The Retaking of Grandmenil
Part One
We left the LaGleize area after having participated with the 30th Division in a blocking action to contain the
German Panzer column that was trying to break out to the North. We were Company D, 2nd Battalion, the 36th Armored
Infantry Regiment, of the 3rd Armored Division.
The column of half-tracks moved to a new location where the vehicles coiled, regrouped, and waited for the orders
to move to our next engagement. It seemed as though we never really knew precisely where we had been, or indeed,
where we were at that moment, and certainly not where we were heading. The state of not knowing seemed to be the
unchallenged domain of the ordinary Infantryman.
When orders did come to move out, everyone mounted up and our half-track crept slowly onto the roadway and fell
into its assigned position in the Company order of march. Our half-track was D-23 with the name Dracula painted
on its side. The significance of that name always defied me, except that it began with the letter D representing
Dog Company. The number 23 meant that we were the 2nd Platoon, 3rd Rifle Squad.
The experience of life in the half-track while traveling from one sector of the front to another was an experience
of a life with a quality all of its own. It might be, perhaps, more historically desirable to say that this squad
of men now moving to its next engagement sat grimly and stoically in two ranks, silently facing each other on those
steel seats in the open half-track, blessedly, this is blatantly untrue. In facing the dread of the unknown, one
of the most marvelous salves for the pain of the fears, anxieties, and wonderings is the very diversity of human
nature itself. It is that diversity with the spontaneous contribution that each individual makes that is in part
the secret of the astonishing resilience of the human spirit. So, when I remember the hours that we had together
in that vehicle, they were hours that were very much alive. There was always the reliving of the last battle, but
then there would also be the teasing, the arguing, the joking, and usually some horseplay along with the somber
moments that each of us in turn would have.
In the Command position in the front of the half-track stood our Squad Leader, Sgt. Fickel. He was a man whose
courage, conduct and performance never gave anyone license to take any liberties whatsoever with his unlikely name.
He had a very strong sense of propriety and an equally strong sense of responsibility for his squad. The very qualities
that made him a good Squad Leader also had aspects to them that brought amusement, and as is ever true, it is the
humorous aspects that we remembered most vividly and enjoyed recounting the most.
In Stolberg, before he became the Squad Leader, Fickel was possibly the assistant. We were holding a house that
was in a forward position. The only thing that separated us from the Germans was a glass and debris strewn street
with the body of an American soldier lying right in the midst of it all. The machine guns were located in the front
windows of the house, while those of us who were not on duty lived and slept in a back room on the second floor.
The only accommodations that we had were a table and several chairs, but to the Infantryman, this was sheer luxury.
If we sat on a chair, we were not permitted to lean back so that the chair would rest only on the two rear legs.
This, Fickel insisted was not only improper, but was also damaging to the furniture, notwithstanding that parts
of the house had already been blown out by shell fire and much of the rest of the house was in disarray because
of other damage.
To show his concern for our well being, he told us one day that in order to relieve the monotony of our usual rations
he would prepare a very special treat. Replacing his steel helmet with a chef’s hat, he went rummaging through
the 10-in-1 rations that we were issued, along with those of other squads, gathered every candy bar, every cracker,
fruit bar and countless other food items, broke them up, mixed them together, and then heated this conglomeration
and pronounced it a "Pudding". We were then requested in command tones to eat it. Seated around the table
with the four legs of every chair planted firmly on the floor, we ate this treat with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
A short time later we were alerted to move out of this position, that by now we had come to consider a place of
luxury. Gathering our gear together, we made our way out of the rear of the house, through the back yards and over
numerous fences and then through the ruins of a factory building to our half-tracks. We then moved to some high
ground outside of Stolberg. Dismounting, we made our way past huge slag mounds, slipping into water filled shell
holes, all the time trying to avoid tripping over what seemed to be miles of communication wire, since by this
time darkness had already set in. We entered into a wooded area where we were to relieve another unit, and one
by one, the squads were dropped off along the way to their assigned positions until we were the last to be placed.
It must have been one of the dogmatic rules of our Company that the 3rd Rifle Squad must be assigned to the most
remote and isolated spot that could be found. By this time we were well inside the woods so that the only way we
could keep together was by maintaining actual physical contact because of the unusually dark night. Finally, after
many whispered exchanges and many delays, we were finally led two by two to the foxhole assigned us and relieved
those men who had occupied it. Fortunately, those whom we had just relieved had left some of their blankets in
the bottom of the foxhole. This hole was located at the far edge of the woods area.
Moving into a strange area at night is always a most disconcerting experience because of the tension of not knowing
precisely where the enemy is and how and when they will respond. It is then that the imagination really gears up
and begins churning out all sorts of possible scenarios.
The foxhole assigned to my friend John Emmurian and me was a very shallow log and earth covered hole, barely large
enough for one man. Because of the precarious nature of our situation, John and I decided to alternate in sleeping
and standing guard. He would sleep first for two hours while I would pull guard, and then he would take his turn.
As I sat on the edge of the foxhole listening and watching, things began to settle down and become quiet as everyone
adjusted to his new position. Sometime later I began to hear the sound of combat boots crushing dried leaves and
the sound of breaking twigs from within our defensive position. As time went by, there was the sound of more scurrying
about and this alarmed me because it seemed so careless of men who were experienced combat soldiers. I was sure
that if this would continue there would shortly be a German flare hanging in the air over us. These sounds not
only continued, but the tempo increased and I also began hearing the most uncommon sounds along with some very
strange oaths filtering through the darkness. Trying to restrain myself to keep quiet, I thought, "What in
the world is going on?" It was then that I felt a sudden discomfort come over me. And then, just as quickly,
I was seized with fiery convulsions in my lower abdominal region. All of a sudden the whole scene became clear;
along with my comrades, I had been smitten with what each of us must have been convinced was terminal diarrhea.
It was Fickel’s devilish concoction! Knowing that I was entrapped inside the webbing and straps of my combat harness,
and also knowing that it would take superhuman effort to extricate myself quickly from all that paraphernalia,
there was but one thing to do and that was to become momentarily hysterical. At once all of those uncommon sounds
and those very strange oaths not only became understandable, but also quite reasonable. Sometime later as I resumed
my guard duties, I felt stirring at my feet and I perceived that John had awakened. There was the sound of movement
in the foxhole and heavy breathing as John had evidently been smitten too, and awaking in an unfamiliar place,
not knowing immediately where he was, had begun trying to escape from the foxhole. The sound of the struggle became
altogether fierce as he tried to untangle himself from the G I blankets and make his exit. Then there was quiet
followed shortly with the most pathetic and lamentable groans of dismay one could ever hear.
As the sun rose the next morning, it rose on a weary, weakened squad, but, remarkably, a squad that in these few
hours of arriving in a completely strange position, now defended ground that had already been thoroughly reconnoitered.
Every foot of ground within that position was now completely familiar by virtue of the numerous compelling excursions
made across that treacherous landscape.
For that memorable night, Sgt. Fickel would not soon be forgotten.
Fred Dorsey was a quiet South Carolinian who had the great misfortune of not being able to read or write. This
meant that he would have to constantly humiliate himself and ask someone to read to him the letters from his wife.
It would not be an unusual sight to see Fred huddled with someone in the corner of the half-track to help him with
his letters. He would take one of us quietly aside and we would then read to him those letters from his wife; loving
words in which all their dreams and hopes and desires were shared, and we could not help but feel like embarrassed
intruders in that sacred and intimate province that belong to husband and wife alone.
Fred seemed always to be occupied with a leather holster that he was making for a pistol that he had. Almost every
spare moment would find him working on it with an intensity that was almost unnatural. I doubt whether that holster
was ever finished, because within a short span of time, Fred would be lying beside a dirty black hole in the snow
where the last earthly sound that he would hear was the whisper of that falling mortar shell.
There was no man that could orchestrate the feelings of everyone in the squad, as could George Sampson. He could
plunge us into the very depths of the gloom of homesickness by simply reaching into his inside pocket and pulling
out his small harmonica and playing for us some melancholy tune. And just as quickly we could be laughing and singing
to one of the many novelty songs that he knew and of which he seemed to have an unending repertoire.
Charles Craig was a large and gentle Missourian who found it impossible to be either impolite or discourteous,
but that gentleness could explode into fearlessness if the situation arose. However, Charles made one serious error
when he told us that he had studied geology while in college. We would take great delight in reminding him how
eminently qualified he was to be an Infantryman, since digging holes in the earth was one of our majors too.
Harry Clark was the family man in the squad. Coming from Alabama, he was also our beloved Rebel. His voice would
rise in octaves as well as decibels as he would be constantly forced to parry the thrust of supposed Yankee wit.
(His particular nemesis in this matter would usually be Jack Buss.) Harry always enjoyed telling us about his football
exploits in his high school days, and when the occasion arose, he delighted in displaying his dancing prowess with
the least possible incitement. When he would break into one of his light-footed jigs, we thought this absolutely
remarkable considering his advanced age of thirty-two years.
Although Jack Buss had been wounded at LaGleize, it would be unfair not to mention him at this point because of
his contribution, no matter how questionable, to our squad in our half-track experience. Jack was the unquestioned
scholar in the squad, and would not let us forget that his college career had been interrupted so that he might
be with us. He was also the master provocateur. He seemed to find a strange and perverse delight in making a deliberately
outrageous remark, usually in Harry’s direction, which he knew would turn that half-track into an inferno of debate,
and then he would sit back and joyfully keep the fires of controversy stoked until we who were but the witless,
khaki clad dolts had exhausted ourselves, and our miserable arguments. Then he would stretch himself out to his
full intellectual stature and with his inestimable knowledge, he would ruthlessly flay this poor, unlearned peasantry
whom the misfortunes of war had inflicted upon him.
Traveling in an open half-track in the wintertime is a bone-chilling experience. This fact will bring you face
to face with one of the most monumental challenges that you can expect to confront. Sooner or later you will be
innocently overcome with the simple desire for a cup of hot coffee. Since convoy travel in combat areas means interminable
stops and starts and delays, time to make a cup of coffee should be no real problem-that is until you try it.
Among several of the squad members I was jokingly referred to as the "fastest coffee maker in the Army."
If this was a fair reputation, it was one that was earned with much travail and frustration, developed principally
during this type of travel.
As soon as the half-track would stop, I would leap out, fill my canteen cup with water, arrange the heating material,
and get the fire going. Then I would hunch over this hopeful enterprise, peering into the depths of the cup waiting,
coaxingly, for that first bubble that would indicate that the water was starting to heat, all the while looking
over my shoulder nervously for any sign of convoy movement. Then invariably, simultaneously, bubbles would begin
breaking the surface of the water, there would be excited shouts all along the roadway, engines would begin turning
over and half-track door would begin slamming the full length of the convoy with a rapidity that gave the sound
of falling steel dominoes. Grabbing the searing hot handle of the canteen cup, I would kick out the fire and begin
pursuing the escaping half-track, hoping that my friends would not pull the stunt that seemed to bring them an
endless source of amusement, and that was to slam the door in my face before I could mount and then watch with
glee to see how fast and how far I could run without spilling any of the contents of my cup. When they would finally
relent and I would bound on board, I would usually find myself standing in the back of the half-track clutching
a cup of lukewarm water. But nevertheless, undaunted, I knew that the next stop would finally bring success and
I could finally put my lips to that cup of delicious hot Nescafe coffee.
Are these simply the irrelevant activities, along with the personal idiosyncrasies of a squad of men marking time
before being plunged into the next battle, perhaps, unworthy of reciting? No! The sum total of all those things
provided those essential ingredients that always served so beautifully to insulate the mind from that unspeakable
dread that was ever present, lurking, waiting to overtake and to possess our thinking. As our convoy continued
slowly along toward Grandmenil, just before dusk, we came upon a sight that was startling because of the horrible
implications of the scene. In a small wedge-shaped field by the roadway were the hulks of four burned out tanks,
two German and two American. These tanks must have met suddenly and in complete surprise in that very small area.
They stood there, muzzle-to-muzzle and hull-to-hull, having destroyed each other at point blank range. One can
only imagine the horror of those last few seconds as each crew tried frantically to survive such an impossible
moment. The unopened hatches were mute testimony to the futility of their desperate actions. One tank stood with
a pyramid of molten metal beneath its rear engine compartment, looking as though it were the excrement of the tank
itself, as if the vehicle had ingested the white hot metal that had destroyed it and then in its death throes,
deposited it on the ground as it died within the perimeter of that small pasture.
Darkness now settled over the convoy of half-tracks as it rumbled and screeched its way through the hills and forests
of the Ardennes. But as we traveled that night, there was one great, profound truth that began to emerge in all
its loftiness and with all its triumph. This was Christmas Night, and this great truth is that there is absolutely
nothing that can overpower that indomitable spirit of Christmas. Neither the fresh recollections of our engagement
at LaGleize, with its inevitable casualties, nor that ugly scene of those four charred, armored mausoleums as they
stood silently on that postage stamp size battlefield, nor the dread anticipation of what lay ahead in the darkness,
could suppress the joy of Christmas, because somehow we found ourselves in the cold darkness of that open half-track
standing and singing Christmas carols.
We approached the wooded ridge overlooking the village of Grandmenil in the early evening. The convoy of half-tracks
left the roadway and began coiling among the trees, while we on board hurriedly gathered our equipment and prepared
to dismount. What lexicon is adequate to describe the feelings that a soldier endures in the silent turmoil of
his own heart when he approaches this moment. The unreal world of that half-track would now be translated into
the harsh, ugly, reality of war, with the shouts, the explosions, the screams, and that almost terrifying staccato
of the German Schmeiser machine-pistol.
After falling out on the roadway, there was the usual milling around, with both Noncoms and Officers darting back
and forth as last minute arrangements were made. Each of us was wondering about the real nature of the mission,
and at the same time also, confident that we would find nothing out about it.
Finally, after what seemed to be ceaseless waiting, the tanks began positioning themselves at intervals along the
roadway, and then sat with their engines idling. While the Infantry was waiting to move out, we knew that our 2nd
Platoon would follow the lead platoon which would either be the 1st or the 3rd, giving us some solace that would
not last for more than a few minutes.
As the signal was given to move forward, the column began emerging from the cover of the woods. Ahead of us was
a long descending roadway with the village of Grandmenil lying at the foot, already on fire from the artillery
shells that were falling into it and the reports of the explosions echoing back and forth across the valley.
One of the most irritating things for an Infantryman, who must work with tanks, especially at night when a quiet
approach was so essential in the attack, was the incessant screeching of the bogey wheels of the tank. This sound
was so loud and aggravating, even drowning out the noise of the tank engine, that you were convinced that every
German soldier within a radius of 500 yards had now been alerted, and each one of them was peering over his rifle
aimed directly at you. Nevertheless, in spite of that grievance, the very silhouette of that grotesque looking
steel companion, with its cannon jutting like a feeler out into the darkness, was a very comforting sight, if not
sound.
To the right of the road there rose a rather steep wooded embankment, which fell off ahead of us quite abruptly
down to road level. On the left side of the road was an equally sharp drop off. The embankment to our right served
one negative purpose in that it robbed us of that split second warning that incoming artillery fire gives. In an
instant, the roadway was erupting with exploding shells. Fortunately, there was a rather deep ditch on the right
of the road where some of us found shelter. The volume of incoming fire was astonishing, and what compounded the
awfulness of it was that it was our own artillery falling short. The dismay and the anger that one feels in such
an ordeal are inexpressible. With shells falling in so fast and so close that the very heat could be felt, the
feeling of helplessness is maddening. Tank Commanders could be heard over all of this noise screaming into their
radios to lift the fire because it was falling on our own men. Cries and angry screams were rising all along the
column, and especially among the forward platoon, which caught the brunt of the fire. The casualties among that
lead platoon were so substantial that it could no longer function in the lead capacity, and our platoon passed
through it and all the carnage that the damaging fire had inflicted on that lead element.
The column again began to move forward toward the village. By this time the embankment to our right disappeared
to road level, and now, in fact, the roadway was built up several feet above the level of the adjoining fields.
With our squad now in the lead position and our Platoon Sgt. Pop Waters at the very front, Pop gave the signal
for the column to stop. He had noticed what appeared to be an outpost position dug into the side of the road embankment.
Pop Waters was an extraordinary soldier who did almost every thing unconventionally. We suspected that he was never
issued a steel helmet, because all he ever wore was the G.I. wool knit cap, and all that the cap covered was a
rim of reddish hair around his balding head. Before combat, back in Normandy, he had been a Pfc. BAR man who had
a reputation for not caring too very much about anything, much less the rigors of military discipline and routine.
But as the Division moved from the Normandy Beachhead to the Siegfried Line, Pop also moved from Pfc. to Platoon
Sgt. Pop was one of those rare men with intuitive sense that some men, without any benefit of leadership training,
come by so easily and naturally. No matter what the circumstances, it seemed he instinctively had the right response
along with the courage to execute what needed to be done. He was a legend in the Company, but unfortunately never
received proper recognition. It was a most reassuring sight to see that little guy with the wool knit cap, because
then we knew all was well.
When the column stopped, Pop took two men with him, George Sampson and Aloyisius Kampa, down off the roadway to
the field level where the outpost was. Dug into the embankment was a hole in which two German soldiers sat sleeping
with their rifles locked upright between their knees. Pop simply reached in with a hand on each rifle barrel and
jerked them from their grasp. One soldier reacted in such an animated manner that Kampa interpreted his movements
as hostile and shot him dead. The other man was taken prisoner in a state of absolute panic.
The column again resumed its movement which would carry it the final 200 yds. to the village. By this time our
squad had now spread out around the lead tank, with some of our men on both sides of the tank. In such situations,
tension begins mounting to levels that are almost unbearable because you have no illusions that you will simply
walk into the village uncontested. Very quickly the tension was broken with the unearthly scream of direct fire
and a shattering explosion with an earsplitting metallic ring, as the lead tank was hit. The driver immediately
threw the tank into reverse, and those who survived the hit began trying to escape the doomed vehicle. With the
tank in reverse, it careened backwards off to the right of the roadway with me in its path, desperately trying
to get out of its way. It is a most frightening experience to be caught in the path of an abandoned, out of control,
32-ton monster that is bearing down on you. After the tank left the roadway, it circled in tight circles in the
adjoining field and then burned.
-- BREAK --
To the left of the tank, at impact, was Charles Craig. In trying to get out of the line of fire, he jumped into
a hole beside the road, which happened to be occupied by a German soldier, whom he shot dead.
The squad, being without its tank, moved off the left side of the roadway about 20 or 30 yards, to the dark shadows
of a hedge line, waiting to decide what to do. We were there only a very short time when an officer approached
us; it happened to be Maj. McGeorge. Several of us had been at his side one time during the LaGleise action as
he stood by while several of his tanks were destroyed on a roadway that was impossible for them to leave to avoid
the fire. We remembered the agony of that man as he counted the survivors of those tanks on that day, and, we saw
the genuiness of that officer. Remarkably, at this time, he asked us if we would not join the other tanks because
they needed the Infantry support. This Major asked us, he didn’t order us, but the earnestness of his plea was
more forceful than any command could possibly have been. He also told us that he would reorganize the attack and
have the tanks leave the roadway and move in abreast in the final rush to the village. This was done with one tank
to the left of the roadway and the other tree tanks off to the right of the roadway, moving at a rush to the first
buildings at the edge of the village. The tanks moved rapidly, delivering a heavy fusillade of fire as they made
that final lunge to the village, with the Infantry following close behind. Our squad was dispersed among those
tanks on the right of the intersection, with the foundation walls of those first houses as our line, also extending
off to the right along a fence line. The firing was very intense, with cannon, machine-gun and rifle fire being
poured into the village, intermixed with the responding German fire.
One man who made his mark early in this action was a man who constantly boasted as to how much he hated the Germans.
Whenever we were close enough to their position, he took great delight in shouting his feelings to them in the
loudest and most colorful language. He was a good, reliable, and completely unselfish soldier. After I had been
wounded in Normandy, I returned to our Company just after they entered Germany in early September. As of then,
till some time later, all I had to wear was the old, flimsy field jacket. The weather became quite a bit colder
and uncomfortable as the weeks went by. One night when we were in position outside of Stolberg, this man disappeared
from our position; several hours later he reappeared and without a word, simply threw a mackinaw at me. I found
out later that he had crawled out into a "no man’s land" area, which was under constant fire, to one
of our knocked out tanks, located this mackinaw and crawled back with it. His name was Fred Suedmier.
Fred had his moment this night when a group of German soldiers was found to be in a small depressed area between
some of the foundations just ahead of us. With fires in the village flaring and then dying and flaring again, it
was at times possible to catch glimpses of some of them trying to flee to a more rearward position. Suedmier positioned
himself prominently on a pile of rubble, and with the ever present trickle of tobacco juice at the corner of his
mouth, began shooting and spitting and lecturing at the top of his lungs. He seemed to take particular umbrage
at their dietary preferences and also at their hereditary flaws, because he continually taunted them with, "Come
on you Kraut eatin’ sons of bitches, why don’t you come out and fight?"
What with Suedmier’s performance and a feeling that we were in a pretty strong position, there was a rather light
hearted atmosphere among us, especially after we had been there some time and someone called our attention to one
house to our right rear that seemed to have been relatively untouched. The question was asked if anyone had checked
out that house, and it was found that no one had been in it. A few men then entered it and in a short time emerged
with at least ten or twelve German prisoners who had been in there all the while. There was quite a bit of joking
and laughing as this party of prisoners was formed up to be taken back to the rear. After that was taken care of,
several of us took a position lying behind a small earthen mound by the fence line to the right of the destroyed
houses. As we lay there, there was an instant of activity right behind us. Then someone spurted right between us
and with a few wild leaps disappeared into the darkness in front of us. This must have been one member of that
party that had surrendered who had decided to make a run for it, and the fact that the action developed behind
us caught us so totally by surprise that not a shot was fired.
At about this very same time we heard a commotion behind us and found out that a new company was moving in behind
us. It was a Company of the 75th Division. The fact that they were a new unit became quickly identifiable because
of the way they were setting up. As the commands were shouted about, everyone was being addressed most formally.
It was Sgt. so and so, Cpl. this and Cpl. that, and this gave the whole setting somewhat of a Basic Training atmosphere.
This, too, added to what turned out to be a totally unwarranted feeling of confidence and light heartedness in
our situation at the time. Ahead of us we could hear the sound of vehicle movement, an indication that the Germans
were about ready to make their move. It sounded as though they were attempting to bring a tank around to our right
flank where, if successful, it could have been extremely damaging. Our Platoon Leader, Lt. Mellitz, recognized
this and called for the bazooka team, which happened to be George Sampson and me. He told us that he wanted us
to move up the roadway, which ran off to the right, and to position ourselves so as to be ready to intercept the
tank if it approached us from that direction. As George and I moved out, we passed another bazooka team and I tried
unsuccessfully to cajole them to go with us to back us up in case the first shot missed; this they declined to
do. But no sooner had we reached a suitable place when we were recalled. Occupying the tank on the left side of
the intersection as we entered the edge of the village was an officer by the name of Capt. Jordan. He had ordered
Lt. Mellitz to have our unit push further into the village. When George and I returned to the spot where Lt. Mellitz
was, along with other members of our squad, we found out about these new orders. As we waited there to form up,
there was a further exchange between Jordan and Mellitz. Mellitz called over to Jordan and asked him if he intended
to send his tanks with us. Jordan replied that they would not be going with us, whereupon Mellitz asked "Then
what will we have for support?" Jordan responded, "You have your rifles!" The reply that Mellitz
then made would become his epitaph. "I’ll do it, but I don’t like it!" Within less than five minutes
after he uttered that remark, he would be dead.
Part Two
After that conversation between Mellitz and Jordan, Lt. Mellitz formed us up and he led off with several men on
the left side of the street and a few of us on the right, in the opening stages of this new attack. We hadn’t moved
more than a few yards down both sides of the street into the village when there was an explosion of unusual force.
It must have been a round of high explosive from a nearby German tank. That shell left Lt. Mellitz dead, as well
as a man by the name of Lester Wertman, and a number of our men wounded, so the attack never really got under way.
George Sampson must have been hit by a piece of flying debris that struck him in the arm with such force that it
knocked his rifle out of his grasp. Convinced that his arm was broken, he made his way back to where Sgt. Fickel
was, and reported his condition. Hoping against hope that his arm really was broken, was a short lived expectation
because Sgt. Fickel told him to raise his arm, and when Sampson obediently raised it, Fickel informed him that
his diagnosis was faulty, since he could not possibly have raised it if it had been broken. Sampson immediately
compounded his problem by informing Fickel that he had lost his rifle in the course of that action, when it was
blown from his grasp, and he wasn’t sure exactly where it was. Sgt. Fickel told him in no uncertain terms that
the rifle was his full responsibility and no matter where it was, Sampson would have to retrieve it or suffer the
consequences. By now the tank fire was supplemented with machine gun fire that was raking the street through which
Sampson would have to crawl in order to find that errant rifle. Picking his way through the rubble, in the face
of the continued fire, this good and obedient soldier somehow found it and brought this treasure back to display
to his pleased Squad Leader.
It was quite obvious that the round fired from that tank was the opening phase of what would certainly be a German
counter attack, because we could sense the initiative being assumed by the Germans. Within a short time, in addition
to the machine gun firing a grazing fire down the main street of the village, there was a gun that opened up on
our left flank, and shortly thereafter another off to our right front. The fire from these flank guns converged
behind us. The firing escalated considerably with direct fire now being thrown at tanks to the right side of the
intersection, and within a short time the three were damaged to the point of being unusable. Our squad, by this
time, had taken up positions inside the rubble filled foundation walls of the house in front of those disabled
tanks. It seemed now that an all out infantry assault would be imminent. With the intensity of the fire, our position
soon became untenable, and an order was issued for us to cross the street into the rubble of the foundation of
the house directly in front of the tank occupied by Capt. Jordan.
Crossing a street that is covered with machine gun fire is an unenviable prospect, especially when there are four
or five men who must cross. The first man might take the enemy by surprise, but after that it can be a deadly situation.
One man crossing a street strewn with debris and lots of broken glass makes as much noise as a whole squad under
ordinary circumstances. Not being able to get a running start, but having to crawl over a foundation wall and immediately
into the street carrying a Bazooka or the bazooka rounds, in addition to the rifle and the other gear, along with
that psychological impediment of knowing that you must pass the bodies of your own two comrades as you cross that
piece of ground, makes that short expanse seem a mile wide. Fortunately, the four or five of us who made that dash
across the road made it without incident, and joined those few men who were already there. Among those who were
there, inside that rubble filled foundation, was also a very badly wounded tanker with a sucking chest wound, who
had earlier been dragged from one of the knocked out tanks. Harry Clark and George Sampson helped carry him back
for the help that he so desperately needed. That would leave the number in that position yet further diminished.
We could sense that the Germans seemed ready to move in for the kill, because judging from the sounds, they couldn’t
have been more than a house or two away. Captain Jordan, fully aware of our predicament, called to us and told
us that there was really only one alternative, and that was to call fire down on our own position. At this point,
those few of us who were there, felt so sure of the impending assault on our position, that we had little trepidation
whatsoever about this. At least we knew that we would have some warning about the incoming barrage, giving us time
to press into the rubble as hard as we could. Captain Jordan called in the co-ordinates for the fire, and, remarkably,
it fell all around us, and not one round fell inside the walls of that foundation. Whatever reservations we might
have had about the decision, it seemed to have done the job, because we did have a respite from any immediate action
against us.
One of the mysteries of that action that a few of us had wrestled with for years is, who had given the orders to
withdraw, because unknown to those of us who were in that position at that time, not only had our Company withdrawn,
but also the 75th unit that was behind us. To suggest that there was a mass abandonment of that position that night
would be totally false for the simple reason, that there were too many men there who would never leave a position
at all unless they were specifically ordered to do so. Some one gave the order. This was not an illustrious night
for our unit, but whatever was done, was done at the behest of someone with authority.
At daybreak, the order came to those of us who were there inside the walls of the rubble filled foundation of that
house to fall back to a small stone barn that was to the left rear of the position we had been occupying. Again,
who issued the order, I do not know, but I would adamantly affirm that there was not one move made on the part
of those of us who were there that was not done under command.
Once more we would have to brace ourselves to make a dash through that field of fire, which was laid down by that
machine gun firing from our left front. The last few of us who had been in that forward position made the withdrawal
without incident or casualty. When we reached the small stone barn, it was already occupied by a handful of men.
Out back, behind this barn, was a light machine gun manned by two men; inside, there were several men in place
in the hayloft in the top of the barn, and on ground level, the windows were also manned. In total, there couldn’t
have been more than ten men now in that building. After having been up all night, and not remembering when we had
eaten last, I was quite hungry and happened to have a small tin of cheese, the least desirable of all rations,
in my pocket. I had just opened this can of cheese, when someone up in the hayloft called down that there was a
German tank approaching down a roadway that ran east of the barn. (This would have been to the left of the roadway
as we entered the village.) Soon a second tank was mentioned and then a third; by the fourth, my appetite was completely
gone and I discarded the can of cheese. This counting continued until he had numbered thirteen tanks, each one
carrying a compliment of Infantry. When this tank column was directly opposite us, one of the men on the light
machine gun behind the barn opened up on this column. Several gun turrets swung over in our direction. One fired
and with one round there were two dead men beside that weapon. As this column of tanks continued on its way, we
knew that it would eventually bypass not only us, but would also move by the place where the half-tracks too would
be cut off. This is what appeared to us as we witnessed the events in that barn.
As all of this was transpiring, there were some shouted communications between Capt. Jordan and the young Lieutenant
whom I did not know, but who was now in command of our small detachment in that barn. Precisely what was said,
we did not know, but from what we gathered, the Lieutenant must have suggested trying to return to the half-tracks,
but Capt. Jordan must have ordered him to stay. The sum of it was that the young officer said that whatever we
would do would be decided by those of us in the barn and no one else; most democratic, but a highly unmilitary
concept. I must confess, that the only time I ever voted in the Army was in that small barn, and the vote was unanimous
to try to make it back to the half-tracks.
With the events unfolding so rapidly, I believe we voted the way we did because of the electrifying effect that
the news of the Malmady massacre had on everyone. We had heard that the German units were killing prisoners, and
some of our men had also seen some of the Belgian civilians that had been killed by the enemy in the LaGleize area.
This, although not once mentioned, contributed most certainly to our decision.
Since the German column was fully in view, we knew that getting out of that barn would not be a simple matter.
One by one we made our way out of the barn, past the bodies of those two dead men on that machine gun, through
a series of cattle fences, and then up that steep embankment that would bring us onto the elevated roadway. I knew
that once we were up on the road there was a ditch on the far side that would offer some protection, but the question
was, would the column take notice of this handful of men and do something about it. Fortunately, we must have been
considered small prey, because nothing was done to hinder us.
The burden of leaving a place that you have already taken is an immeasurable one, and that feeling, along with
the sight that greeted me as I made my way back up that roadway was not only unpleasant, but even sickening. The
ditch beside that roadway was littered with all kinds of gear, all of it just about brand new, that had been thrown
away as the new troops had hastily retreated.
When I got back to the half-tracks, I was surprised by the almost casual attitude that seemed to prevail there,
in such a contrast to the desperate situation that we had just left and the serious threat that seemed to be developing
so close at hand.
There were already the brilliantly colored panels displayed on the vehicles for aerial recognition purposes, coinciding
with the appearance of several P-38’s. I had always considered this aircraft to be the most beautiful and graceful
in all of our aerial arsenal, and its appearance was a pleasant surprise. We had heard, however, that some P-38’s
had caught one of our Companies in the Battalion and mauled it quite severely, so this tempered my feelings somewhat.
One aspect of their performance, as they appeared to be working over the German column that was threatening us,
was the contrast between the pilots of the P-38’s and those of the P-47’s. The P-38’s came in rather quickly and
made dives that were quite shallow in comparison to the P-47’s. When the 47’s came in for close support, it seemed
as though they circled endlessly, but when they came in, they came with long steep dives that seemed to make them
most accurate and effective.
By this time I was feeling completely exhausted and so I climbed onto the hood of our half-track to rest, but no
sooner had I done this when an irate officer, who I believe was a Colonel, pulled us in a Jeep. He demanded to
know what we were doing there and why we were not down in the village. By this time the threatening German column
must have been stalled by the air bombardment and eventually retreated. The Colonel told us that he would have
the artillery pour smoke and white phosphorous into the village for about twenty minutes and then, without fail,
we would take the place.
Within a very few minutes we again were on our way down that roadway, this time in the daylight, moving at a very
quickened pace. The whole valley was now shrouded in smoke, giving us some degree of protection. No sooner did
we reach the edge of the village, when again we were greeted with heavy machine gun fire. The tanks, along with
a few Bazooka rounds eventually silenced some of them, and we moved through quite rapidly. Once again we would
have to pass the bodies of Lt. Mellitz and Wertman. The body of one man lay fallen over the hitch of a small trailer
that had been abandoned in a previous engagement; the other man was right beside him.
When we entered one of the first partially intact houses on the left side of the street, we were met by a Belgian
woman, who had somehow survived that awful ordeal of fire. Standing in a large room with the floor literally covered
from wall to wall with blood, she described a meeting that some of the German soldiers had in that room the night
before, in which they were discussing the idea of surrendering. Evidently that counsel must have voted too, in
favor of not being taken prisoner. What a haunting bit of information that was. We can only conjecture what would
have happened if we had just prevailed a bit longer and more persistently.
After we eliminated some of the machine guns that held up our initial entry into the village, the fire did subside
a little, although there were other machine guns that continued to harass us continually. Later in the day we caught
a particularly heavy barrage from what must have been that column of tanks that had withdrawn behind the village
and then thrown this particularly heavy fire on us.
There was a troublesome sniper who made life rather difficult for us during the course of the night, especially
when we were on guard duty by a water trough near the eastern entrance of the town. The next morning, we decided
that he must have been in the steeple of the solitary chapel in the village, so we put a Bazooka round through
the door of the church, and strangely, the sniper fire ended.
There was a particularly strange incident that occurred in the closing moments of the retaking of the village,
when George Sampson and I were moving toward one of the few remaining houses in the village. We approached a side
street, and literally bumped into an American coming up that side street, and who was it, but Major McGeorge, armed
with nothing but his map case, and a .45. What a remarkable man!
That day we again mounted our half-tracks and headed for a rear area where we located inside a farm compound. This
would be our first significant break since being committed in the LaGleize action. Since this was in a relatively
well-protected area, our situation could now be much more relaxed, and this permitted us certain liberties that
were otherwise unthinkable. The important one was simply to hook up the radio that we had, wiring it to the half-track
battery and we could have the enjoyment of listening to music. After days and nights of that unceasing tension
of the combat environment, we entered the kitchen of that Belgian farmhouse, we took off our gear, stacked it along
the kitchen wall, slid onto the long wooden benches that surrounded the table, and just sat there wearily looking
at each other. Someone had already hooked up the radio and brought it into the house and set it on the table in
front of us. The radio was turned to the Armed Forces Network Station, which was broadcast from London. What occurred
next sounds so staged and contrived that I was reluctant to include it, but it was neither staged nor contrived,
simply one of those inexplicable moments that life constantly produces. The woman’s voice from London then said,
"I would like to dedicate this next song to the men of the Third Armored Division. The name of the song is
" " I’ll Get By. " " The words to that song were, " I’ll get by as long as I have you,
through there be rain and darkness too, I’ll not complain, I’ll see it through. Poverty may come to me, it’s true,
but what care I, say, I’ll get by as long as I have you." At this time I was nineteen years old and single,
but with me were a number of married men, some with children. The impact of that song at that moment was so emotionally
devastating, so charged, that several of those men simply broke down, and without embarrassment, sat and wept.
