While Fry was telling me what kind of bad shape his gun was in, I began getting my gun ready. The ammo box, which carried five hundred rounds, was on the side of the airplane and a flexible metal chute came up from the box and hooked onto the side of the fifty-caliber machine gun that I fire. There was no hook on the metal chute, but I had a roll of safety wire in my parachute bag and I wired the ammo chute to my gun and got it firing. Harry Glass’s ammo chute fit onto his gun, but the apparatus that holds the gun steady while it’s firing came off in his hand. Now, I’d managed to scrounge me the first spool of very strong nylon cord I ever had, and it was on a wooden spool. I took my knife and I cut the nylon cord off the spool and we jammed it in the apparatus that held his gun out the window so it would fire. But I lost my nylon cord.
Anyway, we had taken off and formed the group and hit the enemy coast and crossed into Germany up in the Ardennes on our way to Dummer Lake, which is a rather prominent landmark in northern Germany, and was used for an IP, that is an Initial Point, from which to start a bomb run. Our target was Regensburg.
We had some flak after a while. I put on my flak helmet while that was going on and just stood there and watched it. After a few minutes, the flak stopped. I took the helmet off and laid it on the ammo chute and was just sitting on the ammo box on the floor looking out the window at the scenery when all of a sudden I could hear guns firing.
We were in the low left squadron, and the only thing we were leading was Tail-End Charlie, which is the farthest man from the front of the group and we were just in front of him. I looked up when the firing started and about the same moment someone in our airplane--and I don’t know who it was--yelled “Fighters!” and I looked up and it looked as though the sky was black with them.
I know how to recognize most German fighters, especially Me-109s, but these were different. Swept-back wings, kind of shark-line ... and no propellers! They were actual jet fighters. I had heard about them but never seen them and I didn’t know the Nazis had any and I think that the generals on our side probably didn’t know either, or if they did they sure didn’t know how many. There must have been forty to fifty of them, and they were moving faster than anything I’d ever seen before in my life. I just stood there for a minute looking at them as they were closing on the group.
“Digger! They’re coming up on your side!” yelled Harry Glass, who was looking around over my shoulder, and that broke my concentration and I started firing at one fighter and he broke away right under us. He came in right under my waist window and he obviously didn’t want to end up on the tail because the tail gunner had the best shot at any fighter. He just lays the sight on the nose and fires away. So fighters usually try to break away under you before they end up on the tail. This fellow broke away so close I could see the pilot sitting in the cockpit. Of course the fighter pilot didn’t know that the tail turret was out of commission. I fired at another fighter that trailed black smoke but there were no flames except from that jet exhaust, so I have no idea if I hit him or not
Harry Glass was now shooting on his side, because the jet fighters had to throttle back as they got near so they wouldn’t close too fast on us, and then after they shot they’d break away and give it all the power they had so they could break away fast. I saw one of the fighters explode in midair, and Harry got him.
Now the next fighter I fired at, I thought I had really hit him, because he was burning in the nose, but as he got in closer, I could see that the fire I was looking at was the flames from his guns. This fighter had designs painted all up the sides, and I’m guessing he was some sort of group leader. A 20-mm shell hit my gun and it exploded. One piece hit me squarely between my eyes and cut my goggle frame in two. A couple of other pieces hit me in the chest. I started bleeding and had trouble seeing but I never went totally unconscious. I do remember Harry Glass saying, “Digger’s been hit!” I must have looked a lot worse off than I really was. Booker, the navigator, yelled, “Glass, get off the damn interphone, there’s a lot cooking up here.”
I could hear Sollars telling Lieutenant Russ that he’d better salvo the bombs to lighten the aircraft, and I heard that number-three engine was windmilling and burning, and then I heard the command to abort the mission, we were hit and going home.
I was able to wipe some of the blood out of my eyes and saw Glass explode another fighter but the fighter was firing too and then I saw Harry fall back and then slump down. I was able to crawl over to him and I tried to get out a bandage over a very large hole in his head but he never said anything or even opened his eyes, so I think the chances are he never knew what hit him.
In the meantime, with number three burning and windmilling, I was afraid the airplane was going to explode, so I started taking off my flak suit and put on my parachute. But finally the fire went out and they feathered the prop, and we were on the way home. I crawled back over to Harry Glass but he was dead. I found out later that the lieutenant thought I was dead, too, and he was surprised when we landed and they found me alive. I ended up in the hospital, of course, and with a few pieces of flak picked out of me, but all in all my damage was pretty light and I’ll be back in action in a couple of weeks. I’m getting a Purple Heart for this, though that was the one medal I never did particularly care to see.
The lieutenant came to see me. Harry Glass was dead, Wagner, the upper turret gunner, was badly wounded and probably wouldn’t return to action, and Lieutenant Sollars had been hit but not too badly. Number-three engine would have to be replaced, but otherwise
Ford’s Folly
was fine except for some guns and electrical work needing replacement. “We’ll make that war bond tour yet,” he said. I told him only twenty to go and number thirteen was behind us now, and he laughed a little bit.
He told me that this was the worst raid we’d ever had. Those jet fighters were everywhere, backed up by the usual Me-109s and Fw-190s that the Germans normally flew. The jets were Me-262s, which the Germans had had for a while but never put into action. “Hitler didn’t want them,” Russ said.
“Then for once I’m sorry the old S.O.B. got killed,” I said.
The Germans shot down nearly a third of what we’d sent up, and that’s not counting the planes like ours that got shot up but didn’t go down. We were lucky.
The word is that we won’t be flying any raids for a while, until they figure out what to do about the jets. Also, because it’s getting into winter and the weather is turning bad, there was going to be some falloff in raids anyway, so we’ll have time to recover and patch everything up. The men are starting to call the mission Operation Bloody Hell, which in my opinion it was.
But I have to tell you, Mama, it looks kind of bad right now.
As I wrote, you won’t see this letter until after the war except if I don’t come home, so I want you to know I love you and I miss you and I’m all right at the moment.
Love,
Your Son
Digger
Fortress Metz, France, 21 November 1944, 1101 hours GMT
Combat Command A made its camp in a series of narrow valleys on the west bank of the Moselle. The battalions were broken into task forces for the upcoming assault. Task Force White would lead the way, so Dennis White’s tank company, armored infantry company, and supporting platoons occupied a town and several farms right on the riverbank. Task Force Ballard was in a nearby valley, while Task Force Miller--commanded by the senior company commander in CCA--filled the clearings around a village another mile away up the river. The headquarters company and Diaz’s artillery battalion were downriver, but within easy distance of the bridge.
The men slept close to their vehicles, knowing that orders to move could come at any time. Colonel Pulaski took over a small farmhouse as a temporary headquarters, and Sergeant Dawson established a radio room in the kitchen. Pulaski and Lieutenant Colonel Ballard paced anxiously around the yard. Occasionally they rushed into the house when they heard the crackle of the radio. On those instances, Pulaski was pleased to note that his tank commander, who still limped on his wounded leg, was able to move with considerable alacrity when the situation demanded. Dennis White, meanwhile, was as imperturbable as ever, puffing on his pipe, finally drawing Diaz into a game of chess.
Pulaski stayed close to his command post, following the developing battle through the radio reports. The weather was overcast, with fog and occasional drizzle. Though air support was available and the clouds broke apart every once in a while, for the most part this would be a ground battle.
The first news was encouraging, as Bob Jackson’s Combat Command B pushed through the initial ring of German fortifications and raced out of the compacted bridgehead. The fight was savage--Pulaski learned that in the early going eight tanks were destroyed assaulting a single pillbox. Eventually the strongpoint was reduced by a plastering of artillery, and the armored spearhead moved on.
Listening to disjointed reports, hearing from messengers that periodically passed through the HQ, Pulaski tried to form a picture of the action. In a few minutes Jackson’s tanks encountered a lone Tiger blocking a crossroads. The crackling voices over the radio reported a window in the clouds and called for air support, but the overcast closed in before the tactical bombers got to the scene--and in any event, the panzer was taking advantage of an overhanging ridge wall as protection from the ground support aircraft. Accurate artillery fire flushed the leviathan out of its lair, and then cheers erupted from many American throats when a pair of Shermans equipped with the high-powered 76-mm gun blew up the Tiger with a series of flank and rear shots. In the CCA headquarters, -Sergeant Dawson broke into a broad grin, then settled back to his stoic vigil.
“Hope they leave some Krauts for us,” blurted one of the green second lieutenants, betraying his nervousness by the quaver in his voice.
Dawson’s expression turned to scorn, and Pulaski felt a chill of ice in his stomach. It wasn’t the same... having been there himself, it could never be the same.
At sunset, Ballard, White, Miller, and Diaz returned to their individual commands, all suspecting they’d be moving out by the next day. Overnight, the men got a little sleep. It wasn’t easy, but they all knew they’d need to be well rested when they went into battle. Pulaski stretched out on a narrow cot in the back of his half-track, but every few minutes he jolted awake, listening to the sounds of distant artillery fire or droning aircraft engines.
Midmoming the next day they heard the new reports: CCB had come up against a tougher position, a medieval fortress commanding a view a long way down the constricted valley. Dawson relayed the news when Pulaski was pacing outside, reporting more calls for artillery and air support, and that further radio traffic betrayed the consternation of the advance elements. Frustration built in Jackson and his subordinates as more and more casualties were taken, and finally a sense of despair prevailed as the CCB spearhead was forced to go to ground.
The clouds glowered and pressed low, soon releasing a freezing chill that dampened hopes as well as men, for the weather put an end to all hope of air support.
An hour later General Wakefield came through Pulaski’s HQ, his command jeep skidding to a quick stop.
“It looks like we’re going to need you, Jimmy,” he announced around a tin cup of steaming coffee.
Pulaski took a deep breath. “We’re ready, General,” he replied.
And he was, he finally realized. The demons from the debacle at Abbeville were still there, but today he and his men were facing a fresh challenge, a new obstacle here. He was not yet whole, but he could function.
Pulaski watched the general head for the front to get a close view of the situation, knowing that when he returned CCA of the Nineteenth Armored would once more hurl itself into the war. The knowledge left him with a bizarre kind of eagerness, as if now that the event was inevitable he wanted nothing more than to get it over with.
Two hours later the division CO returned and led Pulaski into a small command office in the house he had commandeered for an HQ. The colonel sensed Wakefield’s consternation and tried not to let his own emotion show as he waited for the general to speak.
“Jimmy, it’s your turn.”
Pulaski’s heart pounded as he stood before the desk and listened to his general. On the surface before him was a map of the Metz region, with tiny flags marking the efforts of Nineteenth Armored to sweep around and cut the city off from the Rhine.
“Yessir, General. We can get going right away.” Suddenly his hands felt cold, and even in the crisp air he felt as if he’d moved into a slow motion state. He knew that Wakefield’s orders meant trouble in CCB’s attack, probably heavy casualties, but right now he didn’t care. Wakefield’s explanation confirmed his suspicions.
“Jackson’s boys have been chewed up pretty bad. They’re bogged down around these forts.” The general thumped his fist on the map. “You’re to take CCA into action. Go around this strongpoint to the south, and hit the damn Krauts hard.”
“Yessir!” the colonel replied, saluting.
“And Jimmy...?”
Pulaski paused, waiting.
“I wish I could tell you to bring ’em all back alive... but we know that’s not going to happen. You’ve got to make this breakthrough--understand?”
The pause grew longer, before Pulaski finally replied, “I do, General.”
“Good luck.”
By the time the last words were spoken, the commander of Combat Command A was already headed out the door.
Three hours later, Pulaski was standing on a bluff overlooking the bridgehead on the east bank of the Moselle River. A shattered bridge lay below him, with a pontoon span constructed by U.S. Army Engineers in place immediately beside the wreckage. The weather was still socked in. They could hear planes droning over the clouds, but they would be of little help. A column of Sherman tanks was rumbling across the river, and though he could not make out the patch at the base of each turret, he knew that these were his men, his tanks. Dennis White was there, riding in one of the lead half-tracks, ready to command the spearhead as CCA went into action. Ballard’s men would follow, though for now the long column of tanks and half-tracks was still waiting to get onto the bridge. Still farther away, Task Force Miller wasn’t even in sight of the crossing yet, while nearby the eighteen Priests with their support vehicles were ready to bring up the rear.