 |
| Michael Connelly |
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 three 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”mrobertc@hotmail.com
Michael Connelly blog
