Four Hours of Fury

by James M. Fenelon

  Crews had strict orders against shooting at ground targets, for fear of fratricide, but Young had seen enough. “I flipped on my gun switches, swung the turret toward the cannons. Suddenly my turret shattered. I will always remember two tracers coming slowly like Roman candles slashing into my turret, the Plexiglas shattering, the metal bent and torn as the projectiles entered the bombardier’s compartment behind me. The pilot was shouting over the intercom, ‘We’re crashing!’ ”

  After forcing his way through the turret’s hatch and squeezing into the main compartment, Young found the bombardier, Lieutenant Don Huelsman, uninjured. Their happiness at being alive was replaced by the desire to stay that way.

  The tracers had set the supplies, still in the bomb racks, on fire—singeing the two men as they pressed their way up to the flight deck. The Number 1 engine was nonresponsive, Number 2 was on fire, Number 3 appeared to be spinning out of control, and the fourth was rotating only due to the forward momentum of the wounded bomber. Young took up his crash position behind the copilot and waited. He felt the bomber jerk and then everything went black.

  When Young regained consciousness sometime later, his eyes were swollen shut and someone was cutting off his flight jacket. Before he passed out again, he heard explosions, shooting, and English-speaking voices. The plane had crashed on the Allied side of the Rhine! Young later learned that of the nine-man crew, only he and two others survived.

  • • •

  Second Lieutenant Donald Potter, flying Southern Comfort III, watched the B-24 on his right take a round through their Number 1 engine. “The wing dropped and the pilot lost about 25 feet of altitude. With a beautiful piece of handling, he managed to bring the wings level. His bomb bay hit the ground and the craft seemed to give a little bounce, and was flying again. The pilot would have made it, but immediately ahead was a string of telephone or power poles and wire. As I recall, he had to bank left in order to lift his right wing over a pole. In doing this, his left wing dug into the ground and the plane started cartwheeling and exploded. In a great black and crimson flash, the crew and plane were gone, nothing left but scorched earth and debris. I felt empty!”

  • • •

  Kanonier Peter Emmerich got caught out in an open field when the bombers cut overhead. He was on his way back to his crew’s four-barrel Flakvierling with more ammo when two of the B-24s roared toward the German guns.

  “Gun ready!” yelled one of the gunners.

  Emmerich remembered the incident vividly, “Over the tree tops the first monster arrived. It flew approximately some 40 meters above the ground. . . . The second plane flew a little more to the right of us and a little higher, maybe 60 meters.”

  All three guns opened fire.

  “I saw how the tracers found their way to the aircraft,” Emmerich continued. “The first aircraft caught fire in both engines and his left stabilizer broke off. . . . Parts of the wing came down. The aircraft went straight up for about 200 to 300 meters, stalled and turned to the ground. We only heard two loud explosions and saw two smoke piles going up some 80 meters above the crash sites.”

  One of the gunners shouted “Hurray!” as the bombers went down.

  Another two B-24s soon followed the same course.

  Unterfeldwebel Bosse ordered the gunners to wait, “Easy, let them near us! Fire!”

  “I saw nothing,” admitted Emmerich, who earlier dove to the ground. “I kept my head in the soil! When I heard the screaming noise of the engines I looked up and saw these two were also on fire. They also exploded with two big explosions.”

  Bosse was proud of his crew’s work. By his calculations they’d hit more than a dozen gliders and four of the bombers. He shook each man’s hand, encouraging them to “Continue till victory.”

  Emmerich couldn’t tell if Bosse was a patriot or a blind fanatic, but he began to feel that he’d be sacrificed for a lost cause. As he looked at the surrounding carnage, Emmerich worried what the Americans would do to them if captured. The airborne troops were still a few hundred yards away, but Emmerich could feel the storm getting closer.

  • • •

  Flying E-for-Easy, Second Lieutenant Jack Hummel dropped his Liberator’s altitude back down onto the deck immediately after making their drop. Several shells riddled both wings. Copilot Jim Reynolds surveyed the instrument panel and yelled that he was shutting down Number 3. He flipped switches to feather the propellers, cut the gasoline, closed the cowlings, and cut the electrical. Despite his quick reaction, the engine continued to burn. Hummel reported that on his side Number 2 was losing oil pressure.

  In the bomb bay Corporal James Deaton was making his way along the narrow, nine-inch catwalk when the aircraft lurched from the shellfire. He lost his balance and fell out. The cramped conditions of the bomb bay prevented him from wearing a parachute.

  With two engines out and having reduced airspeed for the supply drop, Hummel fought to get the B-24 up to at least 500 feet. Reynolds hit the bailout alarm to get the crew out. The nose gunner and the navigator jumped out of the front escape hatch just in time.

  The rest of the crew, recognizing they were too late, scrambled into their crash positions. The pilots knew there was no way they could jump before the plane crashed. Reynolds mumbled a quick prayer—“Lord, it is all up to you now”—and worked the rudders with Hummel to keep the bomber level. They headed for a spot of open ground on the western edge of DZ X.

  Below them, the bomber’s plight was witnessed by a glider pilot who just minutes before had survived his own aircraft getting shot out of the sky, “[The B-24] just missed the high-tension lines, flew over us and crashed in the field on the other side of the tracks,” he recalled. “I could feel the heat of the engine on fire when it passed over our heads!”

  Reynolds woke in the cockpit when Hummel asked if he was hurt. Both pilots had superficial head wounds, but the gashes bled profusely. Together, they crawled out through a large hole in the side of the cockpit and staggered twenty feet from the wreck. Dazed and likely in shock, the two men needed a few seconds to realize the dirt kicking up around their feet was from German bullets.

  Inside the aircraft top-turret gunner Sergeant Herbert Finney was still stunned. He and Sergeant Elmer Milchak, one of the waist gunners, decided to exit from one of the waist windows. Milchak stuck his head out to survey their position. He jerked once and slumped over the open sill, dead from a head shot.

  Hollis Powell and Paul Keagle pulled themselves out of the twisted fuselage through a hole in the side. The five airmen were desperate to get away from the wreck, fearing it would explode any second, but the fuselage was their only shelter from enemy rifle fire. Powell recognized that all potential escape routes were cut off and pulled out the canopy of his unused parachute and waved it in surrender.

  German infantry surrounded the crew and allowed them to remove Milchak’s body from the burning bomber. In all of the confusion, no one knew what had happened to the missing crew members; they couldn’t find their bodies so figured they must have made it out. Before herding them away, the Germans waited for Reynolds to recite the 23rd Psalm over Milchak.

  The Germans ushered the crew 200 yards across the field to a small complex of buildings where they were segregated by rank. The pilots were sent to a large château for interrogation while the three enlisted men were held in a basement.

  After Reynolds had his head bandaged by a German medic, he was presented to a Hauptmann and an Obergefreiter (corporal). The Obergefreiter began by asking for the standard name, rank, and serial number. Reynolds complied.

  While the Hauptmann flipped through a small Bible taken out of Reynolds’ breast pocket, the Obergefreiter continued his questions.

  “Do you speak German?”

  “No,” replied Reynolds.

  The Obergefreiter then wanted to know if Reynolds spoke French.

  “No.”

  “What languages do you speak?”

  “Only English,” said Reynolds.


  Exasperated, the Corporal said, “You are an officer in the American Army and can speak only one language, and I am a Corporal in the German Army and I can speak five languages fluently. What do American schools teach?”

  Reynolds gave his name, rank, and serial number. Which he repeated in response to every question thereafter.

  Growing tired of the game, the Obergefreiter threatened, “We have ways of making people talk.”

  The comment spurred the Hauptmann into action. He put the Bible back in Reynolds’ pocket and in perfect English said, “Lieutenant, he is not going to harm you.”

  Reynolds was led away to a room filled with dozens of wounded Germans. A medic, who perhaps sensed the inevitable, befriended the American pilot, confiding that he hoped to be sent to the United States if captured.

  • • •

  The three-story château where Hummel and Reynolds were being held appeared to be serving as a German headquarters. The two pilots heard several soldiers address an officer as “General,” and there was a soldier peddling a stationary bicycle attached to a generator. The contraption apparently produced enough juice to power a bank of radios. Other soldiers stood around a metal barrel tossing papers into the growing flames. As far as Hummel and Reynolds could tell, the complex consisted of the château and several brick outbuildings. It was manned by an estimated 200 soldiers and ringed by multiple machine gun nests. There were two sections of 105mm light artillery guns, three facing north and another three pointed east.

  As they sat on the floor of the château’s basement, the three enlisted crew members sensed increasing anxiety within the headquarters. Gunfire could be heard outside; Allied troops must be getting closer. Finney, the top-turret gunner, became more afraid of getting killed in the growing crossfire than of being executed by his captors.

  Their German guard, glancing nervously at the basement windows, flipped over a large wooden table, telling Powell to get down behind it.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Americans might run by and toss a grenade in the window.” The airmen complied.

  CHAPTER 16

  “ARE THEY GOING TO SHOOT US NOW?”

  13:10. Diersfordt Castle, Drop Zone W, Germany. Saturday, March 24, 1945.

  At Diersfordt Castle the defenders were still putting up a worthy fight from behind thick brick walls. The Ruffians had laid siege to the castle for several hours. The burning tanks spewed black clouds of diesel fire, and one of the building’s roofs crackled with flames. Dead from both sides lay sprawled throughout the compound.

  The new plan was to cross the moat and storm the compound from the northeast corner. It would be a textbook drill: in a coordinated effort, one element would unleash fire at the castle, aiming at windows to keep the enemy’s head down; the other element would use the covering fire to maneuver across the moat between the blockhouse and the church. It would have been routine except for the fact that attacks rarely go according to plan and the enemy always gets a vote.

  As the second hand of their watches ticked up to 13:00, the troopers cut loose. Bullets from rifles and belt-fed machine guns chipped away at the brick façade. Able Company got their captured mortar into the act once more, lobbing shells into the compound. A few plucky sharpshooters clanged the bell in the church spire, which soon collapsed under the impact of the Thirteeners’ mortar barrage. The east wall of the church collapsed with it, destroying the organ. Frightened civilians sheltering in the church basement could hear the swell of incoming fire and the crumps of grenades.

  The assaulting troopers surged forward, splashing across the moat and clearing the outer buildings room by room. They ran past the bodies of their buddies who’d died in the first attempt to storm the castle. Grenades echoed in the large blockhouse as the attack became a series of individual battles, with troopers scurrying across the complex for cover and shooting at anything not in olive drab. Faced with the paratroopers’ full fury, pockets of defenders started to surrender.

  After two hours of mopping up, the Ruffians had corralled almost 300 prisoners. But a group of diehards barricaded themselves in the castle’s square tower, refusing to give up.

  The castle’s owner, Count Bolko Graf von Stolberg-Wernigerode, attempted to negotiate their surrender. He approached the tower waving a white rag. One of the diehards opened fire from a tower window to chase him away. As the count ran for cover, the Americans blasted the upper floor with bazookas and set the roof on fire. Still the zealots stood fast.

  The Americans tried once more, ordering Herr Tinnefeld, a local farmer sheltering in the basement, to act as a negotiator under a flag of truce. Again the offer was rejected. The Ruffians would have to pursue another option to evict the holdouts.

  * * *

  As the Ruffians at the castle pondered their next move, three amphibious landing craft churned across the Rhine. General Ridgway, unmistakable with his 1903 bolt-action rifle and camouflage helmet with two white stars, waited to land. He’d watched the airdrop from the Allied side of the river and now crossed with a small element of his staff to establish his corps command post.

  The British crew was hesitant to drop the general onto a hostile shore. To ensure no threats lurked nearby, they raked the bank with a Browning belt-fed machine gun, shredding vegetation that could conceal anything bigger than a bread box.

  Satisfied by the lack of return fire, the Brits guided their tracked vehicles up onto the shore. The crew dropped the rear ramp to let Ridgway, his aide, and their three tommy gun–wielding bodyguards disembark onto the east bank. They also unloaded several jeeps.

  The initial destination was Miley’s command post. The group split up, with most of the staff loaded into the three jeeps and proceeding ahead. For reasons unknown, Ridgway opted to continue on foot with his small retinue. Perhaps he liked the idea of a walk in the brisk weather, or maybe he wanted to get a better feel for the terrain. Regardless of the reason, he knew it would still be several hours until his corps staff could coordinate action between the two airborne divisions.

  Ridgway’s group headed inland, moving cautiously down a small path through the tall, thin trees. They passed signs of the fighting. The general noted a dead but otherwise unscathed German soldier in his foxhole, the victim of an artillery concussion.

  When a blur of movement appeared through the trees followed by the sound of thumping hooves, the small group dashed off the trail. From his concealed position in the undergrowth, Ridgway later recalled, “I saw one of the strangest sights I ever observed in war. Down that little trail came a big, heavy-footed farm horse. On his back was an American paratrooper. On the paratrooper’s head was a high silk hat. He had his rifle slung on his back and a look of smug contentment on his face.”

  Ridgway stepped out onto the trail. The stars on his helmet caught the cavalier’s attention, and he almost fell off his mount trying to simultaneously salute and present arms.

  Ridgway laughed at the man’s comical discomfort.

  The trooper—one of Raff’s Ruffians—explained that he’d “found” the horse and hat in a farmhouse. After getting directions from the trooper, Ridgway motioned his entourage to continue inland.

  • • •

  Ridgway arrived at the Ruffians’ command post to find the situation well in hand. Raff had already established radio contact with his three battalions, and he provided a comprehensive briefing to Ridgway.

  The initial confusion of the mis-drop had been quickly replaced with orderly execution. The regiment’s perimeter had been established and at least 80 percent of the troops accounted for. Raff estimated the Ruffians’ losses at ninety-nine casualties, with several men still missing.

  Though the mopping up at Diersfordt Castle was still under way, the defenders had been buttoned up and no longer posed a threat to PLUNDER. Roadblocks had been established along the southern sector. A patrol sent toward the Rhine had made contact with a reconnaissance unit of the 15th Scottish Division who were probing their way up from the riverbank. G
erman units sandwiched between the two Allied units were considered under control.

  The B-24 drop had gone well, with the Ruffians witnessing the spectacle from their perimeter. Several of the troopers who’d scampered out to claim a few bundles discovered that some of the containers should have been dropped farther north as they were filled with British ammunition along with tea and biscuits. The supplies had been welcome. Raff’s battalion at the castle was running low on ammo.

  Despite his professional and deferential posture toward his corps commander, Raff actually harbored a deep disdain for Ridgway. His list of grievances ran deep: he blamed Ridgway for bringing politics into the airborne community and believed Ridgway’s Distinguished Service Cross—an award for valor—was a sham. Raff felt that if the criteria for Ridgway’s award were applied equally, every man in the 82nd Airborne Division who’d jumped into Normandy should have gotten one. Equally egregious, Ridgway had elected to cross the Rhine in a boat rather than jump in with his troops.

  Raff’s criticism failed to recognize Ridgway’s role as the corps commander. His influence on the battle would only commence after the two airborne divisions had accomplished their initial missions. Raff’s disgust was so vitriolic that had Ridgway actually jumped, most likely Raff’s criticism would have been redirected at the misappropriation of valuable aircraft at the expense of the division’s combat power.

  Ridgway was unaware of Raff’s resentment and soon departed the Ruffians’ perimeter in search of Miley’s command post. But not before Raff, cognizant of the surrounding skirmishes, assigned two squads to escort the general’s group.

  Ridgway and his entourage found Miley exactly where they’d expected him, on the western edge of DZ W. The cluster of officers was set up in a shell crater, gathered around maps and radios. Miley’s radio operator, who’d jumped with a SCR-300 in his leg bag, was in communication with each of the three regimental combat teams. The thirty-pound SCR-300 backpack radio allowed voice communication within a 2.5- to 5-mile range, depending on which antenna the operator was using.