Red Devils

8

There had been so much of a commotion in and around Bastogne that you’d have been forgiven for thinking the battle to hold the Elsenborn Ridge had gone unnoticed. Like Bastogne, the area had been key to the Germans’ objective of capturing the port of Antwerp and, also like at Bastogne, here the Fuhrer’s plans had been thwarted.

It had been a long and fragmented battle throughout the preceding month, but it had been a largely successful one too. The inexperienced troops of the 99th Infantry Division had initially been placed here in mid-November and had held back the Germans despite the enemy’s superior firepower. The Americans had been well-prepared. They’d dug-in across this wide swathe of rugged terrain with dogged persistence and had risen to the enormous challenge presented to them. They’d been stretched to the limit – physically and emotionally – but had responded with a concentrated, coordinated and extraordinarily well-directed response which had kept Jerry on the back foot.

It was at dawn on a cold morning in late December that the final German attack on the American defensive line along the Elsenborn Ridge began. The days preceding had seen the GIs celebrating Christmas as best they could in the circumstances with wine, roast turkey, and letters and parcels from home. It was almost enough to distract a man and make him think he was somewhere other than this ice-cold, hellish place for a while.

Almost.

The Nazis came pouring out of the forest north of Rocherath, loaded up with kit and ready to depose the Americans from their positions.

Not a chance.

They were met with a volley of shells which rained down on them, and by the time the dust and smoke cleared, the fields were filled with German bodies.

There was much rejoicing in the American ranks. A small but crucial victory against all the odds. It felt like something of an analogy for the larger battles taking place in the Ardennes.

The muted celebrations in the allied ranks were short-lived.

Private Billy Bowker, a kid from Wyoming who was straight out of school and straight into battle, lifted his head from his foxhole once the noise had died down and looked around. His daddy had always said that if something seemed too easy, then the job probably wasn’t finished yet. He thought that must be the case this morning. He’d taken out a couple of krauts himself with his weapon when they’d managed to get this far through the chaos but, for the most part, the shells had done all the damage.

Bowker had heard the stories, of course, and he’d talked at length to a couple of boys who’d seen and fought them first-hand, but nothing came close to the gut-wrenching fear he felt when he saw them for himself.

From his low dug-in position, to all intents and purposes the field stretching out ahead of him looked like someone had been trying to grow a crop of body parts. Hands stuck up like Jerry was asking for help. Elsewhere a truncated leg like a sapling tree, defying physics and the weather to stay standing upright. Not far away, a kraut on his back like he was lying on a beach, sunbathing. Bowker watched that one for a while, making sure he was dead. He’d have to deal with him if he wasn’t.

They came out of the mist.

He knew straightaway that there was something different about these soldiers. Something about the way they moved. Ponderous at times, borderline lethargic. Exactly how you didn’t want to move if you’d just witnessed a couple hundred of your comrades blown to kingdom come in this exact same spot. But still they came, and it took Bowker a while to figure out that it was them.

The Americans had shells enough to spare.

Another volley of mortars came from behind, flying over Bowker’s head and blasting seven shades out of the frozen field and most of the approaching German soldiers. Bowker glanced up from his foxhole once again to see several of them still moving towards the American line, apparently without a damn care in the world. Curiosity kept his head up and exposed and he watched with disbelief as they continued their advance. One of them, it appeared, had been hit. A soldier dressed in off-white fatigues, one side of his body drenched with his own blood, kept coming like nothing had happened. His rifle hung useless. His right arm blown off below the elbow.

More shells, because these damn things weren’t stopping for anyone.

And now gunfire.

And now men elsewhere along the Elsenborn ridge were up out of their dug-outs, shooting at the enemy unopposed. Like shooting fish in a barrel, he thought, but it really wasn’t. They kept on coming. Whether they were shot or blown up, the damn things just kept on coming and coming. And as Bowker found to his cost, picking them off from a distance wasn’t as easy as it looked. All he did was miss a couple, then got himself distracted by a couple more coming from a different angle. Then by the time he was ready to point and shoot at the first ones again, two had become four, then six, then more.

The gunner firing the 240mm Howitzer didn’t even know Private Bowker was there when he hit the undead crowd.