When everybody even remotely connected with Company G was assembled, we still had well under 40 men. Yet no matter what our strength, we had to assume a large share of the responsibility for defending Huertgen against counterattack. I personally went with each squad or half squad to see that they occupied the best possible defensive positions.
When the last position had been designated, I turned to various other matters which I considered pressing. One was promotions. I believed firmly that if a man held a job calling for a certain grade, he should be promoted to that grade immediately.
With the aid of my first sergeant, I examined the company roster in considerable detail. I studied each platoon and each squad, seeking to fit names to faces in an effort to recall what I knew of each man’s performance in the Huertgen attack. Those whom I credited with having shown ability and a willingness to do the job, I promoted promptly. I also made several changes in the case of men who had fallen down on the job when we needed them critically. It was my first opportunity to tailor the company to my own ideas and my own needs, and I worked to take full advantage of it.
After promotions, I looked into the matter of awards for heroism. I realized that if I did not act promptly, many men would fail to receive the recognition they deserved. In a number of cases, it seemed to me, their performances had been not only exceptional but far above and beyond the call of duty.
Getting a battlefield decoration was generally a matter of being lucky enough to have someone see you do something and then have that someone submit a recommendation for an award. Recommendations could be submitted by either officer or enlisted man but had to be formally certified. The recommendations then were thoroughly screened by a reviewing board. The higher the award, the more scrutiny the recommendation received. The Congressional Medal of Honor is the highest award, followed in order by the Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star, and the Bronze Star.
I felt without doubt that every man who had participated in the attack on Huertgen should have been awarded at least the Bronze Star, but it obviously would have been impossible to obtain approval for a blanket award. I concentrated my efforts on a few men whose actions I personally had seen. I also forwarded several recommendations from Lieutenant Carroll. One of the men I recommended for the Silver Star was Sergeant Nutting whose fine work that day when he should have been in a hospital bed far to the rear had impressed me tremendously. But a board of review far from the scene eventually decided that Nutting’s devotion and gallantry deserved no more than the Bronze Star. (Yet the review boards would not take all recognition from us for the work we did at Huertgen. The 121st Infantry later was to receive the highest recognition awarded an entire unit, the Presidential Unit Citation, for this successful attack.)
While I was hard at work on the list of recommendations for awards, the telephone rang. The first sergeant answered.
“Battalion wants you to get busy,” he said with a grin as he put the phone down, “and submit a list of men who have earned decorations.”
“Situation’s normal,” I answered. “They’re still a step behind.”
It was a busy day. As I paused in my work and looked around the command post to see privates and privates first class sleeping, loafing, preparing cups of coffee, I wondered why any man ever would want the responsibility of being an officer. I toiled over the paper work and whenever stragglers returned, I questioned them about where they had been the preceding day and night, then sent them out to the squads where they belonged. I checked the defenses several times. Hardly a moment was free.
Meanwhile, Jerry continued to pound the town with artillery fire, and the big house we were using as a CP seemed to come in for a particularly heavy share. We realized why when we found a Jerry map showing our enemy’s prepared artillery concentrations. Our house was in the exact center of one of the plotted concentrations.
I showed the Jerry map later to Lieutenant John Sanky who had come forward as our artillery forward observer. Sanky was using the dangerous upper floor of our CP as an observation post. He in turn showed me a similar map of the area on which our own concentrations had been plotted. The contrast was amazing. Compared to us, Jerry was a mere amateur in the artillery field. Sanky’s map showed every conceivable spot covered with small numbered circles, any one of which he might call for in a matter of seconds, whereupon our big guns would put down a quick barrage of deadly fire.
When darkness came again, I looked forward to getting some sleep. I actually could not remember when I had slept last. Certainly I had slept no more than a couple of hours during all the days I had commanded G Company, and the preceding days in the Huertgen Forest had been almost as bad. Since the night before Thanksgiving—more than a week before—I had scarcely closed my eyes.
I had reserved a spot on a filthy Jerry mattress and was eyeing it covetously when word came from battalion that we were to receive replacements. No matter how much I wanted sleep, I could not allow these men to arrive at the company unwelcomed and to be assigned willy-nilly to fill up the gaping holes in the platoons. In the end it was to mean almost a full night’s work, but I was determined to interview the new men and place them within the company in keeping with their individual qualifications.
We received 45 replacements, all but a few totally inexperienced in combat. As soon as they had deposited their equipment along the walls of the big cellar, I called them together for a briefing.
It was a strange scene. The only light came from a crude lantern made by sticking a piece of rag in the neck of a bottle of gasoline. It burned with a dull, flickering light and let off a thin, dirty stream of smoke. A few feet away from the lantern, it was so dark that the men’s cigarettes glowed like beacons. Most of the new men wore relatively fresh uniforms and were clean shaven, in marked contrast to me and others of the CP group. Outside the sounds of battle continued unabated. Occasionally the cellar seemed to vibrate with the explosion of a nearby shell, and dust fell from cracks in the ceiling.
To welcome the men, I stood on a chair so that all of them might see me. I told them a little of the history of the company and what we had done in this last fight. I wanted to build up at least a little pride of outfit as soon as possible, for this is a vital thing in battle.
“To most of you,” I said, “this may seem like you’re looking at a Hollywood movie, only this time you yourself are in the picture. But believe me, it’s not as bad as people have told you. It couldn’t be, or none of us would be here. It’s not even as bad as it must seem to you right now. There’re still lots of us left here, and some of us have been around a long time. We expect to be around a longer time. It isn’t easy. It’s tough. But if we can stand up to it, so can you.”
I continued in this vein, urging the men to get to know their squad leaders immediately, to learn the name and face of every man in their squad, not to worry if they were afraid but to keep the fear under control, to ask questions of the old men, take their advice, and add to it what they had already learned in training. I ended by apologizing for the fact that the situation prevented us from getting to know each other better before they had to join their squads.
“I know this company is going to be proud of you,” I said, “just as you are going to be proud of Company G.”
It was the strangest speech I have ever made. Perhaps the situation did not really call for a speech, but Company G was my company and I intended to treat men in it the way I would want my officers to treat me. I would, under similar circumstances, have appreciated the welcome. Even though the bursts of artillery fire that punctuated my address sometimes sent the more wary among the audience plunging to the floor, the men were extremely eager to please. They even laughed at some of my very poor jokes.
Immediately after this formal welcome, I began interviewing them individually. I wanted to put each man in the job where I thought he could do the most good; but even more, I wanted each man to know that someone took a personal interest in him and his future—in whether he lived or died. Since most of the men had been in the army only about four to five months, I felt this was particularly important.
After I finished interviewing the last man, a few short hours of darkness remained. I was so tired I seemed to be in a trance. In slow motion, I went through the movements of taking off my shoes. Someone had long since usurped the Jerry mattress I had coveted earlier—now I merely stretched out on the cement floor. A deep sense of personal pleasure swept over me. What a delicious thing to do, to lie down to go to sleep! Then a wave of homesickness immersed me. I had heard nothing from Eleonore since Luxembourg, and I had not even found time to write to her. I longed to see her and talk with her, even if for just a few precious minutes. I longed to see Jack and talk with him, to find out for myself how seriously he was hurt. I wanted the whole dirty war to be over so badly I almost began to cry.
Then I rolled on my side to try to find in dreams the things that were impossible when awake.