Four Hours of Fury
Page 6
Miley, who was forty-two years old at the time, earned his troops’ respect by personally testing the unfamiliar and unproven equipment, and he made sure that the battalion’s officers did likewise. He had the unit’s parachute rigger shop develop experimental weapon cases and quick-release harnesses so that the troops could jump with their equipment. His principles landed him in the hospital after he became the first in the unit to jump with an oversized load and suffered a broken collarbone.
Made up entirely of volunteers, the Army’s first parachute battalion demanded more of its men—mentally and physically—than an average infantry unit. Captain William Yarborough, one of the company commanders, said of Miley, “He was always in superb physical condition and it was one of his major goals in life to make sure that we were too. . . . If Bud Miley had the power of decision, paratroops would be hard to join and easy to get out of.”
A visiting British parachute instructor commented, “The percentage of failures, which were colorfully described as ‘washed-outs,’ was extremely high, but the net result was the production of a force of supermen imbued with very high morale and fighting qualities.”
Successfully completing the Army’s toughest training course earned the graduates a certificate of completion as a token of their accomplishment. Miley believed the men’s elite status deserved something more than a document barely suitable for framing, so he instituted a number of uniform modifications to distinguish his parachute troops from the rest of the non-jumping Army.
In early 1941 the Army approved the battalion’s request for a parachute qualification badge. Miley, after rejecting several disappointing designs submitted by the Quartermaster General’s office, dispatched Captain Yarborough to take charge of the matter. The final insignia incorporated a fully inflated parachute with feathered wings curling out from each side. Known as “jump wings,” the men proudly wore the sterling silver badge over the left breast pocket of their uniform.
Miley’s paratroopers ditched the standard service hat—a despised round design with a leather visor that evoked the image of a milkman—in favor of a more practical garrison cap adorned with a round parachute patch on the front left side.
Miley also encouraged his paratroopers to leave their standard-issue low-cut leather shoes in their footlocker and instead wear their spit-shined jump boots with their dress uniform. To make the entire boot visible, troopers tucked their trousers and bloused them over the top. The Army Uniform Board approved the modification, which led to the troopers referring to non-parachutists as “straight-legs” or simply as “legs,” and not infrequently as “dirty” or “nasty” legs. The more loquacious favored “dirty, nasty, stinking legs.”
The combination of the sleek garrison cap, shiny jump wings, bloused trousers, and polished jump boots made paratroopers instantly recognizable and bolstered an already cocky pride. And as a Signal Corps recruiting film advised prospective volunteers, “The dolls don’t exactly put on a chill when they get a load of the wings or these boots.”
The unique uniform made a different impression on Fort Benning’s other elite troops: the nasty leg tankers of General Patton’s 2nd Armored Division, who declared an open season on forcibly collecting jump boots. A battle royal ensued off base, and whenever the two groups crossed paths, the tankers found the paratroopers more than willing to engage in “knuckle maneuvers.” At such times, Miley’s emphasis on hand-to-hand combat training proved useful. On more than one occasion a barefooted and bruised paratrooper returned to barracks with his boots around his neck and an even more arrogant spring in his step.
Officers in both units turned a blind eye to the brawling despite constant protests from local law enforcement and military police. After all, they wanted aggressive men spoiling for a fight. Miley actively encouraged the hostilities. Calling the troops together for a “fight talk,” he told them, “It isn’t a disgrace to get a black eye but it is a disgrace to run away from a fight and let your buddies get beat up.” The “battle of the boots” was never brought to a successful cease-fire, and the men of the 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion bragged that they could whip a whole division of tankers.
As a new unit with no lineage or traditions, Miley and his officers invented their own. One of the first was a rite-of-passage drinking game named after the gust of wind that smacks a jumper as he exits the aircraft, the “Prop Blast.”
One of Miley’s lieutenants created a ceremonial mug from a cut-down 75mm artillery shell with two reserve parachute ripcord handles welded on each side. The elixir consisted of vodka, for strength, and champagne, to represent the youth and energy of the parachute troops. Lemon and sugar could be added for taste.
The ritual followed a defined protocol: the parachutist stood on a chair and on the command “GO!” jumped into the air, performed a parachute landing fall, rolled into a standing position, and grabbed the mug as his comrades yelled out a count, “One thousand! Two thousand! . . .” He had to down the entire drink before “Four thousand!” He then announced to the room the first thought that popped into his head.
Miley was unable to attend the inaugural Prop Blast due to recovering from a parachute injury, but some of his officers smuggled the chalice and the concoction of alcohol into his hospital room so that he could have the honor of the first official sip.
In March 1942, three months after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Army promoted Miley for his innovative leadership and assigned him to organize the first full regiment of parachutists. As the Army began its rapid expansion to meet the demands of fighting wars in both the Pacific and in Europe, Miley, like other career professionals, was quickly promoted to even higher leadership positions.
By September he had attained the rank of brigadier general, becoming Ridgway’s assistant division commander at the 82nd Airborne. Then in early 1943 he managed the formation of the Army’s fourth airborne division, the 17th, whose motto “Thunder from Heaven” was inspired by a biblical quote from the Book of Samuel: “The Lord thundered with a great thunder on that day upon the Philistines and terrified them.”
Distinguished by their shoulder patch, featuring a gold eagle’s talon on a circular black background with a black-and-gold “AIRBORNE” tab crowning the top, the men of the 17th embraced the aggressive attitudes expected of elite infantry. Their insignia symbolized striking from the darkness to seize opportunity; anyone foolishly mistaking the talon for a chicken’s foot was readily corrected with a sharp comment or a punch in the face.
• • •
Now, in the spring of 1945, Miley managed the recovery of his division from its losses in the Bulge and its preparation for VARSITY while at the same time managing a divisional reorganization.
When the 17th was formed, like the other airborne divisions, it had consisted of approximately 8,500 soldiers divided into two glider infantry regiments and one parachute infantry regiment, plus smaller specialty units. This structure, known as the triangular division, mirrored conventional infantry divisions and allowed commanders to engage the enemy with two regiments, with a third in reserve to exploit tactical opportunities. But combat had proven that the airborne divisions needed an overhaul. Originally scaled down due to lack of sufficient air transportation, they were 3,500 men short of a regular infantry division but still expected to hold the same frontage once in the line.
Ridgway had been a strong proponent of increasing manpower since before the invasion of Sicily in 1943. He likened the unreasonable expectations for the understrength divisions to “calling in a very large man and saying, ‘Here are two yards of cloth. Go make yourself a suit of clothes.’ ”
He admitted, “The only thing to do was to ignore these limitations.” To sidestep bureaucratic constraints, independent parachute units were attached to the divisions rather than officially assigned. Upon disembarking in England, the 17th had a second parachute infantry regiment attached, giving Miley four regiments and manpower above his authorized count.
Ridgway’s multiple attemp
ts to have the War Department increase the manpower and equipment allocations for airborne divisions had been habitually rejected. The chronic shortage of infantrymen required the airborne to wait their turn, but America’s production of C-47s and trained aircrews made the expansion feasible from a transportation aspect.
In December 1944 Ridgway made yet another request, this time directly to the Army’s Chief of Staff in Washington, DC. In late February the War Department gave its approval. The airborne divisions expanded to just over 13,000 men, making them roughly equivalent to a regular infantry division.
The reorganization shifted Miley’s triangular formation from two glider regiments—the 193rd and 194th—and a parachute regiment—the 513th—to a single glider regiment and two parachute regiments. The new Tables of Organization consolidated the two glider regiments into a larger, single unit and formally assigned the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment to the 17th. The division’s artillery firepower increased from forty to sixty 75mm howitzers.
While the headquarters staff transferred men and materiel across the division via typewriters and paper, the officers and sergeants managed the reorg at the unit level.
* * *
Enjoying a bright but chilly spring morning outside of Châlons, Lieutenant Frank Dillon, a platoon leader in the 194th Glider Infantry Regiment, sat in his four-man tent contemplating his platoon’s training schedule.
Dillon, a twenty-four-year-old forestry major from northern Massachusetts, had been pursuing a career in the timber industry before the war started, but like thousands of other young men, he put his plans on hold to volunteer for service. After completing jump school in the States, he joined the 17th shortly after their arrival in England and was assigned to replace a platoon leader who, along with all thirty of his troops, had died in the crash of a British Horsa glider during training.
In the course of fighting in the Bulge, Dillon’s company was in reserve when the men of Baker Company trudged out into the swirling snow to storm the heights of “Dead Man’s Ridge.” During three days of brutal effort to clear the summit and overrun the enemy positions, the German defenders shredded the men of Baker. All of the officers were killed or wounded, and of the original 150 men who went into the attack fewer than 40 still stood after the melee. Given command of the decimated company, Dillon knew he had his work cut out for him. It was a textbook leadership challenge: a broken group of survivors who’d known one another for years, and a newly arrived, unknown lieutenant. By all accounts Dillon rose to the task, organizing the glider infantrymen into a platoon and leading them through the next month of combat.
• • •
Unlike the parachute outfits, glider units were manned by non-volunteers, many of whom were often bitter about being pressed into such a dangerous assignment with few perks. Denied the extra hazard pay enjoyed by paratroopers, glider riders were also neglected by the Army when it came to any unique insignia or badges. But the most egregious offense was that they were forced to fly without parachutes, contrary to standard practice for military aircrews.
In the barracks, men hung handmade posters featuring photos of twisted and burned gliders; the caption read: “Join the glider troops! No flight pay. No jump pay. But never a dull moment!” A few stanzas from a popular drinking ditty, “The Gliderman’s Lament,” summed up their position:
Oh! Once I was happy, but now I’m Airborne,
Riding the gliders all tattered and torn,
The pilots are daring, all caution they scorn,
And the pay is exactly the same.
We glide through the air in our flying caboose,
Its actions are graceful, just like a goose,
We hike on the pavement till joints come loose,
And the pay is exactly the same.
Once I was in the infantry, now I’m a dope,
Riding in gliders attached to a rope,
Safety in landing is only a hope,
And the pay is exactly the same.
We glide through the air in a tactical state,
Jumping is useless, it’s always too late,
No chute for the soldiers who ride in a crate,
And the pay is exactly the same.
The lack of elite status and inequality of pay created a class system within the division. In the mind of the jumpers, the glider riders weren’t exactly legs but close enough.
A grassroots campaign, which included mailing copies of “The Gliderman’s Lament” to congressmen, resulted in House Resolution 4466, the Glider Pay Bill. The bill gave the glider troops the same hazardous duty pay as paratroopers: $50 a month for enlisted men, $100 a month for officers. The rationale for paying an officer $50 more than an enlisted man to jump out of the same aircraft or buckle into the same glider went unaddressed. The glider troops also received authorization to wear jump boots and a glider badge, similar to jump wings in appearance but with the distinct nose of the CG-4A glider replacing the parachute. But rowdy paratroopers, looking to remind non-parachute-qualified glider troopers of their station, were known to attack those foolish enough to blouse their pants over their jump boots, cutting their trousers off at the knees as a symbol of who’d earned this exclusive right.
Private Gene Herrmann, like all glider riders, relished the extra pay and recognition. Before the war the twenty-one-year-old Cleveland native held numerous odd jobs trying to put food on the table: grocery stocker, shipping clerk, and factory worker. He possessed a pleasant disposition, a mop of thick, dark hair, and a full smile that made his eyes squint. But the morale of his unit, the 193rd Glider Infantry Regiment, was at a low point after their mauling in the Ardennes. It sank further when the men were called to formation on a rainy morning in Châlons. From his position in the back, Herrmann had a hard time hearing the announcement until the bad news rippled through the ranks: they were being disbanded. As they shuffled back through the mud to their tents, Herrmann learned that they’d be reassigned to their sister regiment, the 194th. Not only had they lost friends in combat, now it seemed that they’d be split up from the few they had left.
The troops from the disbanded 193rd would be used to expand the 194th by augmenting each platoon with an additional squad of twelve men and building out a third battalion. Collapsed into a single regiment, the transfers boosted the regimental strength from 1,678 men to 3,114.
The paratroopers might still look down on them, but the glider regiment now became the most lethal unit in the division. Their allocation of 81mm mortars soared from six to eighteen, 60mm mortars increased to twenty-seven, over a hundred bazookas were added, and the number of .30-caliber belt-fed machine guns quadrupled to thirty-six.
• • •
With the regiment’s reorganization, Frank Dillon became the lieutenant in charge of 1st Platoon in the reconstituted Baker Company. Having arrived in the rest area with 35 men, the company now swelled back to 200, building out a headquarters section, three rifle platoons, and a weapons platoon.
Dillon’s training regime for his men followed the division plan, which began with marksmanship. They built a rifle range in an open wooded area near their camp, scrounging cans and bottles from the mess tents for targets. For two days the area rang with the loud pop, pop, pop of the platoon zeroing their M1 Garands and carbines.
Dillon’s veterans found that the replacements could load and fire their weapons but do little else. They knew nothing about how to clear stoppages or place crew-served machine guns into action quickly. It was clear that they needed more practice.
Training progressed from squad- and platoon-level exercises to the full company acting in concert. Squads loaded into the backs of large cargo trucks to practice assembling. Having bumped their way randomly out into a large field, the men charged off the tailgates of their “gliders” as soon as they came to a halt and made their way to the platoon’s designated rally point.
In combat, waiting for squads to arrive was a tactical trade-off: the longer the delay, the stronger the unit became, but it a
lso gave the enemy time to react. When enough troops had arrived at the assembly area, procedure called for the highest-ranking man to lead them out. Gliders guaranteed that squads arrived on the battlefield as a group, but seizing and holding an objective required the company’s full firepower. Those failing to assemble on time had to find their own way or catch up to the troops already on the move.
Jeeps, trucks, and trailers that had been arranged to simulate the layout of farm buildings or small villages served as objectives for practicing assault tactics. Platoons and companies bounded forward, yelling, “Pow! Pow! Pow!” as they assaulted through the “villages.”
They ran the drills over and over. Their harrowing ride in a motorless glider, through anti-aircraft fire and an uncertain crash landing, was just the commute. The real action, the payoff for all their training, would be what happened after they landed. Despite the rudimentary conditions, Dillon made sure they took advantage of every opportunity to get ready for the trial ahead. Plus, the replacements needed more work.
Rehearsing patrol formations and small unit tactics, the veterans badgered the new men to avoid bunching up, especially during attacks. The idea was to fire one or two shots, roll behind cover, and select the next position before rushing forward. The safest place during a German mortar or artillery barrage, the rookies learned, if not in a foxhole, was in a recent shell hole, given the unlikely chance of a round hitting the same spot twice.
Damaged glider fuselages recovered from the Dutch landing zones of MARKET GARDEN were brought in for troopers to refresh on loading and lashing down equipment. An improperly balanced jeep or shifting cargo in flight could result in disaster. Knot-tying classes emphasized slipknots to secure equipment that could be undone rapidly once on the ground.