penicillin and sulfadiazine by vein from the beginning. He was operated on later. I never expected to see him alive again.
We have viewed the aid station situation through the eyes of medical personnel. The following are recollections of officers and enlisted men who visited at least some of the facilities or were there for treatment of wounds or frozen feet.
Platoon leader 1Lt. Robert Stroud of “H” Company of the 506th Regiment was hit by shrapnel in the shoulder on the second day and was evacuated to Bastogne. He wrote:
I hung around as part of the walking wounded in the center of Bastogne for a few days and was taken care of by Captain ‘Shifty’ Feiler, the dentist, who did a beautiful job. He organized crews when they made drops of supplies and gathered parachutes for pallets for the wounded and put them in the barracks there at Division Headquarters.
Platoon leader Robert P. O’Connell was put out of action at 0400 one morning when a large enemy patrol came through the positions. He was hit with a burst from a Schmeizzer burp gun and grenade fragments. He was first treated at the platoon level and then sent on to Bastogne. He wrote:
I was treated by Captain Louis Axelrod in the battalion aid station and carried back to St. Peter’s Church in Bastogne where the 501st casualties were being treated. We laid down in pews and on the floor where we were helped by Belgian nuns and sisters (nurses). Very devoted people to share our hardships.
Next, we were housed in warehouses—all casualties waiting to be evacuated. It wasn’t too bad there—not much to eat but we had a lot of body warmth.
PFC. Donald B. Straith had been wounded early in the morning of the 20th of December. He was among a large group of wounded that came out of Noville during late afternoon of the 20th. His experience in one of the aid stations in Bastogne left him with a bad taste in the mouth. He wrote:
Battered Bastards of Bastogne Page 34