He would have liked to have a strong force to post here, to guard their line of communication and retreat. But the bridges were the main objective, and he was determined to reach that goal as soon as possible. Furthermore, he knew that Bob Jackson and CCB were not too many miles away. Pulaski could only hope that his men could hold out for that long.
Fortunately, a lane provided a route of dispersal inside the shelter of the woods, and it took only twenty minutes to deploy CCA for the attack. Infantry dismounted from trucks and halftracks, ready to rush forward in the wake of the tanks. The eighteen guns of Diaz’s artillery battalion were deployed a half mile back from the edge of the woods, and they took a few ranging shots along the buildings and ruins where the Tigers were hull down.
“When I give the word, I want smoke--as much as you can deliver,” the colonel ordered. Lieutenant Colonel Diaz nodded enthusiastically, and Pulaski once more remembered Lorimar at Abbeville, and his cheerful wave before the predecessors of these guns had been overwhelmed by attacking panzers. But he couldn’t waste any more time with this kind of worry.
“You take the left, the street attack,” Pulaski told Ballard. “I’ll come across the field with the right flank. Remember, give us a minute or two before you move out.”
The lieutenant colonel agreed and took his position in the lead Sherman, rightly observing that his gunner had proved to be as steady and accurate as any tanker in the division. “Make that first shot count,” was the only suggestion Pulaski could offer.
He and Dawson, in the half-track, would follow in the second wave across the field. He didn’t take time to pep talk his men. They knew the stakes as well as he, and all recognized the desperation that had driven them to such a risky onslaught.
Finally the tanks had rolled into position, taking advantage of the last screen of saplings before they rumbled into the open. Dawson, who had been keeping the radio channel open, passed the instrument to the colonel who used the daily code to issue orders to his artillery.
“Ducky Six--this is Popcorn Ten. Give me everything you’ve got, established coordinates,” he ordered.
The crack of the guns thudded through the woods, and moments later shells whistled overhead to explode in the clearing and among the wrecked structures of Dinant. After the blasts, white smoke billowed through the air, and seconds later the next volley of projectiles rocketed past, and then the next, and still another.
In a few minutes the fringe of the city was obscured by a thick cloud of pale, foggy smoke, and Pulaski knew the opportunity had come. With the radio open to all commanders he barked the “Go!” order.
Immediately the tanks rolled. Small trees bent and snapped as forty Shermans and eighteen tank destroyers rolled from the woods and trundled onto the vast park. Pulaski saw a few cagelike soccer goals, realizing with an odd sense of incongruity that they were charging across a series of playing fields. More smoke shells crashed into the German position, and now the leading elements of the attack wave were half-obscured by smoke, ghostly shapes that rumbled and clanked and roaring with monstrous presence.
A shell from an eighty-eight screamed out of the cloud, torching an M4 in the front rank. There was no way to tell if the shot had come from a Tiger or an emplaced AT gun. The tank gunners didn’t wait to find out: dozens of Shermans spat high explosive shells into the murk, a barrage that flashed and smoldered, discoloring the smoke cloud with alternating swaths of fire and darkness.
To his left Pulaski could see Ballard’s upgunned Shermans waiting in line. Abruptly those tanks, too, rolled forward, driving steadily into the smoke that drifted through the street. Another M4 went up in flames, but now the leading tanks were rumbling between buildings, cannon and machine guns raking the stunned Germans in their foxholes and strongpoints.
A half-dozen Shermans came upon the hidden Tiger, and at the cost of two of their own they plastered it with enough fire to disable the turret and blast both tracks off. Sappers rushed forward with satchel charges while the surviving armor rumbled on, spreading out through the streets of the medieval city. Seeing their fate, the German tankers popped through the hatches to make a run for it. Bullets cut them down before the last of them had taken two steps from the wrecked Tiger.
Flames seared the street before him and another Tiger went up. And then Ballard’s column rolled into sight. The lead tank halted so that the gunner could draw a bead, and the 76-mm gun drilled an armor-piercing shell into the side armor of yet one more of the Nazi behemoths. That panzer crackled into blistering flames, and none of the crew appeared.
Ballard popped open his hatch as the half-track rolled into the town. Fierce gunfire marked infantry battles in the nearby buildings, but the noise was moving away as CCA infantry knocked the Germans out of one building after another. The lieutenant colonel raised his thumb in a salute.
“We’re in!” shouted Pulaski, feeling the emotion himself. “Now let’s get to those damn bridges!”
Aboard B-24 “Darling Debbie,” Nearing the Meuse, Belgium, 0935 hours GMT
“Fighters! Fighters!” Lieutenant Lester “Sky” King heard the intercom call from his nose turret gunner just about the time he noticed a series of small white puffs ahead of the lumbering B-24. At first he’d thought it was strange-looking flak, then he realized that he was seeing exploding 20-mm shells. The heavy Liberator shook from end to end as the gunners began firing 50-caliber machine guns at the shrieking Me-262s swooping out of the gray winter sky.
From the flight deck, the aircraft commander could only see ahead and slightly to each side as he concentrated on staying in formation, moving toward the bridges of Dinant, the target
Soon it would be up to the bombardier to fly the plane through its bombing run, then it would be time to get the hell out of there--if it wasn’t already. Radio chatter among the gunners as they traded information about the positions of attacking fighters kept him up-to-date on the engagement. “On your six! Coming in fast! Charlie, look out--he’s underneath you!”
The plane lurched as flak exploded. He noticed an Me-262 pull up under his left wing, as if he was joining the formation, and begin pouring 20-mm shells into the B-24 ahead of him in the formation--it was Ford’s Folly. “Jesus,” he said to his copilot. “That’s Russ’s plane.” The pilot was a good friend.
Suddenly, the number-three engine burst into flame. “Abort, goddamn it--abort!” he yelled, as if Russ could hear him. “Get the hell out of there!” But he could see the bomb bay grinding slowly open, preparing to drop its load, possibly short of the destination, but at least somewhere they might kill some Krauts.
Now number four was on fire, and the plane looked like a flying blowtorch. The bombs were dropping. “Bail out, Russ,” he shouted helplessly. He looked over at the attacking Me-262, an aircraft distinguished by bright flames painted on the nose. It was so close he could see the pilot grinning at him. He wished he had a gun of his own so he could wipe the goddamn smile off the bastard’s face, but all he could do was keep his aircraft steady.
Skies Over the Meuse, Belgium, 0941 hours GMT
Krueger tightened his finger on the trigger, directing a stream of cannon shells into the swollen belly of the lumbering Liberator.
“Bum, you bastard! Go down!” he hissed through his clenched teeth.
Despite the flaming engines, the stubborn bomber refused to go down. The Me-262 roared past, close enough for the pilot to read the vulgar Americanism
Ford’s Folly
scribed onto the huge aircraft’s bulbous nose.
The black blossoms of antiaircraft fire shivered in the air, and rattles of shrapnel tickled the skin of the jet fighter. The German ace ignored the distraction, picking another target from the sea of heavy bombers.
The Stormbird’s gun ripped into this new target with shocking effect as the bomber exploded in a blinding flash of light.
That’s one who won’t be dropping his bombs
, Krueger thought with a warm flash of satisfaction.
Then he was through the formation, and though his starboard engine was again running a little hot, he raced back around, determined to find the plane he had first targeted.
There it was, at the front of the squadron, smoke pouring from number-three engine, but still flying. It was a doomed plane, but the bomb bay doors remained open as Krueger swept closer. He wanted to prevent the bomber from dropping its load.
But before he could press the finger, his jet lurched hard, shearing to starboard. With shock he saw flames pouring from the housing of his engine, a white-hot fire that was melting away his precious jet before his eyes. He would never learn of the small rag inside, a memento of his long-ago visit to the Jumo factory in Dessau.
Krueger shrieked as flames surged upward from the deck, licking the inside of his thighs, teasing his groin. The Stormbird lurched and skidded through the sky, utterly lacking the nearly angelic grace and speed of its true flight. The right engine still burned, melting away before his horrified eyes. He sensed the hunger of the flames, and again he screamed.
The blaze had started within the turbine, an incendiary cancer devouring metal and air. From there, flames had sucked through the fuel lines, engulfing the fuselage in a hellish grip. Hydraulic lines had melted away, and the aluminum skin of the aircraft flaked into vapor.
The pilot’s world spun in disequilibrium. The Liberator,
Ford’s Folly
, was upside down... no, it was he himself who was inverted. The fighter tumbled closer, but Krueger’s guns were forgotten as he wrestled with the stick, fought for some semblance of control over the dying aircraft. Pieces of his beautiful plane broke away, and the controls flopped loosely in his clutching hands.
Pain seared his skin, cruelly melting his flight suit, consuming his flesh. Heat and agony and stinking fumes threatened to overwhelm him. Struggling for mastery of his senses, of his tortured body, Krueger kicked at the floorboards, pushed at the unyielding glass of his canopy, and screamed.
Now the massive American plane was huge before him, and he saw the bombs tumbling from the swollen belly. A great sheet of metal stretched before him like a wall, rising beyond the fires that framed his field of view.
Fully out of control, the dying Me-262 tore through the twin rudders of the Liberator, but now Krueger was only aware that tongues of fire were groping for his face. He kicked his legs, but those limbs were charred into blackened coal, and it seemed as though his life had dissolved into sound, shrieks of unspeakable pain.
And then the fire reached his eyes, and glowed there for a long, satisfied moment.
From Mission Narratives, 392nd Bomb Group, December 26, 1944 (Dinant Raid)
Mission Narrative Summary
On the morning of 26 December 1944, we were alerted for an attack on the bridges of Dinant, Belgium. Twenty-four squadron aircraft took off. Nearing the Meuse River, the formation was attacked by twenty or more Me-262 jet fighters for about five minutes. Several of the enemy aircraft were camouflaged with white stripes to simulate P-51s. One aircraft had a flame pattern painted on its nose. The enemy aircraft attack was pressed home vigorously, coming in singly...most of the attacking planes were firing 20-mm time-fused shells, some of which were noticed to explode before hitting our planes ... The enemy fighters were themselves heavily engaged by many P-51s, and after several minutes the German aircraft were destroyed or driven off, but not before they inflicted damage on the bomber group. As a result of this attack, four of our ships are missing, including Aircraft 466 (
Ford’s Folly
), which was last seen at 11:58 A.M. near Dinant when hit by enemy aircraft. Fire broke out in nos. three and four engines, and one of the Me-262 crashed into the tail structure; both airplanes burst into flames, peeled over, spun in, and crashed. No chutes were seen.
Additional Narrative Report
Takeoffs began at 0730 hours and were accomplished without incident. We went through the usual assembly and headed toward the target. Just as we neared the Meuse River, a flak barrage began to come up from the town below. We were caught by surprise, and the gunners immediately began shoving chaff out the chutes. It was nearly noon.
I was concentrating on keeping my element in position when my copilot said, “Look at the funny-looking flak.” I glanced out and saw numerous small white explosions just below us. I saw
Ford’s Folly
(Aircraft 466) in tight formation and all engines running, blazing fiercely from the top of the wing in the number three and number four engine area. The flames were so intense that they were trailing far behind the tail assembly. I realized then that the “funny flak” was exploding 20-mm cannon shells, being fired by an Me-262 with flames painted on the cowling. I turned my attention to pulling up closer to the lead box. When I looked again,
Ford’s Folly
was gone.
Army Group B Field Headquarters, Dinant, Belgium, 1020 hours GMT
For long minutes the violent onslaught of bombs rocked Dinant, crushing buildings, shaking the ground, churning the river water into mud and terrifying the German soldiers and Belgian civilians who sought shelter wherever it could be found.
The thunderous bomber assault had driven the headquarters staff into the chateau’s wine cellar. Though several of the German officers undoubtedly would have soothed their fears with one of the many vintages lining the walls of the chamber, the presence of their stern field marshal made teetotalers out of them all. The noise overwhelmed any attempts at conversation, so the men sat in stoic silence. Rommel watched them exchange sidelong glances, eyeing each other for some outward sign of fear.
Waves of explosions rocked the city, and though all of these men had experienced Allied bombardment, the field marshal suspected that for most it was the severest pounding of their lives. Certainly he had never felt such a massive, crushing blanket of explosions. Rommel took care to keep his expression aloof, though he flinched and then chuckled when a near strike brought several bottles crashing down from their racks. Dust trickled down from the rafters, so that by the time the violence began to fade every officer was coated in a fine layer of grime.