0530 - December 16, 1944
Private Peterson hunkered in his foxhole, deeply enjoying the small bit of warmth emanating from the little twig fire heating his watered down coffee. It was the little things like these that a soldier has to look forward to during the long, boring lulls in war. Fires were forbidden in foxholes, but after a month straight of being exposed to the elements on the front lines, Peterson didn’t care. He needed this.
This was the sort of time a soldier could lose himself in his thoughts, even if it is only briefly. For this particular soldier, thoughts drifted towards home. Home for Pvt. Peterson was a large farm in the Midwest that had been in his family for two generations. Home meant his mom, dad, little brother, and older sister. For just a moment, Peterson thought he was actually there.
Just the week before, the mail had caught up to his battalion, and he had received a package from his sister, Mary. Its contents were a batch of crumbled, stale cookies and a letter with a little something written by everyone in the family. Peterson reached into his pocket, retrieved the letter, and began reading it for what must have been the hundredth time. His sister began the letter with some news from their hometown. It turns out Mary had been selected to help with the Christmas parade that next month, and she couldn’t have been more excited. She had wanted to help with the parade for the last two years, and finally the committee had selected her for “Concession Coordinator.” Peterson could picture the pride on his sister’s face as he read her words.
Next, his mother wrote her usual worrisome note. Every letter he ever received from his mom was always along the lines of “Harold, we are worried about you and praying for you every day and night. Stay safe and please don’t do anything foolish and get yourself hurt. We couldn’t bear the thought…”
“Blah, blah, blah, I get it, Mom,” Peterson thought each time he read her part.
Tommy, Peterson’s 11-year-old brother’s poorly grammar-ed portion followed. Peterson always loved hearing from his brother. He always felt like some sort of super man with the way his younger sibling addressed him. It was no secret that Tommy saw his older brother as his personal hero. “Harold the other day I told our new neighbors about how you were fighting the Nazis and that you were really important to the Army and that the war would be over pretty soon because you were over there now…” Peterson could feel a little grin crossing his face as he read.
Lastly, his father, a World War I veteran, said his piece. “Son, be careful and keep your head low. Write to your mother. She worries.” Never the sentimental type, Peterson came to expect this sort of thing from his father.
Peterson put the letter back in his pocket, scanned the terrain in front of him, and let out an exaggerated sigh. Back to reality.
Crack!
The rifle round entered Peterson’s head just above the brow and left a gaping hole in the back of his helmet. Peterson was dead.
Brrrrrrrrrp! Kaboom!
Hell just broke loose on the front.
“Get up! Get your asses out of this barn! Kraut armor is headed right towards our line. This is nota goddamn joke!” Staff Sergeant Wals repeated this sobering message over and over again until every member of his depleted unit was scrambling to get his boots back on and rifle back in hand. This was finally it. After weeks of mind-numbing and uneventful outpost and patrol duty, the Germans had finally decided to take the offensive. This American infantry unit would soon be engaging in combat with hardened German forces on this icy soon-to-be battlefield.
Private Don Crowther shot upright from his crudely made bed of wet straw after the sergeant’s voice finally woke him from his short but badly needed slumber. He had been manning an outpost for several hours the day before and hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for as long as he could remember. After a moment, he gathered his bearings, tightened his boots, and grabbed his rifle.
As he stood up to head to his post, the sudden realization of what was happening finally set in. This was the real deal. He had only been a part of 2ndPlatoon for a little over a week now and had never seen combat before. His only experience “under fire” had been during exercises back in basic training. It was time to see if he had what it took to face the enemy. Will I be able to pull the trigger? Will I cower under fire? He thought to himself. He tried to shift his focus.
“Private Crowther!” His platoon sergeant shattered his train of thought. “Get moving! We are under attack, son.”
“Roger that, Sarge!” He said in as confident of a reply as he could muster, hoping that his superior couldn’t see his trembling hands. He shouldered his weapon and double-timed it towards his foxhole.
Since there was such a lull in combat since the fresh private arrived, the platoon had been rotating squads back to the comfort of a partially destroyed barn, fifty yards or so back from the line. The sad-looking shelter did wonders for the unit’s morale. But now it was back to their freezing foxholes.
As Pvt. Crowther made his way out the door, he saw his squad mates heading in the same direction and caught up with them. Don was part of a heavy weapons crew, and it was his job to carry ammo and cover the .50 gunner and his assistant while they directed fire at larger targets. He found the gunner, Corporal Burg, and his assistant, Private Chance, and slowed down to keep pace with them.
Burg had been at war for some time now, and he’d grown quite accustomed to hearing shots fired in anger.
Chance was brand new. He’d only been in the Army for a few short months. After a hurried basic training, he was shipped overseas to beef up units depleted by savage combat. He looked like he’d never even shaved before. From what Don could gather, he was a good kid and seemed to be a team player. He just hoped that would be the case when the bullets started flying.
The .50, or Ma Deuce as they called it, was heavy and awkward and was most certainly a taxing piece of equipment for any man to carry. Despite Burg’s large build, the weight of the weapon coupled with the fact that they were walking on slippery, partly snow-covered ground slowed him down considerably. He grunted and slightly adjusted the weapon every ten steps or so. His labored breathing produced puffs of icy breath through the thick scarf covering his mouth. Fortunately, the weapon’s tripod was detachable and traditionally carried by the assistant gunner. This crew was no exception, and Chance was able to alleviate some of the burden.
Normally, they would have had another crew man the weapon while they were off the line, but the weapon was in a sad state so they took it to the barn for some crude maintenance. Burg did what he could to make repairs and prayed that it would fire when they needed it to.
As they slowly trotted to their battle stations, Don glanced at his crewmates. He wasn’t sure whether to feel more confident or more terrified when he saw the look on Chance’s face. He was ghostly white and his lips were trembling. The only comforting part of it was that Don wasn’t the only one who was scared.
After several minutes of labored travel, Don and the .50 crew broke off from the rest of the squad and headed towards their foxhole at the left flank of the main line of resistance. The rest of his platoon took up their positions several yards to their right. They were the end of the line.
Every day for the past several weeks, each unit had to march out to their holes and ensure they were in combat-ready condition. Thanks to the snowfall in the area, they continuously had to dig out the excess buildup of hardened snow. It was certainly a workout each time they had to perform the task and helped keep them in shape. Or at least the soldiers joked that it did.
Thankful to see their foxhole required no additional maintenance, the crew jumped into the protective space. The gunner snapped the Ma Deuce back onto the tripod and set it up in its firing position towards the enemy’s approach. Don checked his M1 Garand and made sure the action was free of snow and other debris. He placed some extra clips and a few grenades in little crudely made dirt shelves he’d dug when they first prepared their position. Up and down the line, all of his comrades did the same.
After double and triple checking his equipment, Don looked out into the snowy opening in between the two wooded areas that separated him from the enemy that was about to try and kill him. The ominous feeling of impending chaos loomed in the air. He saw an empty plot of barren land that was soon to be engulfed in bullets and artillery fire. But for now, there was only silence.
For what seemed like an eternity, no one said a word. The unsettling thought of being outnumbered and outgunned was surely entering the minds of veterans and inexperienced troops alike. They waited.
The silence was violently destroyed. A series of booms emanated from the distance and followed up with deafening explosions up and down the American line.
German 88’s.
Branches, cold dirt, and several severed limbs flung into the air. The men who hadn’t been obliterated by the artillery hunkered down in their holes as low as they could go. Terrified, men closed their eyes and prayed – for that was their only defense against a weapon so callous and brutal.
After an eternal few minutes of shell fire, the artillery fell quiet. Again, there was silence. Minds ran wild with fear and anticipation. Fear-stricken soldiers began to muster the courage to peer out of their holes, just enough to where their eyes could scan the horizon.
And in the distance, they heard another sound. It was a low rumble. The rumble turned into a roar. And as the sound grew louder and louder, the tension in the American foxholes grew higher and higher. Each man knew exactly what that sound meant.
Tanks.
Unsure whether or not he would be alive or dead in the next several minutes, Don tried to distract himself by focusing on his job. Hold the line. Fire your weapon calmly and efficiently. Don’t go wasting rounds on things you can’t hit. Listen to your platoon leader and stay calm. Stay calm, Don.
Minutes passed, and still, they couldn’t see anything. Some started questioning whether or not the assault would actually come at all. Are the Germans just harassing us? Is this a diversion? Are they going to hit us from somewhere else?Uncertainty spread amongst them like a virus.
Finally, they saw something. From the fog, hard metal shapes began to emerge into view.
“What the hell is that?” Don whispered to himself. Despite asking the question, he already knew. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. He had had enough training to know that he was looking at German tanks. Lots of them.
“Okay, boys, off your asses and into the fight!” Sgt. Wals shouted from his foxhole off to the machine gun crew’s right. “Hold steady, men. We have a job to do, and we’re going to do it. Let’s make them regret showing their ugly faces. Hold your fire until they’re in range and then let’s slaughter the sons a bitches.”
Other NCOs began barking orders to their men, trying to instill some confidence before engaging with the enemy. It certainly roused Don, and he felt a bit more inspired.
Another boost in confidence came in the form of friendly mortar rounds and arty rounds sailing over their heads and landing in the thick of oncoming Germans. The troops cheered loudly from their holes as the explosives detonated. Those rounds were smashing into those Krauts and tearing them to shreds. Or so they hoped.
The soldiers watched the front, praying that their artillery had broken the German’s will and driven them back. Their prayers would not be answered this day. The steel behemoths surged forward. They were now through the wooded cover and out in the open, heading right towards the hunkered down GIs.
The Americans’ collective fear was distracted – temporarily – when one of their shells scored a direct hit on the lead Tiger. It knocked out one of its treads and rendered it immobile. Cheers erupted along the line.
Boom!That sliver of optimism was quickly blown to bits with the impact of the wounded Tiger’s 88mm cannon blasting instant death into one of the foxholes near Don’s crew. The rest of the tanks opened up as the Americans crouched in their holes.
As he looked over to see the cannon strike the fortification, Don could see mangled body parts fly from the space formerly occupied by two of his squad mates. A lightning bolt of fear struck his heart. Keep it together. Keep it together, he thought.
Boom! An explosion rocked the snow just in front of Don and his crew’s trench, knocking all three of them on their backsides. Their adrenaline had kicked in long ago, and without a moment’s hesitation, they were all back on their feet and manning their posts. The blast had knocked over the gun but had done no additional damage to it. Chance and Burg righted the weapon and prepared to get into the fight.
The GIs hadn’t seen any Kraut infantry yet, but they knew they were concealed behind the menacing tanks. Minus a few low hills and impact craters, the terrain in front of them was mostly flat. There wasn’t a lot to offer the approaching enemy in the way of cover, which was exactly how they’d designed their battle strategy. If the Germans wanted to take this position, they were going to have to cross through a kill zone and risk heavy casualties.
The Americans showed their discipline and held their fire until the armored infantry showed their faces. They didn’t have to wait for long.
As the giant enemy machines continued to light up the line with their heavy weapons and machine guns, Kraut troops fanned out and began to charge forward. They were shouting inaudible, but authoritative commands. Dozens of unmistakable shapes of enemy soldiers began to surface through the fog and smoke.
“Let these bastards have it!” Sgt. Wals yelled at the top of his lungs. He lined up the sights of his Thompson sub-machine gun and triggered off a burst at an onrushing German. Two of the rounds found their mark, tearing through the soldier’s throat. He collapsed forward and bled to death within moments.
The fight was on.
All along the line, rifles and machine guns erupted and barrage after barrage was sent towards the oncoming enemy troops. Several rounds hit their mark and left troopers dead in their tracks. The enemy infantry didn’t let up either, sending a mass of return fire.
Don looked over at Cpl. Burg and saw a look of pure rage in his eyes. The gunner racked the bolt back and charged his weapon. He pressed down on the butterfly trigger and let loose with a little payback.
Having difficulty pinpointing a target, Don fired his rifle wildly into the masses. From what he could tell, he wasn’t hitting anything, but he hoped he was at least keeping the enemy at bay with his fire.
Chance was helping Burg select targets for the crew served weapon. He shouted and pointed in the direction of an oncoming group of soldiers. “Light ‘em up!” Chance yelled. Burg lined up his shot on the lead soldier and pulled the trigger. His weapon boomed loudly and found its mark. The large rounds hit the enemy soldier square in the chest. The now deceased combatant’s rib cage blew apart and left a gaping hole where his breastplate used to be. Chunks of bone and splatters of blood covered the ground around his body.
Burg and Chance continued to fire on new targets, but Don couldn’t stop staring at the corpse of the freshly destroyed enemy soldier. He had never seen anyone die up close like that before. It was even more grisly than he could imagine.
“Don, to your left,” Chance instructed. Off to the left of their emplacement, three troops hit the deck and began firing in a prone position. They hadn’t seen Don and were directing their fire elsewhere along the line. Don checked his rifle and rested it on the edge of the foxhole. He put his eye up to the sights. He saw the blur of an enemy soldier come into focus. He could see rounded shape of his helmet tilted forward. What does he see? What is he thinking right now? Don asked himself. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He applied pressure to the trigger. The rifle kicked. As he watched through his iron sights, time seemed to slow down. He saw the round exit the barrel and head towards his enemy. Time sped up. The bullet hit the trooper right above his nose and exited out of the back of his head. He saw blood and gray matter splash out the back of the soldier’s helmet. He had taken his first life.
A surge of adrenaline flowed through his body. He shifted his rifle and fired rounds at the next trooper. They found their target. He shifted again and dropped the remaining member of the group. All three lay dead in the snow. They looked as if they had simply collapsed and fallen asleep. They would not be waking up.
With his newfound confidence, Don became intoxicated with bloodlust. He was about to prove he was quite the proficient killer as he adjusted his position in the foxhole to get a better view of the oncoming soldiers.
“Watch it!” Burg said as Don squeezed past him. After his brief annoyance, he returned his focus to his .50, selected a new target, and destroyed it.
Don witnessed a group of four Krauts heading in their direction. Without even taking the time to properly aim his weapon, he began squeezing off rounds as quickly as his finger could pull the trigger. A few found a target and dropped a fresh corpse onto the ground. The remaining members of the enemy fire team desperately spread out and blindly returned fire.
Don took their scramble for cover as an opportunity to put another ally into the fight. He grabbed a hand grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the mob. Boom!The grenade blast peppered the group, but they all kept rushing forward. Without hesitation, Don threw another explosive in hopes of taking out the enemy unit. Having ducked after throwing the ordnance, he slowly brought his eyes back up above ground level. He saw two smoking dead bodies where his targets had been. One victim made a futile attempt to crawl back to his own line in retreat. One of his legs had been badly mangled by the blast and he was quickly bleeding out. He didn’t make it far.
As Don and his squad mates continued to pick out targets and eliminate them, the rest of the American line wasn’t having as much success. The bulk of the enemy infantry was concentrated on smashing through the center of the main line of resistance. Companies of Krauts rushed the trenches and unleashed fury. US infantrymen were dropping like flies despite their desperate attempts to battle the approaching onslaught.
One soldier had his rifle blown to pieces after receiving a direct hit from an enemy round. Undeterred – and a little delirious – he leapt from his foxhole and charged toward the nearest soldier. With all of his might, he lunged and sent him crashing into the frozen ground. He sat on the enemy’s chest and delivered violent blows to his head. In the middle of his fist fusillade, another German approached him at point blank range and let loose with a burst from his MP-40, making the man a martyr. Other American troops fought with equal intensity and met the same fate.
Some soldiers, paralyzed by the shocking terror of combat, couldn’t bring themselves into the fight and simply kept low in their holes. Pvt. Sanborn – whose friends back home called him Sandy – was one of them.
Fresh off a truck and into the frontlines, he didn’t even have time to learn his own squad leader’s name. Once that first enemy round ripped through the sky, planted itself into the frozen earth, and sprouted an explosion of shrapnel, Sanborn was overcome with panic. He could feel his heart tense as it raced with increasing fear. It felt as if a demon’s hand reached into his chest, gripped his soul, and squeezed all the hope out of him.
He clutched his helmet with violently trembling hands and attempted to pull it further over his head. Sandy was crouched so low that his knees were over his head. His brand-new rifle lay at the bottom of his foxhole. And though he could feel his face burn with hot tears, he didn’t even notice that he’d urinated in his pants. His mind shut down and refused to let him operate.
A German rifleman, hardened with the bravery of a few sips of Schnapps, approached Sandy’s hole with his bayonet-fixed Mauser pointed towards it. He peered into the hole and noticed a set of quivering shoulders covered in olive drab threads. Before his slightly inebriated mind could process this non-threat, he had squeezed the trigger of his rifle and lunged forward with the edged weapon affixed to his K-98 and struck the meaty part of the American’s shoulder. The kraut stumbled backwards, feeling a twinge of guilt. Wide-eyed, he looked forward and ran as fast as he could to try and escape what he’d done.
Pvt. Sanborn slumped against the wall of his foxhole as the life poured out of him from the two torso wounds. As a few remaining tears dripped from the corners of his eyes and labored grunts fell out of his mouth, he thought about how he’d like to go home now.
War isn’t for everyone.
Sgt. Wals tried keeping his fighting platoon in order, but thanks to the overwhelming infantry and tank fire, the situation was rapidly deteriorating. It became increasingly clear to him as the battle raged on that this was no ordinary German attack. The war was not almost over. The Krauts were not about to give up.
Don continued his one-man barrage against the enemy. Seeing the incredible number of soldiers approaching the line, he wasn’t having difficulty stacking up bodies. Ting!Another spent clip ejected from the top of his rifle. He turned back to his lot of grenades and hurled the remaining explosives towards the enemy.
As the explosions went off, he crouched down in the trench and slid a fresh eight rounds into his rifle. Before he could return to blasting away at enemy ground troops, a thunderous explosion rocked the team’s foxhole, knocking everyone off their feet.
Dazed, Don sat up and looked around for his rifle. He saw it lying a few yards away and crawled over to retrieve it. As he grabbed his weapon, he turned his attention to his crew to make sure they were okay. They were not.
Chance had a giant gash in his forehead and blood was pouring down his face and into his eyes. Burg was clutching at his left hand and cursing louder than the gunfire fire. Don made his way over to Burg, who was the closest to him, and asked to see the wound. Burg, reluctantly extended his left hand. It was badly hurt with part of his lower hand, including his pinky, being blown off. Don quickly removed his scarf and wrapped it tightly around the injured man’s hand. “Keep pressure on it,” he shouted over the sounds of battle.
Having done what he could for Burg, he crawled over to Chance. The wounded infantryman was a little dazed and bloodied, but otherwise, Don found that he was in better shape than he originally thought. Removing the other man’s scarf, he wiped away the blood from his face and then tied it tightly around the man’s forehead in hopes that it would stifle the bleeding. Chance gratefully announced that he could see again. Don let out a brief laugh of relief at his squad mate’s comment.
His laughing quickly stopped when a German jumped into the foxhole. The enemy soldier hadn’t realized there were live troops still occupying the position. This gave Don an opportunity to grab for his weapon and pull the trigger. Click! The explosion had knocked the .30 caliber clip out of his weapon before he could fit it securely in the action.
Without hesitation, he lunged at the Kraut before his enemy could squeeze off a shot. They struggled on the floor of the foxhole for what seemed like forever to both combatants. Neither man seemed to have the advantage over the other until the German head-butted Don with his helmet. He lay on the floor with a bloodied nose and the trooper on top of him. Thinking this was the end, Don closed his eyes as the enemy infantryman leveled his weapon at him.
Boom! Don heard a weapon go off and felt a splash of warm liquid spray over his face. The weapon he’d heard did not belong to the German. It belonged to his injured squad mate, Burg, who’d raised his sidearm and squeezed the trigger just in time to save his friend’s life by ending his enemy’s.
Before he had the chance to thank his friend, Sgt. Wals’ commanding voice boomed through the sounds of combat. “Fall back! 2nd Platoon, get your asses outta here!”
Wasting no time, Don helped his two squad mates to their feet. “We gotta go,” he said as they struggled to get up. Don picked up the remaining clips from the ice shelves and stuffed them back in the ammo pouches on his cartridge belt. Burg took a look at the .50 and realized it was damaged beyond repair, which didn’t bother him too much since it would have been too heavy to retreat with anyways. He gave the busted weapon an appreciative pat and turned to exit the hole.
Don helped push the two wounded men up out of their trench and quickly followed after them. Crawling on their bellies, they began making their way back towards the rear of the line, terrified that an onslaught of fanatical Germans was right behind them. Without looking back, they ran like hell towards any semblance of hope…