by Leo Barron
Now Kokott also had to change his thinking. If they were being enveloped by fresh Allied airborne troops, he would need to arrange some immediate defense. He issued orders for all men, regardless of military occupation, to set up defenses around Hompre and as far west as Sibret and Clochimont. In addition, several of the division artillery batteries turned their guns 180 degrees to face southward. He also called up the reserves to buttress their defenses. There was little he could do about the airdrop, but he had to stop Patton from coming up from the south. Fortunately, a platoon of four monster Jagdtiger tanks was passing through Hompre. These tracked behemoths were the latest in Hitler’s arsenal of destruction. They weighed more than seventy tons and mounted 128mm cannon that could outshoot anything in the Allied inventory. Evidently they had become separated from their parent unit.
Kokott wrestled with his thoughts for a moment. They weren’t his for the taking, but he needed them badly. Seizing the opportunity, he commandeered the platoon of Jagdtigers and, together with a detachment of grenadiers from his Division Combat School, he sent the kampfgruppe south to Grandrue and Remichampagne to stop Patton’s 4th Armored Division. It was all he could do. Kokott returned to his command post and waited. If the Americans in Bastogne had, in fact, been reinforced, and Patton’s tankers were making jabs to the south, then the next few hours would be crucial.28
Noon, Saturday, 23 December 1944
101st Airborne Division Headquarters, Heinz Barracks
Bastogne, Belgium
McAuliffe and his staff had watched from the front entrance to the Heinz Barracks as the welcome sound grew in volume from the southwest. The pathfinders had done their job well. As the men nearby hollered in joy, the C-47s from Troop Carrier Command spread over Bastogne like angels with olive drab wings. From each aircraft dropped packages (“parapacks”) that blossomed with red, green, and blue parachutes and drifted lazily to the ground. Typically, red parachutes signaled ammunition, green was rations, and blue, water and other items.29 The parapacks mainly fell on the low and open ground the pathfinders had marked as a drop zone about a quarter mile due west near the town of Savy. To many watching the drop, the gently falling parachutes reminded them of the falling snow the day before.
Fred MacKenzie also witnessed the drop that day from the division headquarters. Outside, he had noticed a group of men steadily growing. MacKenzie, with the typical reporter’s nose for a story, followed the men. He overheard members of the division staff saying, “Wait and see,” and scanning the sky as if Santa and his sleigh would suddenly appear.
It was every bit as good. MacKenzie described what happened next: “Low over the field and town then swarmed objects so dear to their straining eyes they might not look upon [an] angel band with greater wonderment and joy. The objects were the foremost planes of a mass flight of 240 C-47 cargo carriers bringing them supplies. Here were messengers of tidings that the world of friends and decency had not forgotten the defenders of Bastogne.”
MacKenzie heard the men cheer and scream as if they were at a sporting event, watching each large plane float overhead with a roar. With a flair for the drama of the moment, MacKenzie later described the men’s glee as each aircraft passed, dropping bundles to the hard-pressed GIs below.
“Upturned faces in the headquarters courtyard were transfigured with rapture as the planes came on and on like great immortal carriers of good from heaven….”
MacKenzie noted one paratrooper among the group exclaim as he danced a little jig of joy, “We’ll beat the krauts now, sir.”30
In a letter written years later, Kinnard also shared his emotions:
“In my mind’s eye I recalled a soldier who saw his shadow on the snow. He began an Indian war dance whooping, hollering, jumping and stomping. He fully realized the importance to us of a break in the weather, which would permit air operations. Then I saw all the retrieval teams running for the precious bundles, which they correctly interpreted as assurance that we could, and would, hold Bastogne. It was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, which all who were there will never forget.”31
The GIs watched German antiaircraft fire lash several C-47s as they entered and exited the drop zone. Here and there a plane would start to smoke as some of the flak hit home. Several aircraft crashed into snowy fields within the American lines, or the aircrew bailed out of a smoking Dakota. Unfortunately, a few wound up on the wrong side of the lines and were quickly made prisoners by the Germans, but the main body of the flight did not deviate. The brave pilots kept a steady hand and continued to plow forward through the storm of bursting flak. The courage of the pilots won them new respect among the paratroopers, who had been somewhat critical of Troop Carrier Command’s reputation after the Normandy drops, where many paratroopers had been dropped and scattered way off target.
Because of the airdrop, the various regimental S4s collected nearly 4,000 rounds of 75mm howitzer ammunition, more than 1,400 rounds of 105mm ammunition, 3,300 rounds of 60mm mortar ammunition, 1,100 rounds of 81mm mortar ammunition, more than 410,000 rounds of .30-caliber machine gun ammunition, almost 900 bazooka rockets, and more than 56,000 rounds of .50-caliber machine gun ammunition. In addition to all the ammunition, the logistic crews amassed more than 16,000 K rations for feeding the troops. Not all of the parapacks fell where the Americans could recover them, but enough did to help resupply the dangerously diminishing essentials: artillery ammunition and medical supplies.32
The drop had been a tremendous success. Certainly more drops would be required, but it was a good start. The headquarters crew hoped that SHAEF’s best meteorologists could forecast similar weather tomorrow, Christmas Eve. If that was the case, perhaps, McAuliffe’s staff thought, another air supply mission could get through.
1200–1600, Saturday, 23 December 1944
3rd Platoon, Reconnaissance Company of
the 705th (one squad of Baker Company attached)
Flamierge, Belgium
Like Sergeant Layton Black in the 502nd, Carmen Gisi was glad to see the planes overhead. From his position at Flamierge, Gisi could count the parachutes dropping from the C-47s. The men knew what that meant: “There were parachutes dropping with ammo. I will never forget it; we were yelling and screaming with joy.”33
Meanwhile, the men of 3rd Platoon, Reconnaissance Company, had run into a problem. Their commandeered HMC M8 had decided to stop working. Some of the crew reckoned it had run out of gas. Worse yet, it was out of ammunition.34
As the men tinkered with the broken-down tank and tried to hunt up some jerry cans, Bostwick heard Blimline call to him from a nearby house. Blimp was upstairs, looking out a window. Bostwick ran over to the house and clambered up the stairs. An excited Blimp was gesturing. He had spotted a group of German soldiers moving back into Flamierge from the west. Using binoculars he had pilfered from one of the German POWs, Bostwick spied a German truck hiding behind a copse of trees several hundred yards from town. Grenadiers were pouring out the back and fanning out to attack Flamierge.35
German mortars pounded the town. The Americans went scrambling for cover. Voboril realized the Germans were coming in force again, and knew he and his men would need help. He ordered one of his armored car commanders to return to Flamizoulle and get more reinforcements or the town would be lost. The M8 sped out onto the roadway, driving for nearby Flamizoulle. Already other armored cars from Voboril’s recon unit were ferrying reinforcements into the growing melee in Flamierge.36
Rifle and machine gun fire echoed through the streets and off the tall houses and buildings in Flamierge. With the addition of reinforcements from both sides now, the fight between the Americans and the Germans was growing in intensity. The men of 3rd Platoon fought tenaciously to hold on to the town.
Back in Flamizoulle, Francis Walsh decided it was time to get back to his platoon. He had dropped the wounded Kreider off at the aid station and, upon hearing the renewal of gunfire back at Flamierge, hopped in the jeep and drove back. As the little jeep sped down the mile
of road separating the two towns, Walsh could hear mortar fire. Ditching the jeep for safety’s sake, he decided to make the rest of the run into town on foot. Grabbing his M1 carbine and web gear, he had just started off when he heard the familiar but frightening whooshing sound of incoming mortar rounds, dropping very close.
Walsh dived to the wet ground as several rounds burst near him, showering him with dirt. Nonplussed, he brushed himself off and continued into town. It was then that he noticed a formation of white-clad German grenadiers behind him, moving toward Flamizoulle. Walsh recalled the incident after the battle. He had observed “… the Germans moving down the road in an infantry formation. Headed down the road toward the area of Flamizoulle and they’re in white camouflage uniforms…” The Germans were apparently trying to cut the road, and cut off the Americans in Flamierge from the rest of the battalion in Flamizoulle. Walsh knew he had to get to Flamierge, find Lieutenant Voboril, and warn him. Time was crucial.
After several minutes of dodging and diving, he finally reached Voboril’s strongpoint. Panting, Walsh told the lieutenant the news that the Germans were about to cut them off. Voboril cursed. Whether he liked it or not, now he had to fall back. He shouted to the men, “Load up. We’re moving back to Flamizoulle.”
Voboril’s plan was simple. He was going to use the jeeps and armored cars to move the men back to the 1/401st roadblock outside of town. From there, they could reestablish some semblance of a defensive line before Flamizoulle.
The armored car sergeant Voboril had sent back to Flamizoulle returned by this time, bringing gas to try to fuel up the M8 HMC. Unfortunately, the gas didn’t help. When the crew pressed the ignition, nothing happened. Perhaps the lines were frozen by now, or perhaps the old tank had just given up the ghost. The men realized they didn’t want the tank to fall into German hands, so they tossed a white phosphorous grenade into the engine. The engine compartment smoked and caught fire. As the men turned and walked away, they cast a last look at the brave little gun carriage that had helped them out in their struggle to hold Flamierge. Now, though, it left them with one fewer means of transport for Voboril’s fallback plan.37
Bostwick, guarding the German prisoners in a stable that was attached to a house, heard the news they were leaving. By now German mortars were raining down, pummeling the town, and Bostwick could see a huge number of German landsers sprinting across an open area nearby. Sergeant Watson—Bostwick’s squad leader—told them about the armored car shuttle service waiting with engines running outside. Voboril said to move out the wounded first. While they ferried the bleeding troopers out, Bostwick, Gisi, and the others could do nothing but wait for the motorcade to return. In his account written after the war, Bostwick remembered his wait in the stable: “While in the stable, I stood between two horses and was surprised at the heat given off from their bodies. It was a bitterly cold day.”
When the armored cars came back, the men sensed this would be the last trip. Instead of attempting two more shuttle runs, Voboril and Watson realized time had run out. German gunfire was already so close it was “tearing chunks out of the buildings,” according to Bostwick. This time it would have to be all or nothing—as many could fit on the vehicles, and then the rest would have to take their chances withdrawing on foot.
The German grenadiers were only a few blocks away when 3rd Platoon started to move out. The men were leaning forward in the doorway of the building, preparing to sprint. Bostwick vividly described what happened next:
“This was it. A half dozen of us, together with the armored car and twelve prisoners, made a run for it. We ran and ran. The cross fire was murderous. Tracer bullets cut red patterns all around us and behind us. One soldier made the mistake of climbing atop the vehicle. A single bullet through his head and he toppled without a sound into the ditch. One of the prisoners was shot through the jaw; he didn’t make a fuss, just kept on running. After running the longest three miles of our lives, we literally stumbled into the company area.”
When the exhausted men reached the roadblock, it was 1600 hours. Unfortunately, Flamizoulle wasn’t much safer than Flamierge by that point—still easily within striking distance of the German lines and extending far from the American lines. While the men of 3rd Platoon had been fighting for Flamierge, an even larger German force had attacked to the south of the 1/401st and was about to overrun the entire battalion. For Ray Allen and his men, the nightmare had just begun.38
1200–1330, Saturday, 23 December 1944
Area of operations, Charlie Company, 1/401st Glider Infantry
Just west of Mande Saint-Etienne, Belgium
Captain Preston Towns needed help, and he needed it now. Not long after the planes had dropped tons of supplies in his backyard, Kokott’s kampfgruppe from the 2nd Panzer Division commenced its attack on his understrength C Company. At about noon, outposts first reported panzers and white-clad troops emerging from the Bois de Valets woods, south of the main road leading to Saint-Hubert.
Towns forwarded the news up to Allen’s HQ. The observation post had counted five tanks and an undetermined number of infantry. Within minutes the armored column fell on Towns’s 2nd Platoon, which was manning a roadblock on the Mande Saint-Etienne–Hargimont road. Towns once again called up Bowen, his acting 3rd Platoon leader, to come to his command post in the old garage. Towns was in a quandary. He knew that Allen could not spare him any men from A and B companies, as the two were currently engaged in the battle for Flamierge. He would just have to keep shuffling around his platoons in the hope that would be enough.39
After several interminable minutes, Bowen arrived, panting, having plowed through the snow. The young sergeant’s face was rosy from gasping for air and the cold. Bowen poked his head inside the car.
“Bowen, 2nd Platoon’s under heavy attack. They don’t know if they can hold. They’ve had some casualties and need help. I want you to take [Elmer] Felker’s and [Joseph A.] Kloczkowski’s squads and move to 2nd Platoon’s roadblock to support them. Lieutenant Wagner will meet you near the intersection of the main road and the one out front of here and lead you into position. I don’t have to tell you to hurry. Good luck and do whatever you can.”
To Sergeant Bowen, Captain Towns looked tired, worn down, and despondent. The constant fighting and lack of sleep had taken their toll on his lanky commander, wearing lines in the typically youthful face. For Towns, Bowen was one of his best soldiers, and he was someone he could rely on when the chips were down, but he sensed he was sending Bowen into a hellstorm. Little did either man know it, but they would never see each other again.40
1330–1400, Saturday, 23 December 1944
1st Platoon, Reconnaissance Company, 705th Tank Destroyer Battalion
Approaching Mande Saint-Etienne, Belgium
First Lieutenant Richard B. Miller was thankful for a brief respite. Miller and his men were able to catch a breather after some hard work supporting Allen’s beleaguered battalion over the last few days. Like Voboril, Miller was the commanding officer of a recon platoon in the 705th’s reconnaissance company. Unlike Voboril’s crew, right now the men of his 1st Platoon were spending their time relaxing, smoking, and grabbing some grub. It was also a good opportunity to check the vehicles and restock ammo and supplies.
Earlier in the week, Miller’s recon platoon had been busy helping the 501st and conducting various reconnaissance work for Allen’s glidermen near Mande Saint-Etienne. Saturday morning Miller was told by the 705th headquarters to remain on a fifteen-minute alert in Bastogne.
Miller was a high-strung type, and though he was thankful that his men could grab some R & R, he felt it was time to get back into action. That afternoon, he got his wish. At 1330 hours, his platoon received orders to move out to Monty, the town across from the Marche road and on the edge of the 1/401st’s sector. Captain Towns’s cry for help was about to be answered. According to initial reports, German tracked vehicles had attacked the southern and western lines of Towns’s Charlie Company. On the way out
of Bastogne, Miller’s force joined up with a larger unit, including six M18 tank destroyers under the command of First Lieutenant Morris Klampert of A Company of the 705th. (Two of the tank destroyers were actually under the command of First Lieutenant James W. Crudgington of C/705.)
On the edge of town, the caravan stopped for a quick planning session. Amid the idling vehicles, the officers and senior NCOs met to discuss their strategy. Donald “Moe” Williams, first sergeant of the C/705th, was in attendance, making sure his tank commanders got the latest information before they headed out. Suddenly the familiar screech of incoming artillery shells split the sky. The men jumped off the road or behind buildings for cover, steadying their helmets with their hands as they ran.
The first few shells came in fast. Williams was thrown to the ground by the blast, which instantly filled the air around him with a cloud of dirt. The explosion rang in his head like a bell. Sergeant Ralph “Shorty” Vining of C Company ran to his aid with several others. Vining noticed that Williams was “knocked over by a blast and could hardly speak or breathe. I pulled him over to a building while the rest of our group started to move out.”
Williams eventually came to. He was okay, though he had a hell of a headache as a result of a severe concussion. For a while all he could do was sit against the wall of the building and shake. Miller, meanwhile, watched as the heavy vehicles fired up their engines and rumbled down the frozen highway. It was obvious to him that this was something big. The TDs were precious and few—the threat in this sector must be something serious if the division was sending this many into the area.
As Klampert’s makeshift platoon drove down the road, the crews did not know that actually several German panzers had beaten them to the punch while advancing toward Mande Saint-Etienne. Like an Old West ambush in a dark canyon, the Germans were going to have the first shot, and in armored warfare, tanks that got the first shot usually won.
