Four Hours of Fury

by James M. Fenelon

  German artillery peppered both sides of the canal. Private Noah Jones found himself out in the open as several 88s crashed in. He ran for cover, throwing himself into a shell crater and landing on a woman’s corpse. Recoiling in revulsion, he crawled away and headed back to his mortar crew. Jones found them just as the Germans poured across Bridge 10, and he fell in with a group of troopers to hold them back. It was a vicious little firefight, with the enemy mortar crews lobbing in rounds to support the assault.

  Coutts released Cochrane’s Sherman tanks, urging them forward to counterattack. The sight of tanks alone was almost enough to unhinge the German infantry, and their attack soon collapsed under the weight of advancing armor. Coutts’ combat engineers estimated the bridge could support the 66,800 pounds of a Sherman but just barely. Six rumbled across, one at a time, fanning out upon reaching the far bank.

  Another wave of Germans advanced on the right flank, well armed with machine guns and anti-tank Panzerfausts. Cochrane’s Shermans plastered them with 76mm cannons and their .30-caliber Browning machine guns. Meanwhile, paratroopers moving under the supporting fire captured one of the dreaded 88mm guns before it could be brought to bear against the tanks. Two audacious Soldats managed to crawl close enough to pummel the lead tank with Panzerfausts before another tank cut them down.

  Noah Jones, along with his mortar squad, followed the attack in while hauling their forty-two-pound 60mm mortar up a small hill. The crest was littered with the dead and abandoned equipment jettisoned by the fleeing enemy. With a good vantage point they set up.

  Their target was a fortified farmhouse from which Germans were engaging the advancing troopers. As the three-man mortar squad watched the action unfold below them, they dropped a high-explosive round down the tube. The shell arced through the air before crashing through the roof of the farmhouse, exploding inside. The survivors bolted from the burning building and attempted to escape across an open field. None made it. A volley from the prone paratroopers saw to that.

  • • •

  Lendy McDonald’s platoon, having stopped short of the autobahn the previous night, still needed to get to the line of departure. Daylight confirmed what they’d suspected: Germans were milling around bunkers on the other side of the clearing. While they felt vindicated—attacking that position at night would have been “hopeless chaos”—they had to attack it now.

  Bent double, McDonald and one of his scouts sprinted across under the covering fire of belt-fed machine guns. They collapsed behind one of the bunkers and opened up on the Germans, giving the following man covering fire as he ran to join them.

  McDonald motioned for Private Carol Clausen to cross over next. As the lanky Clausen started his run, the distinct POOMPH of a Panzerfaust flashed from the wood line. The warhead exploded at his feet. But Clausen didn’t miss a beat, leaping through the cloud of dust and debris to make it safely to the bunker. Behind him, his bright yellow identification scarf floated to the ground, ripped from his neck by a piece of shrapnel.

  After the skirmish to secure their sector of the autobahn, McDonald learned that two of his good friends, Sergeants Alfred Morton and Harlan Leathers, had both died in the assault.

  • • •

  On Coutts’ left flank, his 3rd Battalion opened their attack with a fusillade from their supporting tanks and three British self-propelled guns. From the banks of the Issel they shelled clusters of enemy-held houses on the far side of the autobahn. Scouts estimated that a company of Grenadiers held the buildings. The troopers moved under protective tank fire to get close enough to rake the buildings with rifles, machine guns, and their M18 recoilless rifle. The tanks ceased fire at 08:00 and the troopers surged in to rout the enemy. While the counterattacking Able Company occupied the enemy on their right flank, their left was exposed. The Germans opened fire on them from the left as they ran toward the buildings. Fifteen troopers were cut down, with four killed before they knew what hit them.

  Lieutenant Dean Swem’s platoon advanced on their assigned cluster of houses, barns, and sheds. They were bounding up a dirt lane with grazing cattle on both sides when small arms fire from their front pinned them down.

  The troopers returned fire, and Swem called his bazooka team forward. As he did, panicked cattle bolted back and forth trying to escape the melee. In their frenzied, terrified state they voided their bowels as they loped through the prone Americans, pelting them with warm shit.

  The white phosphorus bazooka rockets exploded into the thatched roofs, which burst into flames, setting the buildings ablaze and showering the dug-in troops with white-hot embers. Flanking fire now poured into the enemy from the platoon on Swem’s right, who emerged from the wood line just as the American fire peaked for the assault. Swem’s men charged forward in what he later described as a “maniacal frenzy.” The troopers threw themselves into the German positions, shooting and bayonetting them in their foxholes.

  Clearing the buildings, the troopers discovered three ammunition supply dumps and a German aid station overflowing with wounded. The Thirteeners pressed their attack farther east, where the terrain opened up with the only defensible points being more fortified farms. Tanks, bazookas, and the recoilless rifle reduced those in short order.

  The last remaining obstacle on their route was a well-defended, 200-foot hill about 700 yards short of Phase Line NEW YORK. To crack it the Thirteeners called in a fifteen-minute artillery barrage, most likely from John Chester’s battalion of 75mm howitzers. The shells rained down on the target, but the requested smoke rounds, intended to mask the assaulters, never materialized. Supported by overhead fire from the tanks, the troopers went in anyway.

  George Holdren, who’d been advancing behind the infantry with his anti-tank gun, watched the drama unfold from the protection of a farmhouse. His section had set up their two 57mm guns on either side of the house to take out any machine gun positions on the hill. But the machine gunners spotted them first, peppering the 57mm guns with bursts of bullets that sent the crew scrambling inside the building and under the jeeps.

  The two infantry companies, using marching fire, walked forward, firing from the hip or shoulder every two or three steps to keep the enemy’s heads down. No one paused to aim, making the firepower of the automatic rifles and tommy guns critical; the rest of the battalion supported them with suppressing fire from the flanks. The tactic created a wall of lead and worked well against the skittish German infantry already shredded by artillery.

  The entrenched Germans appeared to not have any artillery or mortar support, and the reason soon became apparent: they were Volkssturm troops, old men and adolescents armed with bolt-action rifles and plenty of machine guns. From Holdren’s position the Thirteeners’ tactic appeared “very effective” and decimated “the poor Germans.”

  It was all over an hour after the first artillery shell crashed into the hilltop. At the cost of three wounded troopers, the 3rd Battalion took their final objective of the day, killing twenty-eight of the defenders and bagging eighty more shell-shocked POWs. Many were wounded, and indifferent troopers carried them down the hill for evacuation. By Holdren’s estimate, “there were only about fourteen or fifteen left walking.”

  The Thirteeners continued their advance, occupying NEW YORK by early evening. It had been a rough slog. The bridgehead had been expanded by two miles and more than 200 prisoners had been taken. Coutts had suffered thirteen KIA and scores more wounded to seize Phase Line NEW YORK.

  Holdren’s section, passing through a knot of farm buildings, eagerly took jelly sandwiches from an elderly woman handing them out from her back door. With an exchange of smiles Holdren took the gift, wondering what lay behind the gesture. Was she a frightened German woman trying to appease the terrible enemy, just being friendly, or perhaps someone from Eastern Europe who’d been forced into slave labor?

  It had been two days of firsts for Holdren. He’d seen his first jet aircraft the day before when a dappled-gray German Me-262 screamed past at fifty feet, and
earlier that morning he’d witnessed his first and only aerial dogfight of the war. He craned skyward as Messerschmitts and Spitfires swooped and circled after each other. It appeared the Luftwaffe won: a Spitfire was shot down and another trailed smoke as it beat a hasty retreat.

  A little farther on the troopers found a farmhouse in which to spend the night. They arrived just in time to douse the flames starting to consume the hay barn. The fire must have been started by a passing group of Thirteeners embracing the scorched earth policy of their Civil War ancestors. Holdren had seen many such blazes, but never understood “the necessity of that sort of thing.” He and his anti-tank gunners were quite happy to spend the night indoors.

  A search of the house produced an enticing distraction: a locked safe. The troopers took turns pressing their ears to the metal surface while slowing rotating the dial. Closing their eyes, they strained for the sounds of a tumbler falling into place. No dice. The finesse of cat burglary gave way to blunt force; they butt-stroked the dial, trying to knock the locking mechanism askew. That failed too. Finally they dragged it outside, backed away, and fired a bazooka rocket into it. The explosion sent the safe tumbling and the door flew open. It was empty.

  Boys were being boys, but the brass at Miley’s HQ had had enough looting and mayhem; they issued three warnings in seventy-two hours, each more stern than the last. The division’s chief of staff issued the first on March 25, calling on officers to take disciplinary action to stop the looting. The memo read in part, “There is evidence of considerable looting—bicycles, radios, quilts, and numerous other articles have been seen. There is no objection [to] requisitioning transportation for movement of equipment and supplies. However, the taking of other articles is strictly forbidden.” Another memorandum was issued two days later observing that despite the previous order, “personnel of this command are ransacking, pillaging and looting private homes and leaving them in a deplorable condition.” The document again called on the troopers and officers to “cease immediately.” The third appeal came less than twenty-four hours later, this time directly from General Miley: “I have personally seen and stopped many cases of looting of civilian houses. This will not be tolerated and any officer failing to take adequate measures to prevent looting will be disciplined to the full extent.”

  The troopers’ lack of reverence for military professionalism rankled the career officers in Miley’s staff. Despite the warnings from HQ though, vandalism and petty theft continued to be a problem. Enforcement was halfhearted in the front line units as it was difficult to convince a soldier who might be dead tomorrow that it was wrong to take from a population that had upended the entire world. A lieutenant colonel summed up the feeling of many troopers when he wrote, “This part of Germany wasn’t hurt much until we came along. I think we ought to burn it to the ground.”

  • • •

  Miley’s glider riders arrived at Phase Line NEW YORK having swept aside minor resistance and were in position by two o’clock that afternoon. Using tanks and artillery they knocked out several anti-aircraft positions, including a battery of 20mm guns captured by Frank Dillon’s company. All told they bagged 250 prisoners at the cost of two of their own killed in action.

  Not everything they seized was of military value. Captain George Streukens and his men captured a creamery, allowing them to load up with sausages, canned fruits, duck eggs, bread, and butter. They settled in for the night and ate like kings.

  The Ruffians, despite constant shelling from artillery, made short work of their objective as well, occupying NEW YORK by noon in exchange for three dead. Thad Blanchard’s squad was part of the group that made contact with their fellow Americans at the phase line. On Montgomery’s right flank, the US 30th Infantry Division had crossed the Rhine farther upstream as part of the American Ninth Army’s assault. With the linkup of the two American units, the Ruffians reported, “assigned objectives for operation ‘Varsity’ had been accomplished.”

  Midday. Landing Zone N. Monday, March 26, 1945.

  Captain Ernest Carpenter needed a drink. After two days of almost no sleep and nonstop work, he and his team of medics were worn out. He wanted to quench their thirst and find them a comfortable place to bed down. As the medics set up their aid tents in an open field, Carpenter grabbed Sergeant Edmund Wienczak to serve as his translator.

  The civilians in the first house readily surrendered the only bottle of liquor they had. While rooting around their kitchen, Wienczak noticed a stockpile of canned goods, wryly observing that starving them out would have taken forever.

  Jetzt! They told the family in the next house to leave.

  Off-duty medics filed in, huddling around sinks to wash up and, also, searching for a place to crash. Wienczak meanwhile trudged back to the aid station to take care of the wounded; he would catnap on a litter as opportunity allowed. One of the patients was a Ruffian from Wienczak’s hometown of Cleveland who’d lost his small finger in a gunfight to take NEW YORK. He’d be patched up and returned to the line.

  The medics had been ferrying the most urgent cases back to the Rhine via jeep since the day after the airdrop. Braving stray artillery rounds and occasional potshots from insolent Germans, the medics gingerly navigated their littered patients to evacuation points. The bridges were still limited to one-way traffic, with priority given to tanks, ambulances, and tarp-covered cargo trucks toting in troops and supplies. As such the wounded were lifted onto barges and amphibious trucks for the ride over the Rhine: 270 casualties, including 53 seriously wounded, were evacuated this way.

  Several of the ambulances and trucks crossing the pontoon bridges belonged to the 643rd Clearing Company, the unit responsible for stabilizing and evacuating critical patients. They brought in well-equipped surgical teams armed with sulfa powder, battle dressings, splints, morphine, and plasma. They arrived at the 17th Airborne Division’s aid station to find surgeon Lieutenant Colonel Edward Sigerfoos still tending to the wounded. He had medical tape over his broken nose and moved with a distinct limp, both injuries sustained when his glider crashed. His team had been operating shorthanded since landing: one surgeon was dead, another still missing, and a third had broken his leg.

  Miley’s medics handed over their charges to the newly arrived medical teams and joined the push east. The clearing medics loaded up their ambulances and evacuated an additional 500 cases, including over 200 POWs, for transfer back across the Rhine on barges.

  When the Rhine bridges opened up for two-way traffic two days after the airdrop, ten ambulances evacuated a further 108 casualties, along with two wounded civilians.

  Once the patients reached the west side of the Rhine, they were transported to the 113th Evacuation Hospital, established prior to D-Day in a former German medical facility. It was a large, imposing three-story building of institutional brick, divided into two wings with multiple wards and topped with a severe mansard roof.

  The patients’ first stop was a large olive-drab receiving tent set up just in front of the grand portico at the end of the long driveway. Here they were again triaged; those not expected to make it were left to drift away as quietly as possible. Care stations had been organized to minimize carrying the wounded up and down staircases. The more serious cases were on the first floor; the walking wounded made their way up to the third.

  The medical staff also tended to the wounded POWs. Captain Quinn Whiting, head of the hospital’s trauma unit, later said, “There was no discrimination in the treatment and care of the enemy, except our American soldiers were always treated first.”

  The patients weren’t segregated while awaiting attention. A grievously wounded paratrooper, lying on his stretcher in the receiving tent, drifted into consciousness. Blinking at the man lying next to him, his eyes focused on the SS runes stitched to the collar of his field-gray tunic. The paratrooper threw himself on top of the German, wrapping both hands around his throat to choke the life out of him. It took three medics to restrain the trooper who, despite his wounds, was s
till spoiling for a fight.

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Joseph Goebbels’ propaganda ministry announced the crossing of the lower Rhine over the radio, accurately comparing it in scope to the landing in France. The announcer declared that while the Allied invaders had broken through the main defensive line, they were suffering heavy casualties at the hands of the Wehrmacht counterattacks. The commentator further softened the distressing news with vivid accounts of German bravery and confidence.

  But hyperbole couldn’t stop the inevitable. The German losses were staggering. The two airborne divisions’ three-day tally alone cost the enemy 3,246 prisoners and more than 1,200 dead. And Allied mechanized might continued to flow across the Rhine, bringing more tanks, artillery, and troops than the Third Reich could ever hope to repel.

  Mixed into the congested traffic crossing the pontoon bridge at Xanten was a jeep ferrying General Lewis Brereton over the Rhine River. As the First Allied Airborne Army commander bumped through Wesel’s streets he saw that “there is nothing left in the city’s main section except rubble and a few burnt-out brick shells.”

  Brereton, who’d elected to make an uncharacteristic visit to the field, spent the night at Ridgway’s command post, but complained the next morning about his poor sleep due to the racket of Luftwaffe night fighters fruitlessly attacking the pontoon bridges.