Miley also had radio contact with his chief of staff, who’d landed via glider with the main headquarters team on LZ N. The two teams were to rendezvous at a pond located equidistant between them—in the center of the division’s zone of responsibility. But due to the Thirteeners’ mis-drop, the section of the forest Miley’s group needed to cut through hadn’t yet been cleared.
A plan to send a security patrol to reconnoiter a trail through the dense woods was scrapped due to concerns of an enemy ambush. An alternate route through a reportedly secure area was identified, but an hour later members of Miley’s defense platoon returned with bad news: Branigan’s Bastards were still fending off the Germans, and there was no way to get through to the pond.
• • •
Still under heavy small arms and mortar fire, Branigan’s artillerymen were fighting as infantry to blunt German counterattacks into the DZ. By this time three of the Bastards’ 75mm howitzers had been assembled, and troopers were eyeballing shots down the barrels to blast enemy positions.
The German 88mm that had forced the Bastards out of their command post still had them under direct fire. The 88 was cunningly concealed behind a screen of trees near a farmhouse, and the Bastards were having a hard time spotting it. One of Branigan’s crew muscled a howitzer several hundred yards through the woods to get a better shot at it. Finally, a lieutenant got a bead on the 88 and over the radio guided a few artillery rounds into it, destroying the big gun along with the house next to it.
At least two enemy StuGs—self-propelled guns—clanked their way into the northern perimeter, blasting at Branigan’s howitzers with their own 75mm guns. The StuG, similar to a tank in appearance, had a gun built directly into the casemate-style hull, which gave it a lower profile than a tank. The compact design lacked the lateral movement that a turret would have provided.
As the enemy armor loitered on the perimeter hurling shells into the Bastards, a forward observer called for fire. Several rounds rattled in, bracketing the tracked vehicles before making direct hits. The counterattack was over.
• • •
Miley was sufficiently concerned about Branigan’s precarious position to radio the Ruffians for infantry support. Raff’s 1st Battalion, standing by for just such a need, sent two companies: one to reinforce the Bastards’ perimeter and another to clear the woods north of their position.
Thad Blanchard’s squad in Able Company had set up on the edge of the DZ, scratching out shallow fighting positions with their shovels. They now packed up to assume the vanguard in the effort to clear the woods from which most of the harassing fire emanated.
After crossing over the main road through Diersfordt Forest, they used the woods for cover to get closer to the enemy positions. Just after leaving the concealment of the tree line, they were driven to ground by the rat-tat-tat tat-tat of two German machine guns protecting an 81mm mortar crew. They knew what to do: cover the other squad with rifle fire as they bounded into the enemy. Blanchard later recalled the chaos of the attack: “Everywhere was a grey uniform, shoot, run, shoot, throw a grenade.”
Once he’d emptied his Thompson, Blanchard reloaded by flipping the magazines he’d taped back-to-back for the assault. He released the bolt, but the first shell mis-fed in the chamber. He took a knee to clear the jam just as a young German emerged from a dugout with his rifle and bayonet pointed at him. Fumbling with his submachine gun, Blanchard yelled incoherent words as the German charged. The Soldat yelled back, presumably calling for Blanchard to surrender. Gaining speed, the German sprinted forward with his bayonet at the ready. Blanchard cleared his jam. With just a few feet separating the two men, Blanchard unleashed a full burst into the German’s face, virtually severing his head from his body. Momentum carried the headless corpse forward and Blanchard parried the bayonet with his tommy gun.
“That bastard sure didn’t want to die, did he?” asked a passing trooper who’d witnessed the dead man’s final charge.
The question snapped Blanchard out of his daze, and the two men rejoined the attack, which had surged past them.
Blanchard yelled over his shoulder to Harry Pinson, “Toss me a grenade!”
Pinson leaned against a tree with a grenade in his hand, but he didn’t move. He was dead.
Blanchard sprinted back to Pinson and slid down next to him. A bullet tore the epaulette off Blanchard’s shoulder. He grabbed the grenade from Pinson’s lifeless hand and hunkered down, figuring what to do next. A heartbeat later, Private Wyman Martin spotted the German who had Blanchard pinned down (and who’d likely killed Pinson) and shot him. Another burst of machine gun fire sent Blanchard ducking behind the tree.
Now the rest of the platoon bounded forward, assaulting the position. The two German machine guns and the mortar had been set up on the flank of an artillery battery. The howitzers were dug into the front gardens of two farmhouses; trenches and foxholes surrounded the entire emplacement.
The first house, a two-story stone structure with the barn attached, had already been the scene of heavy fighting. Several of Branigan’s dead troopers—many still in their chutes—were scattered around the farmhouses. From the way some of the bodies were positioned it appeared that at least six paratroopers had been executed. The second farmhouse was on fire from the Bastards’ artillery duel with the 88. The two guns located there had been destroyed and abandoned. As the Ruffians flushed the trenches, the Germans retreated, leaving behind their dead and wounded.
A few hundred yards up the road a group of Germans scurried across the street. Several bursts from an American machine gun cut through the flurry of gray-clad figures. Tragically, only two of the group were soldiers—the other three were civilians, including a woman and her daughter.
After a radio message confirmed that the Ruffians had secured the area, Miley’s command group moved along the eastern edge of the woods, dodging periodic artillery fire as they made their way to the pond. With Ridgway tagging along, Miley’s linkup with the glider-borne headquarters element officially established the division command post.
• • •
Meanwhile, the Ruffians at Diersfordt Castle still surrounded the Germans barricaded in the tower. Twenty-one-year-old Private Robert Watson finally lost patience with the stalemate and dashed from his position to chuck a white phosphorus grenade through a shattered window. The blast severely burned the Oberst in charge of the garrison and deflated his men’s appetite for further resistance. The diehards filed out with their hands up.
Troopers formed the prisoners into three ranks and patted them down, emptying the contents of their pockets onto the ground.
Staff Sergeant Bill Consolvo was hailed by his executive officer, “[See] if you can get that damn Kraut flag down and put this one up!”
Consolvo ran up the tower’s staircase to replace the red-and-black Nazi flag with the Stars and Stripes. He later recalled, “I sure got a warm feeling when I saw it fluttering in the breeze!”
• • •
With their objectives secured and resistance reduced to minor skirmishes, the Ruffians sent out patrols to sweep the area. One bumped into a squad from the British 9th Parachute Battalion out looking for the Thirteeners. The good news was passed back by radio. A staff officer confessed in the regimental diary that the event “[relieved] the feeling that we were all alone on this mission.”
The patrols searched houses and collected civilians, herding them to holding points under guard. Rounding up civilians was the safest option for all concerned as it would get them out of the crossfire and ease the minds of punchy troopers wanting their perimeter cleared before sunset.
Troopers evicted Vicar Heinrich Müller from his house, holding him at gunpoint while they searched the cellar. He had to be relieved his wife had discreetly burned their portraits of Hitler before she evacuated. Downstairs they found his sister, Marianne, who was escorted outside with her hands up.
“Are they going to shoot us now?” she asked her brother.
No, but the
troopers would be taking them to a civilian collection point at a farm on the southern end of the DZ.
The vicar wanted back inside to fetch his Bible and shaving razor, but either his broken English was misunderstood or his escort didn’t care. Whichever case, he wasn’t allowed back in. When he returned a few days later, he found his Bible and razor but not his gold pocket watch or any of the family’s sterling silver.
The vicar and his sister joined several other groups of civilians in their exodus to the collection point. The group grew as the Ruffians went door to door, clearing homes and barns. Families shuffled down the dirt roads under armed escort, women carrying their babies.
Having passed the carnage of burning farms and dead bodies, the civilians were relieved to be reunited with neighbors they’d assumed were dead. They learned of tragedies: several families had lost loved ones to the artillery barrage. Americans shooting through the window of their cellar had inadvertently killed Herr Büttner’s wife, Laura. Rumors circulated that everyone sheltering in the castle’s cellar was dead. They could all see the smoke from the burning castle and had heard the furious battle. Relief swept through the collected crowd when that group arrived a short time later.
The troopers segregated the civilians from the Wehrmacht prisoners, whose numbers had swelled to an estimated 700.
The local English teacher, Frau Bruns, became the civilian ambassador. Farmers were concerned about their livestock and requested to go feed their animals. Chaperoned by Ruffians, the women were allowed to return briefly to their farms.
At some point during their clearing operation the troopers recovered the body of Major Gordon Fowler, a P-47 Thunderbolt pilot who’d bailed out of his damaged aircraft earlier that morning. He’d landed not far from the DZ, but the troopers found him murdered, his throat cut.
• • •
At the division command post, the radio crackled to life informing Miley and Ridgway that the Thirteeners hadn’t yet secured the northern perimeter. The generals departed in a three-jeep convoy to see what could be done; on the way they would stop by the canal to check up on the glider riders’ progress. Miley rode in the lead jeep with his radio operator while Ridgway’s vehicle brought up the rear. Two tommy gun–toting MPs with a pedestal-mounted machine gun occupied the middle jeep.
CHAPTER 17
“A VERY DIRTY BUSINESS”
Mid-afternoon, Drop Zone X, Germany. Saturday, March 24, 1945.
Lieutenant Colonel Kenneth Booth, commander of the 466th Parachute Field Artillery, took stock of his battalion. His artillerymen had slugged it out all morning as infantry on the heavily fortified DZ, and the Thirteeners were still missing. By 11:30 the medics, led by Captain Loran Morgan, had set up their aid station in the same building as the command post, after taking out the machine gun position the Germans had barricaded in the front door.
Booth knew from the number of casualties pouring in that his men had taken a beating. Add in the wounded Tommies and the number of patients doubled. Many of the British gliders had overshot their LZ, crashing nearby on the edge of the American zone. Morgan’s medics treated their broken bones, burns, and shrapnel wounds with the same urgency as they did their American patients.
Medics divided the casualties into four large rooms by severity: the walking wounded, the serious but stable, the seriously wounded, and those needing evacuation to the division’s aid station, where surgical treatment was available. Medic Steve Miladinovich moved between rooms monitoring the patients’ condition, upgrading or shuttling the wounded as necessary.
A timely supply of plasma and bandages arrived when Private James Lefler rolled up in one of the unit’s jeeps. To deliver his cargo Lefler had landed by glider and single-handedly navigated off the LZ, over double railroad tracks, and across the DZ, all while under fire. Once the supplies were unloaded, Lefler rigged his jeep with litters and ranged the DZ, looking for more casualties.
While the medics worked, Booth counted. It had been a devastating morning. The numbers were still coming in as the batteries regained order, but in addition to the hundred-odd wounded, they had nearly fifty dead—a staggering 25 percent casualty rate. In exchange for those losses, the artillerymen had littered their section of German real estate with more than four dozen German corpses; bagged over 300 prisoners; and captured or destroyed eighteen machine guns, ten howitzers, and eight anti-aircraft guns.
Booth arrived at John Chester’s A Battery to find all of their officers dead or wounded. He directed one of his staff officers, First Lieutenant James Nammack, to take command. Chester had worked with Nammack since before leaving the States and respected him as an artilleryman. Perhaps most appealing, his new CO “had a highly desirable trait called common sense.”
A Battery, in addition to losing their officers, had lost two of their enlisted men and suffered sixteen wounded. Nammack’s first duty was to reassign five men to the gravely mauled C Battery. They’d suffered forty-one casualties. Their drop had started badly, with an entire stick of twelve jumpers mowed down as they landed, including Donald Stanford, who, despite his medic armband and the large red crosses adorning his helmet, had been machine-gunned while sprinting to aid a comrade.
While the artillery crews collected themselves, an officer—an observer from Fort Benning’s Parachute School—took advantage of the lull to recover an important personal item: his teeth. As the forty-two-year-old Ridgely Gaither later recalled, “Before the jump, I’d removed my plate of two upper front teeth and placed it in a matchbox, packed in a canvas bag. When I hit the ground, I lost the bag. Without my plate, I was unable to pronounce the password, ‘Hither-Thither,’ and was worried that some blood-crazed paratrooper would shoot first and ask questions later. So I crawled to the spot where I landed, found the bag, reinserted my plate, and then crawled back.”
• • •
BLAM! BLAM! Chester’s crew scrambled for cover. The shots rang out from what they thought was a secured area. Two men were hit, one dead before he fell. More bullets sang overhead as the crew scanned for telltale muzzle flashes. With the near misses getting closer, someone spotted the assassins and yelled, “In the Horsa!”
As the crew rushed toward the abandoned British glider, two German bolt-action rifles were thrown out of it. What followed surprised everyone: two teenage girls emerged with their arms raised. The troopers, boiling with anger, crowded around the girls. The lieutenant asked for volunteers. The implication was clear.
Chester could tell “none of the boys wanted any part of it,” but after an awkward silence, two spoke up. The gathered artillerymen watched solemnly as the girls, with hands bound, were marched away. A few minutes later two gunshots cracked from the tree line. When the volunteers returned, no one asked for details. It was later rumored they’d let the girls go, but stories claiming the opposite persisted.
Armed civilians, despite the common misunderstanding throughout the ranks, were not to be summarily executed but rather treated in accordance with the laws of land warfare. According to the 1940 field manual, “The inhabitants of a territory which has not been occupied, who, on the approach of the enemy, spontaneously take up arms to resist the invading troops without having had time to organize themselves . . . shall be regarded as belligerents if they carry arms openly and if they respect the laws and customs of war.” In other words, they could be shot in the course of a battle, but once captured they were to be protected as prisoners whose fate would be decided by a military tribunal. But not all soldiers bothered with manuals or cared what lawyers thought about war’s finer nuances.
However repugnant, the troopers served as judge, jury, and executioner, believing they were acting within the limits of their trade. Chester had long ago resigned himself to the fact that “war can be somewhat beyond a very dirty business, very ugly.” A very dirty, very ugly business indeed.
They were rescued from any deeper contemplation of the incident by an order to lug their assembled howitzers over 2,000 yards to their designate
d firing position. Until they could find some horsepower, manpower served as the mechanism of conveyance. They muscled the 1400-pound howitzer across the tilled fields through a sweat-inducing combination of pulling and pushing. Two men, tethered like mules, used harnesses to pull it tail first. The others pushed, keeping the barrel down so the tail stayed up. The crews rotated positions to minimize grumbling. Forty-five minutes later, after a lot of huffing and puffing, they completed the move.
B Battery, already in position, had been firing in support of the Thirteeners making their way to the DZ. The first groups filtered in just after one o’clock that afternoon. Their numbers had grown as they moved south, cutting across fields littered with wrecked British and American gliders. Small groups and individuals continued to wander in for the next twenty-four hours.
The Thirteeners’ commander, Colonel Jim Coutts, and his staff had been leapfrogging southeast as the regiment advanced out of the British sector. Upon reaching the DZ, they set up their command post in a farmhouse on a spot of high ground a mile short of the Issel River. The disorientation of their mis-drop had cost the Thirteeners time. Even with the arrival of the British glider troops to help flush the enemy, it took three hours to overcome local resistance so they could move to their assembly areas.
Some troopers, despite the urgency, paused to collect spoils of war. Lieutenant Peter Scotese from Philadelphia and two of his men had routed a German unit that left their payroll behind. The three agreed to split the 40,000 Reichsmarks, stuffing the bills into their packs between grenades and ammunition.
Coutts had met up with his 1st Battalion on the march and was informed that both the commander and executive officer were unaccounted for. A proactive lieutenant, who’d assembled almost 80 percent of the battalion, was leading them. Coutts put his intelligence officer, Captain Gates Ivy, in charge of the battalion. He led the troopers to an orchard, where they set up a defensive position and awaited further orders as Coutts’ quick reaction force.
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