by Leo Barron
About a half hour before departure, Colonel Harper finally arrived and relieved Colonel Allen to assume control of the regiment. Harper had been in England with Colonel Robert F. Sink of the 506th when they got the word to return to Mourmelon. The two had quickly hopped on a cross-channel flight, making it back to Mourmelon in the nick of time.54
Colonel Cooper, the determined commander of the 463rd PFAB, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He continued to search for Colonel Harper, hoping the 327th’s commander would agree to take along the 463rd. Harper was already moving his glider fighters out by the truckload when Cooper finally found him.
The roar of ten-ton trucks chugging by forced Cooper to yell in Harper’s ear: “Do you need some artillery?”
“Hell, yes, I can use a battalion; just follow my regiment out,” Harper replied, smiling at his good fortune.
Cooper had the foresight and cocksure optimism to have ordered the 463rd to hook up its guns and load its ammo and equipment in the trucks the day before. He told Harper he could immediately give the order to his men to head out. Grinning, Cooper walked back to his command vehicle at the head of his convoy. At last, the 463rd might get a chance to show these 101st boys just what they could do.55
Before the war, Private First Class Ken Hesler, from Greenup, Illinois, had been a butcher for Kroger’s. Now he was a veteran of Dog Battery of the 463rd. Hesler remembered the hubbub that sent so many of the 101st men tearing around the Mourmelon barracks, getting ready to move out.
“We were the ‘bastard battalion’ in that we were temporarily assigned to different divisions,” Hesler recalled later. “We had an advantage moving out, as our ammo trucks were already loaded at Mourmelon. [Compared to the rest of the division] we were well supplied prior to setting out for Bastogne.”56
The young artilleryman remembered loading up in the rear of a tarp-covered truck driven by an African-American of the famed “Red Ball Express.” After years in the army, Hesler had a developed a useful knack for finding a place to sleep or making himself comfortable in almost any situation. This ride was a bit different. Nervously, he and the other troopers noticed the truck was full of five-gallon gasoline cans. For Hesler, it was a night of “fitful sleep with my legs stretched across the gasoline cans.”57
As they said good-bye to Mourmelon, Hesler and the rest of his battalion watched from their trucks as the 327th Glider Infantry rolled by. At 2130 hours, after the 1/401st had passed, it was their turn, and with a wave of his hand Colonel Cooper led his wayward band of red legs to Belgium.58
Within hours of being notified, more than 380 trucks packed with airborne infantry started down the roads toward the Franco-Belgian border. From there, the endless train of vehicles was heading east over the Belgian border to a split at the fork in the main road. The convoy carrying troopers of the 101st snaked its way northward toward Werbomont.
1600 hours to evening, Monday, 18 December 1944
Headquarters, VIII Corps
Bastogne, Belgium
Fred MacKenzie never felt so lucky. As a reporter for the Buffalo Evening News, he was the only news correspondent in Bastogne with the 101st Airborne. MacKenzie had worked for several years for the Associated Press in Pittsburgh and the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph. He had met General McAuliffe several days prior to the news of the German breakthrough at the Scribe Hotel in Paris. Always one with a nose for news, MacKenzie asked to join the 101st at Mourmelon. An amused McAuliffe agreed; having a reporter on board might give the young 101st Airborne some good coverage for the folks back home. MacKenzie drove down with the general to the camp.
Things at Mourmelon were pretty dry from a reporting standpoint—the occasional personality piece on a particular trooper for his hometown or an awards ceremony. Then on December 17 came a stroke of incredible luck. Word came down that the 101st was moving out to counter the German attack, and MacKenzie wanted in. He did not want to miss out on a great story, and his senses told him there was one in the offing. At first, General Mac was reluctant. He had his hands full with organizing the entire division and getting it to Werbomont in one piece. (The division’s original orders were to go to Werbomont and not Bastogne.) McAuliffe gave the eager reporter fair warning—where they were going, they were sure to see combat. MacKenzie said he didn’t care. In the end, General McAuliffe acquiesced.59 Now the intrepid reporter was driving along with the division commander, on their way to Belgium. Anyway, McAuliffe had more to worry about than a single reporter. He hadn’t heard back from the advance party, and it was now Monday afternoon. Concerned, he decided to move out ahead of the division and seek more information for himself.
Just thirty miles south of Werbomont, McAuliffe glanced down at his watch and realized the trip took a lot less time than he had planned. Realizing he had time to kill, and still craving information, he looked over his shoulder at Colonel Kinnard and said, “Harry, I think I’ll check up on the situation before we go on up there. There’s a road junction ahead. We’ll turn and go to VIII Corps headquarters at Bastogne to see what we can find out.”60
McAuliffe’s driver sped southeast toward Bastogne. Wisely, they approached the town from the west, where the roads remained relatively clear of traffic. Once inside of town, they found the roads choked with half-tracks, self-propelled artillery, and trucks. In addition to the heavy vehicle traffic, ragged and haggard GIs walked along the sides of streets, looking more like wayward zombies than combat soldiers.
McAuliffe and Kinnard instantly knew something was wrong. Even MacKenzie, the civilian, could see that things were amiss. To the horror of the officers in the jeep, it seemed the defense of Bastogne was falling apart.
Kinnard finally voiced what everyone was thinking as the jeep weaved its way through the masses of vehicles and humanity: “Sir, unless these people are having a premature case of jitters, I’d say the Germans must be barreling this way pretty fast.”
McAuliffe nodded. “So I was thinking. We’ll soon find out.”61
McAuliffe and his retinue arrived at Heinz Barracks at 1600 hours that evening. Inside the headquarters, chaos reigned. No one knew where the Germans were. Worse yet, no one seemed to know where the Americans were either. All that could be discerned was that part of the 10th Armored and 9th Armored divisions were somewhere east of town, fighting the Germans, but no one had any idea as to their exact locations or status. In contrast to his staff, Middleton was calm, a lighthouse standing tall amid the crashing waves.62
Middleton informed McAuliffe that per 12th Army Group, his orders were changed. The Screaming Eagles would be redirected to Bastogne. General Bradley had concurred with Middleton when Middleton had called earlier, telling him that Bastogne could be important to holding up the German offense, and he needed a division, pronto.
“Tony, there’s been a major penetration here,” Middleton said as he pointed to the region between St. Vith and Gemünd on a Belgian map. “Certain units of mine are shattered, especially the 106th Infantry Division and the 28th Infantry Division.”
Middleton waved his hand over the area east of Bastogne. “Somewhere in this area, 9th Armored and 10th Armored divisions are heavily engaged with the enemy. Combat Command B of the 10th Armored Division has established roadblocks to the northeast, east, and southeast of here. I believe the enemy is just outside of town.”
The news hit McAuliffe like a brick.
There was a pause. Middleton concluded by telling McAuliffe that unfortunately he had to depart. First Army General Courtney Hodges had ordered Middleton and his staff to leave Bastogne to the 101st and make haste for Neufchâteau, approximately sixteen miles to the southwest. There Middleton was hoping to reform the VIII Corps HQ and start planning for the immediate counterattack to drive the Germans back.63
As McAuliffe peered over Middleton’s shoulder at the map, he knew he had to get the word to the rest of the 101st column and let them know that Bastogne was their destination. He chose an assembly area for his men in the fields around the town of Mande
Saint-Etienne, about three and a half miles to the west of Bastogne. It was close and accessible by road, as well as open enough to accommodate the mass of troopers and vehicles that would soon be arriving. With Middleton’s help, he began to pick out areas around Bastogne where he might first have to commit his men to battle as soon as they arrived. Most of this area, the two generals agreed, was, for the time being, to the east. Luckily, the Screaming Eagles wouldn’t be alone in defending the town. They would have help from others.64
CHAPTER THREE
“Come Any Way Possible to Bastogne, but Get There.”
“Associate with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation: for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.”
—Attributed to George Washington1
1200–1600 hours, Sunday, 17 December 1944
Headquarters of the 513th Fighter Squadron of the 406th Fighter Group
Mourmelon-le-Grand (“Camp Mourmelon”), France
The legendary status of the 101st Airborne often overshadows the fact that so many other units helped defend Bastogne. Parts of the 9th and 10th armored divisions, parts of two tank destroyer battalions, and survivors of the various divisions shattered by the initial breakthrough (such as remnants of the 28th Infantry Division, who took sanctuary in Bastogne after being pitched back early on December 16) played key roles.
Airpower, too, was an important and overlooked weapon in the effort to save Bastogne from the German advance. Missions flown by the pilots and crews of supply aircraft and fighter-bombers contributed as much to Bastogne’s salvation as did the hard-pressed ground troops.
One fighter-bomber unit in particular forged a lasting bond with the Screaming Eagles prior to their deployment to Bastogne. Based at Mourmelon were more than 320 fighter pilots and ground crew of the 513th Fighter Squadron of the 406th Fighter Group. The Army Air Force men had inhabited the buildings of the old French army barracks for some time before the first units of the 101st had arrived from Holland. They had been using the nearby airfield to fly the occasional ground-support mission or escort the lumbering C-47s that would fly in supplies and troopers all during the month of November.2
At first there was some grumbling from the paratroopers about having to share a post with the fighter pilots and their crews. As the men from both units got to know one another, a friendly rivalry matured into many friendships and mutual respect. The airborne troops admired the dedication of the “fighter jockeys,” whose typical missions during the early part of December involved taking off in almost zero visibility and destroying armored vehicles and transports on the ground. The paratroopers could respect this “roll-up-your-sleeves” warfare, which helped them do their job on the ground, more than if the 513th were just made up of a bunch of “Hollywood flyboys” trying to scratch another Messerschmitt kill on the side of their cockpit.
In turn, the pilots and crews of the P-47 Thunderbolts were awed by the stories of ground combat the paratroopers shared over beers at the local watering holes. Screaming Eagle veterans relished telling stories of furious combat against the Nazis in Normandy and Holland to the eager air corps men.
A writer for the 406th Occupier, the 406th Fighter Group’s unit paper, wrote about the relationship with the 101st troopers: “A certain amount of friendly barter went on between the two organizations and all the C-47s used to fly in equipment to them landed at our strip.”
First Lieutenant Howard M. Park of International Falls, Minnesota, was a veteran fighter pilot. He had flown a mix of ground-attack and escort missions since arriving in England in April, and was wounded during one mission in September. Upon his successful convalescence and return to active duty, his squadron was based in October to Mourmelon-le-Grand.3
Park busied himself with training several of the new replacement pilots, taking up flights of “Jugs”—the nickname for the powerful Republic P-47 Thunderbolt fighters—and familiarizing the rookie pilots in poor-weather flying. Park would teach the new pilots how to fly a straight course using instruments and how to fly their aircraft in tight formation. The training was timely, as the area was typically socked in with thick cloud cover on a daily basis.4
The day of the 101st Airborne Division/Army Air Force game, Park was too busy to attend it. He worked closely on the flight lines with his ground crews, making sure the massive Jugs were armed, fueled, and ready for action, whenever and whatever the next mission might be.
Already that morning there was a buzz afoot on the flight lines. A group of sixteen P-47s of the 513th had taken off from Mourmelon and mixed it up in a dogfight with several German Me (Bf) 109s over the town of Zülpich. The mission was flown in support of the U.S. 8th Infantry Division, which was being pushed hard by the Germans. Fliers like Park were excited. When the pilots returned that afternoon, they claimed they had shot down seven German fighters.5
Park knew something big was up. Since D-day, the Luftwaffe rarely challenged the American fighter-bombers. It was too costly for them, and when did they come up, it was in small numbers. Now here was a flight of forty Messerschmitts trying to contest the skies over western Germany. Why the sudden change? He would soon find out. By 1415 he was pulling his P-47D “Big Ass Bird II” into the air, hoping to bag some 109s of his own.
Strapped to his wings were two five-hundred-pound bombs—an early Christmas present for some hapless German soldier. Once aloft, Park and his squadron mates were heading 120 degrees, flying southeast into Germany for a ground support mission. As was typical this time of year, the sky was overcast and the cloud cover was at 12,000 feet.6
It didn’t take long for Park to find his German fighters. His flight of twelve P-47s saw a group of P-38 Lightnings tangling with six Focke-Wulf 190s near the western border of Germany. After seeing the bandits, the squadron leader gave the order. Park and the rest of his squadron jettisoned their bombs to make their planes more maneuverable, and then dived into the scuffle.
In seconds, Park had one FW-190 hugging his tail like a hungry yapping dog at his heels. This dog, though, had four 20mm cannons mounted in its wings that had enough bite to bring down a B-17 Flying Fortress. Park nervously watched the tracers from the cannons zip past his canopy. He jinked his Thunderbolt to the left, and the great big plane barely responded with a snap roll. It was acting sluggish. Desperately, Park swiveled his head around in all directions and quickly discovered why. One of the five-hundred-pound bombs was still attached under his wing. Park was sure he was a dead man as he desperately tried to shake the bomb loose. Luckily, his wingman fired some bursts and chased the FW-190 off Park’s tail. Meanwhile, eddying all around him, the battle continued. As Park frantically struggled to release the bomb, parachutes drifted past him like dandelion seeds. Finally the Germans broke off, leaving the skies to the Americans.
Park sank back in his seat, not believing his good fortune. After all, not everyone in his squadron made it back home that day. The flight had lost one pilot who bailed out after colliding with a diving P-38 during the aerial fracas. On the other hand, the Luftwaffe suffered losses, too, and three of Park’s buddies each shot down an FW-190. As Park flew back to Mourmelon, he wondered what got the Luftwaffe buzzing again.
The next morning, Park and his fellow fliers would learn about the German offensive, as they watched their comrades and friends in the 101st Airborne load up on trucks. Unfortunately, for the next five days bad weather would ground the 513th Fighter Squadron. Due to the inclement weather, Park and his frustrated squadron mates could do nothing but sit and wait, hoping to soon fly in support of their friends in the 101st.7
Late Monday, 18 December, to late Tuesday, 19 December 1944
705th Tank Destroyer Battalion convoy
Kohlscheid, Germany, to Bastogne, Belgium
Another lucky ace up McAuliffe’s sleeve was a fast-moving tank destroyer unit that managed to slip into Bastogne at the last minute. It was the 705th Tank Destroyer Battalion, a veteran unit that had fought through France after D-day. The 705th had arr
ived in the ETO (European theater of operations) with the lethal M18 “Hellcat” tank destroyer. The M18 was rather new to the allies in Europe, and represented an interesting take on the tank destroyer tactical philosophy. TDs (tank destroyers) were primarily designed for defensive operations, to destroy enemy tanks. The M18 was a perfect example of this. The tracked vehicle had a powerful 76mm gun designed for penetrating thick German armor. But most incredibly, the Hellcat was one of the fastest military vehicles ever designed. It could travel on good roads at speeds over fifty-five miles per hour powered by its 460-horsepower radial aircraft engine.8
Unlike an M4 Sherman tank—the standard tank of the U.S. Army—the M18 was designed to “shoot and scoot.” In other words, instead of getting into a head-on, tank-versus-tank battle, the Hellcat was supposed to race ahead and ambush German armor, and then race away before the German tanks could return fire. The downside was that return fire on an M18 was devastating. Its designers had made sacrifices in order to give it such great speed. The vehicle was lightly armored (only one-half to one inch of steel protected the crew, compared to a Sherman’s 2.5-inch thick frontal armor and a German Panzerkampfwagen Mark IV’s typical three or more inches).9
Anthony C. Breder, a member of the 705th, bluntly summed up the chances of surviving an armor-piercing hit to an M18. “They were pretty good tanks—the best the Americans ever made. Fast, you know—fifty-five miles per hour. No armor, though. If a German gun shot at you it went right through that armor like paper.”10
The 705th was holding the line at Kohlscheid, Germany, with the U.S. Ninth Army, when it received orders on the eighteenth to head south for Bastogne. In command of the 705th was Lieutenant Colonel Clifford D. Templeton. That night, he ordered First Lieutenant Richard B. Miller’s 1st Platoon, Reconnaissance Company, to scout ahead and find the fastest and safest route into Bastogne.
