The Valley

(Source)

"What the f**k is that? Looks like something my kid sister might play with." Pvt Homer Ginter whispered to his squad leader, Sgt Stump Gentile.

The two men and their squad were perched on a steep ridge overlooking a small valley in the Hürtgenwald. On the valley floor was a column of German infantry, interspersed with the infantry were small carts being pulled by horses. There were also larger wagons being pulled by a team of two horses. Sgt Gentile noticed, near the end of the column, what appeared to be two medium-sized carts, hooked together, being pulled by four horses. He saw the stovepipe on the rear cart and realized that he was looking at a German field kitchen.

"What we're looking at Private, is the baggage train of a German infantry company. Those little wagons, carts really, are issued to every infantry platoon in the Kraut army, I think they get two each. The Krauts use 'em for carrying ammo and stuff. Each platoon also has a wagon drawn by two horses for the men's packs and such, ya know for longer marches. First time I've seen so many of 'em, saw 'em in Africa first. If the baggage train is any indication, the company that owns it is pretty near full strength."

"What's all this 'blitzkrieg' shit we heard about in the States anyway?" Ginter had heard the tales of German tanks smashing into Poland, France, and then Russia, sweeping all before them. Motorized infantry pacing them the entire way, this didn't look very impressive to him, not at all.

"Well, it's like this Homer, most of the German Army goes to war the same way their great-grandfathers did, they walk. The number of horses used by the German Army is pretty large. Most of the cannon and equipment in a Kraut infantry division are towed by horses. Those guys you see down there? A prime example of what the bulk of the German Army looks like, the tanks get all the press, but the guys on foot do most of the fighting."

"Well shit Sarge, I had no ideer." Ginter was new to the army, he had turned 18 a month before D-Day. He had desperately wanted to join the army at 17, but his parents had refused to sign for him. As his father had put it, "With both your big brothers off fightin' the war, I need ya here on the farm. When you hit 18, you can do what ya like, until then..." When his 18th birthday had arrived, he had gone to the recruiting office that very morning.

After what felt like forever in training and then languishing in the Replacement Depot, Homer Ginter, from a small farm in western Virginia, had joined 2nd Platoon just two weeks ago. This was the first time he had seen the enemy. He didn't know that many men in the army never got to see a live German. Often, if they were seen at all, they were just vague shapes in the distance.

Now here they were, in the flesh. Ginter was not impressed.

"Head on back to the L.T., stay low. Tell him we got a target for the artillery. A juicy one."

Hauptfeldwebel Hermann Krüger stood by the side of the muddy trail winding through the small valley watching his men struggle through the mud. Which was really nothing compared to the mud in Russia, which he'd experienced multiple times since 1941. Wounded in late 1943, he'd been evacuated back to the Reich. He, and his wife, had been thrilled to learn that he was being reassigned to the Western Front. He had arrived in Normandy in May.

Now here he was, the first sergeant of an infantry company deep in the Hürtgenwald. The wet, the cold, the forest, he almost missed the steppes of southern Russia. He had survived the battles in Normandy and the retreat across France. Promoted to his current position only days before, his predecessor had been killed in action, he now was responsible for the administrative details for running a company of 138 men. His company was actually at full strength, an oddity at this point in the war.

Most of the men were young, mixed in were a few veterans from this war, even some from the last war, but, he had checked, the average age of this company was eighteen. He could tell the ones who had not had enough training. They struggled in the march, they had not been sufficiently hardened. They straggled and many of them had foot and back problems. Only their youth kept them going. Such things could kill an older man.

As the Gulaschkanone¹ passed by, he checked his list once more. He tucked the list into the cuff of his greatcoat then climbed aboard the wagon carrying the supplies for the field kitchen. He checked his watch, they were already falling behind schedule because of the mud and the roughness of the terrain. The clowns in the rear never factored in the terrain and the weather when calculating movements in the field. Krüger sighed and thanked God that at least he could ride for a ways. Though he was only 26 years old, he felt 50.

1Lt Nate Paddock and his radioman, PFC John Myerson, were well-concealed but they had a clear view of the German column struggling through the valley below them. Paddock held the radio handset and had his map in front of him. He had a battery of 105mm howitzers on the other end of the radio, standing by. The lieutenant was waiting for the last two vehicles in the column to enter the kill zone before he asked for a spotting round. As he watched through his field glasses, he noticed a man climb onto the last wagon. He wondered who it was, probably the guy responsible for the column was what he figured.

Krüger thought about having a smoke, it was still light out, but he'd given the men a hard time about lighting up when they were on duty. So his pipe stayed in his pocket. He looked at the sky, another overcast day, at least it hadn't rained in a few hours. He had gotten used to the smell of wet wool, but he still didn't like it.

"Herr Hauptfeldwebel?" The young grenadier driving the wagon looked at him.

"What is it Sepp?" Krüger liked young Neuhäusser, though the man's curiosity about everything could be a bit wearying at times.

"How are we going to get our wagons up these hills? They seem pretty steep."

"The wagons will stay in the valley, we'll be up on the hill with a small guard left behind to watch over our equipment. If the weather was..." Krüger paused, he'd heard something which made his blood run cold.

The whistle of an incoming artillery round was now clear. Before Krüger could react, an impact to the right of the column, on the hillside above them, showered them all with dirt and debris. He knew that that was just a spotting round, there would be more. If the man calling in the fire knew his business, they were doomed.

Paddock spoke into the handset, "Drop fifty, fire for effect."

The spotting round had been a little long, but had been very near the middle of the column of horse drawn vehicles and men. It was time to rain Hell down on these men in different uniforms before they tried to spot him and his radioman. The Germans were superb about reacting quickly to a threat.

"Might want to cover your ears, John." Paddock said as he ducked down in the shallow depression he and Myerson were sheltering in. Things were about to get loud.

Krüger, standing atop the wagon, was screaming at the men to take cover, he saw that young Grenadier Neuhäusser was, again, more concerned with the horses than his own safety. He was trying to pull the animals off the trail, but the first explosion had spooked the horses, they were nearly as green as the men they served.

"Sepp, leave them, get to cover!!" But his screaming at the young farmer from Silesia was in vain. The man loved horses more than anything else in the world, even more than his own life.

Six 105mm artillery rounds impacted nearly simultaneously along the length of the column - men, horses, and equipment were all devastated by the explosions. As the survivors tried to rally each other and see to the wounded, the young company commander managed to get two platoons ready to move up the hill where the American observer had to be positioned. They were nearly ready to advance when six more rounds landed.

Paddock listened as the artilleryman from the regimental cannon company told him, "Rounds complete, d'ya need more?" Paddock looked down at the devastation he had brought down on the Germans in the valley, he was shaken by the screams of the men and horses below him.

"Negative. Successful fire mission. Red Baker Two Leader, out." Handing the handset back to Myerson, he looked at his radioman and said, "John, let's get the Hell out of here."

Krüger dragged himself out of the wreckage of the company's field kitchen supply wagon, his ears were ringing and every sound was muffled. He shook his head to clear it, that was a mistake, it made him drop to his hands and knees. He vomited.

He looked up, young Neuhäusser was miraculously unscathed, but his beloved horses were both down. He was sitting in the mud, cradling the head of the lead horse and he was sobbing uncontrollably. The horse was still alive, but barely, the other team horse was dead.

"Sepp, Sepp." Krüger tried to get the young man's attention, but he was probably as deaf as his sergeant. Krüger unholstered his P 38 pistol, then handed it to the young man from Silesia. Neuhäusser looked at his sergeant and immediately understood what he had to do.

As Krüger went down the column, or what was left of the column, he heard a single pistol shot behind him. He was from the city, but he understood the love some of the men felt for the horses they served beside.

At the end of the day, Hauptfeldwebel Hermann Krüger had taken stock of the losses from the company. Only thirty-three men, out of 138 were still fit for duty. None of the company's horses had survived, those which had not been killed outright had had to be put down because of the severity of their wounds.

Krüger was the senior man left alive, his company commander had been killed trying to organize an attack up the hill when the last rounds from the barrage had landed. The men who remained were useless for anything, physically they were fit for duty, but mentally, they might as well have been dead.

As he led the survivors away from the ruined column, the 33 carried the wounded who could not walk, the Sanitäter had survived, he had examined the men who had been so badly wounded that they couldn't be moved and had volunteered to remain behind with them. Krüger had had to order the man, at gunpoint, to withdraw with the rest of the company. All they could do was pray that the Amis would succor the wounded they had left behind.

The wind moved the tops of the tall pines as the men withdrew back down the valley. The temperature was dropping and in the dwindling light, the men could see small snowflakes. Those who had served in Russia shivered at the thought of another winter of war.

The Hürtgenwald was silent, save for the wind in the treetops, uncaring and unmoved by the trials and tribulations of man.

¹ Literally "goulash cannon," a slang term for the German field kitchen. The stove pipe on the cooking unit looked like a cannon barrel when stowed for movement.

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