by Gerald Astor
A day after their arrival, the 4th Division troops had commenced an attack designed to eliminate a salient that extended into the Weisser Wehe Valley. Dillard remembered, “As we started through a firebreak there was a minefield and barbed wire. The company commander stepped on a mine. Then the Germans started shelling us. They must have had an observer in the woods. Almost all our supplies had to be hand-carried over trails and paths barely wide enough to walk [on] and past fallen trees and shell holes. We had never encountered terrain like this to fight in. We had done no prior recon of the Huertgen. We just moved in during the dead of night and then started the attack.”
After initial success, a barrier of booby-trapped obstacles covered by automatic weapons halted progress and Regimental CO Col. James Luckett pulled the GIs back to their original positions. “When the regiment renewed its drive 9 November,” according to Dillard, “Company I and K were designated as the main assault units, but a 500-yard-wide minefield separated them. Company I had to withdraw from its front-line position, and a support platoon from Company L replaced it.”
“Company K moved rapidly until it reached a booby-trapped concertina wire covered by machine gun fire. All this time, we in Company M were laying down a mortar barrage in front of K. Company I, which circled around the minefield, came up in the rear of K, then swung to the left. They too caught intense small arms fire. Both of our infantry companies were calling for our 81mm mortars, but the Germans were well dug in. K and I had to dig in for the night, all the time under intense artillery and mortar fire.”
The German gunners, mines, and soldiers with small arms effectively broke up the attack, inflicting severe losses. When some GIs tried to return to their old foxholes, they found Germans in residence. Command and control broke down; shortages of food and ammunition plagued the Americans. The broken-up regiment reverted to the 4th Division. Only three days after being committed, it was a shambles, counting 562 casualties among its complement of 2,300. Lieutenant Colonel Franklin Sibert, the 2d Battalion commander recalled, “God, it was cold. We were hungry and thirsty. … That night we really prayed. … In the morning we found that God had answered all our prayers. It snowed during the night, and the whole area was covered with fog—perfect for getting out. … The supply line was littered with dead. The men that came out with me were so damned tired that they stepped on the bodies—they were too tired to step over them.”
The GIs of the 109th that the 12th relieved approached the area near the besieged aid station. Bill Peña remarked, “Across the stream, half-hidden in the woods, we could see a hunting lodge flying a Red Cross flag.” Some historians have faulted Howard Topping, Peña’s battalion commander, for not have aggressively protected the medical station in his sector. But the major had incurred a sniper’s wound in the arm shortly after he himself spotted a German and hit him with his M1. “He was the only one I knew,” said Peña, “to notch the wood stock of his rifle, and he had about a dozen notches.”
After Topping reluctantly left for treatment but remained at battalion headquarters, General Davis appeared in Peña’s area. “His mission was to cross the bridge and to contact the 112th Regiment at Kommerscheidt with verbal orders to withdraw across the bridge to our side. The general was told that although our side of the bridge was fairly secure, German units covered it from the other side. He said he’d give it a try and asked for a platoon reinforced by a light machine gun.
“[First Lieutenant Bruce] Paul [Item’s commander] asked me to organize such a platoon from our company and to take my orders from the general. The platoon turned out to be our whole company less a dozen men. Before we started, the general asked me a question, which I was expected to answer with pride, ‘Is that your platoon, lieutenant?’ Of course I was proud of our men, but my answer disturbed the general: ‘Yes, sir, but it is also nearly my whole company.’ I wondered if division headquarters realized how decimated we were.” Common speech uses the word decimated to indicate a huge loss, but in fact the word literally is defined as a 10 percent shrinkage, and Peña obviously meant much more severe casualties.
Peña continued, “We started through the woods toward the bridge. Halfway there, we were spotted and we began receiving light mortar fire. Immediately we scattered and threw ourselves to the ground. When the volley was over and I found that no one was hurt, I also found smiles on everyone’s faces—the men could now say that a general could hit the ground as quickly as anybody.
“We continued and reached the bridge. I pointed out that we would have to run across the bridge, since we knew it would be covered by fire from the opposite side. The general decided that the crossing would be difficult in broad daylight. He would go back and recommend another solution to the problem. We went back to the battalion area and delivered the general to his escort patrol.”
The Germans apparently believed the Americans in the forest had lost their ability and will to fight. A startled Peña was suddenly confronted by an American officer, who walked into his area from the direction of the territory controlled by the enemy. “He introduced himself as Father [Alan P.] Madden, Catholic chaplain of the 112th. He had been ordered to tell us to surrender since we were surrounded. Paul radioed the demand to Major Topping. [His] answer was ‘Hell no, you’re not surrounded. We’ll answer the demand with artillery fire.’”
Madden told Peña that his agreement with the Germans, which allowed ambulances to take out American wounded, required him to return to the aid station. He disappeared back toward the enemy lines. Shortly after, an artillery forward observer appeared and spotted the location of the German troops across the stream from Peña and company.
Peña said, “He radioed his orders back and placed one round in enemy territory. He adjusted his range and ordered, ‘Fire for effect.’ The barrage started going out. Unfortunately, he had not accounted for the height of the trees in our area and had not called for high angle fire. The low angle fire caused tree bursts in our area! Many of our men were out of their holes to watch the fireworks. The order to cease firing was quickly radioed back, but the damage had been done. A couple of the men were wounded; one man was killed instantly.” The dead GI had tumbled into the hole shared by a pair of soldiers, both of whom broke from the stress. One was laughing “completely out of control,” while the other was sobbing. The two were sent to an aid station for treatment for combat fatigue.
On the following day, the Item Company position welcomed four Americans stumbling toward their location. Among them was Father Madden, who, after the Germans refused to allow any more ambulance evacuations, on the grounds that those who remained were all walking wounded, escaped with some companions.
Hubert Gees, the young German soldier in the German 275th Division, was among those who fought off the GIs of the 12th Infantry. He recounted an ordeal as severe as that which befell the Americans, noting, “The battles swung in continual bitterness back and forth. It is raining, wet snatches of fog or snow clouds sweep over the softened land beset with puddles. The fighting infantrymen, wading, lying, and fighting in mud are close to complete exhaustion. The reported battle strengths are sinking at an alarming rate. Continually the artillery battle rolls on.
“In the forest itself it looks completely crazy. The trees are leaning on one another through continual fire, and the roads are completely soaked, and everywhere stands water a foot high. The infantrymen look like swine. No rest for over a week and not a dry thread on their bodies. … Man against man with enormous efforts for the individual man. … Infantry of the division is completely finished. There are only staffs there and very few men. Even men who cannot be brought forward except at the point of a pistol, are also there.
“Two of our machine gun crew securing the mine-free path were shot through the head by American sharpshooters, who had infiltrated and were encircling us. We had another enemy: vermin—lice! For weeks we had gone without washing and being able to change our undergarments in the damp foxholes. When I discovered a white band of lice eggs, I t
hrew the pullover immediately away, although I had a second urgent need because of the wet cold, severe weather.
“On 12 November, after the soldiers of the U.S. 12th Infantry Regiment had again captured the Forester’s House in a night attack and during the morning lost it again, our company received a heavy blow. During the early morning an obviously wounded American soldier was crying pitifully for help. He lay in the middle of the minefield Wilde Sau, at the edge of the embankment in No Man’s Land. My company commander, Lieutenant [Friedrich] Lengfeld sent me with the order to the machine gun that was guarding the mine-free path that in no case should it shoot if American first-aid men should come to rescue the severely wounded soldier. When the heartrending cries for help continued for hours, Lieutenant Lengfeld ordered our medical aid men to form a rescue troop. It may have been about 10:30 A.M.
“Lieutenant Lengfeld went at the point of our rescue troop on our side of the street, itself secured with antitank mines whose location was relatively easy to recognize. As Lieutenant Lengfeld was on the point of crossing the street, directly over to where the severely wounded American was lying, an exploding antipersonnel mine threw him to the ground. In haste, he was carried back to our company CP for first aid. Two deep holes in his back implied there were severe internal injuries. Lieutenant Lengfeld groaned under deep pain. Under the leadership of a lightly wounded NCO, he was carried to the medical aid station at Lucasmuble. Yet, during the evening he died of his severe wounds.
“I had lost my best supervisor. He meant much to me in the difficult weeks lying behind us, and he had given me much inner strength. He was an exemplary company commander who never asked us to do more than he himself was ready to give. … When American infantry ammunition exploded in the trees overhead and gave us the impression that the enemy had broken through, he did not order, ‘Go at once!’ but rather, ‘Come with me!’
“On 13 November, the attack against the surrounded Americans commenced. Most of the Americans escaped to their own lines. Only twenty-seven prisoners were brought in. … On the evening of 13 November, Field Marshal Model visited the staff of the 116th Panzer Division in a bunker near Grosshau. Relief for the division was finally ordered. On 14 November, we linked up with the German unit to the north. The U.S. 12th Regiment had withdrawn some 300 meters to the northwest corner of the minefield Wilde Sau. The retreat had been very hasty. They had to leave behind weapons, machine guns, bazookas, and even their dead. Our first interest lay in the rations which had been left behind, cans and packets, C and K rations.”
Compiled the first week of December, the after-action report of the 707th Tank Battalion, which covers the month of November, exemplifies the reality gap that pervaded the understanding of the rear and upper echelons. The document says that from 2 to 7 November, the battalion, while incurring one KIA, a total of nine casualties, including four missing in action, it lost only four tanks, while “estimated damage to the enemy registered 115 killed, 500 captured, and two Mark VI tanks knocked out.” The overall tone conveys a sense of victory. However, since C Company’s leader, Capt. George West; B Company tank commander Mike Kozlowski; and Louis Livingston, a crewman for a C Company tank, were all KIA, the figures were obviously in error. The outfit’s complement of armor was significantly more damaged than indicated. The destruction wrought upon the enemy is also wildly inflated.
John Marshall scoffed, “This was all show for the little boys that wanted medals and to become generals. We knew different. When the shooting finally stopped, the count was one for one. For every German we killed or wounded, they killed or wounded one of us.” Throughout the Huertgen campaign, exaggerated body counts pervaded the reports with underestimation of the strength of the Germans in the number of soldiers, the quality they fielded, and their armament. In fact, it was because the tankers and the American foot soldiers had absorbed so much punishment that the proposed Task Force Davis, designed to renew the quest for Schmidt on 8 November, never went beyond the planning stage. Davis had been misled by the sunny description of the 707th’s achievements in cooperation with infantrymen.
John Alyea, as the driver for the Bea Wain in Company B, described a desperate situation. “From the time we went into combat through our entire stay in this area, the weather was bad, no letup on the rain. Any foxholes dug by infantry were filled with water. Our final position was outpost duty in Vossenack, with the tanks in a line position at a clearing in the forest, where we were under periodic mortar and artillery shelling. We were not supplied with any gasoline or ammo for the tanks, as the road was impassable and we had to wait until the weather improved a little, maybe by the 17th of November. The roads and ground had become a quagmire of mud and the ability to maneuver the tanks was almost nil.”
During the period the 707th tanks stayed in Germeter, Howard Thomsen busied himself with maintenance and repair chores. “One day I was replacing the spark plugs in the tank engines. One of the tank commanders yelled, ‘Look out, Tommy!’ I grabbed my carbine, raised up, and hit my head on the armor of the engine compartment. I thought a Jerry had come in but nothing was there. He pulled the trick twice, and then I told [the tank commander], ‘Do that again and I will be tempted to shoot.’
“Captain Grainger came up and asked if the tank was ready to go. I said, ‘Yes,’ and he crawled up on the back deck and asked [the tank commander] if his crew was ready and [the tank commander] started to cry. They called the medics and put a tag on him ‘combat fatigue.’ It was the first time I’d seen that. I found out later, after the war was over, he just stayed in Paris.”
Jack Goldman, the radio operator for Captain Grainger’s command tank, recalled his exhaustion. “I was summoned by my captain. He had two German prisoners for me to guard until the MPs would arrive and take them for questioning. I herded them into the aid station, a huge dugout with a tarp over it. When the dead and wounded arrived, they would put out the lamps, roll back the tarp, bring in the wounded, reset the tarp, and then light the lamps. I found a spot where I indicated to the prisoners they should sit with their backs to the wall. I sat to their left with my gun on my left, away from them.
“I felt exhaustion coming on. I covered my head with a blanket and passed out. I don’t know how long I dozed, but when I suddenly awoke I quickly remembered who was with me. I looked but they were so happy to be out of the war, I could not have lost them. Once again, God was looking out for me. The MPs arrived and the prisoners were taken.
“It was then that Captain Grainger had the unpleasant job of trying to remove a gunner from one of the tanks. The man had shot so many of the enemy that day with the machine gun that he was out of his head. He would not dismount from the tank. Grainger tried to reason with him, but he pulled the captain into the tank with him. The gunner was a good soldier, but he had been through too much.” He was eventually persuaded to be evacuated.
As the time for relief of the 707th by another armored unit drew near, Goldman became aware that those still manning positions were shivering from the low temperatures. “It was cold, very cold. There was one tent with a heater, and the men would take turns getting warm and then leave. They would sleep three or four in one pup tent. They would pool their blankets. I noticed that when the 28th went into battle, they would drop their blankets in one pile in the woods and then go to fight. Of course, most never returned, at least during their battle. I got permission from the first sergeant to take a truck and go through the woods gathering blankets. I had a driver and one helper who refused to get out of the truck for fear of booby traps. I did not have time to pull rank, because I did not have much rank. I jumped to the ground, threw the blankets up on the truck. We returned and gave them out. Once again, God had looked after me.”
The misery did not except rank. Goldman recalled, “I met my captain, who had been summoned to battalion headquarters. He stopped to talk to me, and he was shivering. I had an overcoat in my shot-up duffel bag. It had shrapnel holes in the sleeves and the body. But it was a coat with corporal str
ipes. I gave it to Captain Grainger, because I could not stand to see him shivering. I really loved the guy.”
Replacement Tom Myers described his foxhole existence. “Imagine if you will, crouched in a cold wet hole, four feet square and three feet deep. You have covered all of the hole, except an opening large enough to crawl out, with broken pieces of trees and limbs. There is not a shortage of those here in the forest, because the tree bursts have mowed the tops of the trees off, like a giant scythe. Your clothes are sopping wet, including your socks. You have brought extra socks with you, but those have been changed several times in an effort to avoid the dreaded trench foot. You have dehydrated coffee and some water to make coffee for a while, but you don’t dare build a fire to heat the water. The K rations carton is coated with an almost smokeless wax, so when you have them, you can burn one under your canteen cup to heat the coffee. But now your K rations are gone, and you have only some crackers and chocolate D bars.
“When the artillery stops, the silence there in the forest is eerie. Those once beautiful conifers are now broken and torn, and the ground is a tangled mass of bushes and broken treetops. But then the shells start coming in again, and you wonder if one of them today might have your name on it. I did not waste a lot of time worrying about it though. By this time I was convinced that I was leading a charmed (or rather guided) life. I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t let my mind dwell on it too much.”
Myers and his foxhole buddy, Wayne Newman, depended in part on the heavy log over their foxhole, which protected them, except in the event of a direct or close hit by a shell. On one occasion, that dire possibility surfaced. “The Germans were giving us their daily raking. That is, put one round near the top of the hill we were dug in on and then another directly below, et cetera. Then they would move over a few yards and repeat it. In the course of time, your foxhole had a fair chance of being hit. Wayne and I heard one explode directly above us and knew that the one that would come in a split second would probably hit our hole or near it. Sure enough, there was a dull thud outside our hole. As the ground shook, we both waited a long time before either of us spoke the two words ‘a dud.’ The next day we would see where the shell had buried itself in the edge of our foxhole but failed to explode. I’m not sure what the odds of that happening was, but I was more convinced than ever that I was under divine guidance.
