..............................................
Christmas in
Bastogne, 1944
– Extract
from Jack Womer’s memoir ‘Fighting with the Filthy Thirteen’
The
following edited extract is taken from Jack Womer’s memoir ‘Fighting with the
Filthy Thirteen’ about his time spent among the most notorious paratroopers of
the 101st Airborne.
.
On
the day before Christmas, the Krauts bombarded us with heavy artillery
throughout the afternoon.
They
stopped for a little while in the evening, and then taunted us by playing
Christmas carols and other popular Christmas songs on loudspeakers.
Our
lines were only about 300 yards away from theirs, so we could hear the music
loud and clear.
A
lot of guys had been hit during the shelling despite the fact they’d been in
their foxholes.
Flying
pieces of shrapnel would occasionally find their way into a soldier’s body even
if he was taking cover.
Sometimes
artillery shells landed directly in a foxhole and exploded, and instantly
killed anyone who was in it.
A
lot of guys were injured from trees that had been knocked down from exploding
artillery.
A
tree would fall over a foxhole, and the limbs or large branches would drive
into the foxhole and penetrate a man’s body.
Whenever
the shelling stopped, those of us who weren’t wounded would climb out of our
holes to look for wounded soldiers and tend to their needs.
This
was actually quite dangerous.
The
Krauts knew that we did this, and sometimes they would resume shelling shortly
after they had stopped, to kill or wound the guys who were walking about
looking for wounded men.
The
cruelest thing that I witnessed the Krauts do throughout the entire war
occurred on Christmas Eve, 1944.
About
seven or eight men from the 506th PIR had been severely wounded from the Kraut
shelling.
They
were in pretty bad shape and needed immediate medical attention if they had any
chance of surviving.
Even
if they could survive, it was obvious that they wouldn’t be able to return to
combat duty. They were finished as far as the war was concerned.
A
few of us helped the ambulance drivers load the wounded into two ambulances.
The
ambulance drivers were going to take them back to one of the 101st Airborne’s
makeshift aid stations or field hospitals that had been set up behind our
lines.
The
ambulances took off from our lines on a dirt road, and we watched from our
position as they drove away.
After
the ambulances had traveled a few hundred yards we saw them stop. A bunch of
Krauts had forced them to come to a halt, and ordered the drivers to get out.
We
watched as the Krauts mercilessly shot and killed the ambulance drivers and the
wounded men, all of whom were unarmed, and siphon the gasoline out of the
ambulances.
I
don’t know whether the ambulance drivers went the wrong way and inadvertently
drove into the Kraut lines, or had gone in the correct direction and a few
Krauts had penetrated along that dirt road; all I know is that the Krauts
killed all of those unarmed men for a few gallons of gasoline.
When
a soldier sees his enemy do such things, it creates a desire within him to go
out of his way to do the same.
Killing
is no longer done for purposes of survival or fulfilling a mission, it is done
out of vengeance and bitter hatred for the enemy. When we saw this we became
filled with rage.
We
wanted to leave our foxholes with our rifles, grenades and bayonets, and hunt
and kill as many Germans as we could find, as if they were wild animals, not
for the sake of winning the war, but to get even.
At
one point on Christmas Eve the Krauts shelled us with “Christmas cards.”
These
were just propaganda leaflets written to convince us that corporate America and
our own military were our real enemy, and that we should join forces with the
Krauts and take sides against the United States.
The
Krauts placed these leaflets inside of blank artillery shells and fired them at
us.
They
were trying to break our spirit and make us give up.
But
their attempt at trying to frighten us into surrendering didn’t work. None of
us gave in to them.
They
resumed the shelling of our lines with heavy artillery throughout the rest of
the evening and until about 2:00 a.m. on Christmas morning.
On
Christmas day itself they resumed shelling and kept it up for hours. They hit
us with some pretty big artillery.
When
those shells exploded the ground would shake vigorously as if there was an
earthquake happening right underneath us.
The
percussions from the endless stream of exploding rounds rattled every bone and
organ in our bodies, and played hell with our nerves.
The
artillery barrage shook the hell out of us, both physically and mentally.
A
lot of men got hit with shrapnel, falling trees or flying splinters from
blown-up trees while hiding in their foxholes. They cried out in agony.
The
rest of us wanted so much to crawl out of our foxholes and help them, but to do
so during the artillery barrage would have been sheer suicide.
To
endure the shelling, I spent most of Christmas Day curled up and face down in
the bottom of my foxhole, praying to God that I wouldn’t get hit.
Later
on Christmas Day the weather again cleared, and this allowed our bombers to
bomb the hell out of the Kraut positions that had been shelling us.
Looking
up from our foxholes and seeing our own bombers fly overhead towards the Kraut
lines made us feel real good.
C-47s
also flew overhead and dropped some badly needed supplies on us.
I
remember many of us collected the parachutes attached to the cartons and cases
that were dropped.
We
cut the parachutes up into long strips and used them as bandaging material for
our wounded.
We
couldn’t keep enough bandages on hand, as there were so many wounded soldiers.
It
was pretty rough on Christmas Day. The only food I ate was a ration can of ham
and eggs.
On every Christmas day since, I think about what we soldiers
experienced on December 25, 1944, and how lucky I was not to have been wounded
or killed.
On
December 26th, the lead division of General George Patton’s third Army arrived
from the south and broke the Kraut line that surrounded us.
We
were no longer surrounded, and our lines were now reinforced by Patton’s
first-rate Third Army.
Seeing
all of those many third Army tanks and troops sure made us happy.
While
the battle for Bastogne was far from over, this was the beginning of the end
for the Krauts as far as their attempt break through the American front with
their offensive.
Somehow
I never reached my breaking point at Bastogne and during the 130 days I spent
at the front line.
But
there were guys who did, including guys that had spent less time in combat than
me.
When
a guy reached his breaking point he was usually pulled from the front as soon
as a replacement could be obtained and sent somewhere where he could,
hopefully, calm down.
While
I didn’t “break,” by the end of December 1944, I was at wits end with the war.
I
wanted nothing more than to go home, return to work at the Bethlehem steel
mills, marry Theresa, start a family, and put the war completely behind me.
I
wrote to Theresa constantly expressing exactly how I felt. But I couldn’t go
home just yet.
Jack Womer passed away in 2013.
His memoir ‘Fighting with the Filthy Thirteen’ is now
available in paperback on Amazon.
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