Death Traps: The Survival of an American Armored Division in World War II (4 page)

The power ratio of the M26 was approximately 12 horsepower per ton compared to 10 horsepower per ton on the M4; this made the M26 faster and more agile over rough terrain and steep inclines. Its longer track length enabled it to span wider ditches than the M4. In every way it was far superior to the M4. Even though its muzzle velocity was less than that of the German Mark V Panther or the German Mark VI King Tiger, it was still by far the best tank we had at the time.

The M26 tank was greeted enthusiastically by the field officers and combat commanders who had actually fought against the Germans in North Africa. Brigadier General Maurice Rose, who commanded CCA of the 2d Armored Division in Sicily and had encountered the German Mark VI Tiger tank for the first time, felt strongly that we should have the M26 as soon as possible.

However, Lt. Gen. George Patton, who had commanded American troops in North Africa and Sicily and was the highest-ranking armored commander in the European theater, was not enthusiastic about the M26. Undoubtedly one of the best-informed officers on military history in the entire U.S. Army and a stickler for adhering rigidly to regulations, Patton interpreted the Armored Force Doctrine to a T and cited it as his reason for not favoring the M26. He said that the tanks of an armored division were not supposed to fight other tanks but bypass them if possible and attack enemy objectives to the rear. (According to the doctrine, the tank forces should be divided into two groups. The GHQ tank battalions were supposed to be heavy tanks attached to the infantry divisions and would be used to make breakthroughs and penetrate fortified lines. The armored divisions were supposed to penetrate deep behind the enemy lines, destroying enemy artillery and disrupting the enemy reserves and supplies.) Patton felt that because the M4 tank was lighter and required less fuel than the M26, it would be faster and more agile and was better equipped to perform the mission of the armored divisions.

Patton’s assumption that the M4 was lighter and would require less fuel was correct, but he did not realize that the M26 had a higher horsepower ratio, was much more agile, and had superior armor and firepower. Apparently, he did not put much faith in the GHQ tank battalions’ ability to work with infantry and make the initial penetrations. This lack of faith was well founded; the GHQ tank battalions had never been provided with a heavy tank to perform their mission properly, and the infantry and the tank battalions had never been trained to work together.

It was extremely difficult to argue with Patton, because he was strong, determined, and highly opinionated. He had a long and distinguished career as a professional soldier. He led the American tank corps in World War I, reportedly riding into battle on the front of a light tank. He later commanded the 2d Armored Division during its formative years and built it into a first-class organization. He developed an excellent group of officers who followed him with an almost cultlike dedication. The 3d Armored Division took its initial officer cadre from the 2d Armored Division, and many of the officers who had served under Patton brought with them the same zeal for excellence and military efficiency. Patton’s commands in North Africa and Sicily had made him the highest-ranking American officer to command major armored combat operations.

In an excellent argument that the M26 heavy tank should be used, General Rose and other field commanders resisted the higher-ranking Patton. The experiences in North Africa at Kasserine Pass and also in Sicily had convinced them of the superiority of German armor and the need for a heavy tank to offset it. However, Patton persisted in his view; he was not above a hassle. He insisted that we should downgrade the M26 heavy tank and concentrate on the M4.

Patton’s rank and authority overwhelmed the resistance of the more experienced commanders, and the decision was made to concur with Patton’s view. SHAEF immediately notified Washington to deemphasize production of the M26 heavy tank and concentrate instead on the M4 medium tank. This turned out to be one of the most disastrous decisions of World War II, and its effect on the upcoming battle for Western Europe was catastrophic.

Tree Snipers

By midmorning on July 9, more damaged tanks had come in. Just as the maintenance crews were starting work on them, there was a sudden
crack
, then a
ping
, then a whirring noise. Everybody hit the ground; it didn’t take any second guessing to realize that we had come under sniper fire. Command Combat A had already had a number of casualties from sniper fire, and we knew that these marksmen were usually left behind to slow us down.

Although the tank maintenance mechanics had been issued carbines, the crews had placed most of them in the trucks while they were repairing the tanks. As soon as some of the men got up and tried to run to the trucks to secure their weapons, the sniper fire started again. It was finally determined that the sniper was in a tree across the road, although nobody could spot exactly where he was. The tall pines in Normandy were festooned with large bunches of mistletoe, which grew as a natural parasite. There were so many trees and so many bunches of mistletoe that it was difficult to find the snipers who hid there.

Just as the next shot rang out, a half-track from the 36th Armored Infantry came down the road headed toward the Saint Jean de Daye–Le Dézert highway. The infantryman on the .50-caliber ring mount on the half-track saw the maintenance crew on the ground yelling and pointing across the road, and he knew immediately what was happening. He swung the .50-caliber around and let go with a short burst. The top of the tree exploded as the limb, the mistletoe, and the sniper plummeted to the ground. The half-track never stopped.

This ended the sniper fire for the time being, and the crew started back to work. But sporadic sniper fire continued throughout the rest of the day. The only time it subsided was when infantry reserves would approach. We never got used to the fire; we just had to work around it as best we could.

By the middle of the afternoon, the VCP was rapidly filling with more tanks and other armored vehicles. Although a truck or Jeep would be brought in occasionally, the combat vehicles, particularly the medium tanks, got first priority. We expanded the VCP into the adjacent field to accommodate the increased volume.

In the meantime, B Company of the maintenance battalion, which was attached to CCB, had moved into an area about half a mile across the river and just to the south of Airel. There was a large field next to the VCP, and Major Dick Johnson told me he would like B Company to move there.

As I started down the road in my Jeep, I reflected on the past twenty-four hours. Up to this time, I had been too busy to think. Your mind tends to boggle after a constant series of shocks and trauma, and apparently it reaches a different psychological level. This tends to neutralize all sensations and the mind tends to become inert to further shocks. Thoughts begin to develop in multiple levels with the past, present, and future. The future tends to go away first, and, as the past diminishes, the present becomes a continuum of events moment by moment. I decided that this was nature’s way of reducing anxiety and worry and providing a safety valve for maintaining psychological balance. I realized how lucky I was compared to the infantrymen, tankers, artillerymen, and combat engineers, who were constantly exposed to much greater shocks over longer periods of time, and my heart went out to them.

I remembered an observation made by a soldier in the 2d Armored Division who had fought the Germans in North Africa. He said that the difference between the Americans, who had been in combat only a short time, and the British, who had been there for two years, was that the Americans fought today so they could go home tomorrow, and the British fought today and hoped and prayed that they would be alive to fight again tomorrow. I supposed that all soldiers developed this attitude if they survived long enough.

By now the engineers had spanned the gap in the bridge with a treadway to accommodate wheeled vehicles. As I crossed the bridge, I encountered another column of infantrymen coming up single file on either side of the road. From their clean uniforms and neatly shaven faces, I could tell that these young men were going into combat for the first time. There was a combination of excitement and strain on their faces, and I wondered what they were thinking about.

A man marching into combat, knowing full well that his chances of survival are extremely limited, would seem to require an inner strength based on faith in his own ultimate purpose. Although he is terrified, he develops the courage to cope with this terror and is able to function, and through this functioning he is able to survive. I remember reading somewhere, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.”

After crossing the bridge, we proceeded down the road about half a mile, turned right on a small country road, and climbed to the top of the hill where B Company was located. Dead cattle littered the fields on both sides of the road; the bodies were bloated by the hot sun, and the stench was strong.

I immediately went to see Captain Roquemore, commander of B Company of the maintenance battalion. Rock was a tall, slender, lazy-eyed Southern country boy with a slow drawl and an easy, subtle sense of humor.

“Cooper, put it to me,” he said. “What the hell is happening over there?”

I told him we had a lot of losses and that Dick Johnson needed help. We went over the maps in detail, and I showed him the areas that Dick had picked out for B Company. Rock concurred and said he would like to move at daybreak. It was already dark by this time, so I decided to spend the night in the B Company bivouac.

My driver, Smith, had already parked the Jeep next to a hedgerow and started digging a foxhole. I pitched in with a shovel. The earth here had been a plowed field and was much softer than that across the river at Airel. The digging was made even easier by the fact that we weren’t being shelled.

We dug a two-man foxhole approximately seven feet by five feet by two feet deep. We cut down some small saplings and placed them across the hole, then laid our shelter half tents on top. We covered this with dirt, which we tapered from about eighteen inches in the middle to about six inches on the sides. We left a small entrance at one end. Although the foxhole would not stand a direct hit from an artillery shell, it would protect us from any that landed nearby.

The night before on the hill at Airel, a number of artillery shells had hit close by. From that experience, I concluded that what we had been taught at the bomb disposal school at Aberdeen Proving Ground in January 1943 was true. As long as we could stay below an explosion’s blast cone, we had a reasonable chance of surviving. Also, the Germans sent their planes up at night to drop butterfly bombs, small bombs about the size of a hand grenade that are scattered from a large canister and had a considerable effect against personnel sleeping in uncovered foxholes. We’d had a number of casualties in the maintenance battalion back at Isigny due to butterfly bombs.

Thoughts on the Reality of Combat

Smith and I climbed into our foxhole and stretched out on our bedrolls. I took off my boots and helmet, put my pistol under my helmet, and relaxed. I could tell by Smith’s deep breathing that he had gone to sleep immediately, but I could not sleep right away. I was excited, concerned, and frightened all at the same time. I thought about those young soldiers marching up the road to go into combat for the first time, then I thought about having to lead B Company across to the VCP tomorrow. Where would we have to go after that? I became extremely nervous and sad. Tears came to my eyes when I thought about the two soldiers we saw who had been blown out of their Jeep. I began to wonder if I had the strength and courage to go through this for who knows how long.

I began to reflect on my whole life and my ideals, particularly my religious views. I thought about my early Sunday school days when I was a child in the Methodist Church in Huntsville, Alabama. I remembered being taught the Twenty-third Psalm. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” The words came clearly, and I started crying. I continued saying the words to myself: “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”

Then a feeling of calm came over me. I stopped crying and finished the psalm, thinking that something was happening to me, something I did not understand but I knew was real. To quote the Episcopal prayer book, “A Peace which passeth all understanding” came over me. I knew then that I could do what had to be done. I knew there would be terrible times ahead and I would still be frightened and be exposed to a great deal of suffering and devastation. However, I knew that I would be able to cope with it. This experience would influence my entire life.

More Tank Losses

The next morning, the trip across the bridge at Airel was uneventful. B Company moved into the VCP and immediately prepared to go to work. A steady stream of knocked-out tanks and other vehicles came in all day long. In addition, the 33d Maintenance Company T2 recovery crews reported a number of tanks that had been knocked out and set on fire and were thus beyond repair. They bypassed these and recovered only those that had a reasonable chance of being fixed and put back into action.

An entire platoon of five tanks from the 33d Armored Regiment came under flanking fire on the lower river road near Pont Hébert. The Germans knocked out the rear tank first, which blocked the road. They proceeded to knock out the front tank, then concentrated their fire on the three tanks in the middle. The tank crews returned the fire but were completely overwhelmed by the superior German antitank guns.

The Germans were dug in in the heavy
bocage
hedgerows, and the infantry could not come up fast enough to dislodge them. Whenever the tanks got too far ahead of the infantry, they were exposed to withering flanking fire from antitank guns and
panzerfaust
s. The Germans continued their fire until all the tanks were in flames; they knew that once a tank burned, it could not be repaired. Those crew members fortunate enough to escape worked their way back down the river road through enemy lines.

With the ever-increasing vehicle casualties, it became obvious that we had to forget the regulations and adopt a radically new procedure. All of the ordnance logistic training for the invasion of Europe had been based on the assumption that our vehicular casualties, particularly the tanks, would be much lower than what we had encountered in initial combat, so the requirements for ordnance spare parts for armor divisions were grossly inadequate. Although the maintenance battalion had fifty-four two-and-a-half-ton GMC trucks devoted entirely to spare parts, plus a number of other trucks in the maintenance companies of the various armored units, they were not enough. The initial determination of spare parts for an armored division was based primarily on information from line officers in the armored units. If Patton had been so completely wrong about the heavy tank, it was little wonder that the line officers underestimated the combat requirement for spare parts.

Given these assumptions, the procedure was that all repairs were to be made with spare parts available to unit maintenance companies, plus those additional parts carried by the ordnance maintenance company attached to the combat command. Any vehicles that could not be repaired, due to lack of spare parts, were to be left in place, not cannibalized but left at the VCP for evacuation later to the army base ordnance companies.

It became immediately obvious to the maintenance people in the field that it would be a disaster to follow the directive not to cannibalize certain tanks. They would have to do so in order to repair others and get them in operation quickly. The maintenance personnel decided to scrap the regulations and get on with the job of repairing the most vehicles in the least possible time and returning them to combat. One tank in combat was a lot better than two on the dead line waiting for spare parts. Even doubling the number of spare parts trucks available would have been insufficient to handle the tanks damaged in combat.

In addition, there were insufficient resources to handle the administrative paperwork involved in finding spare parts. It was apparent that the damaged vehicles were the best source of parts. Thus, if a tank received a penetration in the turret ring (the point where the turret was attached to the hull), both the turret and the hull would be damaged beyond repair in the field. The tank would immediately be scrapped, and the power train, the engine, the gun, and any other parts would become available for repairing other tanks. These decisions were made at the lowest level by the ordnance platoon leaders. This was as it should have been, and it worked to the advantage of the entire division.

Because we were operating on “double British summertime” (seven hours ahead of eastern standard time), it did not get dark until around 2330, so we had about eighteen hours of daylight in which to work. In addition, some of the maintenance crews erected shelter halves over the back ends of the tanks so they could repair the engines after dark. They worked around the clock and caught little catnaps whenever they could. They felt that this was the least they could do to support their comrades in the tank and infantry units who were on the line all the time.

We had to be extremely careful working under tarpaulins after dark, because the slightest glimmer of light could be seen from miles away by the low-flying German aircraft, which always came after dark. They would reconnoiter our ground positions, particularly in the rear areas where maintenance work was going on; if they saw any signs of activity, they would drop butterfly bombs.

Toward the end of the day, Major Johnson, Captain Roquemore, and I got together to prepare a list of all the vehicles and other ordnance work in the VCP. This list included any spare parts that we would need from the battalion, plus a list of all the vehicles that were damaged beyond repair and had been cannibalized. We also got a list from the T2 recovery crews of any tanks and other vehicles that had been damaged beyond repair and had not been recovered. This list included the “W” numbers of the vehicles, the map coordinates, and, if possible, a brief description of the damage. From this list, I prepared our first combat loss report, which contained information considered too sensitive to send by radio. One of the primary responsibilities of the ordnance liaison officer was to deliver this list personally to the maintenance battalion in the rear.

It was after midnight and completely dark by the time Smith and I started down the road toward Isigny to deliver my combat loss report. Under these conditions we traveled without any light, not even the little cat eye blackout lights. Fortunately, there was an MP at the bridge to see that my Jeep was in the center of the road so the wheels would get on the temporary treads put across the hole in the bridge.

After leaving the bridge, we headed toward the intersection of the Isigny–Airel Road, about a mile and a half away. There were no other vehicles in sight, so we stayed in the center of the road as best we could. As we approached the next road junction, we were signaled to stop by two MPs, who asked where we were going. I told them we were going back to division trains.

The MP corporal in charge said he’d been instructed to warn all vehicles that the Germans had dropped paratroopers between this point and Isigny. The last convoy had come from Isigny about forty-five minutes before; however, this was before the report about the paratroopers. Any convoys returning to Isigny would come in a random fashion, he said.

We decided to wait about half an hour to see if another convoy was coming along. In the meantime, Smith and I discussed what to do. If there were German paratroopers along this road, it would seem that their first objective would be to capture American vehicles for transportation. They would probably try to block the road and ambush us to capture our Jeep intact. I had previously had the rear seat of the Jeep removed and a plywood box installed to carry my combat loss report and other ordnance documents and maps. I kept a thermite grenade next to the box. In the event of impending capture, I planned to pull the pin on the grenade to set all of the documents on fire, then abandon the Jeep.

After waiting a little while longer and seeing no signs of a convoy, I decided we had to take a chance and run the gauntlet—the name we had given the area between division forward and division rear—which varied in width from a few miles to maybe forty to fifty miles. The distance from this road junction to the battalion area in Isigny was about ten miles. The road was straight and narrow and had trees on both sides.

We drove in the middle of the road at top speed, which for the Jeep was sixty-five miles an hour even with the governor taken off. To estimate the center of the road, Smith looked up at an angle of approximately thirty degrees to see the sky between the trees. I looked straight ahead down the center of the road and at the shoulders to see if I could detect anything. After a while, our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and we were amazed at what we could see even without moonlight. We were no longer concerned about meeting any American trucks on the road, only about the possibility of meeting Germans.

After we had gone about five miles, I saw a light piercing the darkness approximately a quarter mile away. The light was arcing slowly up and down, similar to a railroad signal. Smith slowed down. At the same time, I removed the safety on the .30-caliber carbine, which I had previously taken out of the rack on the windshield. We knew that no American soldier could be dumb enough to shine a flashlight in this area; we would not even dare light a cigarette on the beach at night without first getting into a covered foxhole. It must be Germans.

Fortunately, we had rehearsed what we might do in a situation like this. Smith would slow down. If he could see clearly that the road was not blocked, I would open fire and he would accelerate as rapidly as possible to try to get away. If the road appeared to be blocked, we would hit the ditch on the right side of the road, I’d pull the pin on the thermite grenade, and we would jump over the hedgerow and try to get away.

As we approached the source of the light, it went off and I could see the bows of a GMC truck against the starlight. I figured that the Germans had captured the truck and killed the crew and were now trying to get a Jeep. I could see shadowy figures in the dark by the side of the truck. As one of the figures slowly approached the Jeep, I realized that he could not see us well either. I slowly raised the carbine to my shoulder and started to pull the trigger.

When the figure was about ten feet from the Jeep, I heard him say, “Hey, soldier, y’all got a tire tool?”

No German could imitate a deep Southern drawl like that.

“What in the hell are you doing shining that light, soldier?” I demanded. “Don’t you realize the Germans have dropped paratroopers along this road?”

“I ain’t heard no such report,” he replied. He said his truck had a flat tire and he had no tire tools, probably because they’d been traded to the navy on the LST for slabs of bacon.

“Sir, you mean they done dropped them paratroopers way back here?”

Before I could reply, he hollered to his buddy and they jumped into the cab of the truck and took off down the highway, flat tire and all. I was in a cold sweat as I realized that I’d come within seconds of killing an American soldier.

Major A. C. Arrington was shocked when he saw the first combat loss report. “The Germans are chewing the hell out of those M4 tanks,” he said. “They’re no damn good. Cooper, you tell Captain Roquemore to forget the regulations and to cannibalize every vehicle he can to get those in the VCP running.”

He was glad to hear that the captain was already doing this on his own initiative. Arrington notified Capt. Tom Sembera, the division ordnance property officer, and started immediately securing replacements.

It was amazing how quickly procedures changed once the unit got into combat. Paperwork went out the window and the replacements were made by verbal request. I began to realize something about the U.S. Army I had never before thought possible. Although under garrison conditions it is highly regimented and somewhat bureaucratic, in the field it relaxes and recognizes individual initiative. This flexibility was one of the great strengths of the U.S. Army in World War II.

The next day, July 11, I returned to the VCP with a small convoy of spare parts trucks. One of the most needed maintenance parts was spark plugs. I gathered all I could beg, borrow, or steal and brought them with us. Most of the M4 tanks had R975 Wright nine-cylinder air-cooled radial engines. When the engine was started, the tank usually backfired with considerable noise, which gave away the unit’s position and instantly brought enemy fire. Most of the tank crews would idle the engines as slowly as possible when trying to maintain a defiladed position in the hedgerows.

The air-cooled radial engine was a holdover from the Depression years. Lack of funds prompted ordnance to use surplus air force radial engines in tanks. They couldn’t have chosen a more poorly designed engine for this purpose, but it was the only one available in quantity when the war started.

Designed for high, constant speeds in an aircraft, the engine had excessive clearance between the cylinder walls and the pistons. When the engine was running at the proper speed in an aircraft, the clearance narrowed and the engine performed satisfactorily. In a tank however, where the engine was run slowly, the excess clearance allowed the engine to pump oil, which fouled the spark plugs.

Each engine had nine cylinders, and each cylinder had two spark plugs. This meant that eighteen spark plugs had to be replaced every time the engine fouled. No special provisions had been made in the overall planning for fighting tanks in the hedgerows, so it was no wonder that the spare parts allotment for spark plugs was grossly underestimated.

In addition to the spark plugs we brought up from battalion, we stripped all the plugs out of the tanks that had been damaged beyond repair. The ordnance shop trucks were equipped with small spark plug sandblast cleaning machines, which were kept busy around the clock. Ordnance soon ran out of blasting sand and sent crews to the beach to get more. It had to be dried and sifted before it could be used, but it saved the day.