Dornot was a good-sized village on the banks of the Moselle River. As a crossing point, it was less than ideal because any troops, tanks, or trucks would have to squeeze through the narrow main street in order to reach the river.
The road leading through the river valley wasn't much better, hemmed in on all sides by low hills, and currently a morass of mud from the cold, steady rain. And yet, more and more troops piled up on the muddy road, forcing the troops up ahead through the narrow places with the same physics as a tube of toothpaste. The problem was that as these troops pushed through, it became more urgent for the Americans to be able to get across the river.
In military parlance, a river crossing was known as a bridgehead. For American GIs, it was going to be a bloodbath.
And they knew it.
"I wish we'd get this over with," Private Robert "Frenchie" Tremblay said, the last word emerging an octave higher from his nervously constricted throat. Nobody bothered to kid him about it. They could actually see the Germans on the opposite bank of the river.
Waiting for them.
"I got to say, this is gonna be a bitch," said Private Marty Pulaski, crouched at his buddy's elbow.
The men had been in position since before dawn, waiting to pile into rubber boats for the attack across the Moselle. However, here it was past ten o'clock in the morning, and nothing had happened except that they had run out of cigarettes.
"It's a SNAFU, is what it is," Frenchie said. His nickname came from the fact that he spoke French fluently, thanks to parents who had grown up in Quebec before moving to the States for work. He spoke Canadian French, but it was clear enough for the locals to understand him. "Situation Normal, All Fouled Up. Nobody knows who's in charge."
Pulaski hid his grin at his buddy’s definition of SNAFU. Despite months of war and carnage, his friend couldn't quite bring himself to swear like a soldier. Frenchie was too much of a straight arrow for that. To Pulaski's way of thinking, the situation was more than Fouled Up — and the F-word that came to mind reflected that.
Soldiers loved a good rumor, and the hurried conferences they had witnessed between officers from various units seemed to back up what they'd heard. That would also explain the long wait. Two different units — one infantry, one armored — had ended up in this spot with orders from two different commanders. It was taking a while to wrangle out who was in charge and whether or not the attack should go forward even though it was evident to all that the Germans were dug in and ready for them.
Another rumor persisted that the Germans awaiting them were SS. The GIs had fought both SS and regular Wehrmacht in France. The Wehrmacht troops were not pushovers, but they had the good sense to surrender when things got rough. They didn't have a death wish. The SS troops fought to the last man. SS troops didn't expect to be taken prisoner, and they didn't take prisoners, either. If you found yourself surrounded, it was unlikely that you could expect any quarter from those SS bastards.
Unfortunately for the GIs, both rumors had a basis in truth. There had been a real mix-up in the command structure that was causing confusion about the river crossing. If that wasn’t bad enough, the German troops on the other side were, in fact, SS. The Americans would have to fight for every inch of that bridgehead against a determined adversary.
Both Frenchie Tremblay and Marty Pulaski belonged to Company F, 11th Infantry, which had seen its share of fighting during the months leading up to this point. They had lost close to 30 percent of their unit since the June landing, either wounded or killed. In fact, it seemed as if the time since D Day had been one long battle with a few snatches of sleep thrown in.
Some of the men couldn't take it anymore. There had been more than a few self-inflicted "accidental" shootings through a hand or foot — anything to get off the line. The Army kept that quiet. Then there were the genuine Section 8 cases where men had gone into catatonic states or simply balled up in a foxhole at the sound of a German 88 and then refused to leave. These guys weren't cowards — they had done their share, and then some — but something in their minds had snapped. They had reached the breaking point. The Army swept these cases under the rug because they were bad for morale.
Frenchie and Marty had been among the lucky ones so far, but you wouldn't know it to look at them. Both young men had dark circles around their eyes from lack of sleep. Marty had developed a nasty-sounding wet cough as a result of the cold, rainy weather. Just the other morning, they had awakened to the sting of sleet pelting their faces. The men shivered and pulled their filthy uniforms closer.
It was only September, but winter came early to this part of Europe. So far, no winter gear had been issued. The supply lines were stretched too thin. The Army had enough trouble getting gasoline and ammo and medical supplies to the front, let alone warm socks. Many of those supplies were brought in by the heroic Red Ball Express, the nickname given to the supply truck drivers wrangling their way through the muddy roads all the way from the coast.
Like his buddy, Frenchie, Private Pulaski was looking out at the expanse of open water to the banks on the other side, knowing full well that the Germans were dug in and expecting them. This was not a scene for a postcard. The river was ninety yards wide here and six or seven feet deep, with a powerful current exacerbated by the recent rains. That current was deceptive because there were no rapids or anything else to disturb the surface. Instead, the current flexed like a smooth, brown muscle. The water had a dank, muddy smell that clung to the shoreline. From a soldier’s point of view, the river was neither inviting nor scenic, but just another obstacle to cross.
On the other side of the river was a flood plain that stretched for around 400 yards before the land began to rise steeply. The only cover on the plain was provided by a patch of woods shaped roughly like a horseshoe. Just a mile from the river they could see the twin fortresses, Fort St. Blaise and Fort Sommy, part of the old Siegfried line of defense built by the Germans, that presided over the flood plain. Beyond those forts began the foothills of the Ardennes region, one of the most rugged and wild regions in central Europe.
Near these fortresses, German artillery had dug in to cover any river crossings by the Americans. The rugged terrain that provided good cover to ground forces, along with the wet weather, meant that the Army Air Corps no longer had all of the advantages. One benefit was that German armor seemed to be absent, having concentrated to the south to confront General Patton's forces.
Just then, a shell ripped in and struck just behind the American position. Dirt and debris showered the waiting troops. Moments later, another shell came at them from west of the river, this one hitting the poor guys anchoring the unit's right flank on the river bank.
Frenchie heard screams and saw the air fill with clods of mud and chunks of what might be body parts. With the other men, he flattened himself against the wet ground, but the firing stopped.
"What a clusterfuck," Marty muttered. It didn't take a general to see that this was a lousy position. The riverbank offered minimal protection. Nobody liked being exposed to enemy artillery.
It didn't help that the Jerries still had a few stubborn pockets of artillery on this side of the river, which meant that the Allied forces were occasionally being shelled from both the front and the rear. While artillery had tried to soften up the German positions earlier that morning, it was hard to say how effective the barrage had been. The German positions were spread out and well protected by the fortresses or the low hills in which they sheltered. All in all, it was a hell of situation.