We cheered. We weren’t trying to avoid battle. We just weren’t capable of combat.
We set up in the treeline closest to one of the buildings that they called combat blocks. The whole facility was made up of eight blocks over about fifteen hundred yards, so there was one platoon assigned to each block, and then we were put on cover detail for the biggest combat block. Our job was to provide cover if the advancing platoon had to fall back. But we would only be able to provide a fraction of our normal cover. At any time, about a quarter of the men would be back in the woods throwing up or having diarrhea. When we WERE able to take our positions in the trees and bushes, we shivered violently. I suspect I couldn’t shoot a target more than about ten feet away because of the shakes.
And then it started raining. Hard.
It was a cold, stinging rain, blowing sideways and pelting our faces. I imagine the temperature was just above freezing. I already had heavy chills, so the cold, soaking rain was just too much for me. I curled up, propped against a tree, and tried to focus my eyes on the bunker in front of us. But they kept glazing over, like I was going cross-eyed and couldn’t focus. I just hugged my rifle tight to my body, in the crook of my elbow. I wasn’t sure I could even lift the rifle now. All strength was gone. I was shutting down.
We heard grenades explode at the bunker. Since we were on the French side, most of the bunker faced toward Germany. So Buzz Company would be sneaking up on the bunker from behind. The advancing platoon dropped grenades in the two gun turrets on the top of the bunker, while at the same time attacking the bunker wall, throwing grenades in each window. They timed their grenades to go off at the same time. It worked. There was no gunfire from the turrets.
But there was a problem. The grenades alerted the bunker, and with the telephone communications inside the fortress, all the bunkers came to life. I watched in horror as the retractable turret on top of the combat block raised. Then I heard gunfire erupt all down the line—the blocks had come to life.
There was nothing for us to do but wait. And shiver. We heard muffled gunshots for what must have been a couple of hours, but no one fell back, and no one came to get us. So we steadily got quieter and colder. I was having a really hard time keeping my eyes open. I was worried I was freezing to death. So I stood up and threw one arm into the crook of a tree trunk, then just leaned there. I didn’t even hold my rifle anymore, just left it on the ground. Every few minutes my arm would get sore, so I’d turn and put my other arm in the tree. My fingers and toes were starting to go numb. I tried stamping my feet and moving my arms, but any movement caused my head to pound. Looking back, I’m sure I was starting to get hypothermia, combined with that flu.
No one talked. The rain had turned to freezing rain, so ice covered all the trees. Finally, we saw a young fella come running out of the bunker towards us. He was a GI, so we didn’t take defensive action. Honestly, I don’t think more than a handful of us could even talk intelligently. I tried to say something to Tinpan, but it was an undecipherable mumble. My tongue was thick and my frozen cheeks made it hard to move my mouth. Tin didn’t even try to respond. Just looked at my mouth as I spoke, shook his head and looked down at the ground.
The GI told us that the synchronized attack had worked. Buzz Company took the entire facility in two hours. Cap ordered us into the combat block. We found the bunkhouse, and we all stripped and climbed into beds. Even in the nice warm building, I was shivering violently. But as cold as I was, I went straight to sleep.
The next day we all laid low. Those that weren’t sick were in a different barracks. I would say that about fifteen from the Ninth Platoon were in my barracks, and Cap had quarantined us from the rest of Buzz Company to keep the bug from spreading.
The second day, I was feeling a lot better, and even hungry for the first time in three days. I had a headache and it hurt to move my eyes, but I wasn’t shivering anymore. Cap put me with Kozlowski and Trumbull on an inventory detail. We were to check each room in the environmental facilities and record all tools and supplies.
Kozlowski never caught the bug, and he walked in front of me and Trumbull, who walked side by side with me. Trumbull had the bug too, but got over it a day earlier. He carried a clipboard. Kozlowski would move crates or boxes around, and he and I would list off the contents. Trumbull would write them down.
We came up to a red door.
“Probably nothing in there,” said Trumbull. “That’s an electrical closet.”
“How do you know that?” asked Kozlowski.
“Look at the sign, dumbass.” Trumbull pointed at the sign by the door, which read Electrisch. He wasn’t serious about the dumbass part. He was joking with Kozlowski. I chuckled.
Kozlowski glared at Trumbull, his hand on the door handle. “Hey pencil-neck. You want a knuckle sandwich?”
Trumbull stopped and looked at Kozlowski, his eyebrows raised with a hint of fear.
Kozlowski winked as he opened the door. “Don’t worry, man, I’m just pulling your leg—”
Two gunshots rang out, and a pink mist appeared behind Kozlowski. He’d been shot, twice in the chest. He didn’t even hesitate. He just bull-rushed into that closet. We pulled our sidearms, and just as we came into the doorway, we saw Kozlowski hit a kraut full-on with an elbow to the face. The kraut’s head snapped to the side and then he collapsed. Kozlowski sagged, then fell to the floor. Trumbull and I pumped two rounds into the kraut.
We bent down to Kozlowski. He was dead.
Turns out that goddamn kraut had hidden in the facility since we took it over. He had a cache of food. Cap was so pissed that he ordered ALL of Buzz Company—not just the ninth platoon—to turn the place upside down looking for any more krauts. We didn’t find any. But we found three little spaces with blankets and food. The German had been moving among them to avoid getting caught.
A couple of days later, I sat down to mess next to Duncan.
“Figured Kozlowski would be the last one of us to die,” said Duncan.
“Yeah, the pig-headed son of a bitch.”
“Figured Petey would make it longer too.”
“Yeah...”
“Remember back in France? Remember when we talked with Porter? We ain’t gonna make it, Mack.”
“We’ll make it,” I said. “Krauts are on the run. Hell, we’re in Germany now. We’ll be home by spring. Jesus, Duncan. All you think about is us dying. You think that way, you might make it happen!”
Duncan scowled at me, stood, and walked away.
We had bleak moments in Buzz Company. But we’d been enduring one long string of bad news, without anything good on the horizon. I’ll tell you it’s tough as hell to keep going when it’s getting darker, with no sign of light anywhere ahead.
Chapter 17 - Rage
After some down time, we were sent to Belgium. We didn’t know it as the Battle of the Bulge, but that’s where we were. It was colder than hell. We were low on supplies. It was bitter cold. I think probably the highest temperature during the day was about ten degrees. It was dark all day long because of heavy gray clouds and flurries. Everything looked black and white—no color. Remember I told you that the movies seem to like to show the war as black and white, and cold? Well, the Bulge is where they got that idea.
We'd been tussling with krauts for two straight days with no breaks and no sleep. I felt hollow. Stretched out. It's hard to explain. My gut was empty, but I was past hunger. My head felt drawn out, like I’d been staring at something for a full day, and my eyes felt like they were full of sand. My nose and chin were numb from the cold, and my fingers stung.
So we were all pissed off. No good food for days, no decent sleep for days, laying on that frozen ground or on patrol ALL the time. You try spending a week or two on the ground in the dead of winter with restricted food. Then stop sleeping for a couple of days. You will understand just how miserable a man can get.
We were laying on our bellies on patrol. The Ninth Platoon wasn't alone. There were three other platoo
ns in our group, so we had over a hundred men. We held a position along a ridge in a forest, facing toward the heart of the forest. A wave of krauts started moving in through the trees. A LOT of krauts. Pearson spotted the first one and called out. The call went out down the line, and the whole line was on guard. I remember it was darker than usual. I think it must have been early evening. We watched the tree trunks. That was the best way to see movement, because the trunks’ shapes would change as people moved behind them.
There was no sound. No wind, no footsteps. Complete and utter silence. In the winter in the forest, nothing is moving, and the snow creates a sound-deadening blanket. We watched the trees, trying to spot Germans. Cap called out to Pearson, “You sure you saw something?”
“Cap, I’m tellin’ ya. I saw at LEAST fifty krauts. They are right there!”
Still nothing happened. We sat there for probably ten minutes. No one relaxed. No one looked away. Even though we were exhausted, hungry, and cold, the adrenaline had kicked in. All of our senses were heightened. I glanced down the line, and I could see little clouds of moisture as everyone breathed. That was the only thing moving.
Then, the attack came. There was a loud shout from a German, and the next thing I knew, there were a hundred gunshots, all at once. It was an explosion! They had timed their attack so they would all turn and fire from trees at the same time. They had to fire blind, though. Because if they would have looked at us to pick a target first, we would have seen them and fired. That's the only thing that saved our bacon that day. They all turned from trees, started shooting, then aimed. That gave us enough time to duck for cover as bullets whizzed past our heads.
They had a pretty clever system. They would let half of their men shoot their clips. When they were out, those men would duck behind trees to reload, and then the other half of the men would start shooting. They advanced toward us, moving from tree to tree.
We were returning fire as best we could, but these Germans were aggressive. They couldn’t keep the attack up for long because no one carries that much ammo. So they were going to try to storm our line and kill us quick.
"Short burst!" yelled Cap. I heard other platoon leaders calling the same thing. We didn't have much ammunition, so we couldn't just sit there firing constantly. Plus, we were up against the ridge, and we couldn't look up over it because they’d pick us off. So we’d take a few pot shots without aiming.
This went on for about four or five minutes. That probably doesn't sound like a lot, but imagine a constant stream of gunfire aimed at your head for that long. I was getting scared. I thought those krauts had to be walking right up to the other side of the ridge, and they would just walk over and kill all of us. Morelli reached up to take a potshot, and he took a bullet in the helmet. It didn’t kill him. It wasn’t a direct hit. It’s what we called a dinger—it’d ring your bell for sure. Morelli slid down the berm, and someone came to him to see if he was hurt. Morelli pushed him away, and yanked his helmet off. He fingered the dent in his helmet, and then looked up at the sky. He looked down at the helmet, raised it with both hands, and slammed it into the ground.
“I. AM. SICK. AND. FUCKING TIRED. OF. THIS GODDAMN PLACE!” While he was yelling, he pulled out his bayonet, affixed it to his rifle, slapped in a new clip. All while this was happening, Cap was yelling at him.
“Morelli, stand down!”
“Morelli, shut the hell up!”
“Someone grab him and keep him down!”
“Hey man,” someone yelled at Morelli. “Shut up and stay down!”
Then Morelli stood up and charged over the ridge! No helmet—he just charged over bare-headed. It was like something you see in the movies. We all looked wide-eyed at each other, and then at Cap.
“Son of a bitch!” Cap yelled. “Follow him! CHARGE!”
We didn’t take time for bayonets or anything. Morelli was a—what’s the word?—catalyst. He was a catalyst for us. We’d all been downtrodden for weeks, starved for days, and deprived of sleep for a long time. And now the enemy was attacking in full strength, and we were pinned down. And Morelli decided that he’d had enough. When he jumped over that ridge, I knew that I’d had enough too. We’d all had enough.
We ran over the ridge, firing blindly at first and then focusing on targets we could see. As we started running down the other side of the ridge, there was Morelli. He was as calm and deliberate as can be, walking from tree to tree. He would look one way, see a kraut, fire once and kill him. Then he would walk to the next tree, spot a kraut, and fire once. We were providing cover fire all around him. The Ninth Platoon was the only one that had charged. We were like a wedge driving into the krauts. This really confused the Germans, because they now had to decide to shoot between two directions. They could fire at us, or they could fire at the line of defense on the ridge. They all chose differently, so their firepower was diminished. Then, since they were scattering their shots, they had to stop their system where half their men fired while the other reloaded. Now they were all ducking for cover, taking potshots and reloading. We’d knocked them back on their heels.
We decided to swing left and sweep the forest. We didn’t really decide that. Morelli was moving in that direction, so we were charging behind him in a wide swath, shooting anything that moved. Since we were making our way left in front of the platoons on the ridge, we had those krauts in a cross-fire. We’d taken out the left third of the German forces when we reached the end of their group. We turned back to go the other direction. The two left-most platoons crossed over the ridge and joined us. Where there had been the twenty or so of the Ninth, there were now probably sixty or so men working back to the right through the forest. The remaining Germans were hit from two sides. We didn’t stop. We just kept moving, tree to tree, and we kept shooting until there was nothing left to shoot.
I still can’t believe that we didn’t suffer a single casualty in that battle. It just doesn’t seem possible. How could we storm up over a hill when trees above us are splintering from bullets, and not get shredded by gunfire? We got together.
“Who’s the crazy son of a bitch that started this?” called out a lieutenant from another company.
“One of mine,” replied Cap.
“If he does that again, I’ll shoot him myself!” yelled the lieutenant.
We all glared at that lieutenant. We stood up in a wall of men and faced him. We didn't give a shit about rank right then. We were tired, cold, and hungry. We’d just stormed a hundred krauts and killed them all. It was the first major win we heard about at the Bulge. And that SOB was attacking a member of the Ninth. Attack one of us, attack all of us. We had icy fire in our eyes, and we were still a little battle-drunk. That’s what we called the adrenaline rush of battle. You don’t just come down after an intense battle. You have a tendency to want to keep fighting. I think it’s because it’s not natural to kill, so when you’re pushed to that state, it takes a little while to get out of it.
Cap saw us and stepped into our group.
“You boys go take a rest,” he said. His voice was real firm.
Cap pulled the lieutenant away, and they had words out of earshot. We went to Morelli, who had flopped down, sitting next to a tree, staring off into the distance. Chartelli swung around and flopped down next to him. He tossed Morelli’s helmet into his lap.
“You’re gonna need this,” Chartelli shook his head. “Goddamn, man. You coulda got all of us killed.”
Morelli nodded, still staring into the distance. I saw tears in his eyes and he was shivering real bad. “I’m sorry, guys.” He was almost whispering.
“Hey man, it’s OK!” said Jackson. He was a skinny little kid from Tennessee. “We all here! Ain’t none of us hurt!”
“Damn fucking lucky,” someone said.
“Yeah.”
We all just stood there for a few minutes, not saying anything. I was replaying what had just happened in my head. I was trying to figure out how we had pulled it off. It felt like one of those times whe
n you are falling down, or in a car accident, and everything moves really slow. Like everything around us was slower than us, so we were moving faster and reacting faster than them. I imagine a lot of us were thinking about that, or thanking God that we’d survived. Or thanking the trees for cover.
Cap walked up.
“Rodgers is really pissed off.” Cap was grim.
Chartelli tilted his head toward Morelli. “Is he gonna get court-martialed?”
Cap flinched and looked at Chartelli with a look of surprise. “Over my dead body. Boys, we’ve had our share of fights. More than our share of fights. We’ve seen more death than people should have to see in their lives. But I’m telling you that I was just part of the single most heroic thing I’ve ever seen on the battlefield.”
He paused, looking around the group.
“It wasn’t heroic, it was stupid,” Morelli said quietly.
“Well,” Cap paused. “YOU were stupid.” The group laughed.
“But you made a decision in battle. It was the wrong decision, but once in a while things go our way. Today was one of them. And if you didn’t have this platoon covering your ass, we’d be looking to bury you and half of us by nightfall. We couldn’t have stopped those krauts any other way today.”
We were slapping each other on the backs and shoulders, silently congratulating each other. For a few minutes we weren’t hungry, or tired, or cold.
Morelli got a couple of things out of that incident. First, he got a new nickname—Dinger. We always said that if we were going to get in a scrap with someone, first we’d shoot Morelli in the head to get his mind on scrapping. Second, he eventually got a Silver Star for that battle. When that happened, we rode him hard about it. We said he was just jealous of Chartelli for getting one, and he had to do whatever he could to match Chartelli.
Chapter 18 - Bloodbath
Unfortunately, real war isn’t like the movies. I think most of the combat stories I told you, except for Morelli’s charge, resulted in casualties. We were still pretty high about Morelli’s charge when we received our next assignment. Bastogne. The heart of the Battle of the Bulge. The 101st Airborne had been rescued, and we joined the forces in Bastogne to try to keep the corridor open.
My Honor Flight Page 15