Four Hours of Fury
Page 15
Army regulations contained no such ambiguity. Prisoners were to be treated humanely and escorted to the rear for interrogation—never executed. Many troopers rationalized that there was a difference between rules and reality. Weren’t the regulations written before airborne operations existed? When you’re surrounded, where is the rear? Aren’t we here to kill Germans? Wouldn’t they do the same to us? When every rifle was needed against a numerically superior enemy, relegating men to guard duty seemed foolish. One trooper summed up the feelings of many, “A prisoner is a liability.”
Several of the veterans were already familiar with the ugly realities. The Thirteeners had killed enough prisoners during the Ardennes fighting that a rear-echelon MP had taunted them with a nickname that reflected their growing reputation, “The Baggy Pocket Butchers.”
Regarding the Rhine operation, most expected to be executed themselves if captured by the Germans. The murder of eighty-four American POWs at Malmedy had made it clear what the enemy was capable of, and Allied propaganda ensured that every GI and Tommy knew of the massacre.
Take prisoners, or kill them? Until faced with the realities of the situation, it was an academic argument. One thing was certain on the battlefield: there’d be both unbelievable examples of humanity and tragic outbursts of rage.
• • •
Flying in eight minutes behind the Thirteeners would be their artillery support, the 75mm howitzers of the 466th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. In their marshaling camp, A-80 at Mourmelon-le-Grand, John Chester and his comrades studied their sand tables. Their battalion would take off in a serial of forty-five C-47s and form up with the 513th’s seventy-two C-46s already in flight.
Chester noticed the chaplains had made themselves conspicuous between briefings, milling about for anyone wanting to make his peace with God before facing the enemy. In total, nine chaplains and their enlisted assistants would drop with the division. They were respected for their willingness to run the risks of combat unarmed in order to bring comfort and last rites to GIs in the field. And certainly the job was risky. Since June 1944, five airborne chaplains had been killed in action, ten wounded, three taken prisoner, and two were still missing.
All of the crews in Chester’s battalion had to disassemble and pack their howitzers for the airdrop. They stripped the gun down to its component parts: the rear trails, the two wheels, the gun sleigh, cradle, tube, and breech. After adding ten rounds of ammunition to the pile, they packed it all into seven bundles, six of which would be strapped underneath their aircraft, with the seventh being pushed out the door before they jumped.
Chester recalled, “We had practiced for this event, we could have almost gone through the procedure in our sleep. I recall no inspection. Our officers seemed quite busy with many other things to look after.” Chester’s howitzer would be one of fifty-one being brought in by the division on D-Day.
Chester’s crew also meticulously cleaned and oiled their .30-caliber folding-stock carbines. As artillerymen, their primary weapon was their 75mm howitzer, but they’d be jumping with a carbine in an oversized canvas holster attached to their equipment belt and tied down on their leg, just above the knee. Chester also carried a .45-caliber automatic pistol.
• • •
Sequestered alongside the paratroopers were several reporters accompanying them into Germany. One of the more notorious was Robert Capa, a thirty-two-year-old Hungarian combat photographer. Known for pursuing his passions with a bravado that ignored potential consequences, Capa was famous for landing in one of the early assault waves on Omaha Beach armed with only a camera, and infamous for not letting a woman’s marital status interfere with his affections. On or off the battlefield, Capa marched to his own drum.
“Capa was notorious for his daring,” wrote fellow war correspondent Ernie Pyle. This was high praise from Pyle, who himself often got as close to the action as possible. Capa’s approach to this assignment for Life magazine cemented his reputation: he planned to jump into Germany right behind the 513th’s commander.
Capa was one of those enviable few who seemed either to know exactly where he stood in the context of the events happening around him, or to have the wisdom to understand that none of it mattered. Just as important, perhaps even more so, he knew how to take advantage of a situation.
Born as Endre Friedmann to Jewish parents in Budapest, Capa changed his name to sound more American and obtain freelance work in Paris, where he fled after leaving Berlin University in 1933. Since then he’d photographed the Spanish Civil War, where he palled around with Ernest Hemingway and tragically lost his lover and photography partner, Gerda Taro, to a violent accident. He documented the Chinese struggle against the Japanese in 1938 and was living in New York City at the war’s outbreak, having been chased out of Europe as the Nazis advanced west. As a citizen of the world, Capa reportedly spoke eight languages, but according to his friends, “none of them well.”
Although technically designated an “enemy alien” due to Hungary’s Axis alliance, Capa’s talent and willingness to go where others hesitated kept him gainfully employed. Between assignments he oscillated from trying to stay out of trouble to actively seeking it.
Elmer Lower, the manager of Life magazine’s Paris office, had tipped off Capa about the VARSITY assignment. Capa liked the idea and readily agreed. He joined the Thirteeners in Châlons, hitching a ride with them in the forty-and-eights to the airfield.
Capa’s participation was part of the plan to overcome what Brereton viewed as lackluster press coverage of his Airborne Army. The supercilious Brereton went so far as to have one of his staff officers develop a comprehensive public relations plan to ensure VARSITY would be properly celebrated in the press. All told, there were close to thirty correspondents assigned to cover the operation. The total head count almost represented the strength of a full platoon—a questionable prioritization given that Miley was still asking for additional aircraft.
Brereton had also arranged for a B-17 bomber filled with cameramen to document the armada’s entry into Germany. They would get closer to the spectacle than they could possibly imagine.
Settling into camp B-54, Capa recalled, “we had a short time left for the usual preinvasion cleaning of rifles and consciences.”
Camp A-55, Melun, France. Wednesday, March 21, 1945.
After a few hours of sleep, Frank Dillon and his fellow officers shuffled into the War Room tent for their first formal briefing. They’d arrived at Melun’s train station at 02:00 that morning. With only a few minutes to mingle about in the dark, they huddled in small groups passing around cigarettes before the short ride to the airfield.
To a man, they were unaware that their brief occupation of Melun was a mere footnote in this suburb’s storied history. Twenty-five miles from the center of Paris, the area had been witness to numerous campaigns, including Roman occupation during the Gallic Wars and a Norman sacking in AD 845. The town surrendered to the English in 1420 during the Hundred Years’ War—after a siege that became so desperate the inhabitants resorted to eating rats. More recently, the Wehrmacht had passed through Melun, on their way both in and out of France.
Bumping through the town on benches in the back of their trucks, the glider riders of the 194th were hardly noticed as they quietly made their way to the airfield.
• • •
The briefing started with an overview of the big picture. “We saw the situation from the standpoint of armies on large maps down to the action of individual regiments, companies and platoons,” Dillon recalled.
Confidence was high in Dillon’s unit. “I definitely recall there was a general feeling of enthusiasm and eagerness about the operation once we were in the marshaling area.”
Dillon would spend the next three days applying the leadership lessons he learned in both Officer Candidate School and while under fire in the Ardennes. VARSITY’s dedicated planning time allowed him to employ the fundamentals of Troop Leading Procedures.
After
the briefing, he took time to review his orders, ensuring he understood the assigned tasks. He took stock of what they knew about the enemy’s disposition, which was inadequate at best. Finally, he studied the maps and aerial photographs, taking note of prominent terrain features in the area.
Dillon knew that sharing as much information as possible with his men helped instill confidence. The more they understood their role in the context of the overall plan, the more in control they’d feel.
He started his platoon’s briefing at the high level: the 17th would be in the vanguard of Montgomery’s massive crossing of the Rhine, and as part of the 194th Combat Team they were tasked with destroying the enemy in the immediate area and seizing bridges over the Issel.
The plan: thirty-six minutes after Raff’s Ruffians jumped, the 194th’s gliders would be released over Landing Zone S and land to the east of the two parachute regiments, completing the right corner of Miley’s triangle formation. Located in the southeastern sector of the division’s area, their landing zone, or LZ as they called it, was a goose egg–shaped area, covering almost four square miles.
The 2nd Battalion would land first, closest to the bridges along the canal. Coming in next, the 1st Battalion, including Dillon’s platoon, planned to rush to the bridges along the river. Meanwhile the 3rd Battalion would assemble on the eastern edge of the Diersfordt Forest, just north of the Ruffians. There they were to await orders as Miley’s divisional reserve—his fire brigade—ready to attack where needed.
The last four serials into LZ S would be the artillerymen and howitzers of the 680th and 681st Glider Field Artillery Battalions, landing in the center to provide fire support. This contribution of heavy weapons would help the glider riders secure and defend the bridges.
Bringing up the rear of the division’s air armada would be over 300 additional gliders delivering supporting units of engineers, signals, forward air controllers, medics, and the towed 57mm anti-tank guns. Their destination, LZ N, placed them adjacent to the British 6th Airborne sector just to the north, in the middle of the airborne perimeter. The heavier 57mm anti-tank guns were critical to Miley’s plan. Until those heavier guns arrived, the two parachute regiments would be relying on their new M18 recoilless rifles for defense against German armored vehicles.
Dillon reminded his troops that the plan was just that—a plan. The enemy would largely dictate events and they’d have to stay flexible.
Putting enemy reaction aside, there were some misgivings about the bigger plan. Some of the men were perturbed at having to rely on Montgomery’s ground troops for reinforcement. The failure of the British to reach their own airborne troops in Arnhem during MARKET GARDEN still burned.
Additionally, their LZ would be unsecured when they cut loose overhead. Traditional doctrine called for paratroopers to have cleared the area, pushing back enemy gunners to protect the vulnerable gliders during the landing. But Miley wanted all of his troopers to dash directly for their objectives rather than linger to provide security. The glider riders would be on their own.
• • •
Together, Dillon and his platoon studied the terrain mocked up on their sand table, pointing out and memorizing details. They took in the relatively flat and rural geography that consisted of cultivated fields and pastures dotted with stone farmhouses and barns. Upon study, the men saw that sections of the LZ were unsuitable for glider landings; pilots would have to watch out for scattered trees, streams, and ditches—all of which might cause a devastating crash.
In their sector the Issel split, the river marking the northern boundary, the canal cutting down into Wesel marking their southern limit of advance. Both the river and the canal were approximately thirty-five feet across with steep banks that made for a natural tank obstacle.
Dillon recalled, “We saw aerial maps and photos taken by reconnaissance planes—sometimes at an elevation of only 50 feet.”
A fellow trooper was also impressed: “The briefing was thorough and included photos so detailed that we could pick out German foxholes.”
Reviewing the aerial photography, Dillon’s men realized the advantages belonged to the Germans, while the disadvantages were all theirs. The fields were scarred with zigzagging trench lines and fortified positions, and the open terrain favored the enemy too—there’d be no cover. They all agreed speed and aggression would have to carry the day.
Dillon’s briefing detailed the platoon’s specific actions down to each squad, including where they should assemble. They’d be divided between multiple gliders for the ride in and they had to plan for the likelihood of separation during their descent. They’d assemble at a pie-shaped patch of woods jutting out on the east side of their LZ.
• • •
Also preparing for the mission in camp A-55 was Clyde Haney. While he sat in a briefing tent, his wife in Janesville, Wisconsin, sat down to write him: “The radio news commentator, Kaltenborn, said on the radio tonight that there were several airborne divisions ready to go into action on the east side of the Rhine River. So I suppose that means you. . . . I’m anxious to know. All Our Love, Vera & Richard.”
VARSITY may have been the worst-kept secret of the war.
CHAPTER 8
SECRET DESTINATIONS
Saint-Germain, France. March 11–20, 1945.
Once again Helmut Steltermann went through the ritual of erasing his past to become someone else. For his latest masquerade he’d become Erich Reddig, an Unteroffizier—sergeant—in the Wehrmacht. His forged German pay book informed anyone inspecting it that he’d enlisted in 1942 and was assigned to the 84 Infanterie-Division. The picture stapled inside presented the clean-shaven, twenty-year-old émigré in his well-pressed Wehrmacht uniform with the silver embroidered Nazi eagle on his right chest. His hair was perfectly coiffed; parted on the side and swept back in the style of the day. What an observer would miss on examining the black-and-white photograph was the intensity behind Steltermann’s deep blue eyes and any trace that he was actually an extremely capable intelligence agent.
The ruse was just the latest in his distinguished clandestine career. His first cover identity had been that of a British soldier. In many ways his new alias would be easier to master than that of a Tommy from Manchester; having been born in Mülheim, he spoke German fluently.
In reality Specialist X First Class Helmut Albert Lorenz Steltermann worked for neither the English nor the Germans but rather as an operative of the Office of Strategic Services, America’s first clandestine intelligence organization and the predecessor of the Central Intelligence Agency. Established by a Wall Street lawyer in 1941, the OSS was responsible for coordinating the United States’ wartime espionage activities in both the European and Pacific theaters. The organization was infamous for its subterfuge and bag of dirty tricks.
Steltermann’s intelligence career started routinely enough. The Navy had drafted the nineteen-year-old after his unsuccessful attempt to enlist in the Marines. Sworn in on March 18, 1943, he completed six weeks of basic training before attending radio school in Indianapolis. After the OSS recruited him for his language skills and radio acumen, the organization sent Steltermann to Washington, DC, for a battery of aptitude and personality tests. Once he passed the rigorous selection process, he was shepherded through the training pipeline for the OSS Special Operation Branch, where he mastered land navigation, parachuting, hand-to-hand combat, urban field craft, reflex shooting, and demolitions.
He spent several weeks at a 6,000-acre OSS training camp thirty miles outside of Washington, referred to as Area C. Here he built on his conventional radio skills, learning clandestine communication techniques, Morse code, antenna theory, direction finding, coding, and ciphers.
In February 1944, he shipped out to England on the Queen Mary, leaving behind “Honey,” his nineteen-year-old girlfriend Anneliese Jaeger. The two had met two years earlier at a church function and had been inseparable ever since. As he sailed across the Atlantic, he wondered when he’d see her again.
Since his brief tutelage at one of the world’s most prestigious universities, Steltermann had completed an operation serving as the wireless operator on a team working behind German lines for six weeks during the Battle of the Bulge. During that time his teammates nicknamed him “Easy” for his easygoing demeanor and the low-key nature with which he accepted his harrowing assignments.
• • •
Now Steltermann, recuperating in London, had his R & R interrupted by a summons for “a secret operational mission to a secret destination for the purpose of accomplishing a secret mission in connection with Office of Strategic Services activities.” The overly dramatic prose of the order was soon made clear: he’d be leaving for France to join a team of agents currently preparing for something behind the lines.
His partner for the op would be Second Lieutenant Robert Staub, a former enlisted soldier who was half-French and half-German. Staub enjoyed a reputation for determination. Rumor had it that in 1940 he carried his ailing Jewish father over the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain to escape the advancing German Army while his mother remained behind in occupied France. Staub would adopt the guise of a Wehrmacht officer to accompany Steltermann.
The two agents received standard gray German uniforms, helmets, field equipment, and forged identification papers. Steltermann was also provided with a Wehrmacht driver’s license to complement his pay book.
As expected, the exact details of the operation hadn’t yet been revealed. They’d learn more in France. Regardless of the circumstances or the nature of the work, the two knew of Hitler’s 1942 Commando Order directing that captured Allied saboteurs and agents be executed without a trial. If Steltermann had any concerns, he kept them to himself and took the assignment in stride.