The Hürtgen Forest, Part Three (from Fellowship of Dust, Chapter 12)
In the morning when light returned, Frank and his troops could see hundreds of dead Germans scattered in front of their positions. Not all of them were dead, however. Some were still alive and faking death until it got light enough for them to make a run for it. When they jumped and ran, they were usually shot down immediately. Even as the GIs advanced later in the day, the odd “dead” German soldier would jump and run. They too were cut down and added to the growing catalogue of Hürtgen dead.
As E and F Companies approached Laufenburg Castle on opposite sides of a narrow road, they crept close to a fork in the trail. The narrow pathway to the left led to the castle; the one to the right led to the village of Merode, about one and a half miles away. Strategically, the castle was of little value other than its position on high ground en route to the Roer and its dams. Merode, on the other hand, stood at the far edge of the forest and the beginning of the flatland that led to the Roer. Earlier men from the 9th Division had been engaged in difficult fighting to take the castle. The bodies of their dead GIs were still scattered about the area. Suddenly, for the first time since they entered the forest on November 16, Frank heard the churning engines and tracks of what turned out to be a medium tank. As the tank moved into the intersection, however, the confused tank driver unwisely left his tank to find out if he was in the right location. Almost immediately a German round penetrated his upper thigh and rang off the side of the tank. Running to his aid, GIs placed covering fire on the castle tower and moved the tank. The tank driver was placed on a stretcher jeep and sent to the rear. The tank was then moved back to cover beyond the intersection.
A few moments later, as the two companies moved up the path on the left toward the castle, a jeep with a trailer passed them. Once beyond them, it hit a Teller mine that had been placed low enough to announce itself only after some road wear. Its jarring explosion killed the driver and killed and wounded several troops in the vicinity. Confusion mounted. Only one thing was clear: if the castle were to be taken, tanks would be needed. So, three tanks were brought forward, turned their turrets on the castle tower and fired point blank from about 250 yards. Return fire knocked out two of them in short order. Luckily, the tank crews survived and scurried to safety. The third tank retreated and regrouped for a later assault.
After revising their strategy, the tanks returned. They now fired from camouflaged positions and more advantageous angles. The tank rounds chipped away at the castle’s thick concrete walls, concentrating fire on the top of the tower, working down. When they paused, several squads rushed the castle, lobbing grenades through windows and blown doors. The interior of the castle caught fire. German soldiers tried to escape from every available window and door. If they did not immediately raise their hands in surrender, they were shot. When the castle was secure after a day of ferocious fighting, debris from the castle, along with numerous dead Germans was thrown into a large crater caused by an artillery shell. One dead German who was tossed into this hole landed upright on a bedstead. His open-eyed gaze fixed on all passersby with a sad, quizzical expression. As usual, German POWs were put to work carrying their own and the American dead, sparing GIs for the fight at hand.
The company and platoon CPs were established in the castle and adjacent buildings. Outposts were set up with phones around the perimeter connecting assigned sectors. Spread out on brick floors with piles of straw, platoon leaders and their sergeants had a dry, warm six hours’ sleep. Jars of meat and cherries had been left behind by the recently departed residents. The meat was heated on little gas stoves and devoured ravenously. Frank savored these few hours of warmth, rest, and food, knowing they would not last long.
One wild event, however, disturbed the first evening at the castle. A German lieutenant and his corporal had survived the assault on the castle by hiding in the tower. They were marooned and undetected because the oak floors beneath them were consumed by fire during the assault, precluding either descent or ascent. That night, after seven hours of stillness, they rappelled outside the tower using a telephone wire to attempt their escape. When they peered into the courtyard, they noticed a dozen or so GIs were in the area. Waiting for better odds, they hid for a few more hours till they discovered that only two GIs were standing guard at the main gate. The German lieutenant then leaped out, shot, and killed the two GIs with his pistol. When other troops fumbled and stumbled half-asleep from the basement in response to the pistol shots, he hacked and battered his would-be captors with a shovel and made his escape into the valley. The corporal, however, was killed.
As daylight broke, and the castle was still buzzing from the night’s events, a dim specter wearing only GI underwear moved through the haze toward the castle with his hands raised. The man was E Company’s Private First Class Kenny Heckler. German troops had captured him when he was overwhelmed in an outpost position. While he was being taken back behind their lines, Heckler’s captors ran into an American patrol. Heckler slipped away during the ensuing firefight and was just now straggling back to his unit. He was greeted with laughter, applause, and a hearty round of slaps on his back and rear end.
Frank spent November 21 deploying his platoon over the hill from the castle on the eastern slope facing Merode. E Company was on the right side of the narrow road; F Company was on the left. For the next few days, these two companies maintained close contact with the enemy, so close they could hear the others’ voices, so close they were often within hand-grenade range. Frank learned not to release his breath too forcefully into the cold air, believing the vapor might make him visible. Back and forth they went, creeping through the forest, ducking behind trees, diving for cover, lobbing grenades, firing machine guns, rifles, pistols at each other, taking and re-taking each other’s positions, abandoning and re-taking the same fox holes. In addition to the problem of staying alive in this environment, it was a continuing struggle to keep their weapons in working order—clean, dry, and mud-free. At night, sleep was fitful, near impossible in the forest’s meager accommodations—the usual damp, wet foxholes or shallow culverts. Empty K ration cartons were used for urinating in the comfort and privacy of one’s own foxhole. The fluid would then be dispersed over the edge. Emptying bowels was a riskier proposition—above ground near trees or shrubs— unless you could find an abandoned foxhole. Protecting against the rain and snow with a skimpy field jacket, a musty wool blanket, and a shelter half was humanly impossible. The physical and psychological deprivation beggared description. And so, the war of attrition continued, with senseless casualties on both sides mounting.
Thanksgiving Day, November 23, marked a significant change in routine. A cold, dreary rain continued to saturate the forest. Rhineland rivers overflowed their banks and vehicles slid all over the roads. Frank’s company and F Company spent this soggy day in their foxholes, as always, on alert. Several American patrols led to the capture of exhausted German troops willing to be taken prisoner and sent off to the protection of POW camps in America. Apparently these German troopers had decided their struggle was hopeless, perhaps meaningless, and simply wanted to live. When one of Frank’s squad leaders returned from escorting the prisoners to the battalion CP (where they continued service as stretcher-bearers), he told Frank that every GI on the line would receive a hot turkey dinner. Frank didn’t even realize it was Thanksgiving. Hoping to boost sagging morale, Mess Officer Howard Wilcox had overseen the roasting of hundreds of turkeys with all the trimmings, and frightened cooks and bakers unaccustomed to perilous duty delivered them to the foxholes. Every little noise provoked some violent response from the Germans. Not surprisingly, the increased activity and the clanking of mess kits attracted fire; indeed, several of the regiment’s cooks and bakers were killed or wounded while serving dinner. E and F Companies did not receive their meal until nearly dark.
Frank’s meal arrived around 6 PM served in a brown paper bag, and delivered by a sweating, nervous cook who tumbled into his foxhole, swearing about his errand as the dumbest, scariest thing he had ever had to do in his life. Frank recognized him as “Two Gun” from Swanage. They exchanged a few wisecracks, then “Two Gun” bummed a cigarette and took a few deep drags before departing with his next delivery. Frank’s face creased with delight, and the smell of gravy awakened his long-dormant salivary glands. The bag contained a thick turkey sandwich with stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce pressed together. After weeks subsisting on D bars and C rations, Frank tore through his sandwich like a dog, licking the gravy and nibbling every fleck of meat from his dirty hands. The food bag also contained a piece of cake and a fat cigar.
As wet and cold and miserable as he was, this meal had the desired effect of boosting Frank’s morale. It brought a fleeting few moments of serenity. But it also saddened him. For the first time in quite a while, Frank thought of home: dinner at Auntie’s with his father and brother, his baby nephews, his favorite uncle, Furey, and Furey’s snazzy platinum blonde girlfriend, Blanche. He thought of Florence, wondering how her life was going. He hummed, under his breath, the tune he and Doris danced to last New Year’s Eve. Almost a year ago now. It seemed much longer than that, and not real somehow. His heart ached at the thought that he would never see them again. He was certain now that he would not survive the forest. He marveled that he had survived this long while so many around him had been taken. He only hoped it would be quick; and at this pass, he preferred death to dismemberment. “Have done with it,” he thought.
Firing continued throughout the night and the early morning of November 24. One of the men in his platoon, young Ben DiNardo, wailed in pain. He rolled out of his foxhole, his boot was splayed open and the foot inside was shattered and spouting blood. On close inspection, Frank could tell it was a self-inflicted wound. It was only the second such wound he had seen in his platoon since Sicily, but it was becoming routine elsewhere in the forest, especially with the younger replacements, many of whom were cracking under the physical and emotional demands of the Hürtgen. Frank had a medic bandage the boy’s foot, then angrily ordered him to hobble unaccompanied to the rear. The young man grabbed his rifle and, using it as a crutch, began his ignominious trek to the rear.
Frank’s platoon was losing even more men to trench foot. The cold wet socks, saturated, inadequate boots, and lack of movement caused by long periods of confinement in foxholes was creating casualties every day. Swollen, black feet rendered many unfit for combat. Amputation was required in extreme cases. Frank’s own feet, though hurting, were protected by layers of socks that he kept on his feet, plus spare socks that he labored to keep dry in his pack. Dry socks could be the difference between mobility and immobility, which, in turn, could be the difference between life and death. Also, Frank and his foxhole buddy, like so many others, would stretch out, doff their boots, and rub one another’s feet to keep their circulation going. Frank’s platoon was also being depleted by combat exhaustion. Even combat tested troops were losing their composure—rambling, incoherent speech, glazed unfocussed eyes, spasmodic, uncontrollable weeping, irrational behavior. These troops were usually sent to the rear, given a couple of shots of whiskey, a hot meal or two, and a few sleeping pills to induce two days’ uninterrupted rest. Then, they were sent back to the front. Frank wondered sometimes how long he could hold out.
November 28 marked a dramatic turn of events. General Huebner, the 1st Division commander, under pressure from an angry and impatient First Army commander, General Courtney Hodges, decided to break the stalemate. He broached the idea of taking Merode with Colonel Seitz, commander of the 26th Regiment. Naturally, Seitz agreed. A strangely passive 2nd Battalion commander, Derrell Daniel, also acquiesced. This normally competent and vigorous commander seemed lately disconnected from, and beaten down by, the challenge of the forest and seemed not to have fathomed how desperately his troops were weakened by attrition, battle fatigue, trench foot, foul weather, low morale, and the impossible logistical situation. But Hodges was on his personal warpath and would brook no more delays. Furthermore, since careers had to be made or protected, no commanding officer wanted to be seen as shirking a tough assignment, even if he knew it was hopeless. So the men of E and F Company were rallied once again and informed of their objectives.
Frank’s impatience churned into an outrage bordering on insubordination. He was certain this was a suicide mission. Even though the brass had promised all the necessary air, artillery, and tank support, Frank knew this was bullshit. Recent history in the Hürtgen suggested that rain and snow, the soggy, narrow roads, the well-positioned enemy, and the degraded condition of his men would make success unlikely. Beyond these ominous tactical considerations, they didn’t even have a company commander, for Christ’s sake!
Once again, he voiced his anger at the inadvisability of this assault. He urged Lieutenant Tragnitz to request a battlefield assessment by battalion or regimental intelligence personnel before committing any troops to Merode. They should send out patrols. Gather some intelligence. Find out who’s out there. What kind of weapons, troop strength, and defenses were they facing? Rethink this insane plan that has troops charging across an open field and tanks coursing down a narrow, muddy trail after the troops make their charge. Wouldn’t the tanks be better deployed across the field, firing into the town, suppressing fire for the assault troops and then leading them down the hills into battle? The lieutenant agreed with Frank, but indicated he could not question these orders even if he wanted to, since he had no CO to petition. He told Frank to get back to his men and obey his orders. Frank gritted his teeth contemptuously, swore furiously, and rejoined his platoon to give them the grim news. The next day, First Lieutenant Gerry Eckenrod, formerly a G Company platoon commander, became E Company’s company commander. Eckenrod had never commanded a company before this assignment, and he knew absolutely no one in his new company. Still, Eckenrod’s task was to lead the E Company assault on Merode the very next day!
The assault was scheduled at 10:00 AM on November 29. E and F Companies were spread out on opposite sides of the narrow, muddy road that led east from the Laufenburg castle, down the gently sloping hill into the village of Merode. Frank and his men first had several hundred yards of thick forest to secure before they would come to the edge of the forest. Beyond the tree line lay 500 yards of open pasture that they would have to traverse before they reached the edge of Merode the very next day.
As they began their slow movement forward, the Germans opened up with a murderous artillery and mortar barrage. Knowing the precise positions of E and F Companies as a consequence of the previous day’s fighting in the forest, the German infantry quickly pulled back down the reverse slope and into their camouflaged pillboxes and then let their artillery have its way. The incoming barrage was accurate and deadly. Two lieutenants from F Company were killed on the initial advance down the hill. Lieutenant Tragnitz was also killed, his body shattered by artillery fire. Frank was stunned. He admired this fine man who had shown so much courage through- out the fighting at Aachen and the tribulations of the forest. Tragnitz deeply cared about his men. He never asked them to do anything he would not do himself, and he proved it time and again. But Frank, under fire, had no time to grieve. He was now in charge of 1st Platoon, and he tried to rally his men. Many, however, were immobile; they lay in place—a shell had landed squarely among them, killing many of them instantly. Frank grabbed a radio to relay his platoon’s situation when a mortar shell landed about twenty yards from him, throwing him forward, knocking him unconscious for a few moments. When his head cleared, he could feel a burning sensation in his back, side, and thigh. He had taken some shrapnel and was bleeding. He called for his medic. The medic, badly wounded himself, came crawling over to Frank, spread some sulfur on the mostly superficial wounds and patched him up. Frank’s back wound was deeper and burned. Frank got up in some pain; he grabbed his weapon and tried to rally what was left of his platoon.
Flared across the tree line, now, overlooking the village, E and F Companies proceeded forward under intense, withering fire. While American planes bombed and strafed the village, especially Merode Castle, enemy shells were bursting all over the meadow, spraying hot, cutting shrapnel in all directions. Men were running and diving for cover where there was none. Everywhere, over this open field, men from Companies E and F were being shot by machine gun and rifle fire, torn open by shrapnel, or blown to bits by artillery explosions. Still, the living moved forward—rising, running and diving again, until they closed on the village. Frank was moving forward—in pain, but moving. His ranks were thinning, however. He heard the dwindling number of men from his platoon screaming for medics. Others were just moaning in pain, calling out to their mothers and fathers, calling to God for help. He ran to one private whose foot had just been blown off. He powered his wound with sulfur and wrapped it as best he could, stuck him with morphine, and dragged him to a still-smoking hole created by a recent artillery round. He ran to some other troops only to find them dead or dying. More men around him were being cut down by machine-gun fire. Two of the company’s medics were also killed in this charge. But E Company kept moving forward. Frank, and the three men nearest him, bolted for the deep ditch running parallel to the narrow dirt road that led into town.
As he reached the village, Frank was buoyed to hear the grinding sound of what turned out to be tanks rumbling down the narrow, muddy road. Finally, support. But things did not go well. As the lead tank got within 200 yards of the town, it was ambushed by an antitank gun and destroyed. Then, the tank behind it slid off the narrow road into a ditch. Twenty minutes later, further back up the slope, the last tank was hit, leaving the remaining seven tanks stranded, impotent, and vulnerable to artillery. An eighth tank, moving toward the thwarted column, scanned the dire situation, slammed into reverse, and retreated back up the hill to safety. The remaining tanks were unable to direct any fire in support of the two companies of troops below, who were now preparing to move on the village. Given their exposed and vulnerable situation, the tank crews clambered out of their now- useless machines and ran furiously back up the hill eager to escape almost certain death. Frank grabbed his radio and requested additional tanks, but the officer on the other end of the line from regimental operations denied the request since the 2nd Battalion had not made effective use of the tanks already assigned. Frank slammed his radio in disgust and despair. Worse yet, Frank’s new commanding officer, Lieutenant Eckenrod, was reported to have been killed. In fact, he had been twice wounded—to the leg and head—and had taken refuge in the basement of a village tavern.
Frank and his men completed their assault on the town in diminished and battered numbers and without the tank support. But they were perilously low on ammunition. As they reached the perimeter of the village, they passed farmhouses reduced to boulders and dust. They proceeded down what appeared to be the main street and found a sturdy stone house that was relatively intact. The town seemed empty. Across the road, the skeletal ruins of the shattered Merode Castle smoldered against the dark sky.
Coyt Croley, a sergeant from the 4th Platoon who had joined Frank’s men, shot open the door of the stone house and charged inside. Ordinarily, he would have lobbed a grenade first, but he, and almost everyone else, was out of ammunition. Frank went to the door and then called forward what was left of his platoon. He sent remnants of two squads to take adjoining houses, and brought the radioman with him back to the house. Frank placed one man on guard and moved into the basement where two young German soldiers stood quietly but nervously with their hands in the air. They were searched and ordered to sit against the wall. Frank tried to make radio contact with the CP to report his position and circumstances. Then, he dropped his gear, sat down, opened his pack of Luckies and had a cigarette. He passed the pack to his men and gave a cigarette to each of the Germans. He told his men to scour the premises for food. They brought out some jars of fruit and vegetables and a pitcher of milk. Frank and his men sat quietly and ate. The radioman could not raise the battalion command post. The radio battery was dead. Typical of this whole goddamn operation, he thought. Instead of laying wire for proper radio communications, battalion expected them to use unreliable battery-powered radios. He had his battlefield assessment prepared if they could ever reach Battalion: woeful intelligence, failed tank and artillery support, heavy losses, surviving men without food, ammo, and functioning radios—all the product of poor overall planning. Frank hoped that support would soon follow. Maybe reinforcements would arrive by morning. Unknown to Frank and the scattered survivors who made it all the way to Merode, Colonel Daniel had told his boss, Seitz, who had told Huebner who had told Hodges that the men in Merode were isolated; they were going to take a beating; and they would probably be annihilated—and nothing could be done about it.
So, Frank, the other GIs, and the German prisoners settled in for the night. The squad took turns on watch while the remaining troops tried to sleep. Frank’s searing back pain and gloomy apprehensions were not sufficient to keep him from dozing. His entire being collapsed into a sodden, dreamless sleep that was disconnected from time. But not for long. At 3 AM Frank had to be shaken to life by one of his men.
“Sarge! German tanks, plenty of them,” he was told. “They’re blasting each house.” Frank went to the top floor, looked out the window, and saw two Tiger tanks prowling menacingly down the street, one of them directly opposite their house. He rushed down the stairs again and told everybody to sit tight. One of the German prisoners pointed to a door at the back of the basement. It led to a root cellar below the basement. Like frightened rabbits, every one scurried further underground.
Two minutes later, a shell tore through the top floor. Dust and debris powdered the men below. Then, more shelling. When it stopped, German voices shouted from above. Frank, who had never contemplated the prospect of surrender, was seized by the stunning realization that without ammunition, food, or support, they had no choice. He instructed the German soldiers with them to speak to the men above and tell them that he and his men would surrender: “Kammeraden!” The German soldiers preceded them up the stairs, saluted, and spoke briefly to the paratroopers at the door, then left them to their work. Frank and his men raised their arms above their heads and slowly climbed the stairs to shouts of “Schnell! Schnell!” They were lined up against the smoking rubble of the house. Other GIs were already standing there with their hands behind their heads—worn, bedraggled, desolate. Frank was one of about forty Americans captured that night. The rest of the two companies were either killed, wounded, or soon to be captured: only one sergeant and twelve men from E and F Companies returned safely to American lines. Lieutenant John Hamilton, F Company’s commanding officer, was captured. E Company’s commander, Lieutenant Gerry Eckenrod, was reported KIA, but he had been seriously wounded in the leg and head, and also had been captured. During their three weeks in the bloody forest, E and F Companies had four company commanders killed and two captured. Frank stood in the glare of enemy flashlights, his face and uniform caked with mud and dust. Dried blood stains speckled his uniform, and he looked at the enemy, now his captors, with an air of tired resignation. “So this is the way it will end,” he thought. He was certain he and the others would be executed on this very spot.
POW photo taken at Stalag XIIA, December 1, 1944.
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