Taught to Kill: An American Boy's War from the Ardennes to Berlin

Fight in the Open

Fight In the Open z Soldiers of Able Company waited uneasily in the dark, cobblestone square of an obscure German farm village,* stomping on one foot and then the other to encourage circulation in the subzero cold. Raw fear supplanted the vague dread that had preceded our first taste of battle. Underlying worry about the unknown had been overlaid by searing, recent experiences of reality. The broken instruments of war scattered around us served as silent, grim reminders of the violence that lay ahead. The darkest dark just before dawn was chilling, depressing. Those lucky enough to have woolen facemasks produced white, clown mustaches as their exhalations instantly turned to frost on the fabric. Even the metal of our guns seemed to draw warmth away from our bodies. The temporary flush of victory and puffed-up self-confidence from our survival in the Bulge were rudely destroyed by the new attack order. We were embarking without pause on an even more frightening adventure, a new type of ground warfare. We were not to attack, conquer and hold. We were to attack and attack and attack, in open country, a desperate, back-against-the-wall quarry * It was not uncommon for the troops at the time to have no idea where they were on the large-scale theater map of operations, or ‘‘The Big Picture.’’ 100 Fight in the Open 101 that would use his familiarity with home turf to exact from us a huge price in dead and wounded as long as we pursued him. My own sense of foreboding was so profound as almost to compel that I faint, be paralyzed, unable to march forward. The bravado with which Imo and I had rousted out our men was fast fading as I contemplated my own sad fate. If only I wasn’t a sergeant , I lamented. I’d hide back in the barn, plead insanity, wail and roll on the ground, or maybe clam up and never again in my life utter a single word. My squad was dumb enough to heed orders and climb into the back of a truck. A hand reached down to give me a lift, and I reluctantly assumed my drafty position by the tailgate. The Battalion moved before gray dawn broke that cold, cold morning, to establish a new front line. A short truck ride and we offloaded in wind and snow under vague orders to hike to and occupy a field and woods above the unseen town that was our next objective. Judgment was that we were too exposed to risk further transportation in vehicles, though it was to be quite a hike to the new line of departure. On the long march, I carried a regular thirty-six-pound load of mortar rounds, a light carbine in place of my usual M1, grenades, ammo clips, rations, and poncho. As we slogged along the icy road, my eyes got heavier and heavier. I knew what to do. I asked Second Mortar Squad ammo bearer, Pvt. A. J. Potter, to guide me, as he had on occasion during forced marches in Stateside training. A.J. knew the drill. All I needed was a hand at my elbow to keep me from straying right or left. Somehow I managed uneven ridges, even holes in the path. My balance worked even as I slept. My feet kept moving forward. Direction was my only problem and A. J. took care of that. How long did I march and sleepwalk at the same time? Maybe ten minutes, maybe longer. Whatever the length of time, they were minutes away from the reality of war. I awoke on that cold, blizzardy march as a spoken warning was passed back down the line: ‘‘Eyes left, up at the crossroads.’’ The admonition was to spare us the sight on the right of three men from an American machine-gun crew, sprawled dead at the 102 Taught to Kill intersection. I might have missed the scene completely had not the warning come down the line. As it was, I couldn’t resist looking , nor could others. I allowed my eyes to dwell on a dreadful, surrealistic scene. Whatever had destroyed the three men would never be known. Since it was an intersection, maybe artillery had hit in their midst. Or, being an MG crew, maybe they had been wiped out by counter-fire. Or it could have been a...