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| Michael Connelly |
The
true story below is about my father and a Christmas seventy two 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.
Christmas 1944
The frigid night air cut
through the Lieutenant’s army issue coat as he 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 this 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, the 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”
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