Battered Bastards of Bastogne

by George Koskimaki

  The collecting station was housed in an abbey that dominated one end of town. Inside, the stone floor was crowded with casualties, many of them lying on stretchers. Stepping carefully among them, I recognized one as a man named Straitiff from Company ‘A’. He was delirious from shell shock and every minute or two would sit up and start yelling that someone was stealing his boots. Several times I reassured him that he was still wearing his boots and got him to lie down again. Then, tiring of this, I left him and moved on.

  As evening came, a chow line was set up at one side of the room. Since leaving Mourmelon forty-eight hours earlier, all I had eaten was the bread, butter and jam given to me in Noville the preceding evening, so the aroma of hot food smelled particularly good. Several of us joined the growing line and worked our way forward but, on reaching the serving table, we were asked ‘Where are your mess kits?’ When we said we had lost them, the reply was, ‘Sorry, we can’t serve you unless you have a mess kit’ After directing a few choice obscene epithets at the mess personnel, we withdrew to a drafty hallway where we curled up on the cold stones and, tired and hungry, gradually fell asleep.

  Sgt. Paul Bebout suffered from trench foot. His feet had already started turning black. He was sent back to the Bastogne aid station for a respite. He wrote:

  The lieutenant told me to go back and report to the medics in town. I did. I saw a few of the dead American soldiers along the way. That kind of bothered me. I had seen more stacked up in Normandy. The medic was a dentist and this was in a rifle range (indoors that the enemy had set up). I spread my blanket out and we got one ration a day. I was there for a couple days.

  The Little Old Lady of Champs

  Recalling days of hunger at Bastogne, when the supplies dropped by air were not enough to sustain the warriors positioned along their perimeter defenses, PFC. Ted Goldmann remembered:

  After a couple of days of sweating out artillery barrages and patrols, Christmas Eve rolled around. Several other soldiers and myself came off standing guard duty on our positions about five o’clock in the morning and went into the house across the road where we knew a fire was burning. The snow was fairly heavy and the weather generally miserable. This particular home was the only structure with a cellar in which the Belgian civilians living in the immediate vicinity could stay in some degree of safety from the barrages which came over intermittently. There were 18 civilians in this group which, with the lone exception of one old man, were all women and children. They had been feeding us since the 22nd because we had no Army rations at that time and our aerial resupply had just started. As we entered the kitchen, we found the Belgians in various stages of slumber as they had just come up from the basement. In a few minutes, the old grandmother of the house and one of the other old ladies got up and started to mix the flour which was in a long trough-like bin in the corner. I didn’t think much about it except to watch with no little fascination since she had to obtain additional wheat from the bam which’ adjoined the house. After several minutes, one of the younger women, who was talking to one of the boys in from guard, told him that this was the first time in her sixty years that the old lady had ever worked on Sunday, which was the day Christmas Eve fell on that year. She made fourteen loaves of whole wheat bread that morning, which went to feed the 18 civilians and 20 odd soldiers.

  I sincerely believe that I have never eaten anything that tasted as wonderful as that bread which a sweet old lady broke her life-long religious belief to make for us. I shall always remember ‘the little old lady of Champs’ as one of the people I gladly risked my life for during those miserable days.107

  A Christmas Tree

  It doesn’t matter where American troops are stationed—out in a desert, in a jungle, wherever—they are bound to improvise with a tree of some sort so as to remember Christmas occasions that were celebrated in family situations during happier times.

  The resupply missions of December 23 and 24 provided materials with which to trim a tree as well as furnished much needed material to cover boots to aid in the prevention of trenchfoot. The outer padded covers in which the supplies were wrapped were used to line foxholes and provide padding to the cold floors on which the wounded lay in the various make-shift aid stations. PFC. Ben Rous provided a picture and a story of the preparation of a Christmas tree and a display of their new footwear. Rous wrote:

  On December 24th the Germans didn’t throw as much artillery at us, so we decided to trim a Christmas tree. We picked up any bright colored bits we could find—mostly the chaff the airplanes dropped out to foul up the enemy radar and some full and empty ration boxes to represent presents—even used a couple of live mortar shells. Through all of this we were not bothered by German artillery. They were saving all their ammunition for the next day to give it to us for Christmas presents.

  We really enjoyed December 24th—it was sunny and warmer and a fellow from Regimental Headquarters Company came along with a photographer who took a couple pictures of us and our Christmas tree. These pictures show how we wrapped our feet with the bag material.

  Men of the mortar Platoon of 2nd Battalion Headquarters Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment celebrate with their decorated tree on Christmas Eve. Note the special wrappings on some of the feet.

  A Boost in Morale

  Life on outpost duty, in cold weather and without adequate clothing, and at Christmas time, when a mans thoughts are about home and loved ones, more-so now than at other times, company commanders are often called on to do counseling—especially of men for whom outpost duty is a whole new ball game. 1Lt. Al Regenburg provides such a recollection:

  This was a time of survival. You either took care of yourself or you were in trouble. No one really had the time or strength to mother them. And yet, at night when things were quiet, a young private was admitted to the CP. He told the corporal that he wanted to talk to me. He had gotten permission to see if I could help him out. He was feeling homesick and lonely. He had pictures of his wife and baby. We ended up splitting a couple ounces of cognac. I showed him pictures of my wife and baby. He showed me pictures of his wife and baby and once he found out there were a lot of people in the same boat as he was, he seemed to perk up and feel that I really helped him. The thing he didn’t realize was that he had helped me too.

  Lipton, you’re standing on my hand!

  Cpl. Walter E. Gordon, a machine gunner for “E” Company of the 506th Parachute Regiment, remembered that his battalion was deployed behind a narrow road leading to Foy on Christmas Eve. He wrote:

  Snow was on the ground and Christmas Eve arrived. I had managed to brew a canteen cup of coffee with my little gas stove when Sgt. Amos Taylor asked me to man the machine gun. It seems the outposts had returned with some news that the Germans were advancing through the woods. As I was brushing off the weapon, I was shot in the shoulder by a rifle shot and removed to the rear and later to the church in town.

  1/Sgt. Carwood Lipton remembered the incident moreso as Walter Gordon went into shock shortly after being hit. Lipton wrote:

  When Gordon was hit, I was not far away. I yelled at Alley and Rogers to pull him out and get him back and someone else helped, though I don’t remember who. They brought Walter back into the little cleared area close to the path that ran behind our positions and laid him on a shelter half in the snow with a blanket and a shelter half over him.

  I didn’t get back there right away as there was an attack by the Germans just getting under way against us, although it seemed to be concentrated more to the right of our company front. When I did get there, someone had mixed up some plasma—probably one of the medics. We had dried plasma in one bottle and sterile water in another with a way to get the water into the plasma bottle while keeping everything sterile.

  The plasma seemed to be flowing into Walter’s veins very slowly and I thought it might be starting to freeze in the plastic tube from the bottle. I took the bottle from the man holding it, opened my jacket and put the bottle under my arm to keep it war
m, standing right over Walter as I did it.

  He was lying sprawled out under the shelter half and blanket and he looked almost dead. His face was gray, his eyes were closed and he was barely breathing.

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes. I said, ‘Walter, how do you feel?’ He said, in a surprisingly strong voice, ‘Lipton, you’re standing on my hand!’ I jumped back and saw that I had been standing on his hand, which was partly covered by the blanket and shelter half.

  Shortly after that the medics brought a jeep with stretchers along on each side, up the path behind us and took Walter back to Bastogne.

  Christmas Eve—1944

  Memories of Christmas Eve in and around the Bastogne perimeter were recalled by a number of soldiers. Thoughts of his wife and children were on the mind of a German soldier as he penned a last letter to his wife before the big battle.

  The following is a translation of a letter written on Christmas Eve, 1944, by a German soldier outside the perimeter facing Bastogne:

  Dearest

  Against expectations, the planned Christmas Eve attack did not come off. The whole front is quiet I suppose that the Americans will be equally glad that everything is so peaceful on the most beautiful and sacred evening of the year. They feel the cold even more than we for they are lying in their holes without having been issued winter clothes and that is no pleasure in this weather, I assure you.

  This Christmas Eve is probably the quietest I have spent since coming into the Army. No tree, no carols, nothing Christmacy. Tomorrow evening there’s supposed to be a simple ceremony. But, mean while I expect this attack to come off.

  The boys have gone to bed, but even if its only in my thoughts, I’d like to spend part of this festive evening with you and the children. Darling, I suppose it is hours since you lit the candles on the tree. Little Hannelore has gazed at the sparkling thing with her childish eyes shining and happy. Probably she has found more than one little present under it, and you Darling, have certainly been thinking of me—what I am doing, whether I am well or perhaps already wounded. Yes, my dear Bertile, this is another serious Christmas. Many families of boys in our company are receiving the worst news that could hit them. Destiny is hard and cruel to many. Last year we were sure we would meet again in a very short time. How happy we were then, and of course little Walter owes his existence to that short reunion.

  I haven’t sent you anything in a long time. May God grant that I shall be able to make up to you one day for everything that you have missed.

  Another hour and I shall be able to go to bed. It’s eleven now. God knows what terrible things tomorrow may bring.

  Dearest, I am thinking of you with longing and great love. I can imagine that in a corner of your heart you must have hoped I would come and hold you in my arms tonight. You’ll have to go on dreaming, Darling.108

  Father

  Christmas Eve at Rolle

  The traditional Christmas was missing, for the most part, at Bastogne and its environs but the troops still had a way of celebrating. The following is a memory of Captain Joseph Pangerl after he reread a letter he sent to his parents on December 30,1944:109

  I can just vaguely remember the Christmas party for the kids in the Chateau Rolle through one of my letters where I wrote to my mother that I was able to contribute as she had sent me Christmas presents wrapped in Christmas paper and string which arrived just a day before we left Mourmelon. I hadn’t even unwrapped them and in Rolle gave them to the Countess so she could wrap a few things for the children.

  As operations officer for the 502nd Regiment, Captain James J. Hatch had this recollection of a Christmas Eve party that the men in Headquarters had planned:

  I recall an event which went from a moment of joy to sadness and took place at the 502nd CP at Rolle, a small castle-like home belonging to a Count. We brought in a small Christmas tree and invited the families with children to come down from the upstairs where they had been living so they could decorate the tree and open their Christmas presents.

  Several of the staff members recalled the Mass celebrated on Christmas Eve at the Chateau Rolle. This is how Captain Joe Pangerl described the scene:

  Christmas Eve we had a midnight Mass-in the chapel which is in the tower of the castle. The chapel is round, like the tower. It had rough, stone walls and was fitted out with rustic but beautiful furniture and had pine boughs all around. The Chaplain was our own and we filled the chapel. In fact, there were many who couldn’t get in. The family of the house was also present, of course. I thought about you at home …110

  Captain Hatch continues his story and relates how the party was disrupted by artillery fire:

  They (the children) were having a great time until about 10 p.m. The Germans were getting ready to attack our positions and they were throwing artillery rounds to include our CP. We had to break up the Christmas party and sent them to the basement for protection.

  Christmas Eve in Hemroulle

  As executive officer and S-l for the 463rd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, Major Stuart Seaton recalled the Christmas Eve service at the little town of Hemroulle:

  One could hardly forget the night before, Christmas Eve. The Division chaplain came out to our town for a Christmas Eve service. We had the service in a stable. Somehow that service had a distinct significance. A rather humble setting, somewhat reminiscent of an event some 2,000 years previous. I have often thought back to that night and that service.

  PFC. Gordon Bernhardt of the same battalion remembered the Christmas Eve service also. He wrote:

  I remember going to a barn on Christmas Eve with other men. A chaplain was there and we had a church service with the familiar ‘Silent Night,’ of course. I was thinking of everyone at home.

  Christmas Eve on Outpost

  Christmas Eve is memorable for PFC. Leland G. Jones of Headquarters Company of the 401st Glider Battalion because rations from the previous day’s drop of supplies hadn’t filtered down to his outpost. Jones and the men with him were making the best of it. He recalled:

  On Christmas Eve three of us melted a roll of Life Savers to make a cup of ‘hot soup’—all we had left. But we three then started singing Christmas carols, every one we could remember and we talked of Christmases we recalled at home with our families. Today, still, all good Christmases, before and since, seem to be lumped together. I remember only that horrible Christmas at Bastogne. I cannot listen to ‘I’ll be Home for Christmas’, ‘White Christmas’, or ‘Silent Night’ without choking up.

  Catholic Christmas services being conducted in one of the Division Command Post buildings by Chaplain McGettigan. Note the heavy drapes over the large windows so as to adhere to blackout conditions.

  Before General Patton’s troops joined the beleaguered troops at Bastogne, thoughts of Christmas and home were on the minds of front line troops on both sides. Pvt. Mike Zorich describes what he witnessed and heard while on outpost duty Christmas Eve:

  We were dug in on a bald hill overlooking the Germans who were in a patch of woods 200 yards to our front. I was sent on outpost duty with Herman Sheets and we managed to crawl out to this little patch of trees for cover, overlooking the Germans who had their two men out for duty like we did. The Germans started singing Christmas songs, one of them being ‘Silent Night.’ It was strange. It was unbelievable that we were lying on that cold snowy ground, teeth chattering and trying to sing ‘Silent Night.’ We were keeping it to ourselves, afraid to let the Germans know we were there.

  They didn’t mind. They were very strong with their voices. That’s how strong Christmas is to soldiers out in the field.

  Acts of thoughtfulness on the part of one’s peers was greatly appreciated—especially at Christmas time. Company commander Al Regenburg had such a recollection. He wrote:

  The attacks of about two a day continued to Christmas Eve. I was instructed to go to 1st Battalion to relieve ‘A’ Company, which had been cut up pretty badly. When I assembled all of ‘G’ Company, I had only 44 men, inc
luding Lt Hibbard’s platoon. We spent the night in the woods. The trees were too thick and the ground was too hard to dig a foxhole. While we were waiting to go to relieve ‘A’ Company, I heard a voice calling, ‘Regenburg, Regenburg, where are you?’ I guided the person to me, to find lovable warrant officer O. P. Adams, who had left the sanctity and warmth of regimental headquarters to bring me a bottle of wine to celebrate Christmas Eve. That made me feel so good to think that anyone would do that for me.

  Terror in an Outpost

  Sgt. Duane L. Tedrick of “D” Company of the 506th Regiment describes an action at a forward listening post on Christmas Eve when the slightest sound created a feeling of panic:

  Our Company ‘D’ was dug in along a road with the 3rd Platoon on the left flank. We had a listening post near the center of a band of trees. Don King, George Guckenberger and I were in that post. There was a little wind and snow would fall from the trees and make some noise. We were all feeling sad at having to spend Christmas Eve in a hole in the ground. We had been there several hours when suddenly there was a noise of metal striking metal. It was quite loud and we were all shook up thinking the enemy had gotten that close to us. ‘Gook’ got down in the bottom of the foxhole and I piled our blankets on top of him so he could call the company on our sound power phone. Somehow the phone came unhooked and ‘Gook’ could not see to reconnect the line. We decided that King would throw a grenade; I would empty the BAR and we would run down the strip of trees and turn left and head for the road. I had just released the safety on the BAR when a Battalion mortar fired a flare right over the open area to our front. As the flare came down, it lit up our area. King kinda giggled and said, ‘It’s a little mouse in the ration cans in the trash hole!’ We rehooked the soundpower and made a commo check with the company BUT did not report the ‘terror-producing mouse.’ King had a watch with a luminous dial and he leaned over and whispered, ‘Hey guys, Merry Christmas!’