

Part 2: War revealed mercy and deadly brutality

From Dec. 16, 1944, to Jan. 16, 1945, Pfc. Robert F. Kauffman, 19, of Emmaus was among more than 1 million American, British and German troops who fought in the Ardennes forest on Belgium's border with Germany. The Battle of the Bulge was one of the most costly to America in World War II -- 19,000 killed, 62,000 wounded or captured. Kauffman's memoir, "The Red & White Path: One Soldier's Odyssey," is excerpted on the 59th anniversary of the American victory that ended Hitler's last major offensive.

Second of three parts


Belgium, January 1945: Someone asked for two volunteers to walk in front of each track of the lead tank, shuffling the snow to locate land mines that might have been lying immediately under the freshly fallen snow.

Pfc. Harry Clark and I volunteered, and got the column moving near Hebronval. Shuffling the deep snow was particularly laborious and painstakingly slow, not to mention dangerous. One wrong step, and we would be blown to bits.

We approached a curve in the road, and there was a solitary house with the windows already shattered. It looked especially menacing because its location was perfect for a Panzerfaust team [German bazooka team].

It was not my first encounter with a Panzerfaust. In Normandy, where I was wounded in July [1944], a Panzerfaust was concealed in the heavy foliage.

It fired and hit the tank next to me. It caught me like the wallop of a 2-by-4 across the front of my body. I was hit. The upper part of my field jacket was in tatters.

Moving back, I received words of encouragement and comfort as I passed by them. "Tough luck kid!" "You'll be OK!" "Everything will be all right kid!"

I lay down in a ditch, where a medic came and gave me a shot of morphine.

I was moved to a hospital, where my last recollection was hearing the soothing voice of a nurse saying to me, "Now you tell us all about what happened." Before I could even mumble a word, the anesthetic eased me into a soft, velvety whirlpool, and I was gently drawn down into unconsciousness.

When I awakened, I found that my neck and chin had been burned by the heat of that penetrating missile. There were other bandages on the upper and lower part of my body, covering shrapnel wounds. Tied around my neck was a medical packet. I was surprised to find a rifle bullet inside.

I said to the doctor, there must have been a mistake. I had not been hit by small arms fire, I had been hit by the blast from a Panzerfaust. All he knew was that he had taken that rifle slug from my lower abdomen.

Friends and foes

Clearing houses in Hebronval, a town northeast of Bastogne, I bumped into a German soldier in the doorway between two rooms. He immediately raised his arms in surrender and then gestured that he wanted to get something from his pocket. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small change purse, and from it he retrieved some kind of skiing medal.

It must have been something he valued because he offered it to me, and then thrust the purse into my hand in a further attempt to ingratiate himself to his captor. I felt quite sure that if we had been together a few more minutes, we could have been good friends.

Another house had an open stairway to the cellar. The prospect of going down those steps did not appeal to me at all. I shouted, "Kommen sie raus mit den handen hoche!" Or, come out with your hands up.

I shouted this twice, without any response. I then began to leave, I became apprehensive because, once you leave a house, the others GIs who follow have every right to believe it has been cleared.

I returned to the rear of the house again to the stairway and shouted down again. "Kommen sie raus mit den handen hoche!" Still, no response, and I was still determined not to go down those steps. I didn't like the idea of using hand grenades because of the possibility of civilians taking refuge there.

In the corner was a wooden hay rake. I picked it up and threw it. It bounced down the steps with an awful racket, slammed into the door. Instantly, the door burst open and four German soldiers come hurriedly up the steps with their hands raised. They chanted "Comrade!" "Comrade!" "Comrade!"

I desperately needed that unusual day at Hebronval. There wasn't a day like it, before or after. That day seemed to be the divinely orchestrated response to the prayerful interlude by the woodshed earlier in the day.

Callous killing

Our unit now changed direction and moved out of Hebronval toward high ground ahead. There was a short, but heavy, exchange of fire as we approached a small wooded area.

We came upon two badly wounded German soldiers, blood-covered and groaning pitifully. The officer with us said we should remove them to the rear. No sooner had he uttered those words, when a soldier standing by us fired a few rounds from his Thompson submachine gun into them, killing them both instantly.

We stood there absolutely dumbfounded at this senseless and cowardly action. Ironically, the soldier who did it was the same one who, earlier in the day, yelled at Pfc. Harry Clark and me for firing into a house because he said, "There might be Germans in there who want to surrender."

Who's who?

Clark and I made our way through the deep snow to the crest of a hill, where we spotted our tank column.

The column spotted us and thought we were Germans. The Germans in the village spotted us, and knew we were Americans. Everyone began firing.

We burrowed into the snow for a few moments to catch our breath. We literally threw ourselves down the hill, running, sliding and tumbling. Anything to get out of there.

The two columns met at the edge of the village, and the tanks laid down heavy fire as we moved into it. Some of our men came upon an elderly Belgian farmer, who seemed oblivious to everything that was going on around him because his barn was on fire. After the village was secured, these same men returned and helped him save his barn.

Of kitchen sinks and combat boots

Troops were continuing to move into the hamlet, and shelter was limited. I entered one house already filled, and wiggled my way underneath the sink.

Neither the view nor the smell was very inspiring, what with the dank odor of the drain and the vintage smell of combat boots.

Some loudmouth complained there were too many men in the house.

I knew my position had been compromised when I saw a large, ungainly combat boot with flesh overflowing its top. It began probing around under the sink, jabbing me until I responded.

What's your name soldier? Kauffman. What's your company? Company D. Then, get out of here.

The exchange became very heated and, hearing words like "insubordination" and "court-martial," I realized that the solitary stripe on my arm did not buttress my position.

Leaving, I discharged a barrage of epithets that I was sure would cover all of his human frailties. I slammed the door and went sulking into the darkness, looking for a more friendly refuge.

I took up shelter in a barn, where I lay in a concrete feed trough. There was activity in the opposite corner, and I learned a woman was having a baby. What a time and place, I thought, to bring a child into the world.

I wondered if, in time, the woman might have a great sense of pride as she remembered another mother who also gave birth to a son under similar circumstances.

The peace was broken when a soldier came in and told us a number of our soldiers had been killed a short distance away.

Battle-hardened men

We prepared for our first warm meal in days. Pop Waters, our platoon sergeant, had a tin of sardines that he had received from home. I was fortunate enough to be asked to share this gourmet meal with him. Things looked pretty good for a reasonable night, despite the intermittent shelling.

Soon, however, a full-scale artillery barrage came slamming into the village. One shell landed near the house we were in. The force of the explosion blew a mattress and the dresser across the room.

Just as quickly, the food that hadn't been spilled was recovered and the meal resumed.

A new officer, who joined us that same day, was dumbfounded. "I can't believe what I've just seen," he said. "What kind of men are you? A shell almost lands in the room and you guys act as if nothing had happened."

There was no response. I guess everyone figured he'd find the answer for himself soon enough.

Copyright © 2014, The Morning Call
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