Sixty-three years ago, I was a member of the American 7th Army coping with savage winter weather and units of the German Army in the High Vosges Mountains of France.
The 7th Army was pushing eastward through Alsace-Lorraine toward the Rhine River and Germany. Earlier hopes that the war in Europe would be over by Christmas had been crushed by increased German resistance and the worst fall and winter weather witnessed in Europe for many years.
A rugged bastion of granite-topped peaks, the Vosges have an indelible history of this section of France. From medieval times to the wide sweep of World War II, the rugged area had been contested through several conflicts and been part of both France and Germany as results. Alsace-Lorraine was ceded to Germany after the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71 and returned to France under the Treaty of Versailles after World War 1.
Remnants of history are scattered through the rugged terrain, including castles, nearly obscure markers, monuments and torturous roads at elevations up to some 4,000 feet.
The Vosges Mountains campaign has not received wide historical note, largely eclipsed by the D-day landings and the Battle of the Bulge. Yet, ultimate success in the rough barrier mountains, under adverse conditions, contributed to United States success in Europe at the time, as did the long and drawn out struggle in the mountains of Italy.
Keith E. Bonn’s engaging book, “When The Odds Were Even, The Vosges Mountains Campaign, October 1944 – January 1945” (Presideo Press, 1994) is a complete picture of that winter under trying conditions. This is a detailed military textbook, a vivid picture of forces on both sides, their strengths and weaknesses and their roles during the campaign. Like many military histories of its period, it’s a bit tough to find today.
Thick growth and the narrow mountain roads of the Vosges were not tank country, yet Sherman tanks of attached armored battalions encountered German Panther tanks, often with incongruous results. A 32-ton Sherman poked cautiously around a bend in heavy growth on a road slick with glare ice. The treads fought for purchase as the tank slid slowly backward on the ice. The steel monster lost purchase while its engine screamed in protest, missed the turn in the road and slipped off the embankment, backward. When it came to rest in a group of trees, with belly exposed, its .76mm cannon pointed skyward.
During those December days of 1944, the rain was incessant and the cold penetrating to the point we didn’t believe we could become more wet or cold. Piercing wind and blowing snow only added to the woeful conditions.
We spent days trying to reach a crest of granite ledges, boulders and stunted trees despite efforts from Germans, who didn’t want us to be there. After we swapped worthless terrain in the rain and snow, we found ourselves keeping an eye on a group of prisoners until someone could take them off our hands. They were a pretty bedraggled bunch and we didn’t look so good either.
I turned my back to the persistent wind and lit a cigarette. A prisoner, sitting on a boulder opposite me, stared at my cigarette as if mesmerized by it. Stubble on his face matched mine, but spikes of gray in his whiskers and fatigue dark about his eyes indicated perhaps he was much older than I was. Insignia of whatever Wehrmacht unit he was from was as mottled and wet as was mine of the 3rd Infantry Division.
Still, he stared at the cigarette in my fingers.
With an impulse I’d never understand, I handed him a cigarette and lighted it for him.
Our eyes locked for an instant. “Danke,” he said.
I didn’t see the guy come along the crest until he stood beside me. His uniform, compared to mine, was spotless. He could have been a war correspondent, or an officer from higher headquarters checking on the troops. At the moment, I didn’t give a damn.
“Why in hell did you do that?” he asked, with an indifferent glance toward the prisoner.
I looked at him and said nothing. It was cold and I was hungry.
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