by Colin Gee
Lieutenant Joe is new to the war, a recent arrival to the division, one of many sent up to fill the gaps that inevitably come with high-level combat.
Tomorrow I will travel with him to the frontline, and for that I cannot wait.
Today, I am struck by the energetic movement of everyone in this headquarters, the shouted orders responded to in an instant, the whole affair organized and dedicated to doing the best for the boys up front.
The Colonel in charge looks tired and worn out, but that is not how he conducts himself. Whilst the war may well have left its mark upon this veteran officer, he is on top of his job, shepherding his men like a father does his children.
A small convoy passes the headquarters tent, carrying food and ammunition forward, and I am tempted to climb aboard one of these huge lorries.
Unfortunately, we have to leave the headquarters whilst a situation is dealt with, but that gives me the opportunity to type this report whilst sampling the delights of the regimental mess.
Hopefully, there will be more to report later.
John Thornton-Smith
(Correspondent)
The great American General Robert Lee is quoted as saying that it is just as well that war is terrible or man would grow too fond of it.
Perhaps, today, I have seen something of what he meant.
This place, which I cannot name, has seen the footsteps of war on at least one other occasion and, as Joe and I walk amongst the shattered houses, we come across a field where high-explosive has done its work.
A pit where enemy bodies had been buried has been opened by explosive force, and the poor dead have had further ignominy visited upon them.
It is a terrible sight, and the odours that accompany it are sufficient to turn the strongest stomach.
Further on, we find a graves unit removing some glorious American dead from their temporary graves, probably men who fell in the battle that has recently rolled through this corner of France.
I admit, the sight of the still bodies, riven by weapons of war, is as awful as can be, and we must thank the Lord that so few of our men have fallen in this noble cause.
We do not dwell to gawk at the dead, offering them more respect by retreating.
I pray that they will be the last mortified souls that I see, but I fear that will not be the case.
John Thornton-Smith
(Correspondent)
[Author’s note. The location on the day that JTS visited was Hattmatt. I know that the graves that he witnessed being dug up were casualties from the previous winter’s fighting. US Graves Registration records support this, although the entries are, in fairness, none too legible.
Clearly, the Soviet bodies were from the Ranger assault and were probably uncovered by the violent barrage launched by the 66th’s artillery elements. The 66th’s records of the 264th’s attack on Hattmatt speak of little fighting, recording one KIA and four WIA before the Soviet forces gave way. Of note is the fact that shortly after the 264th RCT’s headquarters moved on, five members of the 3060th US Quartermaster Graves Registration Company were killed by a booby trap hidden in the bodies of the 2nd US Ranger slain months before, almost certainly installed by the Soviet forces who subsequently retook the village.
Clearly, his recollection of the words of Robert E. Lee was inaccurate, but the spirit of what the old General meant was still carried through in JTS’s words.]
With the United States Army, somewhere in Eastern France, 12:33am, 2nd April 1946.
Dear Reader,
Today I am with the brave men in the front line and, perhaps, this is where all of us who wish to bring to you the events and happenings of this war should be.
I have seen efficiency and calm behind the lines, where Generals and Colonels organise their staffs and bring together plans to send their men forward and destroy the enemy forces.
Here is where those orders come, to be translated in actions and deeds.
I am sorry to report that my companion, Lieutenant Joe, has been slightly wounded and forced to return for some medical assistance. His first day in combat brings a wound that he may bear with honour and regale his grandchildren about in the years of his dotage. I hope he returns soon.
So, for now, I am placed under the care of a senior NCO, a man called Ron, who hails from Washington State, USA.
Occasionally, the experienced NCO, a man with twenty-eight years of soldiering under his belt, will grab me and drag me down, citing the possibility that the enemy may see me, but I am confident that the men around me can take care of themselves, and certainly cope with any threat the enemy might offer.
Under Sgt Ron’s supervision, I move through the trench lines so recently held by the enemy, finding squads of GIs going about the business of war in stoic fashion.
We reach a larger bunker, one that probably once held the Russian commander, one that still shows traces of its former occupancy. The red flag has been left in place, but with certain additions written on it by soldiers with wit that I simply cannot pass on to the reader for fear of offence.
But we cannot blame them for their words, however immoral they maybe.
Now we can take a break and I seize the opportunity to eat some of the food that these boys consume on a daily basis. Coffee is plentisome and the men, although obviously seeing me as an outsider, answer my questions when they hear them above the racket of guns outsi
Oh, my dear reader,
I now find myself inside the very vestiges of hell.
The enemy has struck back at use with their dastardly artillery.
Some of the wonderful men that I spoke with have fallen, claimed by the dice of war, purely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As the shells swept over us, we could hear the cries of the wounded, cries to which the brave stretcher bearers responded.
Both those valiant men lie amongst those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in this war against the aggression of Communism.
Giorgio, an Italian-American who spoke of little else but a future in professional baseball, has departed in the ambulance that took away four of our wounded souls.
They lied to him, assuring him that he would be well. He has lost a leg, and the knowledge of that would have struck him as mortal a blow as the enemy metal that has deprived him of his career.
My escort, Sergeant Ron, has disappeared, and my comrades fear the worst for their rock, as they call him.
Before I came on this personal mission, I can only confess to how little I understood of the cost of war, and the loss of these few men has made a deep impression upon me. I cannot begin to imagine how deeply it will affect those who have sweated and bled beside them, only now to find them gone forever.
John Thornton-Smith
(Correspondent)
[Author’s note. The unit that JTS joined was Baker Company, 264th US Infantry Regiment. The Divisional history indicates that the 1st Battalion, of which Baker was a part, had seen some ferocious fighting in the first days of combat, during which over two-thirds of its leadership was killed or wounded. That makes me wonder greatly as to why JTS was sent to them, and especially given the plans for their use during the upcoming renewed assaults.
2nd Lieutenant Joseph S. Warner never returned to the front line, as he developed complications and died a month after his injury was sustained. According to witness testimony, his time actually in the front line amounted to no more than twenty-five minutes.
First Sergeant Ronald F. Gregson disappeared in the artillery strike that JTS speaks of. It is known that he left the safety of the dugout before the medics, but nothing is known of his actions or demise.
According to the battle-diary of First Battalion, the enemy artillery barrage lasted for no more than seven minutes, during which time Baker Company lost eighteen men WIA and eleven KIA. Three men were MIA, including Gregson, who had fought with the 42nd Division in the Great War,
The Heavy Weapons Company lost six WIA and five KIA.
Replacemen
ts were with the company within twenty-four hours.]
With the United States Army, somewhere in Eastern France, 12:33am, 5th April 1946.
Dear Reader,
Today I am to closely observe an attack, as the men of this company push forward to take a vital position, in preparation for a larger attack on a nearby town.
Around us are the wrecks and marks of previous combat.
Of particular note is a ruined tank, besides which are set five graves.
A German tank for sure, so it is a relic of the previous war, but none the less poignant to this reporter’s eye.
The marks on the tank reveal how it met its end, two holes, once bright, now rusted, betray how the vehicle was knocked out.
Clearly the men inside would have had no chance.
Enemies or not, I find myself feeling sympathy for them, and for their families.
My concept of war seems to be changing as I see more of the loss and horror it brings.
It is difficult to find glory besides these five graves, or those I walked past some days ago.
There seems little glory in the screams of wounded men, or in the endless silence of the dead.
I have experienced loss, the departure of men with whom I have spent a few minutes, so how must it be for these soldiers, who see their friends and comrades taken from them so regularly?
I pray to God that these men will be preserved today, and yet, as I walk amongst them as they prepare, I wonder to myself whose voice will be heard no more, whose heart will be stilled, whose family will wait in vain?
I hope my prayers are listened to.
John Thornton-Smith
(Correspondent)
Dear Reader,
It is my duty, my awful duty to speak of the events that fell before my eye as these brave men went about the business of war.
I am now more convinced than ever as to the bestiality of it all, and ask what we achieve by sending our young men into circumstances that can only be described as hell on earth.
My prayers have fallen away, clearly unheard, at least I hope that is the case, not that they were unheeded.
The company was magnificent, moving forward on foot towards the objective; a piece of raised ground that dominates an important road junction.
Accompanied by another unit on our left flank, the men pushed forward hard until the enemy mortars started to drop amongst them.
Men that I had just shared coffee with fell in front of my eyes, never to rise again.
The company commander, wounded by a metal fragment, called his own support down upon the hill, and within seconds the high-explosive started to change the landscape towards which our troops again advanced.
More shells landed amongst the advancing waves and I saw grievous work done amongst the other supporting unit.
Again, the advance halted whilst more support was organised.
Within minutes it arrived, in the shape of seven aircraft. I did not recognise the type, nor the markings, but they were friendly and attacked the Soviet-held hill immediately.
I am told that they used something called napalm.
Whatever it was, the sight of its effect will live with me forever.
The whole hill was enveloped in roaring flame as, one after the other, the Allied aircraft dropped their deadly cargo.
After a second pass, the enemy mortars stopped their fire, and there was nothing by way of resistance from the smoking hill top.
Our men swept up and over the location, intent on pushing past the feature. The remaining units of the First Battalion, plus extra support, followed up quickly to secure the position and prepare for any counter-attack.
I went with them and found that, whatever I had thought about the weapon in use, the effects upon the occupying enemy were catastrophic.
It was the sweet smell, carried on the gentle breeze, which first assailed me.
I little understood its nature until I was confronted by my first corpse, charred black and shrunk to the size of a dwarf, the grotesquely smoking skull gaping wide displaying what can only have been the extremes of suffering.
This truly awful sight paled into insignificance as I moved further up the hill, where the numbers of shrunken black pygmies grew until, just the other side of the summit, I found the most awful tableau of man’s suffering I think it is possible to see.
A wide trench, clearly the place where the enemy assembled their wounded, was filled with bodies, all ravaged by the excesses of fire. A score? Thirty? I have no idea how many men had been there when our air force struck. Whatever the number, they were all now permanently together in death, the horribly burned bodies welded and melted together by the deadly napalm.
Hell could not look as appalling as the aftermath of our attack on that hill.
It is my fondest hope that I never witness a napalm attack again for as long as I live.
The bodies scattered around the hill top, and the few, so very few who screamed their way through hideous wounds, were the enemy, and in combat our men must use every advantage of technology available to them.
But perhaps there are limits to the advances, and I use that word advisedly, that we should permit upon the field of combat.
I confess, I looked back on the route our soldiers had advanced and saw, with tears in my eyes, silent shapes that marked a fallen friend. More would have fallen taking this windswept charred piece of France had it not been for the air attack.
Yet perhaps, dear reader, you should wonder and judge if we can consider our humanity intact and our morals sound when we bring such awfulness to the field of combat.
John Thornton-Smith
(Correspondent)
[Author’s note. The Panzer IV, whose crew was buried alongside the destroyed vehicle, belonged to the Alma Division, Legion Corps D’Assaut, and they fell in the move towards Brumath the previous year.
The units that JTS observed making the attack were Baker and Charlie Companies, 264th US Infantry Regiment. The height, Hill 846, can be found five hundred metres north of Minversheim, although all traces of the incident have been erased by time.
Both companies lost six men KIA, with Baker sustaining six WIA, and Charlie eighteen WIA and one MIA.
There were two napalm attacks carried out in that vicinity during the time frame, and it appears most likely that the responsible aircraft were the Thunderbolts of Escuadrón 203, Fuerza Aérea Mexicana (Mexican Air Force).
Soviet records are sketchy and I cannot be certain sure, but it would seem likely that the defenders of Hill 846 were a Shtrafbat, greatly reduced by heavy fighting, supported by a mortar company, probably from one of 90th Rifle Corps reserve units.
None of the hideously wounded Soviet soldiers lived out the day, and there are no known survivors.
Replacements were with Baker Company before night fell.
They would need every man for the challenge ahead.]
With the United States Army, somewhere in Eastern France, 12:33am, 6th April, 1946.
Dear Reader,
Today, the men of this proud unit, are assembling for a full-scale attack on a tough enemy position.
I cannot tell you where it is, but I can say that we are about to tread ground that is already riven by battles past, recent battles that have left the gruesome trophies of destruction as far as the eye can see.
Without a doubt, I can feel the difference in the air today; the atmosphere is steeped in anxiety and foreboding.
I took the opportunity to speak with a young 2nd Lieutenant called Richard, who has told me of his dread about the coming attack, both for himself, and for the men under his command.
And yet, he goes about the business of leadership, moving amongst his soldiers providing calm inspiration and reassurance.
I find myself asking how men can do such things?
When the time comes, none of these young Americans will hide, or run, or baulk from the challenge.
They will all rise up together and charge together, and possibly they wil
l die together.
Perhaps that is the greatest privilege of the profession of arms; that special togetherness that inspires and drives men to great deeds for no other reason than their comradeship?
Of course, some fight for country and ideals: it was ever thus.
But it is now my feeling that most fight more for the man beside them, and that is something that those of us who have no experience of such matters, will never really fully understand.
That manifests itself in front of me, as comrade laughs with comrade as they check weapons and kit, ready for the attack.
The time draws near so I will stop my report now, and conclude it when we have done what we have to do this day.
John Thornton-Smith
(Correspondent)
Dear Reader,
So much has happened since last I put words to this paper.
Much of it is beyond my limited capacity to explain or even to understand.
We are back where we started, those of us that survived the hail of metal that greeted the charge.
I watched as these brave men pushed on, as our artillery and mortars swept the objective, and as our troops entered the village.
I watched as enemy rockets and artillery smashed what left of the pretty buildings, and a counter-attack pushed our men back towards this position.
The enemy counter-attack pressed on through the villages and, with tanks in support, the wave of enemy dashed itself upon these positions.
One dead Russian lies four feet from my typewriter as I make this report, shot down my own hand.
I picked up a fallen soldier’s handgun and killed the man without a qualm.
I cannot believe I acted, and still my hands shake at the thought.
I am not proud of what I did, nor do I celebrate. I did so out of self-preservation and, perhaps just a little, out of the comradeship I have experienced amongst these American GIs.
