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

Punching Bags

Punching Bags z After the fighting in the Ruhr Pocket wheezed to an end in May 1945, the division was scattered widely to secure the conquered nation among Western Germany communities judged to be of strategic importance. Non-fraternization enforcement was spirited at first, but it was difficult to forbid or regulate communication with a populace whose homes you have appropriated, and who gather to peer longingly at the mess kit scraps discarded after chow call. And when a civilian begged to do your laundry and keep your mess kit sparkling for a couple of cigarettes a day, it was hard not to take advantage. The Military Government charged with restoring order, and doing so with as little taint as possible from members of the Nazi regime that had recently been in control, was frustrated and unsure of itself. While no one could find any avowed Nazis, there was paranoia that they were all lurking someplace, ready to spring out and take back their Third Reich. A July 1945 post-combat assignment was conjured up. Like many military exercises, it had a code name: Tallyho. The mission was a two-day hunt conducted throughout the Western Military District of Germany controlled by the United States. We troops were told to look for phony German IDs, possible war criminals, pilfered GI goods, and our own AWOLs. As long as the war and 223 224 Taught to Kill time for planning had been, no one really seemed to have a clue about how to handle the peace that was suddenly there on a platter for us conquerors—surely not us at Infantry Company level, anyway. Tallyho involved a platoon, or company, depending on the size of the geography to be checked, sneaking up before dawn and establishing armed roadblocks at every possible exit from the targeted town. Then, discharged from a variety of converging Army vehicles, riflemen burst into town at daylight and started a houseby -house search. This involved rousting everyone out into the street in whatever clothing they could grab, while the troops trampled through their premises. On our particular Tallyho, the people flowed quickly into the streets, doubtless forewarned by grapevine of the procedure from actions the day before in other towns. GIs stomped room to room in each house, looking into every nook and cranny for anyone who hadn’t formed up out in the street and particularly for anyone in uniform. Out on the street, any male in a uniform was singled out, whether he was a firemen, policeman, or discharged soldier. Joining the segregated group, too, was any male appearing young and able-bodied enough to have been a soldier. IDs were checked, but most of our soldiers really didn’t know good papers from phony. Company A riflemen were required to hustle quickly through each building, but that didn’t prevent some selective looting, and woe to any locked door or closet. They were bashed in with rifle butts, or if that proved too difficult, with a grenade. Occasionally bashers were rewarded by a food larder, wine cellar, and sometimes a hidden person. Most of the people thus uncovered were too old and frail to go out in the street on short notice. But there was sometimes a hiding and terribly frightened Kraut soldier. Grenade door openings were specifically ruled out at Tallyho after some innocent civilians (and a few overzealous soldiers) became victims of concussions or fragments. Some stalwart American soldiers appeared to relish this search-and-seize mission, glorying in their first taste of raw, unchallenged power and domination . It would be self-serving to say that they were all late join- Punching Bags 225 ers; the fact is, some seasoned soldiers joined in, motivated as much by revenge as self-aggrandizement. ‘‘Shit, man,’’ complained Sergeant Mandichak as he walked around his roadblock machine-gun position at mid-morning. ‘‘Them new kids would like to spend the whole day here being big shots. They get their kicks out of looking for women’s underwear, or copping a jar of jelly or loaf of bread. They wouldn’t know a Nazi if he stepped up and threw ’em a ‘Heil Hitler.’’’ I gave the word for Stan to take his machine gun out of action and report to the gray, official-looking town hall, mayor’s office, or whatever it was. Stan went on down. I followed...