Read Death Traps: The Survival of an American Armored Division in World War II Online
Authors: Belton Y. Cooper
Tags: #World War II, #General, #Nonfiction, #Biography & Autobiography, #Military, #History
Death Traps: The Survival of an American Armored Division in World War II (2 page)
Introduction
All personal memoirs of the war are written from the author’s perspective. As my perspective was a relatively limited one, I feel this should be explained in the beginning.
Before entering combat, and as part of my training as an Ordnance Officer, I attended the Armored Force School at Ft. Knox. This not only provided me with a practical background in tank and vehicular maintenance, but also provided me with a theoretical background in armored war tactics. This knowledge of American Armored Force Doctrine proved particularly valuable later in combat, and gave me an appreciation of how German armored superiority forced American tank commanders to disregard doctrine and improvise new tactical solutions.
There were sixteen armored divisions in the American army during World War II. Out of this number, only the 2d and 3d remained heavy armored divisions. Later combat experience proved that the heavy armored divisions could sustain much heavier losses than the light ones, and thus be more effective in major operations. For this reason, the 2d and 3d Armored Divisions teamed up and worked side by side in every major operation from Normandy to the end of the war in Europe.
As the spearhead of the First Army in all these major operations, the 3d Armored Division destroyed more German tanks, inflicted greater enemy losses, and participated in the capture of more prisoners than any other American armored division. In accomplishing this distinction, the 3d Armored Division lost more American tanks than any other American armored division. Of the three combat commands in the 3d Armored Division, Combat Command B destroyed more German tanks and lost more American tanks than any other combat command. As the ordnance liaison officer for Combat Command B of the 3d Armored Division, I believe I have seen more battle damaged American tanks than any other living American.
After each fire fight, the maintenance group would go forward and try to locate the damaged vehicles. Unless we could locate the knocked out tank by its map coordinates and at the same time get the “W” number on the tank as well as determine the extent of the damage, it was difficult to obtain a replacement tank through the military supply bureaucracy.
Once the extent of damage to a vehicle had been determined, a quick decision was made whether it could be repaired by the combat maintenance facilities, or whether it would have to be left for the army ordnance depot to pick up later. In this latter event, a request could be made for a replacement vehicle. If the tank was in a mine field, we would have to get the engineers to come up and clear a path, in order for recovery vehicles to get to it. If not, we could make immediate plans to evacuate the tank to a VCP.
In preparing combat loss reports day after day, I became intimately familiar with weaknesses and inadequacy of our main battle tank, the M4 Sherman. I also learned about the weapons and tactics the Germans used to knock out our tanks.
After dark, it was my responsibility to carry the combat loss report to the division maintenance battalion headquarters located some thirty to fifty miles to the rear. Because the information in this report would have been extremely beneficial to the enemy, should it have fallen into their hands, it could not be sent by radio, but instead had to be carried by personal messenger.
I put the report and other sensitive documents in a small plywood box, which was located in the back seat of my Jeep. I also kept a thermite incendiary grenade inside the box. In the event of ambush the plan was to set off the grenade and abandon the Jeep in hope that the documents would be burned up and destroyed.
The area between the combat command columns and the division trains was known as the “void,” and travelling through the void was called “running the gauntlet.” During the day, an armored division combat command would bypass many enemy units. Since the American infantry units following the combat command would sometimes not come forward for a day or more, there were probably no friendly units between the combat command and the division rear. It was logical to assume that any units we met on the road at night would probably be German.
Thus, it was necessary to travel with extreme caution. We could not even use our blackout lights or flashlight to look at a map. It was necessary to memorize the road junctions with the map as we came forward during the day.
My driver and I would generally leave the combat command VCP after midnight. The windshield of our Jeep was lowered flat against the hood and covered with a canvas cover to protect against reflection of flares or moonlight. We did have a small angle iron wire cutter mounted on the bumper. This was protection against wires which the Germans would sometimes run across the road to decapitate Americans riding in jeeps or motorcycles.
We worked out a technique by which we could travel with a reasonable degree of safety. In Europe, most of the highways had trees growing on both sides of the road, and at night there was a discernible amount of starlight shining between the trees, even if it was cloudy. My driver would look up at an angle of approximately 30 degrees, and I would look straight down the highway to discern any remote objects, or possible German roadblocks, as far away as possible. We were able to stay fairly well in the center of the road, and drove at a top speed of sixty-five miles per hour, which was as fast as the Jeep would go.
When we arrived at the division maintenance battalion headquarters I would report to the maintenance battalion shop officer and give him the combat loss report. I would give him all of the information I knew on the tactical situation as well as the location of the knocked out tanks and other vehicles. Although the vehicles being replaced were actually those that had been destroyed two days before, the fact that we brought fresh vehicles every twenty-five hours enabled the Combat Command to maintain a reasonable degree of its combat strength.
In order to travel the thirty to fifty miles between the Combat Command and the division maintenance battalion headquarters in the dark of night, I needed to know my location in both terms of map coordinates and my positional relationship to other American units. In order to lead the replacement tank convoy back to the Combat Command, I had to know not only where I was going, but also where the Combat Command was going. I, therefore, had to know more about the overall tactical situation facing the division than most junior officers.
It soon became obvious from reading combat loss reports on a daily basis that one could reconstruct a diary of the activities of the Combat Command. The information gathered from this material plus personal observations, conversations with other soldiers, and research in other documents (listed in the bibliography) provided a wealth of information for preparing this book. Conversations with other soldiers immediately after an operation, discounting the fact that most soldiers tend to exaggerate, provided a lot of interesting information. By combining information from many conversations from other soldiers who had diverse viewpoints with my own observations, I could obtain a fairly good picture of what was actually happening.
In conclusion, I feel that I was fortunate to be in a particular position to observe the American Army’s campaign in Western Europe during World War II because I was a survivor. I came on active duty in June 1941 at Camp Polk with a cadre group of some 400 officers. During the next three years of training in the states and in England, I got to know many of them, and became close friends with some of them. Of those assigned to positions closer to combat than I was—in the infantry, tanks, combat engineers, or as artillery forward observers—not a single one made it from the first battles in Normandy to the final battles in Germany without being killed or wounded. I had to tell this story because they could not.
With the exception of certain well known ranking officers, some names have been changed.
1
Reflections
On Board the LST to Normandy
My feelings were somewhat ambivalent as I stood on the deck of the landing craft and looked down at the gently rolling seas of the English Channel. Although the water was not particularly rough, the heavily laden landing craft seemed to have a roll frequency in sync with that of my stomach. We had been advised to take seasickness pills about two hours before embarking, but because I had spent ten days crossing the entire ocean without using pills, I felt certain I would not need them to cross the narrow Channel.
Earlier in the evening, when we had loaded on the landing craft, we were immediately shown the officers’ country mess, where I proceeded to load up on buttered toast, doughnuts, and coffee. This now was my undoing, and I regretted having waited until getting out to sea before taking the pills.
In addition to being seasick, I felt thoroughly confused. My concern and apprehension about the future were somewhat offset by the excitement of participating in the largest invasion of all time. But I was also teed off. Watching all the surrounding ships made me realize that I should have chosen the navy; instead, I was an ordnance liaison officer in the 3d Armored Division.
During my first two years of college at the Virginia Military Institute (VMI), I took army ROTC in the artillery branch. At the beginning of my junior year, I transferred to the University of Michigan to study naval architecture and marine engineering, which had been my lifelong ambition. Because the University of Michigan did not have a naval ROTC at the time, I decided to enter the army ROTC ordnance branch, which was the closest thing to artillery offered by the university. Although I received full credit for my ROTC studies, I had to take additional hours to graduate. By fall 1941, a new naval ROTC program had been started at Michigan, but by this time I had already received my commission as a second lieutenant in the Army Ordnance Department Reserve.
The naval ROTC unit started offering ensign’s commissions for senior naval architects in the Bureau of Ships, pending graduation. I immediately submitted my transcript and took the physical exam to apply for a commission; I was accepted based on my graduation in February 1942.
But a problem surfaced during my interview with the naval commanding officer. He told me it was not possible to have simultaneous commissions in the army and the navy; I would have to resign my army commission in order to accept my navy commission. I agreed at once and requested that he contact the War Department and have me transferred to the navy. But it wasn’t that simple. According to regulations, the navy could not request that the army transfer me; I would have to resign. However, he would be glad to provide a letter showing that I had been offered the commission as an ensign.
Here began my enlightenment about the government’s bureaucratic machinations. One could not simply turn in a resignation. Instead, certain forms had to be requested from the War Department, filled out in triplicate, and sent back to the department. I immediately requested such forms, then waited.
In early June 1941, I received a telegram from the War Department and eagerly opened it in anticipation of good news about my requested transfer. I was shocked when I read the contents.
TO BELTON Y. COOPER SECOND LIEUTENANT ORDNANCE DEPARTMENT RESERVE stop. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO REPORT TO ACTIVE DUTY TO THE EIGHTEENTH ARMORED ORDNANCE BATTALION THIRD ARMORED DIVISION CAMP POLK LOUISIANA ON JUNE 22ND 1941 stop. YOU ARE TO BE RELIEVED OF ACTIVE DUTY IN ORDER TO RETURN TO YOUR HOME IN HUNTSVILLE ALABAMA BY JUNE 22ND 1942 stop.
SINCERELY HENRY L. STIMSON SECRETARY OF WAR.
Although I did not know then that circumstances would extend my active duty and postpone my graduation until June 1946, I was upset that my plans to design the world’s first unsinkable battleship were shot square in the rear end. It appeared incomprehensible to me that the government would insist that I remain a maintenance officer in an armored division when every year only ninety naval architects graduated as opposed to some twenty thousand mechanical engineers, who could have easily filled this position.
It was sometime past midnight on July 3, 1944, when we cleared the breakwater at Weymouth, England. I was impressed with the skill of the U.S. Navy in keeping the LSTs in a somewhat orderly formation. In the darkness, I could barely see the shadowy forms of the ships in front and to the rear of ours.
All of a sudden, my seasickness became acute.
“Cooper, what the hell are you doing?” asked one of my buddies.
“I’m feeding the fish, damnit. What the hell does it look like?”
Had I not grabbed my helmet, I would have lost it also to the briny deep. I sat down on the deck in a cold sweat and waited for the next spasm. Fortunately, the queasiness passed.
Crossing the Atlantic
It was only natural that I would compare the trip across the Channel to crossing the Atlantic on the troop ship
John
Erickson
.
We sailed from New York on September 5, 1943, in the largest troop convoy that had yet been assembled in World War II. The German submarine wolfpack attacks on American convoys had peaked in the spring of 1943 and now seemed to be abating. The navy took no chances, however, because the German battleship
Tirpitz
was known to be in Norway along with several cruisers and submarines.
The convoy consisted of nine transports carrying the 3d Armored Division and the 101st Airborne Division, which would play a major role in the battle of Normandy and the following breakout, as well as numerous separate artillery, medical, and service units. The convoy also included nine navy tankers, loaded with fuel and supplies for the upcoming invasion, and an escort consisting of the battleship
Nevada
and nine destroyers.
I was standing on the deck at the stern as our ship passed down the Hudson Channel. Some two thousand troops were also on deck enjoying the sunshine of a clear September day. Looking aft, we could see the Statue of Liberty as her head disappeared over the horizon. This final vision of New York had a profound effect on me and probably all the other troops. I’m sure that many were wondering if or when we would see our country again.
I was assigned to a cabin with five other first lieutenants. The cabin, about ten feet square, contained two stacks of three bunks each and had a small adjoining toilet and saltwater shower. Although we were crowded, our accommodations were luxurious compared to those of the enlisted men, who slept in the holds in bunks stacked five high. I had an upper bunk on the starboard side next to a blacked-out porthole. I was comfortable and had no trouble sleeping, despite the fact that my lieutenant buddies loved to shoot craps and play poker well into the night.
On day five, halfway across the Atlantic, I was asleep in my bunk about midnight when I was suddenly awakened by the sound of a remote explosion followed immediately by two similar explosions. I jumped out of my bunk and tore out down the hall barefooted and in my long underwear. I was followed by my buddies, who had been shaken out of their lethargy following a late-night poker game.
As we passed through the double blackout curtains onto the deck, we saw a fully lighted ship on the horizon. My first thought, although not entirely logical, was that one of the ships in the convoy had been torpedoed and had turned on the lights to allow the troops on board to escape. It soon appeared that the ship was dead in the water, because the convoy proceeded and the ship disappeared to our rear. There were no further explosions or other unusual activities, and we finally drifted back to our cabins and went to sleep.
There was great excitement and much speculation on board the next morning. The GI rumor mill was going full tilt. The most logical explanation, from the naval officer in charge of our gun crew, was that the lighted vessel was a hospital ship returning to the States from England. Such ships, which were painted white with a large red cross on the side, traveled fully lighted at night so as not to be mistaken by German submarines; in fact, the Allies notified the Germans when these ships were on the high seas. According to the Geneva Convention, the ships, as noncombatants, were allowed to proceed under the protection of the International Red Cross.
When a hospital ship approached a convoy, the convoy would open up and let it pass through. Knowing this, German submarines would surface at night and follow the hospital ship closely so that the propeller of the submarine could not be detected separately from the propeller of the hospital ship. The submarine would safely enter a convoy and then attack. In an attempt to counter this, Allied navies would drop several depth charges behind any hospital ship that approached a convoy.
Each of the men sleeping in the holds of our ship had a space approximately two feet by two feet by six feet for himself and his duffel bag. The bag, about eighteen inches in diameter and thirty-six inches long, held all of a soldier’s personal gear. Obviously, the soldier was crowded in his bunk. Under the double loading arrangement, soldiers spent twelve hours in their bunk and the next twelve hours on deck. They would bring their duffel bags with them wherever they went, because they might not return to the same bunk.
Each section of the deck was patrolled by military police (MP). One day, a private had just come up on deck, placed his duffel bag against the door of a storage locker, and settled down with one of his buddies to spend the rest of the day in the sunshine. He had no sooner gotten comfortable than the MP sergeant came by and told him he couldn’t block the entrance to the door. So the private moved himself and his bag to the only other place available—by the rail.
A few minutes later a young second lieutenant came by and noticed the soldier lying against the rail underneath the lifeboat. The lieutenant told him that he was blocking the way to the lifeboats, not a good idea in the event of an emergency.
“The MP sergeant told me to move over here,” said the private, “because I couldn’t block the entrance to the door.”
“I don’t care what the sergeant told you,” the lieutenant replied. “You’ll have to move back. You can’t stay here.”
The private moved his duffel bag back against the door. No sooner had he gotten settled and started talking with his buddy than the MP sergeant came by again.
“Soldier, I thought I told you to move that bag against the rail.”
“Sergeant, I moved it there and some second lieutenant told me it wasn’t safe to be on the rail and to move back here.”
“I don’t care what some damn shavetail told you,” replied the MP sergeant. “I’m in charge of this deck, and you’ll move that thing back over there like I told you in the first place.”
The frustrated young soldier moved back against the rail. Sure enough, a few minutes later the lieutenant came by again.
“Soldier, I thought I told you to move that barracks bag away from this rail.”
“Lieutenant, I did, but the sergeant told me to move again.”
The young lieutenant was feeling his oats. “Move that damn bag away from the rail. I don’t want to tell you again, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
The soldier moved back against the door with his bag. “I’ve had it up to here,” he told his buddy. “If I have to move this damn bag again, it’s going in the ocean.”
Shortly, the MP sergeant came back down on the deck. When he saw the soldier with his bag against the door, he was infuriated.
“Damnit, soldier, this is the last time I’m gonna tell you to move that bag over to the rail.”
“Sergeant, that won’t be necessary,” the soldier replied. “You’ll never have to tell me again.”
With that, he stood, picked up his bag, walked calmly across the deck, and tossed the bag over the rail into the waves. The MP sergeant looked stunned. All the enlisted men in the vicinity started applauding and hollering, “Go soldier, go, go.”
At a special court-martial convened that afternoon, the soldier was tried and convicted for destruction of government property.
Aboard the LST in the English Channel, I felt much better after a brief nap in my bunk. As far as the eye could see in any direction, there were ships. Most of the combat vessels had either gone east to Gold Beach to support the British or west to Utah Beach to support the American VII Corps. Because the beachhead was about ten miles inland from Omaha Beach, there was no threat of direct fire from artillery.
The LSTs circled in slow, lazy patterns as they awaited the signal to come onto the beach. This was D + 28, so all the fighting had long since cleared the beach itself. There was still threat of aircraft, but I was assured that we had adequate protection.
A few moments later, a lone Me109 came screaming down the beach. Although the combat vessels were gone, it seemed as though hundreds of giant hoses sprayed liquid antiaircraft fire in long, arched trajectories as the tracers tried to seek their target. Yet the plane continued on its path until it was out of sight. I found out later that it was a reconnaissance plane that repeated this operation several times a day. Although I had seen enemy reconnaissance planes in the searchlight beams over England at night, this was my first view of the enemy in actual combat. It was indeed an exciting Fourth of July.
I had a bet with my buddy Ernie Nibbelink, who was on the LST next to us, as to who would be the first to go ashore. We were all off the Fox Orange section of Omaha Beach, awaiting the beach master’s signal. The captains of the LSTs apparently also had bets as to who would go ashore first.
Immediately after the signal, the ships broke formation and headed for the beach. As our ship approached, it trimmed aft as much as possible, dropped the stern anchor about two hundred yards from shore, and rammed the beach at top speed. Because an LST is most vulnerable when beached, all due haste was made to unload and get it off the beach as quickly as possible.
We were all down below revving the Jeep engines and ready to debark. I had loaded on the transport as late as possible so that my Jeep would be close to the bow doors and I’d be able to get off before Ernie. He’d apparently had the same thing in mind. As we came down the landing door, his Jeep appeared to be somewhat ahead of mine. However, about thirty feet of water separated the end of the landing door and the beach, which meant that he had to wade. This should have been no problem; we had already waterproofed the vehicles to be able to operate in about three feet of water. But Ernie’s Jeep came off the landing door and dropped straight out of sight. It seems that the LST had landed in a shell crater; it had to be pulled out with a bulldozer. Needless to say, I beat Ernie to the beach and won the bet.
The beach operation appeared extremely well organized. The Normandy beaches were receiving an average of thirty thousand troops a day and a greater tonnage of cargo than the port of New York. In addition to this, numerous burned-out hulks of tanks, half-tracks, and other vehicles were strewn up and down the beach, as if a giant child in a temper tantrum had broken his toys and scattered them in disgust.
The traffic control was well planned, and we immediately exited the beach on one of the many roads that had been bulldozed through the sand dunes to the paved roads behind the beach. Yellow tape marked both sides of the sand road and also both sides of the highway that led westward. Signs at all exits from the road and at intermediate points read, “Mines clear to the hedgerows.” This was a warning to be extremely careful about pulling onto the shoulder of the road or going into any field that was not guaranteed to be cleared of mines. Numerous Jeeps had hit mines; they were completely destroyed and their passengers were killed. We continued with caution to our first bivouac area, just south of Isigny.
