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Memories:
The European Theater Of Operations 1944-45

By Kenneth W. Moeller
Division Headquarters

ENGLAND

The convoy had arrived in Liverpool. We had been on the Atlantic for fourteen days after leaving New York. Our ship was an old passenger liner named SAMARlA-plying between the British Isles and India in peacetime. It was September 1944. For several days we had seen and heard our destroyers moving back and forth on the horizon discharging depth bombs.

The feeling of safety on reaching land again was good ... and the anticipation of leaving the restricted life of a troopship was good. As Uncle Charley said: "You wanted to travel the worst way ... and you did!" When we embarked in New York the Headquarters Company of the 11th Armored Division was assigned a section in the bow on the bottom of the ship-two decks below the water line. I know I am describing our location in land-lubber terms, but, believe me, it was dark down there, and it was stuffy down there, and, in case of a submarine attack, it was dangerous down there.

The soldiers of a Division Headquarters Company are selected very carefully. The G-1 Section mulls over Personnel Files very thoughtfully before an assignment is made to a General Staff Section. And I am sure the Headquarters Company personnel expected a more congenial location for the journey to England.

During the war a constantly recurring sign on billboards, train stations, and other public places appeared: "IS THIS TRIP NECESSARY?" It was a reminder for the civilian section to save power of all types: gasoline, electricity, etc. The strain on our railroads was particularly heavy.

The Headquarters Company was guided down to their home on the ship. In the darkness a voice piped up: "Is this trip necessary?" It drew a good laugh. Someone has said that man is the only animal with a sense of humor. I don't know about that, but I do think that man is the only animal that can laugh at himself under conditions of discomfort and danger.

At mealtime one man with a tray large enough to handle ten meals was sent up to the galley to get food and return to his section, where the men used their own mess kits to get their portions. Considering the motion of the ship and the trip down two flights of stairs, the food was entirely mixed up by the time it reached the men.

The Officers took turns standing watch at night on the lower decks. One night I drew the midnight shift and a friendly Limey sailor asked: "Would you like something to eat?" In a few minutes he came back with a white bread sandwich containing the greasiest, fattest piece of bacon I had ever seen—to say nothing of the odor. I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and watched him disappear—whereupon I quickly deposited the sandwich in a garbage can.

The SAMARIA slowly docked, and on the wharf was a little gang of urchins—aged eight to fourteen. These gangs of urchins were to become a common sight on the Continent, too. Their fathers were away soldiering—or dead—and it was anyone's guess where the mothers were.

As we leaned over the rails watching the docking process they called up to us: "Hey Yonk—how about a cigar, r. root?" A G.I. in our group called down: "You are too young to be smoking!" The lad called up: "It's fur.r.r me POP!" So the G.I. threw down about four cigarettes which were grabbed immediately—the lad initiating the request being one of the winners. He proceeded to pull out a match and light the cigarette. The G.I. called down: "Hey, I thought you said it was for your Pop!" The lad replied: "AAAH—fook Pop!"

We entrained at Liverpool and headed south. At every hamlet there were people waving a welcome to the Troop Train. There were housewives hanging out of second-story windows waving-little kids in the streets waving. It happened all day long. We felt welcome and needed. It was a heart-warming introduction to England.

The 11th Armored Division was assigned a camp located on the Salisbury Plains near the town of Bath in southwestern England-where the British Armored Divisions had trained. But I was ordered to report to United Kingdom Base (U.K. Base) and function as a Liaison Officer between U.K. Base and the 11th Armored Division.

Actually the assignment was no surprise to me. My official job was Liaison Officer to the Chief-of-Staff of the Division, who is the #2 man in the Chain of Command-answering directly to the Commanding General and responsible for carrying out all orders of the Commanding General. The Chief-of-Staff presides over four General Staff Sections: G-1, Personnel; G-2, Intelligence; G-3, Operations and Training; and G-4, Supplies and Ordinance. In training stateside I had been "loaned out" to the G-4 Section for several months-helping with the rail movements of the Division from Louisiana to Texas, from Texas to the California desert, from the desert to Camp Cooke (Lompoc, Cal.), and then checking in equipment for overseas delivery at the Army Depot at Horseheads, N.Y. before the Division embarked. At U.K. Base my job would be to check in this equipment coming off of several succeeding convoys and to direct it to the 11th Armored Division at their Salisbury Plains location. So, I was familiar with the G-4 Staff Officers and personnel and it was, therefore, a logical assignment for me.

The Division settled into their Salisbury Plains location, and I reported to U.K. Base in London. The Liaison Section of U.K. Base was located in Grosvenor Square which is a wonderful location for a newcomer to London. Leaving the Square northward you enter an attractive park, to one side of which is the palace of the King and Queen; southward, the Square empties into a boulevard which leads past Claridge’s-the most famous hotel in town at that time; eastward a couple of blocks puts you on Oxford Street right where Selfridge's, the famous department store, is located. At the present time the U.S. Embassy has a Grosvenor Square address.

In 1944, Grosvenor Square consisted of substantial three-story apartment houses in red brick with white columns and trim. The apartment houses had been converted into office spaces by knocking out some of the walls in each building so that you had a bowling alley effect, but ample space for a lot of desks. They left the kitchens and bathrooms intact.

I was assigned a desk and introduced to the U.K. Base Officers who presided over this Section. I met my like numbers from the 87th Infantry and 99th Infantry Divisions who had arrived in England about the same time as the 11th Armored.

The offices at U.K. Base were staffed by English girls who served as secretaries and clerks. They spoke excellent English with that happy, chirping sound that we Americans find so interesting. Twice a day—precisely at 10 A.M. and 3:30 P.M.—World War stopped dead at U.K. Base for intervals of thirty minutes each. That was Tea Time.

I located the Transportation Building, the source of information on convoy arrivals a couple of blocks away—in the direction of Oxford Street. I was in business.

The Officers Mess was in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square. At ground level one entered a Mezzanine Floor and proceeded down a long flight of stairs to the Main Dining Room floor which was huge. I never thought of the Dining Room as being in the basement—it had a grandeur about it which suggested that, in peace time, it had been a large ballroom and an exhibit hall for trade shows.

A Cash Bar and a cafeteria-style food counter occupied one wall. The food counter offered just about everything that a stateside economy could produce—meat, potatoes, eggs, vegetables, cakes, ice cream, pies, fruits—even oranges and grapefruit. It was the best restaurant in town.

After we were in London awhile and learned about the wartime diet of the average Englishman we might have felt a little guilty about the dietary treasure trove to which we were exposed day after day—but the guilty feeling passed quickly. One night I was invited to dinner at an English home. Upon arriving I gave the hostess a K ration and an orange. She had not seen an orange in three years. The K ration went to the kitchen—the orange found a place on the mantel with other works of art.

The Cash Bar was the usual prelude to the evening meals. The prices of drinks were nominal and the quality of Scotch and British whiskeys was excellent. But the main attraction of spending some time at the Bar was to belly up alongside some Air Corps boys and listen to them talk about their work day just completed. That day they had been to war and back. That day they had been over Cologne, or Dusseldorf, or Hamburg. At the end of that day some of the planes in their Wing had not come back.

Officers on Temporary Duty at U.K. Base were billeted with civilians. I was given a street address and general instructions as to how to reach it: down Oxford Street and then east three squares, etc., etc. The address of my billet was about one and one-half miles from Grosvenor Square in a very nice residential district of three-story apartment buildings. I found the address, rang the bell, and a houseman opened the door and invited me into a parlor where a charming, white-haired English lady bade me welcome, and told me that I was to consider myself one of "her boys." There were seven other Americans billeted with her. I was taken to a second-floor bedroom facing the street, with a private bath and a nice fireplace and plenty of blankets, and told that this would be my home for as long as necessary. There was a telephone in the hallway on the first floor that I could use to communicate with my Division.

Each night around 7:30 P.M. the houseman would come in and build a fire in the fireplace—the fire lasted about three hours. By that time you had better be in bed because that was the last heat in the room until morning. What with maneuvers and field exercises we had been living in the open so long that a cool room temperature was no problem. And after living for months in Army Barracks a home atmosphere had a particular charm.          

About five or six weeks into my duty at U.K. Base the Transportation Corps requested a current inventory of vehicles and equipment received by the Division. I telephoned Red Williams, Chief Warrant Officer of the G-4 Section, who presided over the enlisted men in the Section, and gave him my request. Red Williams, an Alabama boy, was Regular Army—he said he intended to stay in the Army after the war because he did not want to become a civilian and have to pay for the war later. A couple of days later—on a Tuesday—a messenger delivered the Division's current inventory and I delivered it to the Transportation Building, one block south of Grosvenor Square and a couple of blocks east, close to Oxford Street. The Transportation Building was a solid brick structure of modem design—three stories tall and occupying the space of two three-apartment buildings. Having delivered the inventory, I thought "Mission accomplished."

Not quite. At 3 A.M. on Wednesday a V-2 bomb struck the Transportation Building. Luckily, at that time of the day there was no one on duty, and consequently, no casualties.

I telephoned Red Williams on Wednesday afternoon and requested another copy of the inventory. He asked what the hell did I do with the first one—was I using it for toilet paper? I told him I could not discuss it over the phone. Just trust me—get me another copy and preferably, get a jeep and come up to London with it personally.

Red Williams delivered the second inventory on Thursday and I walked him over to the former address of the Transportation Building. It had completely disappeared and all that was left was a twenty-foot-deep hole in the ground.

During the Fall months of 1944 London was still getting an occasional V-1 bomb. These were bombs with motors attached. They became targets for anti-aircraft fire and even fighter plane fire. You would hear the motors of the bombs put-put-putting—when the sound stopped it was time to start worrying because the bomb would then start falling to the earth. The sites on the continent from which these bombs were launched were gradually captured by Allied Forces and the threat of the V-1 bomb disappeared.

The V-2 bomb was a rocket—no warning—just sudden obliteration.

I recall walking to work one morning. On the way I passed a block of nice apartment buildings in which a V-2 bomb had dropped the night before. It had utterly destroyed one building and the explosion had broken the windows of the other houses in the block. An elderly man was sweeping up the shards of glass from his front sidewalk murmuring quietly: "What a shame—oh, what a shame."

The English theatre became a regular source of entertainment. I had located a supplier of good seats (at a price) and spent three or four nights a week seeing everything offered. On each stage was a sign: AIR RAID IN PROGRESS—it blinked red when hostile planes were over London. I did not ever see anyone leave his seat to take shelter during a performance.

The V-1 and V-2 bombs created a homeless population in London of over 300,000 people. There was a great deal of doubling up in apartments among relatives and friends, but the bulk of the homeless spent their nights sleeping in the London subways. The subways stopped running at 10:30 P.M. The sides of the subway platforms had been equipped with three-deck and two-deck bunks—they extended from the walls, leaving a narrow aisle for passengers to get on and off the trains. At night one had to be careful to keep from stepping on a sleeper.

The Public Houses (Pubs) of England were a pleasant surprise in contrast to typical American bars which too often are dreary places with quiet, solitary figures hunched over drinks.

The Pubs were well lit (with blackout shades at the windows) and the atmosphere was that of a neighborhood club complete with dart board. Adults of all age groups were there—equally divided among men and women—except for males of military age. The "regulars" would spend a few hours in the evening talking to friends, seated at round tables accommodating six or eight people, nursing along a stein of beer for the duration of the evening. At least that was the format at the Pub I frequented in the neighborhood of my billet. Two of the regulars with whom I became acquainted were cab drivers, veterans of World War I. I learned a lot from them about England, Europe, and world politics. They were too polite to come right out and say this to me but, if they had, it would sound something like this: "You Americans are a puzzle to us. Obviously you are intelligent and well-educated in a scholastic sense, but you are so poorly informed about Europe and world politics. You are going to have to shape up in these categories when World War is over."

Every G.I. visiting England heard about Piccadilly Circus. It is the hub of a number of streets radiating out from it. At its center is a fountain and statue of Eros, as I recall, and a sidewalk circling the fountain with storefronts opening out on the sidewalk.

At night, under blackout conditions, there was an eerie atmosphere about the place. Walking along the sidewalk the figures in front of you looked like floating shadows. Every so often a shadow would float out from a store front and ask: "Hey, Yank—how about a party?" There were a large number of party girls working Piccadilly Circus each night.

The blackness and the silence were broken mainly by murmurs, but, on occasion, you could hear a G.I. squawk: "Five pounds? I came over here to save your ass—not buy it!" Or two young G.I.s might break the silence with an observation such as: "For Chrissake Bill, England is nothing but a floating whorehouse!"

It was now November. The vehicles for the Division had been unloaded from several succeeding convoys and were now delivered. There was not much left for me to do at U.K. Base except keep my eyes open for new equipment which might be added—equipment manufactured in England.

One such item was a transparent plastic map-holder which was waterproof and held a map in place without danger of tearing or drenching. I ordered map holders for every tactical Officer in the Division. And later, in combat, it was my secret pleasure to see Officers come in for orders—using the map holder. They marked the position of resupply of rations, ammunition, and gasoline—and Rally Point in case the attack foundered—with grease pencils on the plastic holder, thus saving the map. In case of imminent capture they could rub the grease marks off with a swipe of their sleeve.

The other item which came to my attention was "Duckbills." Duckbills were metal extensions to the treads of tanks—increasing the width of the tank tread so that the tank could traverse muddy, swampy terrain without having the narrow treads dig themselves in and belly up the tank to render it immobile. I ordered enough duckbills to outfit every tank in the Division. There will be more said about duckbills when the Division gets into the combat area.

In early December the order came to move the 11th Armored Division to the Continent. I said good-bye to U.K. Base and joined the Division on the Salisbury Plains.

Our Armored columns started the move to Southhampton, where the U.S. Navy would take charge and carry us across the English Channel to Cherbourg.

FRANCE

At Southampton we drove our vehicles onto an LST (Landing Ship Tank) and put ourselves in the care of the U.S. Navy.

The next two days were very pleasant. We had no responsibilities, the accommodations were adequate, a coffee pot was always brewing in the galley, and the food was excellent. For the evening meal we had a standing rib roast. This was a plateau or two above Army

expectations.

The English Channel from Southhampton to Cherbourg was an overnight trip—not the narrow twenty miles or so from Dover to Calais. The LST landed the next day at Cherbourg, which showed signs that fighting had taken place to secure this port. And then we were told that the Division was ordered south to St. Nazaire.

St. Nazaire is a seaport on the Atlantic located south of the Brittany peninsula that the Germans had developed as a very important submarine base. The base supplied U-Boats operating from the English Channel to the Rock of Gibraltar, with docking and repair facilities.

Counting skilled technicians of various kinds and supporting Infantry units to protect the base we estimated about 30,000 to 40,000 German troops were in that area.

To keep these troops penned up and useless to the German war effort further east an American Division was assigned to this task. We were to replace an American Infantry Division which was headed east to the main action.

It was an attractive initial assignment. Our Armored Infantry units would get practice patrolling and getting shot at occasionally with deadly intent and our Division would get the feel of operating in a combat zone.

It was December, and we knew that no German Army had ever taken the field in a winter offensive since the time of Frederick the Great. That meant it would probably be April or May before we would be ordered east into the mainstream of combat effort.

We settled into a little village east of St. Nazaire, set up our road blocks, and took our first taste of calvados, a liqueur popular in that region. Division Headquarters was billeted in a little hotel and I learned how to ask for the key to Room 41 in French. I figured by next April or May I would speak French rather well.

We had been in St. Nazaire about a week when we heard that something was happening in the Ardennes—something bad.

We had a sudden change of orders: Pack up and get across France as soon as you can and assemble in the Namur-Liege area of Belgium to defend Antwerp. Antwerp was the seaport that was supplying the British Forces and the American First Army moving on northern Germany.

Col. Downer, our G-3, assembled an Advance Party consisting of Col. Slayden, our G-2, Red Williams, representing G-4, various Signal Company personnel to maintain communications with Division Headquarters while we were moving, and myself.

Our little column consisted of seven or eight jeeps and a two and one-half ton truck carrying signal equipment—CW radio (continuous wave_ which sent out Morse Code signals capable of carrying many miles. We were to travel in march order customary to armored units—vehicles at thirty yard intervals with speed at a steady 35 miles per hour (compared with the normal marching speed of 18 mph for tanks). We carried K rations and water for meals en route.

We headed east across France. We passed about ten miles to the south of Paris and saw the Eiffel Tower on the northern horizon.

Our signal truck got a message that the 11th Armored Division had been assigned for duty with Third Army, under the orders of VI Corps. Third Army was changing fronts—wheeling ninety degrees from east to north, and attacking northward toward Bastogne to strike the German southern flank. The Battle of the Bulge had started,                                  East of Paris the signal truck got another message. The "duckbills" I had ordered at U.K. Base were en route via the Red Ball Express to a French Army installation at Soissons. Red Williams agreed to dispatch trucks from the Division to Soissons to pick up the duckbills. 

My driver and I left Col. Downer's Advance Party and headed for Soissons. Col. Downer's Party continued northeast toward the Belgium border to contact VI Corps Headquarters. The French Army installation at Soissons was a typical European permanent camp—wrought iron gates, sturdy brick buildings, a large parade ground. There was a hospital in operation and a fenced-in prisoner compound. The prisoners were "jail birds" of the U.S. 101st Airborne Division, left behind to face various charges at Court Martial for everything from misdemeanors to serious crimes.                           The Red Ball Express had done its job. There were three large piles of duckbills dumped at the far end of the parade ground.

After a nail-biting interval of time a string of two and one-half ton trucks rolled into the camp and I saw the welcome white stenciled letters on the front bumpers indicating: 11th Armored Division—133rd Ordinance Maint. Bn. Good old Red Williams had come through again. The Officer in charge of the prison compound had already agreed to furnish the labor I needed to load the trucks and some prisoners were marched out of the compound, under guard, and turned over to me.

They fell in—a single line. I called them to attention and then gave them AT EASE.

Normally you would call over the ranking Non-commissioned Officer, tell him what you wanted done, retire to some nearby spot, and watch him carry out the orders.

I called out: "Who is the ranking Non-Com here?" In answer, what I got was a chorus of horse-laughs. A helpful young Airborne called out: "Lt.—there ain't no ranking non-com here. We have all been busted back to buck-ass privates."

I replied: "All right—then we do it by the numbers."

I called them to ATTENTION, gave them the Order: "From right to left, by the numbers consecutively, COUNT OFF." The consecutive numbers rippled down the line and I learned that I had thirty-one men available for truck-loading. I walked slowly to Number 10 and called out: "Numbers 1 through 10, Right Step MARCH—Hut-two, Hut-two, Hut-two, Hut-two Detail HALT." I walked to Number 21 and called out: "Numbers 21 through 31—Left Step MARCH—Hut-two-Hut two-Hut-two Hut-two—Detail HALT." I now had three groups to go with three piles of duckbills. I assigned each group a pile to load into the trucks, which were backed up conveniently, and my "jailbirds" went to work cheerfully.

The truck drivers and the 101st Airborne Guards requested and received permission to start a small bonfire on the Parade Ground to warm up. They gathered some wood, including a wooden box which was not examined too carefully.

The bonfire had been burning for a few minutes when I heard an explosion and a painful yell. One of the guards had greenish-yellow flames rippling across the back of his jacket. I found myself sprinting toward him—just like a fast break in basketball—and I was among the first to reach him and smother the flames with my own jacket, and the jackets of others who came up almost at the same time. We took the guard to the hospital.

The wooden box had contained a white phosphorus grenade carelessly left in the box, which had exploded when exposed to the fire.

The trucks were loaded without further incident and sent on their way.

I visited the guard at the hospital the next day and learned that he was going to be all right.

In retrospect I wondered about my instant reaction which found me running toward the burning man, and hoped that my instincts would hold up at such time as I might be fired on with deadly intent.

I left the camp on good terms with my "jailbird" friends of the 101st Airborne and headed northeast to rejoin the Division.

MOVING UP

Col. Downer's Advance Party was now two days ahead of me and the main body of the Division probably was two days behind me, marching at 18 MPH and stopping for meals and resupply of gasoline.

My driver and I headed northeast toward the Belgian border—remembering that our original orders had indicated an Assembly Point somewhere in the Namur-Liege area, west of the Meuse River which runs roughly north-south in that area. We also remembered that we had | been assigned to VI Corps. We started looking for vehicles with VI Corps markings and found a truck so marked. The driver gave us a general idea where VI Corps Headquarters was located.

We found VI Corps Headquarters, went to the G-3 Section, and were advised that the Assembly Point had been relocated further east—that we should head for Neufchateau. German advance troops had reached the Meuse, but the Germans were not there in force. Their resupply of rations, ammunition, and gasoline were being held up because the road net was blocked and denied them at Bastogne.

The 101st Airborne and remnants of a couple of U.S. Armored Divisions were holding Bastogne, and fighting for their lives.

We headed in the direction of Neufchateau, and at the roadside saw some disquieting signs such as: "ALLIED DEAD COLLECTING POINT" and "ENEMY DEAD COLLECTING POINT." We were leaving the zone of Fun and Games and entering the zone of For Keeps.

Before we left VI Corps we were advised that German troops dressed in American uniforms were creating some confusion in the areas behind the lines.

Around dusk we caught up with the bivouac area of the 11th Armored Division Forward Headquarters, which had added a few vehicles since our initial departure from St. Nazaire.

I saw the General's Section halftrack and knocked on the side, expecting to see the head of Sgt. Davito or Sgt. Anderson pop up. Instead, a round pink-complexioned head, complete with blue eyes, popped up and asked: "Vot iss it you vant, Lt.?" I thought: "My God. the General's halftrack has been infiltrated!"

It was Private First Class Kort who had been assigned recently. He was an Austrian-born Jew who had come to America when Hitler was shutting down Europe. His parents had decided to remain in Vienna. The following May, after VE Day, General Dager gave Pfc. Kort permission to don civilian clothes and "disappear" into the Russian zone. He made his way to Vienna to track down his parents. Ten days later he was back—not a trace of his parents.

I remember Christmas Eve 1944. The Division was at Guigincourt, France. It wasn't much of a town—what distinguished it was a classic French Chateau—dramatic entrance between two rows of great trees, formal gardens, impressive mansion, and a huge formal dining room in which we were celebrating a Christmas Eve supper. For me the supper was cut short when Col. Williams, the Chief-of-Staff (and my boss), informed me that the 705th Tank Destroyer Battalion had been assigned for duty with the Division and was due to arrive that night—would I go out to the main road and guide them to our area?

It was a clear night and my driver and I sat on a hill overlooking some beautiful country. A couple of hours passed and then we heard the low muttering sound of an armored unit on the move. We went down to the highway and flagged down the leading vehicle. We met Major John Dibble, in command of the 705th Tank Destroyer Bn.

Major Dibble was one of those rare individuals who always looked freshly scrubbed and shaved, his clothes impeccably clean, no matter what the circumstance.

Major Dugan, our Asst. G-4, was a sharp-eyed Irishman from New York City and a lawyer in civilian life who tacked nicknames on some of the Officers. For the duration Major Dibble was known as DUSTLESS DIBBLE.

Major Dugan did not limit his talents in that respect to Major Dibble. There was a Lt. Graf who had an interesting profile who became NEEDLE-NOSE GRAF. And at that time a popular song from south of the border entitled “Besame mucho” (Kiss Me Often) caught up with Lt. Mousseau and for the duration he was addressed as BESSIE MAE MOSSEAU.

The Division moved up on Neufchateau and lay in wait for orders, camouflaged and observing radio silence. We were forth or fifty miles behind the expected jump-off point. There was no reason to place an Armored Division close up and invite an air attack.

The only surprise in an Armored attack is the specific point selected for the attack. Once committed, you can hear and Armored column’s sullen drone for an hour-then the peculiar clanking sound of the metal treads-then the roar of individual 400 horsepower engines-then the tanks appear like a herd of elephants. When they form into a line of attack-if you are on the receiving end-you have already dug your foxholes a couple of feet deeper and buttressed your road blocks with additional tree trunks. The, if you are lucky, you call for big artillery fire and a bombing mission by your Air Force.

In the meantime, in the zone east of us, a Combat Command (roughly one-third of a Division) of the U.S. 4th Armored Division under General Abrams had attacked up the Luxembourg-St. Vith road and blasted their way into Bastogne. Whereupon the Germans pinched off the road and left that Combat Command stranded in Bastogne. From a morale standpoint it was encouraging to the 101st Airborne to see that their rescue was very much on the minds of Third Army, and the presence of the 4th Armored did represent additional fire power (assuming the ammunition they carried lasted long enough), but from a military standpoint the defenders of Bastogne were still under siege. As before, the 101st were referring to themselves as the “Battered Bastards of Bastogne”.

It was during this lull before action that General Kilburn, commanding the 11th Armored, was summoned to Supreme Headquarters (SHAEF) for a briefing.

General Kilburn came back to the Division after the briefing wearing a worried expression. He had been informed that the 11th AD and the 87th Infantry Division were the only Divisions standing between the Germans and Paris, if they took it into their heads to move in that direction. SHAEF was in touch with U.K. Base trying to get a third Division on the field – the 17th Airborne- and that was it.

With the hindsight of more than forty years we are now reading literature covering this period in which it is stated that Supreme Headquarter never had a worry –that the Bulge was a “mere incident.” Anyone believing that would believe in the Tooth Fairy. Supreme Headquarters was scared stiff. At the time even General Patton was quoted as saying: “Gentlemen, we can still lose this War.”

SHAEF was scared stiff and they should have been. No one to this day can explain how the Germans could assemble twenty-seven or thirty Divisions in the Ardennes without anyone on our side being the wiser.

The Germans achieved complete surprise and blew through our defensive positions in the Ardennes like a tornado. Patton would have put it: ‘Like shit through a young goose.”

We saw the 28th Infantry Division (the Pennsylvania Keystone Division) coming out of the line. There was no regular march order –just one or two vehicles at a time- a couple of jeeps- then five minutes later a string of five vehicles-then a couple of trucks-then a couple of jeeps, one with a wounded soldier tied to the hood –etc. – all day long. The drivers were half asleep and the passengers ere completely asleep-completely fatigued. This was a Division that had taken a brutal mauling-this was a Division that was shattered.

INTO BATTLE

On December 29, 1944 the Division Headquarters was located at Longlier, Belgium.

In anticipation of Attack Orders, I had been out all day picking out likely spots for the various combat units to bivouac in the area.

Around dusk, Lt. Keough came in from Corps Headquarters with the Attack Order: The 11th Armored Division and the 87th Infantry Division were to attack abreast, the 87th on the left, at dawn on the next day (December 30) along the axis of the Neufchateau-Bastogne Road. They were to relieve pressure on Bastogne, enter the city, and then proceed northeast to Houffalize (about 20 miles) where contact was to occur with units of the American First Army, advancing from the northern shoulder of the Bulge. Contact with those units would effect the official end of the Bulge.

The glib wording of the Attack Order regarding the results they expected from this attack would suggest that this was going to be a piece of cake: in Bastogne the next day (December 30) and in Houffalize on the following day. Now let’s get back to the real world: it was two weeks before we got units into Bastogne; it was January 16th before there was a linkup at Houffalize.

The wheels began grinding in G-3 Section. They had orders produced for the Combat Battalions by 9 PM; they called in the Liaison Officers for distribution and explanation of Orders, and by 11 PM the units were on the move to new assembly areas. The last unit did not close in bivouac until about 2 AM on December 30th so you might say that the 11th Armored Division went into their first battle on the dead run. Suffice it to say-this is not the way entry into battle is described in any Training Manual.

I had been out all day and was too tired to worry about what would happen the following morning. I threw down my bedding roll on the snow and went to sleep.

I was awakened a couple of hours later by the sound of small arms fire from a unit directly to our west and looked up into the sky to see a black shadow flying along the main road-it was a German plane scanning our area. Then, to my surprise, another black shadow following the German plane opened fire and destroyed the German plane. The German pilot parachuted-but not to safety. A chorus of 30-calier machine guns cut loose from vehicles in our area, and the German pilot was dead before he hit the ground.

A month later, a more seasoned and professional group of soldiers would have allowed the German pilot to land, taking him prisoner for questioning. But on the eve of the first battle the adrenaline was flowing and a kind of quiet hysteria was in the air.

Dawn comes late in Belgium in December, but by 7 AM our Combat Commands had jumped off in the attack. We were glued to our radios following the wave lengths of our lead units. About 9 AM we had a report of our first casualties—two messengers in a jeep had run over a land mine.

About 9:30 AM Col. Williams wanted to see me. He explained that they could not locate the present position of the 41st Tank Battalion by radio, and he wanted me, personally, to find the Battalion an report its position as soon as possible. Col. Williams always used the word “personally” when he gave me an Order. I could never decide whether it showed his confidence in me or whether it was a perfunctory thing like ending a letter with the word: “Yours truly.”

I told my jeep driver: “Saddle up. You an I are going out there and find the 41st Tank Battalion.”

The road from Neufchateau runs northeast toward Bastogne, some twenty miles away. We headed up this road and about three miles later we passed the scene of our first casualties. The two messengers in the jeep had run over a land mine. The jeep was now hanging in the crotch of a roadside tree-fifteen feet off the ground. We made a mental note to drive in the tracks of any vehicle that preceded us if at all possible.

We continued up the road. It became very quiet. We were the only vehicle going that way. I started to scan the sky front and back for the possible approach of an enemy fighter plane. We would be sitting ducks on that road.

Another two miles and we came to a farm house and barn. Peeking out of the barn’s silhouette was a radio aerial and a camouflaged halftrack. If this was a 41st halftrack I might get the answer to the whereabouts of the 41st Tank Battalion without going further.

It was a 41st halftrack, and it was the Executive Officer of the Battalion who was there. I asked the Major where the 41st was – he didn’t know. The radio was playing tricks and he was getting nothing on it.

I thought: if he didn’t know where his Battalion was -then Combat Command B didn’t know - I already knew that Division Headquarters didn’t know. If Corps found out about this lack of knowledge there would be some heads rolling.

The Major indicated that if I found out where the Battalion was I should be sure to stop on my way back and tell him.

We proceeded northeast and began to hear gunfire. We approached a hill slowly and when we got to the crest we peeked over it.

There was the 41st Tank Battalion in battle formation, moving slowly, then stopping, then moving again: section by section, platoon by platoon, company by company – just like in the Training Manual.

After a few minutes of study, I decided that there was good news and bad news to report. The good news was: they were up against infantry supported by artillery and mortars. The bad news was: I could see two tanks on fire. Later on that day, and into the next day, the enemy infantry called in Panzer Units to support them and the news turned from good to bad. 

I stopped at the 41st Tank Bn. halftrack on my way back and had the Major radio my report to Division Headquarters. I figured he owed me one.           

A Division in its first battle is an unknown quantity. Some Divisions freeze and perform dismally. Other Divisions reach an emotional high and perform well. Seasoned Combat Commanders taking a Division into action for the first time count on something they call "the valor of ignorance."                                  

On the whole the 11th Armored Division got pretty good marks for its initial baptism of fire. There was plenty of valor and plenty of ignorance. It was reported that a tank commander, seeing his tank pass a foxhole occupied by the enemy, jumped out of his tank turret, ran over, and tommy-gunned the foxhole—instead of letting following waves of tanks and infantry handle the foxhole. One of our Armored Artillery Battalions cut loose in a barrage on a group of Germans coming in to surrender.                             

I had Officers tell me later of things they did in the first two days of combat that they later would visualize in a dream and wake up in a cold sweat. There is sometimes a very fine line between heroics and stupidity. But it is all included in the "valor of ignorance."   

Soldiers will tell you: "Once in combat, you are never the same person again. Your sense of values gets rearranged."                              

By the second day we had drawn German Panzer Units onto our front and the attack became a slugging match in which nobody won. Both sides lost vehicles and men, and very little progress was made toward the relief of Bastogne. We gave General Middleton, in command of VIII Corps, plenty to worry about.                           

On the morning of the third day Gen. Middleton appeared at Div. Hq. and told Gen. Kilburn that we could not sustain our present losses and that he was going to pull us back into Corps Reserve and throw in the 17th Airborne on our front.

In two days we had lost 30% of our Tanks and 20% of our personnel—that was more than we lost all the rest of our time in combat in Europe.

We left one of our Tank Battalions—which had been held in reserve—to support the 17th Airborne. The rest of the Division pulled back a few miles. We licked our wounds, repaired our tanks, and resolved to fight smarter on our return to action.

ARMORED WARFARE: THIRD ARMY STYLE

While we are catching our breath in Corps Reserve it might be a good time to discuss some of the aspects of Armored Warfare as practiced in Patton's Third Army.

When we reached France and settled in the St. Nazaire area the Division we replaced turned over some of their vehicles to us. Among the vehicles were a number of jeeps, one of which was assigned to me.                               

The jeep had a metal shield—one-fourth inch thick—as a second windshield, with little wings flowing out from the sides, welded to the hood and frame of the vehicle.

I took one look at it and suggested to my driver that he take the vehicle to an Ordinance Maintenance Bn. motor pool in the area and have the shield removed. I explained to him that the shield was just dead weight—and of minimal value as protection. It couldn't stop an artillery shell or even a 30-caliber armor-piercing bullet. It would just slow us down—and that was the last thing we wanted to happen.

If he and I were to return to the States in one piece we would have to rely on Brains, Imagination, and SPEED. In time of danger we would have to adopt the tactics of the Jack Rabbit—not the Bull or the Lion. We were both armed with 30-caliber Carbines—effective up to 100 yards—and therefore we were in no position to pick a fight with a heavily-armed enemy. 

In microcosm this was also the rationale that Third Army applied in planning their armored actions: Brains—Imagination and SPEED—SPEED—SPEED.

The German tanks outweighed and out-gunned ours. A knock-down, drag-out battle of tank against tank would leave them victors. Therefore, if at all possible, avoid a direct confrontation with them. Call in the big artillery to break their treads and immobilize them. Call in the Air Force to bomb them. If you could isolate a German Tiger Tank, maneuver around and put a shell into his engine compartment and immobilize him.

The gigantic tank battles that occurred on the Russian Front involving hundreds of tanks on each side would have made Patton throw up or fire his G-3 Section. What a waste of tanks and skilled tank crews!

Armored warfare—Third Army Style—was simple enough. First, determine a sector of the enemy defensive position occupied mainly by infantry. Then, punch a hole in that area, rush up your Armored Infantry to hold the shoulders of the breach, and then pour your Armor through with orders to go deep—deep—deep. Then, fan out and seek the enemy ration depots (BURN THEM!), ammunition dumps (BLAST THEM!), and fuel centers (BLOW THEM UP!). Shoot up every truck you find and kill every horse drawing a wagon! Capture their hospitals. Make the advance ruthless and violent!

The German soldier is as stubborn and spirited a fighter as there is in the world as long as food comes up on time, ammunition re-supply occurs on time, gasoline rations appear on time.

Patton has stated that an army is an organization which gets very goosey when enemy units are raising hell in its rear. The German Army was no exception.

Faced with starvation, no ammunition, no fuel, and the suggestion of no medical treatment if they should continue fighting, the German soldier listened to an offer he could not refuse: SURRENDER.

Waging this kind of war, Third Army took more prisoners and suffered fewer causalities of its own men than any other army in the European Theatre.               

The Battle of the Bulge was far removed from the ideal setup as we knew it. There was no definite defensive line to breach. German units were coiling back on Bastogne. A sector our G-2 might identify as defended by infantry one day would be occupied by German Panzer Units the next morning. Everything was in a state of flux. American units would meet German units in the woods, and they would do a deadly dance together until darkness fell.

Bruce Catton, in his book This Hallowed Ground, describes the Battle of Shiloh in the American Civil War. A Union private suffers a flesh wound and his Company Commander tells him to go to the rear and have the wound cared for. The private starts northward toward the River and is blocked by a Confederate unit just arrived; he goes east-same result; no point going west-he returns to his Company's position. The Company Commander sees him and says: "I thought I told you to go to the rear!" The private replies: "Sir, there ain't no rear to this battle." That, too, was the Battle of the Bulge.

When we went back into action the next week we took this into account and altered our strategy accordingly.

A STRONGPOINT ON HILL 409

Trucks brought the 17th Airborne Division from Neufchateau. They took over our positions as we retired to Corps Reserve.

It takes a special breed of man to enjoy service in an Airborne Division. It is not just jumping out of planes and hoping your parachute opens-or landing on the ground and checking to see if all your bones are still solid. When you get on the ground and disengage your parachute, and seek out your squad leader, platoon leader and Company commander, in that order, and then take your objective—a bridge or a key crossroads—your problems have just started; because you have landed without tanks, without adequate artillery support, and without transportation.

At the start of an airdrop there is an implied promise that friendly armor and infantry will come to your aid and relieve you in forty-eight or seventy-two hours. If they cannot reach you, you are in big trouble. My first contact with Airborne troops was during Louisiana Maneuvers in the Summer of 1943. There was a combined exercise in which the 11th Armored was to cooperate with an Airborne Division in an air-drop and relief. The Airborne Division made the drop, but sufficient attention had not been paid to wind velocity and, instead of dropping on an open field, a good portion of the command had blown into a large stand of trees and were hanging by their parachutes from the tree branches. I took a good look and decided I was happy with service in an Armored Division—with its vehicles which carried bed-rolls, rations, and even served as shelter in case of rain—and all of it on the ground.      

I don't know what the exact guidelines are for training Airborne troops, but the initial instructions must run something like this: "Produce human Doberman Pinschers—aggressive, fearless competitors." After two or three months of training I assume that the Training Officers go to the Camp Military Police Station and ask to see the reports on brawls at the Camp's Post Exchanges involving Airborne personnel. If the reports show three Airborne took on seven non-Airborne or five Airborne brawled with twelve non-Airborne, the Training Officers would know that the training was on target.

The Battle of the Bulge was not an ideal setup for the 17th Airborne any more than it was for the 11th Armored. We turned over our third Tank Battalion to them for close support, but that was hardly enough to put them in a euphoric mood when they found out what they were up against. Also, there was no time limit set for their relief. It was going to be tough infantry action in which they were somewhat shy of the tools needed.

After three days it was evident that the 17th Airborne was suffering casualties in an amount that it could not sustain,                             

The 11th Armored prepared to go back into action. My driver and I went forward to check on the positions of the 17th Airborne so that a smooth replacement of units could take place. We stopped on a secondary road to get our bearings with the help of a map of the area.

About 150 yards to our front we saw two 17th Airbomes walking toward us. One of them was carrying a 30-caliber air-cooled machine gun on his shoulders and the other was carrying the tripod for the gun. Each had several webs of 30-caliber machine-gun bullets draped around his neck-dangling down to the knees. They were young men-maybe eighteen years old.

They approached our jeep and asked: "Lt.-where is Hill 409?" I looked at the map and determined it was a wooded hill over on our right front about one-quarter mile away.

I asked them what they were going to do at Hill 409. One of them replied: "Me and Charley have orders to go to Hill 409 and set up a Strongpoint." They trudged off toward Hill 409 to set up their Strongpoint—all two of them.

WE FIGHT AS INFANTRY

Prayer of General Patton's Chaplain for Third Army Troops in the Bulge:

Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech Thee, of Thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate rains with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for Battle. Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call upon Thee that armed with Thy power, we may advance from victory to victory and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies and establish Thy justice among men and nations. Amen.

We went back into action and this was going to be different than our first taste of battle. But before I tell you what was different, let me tell you what was the same: the weather.

It was cold: 15-20 degrees Fahrenheit during the day—0 degrees at night. It was dismal: a whitish foggy mist hung over the ground and the ugly gray clouds of winter shut out the sun. It was continual—day after day this study in white, gray, and black. During this time a friend of mine confirmed that bombers were grounded for fourteen consecutive days at a U.K. Base where he served. Now, when I wake up on a dreary day in January and see that cold gray sky I murmur: "Battle of the Bulge weather."

The cold grabbed at your bones. You felt mean. You wanted to take out your discomfort on someone—and you had a fitting candidate: the enemy. The enemy felt the same way about you. You asked yourself: "What idiot would order a winter offensive?"           

We dealt intimately with icy roads. When a 32-ton tank slides off an icy road into a ditch you have a problem that cannot be solved by hailing a passerby.

At night we would try to find a barn to sleep in—piling straw underneath and on top of our bed rolls: twice as much underneath as on top.

One purchase I made while still at U.K. Base was priceless. Selfridge’s was selling sheepskin vests and I bought one. It had the hide turned out and the clipped hair next to my body. The Medics would have objected to this piece of clothing-if you were hit in the vest area the bullet would carry sheep’s hair into the wound and make the cleansing of the wound more difficult. I figured that if I were hit in the vest area both the Aid Station and I would have more to worry about than just a few sheep’s hairs.

The 21st, 55th, and 63rd Armored Infantry Battalions took the lead, supported by the 22nd, 41st, and 42nd Tank Battalions and the 490th, 491st, and 492nd Armored Field Artillery Battalions. It was an infantry battle and we slogged ahead a mile or two each day, with some villages in our path taken, lost, and retaken in a 24-hour period. The cost in killed and wounded mounted. Things slowed down to something resembling World War One.

Major Foy’s 41st Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron whose fleet of light tanks and armored cars normally ranged far ahead and to the flanks-our eyes and ears so to speak- got out of their vehicles and fought on the ground as infantry.

Attached to our Division was the 575th Anti-Aircraft Battalion, commanded by Major Spettle. This Battalion was armed with 50 caliber machine guns clustered in groups of four, with a firing platform that could be directed skyward. Col. Williams called in Major Spettle and ordered him to support Major Foy’s 41st Cavalry Squadron. Major Spettle complained bitterly that anti-aircraft Battalions are for protection against enemy aircraft and should not be used for support of infantry. Col. Williams pointed out that with ceiling zero weather there was no aerial threat and “By God-if Major Foy can fight as infantry your 575th can support him!” The Quad 50’s proved to be excellent support weapons. The 50 caliber machine gun throws out a slug big enough to chew up trucks and fighter planes. When the Quad 50’s were directed in front of advancing infantry you could see branches falling off trees, and bushes suddenly getting thinner-to say nothing of leaves and snow on the ground suddenly jumping up and down as if by magic.

We dug foxholes big enough to accommodate two men, and they would sit back to back, each man covering half a circle on his front.

We laid wire for communications between selected units. In that way we cut to a minimum radio communications which were noisy enough to give away the location of our position. We relied on field telephones, ala World War I.

Attached to our Division Headquarters was a Communications Officer and his group of wire-layers from the Division’s 151st Signal Company. The Officer was Lt. Kalcevic, a tough Polack from a Pennsylvania mining town. One of the Sections would report a cessation of communication with a unit to which we had laid wire. This would be reported to Lt. Kalcevic: his face would turn red with anger and he would mutter: “Those damn Krauts!” he would call for two of his crew to grab their rifles. The three would stomp off to locate the break and repair it. By the time they reached the place where the wire was cut, the German patrol who did the cutting would be several miles away. But every cut wire got the same reaction from Lt. Kalcevic: the red face, the muttering “Those damn Krauts,” and the stomping off with rifles to repair HIS wire.

SOUTHWEST OF BASTOGNE

The Table of Organization (T/O) for an Armored Division gives the Chief-of–Staff three Liaison Officers to help him do his job. The usual assignments are: one Liaison Officer minds the store at Division Headquarters, one Liaison Office goes back and forth to Corps Headquarters, and one Liaison Officer goes forward to contact the Combat units.

In the 11th Armored Divison, Capt. Gaffaney minded the store, Lt. Keough went back and forth to Corps, and Lt. Moeller went forward to contact Combat units.

When Lt. Keough learned that he was chosen to go back and forth to Corps I am sure that he smiled. After all, in combat, Corps Headquarters is thirty or forty miles back of the front line and the only real threat back there is from the air. At Corps Headquarters you will run into Red Cross girls, Army nurses off duty, entertainment groups sent out from Hollywood and New York, and many newspaper reporters. And Lt. Keough, by nature, was a devotee of the Good Life.

The Battle of the Bulge turned out to be quite a shock to Lt. Keough. The mileage back to Corps was very dangerous mileage-what with German patrols slashing through the “Indian Country” between Division Headquarters and Corps Headquarters. It was more dangerous than Lt. Moeller’s contacts with friendly combat units. Lt. Keough had thirty dark, perilous miles to negotiate in the vicinity of no troops, and that was putting it hopefully.

Lt. Keough would return from Corps with a white face and a rumpled composure. He would tell me about the harrowing tri back to Division, and I would say in a consoling way: “I know-I know.” And then I would ponder how things worked out in the Army generally and in combat particularly, where something safe and desirable turned out exactly the opposite. I must confess that while I was pondering it was difficult for me to keep an amused smirk off my face.

One day at dusk Col. Poole, our G-4, Red Williams, and I visited the Prisoner-of-war (POW) Compound, hastily erected with 4 x 4's, 2 x 4's, and plenty of barbed wire strung up and down and sideways. That day we were up against an SS Infantry Regiment and we had taken eighty prisoners. We were curious to see what these chosen members of the Master Race looked like.

They were a mixed bag, physically—even allowing for the dirt and grime of numerous days in combat. They were a disappointment to me because my memories went back to Camp Polk, La. in the Summer of '43. That summer my driver and I were out at dawn one day on our way to a firing range to set things up for the day. Suddenly we heard a burst of song from many mouths coming from behind a hill to our front. I told the driver to pull over and park. Over the hill came a column of 4's—they were Prisoners-of-war from the German Afrika Corps—several hundred in the formation. They were dressed in our summer khaki pants and white T-shirts—every man in step, eyes front, striding in that easy German cadence, and. Oh! how I wished we had marching songs like the Germans have!              

They were impressive physically—not as tall as our Americans, but with thick necks and upper torsos. I turned to my driver and asked: "There is the enemy—what do you think of them?" His quiet response was: "They are tough, they are disciplined, and I am glad they are prisoners and I don't have to fight them."                        

The prisoners we now saw in the Division Compound—the elite of the Master Race—had been putting people behind barbed wire for a number of years, and now they found themselves behind barbed wire. They were disgusted with themselves for having been taken prisoners. They snarled and cursed and spit through the wire at us.

Col. Poole, a native of Kosciusko, Mississippi, turned to Red Williams, a native of Alabama and said: "Mr. Williams, I want you to forget to supply this compound with rations tonight-also no tents, no blankets, and, of course, no fires." Mr. Williams said: "Yes, SUH." I always enjoyed hearing our Southerners say: "Yes, SUH." They understood the message, but more than that-when they said "SUH" you knew they agreed with every word of the order.

The next morning we found a sullen but subdued group of prisoners. When you have spent a night at 0 degrees Fahrenheit, with no food, shelter or heat, and you have spent part of the night jogging in place to keep from freezing to death-by the dawn's early light you are likely to feel subdued.

We gave their Feldwebel (Field Sgt.) orders to form them and march them under guard to the Corps POW Compound—some twenty miles distant.

Mr. Williams also forgot to supply the Compound with breakfast rations.

It was a Sunday morning and I was in the Mess Tent having one of Sgt. Horgan's delicious cheese omelets. That man could take powdered milk, powdered eggs, and a slice of cheese and make the best omelet I ever ate.

Sgt. Horgan was from Minneapolis, and I think he was a bit older than the rest of us—one of those patriotic volunteers that would sometimes show up in a combat outfit.

Sgt. Horgan had been Mess Sgt. for Div. Hq. Officer's Mess in California at Camp Cooke (Lompoc, Cal.). One night we had an Officer's Dinner Dance and the menu had been particularly sumptuous-a fringe benefit from slot machines installed in the Officers Mess. General Brooks, then Division Commander, called Sgt. Horgan and his crew to the dining room to congratulate them on their splendid results. He beamed in on Sgt. Horgan and told him that he ever needed a recommendation in Food Service after the war - he, the General, would be happy to supply him with a glowing one. Sgt. Horgan smiled and thanked the General for his kind offer and then added: "After the War, General, I do not think I will need a recommendation. You see, I own a string of restaurants in Minneapolis!"

But, to get back to the War, Mr. Berry, Chief Warrant Officer of the Chief-of-Staff Section, came into the Mess looking for me. The Chief-of-Staff wanted to see me right away. Col. Williams told me: "Fire is falling in the Message Center area. Get over there and get them moved to a less vulnerable spot."

The Message Center was located north of us. To get there I needed to go west to the Main Road, then north on the Main Road one and one-quarter miles, then east on a narrow lane about one-quarter mile.

My driver and I set out at once. When we reached the Main Road we went north about one mile. We were one-quarter