Ironically, one of my most frightening experiences of the war happened on the friendly British mainland, far from the battlefield. We were stationed in Warminster, where the rolling hills were perfect for practice driving the tanks. As night fell, a total blackout was observed, and in this blackness we were charged with guarding the hundreds of tanks parked on the hills, roughly two hundred yards from the barracks. Guard duty was no laughing matter. The task rotated from one soldier to the next, each shift lasting for three to four hours—walking around the tanks, watching for saboteurs. Alertness was critical, no matter what the hour. If a guard fell asleep, it was punishable by death, for the safety of all was at stake. You could not leave your post until another guard came to start his shift.
One night, it was my turn to go on guard duty, relieving the previous guard until my replacement would come at dawn. As soon as the door of the barracks shut behind me, I was in total darkness. It was raining hard, and there was no moon, no stars. I strained my eyes to see, but all was black. Trudging through the mud in the downpour, not seeing or hearing anything but the rain, I never felt so alone. No matter where I looked, there were no tanks. I became disoriented and looked again and again, but I couldn’t find the tanks. I yelled to find the guard who was supposed to go off duty. No answer. The rain came down harder.
Screaming into the darkness, in mud up to my ankles, I wondered if falling asleep was punishable by death: what is the penalty for not relieving a guard? I wandered round and round, frantically trying to find the guard, the tanks, anything. Images of a court-martial and, oh God, firing squads hammered my brain. After what must have been an hour or two, I was exhausted. I sank into the mud and just cried. I stayed there, miserable and trembling, until the sun came up, until I was sure that, by now, someone else would be on his way to relieve the poor soul who had to stay on duty through two shifts. As the first shafts of light pierced the fog, I went back to the barracks, changed clothes, and went to sleep.
Remarkably, no one ever said anything to me about it. No one asked, no one told. There was no court-martial and no firing squad. But the incident unnerved me, and for the first time I wondered how I’d hold up in combat. Would I be immobilized by fear? I was soon to find out.
CHAPTER 4
Prelude to Battle
THE ALLIES HAD WRESTED CHERBOURG, a key port in France, from German control on June 25, almost six months to the day before we landed there in December. It had been hailed as the “gateway to victory” by triumphant Yanks, and it stood ready to receive us. We crossed the English Channel in LSTs, the enormous craft designed to hold tanks and men and land them safely on undeveloped shores. Although their crews called them “large, slow targets”, the initials actually stood for “landing ship, tank.” It was truly a marvel, invented specifically to transport tanks and equipment for this war. It was remarkably strong and buoyant, and few losses of LSTs are on record.
Cherbourg, where we landed in France, had been taken back by the Allies after heavy fighting. Official U.S. Army Photo
From Cherbourg, we drove our tanks about 450 miles eastward over the Seine River, through the outskirts of Paris, bound for the town of Soissons. It was there that we had our first taste of enemy fire. A German plane fired at us and dropped a single bomb. This first encounter with the enemy left some of us pretty unnerved. But we were told to hide under the tanks and save our energy for the real fight that was to come.
We were to take part in the now-famous Battle of the Bulge. At this point in the war, Hitler had tasted defeat repeatedly and had been backed into a corner. The Allied armies were on his border, and he knew that it was a matter of time—little time—before there would be an all-out offensive to take Germany itself. His only hope was to push for a final attack against the Western Front. If he could cut through the Allied lines and reach Antwerp, he could effectively cut the Allied flank in two. For this critical von Rundstedt Offensive, Hitler personally planned every move and mustered a quarter of a million troops to take up positions on an eighty-five-mile line from southern Belgium to Luxembourg. His men advanced fifty miles into Allied territory, creating a fearsome “bulge” that cut deep into Allied defenses in the Ardennes region.
Unprepared for this aggressive onslaught, American commanders initially ignored the German troop movements reported to them. But after heavy initial losses, the Allied supreme commander, Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, called upon Gens. George Patton, Anthony McAullife, Omar Bradley, and other top military leaders to meet the brazen enemy with enormous numbers of men and arms—a half-million determined infantry, airmen, and artillerymen to effectively push back the bulge to the German border. Committing this many troops to what promised to be the biggest battle in U.S. history, Eisenhower felt confident that the massive thrust would help end the war soon.
British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery wrangled with Eisenhower over command of the ground troops, and this dissension in the top circles of military leadership delighted the enemy. However, it was of little consequence to us, the rank-and-file recruits whose mission was to follow orders and plunge into battle. Our 11th Armored Division, nicknamed “Thunderbolts,” was to play an important role in a battle that was to live on in Belgian memory for decades.
In the little town of Bastogne, a tense drama was unfolding, one that riveted the attention of the entire world. The German Wehrmacht had swept through the entire area, retaking Belgian lands that American forces had liberated in September. They conquered it all, except for centrally located Bastogne, where Gen. Anthony McAuliffe and his 101st Airborne Division were valiantly holding them off. With three German infantry divisions and a panzer (tank) division deployed around the town, the 101st was trapped. General Gerd von Runstedt sent an emissary to McAuliffe with a demand for surrender. At first, General McAullife wasn’t sure whether the Germans were surrendering or whether he was being told to surrender. When it was clarified that it was the Americans who were to surrender, he replied, “Nuts!” and shooed the emissaries back to their commander. His reply was translated into German as “Go to Hell!”
McAuliffe’s response made headlines around the world. With little left but the pluck of a besieged American officer, he had delivered a retort that carved his place in history. The impact was electrifying. It boosted morale for Allied troops on every front. War-weary civilians took heart that the triumph of good over evil was at hand. “Nuts!” became a rallying cry, and Bastogne became a symbol of resistance that captured the hearts of all.
The arrows show the movements of the 11th Armored Division from our entrance into battle until after the Battle of the Bulge.
Hitler vowed to take Bastogne, no matter what the cost. Determined to defend Bastogne and liberate the entire region, the Allies decided to push from the north and south, attempting to squeeze the Germans out of the area and push them back. Frigid December temperatures, the coldest in Western European memory, played a deadly role in the battles as well. Poorly dressed for constant below-zero temperatures, American troops were literally freezing to death as they spent night after night in icy foxholes and day after day advancing through whirling snow into heavy artillery fire. Even General Patton, known for his speed, was pushing his way toward Bastogne with maddening slowness.
Yet Patton managed to reach Bastogne just one day after his confident prediction. By December 27, the German encirclement of the town was broken, and the bulge had been contained. But now the grim assignment to push the Germans back was just beginning. There were many miles to cover, and even though the American tanks outnumbered the German tanks by ten to one, the Germans had superior guns and had hunkered down in towns and villages to withstand the bitter cold. Moreover, Hitler had refused his own generals’ desperate pleas to allow their retreat. Attempts to retreat would be punished by firing squad. They were there to fight to the death.
We had driven our tanks through France and crossed over into Belgium. The extreme cold covered the fields with ice and snow, causing hazardous driving for a veh
icle with metal tracks such as ours. You might say we slid into Belgium. And temperatures were dropping again.
On the night of December 29, 1944, our Company B, 41st Tank Battalion of the 11th Armored Division, moved up to a bivouac area in Longlier, Belgium. The company was assembled that night after dinner, and we were informed that we were going into battle the next day. We were briefed that the plan was to attack north of Morhet with the object of destroying the enemy positions at Lavaselle (approximately eight miles west of Bastogne). We were told how the 101st Airborne Division was occupying Bastogne, still locked in a fierce battle with the encircling Germans. The Battle of the Bulge had been raging for two weeks, and the German resistance was fierce. The shivers going through our bones on this sub-zero night reminded us that freezing to death was a very real and gruesome possibility.
Snow covered the ground as we prepared to rumble toward battle in our Shermans. Official U.S. Army Photo
We also knew that the outcome of the war could depend on defeating the Germans’ last massive effort, planned by der Führer himself.“German morale and supplies are running low,” we were told. “Their men are shot as deserters if they try to retreat. They must continue fighting, even when all is lost, so they are desperate men. Moreover, some of them are wearing American uniforms, so pay attention to passwords. It could save your life.”
Our captain explained the battle plan to us in crisp, businesslike tones, as if he were sending his men into war games instead of a battlefield from which some would never return. Then he warmed to the subject, telling us that this would be our “baptism of fire,” that we must fight hard to defend the world from evil, and that America and the world were watching. We were all inspired by McAuliffe’s stand against the Germans.
That night, I cleared the snow from a small patch on the ground and unrolled my sleeping bag. But sleep was impossible. My thoughts were totally absorbed with the coming battle. Questions I had been afraid to ask myself now flooded my mind in wave after terrible wave: How would I react to combat? Would I remember my training? Was my training good enough? Could I really kill another human being? Would I be killed? What if I’m wounded or captured? Would I be brave?
I must have fallen asleep, because I felt myself wake much before dawn. I rolled up my sleeping bag and tried to prepare myself for the challenge of the coming day. Suddenly, I recalled a brief conversation when I left home for induction. My mother had said, “Be sure to take your tefillin.” These are small leather boxes holding scrolls of Bible verses worn during morning prayers.
“Mom, they get us up early in the morning; I certainly won’t have time to put on tefillin and say morning prayers!”
“Ivan,” she replied archly, “there will come a special time, or maybe times when it will be possible.” Her voice softened. “Just take them,” she pleaded.
Thinking back to that conversation, I decided that now was the special time she envisioned. I returned my sleeping bag to the tank, took my tefillin from my duffel bag, and discreetly went into a forested area about fifty yards away. It was freezing cold, snowing, and black. I removed my jacket and placed the tefillin on my left arm and on my head. They were like old friends, comforting to the touch and subtly uplifting. I began my morning prayers, first reciting the standard prayers that I knew by heart. But I soon found myself in a very intent dialogue with God. “Please save me, protect me, give me the strength I’ll need. . . .”
The fast-approaching events again filled my mind. I knew that all the training in the world would be of no use if God were not watching over me. In my mind, it was a true dialogue, for it seemed to me that God was listening and indeed would not let down Ida’s son. After all, He had been her “Partner” throughout my childhood; would He abandon us now?
Light of day was breaking, and the members of the company were waking. I gave my tefillin one last kiss, stuffed them back in their little velvet bag, and rushed back to my tank. After we ate our K-rations for breakfast, there were brief instructions, and soon the air was filled with the heavy roar of tank after tank rolling across the snowy fields. We were on the move toward Lavaselle.
CHAPTER 5
Baptism of Fire
THERE WAS NO TIME FOR FEAR. We were headed for combat, and a healthy tension was palpable inside our M4 Sherman tank. There were five of us. In the lower section sat the driver, Andrew Urda from Michigan, an amiable, jovial person, and the assistant driver/bow gunner (me), operating a .30-caliber machine gun. In the turret was the gunner, Cpl. Cecil Peterman from Oklahoma, with a 75mm canon. A quiet and withdrawn person, Peterman was always neat and spotless. His hobby was making state-of-the-art, original hunting knives, and he carried one of his creations on him at all times. The loader, Pvt. Dage Hebert, had worked on a farm in Montana, and by nature he was a helpful and friendly person. Staff Sergeant Wallace Alexander was our able tank commander. Young and striking in appearance, he was an aspiring actor from New York. Before the war, he attended Columbia University’s Drama School and had acted in a number of plays. My impression of Wally was that he was the best tank commander in the company, including the officers, and that I was fortunate to be part of his crew. And I was particularly glad not to be in the companion tank commanded by my captain.
Staff Sergeant Wallace Alexander, commander.
So there we were, as diverse a group as you could imagine, from all parts of the country, bound together in a single objective: to join the battle as courageous American soldiers, and, hopefully, to come out of it alive.
We had named our tank Barracuda, and as resident artist, I painted the name on it. We were attached to General Patton’s Third Army. The operation was code-named Poker because the battalion commander, Lt. Col. Wray F. Sagaser, was renowned as a poker player. Though I never saw Patton, I was well aware of his reputation. A daring general and a hard fighter, his theory was to take the enemy as fast as you can, no matter what the losses. The main thing was to win.
I learned later that other military leaders had objected to his putting the 11th Armored Division into action on that day, December 30, because many of us were exhausted from the long, freezing, overland trek of the days before, and because the artillery and infantry support deemed necessary for a successful attack had not yet arrived. Patton didn’t care. He sent us in anyway, despite his peers’ dismal predictions of heavy losses. In fact, the condition of 11th Armored aside, there were more casualties at the Bulge than in any other battle in American history.
At the time, we were unaware of our slim chances. Following orders, glad to be headed for action at last, we turned north on the road toward Morhet. We had two platoons in line and one in reserve. We moved easily through the northern edge of the village. When we left the road, heading into the fields, we heard the first sounds of German gunfire. This was it! The curtain was rising on the “big show.”
Our radio crackled: “Engaged in battle, 7:30 a.m., the Krauts are on the run!” As we came to the crest of the hill, I spotted a lone German soldier riding a bicycle as fast as he could in the valley below. I watched through my periscope as machine-gun fire from the tanks to my left ripped through the terrain, finally reaching the soldier on the bike—the first enemy casualty. Just like that. Alive one second; dead the next.
A wave of nausea welled up inside me. This was the enemy, I told myself earnestly. A German, a Nazi, a barbarian. We had been told awful things about the way the Krauts treated American prisoners, so we would be better fighters and be jubilant when we killed them. I just felt sick.
I had been too young at my father’s death to grasp its dread finality. In fact, my first meaningful brush with death had been when I was about twelve years old. A childhood friend, Louis Weicker, shared my love of drawing, and we used to spend hours together, sketching and creating what we deemed great art. Even as a child, he had inspired me, subtly pushing me to compete with his outstanding talent. We vowed to be fellow artists and lifelong friends. But right after we graduated together from elementary school, Lou
became ill, deathly ill. It didn’t seem possible; it didn’t seem right. We were going to be buddies forever. When he passed away, I felt like a part of me—a joyous, creative part of me—had died with him.
But now, here on this barren battlefield, it was different. I was facing vicious, desperate soldiers, I thought resolutely. They were expertly trained to kill me, unless I could get them first. I should be glad to see their blood staining the frozen ground; I should be glad.
We rolled down into the valley. The barn in front of us was the next objective, and I pictured it full of enemy fighters. Our tanks hit the barn with an avalanche of firepower. The barn doors flew open, but instead of German soldiers, horses and cows came stampeding from the barn with blood spurting from their sides like fountains—whinnying, bellowing, writhing in the snow. Somehow, I hadn’t expected this, and I was shocked by it. More nausea.
The battle plan required moving across open fields to our targets. Official U.S. Army Photo
But a growing sense of victory kept me going. For the next two or three hours, Company B’s offensive was going forward at full speed. We must have surprised the enemy by the first stages of our attack, for we met with little resistance. We swept through a number of villages, taking prisoners, demolishing buildings, and destroying houses that shielded enemy fire. Later in the morning, we were supported by a squadron of our air force P-47s, which strafed enemy vehicles and troops in front of us. By early afternoon, we had liberated a number of villages and farm communities.
Surviving the Reich Page 4