The element of surprise had been lost.
CHAPTER 7
SEQUITIS BASTATII
Châlons-sur-Marne, France. Friday, March 16, 1945.
The atmosphere had changed in the 17th Airborne camps, and rumors were crystallizing into facts. The troopers had no doubt something was about to happen. The frequency of visitors to the guarded War Room tents continued to climb. And as equipment and weapons inspections became annoyingly more frequent, passes out of camp became harder to get.
The reduction of passes was a ploy by the division’s counterintelligence officers, who wanted to slowly decrease the presence of airborne troops in the nearby towns so as to avoid notice of their sudden departure. Nevertheless, troops disappearing from other locales were drawing attention.
In nearby hospitals airborne officers combed the wards seeking discharges for men who’d recovered enough from their wounds to return to duty. The implication was obvious: the officers wanted experienced veterans back at their units sooner rather than later. Clearly something big was afoot. The curious activity compelled other patients, whose officers were less proactive, to slip out of the hospital without a doctor’s release or official authorization.
The Army tracked its soldiers like all its assets: on paper. No one moved from point A to point B without documented orders. Every GI had to be accounted for, but paperwork took time and who knew how long that would take. Going through proper channels could mean missing the operation. Few if any of those breaking out were motivated by patriotism or a love of war; their reasons were far less complicated. Simply put, they were unwilling to let their buddies down. Comrades were counting on them, and that was more important than personal safety. Some were no doubt driven by the nagging worry that they’d be considered a coward if they stayed behind. Miley had long known that his men, particularly the paratroopers, had built a culture wherein they “became more afraid of the unfavorable opinion of their fellows than of death itself.” Anyone who’d worked hard to gain acceptance within a group of combat men wanted to avoid the shame of shirking the brotherhood.
By sneaking back to their units without orders the men risked the stockade—in the eyes of Army bureaucrats, they were Absent Without Leave. George Streukens, a captain in the glider regiment, welcomed his men back regardless of their means or motivations. With a wink he subjected each escapee to his own court-martial. Charging them with being AWOL, he sentenced the guilty to a week’s confinement in camp—a verdict that generated the Army’s required paperwork and prevented outside authority from taking further action. Once word got out that officers were either turning a blind eye or actively aiding those without proper authorization, even more veterans returned.
• • •
In spite of their suspicions, none of the troopers knew exactly when the operation would launch. Unknown to them, General Miley and his staff of logisticians had been working toward a D-Day of April 1. But as is customary in war, the enemy failed to cooperate. Schlemm’s unexpected escape across the Rhine put VARSITY’s timeline back in question.
Montgomery wanted to attack sooner. With the Americans already across the Rhine at Remagen and the Germans in his own sector organizing their defenses on the far bank, Montgomery knew the clock was ticking. If the Americans pressed their advantage, their breakout might drain the supplies earmarked for his operation, and he knew the enemy across the river would only get stronger with time.
Montgomery again angered the Americans by complaining bitterly to Eisenhower that the crossing at Remagen ran counter to the agreed plan. But as frustrated as Montgomery was that American field commanders were crossing the Rhine as fast as they could—and thus taking more gas and supplies—their attacks did stretch the Germans’ defenses, causing the enemy to transfer troops out of Montgomery’s sector to repulse the Americans.
While Ridgway understood Montgomery’s newfound sense of urgency, he felt the airborne troops needed two weeks’ notice before they could launch. Up at Airborne Army, however, Brereton overruled him, telling Montgomery they only needed one week. He caveated his commitment with the understatement of a man who would be sitting it out in the rear: such a hasty option, he added, “would lack the smoothness of deliberate planning and preparations.” Both Ridgway’s diary and history are silent on how the experienced combat commander reacted to being overridden by someone who’d never led troops.
Montgomery’s desire to move up D-Day was more optimistic than practical. His unwillingness to scale down his plans still required stockpiling vast amounts of supplies. The essential landing craft and 30,000 tons of bridging equipment had yet to arrive at the front. Sixty thousand tons of artillery shells still had to be moved up to gunners manning 1,300 howitzers—and that was merely for the opening salvos of the pre-invasion artillery barrage.
The G-4 section at Supreme Headquarters, the supply guys, estimated that keeping Montgomery’s bridgehead stocked with rations, fuel, batteries, and medical supplies would require over 500 tons of provisions per day, per division. Moving all of that materiel forward necessitated widening roads and building depots, which still needed to be completed.
After a sober assessment, Montgomery and Dempsey agreed they could, at most, advance D-Day by one week.
The day before St. Patrick’s Day, Miley informed his regimental commanders that the drop had been moved from April 1 to March 24. They now had eight days to prepare.
• • •
Shortly thereafter, without explanation or fanfare, small convoys departed from the various 17th Airborne rest camps. In some cases the heavier equipment, such as the 105mm and 75mm howitzers, were towed away. In others, lines of jeeps with overloaded trailers rumbled out of camp. The departing convoys made it obvious that equipment was being relocated somewhere, perhaps to airfields for staging.
The next day officers conducted another series of weapon inspections. Platoon sergeants drafted personnel rosters and organized aircraft loading plans. The activity sparked rumors that restriction to camp was imminent.
Sergeant John Chester didn’t wait around to confirm the scuttlebutt. He needed his clothes, which were in the possession of a local gendarme’s wife. Chester, grabbing his entire stash of cigarettes and a large bag of candy, bolted into Soudron.
He had a pretty sweet deal. For a pack of American cigarettes, the woman washed, pressed, and folded his duffel bag of dirty clothing. The bargain saved him from competing for access to his camp’s limited laundry facilities. As a nonsmoker, Chester stockpiled his weekly ration of smokes for such bartering.
He found the family at home and after a bit of small talk exchanged the requisite cigarettes for his duffel bag, gave the husband a smart salute, and turned toward the door.
Pausing, he handed the bag of candy to the couple’s nine-year-old daughter and simultaneously tried to discreetly slide three cartons of cigarettes onto the table. But his sleight of hand needed work. The overjoyed wife descended on him in a flash, planting a big kiss on his cheek.
Chester, nervous that her husband would get the wrong idea, was relieved when the man laughed and pointed to a mirror. A perfect, bright red print of the woman’s lips highlighted Chester’s right cheek. As a fan of symmetry, Chester pointed at his left cheek, whereupon the woman planted another perfect kiss. Chester nodded his approval, set his garrison cap at a rakish angle, and with a spring in his step returned to camp.
Passing through the maze of tents, Chester was hounded by catcalls and questions from “a bunch of very jealous and curious troopers.” Relishing the attention, he simply replied, “Boys, you’ve got to know your way around.” He’d been back less than an hour when everyone was confined to camp.
Clyde Haney also had a close call. Just before all outgoing mail was bagged and held until after the operation, he managed to send a letter to his family. Continuing to encode sensitive information, Haney concluded his note of March 19 with “Dad [the indication a hidden message followed]: Am in really beautiful ozone training now easy. Mea
l in several seconds—I’m off now. Seldom overlook our noonmeals.” Translated, the slightly jumbled message read: “Airborne Mission Soon.”
• • •
Lieutenant Frank Dillon and his platoon were called to an unexpected company formation, where their commander explained why no one was allowed to leave: they’d soon be conducting a combat drop and preparations were to start immediately.
Dillon had just received a warning order—stripped of details and dates, it was just enough information to put the gears in motion. He and the rest of the men would get the details in the marshaling camp. Dillon didn’t need to know the particulars, nor did he require a lot of guidance; he knew what to do.
First, he told his troops to return to their tents and pack all of their nonessential articles and extra uniforms into their duffel bags. These were then to be left at the supply tent for storage. They’d now be living out of their combat packs. He reminded his men to keep their mess tins, with army-issued knife, fork, and spoon, with them.
Later that day, while Dillon’s Baker Company scrambled in anticipation of their departure, another thirty-two replacements arrived. Yesterday these men had been drowning in the monotony of a replacement depot, and now they were caught in a whirlwind of soldiers preparing for combat. The new arrivals were assigned across the four platoons; at least they didn’t have to unpack.
Dillon, along with every other platoon leader in the division, ordered the men to remove their golden talon shoulder patches and all other airborne insignia from their uniforms. They unbloused their trousers to conceal their distinctive jump boots. The men hid their weapons and combat equipment in duffel or kitbags to further aid the ruse. Since they’d be traveling through civilian areas en route to their departure airfields, the uniform modifications were intended to rob observers of any clues that they were witnessing airborne troops on the move.
The next evening, well after sunset, Dillon’s platoon loaded into the backs of cargo trucks for a short ride to the rail station in Châlons-sur-Marne.
The men boarded the familiar forty-and-eight boxcars for their journey to their marshaling camp adjacent to the airfield near Melun, officially designated A-55. Most tossed their packs on the floor for a pillow and settled into the rhythm of the swaying boxcar for some sleep.
Before Gene Herrmann, who’d been reassigned to a mortar squad in the 194th’s Dog Company, left camp, his platoon sergeant, Mardell Kreuzer, asked for a volunteer to stay behind. Headquarters needed a few men to guard equipment and bring it overland later in the campaign. Volunteering would mean missing the drop. No one stepped forward or raised his hand. Kreuzer approached each man individually but still got no takers. The last trooper he spoke with got the job.
• • •
Between March 19 and 20, the entire division snaked through the darkness of Northern France via jeeps, trucks, and trains as unobtrusively as 9,000 men could. At the same time, across the English Channel and well over 200 miles away, the British 6th Airborne Division moved to their eleven departure airfields northwest of London.
Both divisions were on their way to camps where they’d be briefed on the mission’s details. The troopers would have three days to memorize the plan and get themselves ready. The Americans were staging out of twelve camps constructed at the departing airfields, each with a capacity for 1,200 to 2,400 GIs.
Structurally and aesthetically, the camps were similar to those in Châlons: rows of generic olive-drab army tents. Inside the tents each trooper would find a standard-issue cot and three wool blankets awaiting him. There were some differences though, the most notable being the seven-foot-tall barbed wire fence and patrolling MPs surrounding the camps—both intended to thwart unauthorized entrance or exit. Outside the fence and extending around the airfield’s perimeter were recently emplaced anti-aircraft guns.
On display throughout the compounds and inside briefing tents were posters bearing cautionary axioms: “Home Alive in ’45, Don’t Talk!” and “Enemy Ears Are Listening!” and “What You See and Hear Here, Leave Here.”
Communication between the camps would be strictly limited to landline telephone or messengers traveling by liaison planes, jeeps, or motorcycles. No radio transmissions were permitted.
A segregation system had been established to ensure briefed personnel couldn’t mingle with the uninformed. Guards would escort visitors in and out of the encampments, preventing contact with those in the know. Separate dining facilities and latrines for administrative personnel had also been set up. Any briefed personnel who fell ill were to be quarantined in designated hospitals where they’d remain under guard and isolated from other patients until after the mission launched. All such briefed personnel had the code word “UNDERDONE” written boldly on their medical tags.
The men could write letters, but all outgoing mail would be bagged and sent to the censors for extra scrutiny. It would all be held until after D-Day.
The routine at each camp would be the same. Briefings would start shortly after arrival, beginning with battalion commanders who attended the first of several scheduled planning sessions. The briefings were to be conducted on a rotating basis, working down to the platoons. Men waiting their turn would be made as comfortable as tents, cots, and barbwire would allow. Sporting equipment was made available, and each camp set aside a tent for showing movies. Red Cross volunteers were on hand to dispense cigarettes, gum, doughnuts, and coffee.
Issues of Stars and Stripes, the armed forces newspaper, would be made available at each camp. Men flipping through the pages read about plans back home to build a nationwide interstate highway system. There were satisfactory reports of the Air Force doing their job, both locally and abroad. Over 1,300 heavy bombers had again plastered Berlin, and in the Pacific, B-29s were bombing Japan. The Marines were in a bitter battle for the island of Iwo Jima. Also of interest were cautionary tales of treacherous German civilians: an elderly woman was caught riding her bicycle through American lines, waving at GIs in their foxholes for the benefit of enemy artillery observers. Those less engrossed by current events would find entertainment in the comic-strip adventures of Dick Tracy or the antics of Li’l Abner. The sports section provided updates on the Stanley Cup semifinals; baseball season wouldn’t start until April.
Marshaling Camp A-80, Mourmelon-le-Grand, France. Tuesday, March 20, 1945.
Sitting in his tent, Bud Miley once again mentally reviewed his division’s plan. In accordance with doctrine, he’d bolstered his three regiments by assigning them supporting units of engineers, anti-tank gunners, and artillery to form three combat teams. The operation itself boiled down to two primary tasks: seizing high ground and establishing a perimeter to protect Montgomery’s bridgehead from counterattack.
Miley’s two parachute regiments would be used to attack a six-mile stretch of high ground in the Diersfordt Forest from which German artillery gunners could observe and fire on exposed Allied troops traversing the wide river below. The division’s most lethal regiment, the glider riders of the 194th, would seize and hold positions along the Issel River to form the perimeter’s defensive line. The Issel ran roughly parallel to the Rhine six miles inland and virtually boxed in the 17th Airborne’s area of operations to the east and southeast. Originally a tributary, whose banks had been steadily built up since the Roman era, its high embankments and thirty-five-foot width created a natural obstacle and prevented tanks and vehicles from crossing anywhere other than bridges. Taking and holding these crossing points would be critical for Montgomery’s forces to break out of the bridgehead. The British airborne would seize bridges farther up the Issel in their sector to complete the perimeter.
Hazy intelligence suggested one potential problem with the setup, which was that the Germans had arrayed their reserve formations behind the Issel. This placed them in a position to reinforce units already along the Rhine. If they got to the bridges first, they could strike the still-maturing and vulnerable bridgehead. The location of these reserves also made them a
danger to Miley’s troops mopping up enemy positions between the Rhine and the Issel.
Reading the March 22 intelligence report, Miley noted the blunt realities: “The reserve activity in this area against airborne operations cannot really be evaluated. There is a squeeze on petrol and motor transport, but, on the other hand, the Germans have been rehearsing to counteract airborne landings at the earliest possible moment with reserves in selected areas.” The report went on to estimate that “by the time the airborne assault takes place, there is a possibility of 100,000 troops of all types and caliber being within a 30 mile radius and from 10,000 to 12,000 within a 10 mile radius of the area.”
Miley knew that the Wehrmacht, even with its resources stretched, would be a formidable opponent. German infantry and tank crews continued to wield an expert level of lethality that made them infamous. They’d come back from the brink of destruction multiple times and had shown, both at Arnhem and in the Ardennes, that they still had a vote in the outcome of any battle.
Miley realized that delaying the drop until after commencing the river assault created two possible scenarios. First, the Germans might hastily commit their armored reserves to repel the assault crossing, in which case his men would be landing virtually on top of the enemy units as they moved toward the river. Or, more likely, Montgomery’s crossing would not draw out the reserves by the time of the drop. In that case, they’d be mustering behind the Issel awaiting developments along the riverbank. If Miley’s troops could beat the Germans to the bridges—after overcoming the enemy occupying the landing zones—they stood a good chance of keeping them at bay.
Regardless of how the Germans reacted, Miley knew he had the advantage of mass. It would be a concentrated drop with the two airborne divisions landing in an area roughly five miles wide by six miles deep; there was little chance of units becoming isolated. In contrast with MARKET GARDEN, they’d be dropping virtually on top of their objectives, allowing them to pounce on their targets almost immediately and at full strength. The division would drop into a rough triangle shape, with the 507th, including Miley himself, jumping in first, followed by the 513th farther north and the 194th gliding into the east.
Four Hours of Fury Page 13
