Last Assault: 1944 - The Battle of the Bulge by Charles Whiting

Author:Charles Whiting [Whiting, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookzat Publishing Ltd
Published: 2018-05-31T23:00:00+00:00

DAY FOUR: Tuesday, 19 December 1944.

Weather: Misty and fog. No aerial activity.

‘It’s either root hog—or die! Shoot the works. If those Hun bastards want war in the raw, that’s the way we’ll give it to them!’

General Patton, 19 December.

In the morning mist Cavender’s 423rd Regiment huddled behind the saddle of Hill 536. Down below, just visible, was Schönberg. The weary infantrymen rubbed their red-rimmed eyes and stared at it. This was their objective.

Swiftly Cavender reviewed his dispositions. He was with Klinck’s 3rd Battalion on the hillside closest to the Belgian village. To the right on the reverse side of the slope was Puett’s 2nd Battalion, while the 1st Battalion, now commanded by Major Moon, was to the rear. He didn’t particularly like the set-up but the sky was beginning to clear a little and he still hoped for that long-promised airdrop.

At nine Colonel Cavender called a conference of officers. He told them: ‘We will attack at ten hundred hours in columns of battalions.’ He pointed to Colonel Klinck. ‘You are in the best shape. You’ll carry the burden of the attack.’

Klinck nodded. His Battalion would come down the steep logging trail from Hill 536 to where the road descending into Schönberg made a ninety degree turn. It could be that the enemy would be in the cluster of whitewashed houses to the right next to the Catholic grotto. With luck his Battalion would be able to rush them. Then it was only a matter of yards to the centre of Schönberg. Klinck told himself that they would be finished climbing, at least. From now onwards it would be all downhill.

Cavender, precise and formal, perhaps even a little old-fashioned, right to the end, looked at his watch and began to co-ordinate the time. But he didn’t get very far.

Abruptly the morning stillness was torn apart by an unholy howl. Shells shrieked out of the sky. The officers stiffened. ‘Look out!’ someone cried and they flung themselves down. Fist-sized lumps of shrapnel scythed through the trees. The lone German field artillery battalion along the Bleialf-Schönberg road had begun pounding Hill 536.

The German grenadiers began attacking under the cover of their barrage. Without difficulty they overran the 590th Field Artillery, gunners without guns. They came up from their rear, firing wildly from the hip, yelling like men demented. The American artillerymen started to raise their hands in surrender. In a matter of minutes Cavender’s rear was cut off. Now there was only one way for him to go—forward!

But for a while Cavender had other problems than the surrender of the artillerymen to his rear. The short artillery bombardment had seemingly demoralized his regimental staff. Now they had gone to ground and refused to move out.

‘Move out!’ an enraged NCO yelled at the frightened men. But they refused. They clung stubbornly to whatever cover they could find. Cavender berated them, as did Colonel Nagle, his wounded executive officer. To no avail.

Just then a very large black sergeant stalked through the trees with a tommy gun tucked underneath his arm.

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