491st AFA History On August 15, 1942 the tall
Louisiana pines stirred to the martial music of a colorful parade marching the
official activation of the battalion, with Major Edward H. Guthrie commanding.
At this time the unit consisted of a cadre of thirty-eight officers and one hundred
fifteen enlisted men. Of the officers, the majority had been recently
commissioned at Fort Sill; the remainder were principally from the Third
Armored Division. From the Third, Seventh, and Eighth Armored Divisions came a
capable and enthusiastic enlisted cadre. The pleasant autumn heard the hum
of extensive activity. Training of all personnel was intense in order that the
expected fillers might have the best and most competent leadership and
instruction. Many officers and men were sent to special training schools at
Fort Knox, Kentucky, and Fort Sill, Oklahoma, in order that they might be more
fully qualified in the knowledge and performance of their duties. The new batteries were proud to
receive their guidons on September 24th, although they were not to be presented
in ceremony until some six months later. Late in October, the fillers
commenced arriving-new inductees who only a few days before had cast aside the
garments of peace for those of war. There was daze and bewilderment in the eyes
of many. It was the look of men not quite capable of grasping the magnitude of
it all. They were tired and dirty from the long train ride, but willing and
conscientious. From the hills of West Virginia and Kentucky came lean, hardened
men, weather-beaten and soft spoken, men who had since childhood cradled a
squirrel rifle in the crooks of their arms. From the musty shafts of
Pennsylvania coal mines came the rugged, stocky, second-generation Americans
who had laid aside their picks and shovels to pick up the tools of war. They
came from Brooklyn and Chicago, from Jersey City and Cleveland, from New
Orleans and Tuscaloosa, from the Iowa cornfields and the Oregon forests,
Americans all-and ready. By the middle of November, the
battalion was fifteen percent over strength and basic training commenced in
earnest, with the accent on physical training. Muscles ached and at times the
feet were too weary to carry the tired body to supper, but there was intense
interest and enthusiasm and spirits remained unflagging in spite of many
marches of five to twenty five miles. Shortages of equipment created numerous
training obstacles, but they were surmounted in a manner that indicated dogged
determination and ingenuity. There was a remarkable contrast
between the men who had arrived such a short time before, and those who sang
Christmas carols with the waning year. Just a few short weeks and they looked
like soldiers, felt like soldiers. It was apparent in their confident walk,
their attitude, and the neatness of their uniforms. They sang Auld Lang Syne
and bade the year goodbye with a feeling of accomplishment. One year had
slipped by and the winter winds whistled a challenge that fanned the flames of
determination. The battalion commander sat at his
desk thinking of tomorrow's service practice. How would the first one go? Ah,
there was the morning mail. He paused over one letter. The Quartermaster
General had approved the battalion shield and motto. "The scarlet represents Field
Artillery. The diagonal bend is the heraldic representation of the scarf of a
military commander: the lightning flash denotes speed and striking power. The
cannon barrel signifies the Field Artillery and the Silver Star is the national
identification symbol. The motto is expressive of the personnel and of their
certainty of an ultimate victory." So they General had put it, little
realizing, perhaps, the portent of the phrasing "speed and striking power
and "personnel and their certainty of an ultimate victory. "Battery Adjust!. The pines
huddled together and shivered with the raw, wet winter, as the first service
practice was conducted. It was the coldest day of the year, but to men who
never before had seen cannon fire, the thrill of the deafening roar and the new
sense of power forced all else into the background. There was assurance in the
bellow of the T-19's and when they were replaced by M-7's during February,
there was an air of confidence in the cannoneers eagerly firing away. Right Face! Left Face! Fall in!
Fall out' Hut, Tup, Thrup, Fawr! Basic training was completed and the
impressive retinue of the Third Corps inspection team arrived, with
grey-haired, iron-faced Major General Willis D. Crittenberger in charge. Under
the critical eyes of the inspecting officers, the battalion, every man alert,
justified its self-confidence by an excellent performance. The first hurdle had
been cleared. Training continued unabated with
service practice at least once weekly until the end of May. Each battery spent
from one to three nights weekly in the field emphasizing reconnaissance, hasty
selection and occupation of position, and camouflage and concealment.
Frequently vehicles broke through the thin crust of hard earth and sank deep
into the underlying black mud. It was realistic training in field expedients.
Hours upon hours were spent on sighting and aiming exercises, protective
measures and scouting, and patrolling. The battalion became known as a
"rugged. outfit. In a stirring ceremony, complete
with all the garrison frills, Colonel William N. Gilmore, Division Artillery
Commander, presented the battery guidons and a proud unit marched, no-strutted,
to its area, thinking of the Colonel's words concerning days and things to
come, confident of its future. Battery firing tests followed in
rapid succession and each vied with its neighbor for top honors, Battery A
coming through to place second in the entire Division Artillery. They were
ready for the next step-the welding together of the battalion, each to become
an important spoke in a smooth spinning wheel. With spring the battalion
participated in combined exercises with Combat Command "B", in
addition to division field exercises. There were mistakes made, some ludicrous,
others pathetic. They were all profitable, however, for the same errors were
seldom repeated. LOUISIANA-TEXAS MANEUVERS - During the midst of preparations
for the Third Army Louisiana-Texas Maneuvers, in which the Eleventh Armored,
the Eighty Eighth, and Ninety Fifth Infantry Divisions participated, Major
Raymond H. Lumry assumed command. There were four short flag exercises, then
maneuvers began in earnest with a new "old man"-Lt. Col. James M.
Worthington. Back and forth across the Sabine
River the sham battles raged, every possible realistic feature included. They
sweltered and cursed as they choked in the dust of the humid summer, bathed in
perspiration from early morning until late evening. Wicked looking, poisonous,
coral snakes slithered about underfoot, defiant in their candystripe colors,
and the ever present wood ticks buried their diseased heads in tired bodies at
night. "Twist him out counter clockwise", they gibed, but the most
acceptable method was to hold the lighted end of a cigarette so close it burned
the skin and the heat made the ornery cuss back up. Kitchens, moving alone at night,
became lost and when they did arrive, it was hard to convince the boys that the
cooks hadn't cooked some of those tender. looking wild hogs for chow. Or was it
"chameleon stew" they served? Three mouthfuls and a fellow turned
green in the face. ' Water supply was difficult and the
men became accustomed to getting along on half a canteenful per day. The
solution? It was easy. First, brush the teeth and shave, then wash the socks
and underwear. Strain it through a handkerchief' and drink with gusto. Shadeless Peason Ridge was taken,
lost, and retaken, and the black stumps in mockery ripped the bellies out of
peeps and hung up the M-7's in the blackness of the moonless nights. The
whispering pines chuckled at the discomfiture of the crews. The battalion commander wearily
looked at his column as he closed in the bivouac area after a long dusty march
He tore his hair. Where's the rest of the battalion? Only six vehicles were
behind him. But soon, coughing and spluttering, and blinded by the red dust,
the rest of the drivers piloted their panting vehicles in through the dense
forest. Maintenance breaks between
problems brought no respite, for maintenance of equipment was of prime
importance. The fine clay dust was unusually hard on vehicles, and fuel systems
frequently became hopelessly clogged after three or four hours of marching. Eight weeks of discomfort and
sleepless nights, of wearying marches and sultry, burning days, terminated with
a flourish as the combat command completed a wide, hundred and ten mile
envelopment, marching at night and going into concealed bivouac during daylight
hours. The muddy Sabine was crossed tactically for the last time and the weary
but hardened battalion marched triumphantly back to the green lawns and white
buildings of Camp Polk. General Crittenberger, straight and stern, stood by the
side of the road as the long, dusty column passed by, saluting proudly. And the
familiar flag in the square brought a lusty hail of cheers. The dashed wildly to the
showers-the first in two months. There was movement in the air, and
the Brooklyn cowboys hummed snatches of prairie tunes. Orders had been received
shifting the division down Texas way. There was no rest possible, for
maintenance must be completed and vehicles either turned over or loaded on the
long chain of flat cars. Tighten a wire here, a few more spikes in this chock
block, load the baggage car, and prepare the mess car. Buddies, we're on the way. The familiar scenes faded from
view as the long train moved out for the open plains -and Camp Barkeley. There
was no feeling of sorrow. This was excitement and adventure, and it was also
the Army. The flat rolling plains of the Lone Star State were a novelty to most
men and the two day trip was thoroughly enjoyed. Warm, hospitable Abilene, with its
high heeled boots and ten gallon hats, was a welcome change for men who had
yearned for the lights and movies and pretty girls for dancing partners. There was fascination in the great
expanse of rolling prairie and the limitless, cloudless skies 'where you could
stand on a hill and see nothing for three days ahead.. Sometimes, all alone in
the quiet of evening it was almost possible to believe the many tall Texas
tales. But the pretty girls were no myth and an evening in Abilene was a real
treat. Numerous service practices and
many hours on the small arms ranges high-lighted the training, and even the
untrained eye could readily discern the organizational pride in the trim, erect
soldiers standing formal retreat two or three evenings a week. Lt. Col. Worthington was assigned
to the G-3 Section, Army Ground Forces, and again Major Lumry assumed command. Almost unnoticed the summer
slipped into autumn and the vagabonds stowed their gear and looked ahead with a
bit of trepidation. They were going to the colorful wasteland, the stark, stony
mountains, the endless dunes of shifting sand, and the bristling cacti of the
Mojave Desert. The train ground to a halt at
Goffs, California, a whistle stop or the Santa Fe, and they marveled at the
endless desert and forbidding mountains, glaring balefully and defiantly; What
mortals were these who dared encroach on the land that God forgot? Within hours the dry chill that
came with the sunset became a penetrating cold and the suddenly weary men
huddled together in their new tent homes in the middle of nowhere. Morning broke clear and cold on
the orderly rows of pyramidal tents, and it was hard to realize that the Dead
Mountains to the East were over eight miles distant. In the crystal air, they
appeared to be only three or four miles away. The harsh desert life separated
the weak from the strong as they were buffeted about by the elements and sifted
through the mesh of rigorous training. There was little wood available for the
pot-bellied stoves and cold men grubbed in the sand for the last particles of
the meager coal piles. Nights were dreaded, for the cold set in when tile sun
suddenly disappeared over the rim rock. Heavily wrapped in blankets, they would
sit in the sand drinking beer or coke from the crude exchange, watching a
movie. Almost overnight there appeared
makeshift conveniences-washing stands, dressers, a barber chair. One night the
unused stage disappeared from the open air theater and the next day the
exchange boasted the only wooden floor in the area. Cactus Jim's 491 Club
became the center of spare time activity. There was plenty of coke and beer or
ice cream and genial Sergeant Jim Heely always added half an hour to closing
time. Training continued
unabated-service practice on the wide open wasteland, small arms qualification
on the crude, home made ranges, and scouting and patrolling among the eerie
shadows of cacti and mountains. The battalion participated in combat command
and division field exercises over trackless miles of barren sand. Grueling
physical fitness tests held no terror for these men, hardened by months of
rugged living in rugged country, where at night there was a silence you could
almost hear, broken only by the occasional melancholy wail of a coyote. The Commanding General of the Army
Ground Forces, Lt. Gen.. Lesley J. McNair, expressed approval and gratification
with their progress upon his visit shortly before Christmas. Another Christmas was here and
after the usual turkey dinner, complete with all the trimmings, the thought of
home and their loved ones, and of past Christmases as they sat by the tinseled
tree in Cactus Jim's. They awaited the coming maneuvers with the confidence
born of thorough training and past experience. It had been an eventful year,
full of those things that help to make the American soldier what he is -the
best in the world. New Year's resolutions scarcely
had time to be broken before the battalion began the long, dusty march to the
concentration area for maneuvers with the Ninety Fifth Infantry Division, and
the Battle of Southern California was on. There were days of scant water
supply and long night marches into the teeth of the bitter winter winds, and
tears from watery eyes rolled down cheek stung and bitten by the flying sand.
The winds howled and screamed their defiance and vehicle tracks quickly
disappeared. It was difficult to follow the vehicle ahead and "flying
columns" of scores of vehicles rapidly dwindled to a mere four or five,
finally coming to a bewildered halt, their wings closely clipped. In the midst
of it all, the rugged, stone faced mountains, in cold and forbidding beauty,
looked down upon the futile mortals and laughed. The head of the column called the
tail. Hello, Poke Five. This is Poke Six. I am leading the column due
South." "Hello, this is Poke Five.
Cripes! The section I'm tailing is heading North. So it went, nip and tuck, man
against the elements, the McCoy Mountains, the hollow basin of Ford Dry Lake,
and the wind, the cold, and the ever shifting sands. The Thunderbolt Division bucked
the almost impregnable defenses of Palen Pass in a well coordinated attack, and
desert maneuvers were finished. Tales of those weeks will remain among those
that will be told and retold, and relished in the telling, for it was man's
victory in the end. The mirage of a tent city became a
reality as the canvas walls of Ibis came within view. Countless acres of
wasteland were policed for the last time, and Ibis became a memory. Eastern eyes gazed in wonder and admiration at the luxuriant
beauty of the California coastal region. Perhaps the Chamber of Commerce was
right. At any rate, here were fertile valleys and lush vineyards and endless
miles of citrus groves, heavy with golden fruit. The cool picturesque pastel cities
with broad, palm lined streets were a novelty and the girls were as pretty as
those in Texas. As the miles rolled by, the serene
Pacific appeared and the site of America's only enemy shelling was passed. The
General ushered his men through the gates of Camp Cooke. After many months of exacting
training, the battalion settled down eagerly to the comforts and enjoyment of
garrison life. Long awaited furloughs were granted and three day passes almost
invariably meant a visit to Los Angeles and its many attractions. A weekend was
something when it could be enjoyed in Santa Maria or Santa Barbara. Post-maneuver training directives
established many objectives, and all were successfully attained. The Third
Corps' Firing Battery Tests and the Army Ground Forces' Battalion Tests were
taken in stride with gratifying results. Any doubts of readiness were erased
when the results were published. The Division Commander announced that the
artillery was one of the first elements of the division fully qualified for combat. Numerous additional tests were
included on the schedule. Physical fitness, combat intelligence, and tank crew
firing tests were credibly passed. The lads were good. Better than that, they
were ahot4. Small arms firing was emphasized
and soon every member of the unit was qualified to wear a marksmanship badge
for his individual weapon. Many hours were spent on the anti-aircraft ranges
and the rocket launcher ceased to be a mystery. The months at Camp Cooke marked
the most intensive service practice schedule the battalion had ever followed.
Errors made in the past had accomplished their end for they failed to reoccur.
Frequent combined field exercises helped develop a well-knit, hard hitting
outfit. After a much publicized incident on one of these exercises, it became
customary for all Thunderbolt artillerymen to carefully note the daily passing
of the Daylight Limited and govern their firing accordingly. Inspections became almost routine
and stars became a common sight as more and more important visitors and
inspection teams came to witness the activities of the division. Among these
were Peter B. Kyne and Congressman Cain of New Jersey. General George C.
Marshall paid a brief visit and a team from the Armored Center made a detailed
inspection. Lt. General Ben Lear was followed by the Inspector General's team.
It seemed every star in the War Department firmament had come to observe and
commend. Inspections completed,
recreational activity came to the foreground. Softball and volley ball games
helped while away many leisure hours and the battalion ball club gave an
excellent account of itself in many hard fought games. There were parties and
dances-Army life wasn't so bad. Strength was brought up to T/0 by
the assignment of new men from ASTP units, the Sixteenth Armored Division, and
the "repple depple" at Fort Ord. Preparation for overseas movement
rounded out the final months at Camp Cooke. Training films were shown and
reshown. The dentists finished their drilling and the doctor pumped in more
shots. Numerous showdown inspections of clothing and equipment were followed by
intense activity, packing and crating equipment. Finally, the multitude of
details completed, the battalion was ready to take into combat its training
and' experience of two long years. All Aboard! The long train chugged
slowly out of the rail yards and the first leg of the final trip was begun.
Every man had a feeling of confidence born of capability. They had marveled at
the remarkable success of the Allied armies during the summer and were eager to
get into the fray before the ninth inning. An important part of a great
division was ready in all respects to perform its mission-to assist in the
utter defeat of the enemy.
Destination unknown-Eastward, but
where? The broad California plains gave way to the familiar stony wastes and
sands of the desert. Reminiscing, they looked out over the expanse of nothing
which had been Camp Ibis. It was desolate with but a few bleak, black shacks
left standing. Wilted men in wilted uniforms sweltered in the oppressive heat.
There was little interest in cards or games of amusement. Here and there, a
soldier leafed idly through the limp pages of a magazine, but the majority
relaxed in their seats, thinking and speculating on the future. The engine ran out of fuel and the
cars had flat wheels, but with all the numerous delays involved in a troop
movement, the train finally squealed to a halt at the immense staging area at
Camp Kilmer, New Jersey. Shots- more shots. Oh, my aching
arm! P. O. M., censorship, ship drill, and more training films. Three days of
whirlwind processing, then passes were issued to visit New York and nearby
towns and homes. The uninitiated stood awed by the
magnitude of the city, the bustling crowds and the perpetual hurry that is New
York. Gaiety and entertainment took a heavy toll of sleeping time, but who
wanted to sleep? One could doze with his girl in a hansom cab, riding through
Central Park, or spoon on a park bench until the MP's came along at midnight. Loaded high with clothing and
equipment, they left the staging area behind. A train ride to Hoboken, the
ferry across the shimmering blue of the Hudson, and there was the pier.
Unloading to the stirring tempo of the "Caisson Song", they were served
hot coffee and doughnuts' by the ever smiling, ever friendly Red Cross girls.
Solemnly, stooping under the heavy load of equipment, they filed up the
gangplank of His Majesty's Transport The Samaria. "All present and aboard,
Sir." The last man was aboard ship. With the first gray rays of a
reluctant daylight cautiously peeping over the horizon, the pulsating engines
moved the ship quietly and serenely out of the harbor. Many men, awakened by
the gentle rocking, crowded the rail for a final look at the shoreline and the
majestic lady holding high the Torch of Liberty. Many eyes were moist, and as
the lumps arose in many throats they asked themselves, When, if ever again
?" Out into the vast unrelenting
Atlantic, dipping and cavorting in the rolling swells, she sailed, single
loaded but crowded, and then as far as the eye could see in any direction the
were ships. Far on the horizon, splitting the sea into wedges of creamy foam,
there were U. S. Navy destroyers, shepherding their flock to a safe landing. Movies and cards, reading and care
of quarters, or just standing by the rail, gazing out over the trackless waters
(sometimes a little green in the face) helped pass away the long day. The
attendance at church services was always large. If you liked herring for
breakfast, "corn willie" and boiled potatoes, or spam and mash for
other meals, the food was excellent. Of course, if you didn't like it, the
Chaplain would cheerfully write out a "ticket". The unanimous opinion
was that a Yankee diet was much preferred. The weather remained fair
throughout the uneventful trip and the only sign of the submarine menace was
the inevitable rumor. There was no hostile air in evidence. They would have
received a warm welcome had they come, for the decks bristled with
anti-aircraft armament. Suddenly the gray mist that was
England loomed through the murk off the starboard bow and early the next
morning, sea weary men debarked at the great port of Liverpool, a bit unsteady
on their land legs. Even the grueling march to the railway station was welcome.
It was good to feel solid earth underfoot again, and see those smiling American
Red Cross girls with their inevitable coffee and doughnuts. It was tea time,
anyhow, and after a brief pause, they boarded the train for Trowbridge. Trowbridge Barracks was an
aggregation of Nissen huts, sprawled in the mud just outside the picturesque
village with its narrow winding streets and hospitable people. In no time at
all the spontaneous Yankee grin had melted away the traditional English reserve
and many friendships were established. There were dances at the Town Hall and
St. James Church, and there were Mrs. Halliday and Magdalena (Maggie Brown from
Manhattan) at the Donut Dugout. Cheez, it was good to talk to a real American
girl. Many spent weekends in Bath and
Bristol or Oxford, looking into the dim past of England's scholars and poets,
and Avon, strongly reminiscent of Shakespeare and Bacon. The magnificent square
at Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and endless wandering trough St. James
Parkway, occupied many leisure hours. The King always seemed to be at Windsor
Castle, though many waited for hours outside the iron Palace Gates for a
glimpse of the Royal Family. The great city, battered and torn
by endless chains of bombers and V weapons, seemed to shrug off each new
attack, and thousands of war workers stuck doggedly to their tasks. It
heartened these boys in a strange land to see the indomitable spirit and quiet
determination that was the savior of England: And, of course, there was
Piccadilly, wicked and inviting in the blackout, 42nd Street and Broadway
transplanted. Camp Sutton Veny was a short
distance away and the finishing touches of combat preparations were started
when the battalion moved. Vehicles not brought from the States were issued and
combat loaded. The American soldier will not be disassociated from his humor
and Battery "B" turned up with some artistically fanciful characters
painted on their vehicles. There was a gent called "Broadway, right out of
Li'l Abner, and a haughty fellow named the Baron.. The female art (there must
always be female art) was a bit on the buxom side, but worthy of a subdued
whistle nevertheless. Battalion maintenance put in many twenty four hour days,
cutting, altering, and welding, but in spite of the many sarcastic comments,
the extra racks were handy. At Bastogne they were-called Lumry's Gypsies, but
the extra stoves and coal and straw and a hundred other little items In the
racks were a godsend. The new howitzers were calibrated
and endless hours were spent in combat technique. Then one day it suddenly
seemed they were completely combat loaded and they were saying goodbye to
Sutton Veny and their English friends. In a way it was like leaving home. A
soldier is always saying goodbye. They said, "The sun never
sets on the British Empire but it never shines on England", but like the
people, the sun was shining to wish them well when they departed for Weymouth.
That night in the midst of a driving rain, chilled to the marrow by the
penetrating dampness, tired and hungry, they unloaded at the marshaling area.
The next day they were aboard three LST's and on the sea slipping quietly
across the Channel to Cherbourg, with its shattered piers and blasted German
fortifications. Hundreds of craft waited in the immense harbor for their signal
to disgorge their troops and supplies. Somehow things seemed strangely
incongruous. This was France, this was War, yet vehicle headlights blazed and
not one man carried a loaded clip in his weapon that 20th of December, when the
last man had set foot on land. The long march had begun when the
first vehicle rolled off the boat, and strung along the road for miles, they
finally assembled in the vicinity of Fierville. The next day the battalion
bivouacked near Falaise in the field which a few months before had been the
scene of the historic meeting of the American and British forces, forming the
pocket where over 100,000 prisoners were bagged. The next day it was Damville.
That day was the last day of non-combat service although a week more was to
elapse before the actual front was reached. Men, this is it! This was the
first step on the bloody proving ground. This was the beginning of the final
test. Had they learned thoroughly and well? The period from December 23rd to the 28th saw the completion of an
historic march across France from Damville to Jonval. Three hundred and fifty
miles, the division moved in less than six days. It was bitterly cold and the
raw wind lashed out until faces were beaten and numbed. The bivouac area was an
apple orchard off the main road, and the people were hospitable and friendly.
Freely, they gave champagne, cognac and last fall's apples. Grinning urchins
stood by begging, Cigarette pour papa? (No Chelsea, please.) Any gum chum? For
a package of butts or a bar of soap-anything. The German mid-winter offensive
had driven a fifty mile wedge into thinly spread Allied lines in the Ardennes
sector, and the battle raged in bitter fury. With whirlwind speed,
reinforcements were rushed to contain the flanks and blunt the nose of the
thrust. Stopped on the west, the German offensive threatened to burst out on
the south, where the Fourth Armored Division had driven a slim spearhead along
the Bastogne-Neufchateau road to the "Battered Bastards of Bastogne. The
narrow lifeline was under constant pressure from strong counterattacks, but the
heroic defenders hurled them back as they came. Those were grim, solemn days
and a heavy toll had been levied on the American forces. These days marked the first visits
of that nightly visitor, "Bed check Charley", and the first combat
mission. Participating in the defense of
the Meuse River included reconnaissance between Given and Mouzon, and
preparation to meet any breakthrough in that sector, then they pressed on,
apprehensive but confident. This Christmas was far different
from the last, and no one seemed to care that the turkey and dumplings were
several hours late. The throb of enemy aircraft engines filtered through the
blacked out windows of Foch Barracks at Laon, but the reverent carols continued
on. Many men who thought they had forgotten to pray, suddenly remembered that
night. The threat to the Meuse River
eliminated, the division prepared to take up an offensive mission. Green,
untried and unproven in combat, they were thrown into the most critical spot in
Europe since Omaha Beach. Jones, Nusbaum, Marcheschi, Faggiano; they were all
Americans, guns and guts. They were ready. On the fateful 29th of December,
numb from exposure, and frozen to the narrow, the battalion pulled up at
Juseret, Belgium, having completed a forced march of one hundred and three
miles. Men did not smile as they moved past the bristling gun emplacements and
trees prepared for blasting across the road, should the Germans break through. Due to the fast developing
situation a night reconnaissance for position was necessary and early the next
morning, under cover of darkness, the first firing position was occupied near
Morhet. They were on the front. Combat Command "B" would attack at
dawn. The stage was set, the players ready, and a breathlessly waiting world
the audience. At 0830 the morning of December 30
it came, "Fire mission -fire mission". The Old man" was calling
for fire on Lavaselle. Battery Adjust! Shell HE, Charge
fi-yiv, Fuse quick, Base deflection left fo-wer ze-ro, Sl thuh-ree zero fi-yiv,
Battery fi-yiv rounds, Elevation too nin-er ate." Tense hands leveled the bubbles.
Gone were the penetrating cold and the slashing wind. There was a keen sense of
tightness. Set-Ready", "Fire, Baker, On the Way". "It was icy cold but the hot
sweat rolled Down my face, I don't know why, And the greasy smoke like an inky
cloak Went streaking through the
sky" Foxholes were a problem. First,
clear away two feet of snow, then wield the axe through two feet of solid
earth. After that it was easy digging. Put six inches of straw on the bottom,
erect a shelter half overhead, camouflage it with snow, and there you had it. There were many "firsts that
day. The position area was bombed and Pfc. Vincent K. Cutshall, of Battery C,
was nicked by a shell fragment to become the first man in the battalion to be
authorized the Purple Heart. Lt. William Kiefer was awarded the Silver Star for
gallantry in action when his tank was knocked out and he remained in observation
with it under intense fire and kaputed beaucoup Krauts. The liaison and forward
observer sections were consistently under heavy fire. Yes, they were battle
inoculated. The transition from rookie to veteran is accomplished in short time
in situations such as these. They will not forget concentration
205, where the enemy had dug in positions covered with two layers of six inch
logs topped by mounds of earth. An artillery concentration had caught them
outside their holes and devastated the resistance. Wild eyed, trembling
prisoners spoke of what they thought was automatic artillery, so accurate and
quick was the incessant rain of high explosive and phosphorous shells. During those first five days the
combat command captured Lavaselle, Jodenville, Flohamont, Chenogne, Monty, and
Mande St. Etienne. The Thunderbolt had struck, and there was sudden death and
destruction in its wake. There had been heavy casualties
from enemy action and the excruciating cold, but the German losses were
staggering. A radio commentator called the division "Patton's Merciless
Killers and they took a grim pride in the cognomen, for in their first engagement,
the green division had been credited with having been highly instrumental in
saving the thin thread that was the lifeline to Bastogne, and turning back the
bulge on the south." Jokingly, they called themselves
the Battered Bachelors of Bastogne.. It was at Monty that Mike
Marcinko, the tobacco chewing sergeant from Helen, West Virginia, in a few
simple words expressed the sentiment of the close knit battalion. The forward
observer tank was out of action, and the observer was ready to send half the
crew back to the battalion before moving in with the infantry. Sir, he said
simply, "I came with you and I'll stay with you." This was their
sentiment. They had come a long way together, come what may they would stay
together. The observer lay on the shattered
roof, adjusting fire as the infantry attacked, while a light snow sifted softly
to the ground. Sgt. Marcinko operated the radio from the attic floor just
below. "Sir, them §t!°/o() sons of §t!°lo() is shooting' at us. (The good
sergeant was not a man given to mild expression ) Chips from the stone chimney
flew and futile bullets buzzed angrily through the shattered window as the snow
thickened. Soon, unable to observe more than a few yards, they clambered down
the rickety ladder which served as steps. An artillery shell tore through the
roof showering debris through the house. As the sergeant picked himself up from
the floor and brushed the straw from his hair, he spat lustily into the corner,
then turned to the lieutenant and grinned. "Sir," he wailed, I been
trying' so hard to take care of myself and you keep trying' to get me killed! A
little humor helped in those hectic days, albeit grim. The division was pulled off the
line for a few days, but the Artillery, almost never in reserve, went into
support of the 17th Airborne Division, which continued the attack. The next day saw the weary
cannoneers nodding sleepily as they moved at night, half frozen in their M7's,
to a position just north of Bastogne. The division had received well deserved
commendations for its part in the defense of the city, and was now to assist in
cutting off the Bulge at the base. The battalion moved to a new
position south of Foy, which was held by the 101st Airborne Division, and
prepared for the attack which would be launched in the morning. A wounded officer on his way back
to the aid station stopped at the firing position. We can't hold the town.
You'd better get the hell out of here in a hurry. It would take two hours to get the
battalion on the road and to fall back at night would invite disaster. Their
own division was to the rear, moving up. The old man issued an order, We will
remain in position!" Hard pressed by superior strength,
the airborne men grudgingly yielded the town, and yard by yard they dropped
back, fighting as they went. The battalion laid its guns for direct fire and
they waited-waited for the first gray uniforms to advance over the crest of the
knoll. But they did not come. Five hundred yards in front of "C. Battery's
position, the line held and their own infantry pushed through to regain the
village. The threat was eliminated and the immediate pressure relieved, but
heavy fire fell on the position area throughout the day. And the bombers, a
hovering menace. sent screaming tons of destruction into the earth. Forward observers and liaison
officers fired in their defensive fires at dusk, then sat shivering in their
tanks, holding a hand grenade in readiness, waiting for the counterattack which
was certain to come. And the grinding steam roller
moved on -Bertogne, Foy, Recogne, Cobru, Noville and Wicourt. Patton's Killers" joined
forces with the First Army at Houffalize and the Bulge had become a pimple. The
greatest challenge to American arms since the War of 1812 was successfully met,
and the war entered a new phase. There followed a fifteen day
respite from combat, and a degree of shelter from the numbing cold, for the
thankful civilians of Belgium cheerfully "moved over" and shared
their shattered homes with the Yankee liberators. They cried when the American
boys moved on. Fresh and well rested, the
division again pressed the attack into the vaunted Siegfried Line. At 1231 hours
the 6th of February, Btry. C fired the first rounds onto German soil. The
battle was on for the formidable barrier the Germans boasted no army could
penetrate, and indeed it looked formidable with its rows upon rows of dragons
teeth, road blocks of concrete and steel, and its barbed wire entanglements.
The squat, ugly pill boxes of reinforced concrete six feet thick commanded all
approaches. That line would be tough. In the initial engagement, a
toehold was seized with the capture of Lutzkampen and the battalion moved to a
position north of the town. The incessant hammering continued through night and
day, and the battalion was commended for its very effective support. The three
medium tanks were laid as an additional battery. There was ample white phosphorous
ammunition and the already burning town in the line were kept ablaze. On one
occasion, to facilitate a tactical movement, a smoke screen was established and
maintained for seventy seven minutes. The intermittent rains and snow
turned the earth into a sticky morass. It was impossible to keep dry, let alone
clean. Vehicles became mired and wallowed helplessly in the thick ooze until
towed out. Everywhere the stench of dead horses and human beings assailed the
nostrils. When the German forces had broken through in their December push,
they had not buried the American dead and the black, decaying bodies fell apart
as they were gathered for burial. Two lieutenants dashed hurriedly
around an exposed corner, hitting the mud at the sound of incoming shells, then
disappeared into the house which was the observation post. That was a hot
corner. Having fired a mission from that spot they approached the same corner,
diving into the filth again as the shells whistled in. This, they decided, was
getting decidedly uncomfortable. When necessity dictated another trip around
acof6n corner., splashing through the mud, they dived full length and waited.
The flutter of an outgoing shell with a bad rotating band was the only sound.
One lieutenant, his features obscured by the slime, shook his fists and
mumbled, the dirty bastards. A fellow spent enough time in the mud on his belly
without making an unnecessary dive, They looked at each other and laughed. Berg, Grosskampenberg,.
Liedenborn, Sengerich, Eschfeld - one by one they fell, bastions of concrete
with the approaches heavily mined and defended by fanatical troops. The artillery reduced the villages
to heaps of smoking rubble and the tanks charged the pillboxes, firing point
blank through the firing embrasures. Artillery, mortars, and small arm
peppered the OP where the forward observers developed an effective technique.
All day long enemy troops in very small groups were visible going from bunkers
to pill boxes. The observer would adjust the fire of two or three guns on the
spots they must pass, then cease firing, leaving the guns laid on the future
targets. As the men approached, Fire 209!. and Adolph could eliminate a few
more from his dwindling roster. They called it sniping with 105's. With the capture of Reiff, the
great Siegfried line was penetrated and, with the division pulled off the line
for a maintenance period, the battalion went into general support of the Eighth
Corps. Early one morning the great iron
steam roller of the Third Army got under way on its first historic dash to the
Rhine barrier, through bewildered but stubborn opposition. Being a typical Armored Division
action, cutting, slashing far to the enemy's rear, disrupting his supplies and
communications, the battalion was frequently exposed to direct hostile fire
from pockets which were bypassed by the elements ahead. Their position was
generally at the head of the main body. At Niederober Weiler, security patrols
from the battalion captured three officers and one hundred fifty five enlisted men.
Whenever there was a temporary halt at a town, military governments for control
and security were established. The rain and snow continued to harass, but on
March 9, the division had slugged through to the Rhine at Brohl and Andernach.
Again there had been a link-up with the First Army cutting off a huge pocket,
trapping six divisions Nest of the river. On March 17th the advance was
resumed, south to another point on the Rhine. The churning wheels of
destruction an the chattering guns went into action again. The confusion of battle was
vividly illustrated with the breaking of the crackling dawn of March 19th.
After a two hour march over rugged terrain and poor trails, the battalion went
into position to support the attack. Then came the knowledge that they were far
ahead of the combat command. They hid led the attack instead of supporting it. One position the following day was
thickly infested with enemy infantry on a ridge. Gunners bad a field day as the
battalion fought to occupy their position. It was considered decidedly
advisable to displace as Combat Command A, on the other side of the ridge,
unknowingly returned the fire which was ricocheting over their column. Long lines of surrendering Germans
lined the road, marching back to the rear, bewilderment and disbelief, and fear
in their faces. The attack had been too rapid, too devastating. Herr Goebbels
had said the Americans were soft, the children of a decadent democracy. It was
not right. Someone had made a horrible mistake. Except for a sneering, haughty
face here and there, the supermen were beaten and cowed. As the dying day slipped into the
deepening shadows of night, the Thunderbolt was again on the Rhine, just south
of the battered city of Worms, having advanced the amazing distance of one hundred
sixty one miles in ninety eight hours. Combat Command B had captured twenty two
towns. The clatter of horses' hooves
jarred the hush of the calm spring night. A horse drawn enemy ration wagon was
attempting to dash through their position to the security of its own lines. But
there was no security, nor were there any lines. The enemy had been decimated
to the Rhine. The metallic clatter commenced in sudden fury, and the horses and
men lay among the twisted ruins of the wagon by the road. Enemy air was active in force for
the first time since the Bulge, and several casualties were sustained. Friendly
anti-aircraft guns followed the swooping menaces and on one occasion, firing
low, riddled the S-3 tent. The division was again allowed a
much needed maintenance break and the battalion was attached to the Fifth
Infantry Division. They moved to the site of the proposed Third Army
bridgehead. The mission, unique for artillery, was to take under direct fire any
floating objects or power craft approaching the bridges. This necessitated the
placing of the firing batteries directly on the river bank. Battery B, with
their usual eye for comfort and alcoholics, established a CP in the largest
winery. The dry Rhine wine is delicious.
Any member of the battalion will vouch for it, although they might have
acquired expensive peacetime drinking habits. In luxuriant abundance, the
terraced hills, basking in the warm sunshine; nourished the vines for this year's
wine. During this operation, the bridge
site was continuously 'harassed by artillery and aircraft. The engineers set up
their chemical generators and established a dense smoke screen which obscured
the entire valley. In record time, ponton and treadway bridges were in use,
pouring the might of the Third Army through Germany's last natural barrier. The
Navy, dressed in khaki, established and operated a flourishing ferry service.
The hell-for-leather commander of the Third Army arrived at the bridge site.
Where in the hell's the other bridge?" the General demanded. In eight
hours there was a third bridge in use. Two armored divisions and three
infantry divisions raced across into the flat plain, deepening the bridgehead,
and they advanced twenty seven miles before the Germans, caught off balance,
could rush in enough reserves to stop them temporarily. The Division Commander spoke many
words of praise as he presented decorations to fourteen officers and men' and
as he departed, these words were left ringing in their minds: "We are
about to cross the Rhine, on the last lap of this campaign. Whenever so much as
one round is fired on us from a German town, give it everything you've
got!" They did. From the crossing to the end of
the war, operations were mad, wild, dashes. Wherever it was possible,
resistance was bypassed, as the division struck at the nerve centers of the
Nazi supplies and communications. With dazzling speed they sliced around the
enemy's flanks and dealt him disastrous blows from the rear. Generally the
procedure was to advance as rapidly as possible, often sixty or seventy miles
ahead of the closest supporting infantry, then wait two or three days for the
infantry to mop up in their zone and reopen supply lines which had closed
behind them. Many times critical supplies were delivered, and wounded evacuated
by air. During most of this time the Thunderbolt enjoyed the discomforting
distinction of being the farthest East of any troops in the ETO, spearheading
General Patton's drive across the belly of Germany. The monotony of "iron
rations" or "K" rations three meals (if there was time to eat) a
day was broken, for eggs and wine and "Kartoffels" were plentiful. In
the rural areas there was an abundance of staples and the men who were beating
a stubborn Germany into submission acquired their needs as they advanced. The morning of March 29th saw the
battalion across the Rhine, wound up for a dash, which carried them two hundred
miles in six days. Unique in artillery employment was the occasion when all
batteries fired different targets simultaneously. e battery fired a mission for
the forward observer with the advance guard, while the second fired an air
mission to the left flank. The third battery meanwhile was g direct fire into a
town on the right flank. The battalion commander wishfully ought of having two
more firing batteries, for there were also profitable targets to the rear. The personnel section was no
longer accused of having a nice soft job in me rear as they were ambushed at a
bridge, on their way up front with the payroll. It was April 1st, but the
Krauts weren't fooling. The section was awarded more Purple Hearts
proportionately than any other section in the unit. One liaison plane was shot down by
an enemy fighter and Lt. Ola Seger, though wounded, successfully landed his
fragile craft, saving his own life and that of his observer, Lt. Byron Peacock.
The clanking iron monsters passed through the warm sunshine of the spring and
gradually climbed in altitude as they captured successive objectives. The
narrow, precipitous roads led to the heart of the Thuringian Wald. It was Easter Sunday and the
narrow roads through the thick forests were infested with Nazi die-hards. The
bellowing tanks crashed a path of devastation through their ranks, spewing
death to either flank. Twisted German bodies, grotesque in death, lied the
roadway, struck by the flash of the Thunderbolt. Snipers screamed in mortal
agony as they pitched from their perches on the high bank overlooking the road.
Dog tired, the battalion licked its wounds and the blazing spearhead moved on. There was snow at the famed resort
town of Oberhof perched in the pines, some three thousand feet up. It had been
a Nazi government center until the ever pressing tanks moved in. There was
ample evidence that it had been a beautiful town at one time, but the artillery
had taken a heavy toll. The largest hotel lay a sprawling heap of smoldering
rubble, but there was adequate quartering space in the many hotels and the
cellars were well stocked with that smooth Rhine wine. Guns were laid to cover the thick
fir forests bordering the village and maintenance occupied much time while,
stuck out like a sore thumb, they waited for the Twenty Sixth Infantry
Division, some sixty miles to the rear, to catch up a bit and reopen supply
lines. Advance elements of the doughs arrived. "Yes," said the
commander, "you had a spearhead. Hell! It was sixty miles long but only
eighteen feet wide. You fellows should put up signs reading, "Roads and
shoulders cleared of live Krauts" The avalanche of destruction moved
on to Coburg, which was persuaded to surrender after a thousand round shelling.
The castle overlooking the city was severely damaged, and the town trembled
under the fury of the assault. On to Bayreuth, capital city of Bavaria and home
of the internationally famous Wagner Memorial, they pushed. The five day period beginning
April 22nd marked a one hundred fifty five mile advance to the east and
southeast. On the 23rd as the column approached Cham, it overtook a column of
slave laborers and political prisoners being marched to the rear under an SS
guard. Hundreds upon hundreds of starved, emaciated bodies lay by the side of
the road, where they had been shot through the head when they could no longer
maintain the pace, and the pitifully wasted forms of the living, clad in gray
and black striped rags, presented a sight which was almost unbelievable. These
starving men had been marched, unfed and unsheltered, for five days and nights
by their guards fleeing in the path of the Thunderbolt. During the years of
captivity, their diet had been but a thin slice of moldy bread and a cup of
watery soup daily. Many spoke of having supplemented their meager diet by
eating grass roots and by creeping at night to the body of one of the dead, and
eating the liver or the heart, or a piece from the thigh. This they did at
night for they would have been punished for procuring food illegally had they
been apprehended. An old man on hands and knees by
the road raised his hand and feebly shouted, "God bless America! I die a
free man", and tumbled lifeless into the ditch. Two scrawny, wasted Jewish lads,
branded on the forearm with a "J and serial number spoke of uncles in
Brooklyn and Chicago and cried that they could again, after six years,
"lift up their eyes to a free God and take their place in the world of
free men". This first hand view of wanton
Nazi atrocity did more to show them what they were fighting for than all the
orientation talks they had heard and all the films they had ever seen. To the
American mind it was almost unbelievable, but the reasons for fighting were
indelibly etched on every mind. That night three Jerry planes
landed at the airfield at Cham, not knowing it had been captured by the
lightning thrust. They were met by a hail of hot lead as they landed. Unsmiling, grimly determined, the
division lashed out at dawn in a cold blooded fury that carried them over
thirty miles in three hours, a record advance against opposition. Patton's Merciless Killers. forged
on, and the battalion suffered a costly day on April 25th. Two men were killed,
fifteen wounded, and two vehicles were knocked out. There was a much heavier enemy
toll however. This day they suffered what was probably the greatest damage
inflicted in a single day by one artillery battalion. From the position at the head of
the main body, four raging infernos which had been defended German towns were
visible, and the isolated buildings along the road, where the Germans had
hidden, were blasted and burned as the machine guns maintained an incessant
metallic chatter. On the 26th, the Eleventh Armored
became the first of the western allies to cross the Austrian border. Patrols
moved out to establish contact with the Russian forces, but there was still a
substantial gap, and the grinding wheels moved again. The Hungarians were well groomed
and smart looking soldiers but they had no stomach for the fight. There was
something of Gilbert and Sullivan in the scene they presented, parading in to
surrender, violins tucked carefully under their arms, plumed caps jauntily perched
on the side of the head, and the women and children hurrying along behind. Battery "B" captured
eight hundred and sixty prisoners and Headquarters Battery added thirty to the
total, as, like a baying hound close upon the heels of its quarry, through road
blocks and around blown bridges, they pushed relentlessly forward. The heavy
snowfall during part of the advance was reminiscent of the Bulge, and at
Altenfeld, for half an hour screaming shells rained down on the position area.
The war was not finished and the advance continued to Gallneukirchen and Linz,
where the division pulled up and again sent patrols to contact the Russian
forces. Throughout this entire period, the
Nineteenth Tactical Air Force, fondly known as Finnegan", rendered
inestimably valuable service. They helped greatly to speed the advance and
reduce casualties by softening up successive objectives in the path of the
advance. As never before liaison planes proved their worth. In addition to
firing most registrations and many targets of opportunity, they provided air
cover for the head of the column and dropped surrender leaflets on almost every
town approached, before the combat elements reached it. Many war weary towns
surrendered without firing a shot and white flags blossomed as the leaflets
were dropped. Patrols east of Linz uncovered new
horrors at the Hell camp at Mauthausen, where it was said each of the thousands
of stones in the huge parapet represented one life taken. Civilians were
compelled to bury the hundreds of dead stacked like so much cordwood beside the
filthy barracks. These people had paid a horrible price for opposing the
policies of the corporal with the inhumanly warped brain. On the 8th of May patrols from the
division met the Russian forces at Amstetten to establish the first Third Army
contact with the eastern ally. "Tovarich! Tovarich". That afternoon they crowded about
the radios to hear the President officially announce the cessation of
hostilities in Europe. After a brief period of wild, exultant jubilation, there
followed a deep silence, pregnant with thanksgiving. It was hard to realize
that there would be no attack in the first gray light of dawn-that the days of
nerve wracking shelling and the bitter, bloody fighting had ended. After one
hundred thirty seven days of almost continuous combat, it was strange to think
of a quiet, peaceful Europe. Thus was a proud chapter written
in the history of American arms. Thus they fought and bled and died. Thus, in
the highest military tradition, they justified the hopes and prayers, and the
confidence placed in them. God bless them all. Mission accomplished! Back to "Our History"
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