The Hand Not Given
The mists of memory now shroud my
experiences in the last days of the battle and what followed. Only later did I
learn that my personal disaster was called "The Battle of the Bulge".
What remains of this early scar, inflicted in the young days of life, overlaid
now with other hurts as severe and deep, acquired in the subsequent thirty-five
years of living and surviving?
My division--the 106th--was at the very
point of the massive enemy assault in the Ardennes Forest. Retreat or withdrawal
was cut off. A break-through effort by our
f infantry
was tried and failed. We then went forward in the direction of the West Wall to
escape enemy pressure. Once again, we tried going back towards our lines. At
one moment, our artillery vehicles were drawn up in a circle, frontier style.
We proceeded to move out. Going through a valley, shells began to pour in on
us. Bravely, a 105 mm gun crew set up,
Bob Niner
Hq, Battery, 590th Field Artillery Battalion
106th Infantry Division
tried to reply, and was silenced by a hit.
After half an hour
of mortar fire and shelling by 88mm anti-aircraft by the Germans, there was a
shattering cry. ""Every man for himself' still echoes chillingly,
carrying the message of aloneness and abandonment in the face of imminent
destruction. A panoramic view flashes before me as I see hundreds of us,
trapped, bewildered, defenseless ... the release of captured German prisoners
running back to their lines screaming for a halt in the firing until they were
safe ... my helmet flying from my head as face and body are pressed into the
earth, seeking safety as shrapnel pours merciless hell, sharing the very ground
sought as a haven ... "Medic ! Medic" is
screamed out from those unfortunates already hit, and their pitiful cries still
reverberate and chill me!
. A brief respite from the shelling. White rags appear from
nowhere ... a panicked oozing of a line of our men, growing from a trickle into
a heavy flow, moving towards the enemy lines. The invisible foe loosens briefly
the ring of steel to gather the harvest of the stampeded and defeated American
troops.
We were set down in a field, grouped
then into long lines, and sent on a wandering, interminable march.
We passed the Dragon's Teeth and
anti-tank traps and block houses that were part of the Siegfried Line. We
marched through Prum, a dead city, battered and
broken. Even now, incredibly, I recall the beauty of the hills and streams of
Luxembourg. Wearily putting one foot in front of the other, exhausted, we
continued on. There could be no dropping out. Fantasy and reality interchanged
places, and I still see the image of a German soldier, dead and frozen, sitting
upright on his motorcycle.
At the railroad siding, a long train of
cattle cars awaited. The loading of the dispirited prisoners began.
Willie calls out, "Let's get on
this box car". Dan says, "Let's get on the next one!"
Still I see short
Willie. Clearer is the earlier image of him with a bandage around his head.
Willie had been waylaid in Scully Square in Boston while on our last leave from
the port of embarkation, Camp Miles Standish. He had been beaten and concussed,
and he missed sailing with us on the USS Wakefield, our troop ship. He joined
us later in England.
Dan was tall,
spare, quiet spoken. For whatever reason--or none--I walked to the next cattle
car, separating from Willie, accompanying Dan.
The stench of the
manure-laden straw on the floor of the cattle car is smelled no more. Did we
really pass three days without water or food? At last, reliefl
The delight of swallowing the icy cold wetness when
the locked door opened at a siding! Our thirst-tortured bodies sought this
slight but needed succor. The damp and metallic feel of the helmetful
of water as it was passed from hand to hand! The urgent press of others' unslaked demands on the lucky ones who had first received
the helmet! "That's enough! Pass it on!" was the repeated cry.
Unsatisfied, one more brief swallow, and the precious
gift was handed on. The drink was not nearly enough, not nearly long enough,
but the container was given up to be fairly shared. Each of us received a
couple of hard crackers, barely chewable, inadequate--but savored nonetheless.
Once more, the
boxcar was locked. The high, piercing, tremulous whistle of
the locomotive cut through the air. The boxcars smashed and jerked as
other cars were added or taken off the train. There was the slow pull; halt;
pull; halt; then forward once more until, finally, there was an established
rhythm as the freight train