We were getting ready to renew the attack against the hill the next morning when we took a prisoner. Perhaps took is not exactly the word, since he came in voluntarily and surrendered. Hasty interrogation revealed that the other men in his outfit on the hill also wanted to surrender. The man offered to act as a guide if we would send an emissary to talk terms.
Captain Black selected one of his new platoon leaders, First Lieutenant Chauncey E. Barney, of Lincoln, Neb., and his communications sergeant, Rudy Greiss, Jersey City, N.J. Greiss spoke fluent German.
The surrender parley served to convince us more than ever that these Germans had strange minds. After spending the entire night fighting to regain the hill, they had sent out a decoy to see how we would react to a surrender offer. When Barney and Greiss reached them, the officer in charge insisted that he could not surrender unless he and his men were under fire, otherwise they would be classed as deserters. Quick-thinking Barney pointed his carbine into the air and fired several shots in rapid succession. Every one of the Jerries raised his hands in surrender. They marched down the hill—40 of them—honorable prisoners of war.
We moved out this time with all of Company G to occupy the hill, but Company E continued to have trouble, much of it from a village, Tal-ar-Groas. In the pocket of a dead Jerry on the hill I found a paper showing the fire plan for the entire area, including the village in front of Company E. When I sent this back to battalion, the C.O., Colonel Casey, decided to move Company F to our hill for commitment against the undefended flank of the enemy at Tal-ar-Groas.
From our hill we were able to aid Company F’s advance with Company G’s 60mm mortars. Barney and I spotted targets while the mortarmen plastered them. Because of the nature of the mortar which is a high trajectory weapon, mortarmen seldom get to witness the immediate results of their fire. Therefore, when one round landed just behind a hedgerow and blew a body high in the air, every man cheered.
Even after Company F cleaned out the village, some isolated dyed-in-the-swastika Nazis continued to hold out. Sometimes they opened fire on columns of prisoners which our men were leading to the rear, not, it seems, to get our men but to kill their own comrades, who had surrendered. In several cases they found their mark.
In the end Colonel Casey left Company E to clean out these remaining pockets and sent Companies F and G racing forward to exploit the advantage gained in taking the hill and the village. But hardly had we begun to move when I became aware that a hundred yards ahead of us the ground sloped sharply to a hill dotted with concrete emplacements. Properly defended, this could be an obstacle almost as difficult as Fort Bougan.
As Captain Black radioed back to battalion to warn of what we were approaching, I could make out the men of Company F, well off to our right, continuing forward, oblivious to the danger on their flank. Our job, it seemed to me, was as much to protect Company F as it was to advance ourselves. It was obvious that we should put every bit of our firepower against the fortified hill to forestall the enemy opening fire.
A cobblestone wall six feet high along the forward slope of the hill ruled out using machine guns, so I quickly contacted the leader of the rifle platoon we were accompanying. He was a slim, moustached second lieutenant whom I was destined to look, on with derision not only in the hours ahead but months later. I asked him to do the job with his riflemen.
“We can’t do that,” the lieutenant answered in alarm. “If we start firing, they might bring mortar fire down on us.”
I looked at him in amazement.
“Well, goddamnit,” I practically shouted, “if we sit here and do nothing, F Company is going to get shot to hell and we’ll get it too.”
But the lieutenant would not budge. I turned away from him in disgust, rounded up my own men, and moved to the wall. From this point we found we could fire with our carbines and rifles at the embrasures of most of the emplacements. We also fired several bazooka rounds yet not a round of answering fire came from the German positions.
I was relieved, but nevertheless still concerned that the Germans were waiting for the men of Company F who would present a much more profitable target. Leaving most of my men as a base of fire, I took Sergeant Lawrence, Sergeant Mazza, and First Lieutenant Robert Armstrong, who had recently joined us as a mortar observer, to go forward and investigate the emplacements. Scaling the cobblestone wall, we picked our way through roll after roll of barbed wire, but still no fire came from the enemy positions. When the first few emplacements proved to be empty, we breathed somewhat easier, but continued to approach each position cautiously. At last I called the rest of my platoon forward to join the search.
As I moved down a narrow path joining two dugouts, I heard a small voice calling:
“Kamerad! Kamerad!”
I looked around. All I could see at first was a pile of broken branches, but as I watched a hand reached up through the branches and waved a dirty handkerchief. I rushed over, kicking the branches aside. There in a deep foxhole, cringing and crying, was a pair of Hitler’s supermen.
One was an old fellow about 55 who had no stomach for war, for Adolph Hitler, or for his dirty foxhole. He pleaded to be allowed to take his personal belongings with him, to which I agreed providing he would tell where the rest of his unit was located. He unhesitatingly pointed to a bend in the road and emitted a stream of German. Satisfied that he had given us a good clue even though we could not understand all he said, I allowed him to scrape together his dirty belongings.
When the men from the rifle platoon joined us, we swept across the hill to find the rest of the German unit exactly where the old man said we would. They were crouched abjectly around a 40mm anti-aircraft gun. They raised their hands as we approached.
We continued forward, picking up an occasional prisoner here and there. By this time the slim, moustached young lieutenant had virtually abdicated as rifle platoon leader in my favor, so that I found myself directing both riflemen and machine gunners, But darkness was coming and we had not gone far beyond the anti-aircraft gun when word came to halt and pull back several hundred yards in order to straighten our lines for the night. On the way back we took apart the anti-aircraft gun, and carried pieces of it with us.
As the men began to dig in, I started for the rear to do something about getting chow and ammunition. I had gone less than a hundred yards when the Germans opened up with a tremendous artillery barrage. The huge shells came in a seemingly endless stream, the first time, it seemed to us, that Jerry had thrown artillery with the same ferocity and in the same quantity which we customarily threw at him. Some of the shells struck a cache of German mortar shells which I had noted during our advance that afternoon, and the whole pile exploded with a deafening roar.
Being caught in the open, I began to feel panicky, naked, afraid.
I looked at Sergeant Lawrence, and he looked at me.
“Time to be somewhere else, Lieutenant,” Lawrence observed wryly.
I agreed. Together we ran to the nearest ditch.
Back at Tal-ar-Groas where Easy Company still was fighting to reduce bitterly resisting pockets of Germans, the shells had come in with much the same intensity. The Germans were just beginning to surrender and were emerging from their holes with hands high when the terrifying barrage started. GI’s and Jerries, officers and men alike, dived for the same holes.
Sergeant Hobbs later told me of his experience.
“I jumped in a hole with five tough looking Jerries. They were armed like pirates, hand grenades hanging all over them. I didn’t even have time to take their rifles. They looked scared to me, and I wasn’t interested in looking brave to them either. All I wanted to do was get as low as I could in that hole.”
When the shelling stopped, everybody crawled out of the holes to take up where he had been when the barrage started. The Jerries put their hands over their heads and our boys dusted themselves off and accepted their surrender as though nothing had happened.
That night was a cold one. It rained intermittently between periods of thick fog. In a vain effort to ward off the chill, we even stooped to covering ourselves with Jerry blankets. This was quite a departure for most of us, for we usually avoided using any enemy equipment since it was almost always indescribably filthy and smelled to high heaven.
When morning came and the fog lifted, we looked to our rear at a spectacular sight. From our position we could make out our artillery pieces, stretched, it seemed, as far as the eye could see. As each piece barked, we watched the puff of smoke and flame, in awe at the power of it all. But aside from the military aspects, our view from the hill that morning impressed even the least poetic among us. On one side lay the clear blue ocean with a brilliant sun highlighting sparkling ripples that followed the contour of long, graceful waves. On the other side the verdant green of an undulating landscape extending uninterrupted for miles. It seemed sacrilegious for men to be fighting in such a glorious setting.
But fighting was our business, and again we moved forward, this time paralleling the ocean.
Between us and the sea were men of the FFI. Looking down on them from higher ground, it was easy for us to see how their lack of military training led them into numerous tactical error which, against a determined enemy, could prove disastrous. Rather than using the hedgerows for concealment, for example, they exposed themselves unnecessarily in the middle of the open fields.
Later in the day when we took a Jerry supply depot, I turned it over to the leader of the French outfit. Though the French naturally refused to use any portion of the German uniform, they were obviously grateful for the boots, packs, and other equipment. We regretted that language differences kept us from becoming genuinely acquainted with these men. We could indicate our friendship only by gestures, supplemented on occasion by a French word or phrase we had picked up.
As the Frenchmen swarmed about the supply depot, I heard two of my men discussing them.
The first one was almost arrogant in his appraisal.
“They sure look like hell, don’t they?” he said.
The other man looked at the Frenchmen, then eyed his partner up and down.
“You don’t look so goddamned hot yourself, fella,” he said.
As we continued to advance, I rounded a bend in the road and came upon the moustached rifle platoon leader. He was sitting by the road with a field telephone in his hand.
“You in touch with Captain Black?” I asked.
“No,” the lieutenant said. “I’m in touch with my first squad. It’s out in front.”
I almost fell over. The man was directing his platoon by telephone!
It may be the privilege of officers of higher rank who command great numbers of troops to direct units by telephone, but a platoon leader is supposed to lead his men, not send them. It’s his job to set an example of aggressiveness, to see that the job is done by doing it himself along with his men.
For the second time since I had known this lieutenant, I turned away from him with no effort to hide my disgust.
Impatient, I hurried forward to join the lieutenant’s riflemen. They were approaching a group of imposing farm buildings. With their permission I joined forces with them and for the rest of the day led the rifle platoon along with my own men.
At the farm we found evidence of Germans, but none were to be seen. They obviously had fled in haste, leaving vast amounts of equipment and personal effects behind. Finding a wallet filled with French money on a table I stuck it in my pocket. The place must have been a supply establishment of some sort, for we came across large stores of jam and tinned meats and a wagon load of freshly baked bread. Though most of the men tried to carry several cans of the food with them for a welcome change in diet, the extra weight soon prompted them to drop the cans by the way. The Infantry can’t afford luxuries, even for the stomach it allegedly travels on.
Determined enemy resistance, it developed, became a stranger to us that day. So far and so fast did we travel that we outdistanced the other battalions of our regiment which had not shared our good fortune. Thus, eventually, we had to halt so we wouldn’t get too far in front of the others.
From where we stopped and began to dig in, I could see another group of farm buildings about 600 yards beyond a broad, open field. Since nobody knew how long we might have to stay, these buildings were a danger until we could determine whether or not the Jerries occupied them. With Sergeant Lawrence and Sergeant Mazza, I set out to investigate.
As we approached the buildings, I could make out human forms at some of the windows, but couldn’t be sure whether they were soldiers or civilians, Not until we cautiously entered the courtyard, could we be certain they were civilians. I called to them in my best French to come out, and, despite my French, they obeyed. They moved slowly and suspiciously until it occurred to me they were farm people and did not understand who we were.
I called out, “Americains!”
The magic word produced instant pandemonium! People ran around shouting the word at various doors and windows, whereupon the group expanded considerably. The people crowded around us, all talking at once with no one listening to anything anyone else said. They embraced us, shook our hands, hugged each other.
The anti-tank barrier that prevented armor supporting the 121st from breaking through at Dinard, France, Mortars and machine guns sighted along the barrier also held up the infantry
[TOP LEFT] Farmhouse where Lt. Boesch and his men found five wounded Americans.
[MIDDLE LEFT] Another view of the farm. The open shedded area is where the men were huddled waiting for help.
[BOTTOM LEFT] This cross beside the road marks the point where Lt. Boesch deposited a badly wounded man after carrying him several hundred yards through heavy enemy fire.
[BELOW] Men of the 121st Infantry Regiment guard an assortment of German prisoners captured in the heavy fighting around Dinard, France.
Madame Blanche Vallios, an American in France during the occupation whom the author met in one of the war’s most unique “battles.”
Madame Vallois‘ home as it was before Lt. Boesh and his men inadvertently blew in the front door and living
Map Shows route of advance to Brest, eventually held up at the ancient Ft. Bouguen [BELOW]. Germans mounted 88’s and machine guns in the fortification which combined to halt American tanks and Infantry
Fighting in the streets of Brest and the surrounding towns was as tough and bitter as any on the European Continent
Map shows why long Crozon peninsula was strategically important in capturing and retaining Brest.
Air Force Major Harry Stroh, son of Major General Donald Stroh, Commanding General of the 18th Infantry Division, was killed as he flew in support of his Father’s division which was attacking Brest. General Stroh witnessed the crash that sent his son to his death, not knowing at the time who piloted the plane
One of the huge naval guns protecting Brest and the Crozon peninsula. The Germans turned them around and used them on advancing American infantrymen.
The author[RIGHT]and his close friend, Lt. Jack Bochner between the capture of Dinard and the attack on Brest.
French boxers, Capacity: 40 men or 8 hours.
It was only with considerable effort that I managed to make myself heard.
“Beaucoup Boches ici?” I asked haltingly with appropriate gestures.
One of the Frenchmen grabbed me by the arm and beckoned for me to follow. Passing between two houses, we came to the rear of a large barn. He pointed to a huge haystack in which someone had carved out a shelter. At the opening sat an old lady much in the manner of a sentry. As we came forward, she put a finger to her lips and with a bony forefinger she pointed to the interior of the haystack. There, sleeping with rifles tucked in their arms lay two dirty, disheveled Jerries.
I reached over and stuck the muzzle of my carbine directly under the nose of one of the men. Sergeant Lawrence rammed the other in the rear end with the butt of his rifle. The two Germans bounded awake. The one facing my carbine appeared hypnotized —his hair seemed literally to stand on end and so fixedly did he stare at the muzzle of my weapon that his eyes crossed.
The French civilians roared with many years of pent up laughter.
The halt near the farm proved to be less lengthy than I had anticipated. Word came later the same day that the other units of the regiment were catching up and we were to continue to advance, this time on the town of Crozon itself.
The Germans we met on the way obviously were rear echelon troops who had little taste for fighting—men who were more at home behind a desk than in a foxhole. They were scared and confused and preferred quick surrender to the prospect of close combat.
Crozon itself fell quickly, yielding at least a hundred Germans who could have made it rough for us had they chosen to fight. It had been a long, wearisome day, but the tactics of moving ahead swiftly despite fatigue had paid off in long advances and virtually no casualties.
More supplies fell into our hands in Crozon, and we feasted on pumpernickel and salami.
“Gastronomically speaking,” said Bob Osterberg, munching on a thick sandwich, “this has been an excellent day.”
“I don’t know what that means,” gurgled Jimmy Hearld with his mouth full, “but we sure been eatin’ good.”
We were still feasting when orders came to move out at once and occupy Hill X, just beyond the town.
“Goddamn those bastards,” growled Johnny Tardibuono, “don’t they think we ever get tired?”
I was inclined to agree with Johnny, though I was aware it would do no good for morale if I did. My men were thoroughly exhausted. They had matched the riflemen stride for stride all day, while at the same time had carried heavy machine guns, tripods, and ammunition in addition to personal arms and equipment.
But for all their grumbling, the men shouldered their equipment and moved out through the outer streets of the town toward Hill X. We were passing through a small woods on the slope of the hill when somewhere, someone let loose a wild burst of machine gun fire. I hit the ground, spotted a long narrow hole to my left, got up and made a dash for it. One of my squad leaders, Sergeant Gerald D. Smith, ran faster than I did and with a bold rush leaped past me and landed feet first in the hole.
Hardly a moment passed though before he dejectedly crawled out. It didn’t require close observation to make Smith’s embarrassing plight apparent. He had discovered the only German latrine we came upon in all of France!
When at last we got to the top of Hill X our tongues were dragging. Too exhausted to dig in, we looked for protective obstacles along a line of houses bordering a road which ran across the top of the hill. Even though French civilians ran from the houses to welcome us, most of the men were soon asleep, dead to the world and oblivious of the joy our arrival had wrought. There was no thought of bringing up rations—no one wanted anything to eat. All we wanted was to be able to rest without a thought of carrying a machine gun or a tripod or an ammunition box another blessed step.
The next morning a distant rumble of heavy artillery told us that the war had passed by us as we slept. The 13th Infantry had passed through to complete mop up of the peninsula while the One-Two-One shifted back to division reserve. But our job was not over by a long shot as we still had to round up German stragglers. Some still occupied their defensive positions, but generally they had lost the will to fight.
The rapid conquest of the peninsula eventually brought a piece of good news; the two companies which Jerry had captured when we had been on our way to Brest were rescued. The men were all in good health, though clearly not overfed. They hadn’t been mistreated, but we attributed this less to a change of German heart than to the realization on his part that he was bottled up and would soon be playing the role of prisoner.
The parade of returned prisoners brought back a lot of tales, but few in the entire war equalled the incident which happened in the last violent action to clear the Crozon peninsula. As the 13th Infantry swept forward to take a finger of land overlooking the harbor of Brest, the men swarmed all over the command post of the German general who had commanded the defense of Brest, the paratrooper, Herman Bernhard Ramcke.
Ramcke stayed deep in his protective dugout while sending an emissary to meet his conquerors.
“General Ramcke is below,” said the stiff-backed Nazi with a supercilious look at the GI’s on all sides of him, “but he will surrender only to an officer of equal rank.”
Since the assistant division commander of the 8th Division, General Canham, was closely following the attack, a message got to him quickly. Arriving at the scene, he descended to the bottom of Ramcke’s deep, concrete shelter.
Arrogant, a monocle in one eye, looking for all the world like Eric von Stroheim in the movies, Ramcke glared at General Can-ham with condescension.
“Let me see your credentials,” the German demanded.
General Canham stared at him for a moment. Then he glanced at the tough, battle-proven troops standing all about him.
“These,” General Canham announced with a sweep of his hand, “are my credentials.”