Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 1

Lieutenants.

Brotherhood Of War.

Griffin, W.E.B.

On 14 February 1943, strong German armored units sallied forth from pa.s.ses in south-central Tunisia on the front of the 11 U.S. Corps, commanded by Major General Lloyd R. Fredendall, in an attempt to turn the flank of the British First Army (Lt. Gen. Kenneth A. N. Anderson) and capture' the base of operations that the Allies had set up around Tebessa. In a series of sharp armored actions, the Germans defeated the Allies and forced a withdrawal by American troops all the way back throughKa.s.serinePa.s.s and the valley beyond.

American Military History 1607-1953 Department of the Army, July 1956.

(One).

NearSidi-Bou-Zid,Tunisia 17 February 1943.

Two tanks, American, which showed signs of hard use, moved slowly down a path. The terrain was undulating desert. Not sand dunes, but arid, gritty soil, with crumbling, fist-sized rocks and spa.r.s.e vegetation. The dips in the hind were just deep enough to conceal a tank. The high spots did not provide for much visibility. You could see for a mile, perhaps more, but a tank could be concealed in a dip a hundred yards away.

Major Robert Bellmon, riding in the open turret of the lead M4A2 "Sherman" tank, his tanned body outside the hatch, was a tall and rangy young man who had graduated from theUnited StatesMilitaryAcademy atWest Point in 1939. He wore the Academy ring, a simple gold wedding band, and an issue Hamilton watch. The issue band had rotted, and had been replaced by a band st.i.tched from the tail pf a khaki s.h.i.+rt by the battalion tailor.

Bellmon wore a khaki s.h.i.+rt, a cotton tanker's jacket with a zipper front arid knit cuffs and collar, wool olive-drab trousers, and a pair of nonregulation tanker's boots, which looked like a combination of dress low quarters, field shoes, and combat boots; their uppers reached ten inches up his calves. He also wore an old style tanker's helmet, which was like a football helmet to which earphones had been riveted. A Colt Model 1911 A 1 pistol was suspended half under his arm in a shoulder holster, and a pair of Zeiss binoculars, inherited from his father, hung around his neck.

Although he had stopped the tank and carefully searched the desert three minutes before, and only thirty seconds before had ordered Sergeant Pete Fortin, the driver, to get moving, he did not see the Afrika Korps Panzer kampf wagen IV until the muzzle blast of its 75 mm turret cannon caught his eye. A half-second later the tungsten-steel projectile slammed into the hull of his M4A2.

Th.e.s.h.erman shuddered. There was an awesome roar, followed immediately by the horrible screeching sound of tearing metal, lasting no more than a second. The M4A2 turned to the right, halfway off the track it had been following, and stopped dead. It had moved no more than eight feet after being struck.

The impact of the armor-piercing sh.e.l.l threw Bellmon against the edge of the commander's hatch, catching him in the rib cage. It bruised him severely, knocking the breath out of him, and almost throwing him out of the commander's turret.

He heard a groan, which sounded somewhat surprised, from inside the tank, but couldn't tell who it was. When he looked down, dense black smoke had already begun to fill the tank's interior. Without really thinking about what he was doing, acting in pure animal reflex, he hoisted himself out of the turret.

There was a wave of pain.

He just had time to curse himself for getting out of the turret-his duty clearly was to have gone into the hull to help the others-when an intensely hot spurt of flame erupted upward from the turret. He knew what had caused it. Pieces of metal from the projectile, and pieces torn from the hull itself, had ripped into the bra.s.s cases of the 75 mm cannon ammunition, slicing them open and spilling.

their powder. Then the powder had caught fire. When unconfined powder burns, it does not explode. The explosion came a moment later, as intact sh.e.l.l cases and gasoline fumes detonated.

Bellmon felt himself flying through the air. He landed on his back upon the rocky ground, his shoulders striking the ground first, throwing him into a backward somersault, and knocking what was left of the wind in his lungs out of him. When he came to rest, he was conscious, but was incapable of movement.

He was dimly aware of a second shot from a tank cannon, a sharp cracking- noise, followed immediately by a heavier thump. Despite, the pain in his ribs, he tried to get control of himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another. And another.

Finally he was able to roll onto his side to see what had happened to the second M4A2, the other tank which had come out with him "to locate and a.s.sist the 705th Field Artillery Battalion." It was immobile. There Was no one in the turret, and oily smoke oozed out around the fuel tanks and the turret ring. No one had gotten out of that one.

He heard the sound of a tank engine. He let himself fall slowly onto his face. He would play dead, though it was a slim chance at best. The crew of the German tank would more than likely give him a burst with the 7.93 .mm machine gun. Prisoners were a nuisance in fast-moving tank warfare.

He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe very slowly. His only hope was to make them think that he had been killed when his tank blew up. If he tried to surrender, all he would do would be to give them a better target.

The pzKwlV ground to a halt near him. It was now the standard German medium tank, an efficient killing machine, into which had been incorporated all the lessons the German Panzertruppen had learned inFrance andRussia and here inAfrica . Bellmon would have been willing to admit, privately, that it was a better tank than th.e.s.h.erman .

He knew the German tank commander was watching him. Then he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gritty soil.

"Was ist er?"

"Ein Offizier, Herr Leutnant. Mit einen gelben Blatt."

"Ein Major?" the first voice said."Is he dead?"

"No," the self-confident voice above him said, matter-of-factly."He's breathing. Playing dead."

Good G.o.d, is my pretense that transparent?

There was the sound of more booted feet on the gritty soil.

"Please do not make it necessary for me to kill you, Herr Major," the first voice said.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. Bellmon opened his eyes and found himself looking into the muzzle of a .45 Colt automatic. It was in the hands of a young, blond, good-looking lieutenant of the Afrika Korps. He wore the black tunic of the Panzertruppen above standard gray Wehrmacht trousers. He smiled at Bellmon. Then he reached down with his free hand and took Bellmon's .45 from his shoulder holster.

"You may sit up, please, Major," he said. His English was British accented."Are you injured?"

Bellmon sat up. The lieutenant handed Bellmon's .45 to the soldier with him. Another nice-looking, clean-cut, blond headed boy, Bellmon thought.

"Will you also give me, please, the holster?" the lieutenant asked. Bellmon pulled it over his head and held it out. The soldier held his Schmeisser 9 mm machine-pistol between his knees, took Bellmon's shoulder holster, and put it over his head.

"Make sure that isn't loaded," the lieutenant cautioned. The soldier took the magazine from the b.u.t.t of the .45, saw that it was full, emptied it, and then put it back in the pistol, and then slipped the pistol into the holster.

"The Colt is a very fine pistol, Major," the lieutenant said.

Bellmon didn't reply.

"Help the major to his feet," the lieutenant said.

"Are you going to see to my men?" Bellmon asked, getting painfully to his feet unaided.

The lieutenant actually looked unhappy as he made a sad gesture toward the two American, tanks. They were both burning steadily. There was the smell of burned flesh. Bellmon willed back a spasm of nausea. He would not, he vowed, show weakness before his captors.

The soldier took his arm and led him to the PzKwIV.

"Please to get inside, Herr Major," the lieutenant said.

Bellmon climbed over the bogies, the wheels around which the track of the tank moved, and by which it was supported. A two-piece hatch in the side of the turret was open. The sweat soaked face of an older man-probably the platoon sergeant, Bellmon judged, because there was something about him that told him he wasn't an officer-looked out at him. Bellmon lowered his head and started to crawl into the turret.

"Nein," the face said to him."Fuss vorwiirts."

Bellmon pulled his head back out, turned around, and backed into the turret hatch.

Inside the hull, which was more cramped than the hull of an M4A2, he was -motioned to sit down on the floor. One of the crewmen (the driver, probably, he thought) came up with a length of field telephone wire. He looped it around Bellmon's ankles, and then around his wrists, and tied his wrists to his ankles.

Then he climbed out of sight. In a moment, there was the clash of gears, and the PzKwIV turned on one track, then went back in the direction from which it had come, to the east, toward the German lines.

I am alive, Bellmon told himself. Bruised, a little groggy, but not really injured. This is where-lam supposed to think that I will live to fight another day.

He became aware that tears were blurring his vision and running down his cheeks. Was it shock? Was he weeping for Sergeant Pete Fortin and all the others? Or because the worst thing that could happen, to an officer, capture, had happened to him? Did it matter? He lowered his head on his knees so that his captors would not see him crying.

(Two).

Hq, 393rd Tank Destroyer Battalion' (Reinforced).

Youks-Les-Bains,Algeria.

24 February 1943.

The command post was built against the side of a stony hill, facing away from the front lines and the German artillery. At the crest of the hill, four half-tracks, two mounting 75 mm ant.i.tank cannon and two mounting multiple. 50 caliber machine guns in powered turrets, were dug in facing the front.

On the ground, on the friendly side of the hill, two more half-tracks with multiple .50s faced the opposite direction. A half-moon of barbed wire with sandbagged machine-gun emplacements guarded the command post dugouts: The dugouts were holes in the side of the hill, with timber supporting sandbag roofs.

Two jeeps, traveling well above the posted 25 mph speed limit, approached the 393rd CP from the rear. Each held three men, and an air-cooled Browning .50 caliber machine gun on a pillar. The front jeep had nonstandard accouterments: the seats were thickly padded leather, instead of the normal thin canvas pad; a hand bar had been welded to the top of the winds.h.i.+eld; and a combination flas.h.i.+ng red light and siren of the type usually found on a police car was mounted on the right fender. It had been painted olive-drab; but the paint, here and there, had flecked off the chrome. An eight-by-twelve-inch sheet of tin, painted red and with a single silver star in the middle, was placed above the front and rear b.u.mpers. Communications radios were bolted to the fender wells in the back seat, and their antennae whipped in the air. Spring clips had been bolted to the dashboard. Each held a Thompson .45 ACP caliber submachine gun.

The driver of the lead jeep was a master sergeant in his thirties, a pug-nosed, squat, muscular man with huge hands. He wore a tanker's jacket and a Colt .45 automatic in a shoulder holster. Beside him sat a firm-jawed, silver-haired, almost handsome man in his fifties, wearing an Army Air Corps pilot's horsehide jacket, with a silver star on each epaulet. A yellow silk scarf, neatly knotted, was around his neck. He also carried a .45 in a shoulder holster. The man in the back seat was young, clean-cut, and dressed like the general, the only difference being the silver bars of a first lieutenant on the epaulets of his pilot's horsehide jacket.

The second jeep contained three enlisted men, a technical sergeant and two staff sergeants, armed with both Garand MI rifles and Colt pistols carried in holsters suspended from web belts around their waists. Their helmets had "MP" painted on their sides.

As they approached the gate to the command post of the 393rd Tank Destroyer Battalion (Reinforced), the master sergeant driving the lead jeep saw that the road was barred by a weighted telephone pole suspended horizontally across the road. He reached down and flipped the siren switch. The siren growled, just long enough to signal the soldier at the. gate to raise the telephone pole.

He did not do so. The two jeeps skidded to a stop.

The master sergeant at the wheel of the lead jeep started to rise in his seat. The general, with a little wave of his left hand, signaled him to sit back down.

"It's all right, Tommy," he said.

This wasn't garrison, and the guard was not ceremonial. The German advance had been stopped a thousand yards away.

The guard was a very large, six-foot-tall, very black PFC, carrying a Garand rifle slung over his shoulder. He stood at the weighted end of the pole, examined the pa.s.sengers in the jeep carefully, and then, satisfied, stood erect, grasped the leather sling of his M I with his left hand, saluted crisply with his right, and then pushed the weighted end of the pole down. The barrier end lifted. The guard then waved them through. He stood at attention until both jeeps had pa.s.sed, and then he quickly cranked the EE-8 field telephone at his feet.

"General officer headed for the CP," he said."PorkyWaterford ."

By the time the two jeeps had reached the hunker with the American flag and the battalion guidon before it, a very tall, flat-nosed Negro lieutenant colonel whose brown skin was somewhat darker than his boots had stepped outside the bunker. He was dressed in olive-drab s.h.i.+rt and trousers, with a yellow piece of parachute silk wrapped around his neck as a foulard. He carried a World War I Colt New Service .45 ACP revolver in an old-fas.h.i.+oned cavalry-style holster (one with a swivel, so the holster would hang straight down even when mounted).

The guard at the door to the CP carried a Thompson .45 caliber submachine gun. He saluted the moment the jeep stopped, and the brigadier general in the front seat jumped out.

The lieutenant colonel, whose features and dark skin made him look very much like an Arab, took three steps away from the door, came to attention, and saluted.

"Lieutenant Colonel Parker, sir, commanding," he said.

The brigadier general returned the salute,' and then put out his hand.

"How are you, Colonel?" he asked. The handshake was momentary, pro forma.

"Very well, thank you, General," Lt. Col. Philip Sheridan Parker III said."Will the general come into the CP?"

"Thank you," Brigadier General Peterson K. Waterford said.

Colonel Parker waved him ahead into the CP. Someone called "Attention."

"Rest, gentlemen," General Waterford said, immediately.

The command post was crowded, but neat and orderly. One wall was covered with large maps and charts, overlaid with celluloid. There was a field switchboard, communications radios, folding tables equipped with portable typewriters. A large, open, enameled coffee pot simmered on an alcohol stove.

There were perhaps twenty men, officers and enlisted, all black, in the room.

"Would the general care to examine our situation?" Colonel Parker said, gesturing toward the situation map.

"Actually, Colonel," General Waterford said, "I took the chance that you would have a minute or two for me on a personal matter."

"Perhaps the general would care to come to my quarters Lieutenant Colonel Parker offered.

"That's very kind of you, Colonel," General Waterford said.

"Captain," Parker said to a stout, round-faced captain, "would you brief the general's aide?".

The captain came to attention."Yes, sir."

Colonel Parker pushed aside a piece of tarpaulin that served as the door to his quarters, an eight-by-eight-foot chamber hacked out of the hill. Inside were a Gl cot, a GI folding table, two GI folding chairs, a Gl desk, and two footlockers.

"Will the general have a seat?" Colonel Parker inquired. WhenWaterford had sat down, Parker knelt and opened one of the footlockers and took out two bottles, one of scotch and one of bourbon. He looked at General Waterford, who indicated the scotch by pointing his finger. He poured scotch into one cheese gla.s.s, and bourbon into the other. He handed the general the scotch, then tapped it with his gla.s.s of bourbon.

"Mud in your eye, Porky," he said.

"Health and long life, Phil," the general replied. They drank their whiskey neat, all of it. Parker asked with raised eyebrows ifWaterford wanted another, andWaterford declined with a shake of his head.

"I'm really sorry about Bob Bellmon, Porky, Colonel Parker said."I was going to get my thoughts together, and then ask if you thought I should write Marjorie."

"What ate your thoughts?"Waterford asked.

"I'll tell you. what I know," Parker said."We were withdrawing. That's a week ago today. About three miles from Sidi-Bou-Zid, we came across two shot-up M4s. I had a moment or two, so I went and looked. The b.u.mper markings identified them as belonging to 7-3rd Medium Tank. Numbers two and fourteen."

"Tony Wilson took the time to tell me what he knew,"Waterford said."Bob went out in number two. He was trying to link up with the 705th Field. Two lousy tanks was all that Tony could spare. Tony said Bob convinced him that they had to try with what they had. Neither of them knew, of course, but the 705th had already been rolled over." Lt. Col. Philip Sheridan Parker III felt sorry for Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Wilson, who commanded the 73rd Medium Tank Battalion. Losing men was always bad. Having to explain how they were lost in person to a man who was simultaneously the father-in-law, a general officer, and an old friend must have been very rough indeed.

"Both tanks had been struck with something big," Parker said."I'd say a high velocity tungsten-cored round from the Mark IV Panzer. Both had burned. One of them had exploded."

"Which one?"Waterford asked.