Four Hours of Fury

by James M. Fenelon

  Blanchard’s opening chute jarred his fall to a near stop. His stick’s delayed jump and sluggish exit had put him out over the far end of the DZ. Bullets snapped past him, cutting holes in his parachute canopy. Realizing he was drifting over the trees, Blanchard abandoned his Hollywood daydream of returning fire with his tommy gun. In less than twenty seconds he would be crashing through the branches.

  A jumper could steer his chute only in the most rudimentary sense. Pulling down on one of the four risers long enough could influence the direction of drift, if the trooper had time and good upper-body strength—a prayer didn’t hurt either. Blanchard reached up, grabbed two of the chute’s risers, and pulled them deep into his chest, attempting to collapse the canopy to increase his rate of descent. But he was already too low.

  Smashing into the branches, he crossed his ankles and covered his face, hoping to fall all the way through the tall trees. The top branches snagged his chute, leaving him dangling just a few inches off the ground. He didn’t have long to marvel at his luck. A German machine gun crew had spotted him. As he struggled to undo his harness, bullets chewed up the tree around him. With a twist and a punch, Blanchard’s quick release dropped him to the ground. Racking the bolt on his Thompson, he fired a quick burst in the direction of his unseen enemy.

  “Get me down!”

  Rolling over, Blanchard saw Sergeant James Lyons from Chalk 37 caught high up in a nearby tree. Blanchard, firing another burst toward the machine gun, yelled, “For God’s sake cut yourself down before that gun blows you away!”

  When hung up in a tree, a jumper had few options: attempt to climb down with all of his combat equipment, pull the ripcord on his reserve and lower it as a means to climb down, or use a length of rope carried for the purpose. But with machine gun fire getting closer, Lyons’ choices were limited. He popped his quick release and fell to the ground in a heap.

  The two sergeants each heaved a hand grenade in the direction the bullets were coming from and dashed back through the trees toward the DZ. They found most of the platoon waiting. Raff’s insistence that they jump with their heavy weapons had paid off. Blanchard’s squad already had Bass’ belt-fed machine gun and Lawson’s 60mm light mortar ready for action.

  Sergeant Robert Vannatter, jumping with Chalk 26, had a completely different experience when he hit the ground. He landed not far from a German soldier who ran toward him. Before Vannatter could get to his rifle, the German embraced him warmly, helped him out of his parachute, and surrendered. Vannatter may have bagged VARSITY’s first POW.

  • • •

  Just as they had been briefed, the nearly 500 Ruffians of the first serial moved north toward the tree line. The murky haze reduced visibility to 300 yards and obscured landmarks, but the fields crossed with irrigation ditches and hedgerows appeared to match the sand tables and maps they’d studied. As frustrating as the smoke was, it worked both ways—the Germans had a difficult time identifying their shadowy targets. Incoming fire from the same high ground the Ruffians were heading toward snapped by high and wide.

  Officers and sergeants gathered troopers and formed them into squads and platoons as they moved. While a few men had landed in the trees, most had dropped in concentrated groups, allowing them to organize rapidly.

  Raff herded 200 men toward the closest wood line. He knew that the next serial should be dropping in four minutes, and it never hurt to clear the DZ as fast as possible.

  Four or five entrenched enemy machine guns opened up on them as they advanced. The German machine gun, known to GIs as “Hitler’s buzz saw” for its high rate of fire—twenty rounds a second—made a distinct sound, almost like ripping fabric. The veterans instantly recognized the terrifying stutter.

  Squads of troopers went to ground while others bounded forward. This was Infantry Tactics 101; there was no swagger about it. Its choreography was simple: sprint forward in full kit, throw yourself to the ground, fire a few rounds while your buddy dashed forward—roll to your feet to repeat it all over again. Someone was always shooting and someone was always moving. If everyone did his job, the tactic overwhelmed the enemy by keeping their heads down or making them traverse too quickly to be accurate. It was effective, deadly, and exhausting work. The Ruffians closed with the Germans and swept into their positions. They suffered some casualties, but killed more of the enemy and captured their first prisoners.

  Raff’s group, organizing in the wood line, could hear a battery of German heavy artillery firing from the northwest. The guns would have to be dealt with; but with less than half the serial accounted for, Raff wanted to finish assembling his men and confirm his location.

  When the planes of the second serial came over, they were flying farther south and dropping troops on the far side of the forest. Something was off. Map study and information from a POW confirmed that the first serial had been dropped almost a mile and a half away from the DZ. Raff was disgusted to have won Couch’s champagne bet.

  Another 200 Ruffians had assembled under the command of Major Paul Smith, Raff’s 1st Battalion commander. Before they could move to the assembly area, they were fired on by a squad of German infantry barricaded in a farmhouse. Surrounded and refusing to give up, the Germans were all killed by hand grenades and rifle fire.

  Smith soon came to the same conclusion as Raff. He realized they’d dropped off target when he noticed the hazy silhouette of Diersfordt Castle a half mile to their east. Smith got Raff on the radio and informed him of his discovery; they agreed to rally in the northern wood line already occupied by Raff. Smith’s group, however, was still fighting their way off the DZ. They assaulted forward, overtaking enemy trenches held by well-armed infantry and knocking out several anti-aircraft guns whose crews had cranked their barrels down to engage the advancing Americans.

  With roughly 400 men of the first serial assembled, Raff focused on the two immediate targets: the artillery battery firing from the northwest, and the castle. Raff understood the value of aggressive action and calculated risks. Seizing these objectives, even with a portion of his still-organizing troops, would pay off. They must exploit the initial pandemonium; delays would only favor the enemy, giving him time to muster stronger defenses. It was important to keep the Germans back on their heels, reacting to events rather than dictating them.

  Since no radio contact had been made with the 3rd Battalion—which was supposed to attack the castle—Raff gave Smith’s group the job. The situation called for improvisation and they’d now be going into the attack.

  While Smith and Raff worked on a plan for the castle, the mission of silencing the guns fell to First Lieutenant Murray Harvey. It didn’t matter to Raff that the artillery battery was in a section of the forest assigned to the Thirteeners; the heavy howitzers were firing into the British and had to be dealt with.

  Harvey led a group of troopers through the woods to creep up on the artillery position. It looked like a horse-drawn battery of five towed guns. The crews were thoroughly engrossed in their task of firing until the Americans unleashed their barrage from the protective cover of the trees. The first volley dropped several of the artillerymen; their surviving comrades either threw their hands up in surrender or fled into the woods. It was a complete rout, and the troopers took the position without the enemy firing a shot.

  Because Harvey knew they wouldn’t be occupying the position for long, he organized several parties to fan out and spike the guns. They dropped white phosphorus grenades down the barrels to fuse the breeches into hunks of useless metal. Other troopers searched the dead and segregated prisoners by rank. They patted down the survivors too, turning out pockets and packs looking for weapons and souvenirs. Anything of little interest was tossed aside. Among the sixty POWs was an Oberstleutnant and a Hauptmann (captain). Not a bad haul.

  Harvey left a group behind to guard the prisoners then led a patrol to clear out the woods between the captured battery and the main road cutting through the forest. There they intercepted a squad of enemy infantry
pedaling bicycles toward the DZ. This might have been one of Kampfgruppe Karst’s anti-airborne groups scrambling to counterattack the airdrop. With their rifles slung across their backs, the cyclists were sitting ducks. The troopers raked the formation, killing or wounding all.

  So far the Ruffians estimated they’d killed fifty-five of the enemy, wounded another forty, and captured close to a hundred.

  09:53. Drop Zone W, Germany. Saturday, March 24, 1945.

  Five minutes after the first Ruffians dropped too far west, the forty-five aircraft of the second serial arrived over the intended DZ. The pilots flipped the jump lights to green as they passed over the edge of the Diersfordt Forest, dropping Raff’s 2nd Battalion right on target.

  Unfortunately, this was also where the Germans expected them. As the troopers floated down, tracer rounds arched past. Shells from 20mm cannons ripped through whatever was in the way. Bursts from the heavier 88mm were the most terrifying, exploding into thick, black clouds of shrapnel.

  Four aircraft were hit by anti-aircraft fire, one fatally. The pilots were most likely killed by a flak burst, which sent the aircraft into a steep dive. The jumpmaster escaped, but the other seventeen troopers and all of the aircrew died when the plane plunged into a large stone barn.

  Once on the ground, troopers hugged the furrowed fields of the DZ and inched along. It seemed as if enemy fire came from every direction. The woods to the north and west sparked with muzzle flashes from dug-in machine gun positions. Fire poured in from several houses turned into fortified bunkers; heavy mortars and artillery peppered the DZ.

  The plan for the troopers of the second serial was to assemble and attack a small spit of high ground on the DZ’s southern perimeter. Orders were unnecessary as groups organized by proximity bounded forward, firing as they moved. They ran past the twisted dead bodies of their comrades, many still buckled into their parachute harnesses. They got their light mortars and belt-fed machine guns into action, pushing the Germans back, house by house, and in some cases, tree by tree.

  On his way to the assembly area, Private Richard Boe found a lone German shot in the chest. There wasn’t much Boe could do, but he paused long enough to open his first-aid packet and give his wounded adversary a shot of morphine to ease his pain.

  Rifle fire crackled in all directions, punctuated by the occasional FOOM! of exploding grenades. Taking their small bit of high ground, troopers overran a section of German heavy mortars, capturing all four of the 81mm beasts intact. The dead crew’s range card confirmed suspicions: targets had been designated throughout the DZ. Clearly they had been expected.

  • • •

  As the troopers of the second serial pressed south across the DZ, the next forty-five planes of the third serial—Raff’s 3rd Battalion—roared overhead at 600 feet. The lead pilot gave the jump signal five seconds late, putting several sticks 500 yards farther east than intended. These groups dropped into an area well covered by the Germans. They’d have to fight their way out to get back to the DZ. Among them was the Ruffians’ unarmed chaplain, Captain Paschal Fowlkes, who was shot to death while caught in a tree.

  Sergeant Earl Westcott, descending with the rest of Chalk 99, drifted toward a farmyard full of Germans shooting troopers as they landed. Westcott had jumped with his Thompson at the ready, and despite the oscillation of his chute he took aim. Witnesses claimed that, squeezing off several bursts, he killed five Germans before he hit the ground. The remaining three retreated into the house pursued by Westcott and another sergeant. They threw a British Gammon grenade through a window, which erupted in an earth-shattering explosion that ended the skirmish.

  Floating under his full parachute, Private Bob Baldwin was rocked by the sudden explosion of his platoon sergeant, who disintegrated into mist when shrapnel ignited his satchel of demolitions. The sergeant’s empty parachute canopy collapsed like a discarded blanket.

  If any of the troopers had bothered to look up, they’d have seen the plight of Technician Fourth Grade Charles Rushing, whose jump came to a jolting halt as his misrouted static line left him dangling behind the aircraft. Luckily there was only one jumper behind him in the stick, saving him from getting slammed by equipment or other bodies. As he hung helplessly behind the plane, several rounds of flak burst nearby, but the shrapnel missed him. The turbulence didn’t jar him loose, nor was the crew chief able to haul him back inside. Pulling his reserve chute might have jerked him free, or it might literally have torn him in half. The pilot made another pass over the DZ, hoping they could free their stubborn cargo. But one pass was all they could manage before the next inbound serial forced them to turn for home. A thousand feet over Holland the crew chief decided to cut Rushing’s static line. As Rushing tumbled away from the plane, he pulled his reserve’s ripcord and landed safely.

  Private George Peters, who’d celebrated his twenty-first birthday five days prior, crashed to earth near the edge of the DZ along with the rest of Chalk 108. A German machine gun, seventy-five yards away, had the area well covered. Bullets zipped overhead and kicked up dirt. No one moved for fear of getting stitched.

  Sergeant Cleo Hohn landed close to Peters. “I was lucky enough to land in a fold of ground that protected me from the gun. . . . Peters was halfway between me and the machine gun, trying to wiggle free of his chute harness while ducking the hail of bullets. We were all forced to hug the ground.”

  Peters was no stranger to the vicious hammering of German machine gun fire. He’d first witnessed their buzz saw rate of fire in Normandy. He knew what the men of Chalk 108 were up against, and he knew what would happen if they just lay there.

  Lieutenant Edward Keehan watched as Peters ditched his chute, grabbed his rifle, and charged, firing as he ran. Peters closed the distance by half before the German crew turned their attention on him. Hit by a burst, he fell. Getting back up, he continued onward. Peters made it to within twenty yards of the machine gun before a second burst hit him, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap. Badly wounded, but still alive, he clawed his way inch by inch closer to the gun. Rolling onto his side, Peters lobbed two hand grenades into the position—the explosions ripped through the crew, killing them instantly.

  With the machine gun out of action, the Americans poured fire into the woods and bolted forward through the blue smoke of gunfire. The remaining Germans fled. A few troopers went back for Peters. He was an unconscious, bloody mess, already turning greenish-gray. They carried him into the shelter of the woods for first aid, but his pulse stopped a few minutes later. The nation’s highest honor for gallantry, the Medal of Honor, would later be presented posthumously to his parents. One of seven children, George was the youngest of their four sons.

  • • •

  At 10:03, just twelve minutes after Raff landed, the fourth serial passed over DZ W. By then the ground was littered with hundreds of abandoned parachutes and unopened equipment bundles. Black smoke billowed from a farmhouse where the downed C-47 had crashed. Gun battles raged in every direction. Despite the melee, enemy anti-aircraft gunners were still at it, raking seventeen of the serial’s aircraft. They all managed to make it back over the Rhine, but several carried wounded crew. One aircraft, with an engine shot out, force landed in France.

  In one of the riddled C-47s, two wounded troopers staggered toward the door trying to follow their stick out. The first man had a bleeding head wound; the trooper behind him—with lacerated fingers—fumbled with his static line’s snap hook. He wanted to unhook so he could get to the door. But it was too late; the pilot gunned the engines and turned back across the Rhine. The troopers pleaded with the crew for another pass, but the pilot held his course.

  General Miley and his command staff, landing near the center of the DZ, found themselves pinned down. Spread in a prone position as bullets whizzed just a few inches over his head, Miley spotted three troopers hunkered down in a small depression. An equipment bundle, whose red parachute and stenciled markings indicated it contained a belt-fed machine gun, lay
between the general and the men.

  Above the staccato of the battle, Miley yelled and gestured, “Meet me over at that bundle!”

  Staying as low as possible, the men wormed their way to the bundle. Together they removed the parachute harness and assembled the machine gun, mounting it on its tripod and racking the first round of the belt into the chamber. Most likely, it was one of the three heavy machine guns dropped by the fourth serial. Miley’s impromptu crew lashed out at the barricaded Germans. Firing in short bursts, the men poured down .50-caliber bullets on the closest enemy positions, splintering doors and windows.

  With Germans in the immediate area scrambling for cover, Miley left his three new best friends in search of his staff. As the two-star general scurried away, one of the troopers told his comrades, “We sure as hell had some goddamned high-priced hired help today.”

  Miley eventually arrived at the designated assembly point, one of the last to do so, and found his security detail establishing a perimeter around their temporary command post. A head count revealed that two of Miley’s intelligence officers were missing. They’d been killed on their way to the assembly point.

  • • •

  Branigan’s Bastards—the Ruffians’ artillery support—jumped in the same serial as Miley. Most of the sticks landed accurately, but several jumped late, putting them out over the trees. Three of their howitzers’ chutes malfunctioned; the massive bundles tumbled through the sky in a tangled mess, thudding into the ground. Useless.

  One of the jumpmasters, Lieutenant George Hawley, was so focused on his stick that he forgot to hook himself up. It was his thirty-first jump, and when his count hit “Four thousand!” without the opening jolt, he unhesitatingly yanked his reserve ripcord. He had a rough landing, but lived.