Echoes On Angelsberg

A personal narrative of the WW II struggle for Philippsbourg, France
by
Pfc. Frank Hazmuka
1st Gunner, 2nd LMG, Co. A, 275th Infantry Regiment 70th Division, 7th Army

Prelude:
Time: 0400 January 2, 1945
Weather: Numbing cold, frozen sleet and snow (-10°F)
Place: Foundry, Niederbronn, France

In the inky darkness of the foundry word passed around that we were "moving up." Pfc. Robert A. Matthews, 36961743, Assistant Gunner, 2nd Light Machine Gun Squad, age 35, from Shelbyville, Ill. had just pulled two hours of guard duty with me. Matthews, one of Co. A's oldest and I, one of Co A's youngest, had trained for months for this moment. We had earned mutual respect and friendship.

Throughout the night we had been jarred every 10 minutes by one of our 155's which was firing a few yards from beside our blankets into the German lines. After guard duty, we had rolled somebody out of our blankets and had moved farther from the howitzer. We got perhaps another hour of sleep.

When we located him, Sgt. Raymond "Stubby" Stevem(sp?) from Minnesota, 2nd LMG Squad Leader, growled at us, "Where have you guys been'? Make a light combat pack, carry nothing you don't need, put your blankets in a squad roll and get ready to move."

In the meager light of cat eye headlights we piled into trucks and jeeps. As we sped over bumps; we knew that this time we were definitely moving to the front. The LMG squads were in jeeps. The windshields were down, and the only wind barrier was the piano wire cutter mounted over the hood. Our breath froze readily.

Welcome to Philippsbourq
Time: First light of dawn, January 2
Weather: Cold and clear
Place: South End of Philippsbourg

The vehicle column stopped. During the next hour of waiting, I felt the most miserable cold yet. We got off the jeeps and jogged in circles around them. This scene would have been ridiculous anywhere else.

As the sun rose, we saw our surroundings. There were high slopes on each side. A long column of trucks and jeeps was strung out on the road that led through the valley. On each side of the road were planted rows of trees over 75 years old. These trees were doomed. Blocks of wood had been removed halfway and charges were in their places. The railroad on the left had a mine field all around. Warning signs in in English faced south.

Pfc. Alfred Heard, 1st Gunner, 1st LMG, strolled from the jeep ahead. "Say Frank," he asked. "Did you notice that gun up there behind us?" I hadn't. A HMG was neatly tucked in the east slope about 75 yards away. It was at least 50 feet above the road and had a commanding view of the valley.

Suddenly from ahead came the sputtering of small arms and the thud of explosives. Our tanks were involved, and the engagement lasted over an hour. Smoke began to rise from where the road disappeared to the east. Some villagers, pushing carts and baby carriages, containing sparse belongings, streamed south beside us, while constantly looking over their shoulders.

Now came the order to dismount and carry the weapons. In a column of twos we rounded the hill which had obstructed our view. Some buildings at the northeast end of the village were aflame. The remaining villagers anxiously lined doorways as we filed by.

Our weapons platoon was near the head of the column. As we rounded a curve, I was startled by a column of about 60 Germans, marching toward us, under guard, with their hands where their helmets had been. Many were bloody and about ten were supported by others. Every step made by the ten registered agony on their faces. The reason was frozen feet. Their light leather shoes were no defense against the bitter cold. I looked down thankfully at my shoe pac boots which had been issued at Camp Miles Standish P 0 E.

Next, we avoided American tanks as they backed up the narrow streets. At the north edge of the village there was an opening, half meadow and half marsh. We dispersed and went to another hill. In front of a lone house at the foot of a steep slope was a heap of German equipment which had been recently stripped from the POW's.

One G.I. was poking his feet through the heap, while another emerged from a cellar with a bottle of cognac and waved wildly for the last withdrawing tank to wait for him. An ambulance had just left the house; and I noticed with growing nausea, a large pool of blood on the hood of a jeep parked there.

Suddenly the lead scout waved a warning and everyone scattered, hitting the snow. On a high bluff ahead, the bushes moved and a lone holdout emerged. With a lighted cigarette in his hand and a defiant smirk: this arrogant aryan trudged through our midst. His attitude didn't have the intended effect because it quickly erased any sympathy we may have gathered for the plight of the captives. He got the rifle butt-to-butt treatment.

The relative quiet continued as our scouts searched a high red bluff overlooking the village. From the road junction at its foot, Co. A moved to the east. As we moved over the foot of the bluff we passed several German dead. Now my war was getting real. This was a beautiful valley and this scene didn't belong.

The sun was high, bright, warm and finally taking the chill out of us. As we climbed the slope with our loads we got too warm, so we removed our overcoats and carried them. We still had on field jackets, several layers of wool clothing and long-handle underwear.

Young Norwegian Spruce trees are naturally picturesque, but the yellow hue of sunlight on their snow spangled boughs painted a scene that was completely incompatible with the dangers lurking around us. The deep silence seemed to: shout. No one spoke: only occasional thrashing about on the slippery slopes disturbed the silence. At the top of the bluff was another cluster of German dead around a machine gun emplacement. They had been well positioned with good cover and concealment, but it had been futile. This was very unsettling to someone in the same trade. I turned my back on the bloody affair and moved ten steps when I was startled and unnerved by an agonized cry behind me. Matthews, just ahead of me, wheeled around, pale as a ghost. He probably reflected my appearance. One of the "dead" was calling "Hilfa" (help) and could scarcely move. We called for a medic and moved on. The cries kept echoing in my head and now I felt definitely sick, but my stomach had been empty over 18 hours.

A cure came quickly. With a surprising roar, a single plane came from the west, and I heard it sputter."Take cover," someone shouted.

Cover with what? I felt naked before a large audience. From a worm's eye view, I noted black crosses under its wings. It vanished over Weihersberg. None of us were where it fired, not even our lead scouts. More misfortune for the Germans, perhaps? I did not see it again.

As we moved along the south slope of Weihersberg we stopped twice and dug in. There is a natural law which I learned about digging holes in Oregon and Missouri--that only after one digs three feet, an immovable boulder automatically appears.

Welcome to Angelsberg
Time: Sunset, January 2
Weather: Overcast beginning

We pressed along a narrow trail cut into Angelsberg's side. It was definitely one way for vehicles or wagons. While we paused, 1st Lt. David Scoby, heavy weapons platoon, Co. A, pressed to the head of the column. A quiet ten minutes passed. Then a volley of shots followed, and word was passed back, "Machine guns forward." I muttered, "I knew I'd have to earn my keep someday." As we hurried forward in a crouch, I noticed a couple of winks from scattered riflemen. I felt appreciated, but wondered what they really expected from a fast talking gun.

It was dusk now and we couldn't see over a hundred yards into the woods. Scoby said, "Fire a traverse across here; that's where the Germans are." The direction must have been Hohenfels. As I pulled back the bolt I asked Matthews, "How are we to fight someone we can't see?" He said, "I'm hoping they can't see us either." With dismay I watched every fifth round, a tracer, signaling our position. Alternately, bursts from Heard's gun joined in and signaled his position. I saw one of my bursts enter a Norwegian Spruce over two feet in diameter and tracers bounce off rocks beyond. I would never again feel that a tree was good cover.

Scobey ordered a cease fire and selected a position for our gun above the trail on the north or northeast slope of Angelsberg. We covered the trail where it disappeared around a bend toward Dambach.

I noted that HMG's were digging in on Angelsberg's crest. Scobey told us to "dig the hole large enough for three, because I might have to jump in too." He also instructed us to remove the tracers from the ammo boxes.

It was getting dark fast so we immediately began removing all tracers while we could still recognize them. The remaining rounds were black tipped armor piercing. Eventually we couldn't see, and we simply removed every fifth round. Stevem quickly checked our finished work with a flashlight. Pvt. James Foley and Pvt. Klipola, ammo bearers, also completed their chores.

While we were digging, someone brought in a POW, and Scoby, who had studied German, interrogated him behind our position. He seemed to be willing to tell all he knew and probably more. His pockets were emptied and the contents were dropped by our foxhole. I marveled at the quantity of nondescript items. Although I had something in each of the 24 pockets in my multi-layered clothing, the POW with fewer pockets had put me down.

Matthews and I took the first two hour turn at guard and then at sleep. The jeeps with the squad rolls had not reached us, so we tried to cover with spruce boughs, but that was pointless in subzero cold.

At least the forest blocked the wind. Someone said German blankets had been found but not to use them because the Germans didn't have DDT and suffered with lice. I appreciated that their misery was in some respects worse than ours.

The Vigil
Time: About 0100 January 3
Weather: Steady light snow fall

Our turn at guard duty came again. We couldn't feel our feet, and the sight of frozen German feet the day before kept creeping into our thoughts. We slipped off our shoe pacs, one at a time, rubbed our toes and stomped our feet. We said very little and listened to our artillery shells humming northward overhead. They came from the Niederbronn area and crashed about half a mile ahead of us. They caused flames which flickered dimly through the dense woods, probably coming from the Neunhoffen road.

When we finally spoke, it was about food, or rather the lack of it for 30 hours. Matthews said the POW had a couple of cans of sardines and some black bread, -but someone had quickly confiscated those. The word "can" aroused me. "Matty, I've got a can of K-ration cheese in one of my pockets. I know it was in my overcoat but I can't find it anywhere. Well, damn! This isn't my overcoat, besides its six inches too short ", I exclaimed. This shortage had chilled my knees throughout the night. "It's Stubby's coat", I realized, "we must have swapped during the mid-day digging." Previously, all signs of rank had been removed. Before dawn we swapped again. Matty and I divided the undiscovered two ounce can of cheese.

Fate Intervenes
Time: Pre-dawn. approximately 0600 January 3, 1945
Weather: 0vercast with snow flurries

The sound of small arms and explosives erupted in the west. It could have come from as far as Philippsbourg. Scobey and Captain Ross Milhiser, CO, Co. A, could be heard conversing nearby. Then Scobey called out, "Give me a machine gun squad!" Fatefully, the 1st squad was chosen. Pfcs. Alfred Heard, 23 from Oklahoma, Lester Hiltenbeitel, 19, from Ohio, and Ned Smith 22, from Ohio followed Sgt. Evans, 1st LMG Squad Leader, from Arkansas. They disappeared in a bend on the trail to the west towards Philippsbourg. That was the last time I saw them except for Smith, I had spent most of my time with these men since May.

Minutes later as we waited impatiently, German burp guns seemed to press southward around our left flank. It was impossible for me to judge how far away the encounter was, because every shot echoed at least twice from confusing directions. Echos became rapid, and they seemed to be everywhere all the time. I heard some fire from a LMG or BAR. This was the first time I heard the contrast between our 160 rounds per minute and German automatic fire, said to be twice that fast.

Shortly after this activity ceased, Cpl. Dorsey came running from that direction. (During the night he had attempted to bring two jeeps bearing chow and ammunition to Co. A, but both jeeps had stuck in the narrow trail from Mambach.) Breathless, he stopped by my gun. He was followed by four POW's and two riflemen. "They got one of our men," Dorsey called up the ridge and vigorously applied his carbine butt to other appropriated butts urging them forward. "Who?" asked Milhiser as he hurried down with 1st Lt. Perry Woodward. "Smithy," was the reply, "Shot through the head, never knew what hit him."

Matthews and I looked at each other, but we couldn't say anything. We knew Ned Smith was married and had two children, aged 2 and 5. He was 22, but always looked younger. When his first child was born he had been summarily ejected from the maternity ward because no one under 16 was allowed.

Trial on the Trail
Time: After 0700, January 3
Weather: Snow flurries and haze. (-4°F)

In moments Milhiser ordered withdrawal of Co.A to the west. He and several riflemen went on the trail, and at some point we were ordered to follow. Scarcely had we entered the trail when an order was passed back, "On your elbows, crawl, pass the word!" The trail was glazed, frozen gravel. The 32 pound gun, resting on my elbows, was hard to move forward especially when my toes could not get traction to propel me on the glaze. My elbows did most of the work.

As the wormlike procession inched ahead, Milhiser paused to check the progress as others moved by. I was in the best physical shape ever, but the pace exhausted me. We stayed about 10 paces apart. As I neared Milhiser, a mapboard was tossed forward. (This map, or others, would guide us once the company left the trail.) I sailed it forward and hit Milhiser squarely in the rump. I was proud. It had been my only career opportunity and I didn't muff it.

As we continued, a shot rang out just ahead of Milhiser. A lone Kraut, possibly rearguard or a sniper working overtime, had fired at Pfc. Rudolph Garcia and missed. Trails cut in mountainsides make good protective cover from fire below because removed soil overlaps the trail's edge, but there is little cover in the cut from fire above. Garcia crouched against the shallow wall and tried to peer over. Again the Kraut fired hurriedly and missed. Garcia stood up while the German worked his rifle bolt, Garicia fired three rounds and quietly turned to us saying, "Got him; he was behind a tree." This had been a clear demonstration of the superiority of the M-1 rifle and of Garcia's courage. We slithered farther and crawled past Smith. He had fallen to the west, on his right side. He still had his helmet on but a bullet had entered the left side from above. No snow was gathered on his body.

I had to close the gap in the column so I elbowed on. I had already elbowed about 700 yards. Just as I caught up with Milhiser again, he pointed northwest into the valley where the trail from Mambach ran northeast between Angelsberg and Weihersberg. We had been on that trail yesterday during our eastward thrust. He said only one word, "There!" A patrol of about seven Krauts dashed northeast with rifles held upright, from the concealment of one thicket toward another thicket.

Matthews scrambled forward with the tripod and I mounted the gun, pulled in the belt, and cocked the bolt. I looked out, but the trunk of a large spruce, four yards away blocked my fire. I noted the solitary thicket the Krauts had reached. It was 250 yards away and about 100 yards long. We quickly dragged the gun to where I had a full view of the thicket. Over half a belt of ammo, more than 100 rounds, went into that thicket. The 100 foot drop into the valley was ideal, and considerable practice had made my range estimation second nature. I cris-crossed the the area several times until Milhiser called "Cease fire, save your ammunition."

I feel that the patrol had been on Angelsberg's ridge with the hapless sniper. Pressure from the point of Co. A, forced the patrol to seek Weihersberg's southern slopes. Or, a different patrol may have been ordered from Mambach to harrass our right flank. Either way, they probably suffered some consequences for taking the low ground.

Countdown

Nevertheless, as we struggled another fifty yards and repositioned the gun; a single burst of automatic fire came from the thicket and struck the tree which had obstructed my previous position. At least three rounds peeled bark away from our side. I reflected that such density of fire power was a waste of precious ammunition.

Now the realization began to set in that "smokeless powder" had betrayed my location. We had been told that a machine gunner could last only 5 minutes in combat. Remorsefully, I suspected that those minutes were being counted now. The wait was brief.

Three 88's, on our west northwest bearing, joined in. Their shells came perpendicular to our trail. Their trajectory was nearly flat. I had never heard the scream of the 88 before. Three shells exploded simultaneously about 25 yards apart. They burst in the air 50 yards east of my last position, and they were nearly in a straight line. They burst no less that 40 feet above the terrain, and none hit a tree In less that 30 seconds this was repeated; but closer, over my previous position. The middle one burst over the trail. In each volley some G.I.'s were under the first two rounds. The next three would be over us and I reflected on my training. Something was wrong. "Shells drop into the ground and spray shrapnel horizontally", went the wisdom "so flatten out when you hear them." I wanted to shrink. Why were these bursting without hitting trees or ground?

The next "whee-ow" was louder and I knew these would be mine. The first was behind me. I rolled into a fetal position on my left side. The next was directly above, and I felt a sledge hammer blow to my thigh. The third burst ahead of the gun. Again, all had been kept neatly above the ground.

I turned and spoke to Foley. He was face down and didn't answer. I shook him without response. His head had been between my feet before I rolled into a ball, because the trail was so narrow. About two feet to the right of his head was a shrapnel gouge in the packed frozen gravel large enough to nest my helmet in. That was where my right ankle had been! I shivered.

I don't know if Foley died there or was knocked out. Matthews wrote later, "I guess you know Foley got it." I see his name on the honor roll. The date maybe wrong. I shall never forget how badly he wanted to visit home, which was only a few miles from Camp Myles Standish. But security was ironclad and he couldn't leave camp.

I don't know how many more rounds came in. I recall that there were more, but they shifted their fire more to the east. Much of Co. A was still there. Echoes were overlapping echoes now, and I couldn't tell the bursts from the echoes. It seems that the 88's were somewhere north of Mambach near Falkenberg. Their shallow trajectory had to clear the southwest slope of Weihersberg to reach us on the west end of Angelsberg. If their shallow trajectory and screaming meant they were high velocity longbarreled A.A.'s, Weihersberg's crest would have blocked them from our overnight position.

The Germans had a good observer on Weihersberg and the right flank of Co. A must have resembled targets on a carnival shelf. I still marvel how nine shells, from guns I couldn't hear, could be placed in a square with the center directly over its objective. Later I read a Time - Life WW II book about the 3rd and 45th Infantry attacking Nurenberg in April, 1945. They met devastating anti-aircraft fire from shells fused to burst overhead, which scattered shrapnel for hundreds of yards. I am sure that this was the tactic used on Co. A at Angelsberg on January 3.

Blazing Trails
Time: Unknown
Weather: "NordWind", snow flurries, fog

Milhiser rose and ordered everyone over to the south side of Angelsberg's ridge, away from the observer. I stood up but had no feeling below the right hip. I staggered and my helmet fell over the edge of the trail.

I watched it roll more than 50 feet down the 45 slope and decided I wouldn't bother to retrieve it in this war. I still had my wool cap on.

I looked around; there was Dorsey again. I asked, "Am I hit or not?" He asked, "Did you have a hole in your coat?' I said I didn't. He said. "You do now." Matthews and Klipola carried the gun over the ridge and I hopped behind on one foot. Suddenly, feeling returned to the leg, without pain, but it would not support me. Staff Sgt. Alegi, light mortar platoon leader, was heavily loaded, yet he helped me over the ridge.

(I was very saddened to find his name on the honor roll. He was a big friendly man, descended from Russian immigrants.)

Beyond the ridge, several riflemen took turns letting me lean on them as a crutch. After more than an hour of this I began to realize that I and my helpers could not get out this way. The terrain was either up or down; both slopes were difficult.

Like a godsend, two German prisoners carrying an empty stretcher appeared from the head of the column. I hailed this "taxi" and didn't let go for the rest of the journey. They couldn't carry the stretcher level on some slopes, and I can't recall the number of times I had to get between them for support.

During a break I tried to tie the dragging boot lace that was tormenting me, but I couldn't draw up my leg. One of the POW's jumped up and laced it. I managed a handbook "Danka shane". For hours they had not said a word and now came torrents of them. I came back with "Nicht sprechen zee Deutsche", but they didn't slow down much. Garcia, who was guarding us, called a friend who knew German, "What do they want?" After a brief exchange he grinned and said. "They want to know if they will be sent to America. I told them we would all like to go there." I laughed, the POW's laughed, and everyone within earshot laughed. I had not heard laughter for days.

The column moved carefully with many pauses. Darkness fell and on a very steep slope, covered with underbrush, we fell. We slid about 40 feet before stopping. I was on top of one POW and under the other. Garcia was somewhere above, without a light, calling to us. The POW's hastily answered before I could.

It had been dark for hours; and while we stopped and waited a long time, word came that we had reached a road. We could hear the squeak of tanks treads, but no one knew theirs from ours. We had not trained by tanks.

Departure from the 70th

Finally we descended to the Neiderbronn-Philippsbourg road, where ambulances were waiting. After a brief trip and a short wait at Regimental Aid, a medical officer was writing me up. "How old are you," he asked. I answered with a question, "What time is it?" He scowled, "It's 0100, why?" I told him I was 19, but an hour aqo I was still 18. Then I saw a second smile in one day.

I was on one of a long line of operating tables about 4 feet apart. It now reminds me of a scene from the television program, MASH. Doctors were removing shrapnel from an officer's back on a table beside me. A medic came to me with a hypo of sodium pentathol, fit for a horse, and said, "Start counting." I remember seven.

I woke in a body cast and in a hospital, but I didn't know where. I asked a nurse, who saw me awaken, what day it was. "January 5," she said. "What happened to January 4?" She said, "You slept through your birthday; are you hungry?" I said, "Very much." She hurried away, but before she could return I slept for 12 more hours.

I had eaten one ounce of cheese in 3 1/2 days, yet I wanted sleep more than food. I suppose that is exhaustion, but I have heard of worse. After 36 hours of sleep I was able to stay awake. The nurses this close to the front were dedicated, hard working and just wonderful.

Recovery

A square piece of shrapnel, weighing about two 30 caliber bullets, had knocked a sliver off the thigh bone, and jarred but missed the sciatic nerve and main artery. After two weeks in the hospital, I asked nurse why I did not feel well. She said I had a very dirty wound, which surprised me. On reflection, I had been in the same clothes about two weeks and there were nine layers of wool or cotton where the shirt tails and pants overlapped. The cloth plugs from square holes had also penetrated the leg.

One other miracle I owe my life to is penicillin. It was so scarce that it was recovered from a patient's urine and recycled. A red ribbon on the bed identified recipients. This pin cushion got over 120 shots, six hours apart, well beyond January.

Later I heard that wounded American POW's in the Black Forest had received the worst care. I am depressed by this thought, and I wonder who, with decent care, might have fought the odds and avoided the honor roll.

Apology

The author acknowledges that he only experienced the magnitude of the misery but not its duration. I am humbled in the presence of Trailblazers who fought on and continued to survive many more months under subhuman conditions.

December 1990

General Orders - 275th Honor Roll