Brothers In Arms

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  The Saar was declared an independent territory by the Treaty of Versailles, which ended World War I. But the Germans had deliberately colonized the realm, and in 1935, more than 90 percent of its citizens voted by plebiscite to become part of Hitler's Third Reich. This bias on the part of civilians became clear to the 761st as they moved ever further into the Saar, ever closer to the German border. Leonard Smith, who had enjoyed more than anyone else the grand victory parade of the road march from Normandy across central France, felt the shift strongly. It was apparent in the way the citizens avoided acknowledging them but shot sidelong glimpses or glares from upper-level windows. William McBurney noted that this guardedness and outright hostility wasn't directed solely at the black men of the 761st, but at the 328th's infantrymen as well; it seemed an equal hatred of all things American.

  Not only the populace but the weather, too, had changed, growing colder at night. The tankers began collecting and hoarding blankets, the only means of warmth they had against the brutal conditions. The biting cold of the steel interior of the tank was the bane of tankers throughout Europe. The walls of his tank would get so cold at night that Preston McNeil chose to dig a little hole beside the vehicle, grab as many blankets as he could, and sleep there instead—finding the dampness that soaked through from the mud or melting snow preferable to that searing cold. Several of Charlie Company's tankers slept on the rear engine compartments of their Shermans, drawing the last remnants of heat from the motors as they cooled. Leonard Smith and his crewmate, Hollis Clark, preferred to stay inside “Cool Stud.” They had managed through various elaborate barters with other tankers and infantrymen to collect ten blankets apiece, ten of which they'd put on the turret floor and ten on top of them. No matter how many blankets they used, the cold still came through. They slept turned away from each other in the turret, but close enough to share the warmth from each other's bodies. As fired up as he was throughout the action of the day, Smith slept like a baby at night, even when the sounds of artillery came close.

  A rare treat and welcome harbor was the chance to bivouac in or near an American-held town. One lonely crew member was assigned to guard each tank, while the others competed for floor space in abandoned houses and beds of straw in barns. Smith had chosen, despite the limited room for personal effects in his barracks bag, to pack his favorite pair of pajamas. Anytime he stayed in a town, however tenuously held, he would change into his pj's. The other tankers, ever-wary of shelling, slept ready to roll in uniform and had to laugh at Smith's blithe unconcern.

  Food was always on the minds of American GIs. Their staples of C and K rations provided them with basic nutrition, but were about as flavorful as cardboard. C rations contained three cans of greasy meat and vegetables and three of crackers, sugar, and coffee; K rations contained a small tin of meat spread, hard cheese, crackers, and instant coffee or powdered lemonade. When rapidly spearheading, the lighter K rations were the more common fare for tankers. They foraged through American-held towns to supplement their rations whenever possible, feeling more at liberty to do so the more hostile the local populace became.

  In one farmyard, Smith watched in amusement as his tank's driver, Hollis Clark, emptied an entire clip from his grease gun trying in vain to shoot a clucking, madly zigzagging yardbird. Finally, a fellow tanker who'd grown up on a farm stepped in, grabbed the bird, and broke its neck with one smooth motion. On another occasion, the crew of Isiah Parks's C Company tank captured a barnyard hen, stripped and cleaned the bird, and started a small fire to cook it—despite their sergeant's admonition that German artillery observers were scattered throughout the surrounding hills. Parks's crew dove away just in time as an enemy shell whistled in, landing square in the center of and extinguishing their fire. They ate the bird raw, deciding that cold K rations weren't always the worst of options.

  Warren Crecy seemed never to eat or sleep, regularly volunteering for night patrols. He would go off by himself, stealthily approaching a German-held town on foot with an M-1 Garand rifle he'd taken from an infantryman killed in action and carried strapped to his Sherman. Night after night Crecy would go off alone, coming back with invaluable information on enemy positions and also—so the men suspected, though he never directly said it—killing as many Germans as he could in the process. Some nights, when he intended simply to slip behind the lines and scout out antitank posts, he'd ask for volunteers to accompany him—but he had fewer and fewer takers as the days wore on. Most of the men had come to realize that serious injury or death was a distinct possibility on such missions. While they intended to do their jobs, they weren't about to seek death out. Leonard Smith was one of the few who enjoyed going off on the scouting forays. Willie Devore always did his utmost to dissuade his best friend, telling him—as Pop Gates had tried before him—that this was war, not an adventure novel.

  Some of the men took the opportunity of whatever brief stops they made to attach anything available to the front and side armor of their tanks to buffer the devastating effect of a direct strike—logs, spare tracks, and most often sandbags. Nothing was going to stop a well-aimed high-velocity 75mm or armor-piercing 88mm shell—but the motley assortment of barriers did provide some protection against oblique shots and gave them a necessary illusion (they knew on some level it was an illusion) of security.

  THE MEN HAD SPOTTED ENEMY GUNS and expected heavy resistance at Torcheville, but they rolled though that city unopposed. By now, they knew enough to be distrustful of any mission that was too quietly or easily accomplished. They were just eight miles west of the Sarre River, which roughly bisected the Saarland and figured prominently in Patton's battle maps of the region. The Germans had strategically fallen back to fortify the towns to their east, among them Munster and Honskirch. On November 22, Charlie Company was ordered to attack Munster.

  Charlie Company moved two miles due east through the Hessling Forest with elements of the 328th Infantry Regiment, stopping at the outskirts of Munster. The 761st's Assault Gun Platoon rolled ahead to shell the town. The infantry and Charlie's tanks then pushed forward, encountering a range of concealed enemy sniper and mortar positions. The tanks spread out to provide cover and fire on upper-level positions in the town as the infantry waged a house-by-house battle. Smith's “Cool Stud” tank and McBurney's “Taffy” moved up ahead of the rest. As they passed through Munster, well-hidden Germans strafed the tanks with abandon. The tracks of both vehicles were disabled, unable to move. The American infantrymen around them, taking insupportably high casualties, were forced to fall back.

  By nightfall the Americans controlled most of the town, but the Germans controlled the area to the east. Smith's and McBurney's tanks were immobilized just inside the German zone. Whenever one of the crewmen would make a move to open a hatch, a sniper would fire. The men—including, for once, Leonard Smith—were too frightened to sleep. The only reason they were still alive was that the tanks' cannons were still working and no Germans were foolhardy enough to run up within range and toss a grenade. It was, for the time being, a standoff. But the tankers were well aware that the Germans had Panzerfaust and antitank guns in the vicinity, and that eliminating Sherman tanks was a priority. They were sitting ducks. A direct hit could come at any moment, without warning. There was nothing they could do about it. To keep their minds off their plight, they talked.

  Sherman crews talked to each other via their intercoms all throughout battle. Though strictly forbidden from saying anything that would reveal their objectives or position to Germans who might be listening, tank units developed their own codes, carrying themselves through the day with ongoing banter. The 761st made use of slang from the streets of New York, including, of course, with typical GI profanity, a frequent use of the word “mother,” “that mother this,” “that mother that.” It had to confuse the hell out of any Germans listening. The voices of crewmates in their headsets were the one familiar sound in all the chaos that kept them sane.

  Stuck in the vicinity of Munster—fully exposed
, their location no grand state secret—they could simply, freely talk. The two crews talked among themselves, and talked by way of their tank commanders' two-way radios back and forth. At times the artillery crashed in close enough around them, loudly enough that they had to fall silent and then at least to comment on it—wondering if it was German or American, and wondering whether it would make any difference in terms of the payouts to their families if friendly fire killed them. The artillery never let up, close then far then close again. None of the men directly voiced his fear. Smith's showed itself only in the fact that he was even more talkative and playful than usual, McBurney's in a greater irony and openness and willingness to laugh more than was his custom.

  It was dawning on Smith, for the first time in his life, that there were no guarantees, that the glorious luck he had enjoyed so far might be in fact a precious, limited commodity and not a defining state of grace. Even if he somehow made it, there was no chance that all ten crewmen would. For every story Smith told about his nine lives and narrow scrapes thus far, he started seeing other alleys of possibility, other ways each situation might have gone.

  They talked about their hometowns, about football and baseball, and of course about girls. McBurney, Smith, and Willie Devore talked about a girl all of them had noticed at the Savoy Ballroom in Harlem but none had worked up the nerve to talk to. Devore, they agreed, with his unerring charm, would have had the best chance. They survived by sharing a few C-ration cans of bacon and beans. Their stomachs gnawing with hunger, the cold, greasy fare had never tasted so good.

  The 328th Infantry and the remainder of Charlie Company's tanks finally cleared the area around them after fifty-one straight hours. The German guns had, miraculously, never zeroed in on either tank. Smith jumped out and hugged the first startled GI who reached them—a mud-soaked infantryman of the 328th who quickly grinned and offered him a cigarette.

  But there was grim if not unexpected news. There was again to be no break. The tracks of both tanks were quickly repaired. The company was told to gear up and press on. Baker, Charlie, Dog, and the assault gun and mortar platoons had been ordered to attack three miles north toward Vittersbourg, and from there one mile east toward the crossroads city of Honskirch. Intelligence from the 26th Division had reported a heavy concentration of armor at Honskirch, their last major barrier before the Saar River.

  THE TOWN OF VITTERSBOURG fell with brief if intense resistance from the Germans on the morning of the twenty-fifth. Charlie Company was then split up along platoon lines, with Smith and McBurney's platoon continuing to support the infantry in clearing the surrounding area. A second platoon of Charlie's tanks had been ordered to spearhead the assault on Honskirch. Pop Gates, however, delayed in executing this command.

  Gates, who had learned well the lesson of Morville-les-Vic, had personally gone ahead to scout the approaches to the city and had spotted the formidable defenses of the Germans. The surrounding terrain was so sodden that Charlie's tanks would be forced to travel along the road in column formation. The Germans—fully aware of this—had placed antitank guns throughout the woods and hills that overlooked the route. Captain Gates informed the commanding infantry officer that the attack, as planned, would be a disaster. The officer ignored Gates's detailed enumeration of the entrenched enemy defenses and ordered the attack to proceed.

  Gates allowed his tanks to move within half a mile of Honskirch, then called them back, despite the officer's command, to wait for artillery. Four guns from the 761st's assault gun platoon rolled forward as far as was possible over the marshy ground. They opened fire, though as Gates knew, the Germans were so well-entrenched that the 105mm howitzers would have only limited effect. Gates was playing for time—delaying the attack for four hours. Finally, the officer gave him a specific order to move the tanks straight down the road. Gates was certain it would be suicide for both the tankers and the infantry accompanying them. But in the military line of command he had no choice: If he refused, the determined officer would simply relieve him, going down the line until he found someone willing to carry out the order. Charlie's tanks and the infantry were going to be sent down that road no matter what, and Gates intended to be there with his men.

  The six tanks along with the infantry began moving forward. The Germans immediately started barraging the formation, hitting every other tank, working their way down the column. The men in the tanks that had been hit cried out for help on the intercom. Smith, just a mile away, heard their fragmentary pleas relayed over Cardell's earphones. It was the worst moment of the war for him up to this point, to hear the voices of friends screaming for help and know that there was nothing he could do. In the space of less than five minutes, five of the platoon's six tanks were destroyed.

  Pop Gates's tank driver, Lane Dunn, was killed by a shell. Gates, wounded by ricocheting shrapnel, managed with the rest of the men in his tank to escape before they were hit again. Gates half-ran, half-staggered along the length of the column, trying to order his crews to fall back. In the tank commanded by S. Sgt. Frank Cochrane, a direct artillery strike killed driver James Welborn. A second armor-piercing 88 blasted through one side of the turret and out the other, severing gunner Frank Greenwood's legs. Greenwood didn't feel any immediate pain—but looked down at a slight tickling sensation suddenly to see that both his feet were gone. In the driver's compartment, James Welborn's lifeless body slumped forward over the controls, causing the tank to back up until it slammed into a narrow stand of trees. Staff Sergeant Cochrane pulled Frank Greenwood out.

  The mortar, artillery, and sniper fire on the tanks did not let up. Cochrane—stumbling and running—carried Greenwood in his arms, racing along with dozens of infantrymen for the shelter of a roadside ditch. Greenwood had lost consciousness from shock; upon reaching the ditch, Cochrane rested Greenwood's head on his boot to keep it from being submerged in the cold, muddy water.

  Back on the road, Sgt. Moses Ballard's tank was hit; Ballard and all his crew were wounded by the blast. Ballard exited and went back three times under fire to carry members of his injured crew to safety. Sgt. James Stewart's tank was also struck. Stewart, like Ballard, pulled out his wounded crew one at a time, staying with the most severely injured beside the exposed tank until medics arrived.

  Cpl. Buddie Branch's tank, of Baker Company, moved up behind Charlie's platoon on the road. Branch attempted to provide covering fire for the wounded Charlie crews. Pop Gates, though bleeding heavily, kept rushing from tank to tank—pulling out and tending to the platoon's wounded, refusing treatment for himself. Corporal Branch dismounted and, along with fellow tanker George Goines, despite the incoming hail of 88s and mortar, machine-gun, and sniper fire, made numerous trips to carry litters of casualties back some three hundred yards to shelter.

  The battalion's executive officer, Russell Geist, ran forward from the command post to provide what help he could. He encountered Sgt. Robert Johnson's 105mm assault gun tank, mired in the swamplike terrain. Johnson and his crew were working furiously to extricate the vehicle. Geist walked ahead, exposing himself to enemy artillery, to scout a route over which the tank could travel to provide cover for Charlie's retreat. Johnson finished freeing his assault gun and ordered it forward, with gunner Elwood Hall firing everything they had.

  German artillery observers spotted the ditch where Staff Sergeant Cochrane, Frank Greenwood, and the dozens of infantrymen had fled for cover. Mortar teams began “walking” the ditch at evenly spaced intervals, just as they had at Morville. They walked up the line to within thirty yards of Cochrane and Greenwood.

  Johnson's assault gun tank was now pummeling the German positions in the high grounds. In their fury the crew had fired off such an intense barrage that they soon ran out of ammunition. They resorted to firing the only ammo they had left, white phosphorus shells. Johnson had not seen the American soldiers trapped in the roadside ditch below. But the white phosphorus shells served better than any artillery fire could have to cover their retreat. In fact, the sm
oke laid down by the phosphorus shells saved the men's lives, blocking them from view, buying them time to scramble out and carry their wounded comrades to safety.

  FOUR OF THE 761ST— Lane Dunn, James Welborn, Coleman Simmons, Ardis Graham—and dozens of infantrymen were killed in the misguided attack on Honskirch. More than twenty tankers and scores of infantry were wounded, many of them, like Frank Greenwood, gravely. The 761st and the 26th Infantry ultimately pulled back toward Vittersbourg. Pop Gates, who made only the briefest of stops at the aid station for treatment of his shrapnel wounds, could not help but feel that something had snapped in him that day; he had acquired a bitterness over war's futility and waste that was to color the remainder of his experience in Europe. Men who were in his care had been slaughtered, and for nothing. But he didn't have the luxury of much time for existential musings: He still had what was left of a company to look after. All he could do was resolve—whatever it took—not to let the same thing happen again. The sole positive outcome of Honskirch, in his eyes, was a visit from Third Army commander George Patton. Patton, who was a frequent visitor to the front, wanted to know why the 761st lost five tanks in such a short period. Gates told him about the ill-conceived attack. Within two weeks, the officer who had refused to listen to Gates had been shipped back to the United States.