Four Hours of Fury

by James M. Fenelon

  Miller had jumped with the lead echelon and landed in a fenced pigpen on the side of a farmhouse. From the racket of ripping concussion waves he knew the Germans had a machine gun set up just around the corner. He peeked quickly and confirmed that four Germans had a sandbagged position in the cellar door. Miller rushed in from the flank, killing all four with slugs from his automatic pistol. Pushing past the dead bodies, he entered the house through the cellar to clear the strongpoint from the inside. He tossed a fragmentation grenade into the dining room and rolled a thermite grenade into one of the bedrooms. The two detonations tore through the remaining defenders and destroyed most of the house.

  Outside, Miller looked for checkpoints. He spotted the double-track railroad he’d expected to find on the leading edge of the DZ, but the power line his battalion planned to use as a reference for assembly was too far west. The high-tension line, notable for its hundred-foot-tall metal pylons spaced about 230 yards apart, ran on a northwest-by-southeast axis. Miller checked his map and confirmed that the regiment had landed too far north by almost two miles.

  Following the power lines south would lead to the correct DZ. Miller gathered troopers as he moved, yelling and reportedly even firing his pistol to get their attention. The group swelled to almost 300 men. Ideally, Miller would have used a radio to establish control, but both of his radiomen were unaccounted for. Those two troopers—along with Miller’s two runners, his operations officer, and his operations sergeant—had been killed. Miller was one of only four or five jumpers who’d survived from his aircraft.

  He ordered three lieutenants to organize the growing group into three elements for better control. The first group formed into skirmish lines and led the trek back to their DZ, gathering up more troopers as they moved.

  For all his snap in the opening moments of VARSITY, Miller had his share of detractors. His entry as a combat commander in the Bulge had been rocky, even described as “erratic at best.” Just over five feet tall, Miller was shorter than most of the troopers he commanded, and behind his back they referred to him as “Boots and Helmet.” When he was dressed for combat, they joked, “one tended not to see the middle of him.”

  Back in Châlons one of the pluckier men had placed a helmet on top of a pair of combat boots and leaned a pistol holster against the effigy. The men thought it hilarious and took turns saluting the diminutive colonel. Another running joke was that Miller’s aide—who dug the colonel’s foxhole every night—let the colonel lie on top of him so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground. Most troopers found Miller, a 1936 graduate of West Point, to be brash and unnecessarily loud.

  One of Miller’s subordinates, Major Irwin Edwards, described Miller as “a gutsy little bastard. He had that same type of guts that a lot of little men have.” However, Edwards cautioned, “He would do some horribly irrational acts. . . . He was irrational, not crazy, but very irrational.”

  Along their route south Miller’s group ran into multiple enemy strongpoints, each engagement requiring that they fan out and bound forward. It was exhausting and dangerous work. At one farmhouse machine gun fire sent the troopers into the dirt yet again, and the movement invited a hail of bullets. From his position behind the cover of some trees, Miller grew impatient with his men’s lack of aggression.

  “Get that damn machine gun,” he yelled at a group of troopers concealed behind a haystack.

  No one moved.

  “I said get up and get that damn machine gun!”

  The troopers held their positions and kept their heads down.

  Incensed, Miller screamed, “I wish I had the old 2nd Battalion, I’d show you how to get that machine gun.”

  One of the nearby troopers, unimpressed with Miller’s tantrum, yelled back, “If you hadn’t got the old 2nd Battalion all killed in the Battle of the Bulge, you’d have the old 2nd Battalion to take that machine gun nest.”

  Fuming, Miller jumped to his feet. “Who said that?” he demanded. “Who said that?”

  No one gave up the culprit, but troopers did start bounding forward. The German gunners, realizing their predicament, surrendered without much more of a fight. Dusting themselves off, Miller’s group, with POWs in tow, continued down the power line.

  • • •

  Not far away, Lieutenant Dean Bressler, one of Miller’s platoon leaders, had hit the ground hard. His aircraft had been damaged, and while it was losing altitude a trooper paused in the cargo door, shaking his head and yelling, “I can’t, I can’t.” When the jump light turned green Bressler tackled the man out the door. The two men tumbled down together until their deploying chutes snatched them apart. Bressler’s quick thinking had probably saved the stick.

  After he’d ditched his parachute, Bressler loaded his Thompson. He noticed that the wood handle of his folding shovel had been shot off. A close call. He was thankful for the ground haze. It was his only protection from the bullets zipping overhead, but the haze also prevented him from identifying checkpoints.

  “Over here! D Company, let’s go!” Bressler began collecting his men. He didn’t know it yet, but he was one of the few officers from his company still alive. His commander, First Lieutenant Ed Tommasino, had been gunned down while hanging from a tree, as had Bressler’s assistant, nineteen-year-old Second Lieutenant Jerry Schmid.

  Curt Gadd, the Ohio troublemaker, had already killed his first German of the day before joining up with the group. Gadd had crashed to earth under fire. With the snap of bullets getting closer, he rolled onto his back to undo his chute. As Gadd unlimbered his carbine, a German sped past in a horse-drawn cart. Still on his back, Gadd whipped his carbine up and aimed between his feet. He fired several rounds at the fleeing German; after the fifth or sixth shot the man spilled off the cart.

  With bullets getting closer, Gadd resumed squirming out of his chute. In his panic he forgot he was in a quick-release harness. Unable to find his leg strap buckles, he drew his knife and started cutting. Halfway through the second strap he remembered the quick release; in a flash he was free.

  Meanwhile, Bressler was still rallying the company when an alert trooper yelled, “Look out! Gliders coming in!”

  Heeding the warning, Bressler turned to see the shadowy form of a large British glider headed right toward him. To Bressler the silent monstrosity appeared to be as big as a C-47. The group sprinted out of its path as it plowed into the field. Other gliders followed it in, the next one on fire.

  Trooper Ken Eyers watched another glider crash into a farmhouse and tear the roof off as it spewed men and equipment as far as fifty yards. The gliders became more hazardous than the enemy. All over the DZ troopers scrambled to get out of their way.

  The British area should be well north of our DZ, or this could be their LZ and we’re not on our DZ, thought Bressler. Certain his group was in the wrong place, he rallied his men and headed southeast, not far behind Miller’s group.

  As the gliders continued to swoop into their LZ, British airborne troopers, sporting red berets and camouflaged smocks, soon joined in the fray, rushing through the haze to help attack German positions.

  • • •

  For Jim Coutts, the Thirteeners’ commander, the arrival of the British confirmed what he’d begun to suspect—his regiment was in the wrong spot. After shedding his chute and loading his tommy gun, he’d been heading north per the original plan. But when he realized the error, Coutts steered his group back toward the original DZ. In what would later be attributed to a lack of combat experience, Coutts and his battalion commanders led their growing groups of troopers toward their original assembly areas rather than directly to their objectives. Though they’d been dropped off target, the Thirteeners’ concentrated landing pattern had put them in position to organize where they were. Assembly was merely a means to organize before attacking. The choice to rally at the DZ before moving against the objectives delayed their primary mission by hours.

  The delay was further compounded by a series of bitter skirmishes as strongp
oints held up the troopers’ advance at every opportunity. In one such scrap Coutts assisted an M18 recoilless gunner. Several fields away they’d spotted German crews removing camouflage nets from their tanks, preparing them for action. Coutts and the gunner concealed themselves in a hedge to engage them. Coutts slapped a round in the chamber and locked the breech closed. Tapping the gunner on the helmet to let him know he was loaded, Coutts estimated the range, “Try 250 yards!”

  Coutts ducked aside to escape the tremendous back blast just as the gunner squeezed the trigger. The rocket screamed downrange, exploding against the closest tank. The rumbling shock wave shook the hedge and the two men celebrated their success. It appeared that the round must have ignited shells stored on the deck of the tank. It was the only explanation for such a devastating detonation. The other tanks buttoned up and clanked away in the opposite direction.

  • • •

  Another German tank crew, concealed in a barn, had spotted Miller’s group still working their way south along the power line. The German Mark IV rolled out of the farmyard firing into Miller’s left flank. Several men had been hit and lay sprawled in the fields before Miller’s men could fan out to become less of a target.

  As the brawl started to unfold, an immense British Hamilcar glider careened to a stop on the far side of the tank. To the amazement of the troopers the glider’s nose swung open and a small, three-man M22 Locust tank rumbled out. The Tommies didn’t hesitate—they charged straight at their opponent. One man fired the machine gun to put the Germans off-balance, while the gunner frantically loaded the Locust’s 37mm gun. But the Germans fired first and true. The M22’s 25mm armor was no match for the Germans’ 75mm main gun, and the explosion engulfed the small British tank, killing the crew.

  The Tommies’ bravery distracted the Germans long enough for Miller’s tank hunters to get into position. Their first shot fell short, throwing up an impressive but harmless cloud of dirt. The second round was low as well, but it detonated against the tracks, immobilizing the tank. When the crew piled out of the hatches, Miller’s troopers cut them down with several bursts. After the Thirteeners had regained their feet and dusted themselves off, they resumed their slog.

  • • •

  Mac McKirgan, who’d clawed his way out of a doomed C-46, was lost. He would roam for the next several hours looking for his platoon. Not finding them or any of the expected landmarks, he joined a group of troopers heading south.

  Along the route a German machine gun opened fire on the group. From the safety of a ditch McKirgan waited for a trooper to line up his bazooka. The rocket whooshed out of the tube and took the enemy gunner’s head clean off. McKirgan admired the marksmanship.

  A short time later McKirgan’s group paused to follow the action of several British fighter planes chasing a lone German aircraft. The British got their quarry and the German’s engine spewed flames and oily smoke. The Luftwaffe pilot slid back his canopy and jumped, but his chute malfunctioned. The troopers cheered as the pilot tumbled through space. They watched him fall until he hit with “a meaty sort of thump and lay very still.”

  McKirgan stopped to help some troopers organize a group of POWs. No one relished the idea, but they’d have to drag the prisoners with them as they moved. One of the Germans, an officer with an arrogant demeanor, refused to get in line with the enlisted prisoners. As the officer walked away from the group, McKirgan ordered a fellow trooper to “keep that son of a bitch in line.”

  Ordered to “Halt,” the prisoner stared at his captor and took another two steps forward. The trooper, apparently in no mood to be tested, shot the officer through the head. There was no more trouble keeping the other prisoners in line.

  From there McKirgan joined an attack in progress. Germans in a fortified farmhouse were putting up a staunch defense and had support from another group dug into a hedgerow behind the house. Dead and wounded troopers littered the yard. Several camouflage chutes were draped over the trees around the barn.

  The enemy strongpoints were often tough nuts to crack, with the defenders well barricaded and well armed. Each attack was a small drama, with the troopers often having to go in, as the enemy—dug in like ticks—only came out when blasted out. These particular Germans were no different, and they certainly knew their business.

  The steady pop of bolt-action rifles combined with the burp of machine pistols kept the troopers’ heads down. A wire fence a hundred feet from the house was the last obstacle. A lieutenant who recognized the stalemate jumped to his feet and shouted, “Come on you bastards!”

  He got one leg over the fence before a bullet hit him in the forehead, leaving his corpse grossly entangled in the fence.

  A bazooka team crawled forward and launched three shells into the house. The blasts tilted the initiative in favor of the attackers, and McKirgan followed fellow trooper Al West in for the assault. West had a phosphorus grenade at the ready. He arched it toward one of the shattered windows but missed. The grenade bounced off the façade and rolled back toward McKirgan. The duo made a hasty retreat. Safely clear of the blast, they resumed the attack but were quickly sent back to ground by incoming mortar fire. Troopers unaware of the attack’s progress were thumping out 60mm mortar rounds to blast the defenders into submission.

  McKirgan was lying in the open and drawing fire from the hedgerow. He snapped his carbine up to return fire just as a bullet slapped into his weapon, taking off the carbine’s rear site. Before he could squeeze off a shot, another bullet glanced off his helmet. In quick succession two bazooka rockets whooooooshed over McKirgan and exploded in the house. The troopers surged forward and the defenders finally started to surrender.

  As Gene Ackerman approached the house, one of the enemy riflemen in the hedge snapped a shot at him then threw down his rifle, putting his hands over his head. The bullet had missed, but barely. Ackerman punched the Soldat in the face several times before accepting his surrender.

  Ackerman wasn’t alone, as Robert Capa later observed: “And much as I hate to make primitive statements, the Germans are the meanest bastards. They are the meanest during an operation and afterwards they all have a cousin in Philadelphia.”

  • • •

  Jim Conboy, a nineteen-year-old private, had joined members of his demolition platoon heading south; together they attacked another tough nut. Conboy advanced toward the farmhouse at a brisk walk, firing from the hip. Two troopers ran past, forcing him to cease fire. A burst cut the two men down and sent Conboy diving behind a metal water trough. Using it for cover, he fired at the windows. A German ran from the house aiming his bolt-action rifle at Conboy, but Conboy shot him down first.

  One of the two troopers who’d been shot called out in agony for help, but his buddy didn’t respond. He was dead.

  Conboy yelled for the trooper to give himself a shot of morphine. He’d been hit in both arms and begged Conboy to come help him. Getting to the trooper would be risky as he was splayed out in the open and a lot of lead still zipped back and forth.

  The man continued screaming.

  Conboy sprinted toward him. He had gotten within a few feet when he was tossed into the air by an explosion that shredded his right leg. Now he was down too and couldn’t move.

  The pleas for help continued: “Can you crawl? Please come help me.”

  Conboy tried. But the pain from the shattered bones in his leg was too overwhelming.

  Conboy called out again, but got no reply. The trooper had bled out.

  Fumbling with his first-aid kit, Conboy gave himself a morphine shot and passed out. His fellow troopers left him for dead and abandoned the attack.

  • • •

  By this point the artillerymen on DZ X had seven howitzers in their designated positions and were lugging in two more. They’d largely secured their sector but were still under sporadic small arms fire. The artillerymen had killed 50-odd Germans and taken over 300 prisoners. By their count they’d captured ten 76mm gun positions, eight 20mm positions, and
had knocked out eighteen machine gun nests.

  As the Thirteeners got closer to DZ X, they were able to establish radio communication. The situation was made clear, with both elements of the combat team understanding for the first time where the other was. With their radios now within range, the Thirteeners could call for artillery support as needed. It was a delicate arrangement, as the artillery would be firing toward them rather than over their heads.

  John Chester moved confidently, leading his crew out to their equipment bundles. As a Christian he knew he couldn’t lose—he’d either survive or, if killed, go somewhere much better.

  The crew heard an American yelling an impressive series of profane insults as they moved toward their howitzer. They recognized the voice of Charles Crow, a private from another section in A Battery notable for being the smallest trooper in the battalion. He was shepherding a dozen prisoners through the woods—using his rifle and verbal tirades to keep them moving.

  Crow asked Chester, “I’ve not got time to fool around with this bunch of ‘square heads’ Sarge. Can I shoot them?”

  Chester thought about it.

  “No, better not do that,” he replied. “They would just stink up the place. Herd them over to your right flank; looks like there is another bunch over there and they are trying to make a pen for them.”

  Chester continued along the wood line and happened upon a dead trooper hanging from the trees, shot multiple times. Chester had spoken to him yesterday; he’d been upset about a letter from his wife threatening to divorce him if he didn’t “unvolunteer” from the paratroops. She was afraid of raising their two kids alone, and he’d confided to Chester that he planned to request a transfer after the mission.

  It was just one of many tragedies Chester witnessed that day. Like all GIs, he had to choke back his emotions and bury them. There wasn’t time to mourn. Maybe he’d process them later, maybe he wouldn’t. The seeds of such trauma would eventually lead many veterans to solitude, alcoholism, divorce, or even suicide. But all that would come later. For now, there was still a war to be fought and more death ahead.