The weather played a part today, as torrential rain curtailed some of the carefully laid assault plans and played a merry dance with our expected air support.
Again, I found myself given permission to go even further forward, and I am so excited that I will be given the opportunity to smell the smoke of battle first hand.
All the better to tell you, dear reader, what the war really is like for the men who carry the rifles and drive the tanks that are pushing the hated enemy back into their lair.
[Author’s note – On the 30th March, JTS was known to be at the headquarters of the 66th US Infantry Division. Whilst I can find no official record of his presence (many of the 66th’s files were lost subsequently), I managed to get a word of mouth report from Sergeant Hank P Watermayne, a senior NCO with the unit. According to his report, Major Guillame J Rousseau, who was JTS’s escort, could barely speak to someone he considered an idiotic child. It was Rousseau who secured permission for JTS to go forward to the 264th Regiment, possibly to rid himself of a troublesome duty. As an extra, the reason that the headquarters did not relocate was because of a violent Soviet counter-attack that, according to the divisional history, very nearly split the 262nd Regiment in half. The counter-attack that was, according to JTS, no great issue, was the single-greatest loss of life to the 262nd Regiment in a single combat, as five hundred and thirty-seven men became casualties in the two hour struggle against a strong counter-attack, out of which three hundred and two men permanently fell. The 66th Division had experienced a catastrophic day once before when, on Christmas Eve 1944, the troop ship Leopoldville, carrying members of the division to Cherbourg, was sunk by a torpedo. This sinking, only a few miles off the French coast, resulted in the loss of seven hundred and sixty-two men.]
Dear Reader,
Today I am privileged to be with a Regimental Command group in a fighting American division.
This group of young GIs has been in Europe since December last year, and have been constantly embroiled in the heaviest fighting against the former German enemy.
Now, allied with those same soldiers, they push forward against a common foe.
My escort for today hails from St Petersberg, but not the former city in the Russian Empire, but the city in Florida, USA, a place where cold and wet conditions such as we have today are rare, and sun is the norm.
Lieutenant Joe is new to the war, a recent arrival to the division, one of many sent up to fill the gaps that inevitably come with high-level combat.
Tomorrow I will travel with him to the frontline, and for that I cannot wait.
Today, I am struck by the energetic movement of everyone in this headquarters, the shouted orders responded to in an instant, the whole affair organized and dedicated to doing the best for the boys up front.
The Colonel in charge looks tired and worn out, but that is not how he conducts himself. Whilst the war may well have left its mark upon this veteran officer, he is on top of his job, shepherding his men like a father does his children.
A small convoy passes the headquarters tent, carrying food and ammunition forward, and I am tempted to climb aboard one of these huge lorries.
Unfortunately, we have to leave the headquarters whilst a situation is dealt with, but that gives me the opportunity to type this report whilst sampling the delights of the regimental mess.
Hopefully, there will be more to report later.
The great American General Robert Lee is quoted as saying that it is just as well that war is terrible or man would grow too fond of it.
Perhaps, today, I have seen something of what he meant.
This place, which I cannot name, has seen the footsteps of war on at least one other occasion and, as Joe and I walk amongst the shattered houses, we come across a field where high-explosive has done its work.
A pit where enemy bodies had been buried has been opened by explosive force, and the poor dead have had further ignominy visited upon them.
It is a terrible sight, and the odours that accompany it are sufficient to turn the strongest stomach.
Further on, we find a graves unit removing some glorious American dead from their temporary graves, probably men who fell in the battle that has recently rolled through this corner of France.
I admit, the sight of the still bodies, riven by weapons of war, is as awful as can be, and we must thank the Lord that so few of our men have fallen in this noble cause.
We do not dwell to gawk at the dead, offering them more respect by retreating.
I pray that they will be the last mortified souls that I see, but I fear that will not be the case.
[Author’s note. The location on the day that JTS visited was Hattmatt. I know that the graves that he witnessed being dug up were casualties from the previous winter’s fighting. US Graves Registration records support this, although the entries are, in fairness, none too legible.
Clearly, the Soviet bodies were from the Ranger assault and were probably uncovered by the violent barrage launched by the 66th’s artillery elements. The 66th’s records of the 264th’s attack on Hattmatt speak of little fighting, recording one KIA and four WIA before the Soviet forces gave way. Of note is the fact that shortly after the 264th RCT’s headquarters moved on, five members of the 3060th US Quartermaster Graves Registration Company were killed by a booby trap hidden in the bodies of the 2nd US Ranger slain months before, almost certainly installed by the Soviet forces who subsequently retook the village.
Clearly, his recollection of the words of Robert E. Lee was inaccurate, but the spirit of what the old General meant was still carried through in JTS’s words.]
Dear Reader,
Today I am with the brave men in the front line and, perhaps, this is where all of us who wish to bring to you the events and happenings of this war should be.
I have seen efficiency and calm behind the lines, where Generals and Colonels organise their staffs and bring together plans to send their men forward and destroy the enemy forces.
Here is where those orders come, to be translated in actions and deeds.
I am sorry to report that my companion, Lieutenant Joe, has been slightly wounded and forced to return for some medical assistance. His first day in combat brings a wound that he may bear with honour and regale his grandchildren about in the years of his dotage. I hope he returns soon.
So, for now, I am placed under the care of a senior NCO, a man called Ron, who hails from Washington State, USA.
Occasionally, the experienced NCO, a man with twenty-eight years of soldiering under his belt, will grab me and drag me down, citing the possibility that the enemy may see me, but I am confident that the men around me can take care of themselves, and certainly cope with any threat the enemy might offer.
Under Sgt Ron’s supervision, I move through the trench lines so recently held by the enemy, finding squads of GIs going about the business of war in stoic fashion.
We reach a larger bunker, one that probably once held the Russian commander, one that still shows traces of its former occupancy. The red flag has been left in place, but with certain additions written on it by soldiers with wit that I simply cannot pass on to the reader for fear of offence.