Once the southern flank of the Breakthrough was settled, the Third Army was able to release Patton’s tanks below us; and they rolled through our rear areas and then turned north on their unforgettable, valiant drive to liberate Bastogne.
By now the Germans were stretched out too far. They were low on ammunition, gas, and reinforcements, and they began to crumble and fold back, trying to escape into the Fatherland. Hitler’s bold gamble had become his last gasp.
And so, barring a spasmodic burst from the enemy, we hoped for a few days’ rest.
XIV
OUT OF ACTION—AND IN PARIS
Second Batallion was placed in reserve again, and this time it appeared we would finally get some much-needed rest.
Some of our divisions had been attacking eastward toward the Our (pronounced “Oor”) River. Patton’s tanks had rolled back the entire southern edge of the German bulge and was closing in on beleaguered Bastogne, still held by the now famous 101st Airborne.
In Junglinster, Luxembourg, as our company luxuriated in houses apparently abandoned by their owners, we received the wool socks and snowpak boots we’d so desperately needed before. The boots had tall leather tops sewn to a rubber shoe, and they replaced the cumbersome combination of leather combat boots and buckled overshoes. They were not insulated, but they were light and warm with the wool socks, and we were mighty grateful. Wool Eisenhower jackets were also issued, and these fitted under our field jackets for extra warmth.
Also making its appearance, and this for the first time in my Army experience, was a liquor ration of six different bottles or fifths for each officer. Since I didn’t use the stuff except for occasional medicinal purposes, and since I was feeling fine at the time, I called in First Sergeant Nagel and had him split my ration among the NCOs. Some of the officers offered to buy it from me, but I thought they already had enough, and nobody pressed the point—possibly because I was their commanding officer.
At this time Lieutenant Colonel Kenan, who remembered my interrupted R & R in Luxembourg City, insisted that I again try to take some time off. Thus I found myself riding in the lead cab of a three-truck convoy of the battalion’s enlisted men bound not for Luxembourg City but for gay Paris itself, for some reason the dream city of almost all GIs.
When we arrived at our hotel some two hundred tedious miles later, I was surprised to find I was the only officer in the convoy. The duty was real Rest & Recreation, with no command functions at all for me. The men were simply told at what time and where to report back in three days and were then turned loose on a city the chief wartime industry of which seemed to be women.
Well, the GIs took off in wild jubilation like a bunch of kids on the last day of school, and I was left to myself, in dignity, sitting on the steps of an old second-class hotel.
It was not long before I found out that it is quite possible for an American to be lonely in teeming Paris, the warm and beautiful metropolis of hundreds of small neighborhood villages, sidewalk cafés, fruit and vegetable markets. It was a city with an excitable, war-weary populace. It was dead winter, five long months after the hysterical, emotional tidal wave of the Liberation on August 25, when we were showered with cookies, candy, flowers, all sorts of bottles; when we were smothered in kisses and embraces; when men, women, and children screamed and tore about in riotous celebration.
Now everything was strictly business, cold and impersonal. I couldn’t read or speak the language, and I felt more like an interloper than a triumphant liberator. The liberated weren’t above cheating the foreigner, for the few small purchases I made in English-speaking stores and arranged to have sent home to Michigan never arrived.
The black market was in full swing, and the price of a dinner in a restaurant was about $25—equivalent to some $75 or $100 today.
Nonetheless, I was determined to see the sights and get some variety, even though walking down a snow-swept pavement without having to worry about mines or tree bursts or burp guns was entertainment enough for me. I gaped at the Eiffel Tower. I dutifully inspected the Louvre, Notre Dame, and other imposing buildings from the outside—for they were still closed to the public. Then I strolled down the Champs Elysées from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe and its torch for the Unknown Soldier of that War to End Wars. Standing at that memorial, I felt a bitter irony.
I was raised in small towns and in the country, and just as many city boys had never milked a cow, I had never ridden a subway. I was intrigued by the Métro. The trains were clean and swift, and they rocketed along in underground tunnels until they eased into a perfectly clean station.
Another phenomenon that impressed this country lad was the men’s rest rooms. It wasn’t so much the relatively sanitary conditions prevailing that seemed so unusual to me as the way this was achieved. They were cleaned by women, matrons who came when they pleased, without knocking and without thinking the least about it. It didn’t seem to embarrass the men either, for they gave no indication that they even noticed the women.
This lack of prudery was more evident on the city’s streets, where men’s relief stations were practically in the open, tiny, circular brick kiosks around the interior of which urinals spiraled. They were screened in to about shoulder height, but passing women could see the men standing there, and certainly there was no mystery as to what they were doing. Most of the women seemed to pay no attention to the open-air contrivances, which bore the none-too-elegant name of pissoir (pronounced “piswa”). In fact, some women casually conversed over the barrier as they waited for their companions inside.
While I can’t imagine any such device in even the worst slums of an American city, I suppose there is a certain modesty in ignoring a natural function instead of calling attention to it by hiding it. Anyway, that was Paris.
I got to know the subways better than most Americans as I rode from one station to the next. Every now and then I would get off to window shop. The exploration would have been more pleasant if I had had a French translator along, but I managed to stay out of difficulty, at least until the very end. On one ride I was surprised to find that the train was no longer underground when it stopped. It was dark outside, and I suppose that’s why I hadn’t noticed our emergence. Everyone got out and walked away, and the train showed no signs of moving on, so I got out to look around and get my bearings.
My confusion must have been pretty obvious, particularly with my uniform marking me as a stranger, and soon a very kind lady of about fifty came up and asked in English if I needed any help. I asked if she knew when the subway was going back to town. She smiled sympathetically and told me there would be no more trains until morning, that I had been on the last one.
Then she offered to help me find a room and walked me about a block to the only hotel in that part of town. She spoke a few words in French to the manager and then hurried off to her family.
Early the next morning I took the first subway back to the city, grateful that the little misadventure had not come on my last night in town, when I would have missed the convoy back to Luxembourg. I never would have lived that down, and no one would have believed what actually happened and that no French lass was involved.
I ate breakfast as soon as I returned to the city, and then I started to wander around town. I did a little shopping. Although I was most certainly minding my own business, I was stopped time and again by the ubiquitous ladies of the moment. While I possessed all the standard male urges, I did not find the propositions particularly tempting. The poor souls were not especially attractive. They looked worn and haggard.
Anyway, that too, was Paris in all its variety. A few months later I was to encounter a unique situation in this regard, a situation which came my way in the form of an assignment.
One pleasant surprise as I strolled around was a huge American Red Cross sign on a nearby building, and I thought this might be the place to get a cup of coffee and perhaps some suggestions about what to see and do. The suite was nice, clean, and comfortable, and best
of all, everyone spoke English. It must not have been much of a lure for the GIs, though, because I was the sole visitor.
The French Red Cross hostess was a pretty girl with a sweet smile and dulcet voice. We had a pleasant chat on places to visit in the city. After a while she asked if I’d like to have dinner with an English-speaking French family. When I agreed it might be nice, she told me to come back at six. She would arrange for me to meet a couple who had been educated in the States.
I made sure I was punctual, but after waiting in the lobby until almost 7:00 P.M. I got up to leave. Thereupon my pretty friend came over and explained that the couple had just phoned to say they had a sick child. They asked her to give me their apologies. She felt responsible for ruining my dinner plans and told me it was too late for me to get back in time for dinner at my own hotel, but she said that if I didn’t mind waiting another fifteen minutes until she went off duty, she would be glad to guide me to a nearby place that was not dependent on the black market.
A little while later when I saw the big “American Officers Club” sign on the hotel she led me to I understood her maneuvering. I really wasn’t too upset. She knew where to get a good meal, and I didn’t mind the company.
Inside the huge lobby a group of officers was queued up to buy meal tickets. I joined the line, and soon, to my astonishment, got two tickets for only twenty-five cents each. That was the price officers were usually charged for meals when in garrison, but I didn’t expect it to apply in Paris, where everything else was so inflated.
With tickets in hand and a young lady at my side, I followed the other officers up a long, magnificent staircase to the dining room. I was flabbergasted, and perhaps a little intimidated, by the luxury of the immense lobby and mezzanine. I was in for a shock, though, when the second lieutenant posted at the door refused to admit us to the dining room. Improper uniform, he said. Then I noticed that all the officers were in full-dress “pinks”, I was wearing an olive-drab uniform with an Eisenhower jacket.
Instantly I grew angry, and I asked if he thought I should go back to the front lines and draw a proper uniform. He was obviously embarrassed and quickly apologized, saying he was partial to the infantry and didn’t realize I was fresh out of combat. Rear-echelon people sometimes irritate; how can they stand on formalities? How little effort and time it takes to be considerate.
As we were ushered to a table several senior officers glanced our way, but none seemed to object. I couldn’t believe the food, having almost forgotten that such lavish, delectable victuals existed. Along with T-bone steaks came mashed potatoes and brown gravy, green beans, rolls, butter, coffee, and pie. I ate very, very slowly and handled the silverware ever so carefully. The club was a wonderland.
Although no one nodded or smiled at my pretty young French friend, I realized she must have been in that arena more than once, and I certainly didn’t blame her. What did bother me, however, was the kind of life our rear echelon troops, especially the officers, seemed to be leading. My mind took a nasty turn as I saw myself, in sudden fantasy, as commanding general of the area, putting all those fancy people permanently on K rations and sending them up for a tour of front-line duty just so they’d know there was a war somewhere. (Ah, daydreams.)
The young woman and I talked for hours, and I gave her an idea of the realities of the front. She went on at great length about the ordeal of French families during the Occupation. Her only brother had been killed by the Germans, and her parents had kept her a virtual prisoner in the house the whole time so the Germans wouldn’t see her.
She excused herself just before midnight and took a cab home, saying her parents probably were beginning to get worried. We did make a date for lunch at my hotel the next day. Our trucks were due about one o’clock, and I didn’t dare miss them.
The next day she arrived on time, looking fresh and pretty. It was fun watching her order our lunches, with wine—which I’d never had with a meal. I was pleasantly surprised. The arrival of the trucks cut short our luncheon and necessitated very quick farewells. I could only hope, and I did so fervently, that the future would turn out happily for the truly sweet little French woman. She left me with my only really pleasant memory of an interlude in Paris.
Our return trip was dismal and dull, if rather noisy. Some of the men were still high on drink and even higher on their memories of conquest. Most of them had indeed broken loose, and they could not stop talking about it. According to their unending chatter, they must have been the greatest studs ever on earth. On and on and on. At least the trip had been something of a change for them, and for a while they might not even mind the war so much.
The Second Battalion was still in reserve at Junglinster. Other elements of the Twenty-second Infantry Regiment had retaken some territory to our northeast along the Sauer and Our Rivers. We heard it had been pretty rough crossing the swollen rivers. Rumors also had it that General Patton himself had come up and personally pushed the attack forward, though I never did find anyone who had actually seen Patton.
The German breakthrough had driven a wedge between the Fourth Division and the remainder of the First Army, so we had been transferred to General Patton’s Third Army. The general’s influence was felt in many ways. Everyone was required to salute, and officers had to wear their insignia of rank at all times. Such civilities stopped, whether Patton knew it or not, the moment we got into action. Even the food, when we were off K rations, seemed better, and certainly we now could get necessities such as watches, compasses, and field glasses that we hadn’t been able to order successfully in the First Army. I recalled my resentment back in September when I had read in Stars and Stripes that Patton had just received ten tons of new maps and aerial photos, while we in the First Army had to struggle with the maps of 1914.
I felt that General Hodges, commander of the First Army, was just as good a general as Patton, though he certainly couldn’t compete with Patton in charisma. The gains of the First Army in crossing France and Belgium in August and September, not to mention the D day invasion itself, certainly equaled those of the Third Army. They just didn’t seem as spectacular. There were times when we resented all this, and yet we certainly all rooted for Patton.
We heard Patton was the American general the Germans feared the most, and this we relished. We also heard that he had a very quick temper and that he instantly replaced officers who did not do what he thought were their jobs, so everyone around him feared him. We also heard that his type of leadership was vital to Allied victory, and for that, I think, most of us loved Patton. I think the Germans feared Patton because he was very aggressive and unpredictable. He made them worry about what he might do next, so they had to be prepared to defend their lines more carefully than would otherwise have been the case.
XV
THE SCHNEE EIFEL—SECOND TIME AROUND
Near the end of January, 1945, the Fourth Division headed back northward, having completed its task of holding what turned out to be the southern flank of the Bulge, thus permitting Patton’s tanks to go inward behind the flank and then roll straight north to rescue the 101st Airborne in Bastogne. The first day of the trip north was routine convoy. The next day, which was about February 1, we reached Bastogne itself, though by then all the fighting was over.
We, who had done our share of attacking small towns, were nonetheless awed by the total destruction of Bastogne. Everything was leveled except for a few skeletal sidewalls. What had not been knocked flat by artillery had been gutted and hollowed by fire. The dust had not quite settled, and the smoke carried a stench like that of soggy burning mattresses.
The desperate Germans had attacked Bastogne viciously with what must have been overwhelming force. The defenders were shelled with furious barrages from tanks, artillery, and mortars, and as they continued to resist the Germans were forced to bring up reinforcements needed elsewhere and to reroute panzers away from this vital crossroads near the middle of their breakthrough.
Delays would be fatal to the German
s because there were very few days of bad weather to keep Allied planes out of the skies. And the Germans had every military right to success at Bastogne. It was not their fault they’d come upon intrepidly stubborn troops with an indomitable commander, that the rubble from their shelling became breastworks, that the defenders would endure any privations and losses rather than surrender.
It was appalling to me to imagine the fighting that must have gone on there. Many bodies still lay where they’d fallen, partly covered by blankets of snow. One long, wide, gradual hillside was strewn with the carcasses of burned-out Sherman tanks and a few German Tiger tanks. Evidently our losses had been several times greater than those of the enemy, probably because of the powerful 88s mounted on their Tiger tanks. Further on it seemed that our Air Force had gotten in some good licks, for the fields were littered with the debris of German tanks and trucks.
We stopped for the night several miles northeast of Bastogne and were lucky enough to find a few vacant buildings as shelter against the cold. Standing nearby were several German tanks, apparently abandoned because they were out of gas. They seemed to be undamaged, and even in repose they were fearsome, with those wicked 88mm rifles sticking out ten yards, it seemed.
Although the fleeing Krauts had not had time to destroy them, they still might be booby-trapped, and the colonel had warned everyone to keep away. Left to themselves, our men just could not resist those massive souvenirs, and they began to nose around. Some of the bolder ones actually mounted the tanks as crowds of the more cautious gathered around. As some of the curious explored deeper the inevitable booby traps blew up, killing and wounding several of the more foolhardy men. I was not on top of the scene and was grateful that at least none of my men were victims.
If You Survive Page 21