Brereton was again soundly criticized a year later for the poor performance of his troop carrier units, which had mis-dropped paratroopers all over Normandy. Many senior officers called for his reassignment to a narrower, sideline role. Omar Bradley led the effort, considering Brereton “marginally competent” and too enchanted with his sleek fighters and powerful bombers to coordinate effective support for the ground war. According to Bradley, Brereton “resisted any effort to work together.”
Marginalizing Brereton by placing him in command of the Airborne Army was a questionable decision. Brereton himself took a dim view of his airborne assignment, believing it to be a demotion. In fact, his charge was important: effectively, it was up to him to mind and manage logistics, where it could be argued many battles are won (or lost) before they even start. But therein lay the problem: Brereton would again be responsible for coordinating troop carrier operations, an area in which he’d already demonstrated gross negligence.
How to explain Brereton’s remit? War planners hoped that, by surrounding Brereton with competent professionals, the fallout from his mercurial temperament would be minimized. But hope is never a plan.
Indeed, Brereton had already run afoul of Montgomery’s staff by openly complaining that the field marshal’s demand for three airborne divisions ignored wider strategic realities. Simultaneous to VARSITY, Airborne Army’s staff was planning three additional airdrops to support other Allied units crossing the Rhine, as well as an emergency operation to drop a division into Berlin in the event of a Nazi collapse. With an arsenal of five divisions under his command, Brereton had more missions to support than he had divisions.
Brereton initially assigned the commander of the British I Airborne Corps, Major General Richard Gale, to plan and command VARSITY. Because PLUNDER was primarily a British undertaking, they both felt it appropriate Gale’s corps should command VARSITY. Supporting Gale were the twelve men of the Airborne Army’s Plans Section, who devised and revised options for deploying the Allied airborne divisions by anticipating the needs of field commanders and maintaining up-to-date information on enemy dispositions. Their advance planning reduced the time necessary to prepare a full-scale airborne operation, thereby mitigating one of the hindrances of leveraging airborne forces: ground units having to pause their operational tempo while the airborne units readied themselves.
Gale and Brereton selected the American 13th and 17th Airborne as well as the British 6th Airborne Divisions to support Montgomery’s crossing. But in Brereton’s mind, he had only temporarily assigned the divisions to VARSITY.
• • •
Gale met with Montgomery’s commanders on Thursday, February 1, 1945, to review his initial plan. They gathered at the Airborne Army’s Parisian headquarters in the Hôtel Royal, located near the Seine, across from the well-manicured grounds of the seventeenth-century baroque Château de Maisons-Laffitte.
Gale, known as “Windy” to his friends, had begun his military career commanding a machine gun company during the First World War. He’d endured gas attacks and suffered in the quagmire of the Somme and Ypres—an experience that gave him a sober appreciation for leadership’s responsibilities. Perhaps his experience with trench warfare is what drew him to the parachute forces in 1941; a soldier with a background in static tactics would find the dynamic nature of airborne operations more appealing. Subsequently, Gale became one of the most experienced airborne officers in the British Army. After leading the 6th Airborne Division into Normandy, he spent a year in the War Office Directorate of Air, where he ensured proper coordination between the Army and the Royal Air Force. Gale preferred blunt, direct communication with subordinates and superiors alike, a trait that when combined with his uncompromising approach to soldiering reinforced his reputation as a boisterous buccaneer. In dealing with Montgomery’s staff, he would enjoy no such direct communication.
A few days after the meeting in the Hôtel Royal, Montgomery’s staff informed Brereton that Montgomery wanted Gale replaced by Matt Ridgway and his XVIII Airborne Corps. Their rationale: there’d be two American divisions taking part in the operation, and Ridgway’s corps had more combat experience and possessed superior signal capabilities. The concern over communications went back to British I Airborne Corps’ failure to establish radio contact with its own troops during the first three days of MARKET GARDEN. Their poor performance had contributed to the operation’s breakdown, and no one wanted that to happen again.
But Brereton refused. He planned to use Ridgway’s corps for the other pending operations; nevertheless Montgomery remained adamant.
With the situation at an impasse, appeals were made directly to Eisenhower, who resolved the argument in Montgomery’s favor. Brereton went so far as to personally present his case to Eisenhower, who continued to back Montgomery, reminding Brereton that the primary effort to breach the Rhine would be made by the British. Supreme Headquarters would afford them all the support necessary for success, and the same was expected of Brereton. Ridgway’s XVIII Airborne Corps would command VARSITY.
Having lost his first request, Brereton pressed Eisenhower to release one of the three airborne divisions. He argued that two airborne divisions were sufficient to establish Montgomery’s bridgehead and that conventional infantry, crossing the Rhine in the wake of the main assault, would be a more effective way to reinforce the east bank. He concluded by pointing out that committing three divisions left just one each for the other planned airdrops to cross the Rhine, not to mention the potential drop into Berlin. Unmoved by the objections, Eisenhower reiterated that Montgomery’s plan would stand.
A deflated Brereton left Eisenhower’s Versailles headquarters and reluctantly started the process of transitioning command of the operation from Gale to Ridgway.
• • •
Ridgway reacted to news of the transfer by immediately lodging a protest with his current superior, General Omar Bradley. Ridgway had been leading several divisions actively engaged in the American sector of the front, and the decision to subordinate his corps to a British operation annoyed him. Both he and Bradley were certain that with a few more weeks their attack would splinter the German defenses and they would be well on their way into Germany. Bradley wanted to keep Ridgway in the fight, but his appeal to Eisenhower had been cut short as well—the assignment was final.
Ridgway, driving his divisions forward with the confidence of a centurion, wanted to stay at the front, and he was livid about being ordered to relinquish command in the middle of a battle. He preferred a fighting command and going toe to toe with the Germans to what would largely be an administrative role of coordinating and planning the airborne landings for Montgomery. A corps commander for an airdrop wouldn’t have much to do once the troops landed in enemy territory, and he relished his place in the vanguard of Bradley’s ground advance, later describing the challenge as “one that no professional soldier could turn down.”
• • •
After his journey on Friday, February 9, Ridgway and William “Bud” Miley—the 17th Airborne Division commander—arrived late to VARSITY’s initial planning conference. When they walked into Room 445 on the fourth floor of the British headquarters in Brussels, they found that Montgomery’s chief of operations, Brigadier General David Belchem, had started the meeting without them.
The two airborne generals had both come directly from the front, still wearing their battle gear and muddy combat boots. Miley hadn’t bathed in weeks, and Ridgway remained in a sour mood. Belchem waited for them to take their seats and, using a large map for orientation, continued his overview of PLUNDER, pointing to the German town of Wesel, on the Rhine’s far bank, as a primary objective.
Belchem briefed the group on the four principles behind Montgomery’s airborne plan: drop them in a single lift; time it to coincide with PLUNDER’s river assault; drop onto landing zones within range of Allied artillery; and ensure a linkup with ground forces as soon as possible.
Everyone in the room realized that th
e last point—a quick linkup—depended on ground forces punching through German defenses, the speed of which could not be predicted. Preparing for a worst-case scenario, they planned for two aerial resupply drops of ammunition, food, water, and medical supplies.
Airborne troops, because they were limited to the equipment they could airlift with them, favored packing firepower and medical supplies over food and water. Arranging for airdrops of additional supplies ensured the airborne troops could sustain themselves in the event ground forces were delayed. But heavy weapons still posed the biggest challenge. The largest artillery piece that could be dropped via parachute was a disassembled 75mm pack howitzer. Theoretically, cargo gliders provided a more reliable method of delivering heavy equipment by air. But whereas the British had two types of gliders, one of which could carry a light tank, the Americans fielded a single, smaller glider, the Waco CG-4A. In addition to the two pilots, it could either carry thirteen troops, a jeep (with three men), a 75mm pack howitzer, or, if squeezed in just right, a modified version of the larger 105mm howitzer.
The briefing transitioned to Montgomery’s chief of plans, who disclosed VARSITY’s proposed objective: to seize the high ground—a forested rise of 500 feet called the Diersfordter Wald on the far bank of the Rhine—to prevent German artillery fire from hampering the crossing. He assigned two divisions, the 17th and 6th, to accomplish the task. At a later phase the 13th Airborne would drop ninety miles farther inland to exploit the advance and facilitate the crossing of a second, smaller river, the Lippe.
After a brief pause, Ridgway said he understood the mission of the first two divisions but thought the request for the 13th Airborne premature. Any reduced momentum—a reasonable concern given Montgomery’s record—would allow the Germans to fall back and occupy the proposed drop zones in strength. Characteristically, Ridgway sat ramrod straight in his chair—a posture he adopted to both reinforce the intensity of his focus and to respect his back injury. His deportment also reflected his inflexibility on the topic. While Eisenhower may have agreed to the use of three divisions, he hadn’t.
Belchem decided to defer the argument for another time, and the group agreed to at least put the 13th Airborne on alert while the justification for their participation was further explored.
Moving on, Belchem then polled the room for a proposed launch date of March 15.
“Absolutely out of the question,” responded Ridgway.
Having already studied the governing factors, he rapidly fired off the facts: still on the front lines at that point, the 17th had sustained almost 4,000 casualties; the 13th, having just arrived in Europe, would not even be operational until the first of March—at the earliest.
Gale piled on, stressing that if the 6th—also still at the front—got priority movement back to England they could be ready within four weeks. He pointed out that the current schedule had them withdrawing at the end of February, making them available for an airborne mission sometime at the end of March or, more likely, early April.
Ridgway stated the airborne point of view: the earliest possible date for the operation would have to be April 1. He warned that if the Rhine jump were conducted any earlier they should expect higher casualties due to less-than-thorough planning and training. Begrudgingly, Montgomery’s staff accepted Ridgway’s launch date.
Later that afternoon, over lunch, Ridgway listened to Gale summarize the VARSITY plan he and his staff had developed before having to relinquish command to the Americans. Ridgway recognized that he and Gale shared similar concerns and perspectives, and so ordered the British general, now his deputy commander, to continue planning on his behalf.
Ridgway wanted detailed planning for the ground phase of the operation to be conducted directly with General Miles Dempsey’s Second Army staff. Since the divisions under Dempsey’s command would lead the river assault, Ridgway dispatched Gale and a small team of British airborne officers to coordinate with them until XVIII Airborne Corps could be relieved from the front. At that time, the men agreed, Gale’s corps would transition to managing the preparation of 6th Airborne in England while Ridgway’s staff took over VARSITY planning and attended to the logistical needs of the two American divisions on the continent.
Before departing, Ridgway sought out Montgomery to make another attempt at getting Gale’s corps assigned to command VARSITY so he could return to the front. Finding the field marshal away for the day, Ridgway discussed the matter with Belchem, who frankly shared his doubts over any change of plans but agreed to present Ridgway’s case to Montgomery.
Ridgway left to complete his transfer and relocate his headquarters to Épernay. The small French town, best known for its champagne vineyards, was seventy-five miles east of Paris and just a forty-five-minute drive to Miley’s 17th Airborne HQ in Châlons.
• • •
The next day a British operations officer at Supreme Headquarters, apparently confused as to why Gale hadn’t ceded command to Ridgway, telephoned Brereton’s HQ and irately demanded that Gale terminate his planning efforts at once. It was up to Brereton’s chief of staff, Floyd Parks, to smooth over the misunderstanding. He explained that Gale had Ridgway’s full confidence and emphasized that his participation as deputy commander allowed planning to start straightaway, rather than be delayed until Ridgway himself became available.
Somewhat mollified, the caller then tried to change the operation’s launch date, stressing Montgomery’s desire to conduct the crossing no later than March 15. To accommodate the acceleration, Montgomery would withdraw the 6th Airborne to their bases in England no later than February 15, and the 17th Airborne would soon be relieved from the front as well.
Parks agreed the divisions’ combat readiness was a major factor, but not the only one. The conditions of the twelve French airfields from which the American divisions were departing also hampered the timeline. The abandoned Luftwaffe airstrips had been bombed mercilessly by the Allies and were in appalling condition. Engineers estimated it wouldn’t be until the third or fourth week of March that the fields would be repaired. The effort required to get them operational could hardly be exaggerated. To hit their deadline 3,200 American and British engineers, with 750 French civilians, would labor 700,000 hours around the clock over the next thirty-four days. They needed to mend and upgrade runways, taxiways, service roads, and hangars. They had to erect crew barracks and storage facilities, build hardstands for parking aircraft, and construct marshaling areas for the airborne troops.
Reluctantly, the British officer acquiesced. D-Day would remain April 1—for the time being.
CHAPTER 3
THUNDER FROM HEAVEN
Châlons-sur-Marne, France. Mid-February 1945.
While senior commanders debated logistics, olive-drab cargo trucks rumbled into the camps around Châlons-sur-Marne with daily deliveries of replacement troops. Wounded veterans, having recovered from their injuries, also trickled out of hospitals and back to their units. General William “Bud” Miley, with the thoroughness of a nervous accountant, monitored the growing troop numbers as his division climbed back to full strength.
Despite an available pool of trained parachute and glider replacements, there was still a shortage of qualified airborne troops. Reconstituting the losses of the three American airborne divisions—all of which had fought in the Bulge—had drained the reserve entirely. To address the shortfalls, Supreme Headquarters sent repeated requests to the US for more replacements.
Miley had learned the details of the forthcoming mission when he attended the British planning conference in Brussels with Ridgway. With a few exceptions on Miley’s staff, the rest of the division would remain ignorant of the mission for now. But they were in good hands; Bud Miley had plenty of experience to get them squared away for their first combat jump.
On the outside Miley had the quiet demeanor of a benevolent schoolmaster and the dimpled chin of a Hollywood leading man, but at his core he was steeped in the discipline and dedication of his family’s military p
edigree. As a fourth-generation graduate of the Army’s prestigious West Point academy, he approached his chosen profession as a point of honor and with a warrior’s ethos.
During the interwar period, Miley’s protracted climb up the Army’s career ladder had reflected the scant opportunities for advancement in America’s small peacetime military. After graduating in 1918, he’d spent the first fifteen years of his service at the entry-level rank of lieutenant. His early assignments varied from managing the acrobats of the 1st Infantry Division’s circus in post–World War I occupied Germany to attending the Air Corps Tactical School in 1930. He later spent several years in Panama and the Philippines assigned to an infantry regiment. He returned to West Point as the director of athletics and advanced to the rank of captain in September 1933.
Seven years later, after another promotion and with war looming, Major Miley organized a group of over 400 volunteers into the Army’s first formal parachute unit, the 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion. In preparation for his new assignment he made his first parachute jump in October of 1940. After landing, he casually observed, “Hell, there’s nothing to it.”
It became obvious to Miley that the Army’s standard-issue personal equipment was insufficient to meet the needs of his paratroopers’ unique mission. Much of what they required simply didn’t exist. As pioneers of parachute tactics and techniques, his battalion would need to develop their own equipment. Miley organized a prototyping regimen for each platoon to experiment with various models of helmets, boots, and field uniforms.
First up were the standard service shoe and canvas leggings, which provided little ankle support during landings. They had to go. A boot of some kind was needed, so they tested several designs. The selected model was made of dark reddish leather, mid-calf height, featuring a reinforced toe cap and stiff canvas supports sewn inside the ankle. Rubber soles prevented slipping, and the front of the heel angled to the rear to avoid catching on the edge of the aircraft door or entangling the parachute’s suspension lines. These specialized boots became a status symbol for the elite troops who spent hours polishing them.
Four Hours of Fury Page 5
