by Sgt. William W. Horne

9th Armored Infantry Battalion

6th Armored Division

It was in the last half of December, 1944, and General George Patton, commander of the Third United States Army, had apparently told a meeting of generals that he could smash a major German offensive, historically referred to as the Battle of the Bulge, and was prepared to do so within 48 hours. All of this I learned well after the fact. At the time Patton's offer was accepted it resulted in my being suddenly swept across northern France as a small cog in the rapid redeployment of the 4th and the 6th Armored divisions. The objective was Bastogne, where the 101st Airborne and sundry armored elements had created an immense deterrent to German success by occupying that crucial road junction. The gallant action of the defenders of Bastogne would be for naught unless relief was immediate. I was a twenty year old Sergeant in the 9th Armored Infantry of the 6th Armored Division. We had a half-track full of gasoline, ammunition, rations and an extremely large and cantankerous goose. The latter to be our Christmas dinner if circumstances permitted. The "track" held one squad of infantry, and the crated goose, with head and neck extended, which required a large free area because of the nature of its very long neck, extremely sharp beak and burning desire to do damage to its captors. All of this made the trip seemingly endless--cold steel bottom, freezing steel sides and top open to the wintry skies. Thus, there was ample cold and little offsetting heat. It is true; however, that a modicum of exercise and warmth was generated through the constant need to dodge that beak of the main course of our much- anticipated Christmas dinner.

Two armored divisions roaring down the narrow French roads, tracks clanking, engines howling, and eventually, gunfire crashing, were awesome in their aura of power. I could only think that woe-betide the Germans that had to stand up to the invincibility of those flaming monsters. Of course the Germans probably entertained similar thoughts about their own armor.

The steep rise of the heavily wooded mountains, and snow-blocked roads made life unbearably difficult, but finally the 4th Division smashed into the German lines. They were completely unexpected, and burst through the defenses and into Bastogne. The 6th followed the tracks of the 4th through the gap in the enemy lines, and fanned out on the far side of town. And that is the locale of this small personal story.

The half-tracks with our blankets, overcoats, and most of the food, aboard, dumped us off and headed back to town. Goodbye goose. The infantry did what infantry has done since the time of Caesar, and probably before. We sent out scouts, and laid out a defensive perimeter. As we scurried to find suitable German holes in which to hide, a string of mortar rounds fell into our position. I was second from the bottom as five men sought the protection of one foxhole. It is amazing how small you can become when need be. I can attest, though, that the weight of the three above became almost unbearable before they could be induced to seek other quarters.

Now we had great confidence in General Patton, who had a tendency to be right, but somewhere down the long chain of command someone had failed to realize that maps were required in order to give the troops on the ground at least a faint idea of the lay of the land. We had none. I asked the Lieutenant, who spoke to the Captain, who appealed to the Major. No maps. Still assuming we knew where the Germans were, we strengthened our perimeter, dug in our machine guns facing northwest and settled down for a freezing night. There was really no need to be concerned about locating the enemy--they found us. With dawn came first a rousing burst of mortar rounds followed by the rapid chatter of machine guns. Thus clearly informed as to which direction to go, we formed up an attack straight to the rear of our dug in positions. Maps can be very helpful, but I suppose a feel for hill and dale is still a soldier's best friend.

This was a country of low, forest-covered mountains, with 8 to 15 inches of snow to slog around in. The Germans were well dug in, and as we pushed them back they had every hill and draw carefully taped for fire control. After several days of constant firefights we were severely mauled. My squad was down to two, and the other fellow was limping badly (He was subsequently sent to the rear with prisoners.)

By January 3, 1945, the battalion was strung out along a tree line, down from which stretched a snowfield into the bottom that in summer undoubtedly contained a small creek (this was the platoon action area). On the far side of the creek bottom, open snow covered slopes led up to our objective, another tree line that was in the hands of the Germans. Scouts had identified the enemy as an SS Panzer unit, the scourge of the German military, and noted for taking no prisoners. The Captain sought artillery and tank support, but none was available. Just before noon one squad jumped off, only to be pinned down with severe losses along the creek bottom. Then there was a short period of dead silence, followed by the crack of a single shot from our position. The word came down the line that our company clerk had shot himself--why? Clerks don't accompany rifle companies in frontal assaults, so he would not have been called upon to leave that marvelously deep German foxhole. Who knows?

Shortly after noon, two more squads made it into the creek bottom, but were again pinned down by withering small arm, machine gun and 88mm-artillery fire. About 2:00 p.m., two light tanks came up on our right, and the remainder of the platoon, including the rifle squad I had fallen in with, left the cover of the tree line, and joined the tanks in a frontal assault on the hill. In order to keep your undivided attention while spinning the remainder of this personal story, I will let you know now that this assault, along with those conducted by the other platoons of the Battalion, resulted in a virtual annihilation of the opposing panzer unit. (General Patton, in his postwar book, said that this was the only action of significance on January 3, 1945. It's nice to be mentioned, even obliquely, in history.)

It was a cloudy day, in fact sufficiently overcast that there would be no air support, but ground visibility was excellent for the distance between the warring factions, and I even felt a bit exhilarated (along with a heavy dose of terror) as we fixed bayonets and jumped off. The going was slow but most of us made it into the creek bottom. As we started up the far side, one of our light tanks moved slowly along the German line, out at a distance of approximately 200 yards. It was foolhardy for the tanker to expose his light side-armor in this manner, but I took advantage of it by remaining in the cover provided by the tank as I ran up the hill. We gradually converged on the German line, then the tanker must have realized his vulnerability, spun on one track, and faced the oncoming fire with his frontal armor. Problem was, I was left standing in front of the Germans, at about 100 yards; a sitting duck. Almost immediately, a tremendous blow struck me on the left arm, spinning me around and down on the snowfield. By that time the Germans were giving it their all, in an attempt to stop the advance. GIs were falling everywhere, some killed, many wounded, and probably not a few using good judgment in getting down out of the rifle and machine gun fire. Hugging the ground didn't offer any protection, though, from the searching rounds of mortars and artillery, which for the remainder of the afternoon continued to pound the hillside.

I was hit; the worst fear of all infantrymen. And because our unit situation remained extremely precarious there was little chance that any help would be along for some time. It was also becoming progressively colder as dusk came on. I had managed to get my chemical-warfare plastic-cover out of its pack, unfolded, and spread on the snow under me. Although a combat medic had stopped and hastily slapped a bandage on my wound, his efforts hadn't done the job, and there seemed to be an almost unrestricted flow of blood. It pooled under me and chilled as the temperature dropped. I tried to tie a tourniquet above the wound, with no success. A dozen of us, dead or wounded, were lying in fairly close proximity, probably the area where the Germans obtained their first line of direct fire as we came up the hill. As the afternoon waned, I began to feel woozy. Small arms fire from above couldn't reach us, but even the slightest movement drew immediate sniper fire, and from time to time artillery rounds swept the hillside. By about 4 o'clock the fight had moved on up the slope and into the woods. I watched a wounded lieutenant get slowly to his feet and lurch down the hill. A crack of the snipers rifle, and he was dead. Others tried to crawl away, but were either wounded or killed by the sniper, who obviously had an excellent field of fire.

As dusk came on, the cold became more and more intense. There was a marked decrease in the moans of the wounded, and it was amply obvious that I had to find a way out, and soon. About this time, two medics, wild with fear (for good reason), scrambled down the hill, headed for the rear. As they came sloshing through the snow I yelled that I needed assistance. They stopped and said that they were on the way out. I mustered my strongest arguments, insisting that they take me with them, pointing out that they could be shot for cowardice for running from the field of battle, but also pointing out that none of this would happen if they were helping a wounded soldier. They finally agreed to take me, if I wouldn't be too much of an impediment. I assured them that I was capable of walking with only a little assistance, struggled to my feet, and, with a medic on each side, slipped and slid toward the creek bottom, angling off towards where we thought there might! be a road and transport. It was dark by this time, so we didn't fear sniper fire, but artillery rounds continued to explode all around us. After one such barrage, during which I felt a ripping through my clothes, I found that my jackets and shirts were in shreds. Fortunately none of us received a scratch. For two miles or so those medics dragged me along, dropping to the ground when shells exploded nearby, but immediately hauling me back to my feet and on down the mountain.

Jubilation, we finally stumbled onto a road. The medics flagged down a medical jeep, where they hoisted me up on a stretcher for a wild ride to battalion aid. There, chaos prevailed--wounded; dying and dead GIs were all over the place. The battalion surgeon and the medics were doing their best to apply sufficient patches to enable the ambulance crews to load up and head back behind the lines. My combat jacket and shirts were cut off and everyone had a macabre laugh at the shell damage. A medic went through my pockets and handed me a small pocket Bible and a notebook, both of which had jagged tears from shell fragments. I was hastily bandaged and propelled into an another ambulance. Off we went--cold, dark, crowded--down a slippery mountain road and eventually onto blacktop. By this time I was leaking blood again and feeling groggier and groggier. Finally I got the soldier near the cab to scream at the driver that we needed to stop soon. The driver cut off on another road, and swept into a field hospital. I was dragged out of the ambulance, the doors closed, and my buddies went on to God knows where. I recall entering a large brightly lit room, falling, and sometime later awakening on a table, as doctors and nurses were stabbing away at my left arm and replacing lost blood. Uppermost in my mind was food. After a number of strongly stated requests, a nurse managed to scare up a scrambled egg sandwich, which I could only stare at.

Within hours I left the field hospital, very groggy from whatever painkillers were dispensed, and in due course landed in large hospital on a hill in Paris. From thence onto an English hospital train, a cross-Channel boat, an English-hospital train again, and finally to an American hospital—the 55th General Hospital—on the Welsh border. Housed in steel Quonset huts, surrounded by lovely English and Welsh girls and snow, it all seemed like an unscheduled trip to heaven. In fact it was. ¨

William W Horne