Christmas 1944
By Michael Connelly
MichaelConnelly.Jigsy.com
This
has become a Christmas tradition for me and some of
you have seen this post before, but it is that time
of year when I start thinking about the importance
of friends and family and why I should be thankful
for the country I live in. It is also the time when
I think about those fellow Americans who have
stepped forward in the past and the present to place
their lives on the line so that the rest of us can
celebrate this holy season in freedom and peace.
The true story below is about my father and a Christmas seventy one years ago. I wrote it many years ago and it has been reprinted and put on websites around the world. You can read the full story in my book “The Mortarmen” I offer this story once again to honor our heroes of yesterday, today, and tomorrow, including my two sons, Major Sean Connelly and Captain Tim Connelly, both currently serving in the army. Come to think of it, this story is really about all of them because it epitomizes who and what they are.
The
frigid night air cut through the Lieutenant’s army
issue coat as the stopped in the knee deep snow to
survey the perimeter. A heavy snow continued to fall
on this Christmas Eve 1944, but it was not a silent
night. The flashes of artillery lit the sky and
generated a rumble like distant thunder as the young
officer finished his tour of the unit’s outposts. He
was an officer in Company B, 87th Chemical Mortar
Battalion, the men who fired the big 4.2 mortars
which were so critical to the effort of the infantry
to advance. They were someplace in Belgium, he
really had no clue where, and for the first time in
a while the battalion was together again. All four
companies had been brought in to help stop the
German breakthrough. They didn’t know it, but the
87th was about to be thrown right into the heart of
the Battle of the Bulge.
As the
Lieutenant finished his rounds he wearily dragged
himself into the monastery where the command had
taken refuge for the night. The warmth that
enveloped him as he entered the large community room
was certainly welcomed. He glanced around and saw
his comrades sprawled in every available space. They
were bedraggled and exhausted after 201 days of
almost continuous combat, and by the looks on their
faces you could tell that it was only going to get
worse. Despite the thickness of the monastery walls,
a new sound intruded, the quick crack of tank
gunfire.
Everyone
knew what that meant, American tankers were making a
last ditch stand against the German armored columns
in the area. They were outnumbered and outgunned and
their Sherman tanks stood no chance against the
awesome German Tiger tanks, but they fought anyway.
When the battle ended, and it would before dawn,
then the 87th became part of the last American line
of defense. The war hung in the balance, and so did
the lives of everyone in the ancient house of God.
The
Lieutenant found a place to sit against one wall and
sank down in exhaustion, gratefully accepting the
wine, bread and cheese being offered by the monks.
In the corner of the room, a soldier fiddled with
the dial of a radio, finally picking up the armed
forces station. Christmas carols filled the room,
but only added to the loneliness. Then as, the sound
of the tank battle increased in intensity, a new
song started on the radio, Bing Crosby singing
"White Christmas."
For the
Lieutenant the song immediately invoked memories of
the sights, sounds and smells of Christmas on the
farm in Mason City, Iowa and of how far away he was
from those he
loved. He could not help himself, the tears began to
flow and embarrassed, he glanced around the room to
see if anyone had noticed. His eyes fell first on
the Company Commander, Captain J.J. Marshall, one of
the toughest men the Lieutenant had ever known. The
Captain sat ramrod straight, unashamed, as tears
streamed down his stubbly cheeks. It was universal
that night, strong men, the bravest of the brave,
cried over a Christmas carol, and over the homes
many would never see again.
As dawn
broke the next morning, Christmas Day, the battalion
was again split up with Company B assigned to take
up mortar positions in support of what was left of
the 289th infantry, 75th Division, and defend a
Belgium village called Sadzot, a key location in the
thin American defense line. For three days they
fired their mortars in support of the hastily
assembled defense units, and then disaster struck.
Early in the predawn hours of Dec. 28th enemy
elements of the 12 SS Panzer Division, the infamous
Hitler Jugend, broke through the infantry lines and
overran the mortar position.
They
hastily assembled all of the men they could, and the
mortarmen fought a delaying action, fighting hand to
hand and house to house against overwhelming
numbers. As the fighting retreat continued, they men
of company B were joined by remaining elements of
the 509th Parachute Battalion which had formed a new
defensive position north of the village. There they
held until reinforced and then joined a
counterattack which retook the village, and
recaptured six of their nine mortars and most of
their vehicles.
It was
later learned that this makeshift force of Americans
had successfully stopped a major attack by German
troops designed to capture a major highway
intersection which would have broken the American
line. No one has ever been able to tell me how they
won. History recorded it as a classic situation
where the attacking enemy held all of the
advantages, yet was stopped by the cold
determination of a hand full of defenders on the
verge of physical and mental collapse. Somehow, they
emerged victorious, with Company B reporting almost
half of its men killed, wounded, or missing.
For his
actions during the defense of Sadzot the Lieutenant
and the other men of the company received both the
French and Belgium Croix de Guerre medals. I know
the story of that lonely Christmas Eve and the
ensuing days from my Father’s diary. He was the
young Lieutenant, Roy E. Connelly, Co. B. 87th
Chemical Mortar Battalion. He would read that story
to us on Christmas Eve every year until his death in
1987, and then I took over the job with my children.
He never
read it without crying over the friends he lost
during that Christmas season of 1944, and to this
day, I can not read it or even write about it
without the same reaction. What was done during that
six day period by the men of Co. B and the other
companies of the 87th, who also held the line,
surpasses the ability of most of us to comprehend.
They fought for each other, and they fought for us.
We must never forget.
FOR MY DAD, AND THE MEN OF THE 87TH
Michael Connelly: Author of “The
Mortarmen”
mrobertc@hotmail.com
Michael Connelly blog