by Leo Barron
Moreover, the Germans showed no signs of giving up. After the bombings were over and the initial excitement had died down at the Heinz Barracks, Danahy had basically determined that the Ju 88s had done very little damage. Most of the losses the division suffered were the result of those killed at the 10th Armored Division’s aid station. According to the personnel officer, 123 casualties were in the aid station at the time. Danahy sighed. It seemed cold, but it was a military reality—from a tactical standpoint, the bombing had been a failure. The Luftwaffe had managed to inflict casualties on people who were already casualties. Furthermore, from a psychological standpoint, the deaths of their helpless comrades and Lemaire had only infuriated the GIs more. The night bombing may have been terrifying, particularly to the Bastognards who had endured it, but from a military standpoint, the Germans had accomplished very little harm to the American defense of Bastogne.
Of course, there was the possibility that the bombing was just the warm-up for the large-scale German attack that they had all been waiting for. What did the bombing presage? To Chappuis’ 502nd men near Champs and Allen’s bloodied 1/401st crew outside of Hemroulle, the answer was obvious. All day they had been feeding reports up to Danahy. To the men of those two units in the northwestern sector, it was clear the Germans were gearing up for one last effort to take Bastogne before Patton arrived. To Danahy, it was a good analysis. It was the sector they had figured would be hit next. Now the only question was when. The Germans would answer that in a couple of hours.18
Midnight to 0200, Monday, 25 December 1944
Temporary headquarters of the 115th Panzergrenadier Regiment
Troismont, Belgium, several kilometers west of Mande Saint-Etienne
Oberst Maucke stood inside a small, rustic farmhouse just east of the town of Salle at a place called Troismont. The farmhouse was small, but warm and cozy—hardly a fitting place where commanders planned a major attack on Christ’s birthday. No matter. He now had his orders, and had devised an overall game plan based on the scant maps and information Kokott’s headquarters could provide.
He reviewed the latest reports one more time before he spoke with his subordinates. According to the intelligence he received from the 26th Volksgrenadier, the Americans still had forces in the vicinity of Flamierge. Other than that, Maucke could make guesses, but he was unsure of the exact location of the American main line. All he had was a crude map with question marks on it. Maucke gritted his teeth in frustration. He truly had no idea as to the disposition of the American forces.
As the hour approached midnight, the various commanders filed into the quaint Belgian home in a scuffling of boots and a shaking of snow from their shoulders. They were all dressed in their cold-weather gear, wearing long coats or the padded Russian winter parkas. He studied their grim faces. They were good men, several whom he had served with before, such as Major Richard Wörner, who would lead the attack from the Al’Caure Woods with his first battalion as the spearhead. Maucke would attach the panzer company to his battalion to furnish the powerful Panzer Angriff that Kokott had been hoping for. In a supporting role was Major Adam Dyroff, the commander of 3rd Battalion, who would team up his men with the platoon of StuG III assault guns. Dyroff was already a legend of sorts in Maucke’s regiment, and Maucke’s shining star: Born in Langstadt bei Dieburg, Germany, Dyroff seems to have been born a military leader. He had been awarded the Knight’s Cross only several weeks prior, and had served in the division for several years, fighting in North Africa, Sicily, and at the bloody battle for Monte Cassino. Maucke wanted him in the attack, but he felt it might be time for someone else to lead the charge. Besides, it would be good to have a dependable, veteran leader for the follow-up. As for 2nd Battalion, its commander was Hauptmann Ernst Weichsel, and he was new to the job. In addition, many of his men were replacements. Therefore, Maucke thought it wise to place his battalion in the rear as a reserve, south of Salle in the Bois de Herbaimont woods.
There were other lesser commanders there, as well, including a Hauptmann Schmidt, the twenty-nine-year-old commander of the panzer unit attached to Wörner’s battalion, headphones dangling around his neck.
Maucke unfolded the map and began to outline his plan to his commanders. He made motions with his hands to indicate the direction of travel and attack for each unit. He was proud to see that his officers, a few who had served with him since Italy, seemed to put their unswerving trust in their commander, fully realizing the urgency and importance of this all-out attack.
“First,” Maucke said, pointing to a spot near Flamierge, “I want the commitment of two battalions in the forwardmost line.”
Maucke then looked over at Wörner. “On the right, I want your battalion mounted on tanks attacking in the direction of Bastogne via Flamizoulle, then onto the northern fringe of Saint-Etienne. Make sure your right wing is traveling along the road to Bastogne.”
Wörner nodded. His commander continued to explain. “Next to Wörner’s battalion, I want 3rd Battalion, staggered somewhat behind, but attacking past the northern rim of the village of Flamizoulle. From there, skirt south of the drainage here and then onto the northern portion of Bastogne.” As he spoke, Maucke traced the route on the map with his finger.
“The tank destroyers [StuGs] are to follow Dyroff’s battalion, in order to engage and neutralize any enemy tanks.” Maucke knew the morning would be dark and foggy, so communication would be vital. “Radio contact must be between every individual tank and with Wörner’s battalion.
“Finally,” he instructed, “I want Hauptmann Weichsel’s battalion in reserve. Understood?”
In closing, Maucke emphasized that there would be no preparatory bombardment prior to the attack. Unlike Schriefer, Maucke wanted to keep the element of surprise. As soon as the two lead battalions were engaged and had a better idea of the American strongpoints, artillery support could be brought to bear on any problematic American positions.
The three commanders nodded and muttered their acknowledgment. They were all veterans. To them, it was another operation.
“Everything must be ready by 0230 hours,” added Maucke. They all looked at their watches. It was already past midnight. Before the war, he would have added, Fröhliche Weihnachten—Merry Christmas—but now all he could add, looking at the grim and determined expressions of his officers, was, “Good luck.”19
From Givry to the north down to Flamierge to the south, the entire western sector of Bastogne’s road network was alive with the movement and sound of German might and muscle.
As the hour approached, Maucke climbed aboard his own command car that was sputtering to life and coughing out great puffs of exhaust in the frozen December air. Earlier that evening, he had seen the men of his regiment as they arrived and set up in their positions, loading equipment, topping off the fuel tanks of the panzers and StuGs, and gathering ammunition for the attack.
Many of Maucke’s grenadiers, artillery, and tank crews were exhausted from the strain of moving at breakneck speed to Bastogne over the past two days. Because of the loss of a field kitchen, shot up by the American fighter-bombers, one of his battalions had no rations. As the engines came alive on the self-propelled guns and tanks lining the farm trails and roads, the Panzergrenadiers cursed in the dark as they helped one another hand over hand onto the tanks and low-slung StuGs until each vehicle was loaded with some fifteen or more soldiers. Maucke took a long look at his brave men.
He would never see many of them again.
Midnight, Monday, 25 December 1944
Basement of the Pensionnat des Soeurs de Notre-Dame
Bastogne, Belgium
As the might of Hitler’s vengeance prepared to make a final, concentrated push upon Bastogne, the peacefulness of Christmas Eve was about to be shattered in a terrifying battle of steel, fire, and blood.
Despite the bombings and shelling, the people of Bastogne refused to surrender to this fear and give up hope. As fires consumed several buildings in Bastogne, many of the p
eople continued to celebrate midnight Mass. In the basement of Notre-Dame, a boarding school, students and wounded soldiers sang Christmas carols together. A priest, who was also a professor at the nearby college, presided over the services. The basement was stuffed from wall to wall with people. One section was filled with students and nuns, while the other section was mainly filled with the wounded U.S. soldiers, many lying on stretchers. In the middle of a corridor, between the two groups, was a Christmas tree brought in for this occasion. Outside, the fires continued. A couple of hours after the Mass ended, the German bombers returned; as if in response to the defiant and brazen courage of Bastogne’s inhabitants, the Germans bombed Bastogne again.20
CHAPTER EIGHT
“All I Know Is That I Wish
We Were Out of Here.”
(CHRISTMAS MORNING)
“Grant writes me the enemy are naked, hungry and very weak and that it is not necessary to place troops (sentries).”1
—Colonel Johann Gottlieb Rall, Hessian commander at Trenton, to his officers upon receiving a letter from British General James Grant on December 21, 1776
“Let them come. We want no trenches. We will go at them with the bayonet.”
—Rall’s written reply to Grant, 17762
0300 hours, Monday, 25 December 1944
Headquarters, 101st Airborne Division, Heinz Barracks
Bastogne, Belgium
Fred MacKenzie couldn’t sleep. He had managed to snatch only three hours after witnessing the drama and violence of that Christmas Eve in Bastogne. The images were still seared into his consciousness, in particular the burned and smoking rubble of the hospital and the dreadful bombing that night. How, in God’s name, he wondered, will I ever be able to write about all of this?
It was still dark at 0300 hours in the morning when MacKenzie decided to go outside for a stroll and talk with the MPs who guarded the entrance to the Heinz Barracks. They were statuesque sentinels, carefully keeping watch, particularly on the night sky now. MacKenzie had developed a good rapport with the men of the 101st, enduring and sharing what many of the soldiers were going through in the bitter siege. MacKenzie wondered how the exhausted guards managed to stay awake. When asked, the men replied that, like himself, after the shock of the early evening bombing, they had no problem staying up.
One of the sentries asked him, “If you had known what we were getting into, would you have come along?”
MacKenzie replied, “I don’t know. All I know is that I wish we were out of here.” Sometimes getting the story was not worth your life, he realized. It was a lesson he had to remind himself of over and over again.
MacKenzie pondered all that had happened since his arrival, and that of the Screaming Eagles, in Bastogne. A lot had happened since that Monday, now only a week ago. As MacKenzie stood, alone in his thoughts, he noticed that for the most part, the night was quiet. Quieter than usual. Sure, there was the typical sound of occasional distant shelling that the ears had grown so used to as to render it background, but it seemed fainter now. As he blew on his hands he could hear the sound of his own shoes on the paved grounds of the barracks, stepping up and down as he walked in place to keep warm.
Then, far off, he started to hear the familiar sound of an airplane engine overhead. The still night amplified it so the droning seemed like it was only a hundred feet above his head. MacKenzie’s heart started to race with the fear of another bombing ordeal.
As if reading his mind, one of the guards looked at him. “They are ours,” he declared.
“They are Black Widows, looking for Jerries,” added another. (Black Widows were U.S. twin-engine P-61 night fighters.)
To MacKenzie, recovering from a sudden cold sweat, they didn’t sound like American planes, but he kept his thoughts to himself. A second later, his worst fears were realized. The group of men heard a dreadful whistling that was the telltale sound of bombs falling. It had immediately answered the question of whether the planes were friend or foe.
“In here, sir!” one of the soldiers yelled, pointing to a foxhole.
MacKenzie didn’t need any directions. He knew where to go. In his book The Men of Bastogne, MacKenzie wrote:
The unsheltered bystander, [MacKenzie] too had heard the first note of Death’s Christmas Hymn. Instantly he was in the foxhole with them. The three watchmen of the night jammed themselves down in the hole’s depths. The bomb, and more bombs, crashed; how many and for how long the foxhole occupants did not know. At the beginning of each descent, if the bombs did not fall upon another, the three collapsed in the hole. And after the infernal things were down, each with agonizing roar, they expanded and rose as upright as they might until the next.3
Though it lasted only a few minutes, to the men stuffed inside the tiny foxhole like sardines it seemed an eternity. With each blast the ground heaved and the concussion whipped up a cold wind on the ground, blowing dirt and snow over the foxhole. When it finally ended, the four men cautiously peered over the edge of the hole to see what had been hit. To the west, MacKenzie saw a light show of green and white flares, careening tracers, and blinding explosions.
Suddenly a panicked GI appeared near the gates of the division headquarters. He exclaimed, “I’m getting out of here.”
He stepped out into town and then turned to face the men in the foxhole. He was clearly lost, like a boy wandering aimlessly in a large store, looking desperately for his parents. “Can I go this way?” he asked MacKenzie and the sentries. His voice sounded hesitant and shaky. Obviously the stress and the bombing had broken the man. The soldier was not a paratrooper but one of the many men who had filtered into town during the first few days, joining Team SNAFU. His unit had vanished, a victim of the German attack days before. What horrors he had experienced during the destruction of his unit, MacKenzie could only guess and sympathize.
MacKenzie finally answered the soldier’s question. “That way goes into town. Be careful.”
One of the sentries then looked over at MacKenzie and remarked, “You shouldn’t have said that, sir. You will scare him.”
The young soldier, realizing the folly of his actions, then turned around and walked back through the gate. By now the American artillery had joined the noisy night party, adding to the cacophony with scores of outgoing shells. Feeling the bombing was over, MacKenzie crawled out of the foxhole to watch the light show. It was a careless move on the part of the reporter. The foxhole was the safest place. Another soldier thought so too. He was a friend of the sentries and joined them, taking MacKenzie’s place and turning the already crowded foxhole into a human sandwich.
It didn’t take long for the reporter to realize the folly of his curiosity. The blazing fireworks display was hypnotizing, and despite the crash and boom of artillery, MacKenzie detected the dreaded but now familiar sound of airplane engines returning, once again zooming in above their heads. It was too late to jump into the foxhole he had just vacated. Caught in the open, he could hear the telltale shriek of the stick of bombs falling. All he could do was duck behind a stone pillar that was part of the gate entrance.
“You had better get into a hole on the other side,” one of the sentries shouted to MacKenzie over the din.
“I will as soon as I can make it,” the reporter screamed. The next string of bombs was already on its way.
MacKenzie scrambled into another foxhole that reminded him of a grave, which was even more unsettling, since the Bastogne cemetery was just across the street from the barracks. The bombs were exploding all around him, rattling his head and sucking the breath from his lungs with each thunderous blast. The next few moments were a hellish, terrifying blur as he dashed from one foxhole to the next, searching for some semblance of haven. Writing in the third person, MacKenzie described the scene in his book thusly:
Knees drawn up under chin and enfolded in his arms, he wound himself into a slight ball of which he was acutely conscious as his body, composed of flesh, blood, bones. This body was vulnerable. How he treasured it. H
e had a sensation of warm, friendly intimacy with the earth. At last he was unable to preserve the last vestige of self command. It seemed that the interminable shrieking from the black unreality around him must be funneled inevitably to burst on the bit of reality that was partly his body and partly the dear inches of earth that encompassed it. A flood of terror, vile and contaminating, washed away the little stability to which he had clung, and he could only think, or feel, or cry out, Thy will be done. Thy will be done. Thy will be done.
While MacKenzie prayed for an end to the apocalypse, the men in the operations room of the Cave sensed that this was the big push. Colonel Ned Moore was the senior officer on duty that Christmas morning. Everyone else, including General McAuliffe, was trying to catch a few hours of sleep. Moore could hear the artillery fire intensifying to the northwest. He immediately got on the phone to call Chappuis over at the 502nd’s sector and see what was up.
Before he could get a word out, the switchboard operator, a young enlisted soldier, told him the bad news: The lines to Château Rolle had been cut, most likely as a result of the artillery barrage. Without a telephone line, the fallback was to use radio. Moore ordered the operator to try to raise Kickoff (the 502nd Headquarters call sign) over the radio. After several tries, the radio operator shook his head. No one was answering the radio at Rolle Château, either.
