Heroes: the Army
"...Sharp cracking explosions along the whole front blended into a tremendous roar, rising and subsiding as each fresh wave burst against the hard surface, echoing and re-echoing up and down the Roer Valley..."
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On the Line in December, 1944
Barber Waters, A-406
One of the underlying differences between civilian life and the life in the front lines is the denomination you live by. In the one case you live by the year, the day, or possibly the hour, while in the lines you live by the fraction of a second. The highway of life is punctuated with the milestones of important events which occur during the journey through life. At the terminal a man finds he has lived so many outstanding experiences. In war the soldier discovers only inches between his milestones, and it takes him only a short time to have registered to his credit a great multitude of "high spots." The infantryman's life, however, is not always such a rocket of events. Often there are dull stretches of inactivity which give him ample time to walk slowly and rest up for the next mad rush. Here is an account of one such interlude.
During the early days of the German breakthrough at Malmedy, Able Company, 406 Infantry held several hundred yards of the line as few miles north of the famous bulge. For twenty days the front lines had been stabilized in the position we found them on the night of December 21st. At the scheduled time the battalion formed outside of Beggendorf and marched the four or five miles to Geronswieler, where the company's rear Command Post had already been established. Never was a night more dark and eerie. We groped in the darkness like blind men, I following the man in front of me by bending down and sighting his rifle muzzle against the purple background of the sky. When our guides came back from the lines, the company moved forward behind Captain Dexter [Robert B.].
We passed the familiar rubble of Geronsweiler, passed the once towering church and parsonage in whose depths we had withstood a thousand shells it seemed, passed the cemetery, the last civilized endeavor before the broad open fields we knew and hated so bitterly. Rain and sleet spanked our faces and the soggy mire that once was a road overwhelmed our shoes at every step, releasing them with a long sucking noise. As we crept forward in single file, the road seemed to grow longer and longer. Our hope was to avoid the occasional flares that might reveal our column to enemy artillery perched high across the Roer. To have followed the road full distance to the Lindern-Linnich highway and the lines running parallel to that shattered tree-lined ribbon would have meant crossing "Windy Corner." Intermittent shelling at the crossroad detoured us over adjacent fields.
The CP group, of which I was a member at the time by virtue of having been first platoon runner, was to occupy holes approximately two hundred yards behind the line. They were situated in a grove of barren willows, and we tumbled into them wearily. I threw a raincoat over the opening of my foxhole, huddled beneath blankets, and aside from a few hours of guard duty, slept soundly. The platoons were in position by 2300 hours and communications were set up by early morning. The holiday season had officially begun.
My first glimpse of the surrounding terrain came at daybreak. A gently sloping ridge rose at the forward edge of a flat land, and it was along this ridge that the company occupied foxholes. On each flank a large gully cut crosswise through the ridge, perpendicular to it and to the lines. Dog Company's machine gunners commanded the flank approaches to the defense.
On this morning the beginning of an eventful week to come was thrust upon us quite unexpectedly. Across that barren terrain - pitted by shells and hastily dug foxholes and spotted with the inevitable sugar beet patches - ran two lone figures. They called for us to identify ourselves, and upon recognition, swung toward our positions. They explained that at dawn the entire machine gun section on the right flank had been surprised and captured by a German patrol, which had infiltrated through the line and attacked the unexpecting men in their holes.
This reassured us of an aggressive enemy to our front and led to the installation of barbed wire and booby traps in front of our foxholes. Every night engineers came forward to perform the required task, and I often watched them weaving their way toward us. A single thread of men, they were, burdened down by a tremendous load of danger. Back and forth throughout the night that solemn procession crept. Our men guided it to the proper points and guarded the men while they worked. By the end of the week the whole front was protected. I felt almost secure.
CHRISTMAS WAS COMING
A couple of days before Christmas the weather turned brisk, and the morning found a frost coated ground, which brightened the day considerably but which confused our meagre attempt at foxhole camouflaging. The chill was penetrating, so much so that before we left those positions, several were carried from their holes with raw trenchfoot and frostbite. A daily foot exercise was added to our schedule. I carried an extra pair of socks in my waist and changed over every night, my body heat drying out the freshly removed pair. However, this didn't deter me from double-timing in the foxhole, a universal procedure at the front during the reign of King Winter.
The first four days dragged considerably and we talked of relief on the day before Christmas. Christmas in a foxhole! A disgusting thought, but it was inevitable that we were to remain there throughout the month of December, so we sat in our dugouts and thought of Christmas eve at home. I hummed a few carols to myself to make memories sharper.
Soon, however, as in a dream, I heard "Silent Night" issuing clearly and distinctly out of the crisp moonlight evening. Peering from my foxhole, I stood in a trance, listening intently, transfixed by the beautiful music which penetrated the midnight air. Jerry was serenading us by means of a loudspeaker flinging out melodies over the front lines. Although most of the men rather resented the intrusion, I enjoyed it immensely. He concluded the program appropriately with the Death Durge.
OUR "PRESENT"
On Christmas night Johnny carried cold turkey and dressing to the L-L highway. A few trouped back and bore the treasure to the rest of us. I devoured each morsel slowly as if it were my last. A wonderful climax to the drab holiday, but the excitement if the evening was yet to come. A steady whistle awoke the sound power phone. Dog Company boys told of capturing a German soldier walking into the lines and said the prisoner was being brought to the CP. We squatted in the willows as the enemy soldier was en route toward us. He was our perfect Christmas present. G-2 would have his source of information and we would have a slackening of combat.
Captain Dexter brought the German to a halt. The lad obeyed quickly. "Me Polasky," he stated convincingly, as he fumbled for papers in the pocket of his tattered field gray uniform and shoved them toward us. Only then did I notice bare feet planted firmly on the frosty ground and draped over his left shoulder a pair of battered leather shoes. One of our Polish sergeants spoke and the little fellow just bubbled over with words. He revealed that his outfit was leaving the lines the next night and would be replaced by a Panzer division. How harmless he seemed. The "old man" motioned him to replace the shoes and instructed a couple of runners to take him to battalion. His face shone like the Christmas tree I had been dreaming of.
Information drawn from the prisoner served invaluable. We waited for the scheduled relief of the enemy's front line troops. At dusk on December 26th the clatter of horses hooves on cobblestones came clear and unmistakable, but this phenomenon had occurred before and was ignored.
THE EXODUS
Presently it became apparent that something more than horses moved in Jerryland, perhaps tanks, motor vehicle, marching feet! Then calls from the platoon asked for artillery, we knew the operation had begun. The captain nodded excitedly; the forward observer phoned headquarters. Artillery concentrations were dictated and the words "eight battalions on the way" flashed over the phones. I scrambled to the edge of my foxhole. Almost instantly a gigantic freight train of shells leapt over my head, leaving a swish and a trail of shrillness. It was followed by another and another until it seemed as though every gun on the western front was concentrated on that little piece of ground opposite Able Company. Meanwhile the first missiles were at the target.
Sharp cracking explosions along the whole front blended into a tremendous roar, rising and subsiding as each fresh wave burst against the hard surface, echoing and re-echoing up and down the Roer Valley. The sides of my hole amplified the thunder as they shook with each ensuing blast. Interspersed with the HE were a number of phosphorus shells, which burst simultaneously in a straight row, parallel to the front, blossomed into huge flowers of white heat, showering their petals like circular fountains of fire.
How many human beings, supermen or other wise, could have withstood such an ordeal I do not know. Screams of the dying were audible throughout the night; confusion prevailed. I dare say terrible plans were hatched for us that night, perhaps December 30th plans.
BACK TO ROUTINE
Routine describes the activity of the next three days. We worried about the bulge and craved the latest news. Most of our army was fighting in the Ardennes, and we alone held a slim line of resistance to an aggressive enemy. Our reserves had dug positions for miles back toward Holland in the event a breakthrough did occur in our sector.
Our days were spent eating and preparing to eat. It had come to the time when our appetites demanded K rations hot, we used the inner wax coated carton to build a fire within the holes. A canteen of water for coffee was heated for each meal; and then we drank coffee between each meal. A day of activity passed more quickly.
Often I was sent scurrying off to the platoon on a route I particularly disliked, for a stiff purplish GI lying by his foxhole had to be encountered. The front was not yet sufficiently quiet to warrant Graves Registration to carry him away for burial.
Captain Dexter went forward during the day to observe enemy movement or to plan a night patrol, the boogie of the infantryman. He'd dodge from one hole to another, firing a bazooka or an idling 03 sniper's rifle, and joking with the men. A morale builder if there ever was one. Our officers have always been held in the highest respect by their men, particularly because they are one of us in battle.
The sound power phones became a source of entertainment during those post-Christmas days, as we relayed the local gossip back and forth between the platoons. At dusk we would trek back to the rendezvous point on the Lindern-Linnich highway to pick up the next day's rations, while a few selectees would venture into Jerryland to have a quick look around. Enemy artillery and mortar fire was a constant nuisance; however, barrages were no where as heavy or as frequent as during the early part of the month when the ground was newly Americanized.
Although our relief was scheduled for the night before New Years, we didn't look forward toward the date with too much anticipation. It is often a good policy to let well enough alone, and this appeared to be such an occasion.
DECEMBER 30TH
On the day preceding our relief the enemy resorted to propaganda again. Artillery showered the area with leaflets describing the excellent treatment accorded the American PWs and boasting of the gigantic force the enemy had amassed against us in the Ardennes. There was a certain amount of pleasure derived from the collecting of these as souvenirs. How stupid they seemed, but how little we could appreciate their significance until the events of the next day unrolled before us.
At 5:30 hours on the 30th of December German forces launched an attack on the Ninth Army front perhaps designed to counteract pressure on the Bulge. It struck between Lindern and Linnich on a front parallel to the highway connecting the towns. An estimated battalion of infantry reinforced by engineers made the initial thrust in the dawn, removing obstacles in front of the American positions previous to the assault.
Warning of the attack reached Able's CP shortly before 5:30 when a rifleman noticed movement near the barbed wire protecting his foxhole. Alerted, we readied ourselves for what promised to be a large scale attack aimed at the right flank of the third platoon.
The unknown reigned and seemed more terrifying than anything I had yet encountered. Captain Dexter ordered the headquarters group to scattered foxholes, while he scurried to the lone signal mortar tube placed near the CP for just such an occasion. It coughed a trail of yellow which arched over the enemy and suddenly burst into a ball of light, illuminating the area before us. A BAR chugged off to the right, soon accompanied by rifle fire all along the sector. Local explosions identified the unexpected blasts of hand grenades. The enemy was close! The flare weakened and died. Meanwhile our artillery zoomed over and Able's sixty-millimeter mortars lay down wicked barrages from their position behind the highway. Splashes of steel enveloped the draw where the enemy was believed to be concentrated. Another flare hit the tube and we traced the arc it painted across the sky. From the other side of the Roer German artillerymen also traced the flare and zeroed in on the area of its origin with shells which pinned us in our holes.
Wave after wave of infantry flung itself at that stubborn line, trying in vain to crack through. There was no confusion in our ranks, for it was our lives &emdash; or theirs. When dawn broke, the firing subsided. In the December morning haze one BAR man counted twenty-two dead near his position, while other enemy, who had intended to set up a machine gun in the torn barbed wire, sprawled over their weapons in an irregular pattern.
THE ATTACK REPELLED
Light revealed red crossed arm bands roaming the ground in search of those men still alive and needing care. Walking wounded were assisted through our lines to be interned as prisoners. The dead remained throughout the day. Once the assault was in progress there was no turning back for the Germans. Our devastating artillery accurately and savagely drove them toward the deadly rifle fire in the lines.
As the company drifted into cellars that night for a spell of sleep and letter writing, word that the commanding general sent congratulations was relayed down the column. The men thought of Geronsweiler Hill and felt contented.
The cannons thundered in a new year, a new year to bring peace again to Germany and the thousands of us who wanted it so much.
----- Barber Waters
(Editor's note: Attempts were made throughout the text of the following story to place full names to the men listed in the story. For the most part, this is an educated guess and some names may very well be mistaken in their identy. The names were all taken from the division history book: With The 102d Infantry Division Through Germany, edited by Major Allen H. Mick. Using the text as a guide, associations with specific units were the basis for the name identifications. We are not attempting in any to rewrite the story. Any corrections are gladly welcomed.)
Interested in some background
information?
Check out the related links below...
United States Army, 102nd Infantry Division
History of the 102nd Infantry Division
Attack on Linnich, Flossdorf, Rurdorf - 29 Nov -- 4 Dec 1944
Gardelegen:
April 13, 1945:
Massacre
at the Isenschnibbe Barn
American Battle Monuments Commission: WWII Honor Roll
National World War II Memorial
The above story, "On the Line December, 1944", by Barber Waters, Co. A.,406th, was originally published in the 102d Division "Ozark Notes", Vol. 49, No. 3, April/June. 1997, pp. 8-11.
The story is re-printed here on World War II Stories -- In Their Own Words with the kind permission of the 102d Infantry Division Association, Ms. Hope Emerich, Historian. Our sincerest THANKS for the 102d Infantry Division Association allowing us to share some of their stories.
We would also like to extend our sincere THANKS to Mr. Edward L. Souder, former historian of Co. F., 405th Regiment. His collection of stories of the "Kitchen Histories Project" series entitled, Those Damn Doggies in F, were responsible for bringing the stories of the men of the 102nd Division to the forefront.
Original Story submitted on 28 October
2003.
Story added to website on 24 November
2003.
