Task force hogan, p.15
Task Force Hogan, page 15
“Top, we’ve lost the main body of the convoy,” the driver managed to stammer out. Top Rogers’s brow slowly furrowed, his eyes narrowing into a soul-draining stare at the soldier looking up wide-eyed at him.
“Whadya mean we’ve lost the main body?! Fuck! What town is this?! How did you miss the truck in front of you moving out?!”
The loud cracks of German rifles followed by the BRRRRRRRP of a machine gun interrupted the first sergeant’s interrogation.
Calls of “Get down!” and “Assault guns up!” chorused down the line as First Sergeant Rogers scrambled for his carbine and some cover. Drivers were startled out of their daze as they sat in their truck cabs fumbling for their pistols.
The assault guns moved to each side of the parked trucks as they knocked down small saplings to climb over the shoulder of the country road and roared to the front, where they could shield the vulnerable trucks and return fire.
Inside the cramped turrets of the assault guns, crewmen were riding high on adrenaline, each tank commander yelling to his gunners to prepare for direct fire using their already loaded HE rounds.
Riding high in the gun turret ring of the second truck of the convoy, Sergeant John Robert Burns Barclay—no relation to Captain Barclay, H Company commander, but rather a battalion mess sergeant from Royalton, Illinois—sat wondering what in the hell he had gotten himself into.
A 1941 selectee and early arrival to Camp Polk, he had grown up poor, one of eleven children of a hard-drinking Scottish miner. He grew up cooking to help his mother feed the large family. After finishing school, he was the chef at a family restaurant, so it seemed surprisingly efficient that the army made him a cook after drafting him in the wake of Pearl Harbor. He loved to cook, and his mother felt it would be a safer job.
The twenty-seven-year-old Sergeant Barclay reflected on this as he stood in the gun turret of a 2.5-ton kitchen truck, a .50-caliber machine gun feeling like a foreign artifact in his hands. He began firing at the muzzle flashes coming from the hill ahead as occasional tracers zipped in green, blinding flashes overhead. RATATATAT came in the staccato response to his pressing of the butterfly-shaped, dual-thumb trigger. He heard the hot casings land with metallic pings on the bed of the truck behind him.
John kept the fire going until the barrel began to smoke. He had forgotten in the heat of the moment to keep his rate of fire down by shooting in bursts.
“Whelp, it’s too late,” he mumbled to himself as he felt the firing mechanism seize up and jam with the ejecting cases. He cursed and began taking it apart in the darkness as best he could, yelling to his buddy who was squeezing off a few rounds from his carbine in the back of the kitchen truck: “Slim! Bring me another gun barrel!” A response of “What?! Where’s that?!” was discouraging to say the least.
The assault gun platoon aggressively fired at the muzzle flashes coming at them from the wooded area adjacent to the village, while the truckers sought cover behind engine blocks and kept an eye out for any flanking attempt by the German infantry coming out of Harmignies. The firefight lasted twenty-five minutes until the forceful fire of the assault guns convinced the Germans to pull back from what they thought was a strong armored force. If they had waited for a little daylight, they might have seen an opportunity to destroy a large US support convoy guarded only by three light-skinned assault guns.
The Service Company survived, but they still had to reestablish contact with friendlies, ideally their own task force, without being shot up by Germans or other Americans with itchy trigger fingers.
BACK IN THE MAIN BODY of the task force, at 3:00 A.M. on September 3, the column was low on fuel and their supply and mechanics were still missing. As if that weren’t enough, there was an air liaison report that an enemy column that stretched for miles, composed of three hundred to four hundred vehicles, was moving in their direction.
The task force halted to set up ambush positions from their first bivouac inside Belgium. The large force coiled in a 360-degree perimeter, then set out roadblocks, observation posts, and ambush positions on the avenues of approach. Their next priority was to reestablish contact with the missing company.
Sam directed two Shermans from H Company plus infantry riding on top: “Clear the area one mile to their southwest, and find and retrieve the missing loggies.” He then ordered the remainder of G and H Company tanks with their infantry to push their perimeter out with roadblocks at all approaches to their position, instructing them to hit hard but be prepared to accept surrenders. Across a five-kilometer front, Spearhead hunkered down, tensely waiting in ambush. The men were fatigued but unable to sleep, knowing that the enemy was coming their way—their numbers, aggression, and desperation as yet unknown.
All along the southern border of Belgium, the three combat commands of the Third Armored Division began making contact with German infantry, tanks, half-tracks, and self-propelled howitzers. It began with single potshots, as the antagonists blindly drew closer and then sighted each other. Radios blared, and the hoarse yelling of commanders began echoing through wood-lined firebreaks and tree-studded ridges.
“Shit, this is it. Red Platoon prepared to engage!” Jake Sitzes heard it like a tide rolling in and crashing on a beach. All around, the static of small-arms fire grew into a constant sound, interrupted only by the sporadic pounding of heavy artillery. Smoke began to rise over treetops to the west and radio sets blared transmissions with hardly a pause. The lieutenant dropped down inside the cramped turret of his light tank to load a canister round into the breech of his 37-mm cannon. Like a giant shotgun, the canister round exploded out 122 steel balls designed to cut down large formations of infantry. “Red Platoon, move forward one hundred meters,” Jake called out, as machine gun fire began peppering his turret, bouncing off with a harmless metal-on-metal clang.
Across the division front, situation maps grew swathes of red “enemy” markers as the German wave crashed on the “breakwaters” set up by the Third Armored Division. The giant running battle began in earnest. Groups of German tanks and infantry rolled into kill zones and roadblocks set up all along the enemy’s likely avenues of approach based on the intelligence available and the gut instinct of sergeants and lieutenants.
Combined with artillery and airpower, the Americans inflicted massive casualties on the German divisions streaming east trying to reach the relative safety of their West Wall fortifications. US howitzers and mortars rained devastating barrages of shrapnel, high-explosive rounds, with ear-bursting detonations that knocked out vehicles and shredded infantrymen.
One roadblock called in artillery on a long column of horse-drawn German equipment fifteen hundred yards away, wreaking similar havoc on the poor beasts and their drivers, but more important, on the howitzers and ammunition they were pulling.
The situation was so chaotic that rear-echelon units were engaging German infantry who were avoiding the stronger US formations to their front by crawling through dense wooded areas. Supply trucks and the tail ends of the armored columns were subject to sniper fire and hasty roadblocks.
Early on September 3, one supply truck headed to resupply the task force was informed by locals that the Germans had reoccupied Givry. The driver didn’t hesitate to turn the truck around to head back to the division trains. Behind it, a German truck loaded with infantry gave chase. Passing a US roadblock at high speed, the supply truck driver slowed down enough to yell at the US infantrymen operating the machine gun position that the truck behind him was full of Germans. The GIs wasted no time in firing several well-aimed streams of machine gun fire at the oncoming truck, sending it careening into the woods in a shower of dust, fire, and shattered tree and human limbs.
Forward-echelon, heavier-armed buddies were holding their own—but meanwhile, several kilometers east, the members of the lost Service Company were still alone, unwittingly on Belgian soil, and in a fight for their lives. Sergeant Barclay shook his head awake as he scanned the unfamiliar surroundings ahead. He rubbed his tired eyes with one gunpowder-grimed hand as he continued to protect his kitchen truck and crew from his position behind the machine gun.
It was twilight, and early-morning fog shrouded the roadsides. The convoy slowed at a series of bends in the road. They fully expected enemy contact, so the drivers went as fast as they dared given the darkness and odds of flipping over a top-heavy truck.
Two of John’s cooks sat clutching their rifles behind him on the bed of the gut truck among stacks of kitchen pots and boxes of canned goods. One, Private John Cambolito, yelled out, “Look at that fence!”
Barclay turned to his right front and his eyes widened as he swiveled the machine gun over, yelling, “Those aren’t fence posts—those are Germans!” A five-round burst from his machine gun sent the Germans scrambling for cover as the kitchen truck roared through the kill zone. The other cooks, ammunition specialists, and mechanics fired rounds to the sides from truck cabs and beds. Squads of five to eight German soldiers popped in and out of the woods, lining the road. Each side were surprised and shocked to see the other.6
The little convoy pushed forward, continuing to fire as the Germans organized and streamed out to the front of the convoy, throwing grenades and rifle shots at the Americans. First Sergeant Rogers took some shrapnel but kept directing the convoy from the passenger seat of his deuce-and-a-half truck. Secrecy and stealth were lost.
“Keep trying to raise some friendlies on the radio,” he called out to the soldier sitting in the middle of the cab. Several other men received shrapnel wounds from the grenades exploding outside their vehicles. Doc Spigelman and his medics bandaged what wounds they could, when they could, in between rushes forward.
The front truck sped up with crunching gears and loud cuss words emanating from the cab. Sergeant Barclay’s “Roach Coach,” one of the combat soldier’s endearing nicknames for the kitchen truck, coming in second, accelerated past the bend. Soon the remaining vehicles cleared the curve and were on the straightaway. The fire of German machine guns died down as they moved farther from the enemy picket. Barclay wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve, looked back at his wide-eyed cooks, and managed to stammer out, “That was a close one.” The ragtag caravan of mismatched trucks rattled down the road at full speed. Would they run into another German patrol or even a tank? Or would they run out of gas first?
Pushing on three kilometers farther as the sun climbed up, First Sergeant Rogers kept his radio microphone to his face, “Any Omaha element, this is Orchard Whiskey Seven—over.” His voice was growing raspy and choked. The little convoy began cresting a hill, but had no idea what was on the other side. “Any Omaha element, this is Orchard Whiskey Seven—over.” Nothing but static.
Rogers’s truck had topped the small hill when his radio crackled to life. “Whiskey Seven, this is How One-Seven, read you loud and clear.” The driver let out a whoop, “H Company tanks!” which resounded in every truck cab with a radio and spread to those riding in back. Top Rogers simply inclined his head and whispered, “Thank God.” The missing convoy was finally able to raise friendly units on the radio. It was H Company that sent tanks to retrieve them. They followed the tanks back to the Task Force Hogan position, much to Sam’s relief, but surely to the highest relief of the truck driver who had fallen asleep, and who shall remain nameless.
There was no tearful reunion when the lost convoy pulled into the task force coil at midday. There was a battle going on, ammunition and fuel were running low, and even the cooks were needed to help man roadblocks. However, news of the lost convoy had filtered to the tank and infantry pickets, who expected them coming in.
They arrived inside Task Force Hogan lines to cheers and pats on the back. There was always some good-natured teasing between the trigger-pullers of the first echelon and the rear-echelon “enablers.” One tanker, as he saw Barclay spill out of the back of the kitchen truck, piles of spent casings toppling out behind him, teased: “Hey, Sarge! I heard Colonel Hogan is going to put you all in for CIBs [Combat Infantrymen Badges] . . . in your dreams!”
Everyone liked Sergeant Barclay—the only thing he loved more than preparing a hot meal was dishing it out to the bedraggled tankers and leg infantry. On the chow line, he would grin affectionately when the soldiers attempted some fake small talk in order to get that extra scoop of mashed potatoes. He always made sure they got their fill. However, a lot of the time the kitchen truck couldn’t go where the tanks went due to the mud or lack of roads. In those cases, he tried his best to get food out to the soldiers.
John barked back at the grunt, with a tired wink, “It’s okay, I’m in need of KPs for the next bivouac. I’ll talk to your platoon sergeant.”
Despite the ribbing, the combat troops respected and loved their loggie brothers. Even Spearhead’s rear echelon was always far forward of 80 percent of the rest of the US Army. Unlike noncombat troops, Spearheaders—whatever their specialty—didn’t benefit from the comforts of large rear-area camps, such as warm meals every day, showers, and visits by Hollywood stars or the brass. The GIs’ response, repeated over the past weeks since the division got their new nickname: “Where there’s a Spearhead, there’s a shaft . . . and we’re always getting it.”
The shared suffering was a badge of honor to them, and it solidified their camaraderie.
Sergeant Barclay, Top Rogers (with his face bandaged up), and the others got right back to work after their warm greeting.
AT 7:00 A.M. ON SEPTEMBER 4, vehicles now fueled and ready to roll, Task Force Hogan received orders to clear the enemy out of southwest Mons.
Operating on their last reserves of energy, as well as ammunition and fuel, the boys saluted and mounted up. By this time, each man alternated between frayed nerves and a kind of numb exhaustion. Most everyone’s backs were sore, knees, shoulders, and necks, too, from the constant bumping along trails and country roads. Dehydration headaches came and went.
Infantrymen took turns napping on the back decks as they rolled along, their buddies both pulling security and holding on to their napping friends’ pistol belts so that a sudden turn wouldn’t roll the slumbering soldiers off the deck to a seven-foot drop to the ground.
Drivers napped when they could, and so did Sam, taking turns for a thirty-minute catnap here or there while seconds-in-command monitored the situation. Another welcome adrenaline shot kicked in as they approached Mons. Tanks and infantry cleared the outskirts against light resistance, and a dozen more prisoners were taken.
The day’s mission complete, the armored columns backtracked to their bivouac area one mile northwest of Givry. The First Battalion, Twenty-sixth Infantry Regiment of the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, arrived to relieve the Ninth Infantry Old Reliables. This marked the beginning of a team effort between Task Force Hogan and the First Battalion of the Twenty-sixth Infantry, the “Blue Spaders”—so nicknamed for the wide blue spade on their regimental crest—with their outstanding commander, Major Francis Woodrow (F.W.) Adams, that would go on well into the German heartland.
The outgoing Ninth Infantry lieutenants, sergeants, and riflemen welcomed their Big Red One counterparts, showing them where the avenues of approach were, who was who among the tankers, and what could be expected of the Germans’ continually surging into their positions. The Third Battalion, Forty-seventh Infantry doughs headed back to the rear to join their division. Watching Don take a single jeep and light tank into the woods to flush out German units south of Mons, Sam thought he was one of the bravest officers he’d ever seen. They parted with a handshake.
For the remainder of September 4, the task force sent out patrols from H Company to clear out the forests around Mons as the remaining Germans moved through the woods attempting to rejoin their front line, which was continually pushed farther east. It must have been extremely frustrating for the Germans. They continued to trudge along east, all the while running into American ambushes. During the day, ground and air artillery observers hammered them with fire while US fighter-bombers swooped down from the gray skies, raining rockets and machine gun fire on their convoys.
At the close of that long day, Sam and Travis Brown attended a commanders’ meeting at the division CP to plan the capture of their next objectives. General Joseph Lawton “Lightning Joe” Collins, the VII Corps commanding general and future army chief of staff, and General Rose were almost as unrelenting on their subordinates as they were on the Germans. The next stop: capture Namur, capital of the Wallonia region, then Liège, with its bridges across the Meuse, clear across Belgium to the Siegfried line.
At 10:00 P.M., the task force refueled again at their perimeter. Relatively safe in their coil of vehicles, men napped while the refueling went on. Captain Barclay walked around the perimeter to check on his soldiers. The guards were alert and walking softly around the parked tanks and trucks. It was actually peaceful. A few crews milled about their tanks, belts of .30-caliber machine gun ammunition passed from one tanker on the ground to another kneeling on the hull, then through the bow gunner’s hatch.
Jake smoked a cigarette and chatted with First Sergeant Filyaw about the latter’s farm in Alabama. Inside tanks and half-tracks, some snored away while others wrote letters home under the feeble light of a red-lensed flashlight.
Sam reread a few of his letters from home. It was a quick escape and helped him wind down from the “fight or flight” highs enough to get some sleep. Even at home, though, there were worries. His father’s health was bad, and money was still tight. He sent what he could every month from his earnings.
His wife Belle’s letters were growing a little cooler whenever the topic of having children came up. Six years into their marriage, kids were not likely to happen. She didn’t seem to enjoy giving or receiving affection. She found it “sinful.” He lowered the letter away from the glow of the blue light inside the tank and rubbed his eyes. Well, I can’t worry about this now—things will work themselves out. He needed to take advantage of the pause to catch a few hours of rest.
