It is my fondest hope that I never witness a napalm attack again for as long as I live.
The bodies scattered around the hill top, and the few, so very few who screamed their way through hideous wounds, were the enemy, and in combat our men must use every advantage of technology available to them.
But perhaps there are limits to the advances, and I use that word advisedly, that we should permit upon the field of combat.
I confess, I looked back on the route our soldiers had advanced and saw, with tears in my eyes, silent shapes that marked a fallen friend. More would have fallen taking this windswept charred piece of France had it not been for the air attack.
Yet perhaps, dear reader, you should wonder and judge if we can consider our humanity intact and our morals sound when we bring such awfulness to the field of combat.
[Author’s note. The Panzer IV, whose crew was buried alongside the destroyed vehicle, belonged to the Alma Division, Legion Corps D’Assaut, and they fell in the move towards Brumath the previous year.
The units that JTS observed making the attack were Baker and Charlie Companies, 264th US Infantry Regiment. The height, Hill 846, can be found five hundred metres north of Minversheim, although all traces of the incident have been erased by time.
Both companies lost six men KIA, with Baker sustaining six WIA, and Charlie eighteen WIA and one MIA.
There were two napalm attacks carried out in that vicinity during the time frame, and it appears most likely that the responsible aircraft were the Thunderbolts of Escuadrón 203, Fuerza Aérea Mexicana (Mexican Air Force).
Soviet records are sketchy and I cannot be certain sure, but it would seem likely that the defenders of Hill 846 were a Shtrafbat, greatly reduced by heavy fighting, supported by a mortar company, probably from one of 90th Rifle Corps reserve units.
None of the hideously wounded Soviet soldiers lived out the day, and there are no known survivors.
Replacements were with Baker Company before night fell.
They would need every man for the challenge ahead.]
Dear Reader,
Today, the men of this proud unit, are assembling for a full-scale attack on a tough enemy position.
I cannot tell you where it is, but I can say that we are about to tread ground that is already riven by battles past, recent battles that have left the gruesome trophies of destruction as far as the eye can see.
Without a doubt, I can feel the difference in the air today; the atmosphere is steeped in anxiety and foreboding.
I took the opportunity to speak with a young 2nd Lieutenant called Richard, who has told me of his dread about the coming attack, both for himself, and for the men under his command.
And yet, he goes about the business of leadership, moving amongst his soldiers providing calm inspiration and reassurance.
I find myself asking how men can do such things?
When the time comes, none of these young Americans will hide, or run, or baulk from the challenge.
They will all rise up together and charge together, and possibly they will die together.
Perhaps that is the greatest privilege of the profession of arms; that special togetherness that inspires and drives men to great deeds for no other reason than their comradeship?
Of course, some fight for country and ideals: it was ever thus.
But it is now my feeling that most fight more for the man beside them, and that is something that those of us who have no experience of such matters, will never really fully understand.
That manifests itself in front of me, as comrade laughs with comrade as they check weapons and kit, ready for the attack.
The time draws near so I will stop my report now, and conclude it when we have done what we have to do this day.
Dear Reader,
So much has happened since last I put words to this paper.
Much of it is beyond my limited capacity to explain or even to understand.
We are back where we started, those of us that survived the hail of metal that greeted the charge.
I watched as these brave men pushed on, as our artillery and mortars swept the objective, and as our troops entered the village.
I watched as enemy rockets and artillery smashed what left of the pretty buildings, and a counter-attack pushed our men back towards this position.
The enemy counter-attack pressed on through the villages and, with tanks in support, the wave of enemy dashed itself upon these positions.
One dead Russian lies four feet from my typewriter as I make this report, shot down my own hand.
I picked up a fallen soldier’s handgun and killed the man without a qualm.
I cannot believe I acted, and still my hands shake at the thought.
I am not proud of what I did, nor do I celebrate. I did so out of self-preservation and, perhaps just a little, out of the comradeship I have experienced amongst these American GIs.
The bravery of our troops in their assault was not unlike the bravery I witnessed in the counter-attack that pressed us so close. The only differences really being the directions they charged and the uniforms worn.
Richard, my officer friend, has been taken to the rear, grievously wounded.
He led his men forward and then back, only to fall in defence of our start position. I can only wish him well, but I fear the worst for this brave soldier.
Around me there are gaps, holes left by the absence of comrades who have been struck down in an action that has covered nearly two miles and yet has gained no ground.
The losses, however, are very real and, if it were not for the anti-tank gunners who so bravely stuck to their posts, the enemy tanks might well have overrun us.
Before I sat down to write this report, I sought out some familiar faces. Some I found, others were conspicuous by their absence.
I did not feel able to ask the survivors as to the whereabouts of the missing.
There is something about these men, something I have noticed before, but never quite as strongly as I do now.
It is in their eyes, a look that speaks of faraway places and not of the present, either in time or location.
An unblinking stare that holds no joy, no fear, no love, no hate; it holds nothing but the emptiness that combat brings.
The men sat around me, silently smoking, have it.
The NCOs moving round, organising the men, have it.
The officers, trying to bring order out of the chaos, have it.
The corpses, American and Russian alike, have it.
But, at least for the dead, the horrors of war are over.
The survivors must continue to have the experience until war’s end.
The European theatre it is called, suggesting a well-orchestrated and rehearsed public presentation with given processes and endings, fit for public consumption, where the ending brings a satisfactory and entertaining climax, drawing applause from all who witness it.
Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.
When I first came to the European theatre, I saw, naively of course, a great crusade against the belligerent forces of Bolshevism.
The closer I have come to the front, I have gained greater understanding of this violent process that we so readily resort to, often in preference to sitting down and resolving our differences with negotiations and goodwill; the process we call War.
Admittedly, we did not start this war, but then, neither did most of the people who stand on the other side of No Man’s land.