If You Survive (19 page)

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Both my radiomen had been casualties, so I quizzed each man on his knowledge of radios. Battalion had loaned me one radioman but wanted him back as soon as possible, and he sure was eager to return. Finally two men, who appeared to be buddies, told me they could do the job. It seemed they had been ham radio operators but knew nothing about military radios, and I decided to keep them in mind in case no one turned up.

After the screening was over, I had to go back to those two. Then I told them to finish their foxholes and report to the regular radioman for instructions.

I told the battalion radioman to teach them only the fundamentals and how to change batteries. He kept them busy the rest of the day and toward evening convinced me they could handle it, so I let him scamper back to his real assignment at battalion, where they’d been working short-handed; he had seen enough front-line duty.

Day and night the shelling never ceased. The Germans, of course, knew exactly where we were regrouping, and they wouldn’t let us rest. Our log roofs could take care of any shrapnel, but two of our men were killed instantly, torn to pieces by a rare direct hit, as they slept.

One day we were startled by the thunderous roar of what seemed like a freight train overhead, and a huge shell landed with a tremendous blast about seventy-five feet to my left side. It plowed a crater eight feet deep, ten feet wide, and fifteen feet long. This was within our lines; we were shaken.

This was the biggest one that ever landed near me, and I reported it to battalion. Some artillery officers came up and measured the hole and calculated from its depth and angle that it came from a giant railway gun about sixteen miles back. They must have put some counterfire out there for we never got any more incoming rounds from that gun.

We were lucky enough to have a rather quiet night, and I managed to catch up on sleep. Next morning Lieutenant Bowman and I were indulging in a K-ration breakfast when the smaller of the two new radiomen plummeted into our foxhole. He was shaking violently, and tears streamed down his face. His whole frame quivered with the spasms, and he was barely able to tell me between sobs that he couldn’t take it “up here.” He just had to get the hell out; I had to let him go to the rear. He sobbed like a baby during the entire outburst and beat his head on the ground.

I tried to calm him down and reason with him, but all he could do was sputter through his broken sobs, “Please, please let me go.” He was beginning to get under my skin, so I dropped the soft stuff and told him angrily that I had been in front-line combat for over five months and no one would let me go back. Since he had just arrived, he sure as hell wasn’t going back.

This only brought on more hysteria, and he said he would desert. I told him that was one way of ending it all quickly, because he would be shot as a deserter. He said he didn’t care. Then I told him how ashamed his parents would be, and he still didn’t care. Nothing seemed to work, though somehow he became a little calmer, and then he shocked me with his remark: “I’m just a dirty, no-good, yellow, Jewish SOB.”

I didn’t give a hoot about his background but was horrified to hear a man demean himself so abjectly. All this was enough for me, and I sat back completely stumped and let Lieutenant Bowman try his hand.

I hadn’t had time to analyze, yet somehow this fellow didn’t ring true to me, and I was determined to get to the bottom. It was pure luck, however, that led me to a way to draw him out. With nothing particular in mind, I began to probe about his past. When I got into college sports, and he began to wipe his eyes, I knew this was the right track.
He said he had played football in high school and had led his team to conference championships. I congratulated him on what must have been a fine job of leadership and followed up by remarking that he must have had a really great team for them to play together so well.

Then I tried to tie it in to the present by suggesting that he think of combat as similar to football. Now, however, it was my turn to be quarterback, and our team really had taken an awful mauling in the first half. We had used up our entire bench and desperately needed every single man to help us win. I went on to say he might have to go out for a pass, or make an end run, or maybe just block on the next play. Right now I wasn’t sure where he would be needed most, but a radioman could be very important.

By now he had quit crying, and in a perfectly normal voice he said that it had never occurred to him that this was a team effort, but he could see it and would try hard to carry out his assignments. Our talk ran on a little longer, and then I sent him back to his foxhole.

It seemed he hadn’t quite given up the idea of leaving the hellish trap we were in, for he tried to get back to see me several times that day, but I wouldn’t let him in my foxhole. Once some shells landed nearby, and that sent him scurrying for his foxhole. Finally he stayed there.

The dramatics weren’t quite over, however. Later that day the other radioman, a big guy over two hundred pounds, crawled into my foxhole, and he, too, was crying. On his hands and knees he blubbered and begged me to let him go to the rear. By now I had become something of a drama critic, and his performance was far inferior to that of his smaller buddy. I blew my top and shouted at him that the two of them were trying to play me for an idiot, and I’d had it with them.

Surprisingly, he readily admitted it and even went on to describe how they had spent a few hours the night before
planning the charade. It seems they had both been in plays at college and had had some training. In spite of myself, I had to admit the first guy was quite an actor. I had to marvel at his talent in producing such big tears and in shaking convulsively so realistically. He was every bit the equal of M*A*S*H*’s Corporal Klinger.

I got rid of the big guy quickly, telling him I would have him shot on the spot if he gave me any more trouble. He dried his tears at once and promised he and his buddy would do their jobs.

This was my first encounter with an overt attempt to fake battle fatigue, and instead of seeing the humor or allowing for circumstances all I felt was a sickening shock. Oh, I knew that everyone had a breaking point, but I had just assumed that everyone naturally was doing his best up to that point. This may seem a bit naive, but I do think it was the way most of us felt. Most of the men I knew in World War II seemed to accept their role to fight for home and country without complaint. I don’t recall a single person who questioned our involvement. We were not gung ho but quietly went about our duties. Perhaps that is why the occasional shirker stood out.

I have witnessed real emotional breakdown under the enormous physical and mental pressure of combat, and for those cases I have the most heartfelt sympathy. It is awful to see men go into convulsions, froth at the mouth, gibber incoherently. Many later responded to rest and treatment, and some were returned to the front—time after time. Some of the poor guys never did make it back to normalcy, even long after the war. But I knew of only two men who ever made a completely successful return to the battlefield.

Our Thanksgiving dinner was hand-carried up to us by men from the service company. Our cooks had put together giant turkey sandwiches, and they were a treat compared to
K-ration Spam, even though we, of course, received none of the usual fancy trimmings. It wasn’t all celebration, however, for we learned that some of the food carrying party had been hit on the way up. Though this happened all the time, we never quite learned to accept it. We had been fighting in the Hürtgen Forest for twelve days, the worst combat I had yet encountered.

Late in the afternoon of November 29, 1944, I was ordered to get my men ready to move out and to report at once to the battalion CP. This sounded like good news, for we had heard rumors that we were to be relieved.

My runner and I picked our way a quarter of a mile back along the fire to trail to the big log-covered dugout Colonel Kenan used as his command post, and as soon as I entered I was struck by the thick gloom. Colonel Kenan, Captain Newcomb and Captain Toles all nodded at me gravely; no one was smiling. The colonel handed me a cup of coffee, as though to the condemned.

Colonel Kenan wasted no time. “Wilson, I’ve got a tough job for your company tonight. E Company has been attacking Grosshau all day and they’re now pinned down in the open ground a couple hundred yards west of town. They have a lot of casualties and need help at once. Regiment insists we take Grosshau tonight in order to relieve E Company and also because possession of Grosshau is vital to tomorrow’s attack plans.”

He went on to say that the balance of First Battalion was holding the high ground north of Grosshau and that they had their hands full just hanging on.

The colonel continued in a quiet, calm voice: “Take your company northeastward along the edge of the woods to your left. Try to make contact with E Company as soon as possible. You may have to send in a patrol, because their radio is out.”

So far this was not in the least attractive. A night patrol
trying to get through to E Company could easily come unexpectedly upon other Americans, who frequently shot at sounds in the darkness. It was, nonetheless, our only choice.

It seems to be the practice of commanders to use their most experienced men for the tough jobs. While this might appear unfair to the men asked to undertake repeated risks, the commander knows that using his best men gives him a better chance of getting a difficult job done with the least losses. Lieutenant Colonel Teague, our regiment’s most experienced battalion commander, was often called on for tough assignments by Colonel Lanham.

Now I was being given a very difficult and dangerous assignment. I wondered how many such jobs I could survive. On reflection, I could think of five or six times I had been given tough assignments because of other jobs I’d performed successfully.
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I do not blame anyone for this method of assignment; on several occasions I used it myself. But it does tend to put a high price on successful performance.

“Now, Wilson,” Colonel Kenan went on in a fatherly manner, “I’m aware of your shortage of experienced officers and know it will be tough to go in at night with so many recruits, but we do need Grosshau tonight.”

He paused a few seconds to let this sink in. “My first concern is E Company. If you could even get a radio to them, then perhaps we could make plans for getting in medical help. After that, remember—we absolutely must have Grosshau tonight. Then, with Grosshau and Kleinhau in our hands, we can use our tanks to take Gey, only a
couple of miles northeast of Grosshau. We will be counting very heavily on you.”

The colonel went on to tell me he would be moving his CP up as soon as possible. We checked watches, the current password, and the location of the forward aid station. I couldn’t help but notice that no mention at all was made of what our battalion’s three other companies would be doing while F Company was out there in attack. The Colonel wished me luck, and I took off quickly.

Also absent from my orders were any suggestions on just how to get this job done. That was strictly up to me. I think I was flattered. As I walked back to the company with my runner I tried to get things straight in my own mind.

I knew the location of all friendly forces from the positions clearly marked on the map. Many unknown items confronted me coldly. We were all aware that the Germans held Grosshau, but I had no idea of where their defensive line was and whether it extended outside the village.

Night attacks are very difficult and usually require a lot of planning. To control and direct men so they shoot the enemy and not their own is a major concern. Exact directions and signals that are easily seen or heard must be worked out. Radios and other equipment must be secured and checked, passwords have to be assigned, the order of movement determined. With experienced men and officers who know them well, night attacks are still one of the worst assignments possible.

We did not have any of the proper qualities, and time was also against us. Our only advantage was the ability to move in the darkness. I hoped my new officers would be able to follow instructions and that I would be able to stay in contact with them.

When we got back to the company area, the officers had the men almost ready to move out, since they were also
aware of the rumor about our being relieved and sent to the rear; I wasn’t eager to give them my news. I sympathized with them as I repeated our attack plan. Even in the twilight, their shock and dismay were apparent as the dangers and risks sank in. Slowly their faces returned to normal as they realized the necessity for the attack. Yet I could almost hear them saying to themselves, “Please, tell me this isn’t so, tell me it’s a nightmare.”

I went over the big picture once again and then got down to details, keeping them brief. Control of the men is paramount. I had to appoint a leader for every six men. If there weren’t enough sergeants, I would have to appoint acting sergeants at once. I told the men to keep me informed by radio of everything they did. I admonished them that they wouldn’t be able to see much, so they had to be extra careful. They might run into friendlies, so they couldn’t shoot too quickly. If any man moved from where he was supposed to be, he was to check with me at once. We then double-checked passwords, watches, and radios.

When I felt we were ready, I moved the company out in column of platoons, with the First Platoon leading. I went with the First Platoon, following the lead scouts along with the platoon leader. We passed through the front of E Company and headed northeast along the edge of the woods in the general direction of B Company.

We had gone about three quarters of the way when our scouts abruptly fell flat and shouted out a challenge. The password that came back was delightfully welcome. By great good fortune, we had run into a small group of walking wounded from B Company itself, along with a couple of stretcher cases carried by German prisoners.

The sergeant leading this small group had only a slight arm wound, and he asked us the way to the aid station. I gave him directions and then asked if he knew how we could contact B Company, since their radio was out. He
said he could tell us, but that the route was pretty risky because of the open ground. So we tried the radio again at short range, but with no luck.