Several of the glider pilots from the group command post raced across to where the JU-88 had plowed into a field. The Luftwaffe pilot was dazed and his copilot was pinned in the crumpled cockpit. The other two members of the crew were dead. In a gesture of unnecessary chivalry, the pilot surrendered his pistol. The crash served as a portent of what was about to break loose back at the roadblock.
The grinding of gears and the clatter of a tracked vehicle clanking toward them focused the glider pilots’ attention. They nervously fingered the safeties on their rifles and fidgeted in their foxholes, scrutinizing the darkness. Whoever was coming toward them had the advantage of approaching up the reverse slope of a small hill, masking both their approach and their identity. The pilots held their fire. Waiting.
It wasn’t until the advancing unit was almost in the intersection that the pilots could see them. They were Germans! The first shots rang out almost simultaneously, each side opening up on the other.
Everyone fired what he had. The pilots snapped off shots at figures scurrying through the crossroads or plinked at the tank with rifles, praying to hit the vision slits or unsettle the crew. The airborne troopers’ heavy machine gun opened fire, its deep cough cutting over the clatter of carbines and rifles. Rounds zipped overhead as German infantry swarmed forward on each side of the tank.
Several of the pilots’ guns jammed. The flow of adrenaline made clearing the unfamiliar weapons difficult. Second Lieutenant Raye Niblo set his aside to throw grenades. He heaved them as hard as he could into clusters of Germans setting up machine guns and maneuvering a single-barreled 20mm anti-aircraft gun into position. From his foxhole Valton Bray steadily snapped off shots with his automatic pistol.
The Germans pushed up a second 20mm. The incendiary tracer rounds sliced overhead like deadly glowing golf balls. A glider immediately behind the platoon was set alight by a burst from the 20mm. Two pilots who’d dug in under one of the glider’s wings waited as long as they could before the flames got too close and they had to abandon their foxhole.
The pilots’ volley of fire and the steady beat of the .50-caliber drove the attackers back down the road. The heavy machine gun rounds pinged off the tank’s armor and sliced through the infantry.
Just when the pilots thought the attack was faltering, the tank pivoted and blasted the Americans’ .50-caliber position. The gun was destroyed and the two crewmen fell wounded.
On the other side of the road, pilots Chester DeShurley and Albert Hurley knew their .30-caliber belt-fed machine gun might be next. Assistant gunner Hurley later admitted, “We were afraid to open fire immediately for we saw the 50 cal. go out.”
The German infantry regrouped for another lunge. As they advanced behind the tank, they started howling like a pack of wolves. The bellowing was intimidating and increased the perception of their true numbers.
“There must have been about a hundred or more Germans, but between their concentrated fire and yelling their heads off, it sounded like a regiment,” thought Flight Officer Elbert Jella. With his bazooka shouldered, he waited a few more seconds before squeezing the trigger; the high-explosive rocket whooshed out from his foxhole on the left side of the intersection.
“I held my fire until they were just about 15 yards off,” he said. “You see, I didn’t want to miss.”
The round hit just above the tracks. The explosion was tremendous, sending a hot concussion wave rolling back at Jella. But the blast appeared to have only damaged the tank. It lurched once and reversed course, backing over one of the 20mm guns. Momentarily entangled, its treads ground the gun into scrap. The tank crew opened up with their stubby machine gun as they retreated. The gunner reloaded and the cannon roared.
The shell threw up a geyser of dirt twenty feet in front of DeShurley and Hurley’s machine gun position, pelting them with debris. The pilots continued to fire back, peppering the tank and supporting infantry with their .30-caliber despite the unwelcome attention. They squeezed off short bursts to conserve their ammo as they only had a single ammo can of 250 rounds.
The tank fired again. The shell cracked two feet over the pilots’ heads, hitting the house behind them. The interior of the two-story brick structure burst into flame. The tank clanked away, backing out of sight between two houses, where the crew abandoned it.
Bullets were still flying back and forth, preventing the pilots holding positions in front of the burning house from evacuating. Fortunately, the brick façade contained the flames, but there were civilians sheltering in the cellar. A group of pilots, most likely from the 78th Platoon, worked their way around back to free the civilians. They rescued an elderly couple and a young pregnant woman before the structure was engulfed in flame.
The German infantry, with their armor out of the fight, lost their momentum and retreated back down Holzweg Road. Their machine gunners on their flanks kept up a steady stream of fire to protect the retreat.
Several pilots, taking advantage of the lull, jumped out of their foxholes and ran back to the command post for reinforcements. The Germans might come back, and almost all the pilots were running low on ammunition.
“Things were plenty SNAFU,” admitted Hurley. “No one knew how strong the attacking force was and no one knew who was still there or who had pulled out.”
Plenty SNAFU it was. During the confused battle the group command post had withdrawn. Most of the 77th Platoon, if not all, were unaware of the departure, including Floyd Hand, the assistant platoon leader. Claims would later be made that the platoons had been informed, but given the number of bitter accusations, it’s clear any communication to that effect never reached them. Additionally several pilots took it upon themselves to leave their positions during the fight. Some went to get reinforcements; some went in search of more ammo. Some just went.
“During the attack five of our squadron deserted their post and returned to the command post,” noted Flight Officer William Bruner. “It left seven of our squadron in a bad spot.”
But most of the 77th Platoon held their ground, repulsing the attack. “We had luck with us,” said Albert Hurley. He was right; for all of the flying lead, the platoon had sustained minimal injuries: just two superficial head wounds.
The “Battle for Burp Gun Corner”—as it would later become known—petered out after thirty intense minutes. The Germans left their dead scattered in the street. The survivors fled across the fields or sought refuge in nearby houses. Some harassed the pilots with the occasional odd, angry shot. The lurking enemy kept the pilots on their toes for the rest of the night.
The brick house continued to smolder, and occasional anonymous shots rang out from both directions. Three Soldats stumbled into the intersection, wanting to surrender. A jumpy pilot shot one of them before their intentions were understood. Confusion and doubt continued to course though the pilots’ veins. Two more Germans approached, presumably to give themselves up, but either they didn’t hear the command to halt or had other intentions. A burst from the .30-caliber cut them down.
00:10. Issel Canal: Bridges 1, 2 and 3. Sunday, March 25, 1945.
Five hundred yards due east, at Bridges 1 and 2, the situation was still very much touch and go. No further word had been received since Lieutenant Thomas Wittig’s runner had made it back to the command post. Lieutenant John Robinson’s patrol had moved forward just after dark, making their way to a point 200 yards short of Bridge 1. The only sign of Wittig’s patrol they could find were empty shell casings and a dead GI. Robinson’s platoon hunkered down for the night and ambushed groups of enemy troops attempting to infiltrate via the railroad bridge.
Reports coming in from George Company weren’t encouraging. The platoons were spread thin trying to hold Bridges 1 and 2. Their forward squads remained unaccounted for and German patrols were taking advantage of the darkness to scout their lines. The mist rising up from the canal further hampered visibility; gray-clad Germans moved like specters through the gloom, more apparition than man.
Lieutenant
Colonel Harry Balish dispatched another platoon from his reserve company. Led by Lieutenant John Anderson, the patrol’s progress was held up by the steady flow of German infiltrators. The patrol bumped into three groups of Germans in less than an hour, capturing thirty-six of them. The number of prisoners became too unwieldy, and Anderson returned to the command post to off-load them. It was a good haul but didn’t account for the suspected number of Germans who’d broken through the lines. Where were they?
At midnight German gunners yanked the lanyards on their howitzers, sending shell after shell arcing into the American lines. It was the opening salvo of yet another concerted counterattack against the glider riders at Bridges 1, 2, and 3. After a few miserable minutes, the shelling lifted, shifting back to the vicinity of Balish’s command post. Clearly German scouts had plotted their position.
The field phone crackled to report Fox Company had ambushed twelve Germans snooping along their right flank, near George Company. A few minutes later they called back to report they’d lost contact with George altogether.
But the field telephone lines were still intact between George and the command post. They were calling back for artillery support, requesting fire all across their front. The sound of small arms fire and grenades swelled from George’s positions. The firing diminished briefly only to flare again. Almost simultaneously both wire and radio communication went dead. George was now on their own. From the ruckus drifting back from the canal, they were still in the fight, but how long could they last?
Balish ordered a small contact patrol to suss out what was happening. They didn’t get far. A burst of fire spit out of the darkness, cutting down the squad leader and wounding another man as the Germans swept past them.
Less than three minutes after George Company had been overrun, the Germans swarmed up to Balish’s command post from the two roads leading up from Bridges 1 and 2.
One of Balish’s staff managed to blurt out a message on their field phone, “Firing 310 degrees . . .” The line went dead before he could finish his sentence. Every clerk, officer, radio operator, and supply sergeant rushed to a defensive position. They joined the troopers of the defense platoon whose withering fire lashed out at running shadows. It did the job. The German assaulters had either shot their bolt or had their ranks thinned by George Company to such an extent that they couldn’t muster enough firepower to overwhelm the command post. The scattered German formations fell back in all directions, leaving several dozen corpses behind as evidence of their failed attempt.
Balish reorganized the defenses after the melee and tried to ascertain the extent of the incursion. Repeated attempts to raise George Company went unanswered, and contact with two of the 57mm anti-tank gun crews near Bridge 2 had also been lost.
Balish feared that George Company had been overrun and that Bridges 1 and 2 were now back in German hands, so he sent out a two-man scouting party to confirm the situation. Creeping up on the bridges, the two men spotted an idling German panzer with an estimated sixty troops marshaling near the canal.
Back at the command post, Balish received the scouts’ report and again tasked Lieutenant John Anderson’s platoon: stop the German infiltration and find George Company. Another lieutenant, Robert Sheehy, who’d led the scouting party, would join Anderson to guide the platoon back to where he saw the tank. Anderson’s troopers loaded up with extra bazookas and departed the command post at 02:00. Sheehy led them to Bridge 2 in search of the tank. They found it soon enough. It sat astride the road, hurling high-explosive shells straight across the bridge, and the number of Germans had grown to almost a hundred. It was obvious to Sheehy and Anderson that another breakthrough was imminent.
Outnumbered three to one, the lieutenants agreed it was wise to lie low and avoid giving their position away. Instead they radioed back for artillery. Anderson carefully plotted the coordinates. With the Germans almost in George Company’s lines, the danger of fratricide was high. Five interminable minutes later the rounds from the far side of the Rhine warbled overhead and crashed into the enemy formation. The platoon watched in silence, holding their fire, as the explosions blossomed in a tight pattern and cut the Germans to ribbons.
Anderson and Sheehy made it back to the command post at 03:00 with a full report. They could find no trace of GIs at Bridge 2, and as far as they could tell George Company’s left flank had folded, leaving an undefended gap between George and Fox Companies. They did hear a firefight raging farther southeast across the canal: a crackle of American machine guns dueling with the buzz saw bursts of enemy guns. Somebody was alive out there and still fighting. The platoon moved toward the sound of the battle, only to engage a sizeable band of Germans that forced them to withdraw.
Balish rousted his reconnaissance platoon as a final measure. They were the only reserve he had left to fill the gap. Before they could reach the broken lines, the recon troopers bumped into the displaced George Company command group. They’d retreated after being pummeled by an enemy counterattack, which confirmed that the Germans held Bridge 2.
The two groups attacked together, “firing everything from 45 pistols to bazookas” and forcing the Germans to flee. Ten prisoners were bagged in the process. The combined units restored the line, and the recon men took up positions to defend Bridge 2. George Company’s commander, who’d been out of contact with his forward platoons for hours, couldn’t shed any light on what was happening over at Bridge 1. No one had been able to reach the positions there or hail the men by radio.
• • •
At the same time George Company was fighting for its life and possession of Bridges 1 and 2, the Germans prepared another counterattack against Bridge 3. The first indication that something might be brewing was a solitary Luftwaffe night fighter streaking overhead to strafe Fox Company’s lines. The low-level gun run was ineffective, but ensured everybody was awake.
A few minutes later, at 02:45, the glider riders heard the Germans marshaling for their attack. At least four tracked vehicles—tanks or self-propelled guns—lumbered into position. Trucks pulled up, and the clang of their tailgates dropping to unload troops reverberated.
Fox Company’s forward observer crept to the edge of the canal to get a better bead on all the activity. Squinting at the distant shadows milling around in the moonlight, he guessed there were 400 troops on the far side of the canal. He used his own location to plot an azimuth and estimated the distance to the noise at 300 yards before whispering his request into the radio’s handset.
On the far side of the Rhine British artillery tubes belched flame once more, spitting out the first volley of shells. The FO, seeing the rounds land on target, relayed the command, “Fire for effect!” The order unleashed salvos of high-explosive rounds. They tore into the German ranks, inducing panic. Desperate to escape the slaughter, many ran toward the canal in blind confusion. Fox Company’s machine gunners were waiting. All along the canal American muzzles flashed, downing the Germans or driving them back into the eviscerating shrapnel.
22:00. Issel River: Bridges 7–10. Saturday, March 24, 1945.
At Bridges 7 through 10, Charlie Company fought off several attacks, ranging from platoon to company in size. Frank Dillon and the rest of Baker Company rushed in for support. As the battalion’s reserve fire brigade, they’d been withdrawn and deployed multiple times along the canal to reinforce and fill gaps between the line companies. At 22:00 the Germans broke through at Bridge 7 and held it for thirty minutes before Baker Company pushed them back.
The field phones rang at the forward positions just after 23:00 to warn of a new enemy tactic: women were pretending to be wounded and using moans to attract the Americans’ attention. Concealed Germans would ambush any GI coming to a woman’s aid. It worked once, with the bait shot down in retaliation.
Five minutes later the radio crackled again to deliver an intelligence report from the British. A reliable source indicated that the lead elements of the Germans’ 116 Panzer-Division were moving south against the cana
l, and were reportedly just a few hours away.
At one in the morning a small group of Germans attempting to escape the bridgehead bumped into Charlie Company’s rear security near Bridges 9 and 10. The attack was brushed off with the help of mortars and Baker Company. There’d be no rest for Frank Dillon’s platoon that night.
Skirmishes continued to erupt all along the river. In one such engagement, Sergeant William Wolf, not wanting to reveal Charlie Company’s position, grabbed a 60mm light mortar and moved forward to disrupt an attack. Opting to leave the bipod and sight behind, he spiked the mortar into the ground and leaned it forward. With a well-practiced eye and some Kentucky windage Wolf accurately dropped six rounds on the advancing horde, unhinging their attack. Satisfied, he hoisted the sixteen-pound tube and hauled it back to the safety of his lines before the Germans retaliated by lobbing shells into the area where they’d seen the flash of his mortar.
Grenades had to be used when the Germans got too close. Private Levert Smith, Jr., apparently fumbled his. He was found severely wounded in his foxhole, the victim of his own grenade. It had either gone off prematurely or he’d dropped it. His comrades rushed him back to the aid station, sliding him onto the kitchen table for immediate attention. But it was too late, and within a few minutes the aspiring baseball player and avid Yankees fan bled out. He’d celebrated his nineteenth birthday three days before the drop.
Misfortune came in all sizes for Charlie Company that day. A forward observer called for British artillery to hit some Germans sheltering in a copse of trees. “We heard the shells coming,” recalled Frank O’Rourke, “but instead of passing over us to their target in the woods, they began exploding on our side of the canal.” Fortunately, the short rounds only maimed the observer himself. The troopers were happy to see him go. “We didn’t need his kind of help.”
Four Hours of Fury Page 36
