"We're ready, sir. We know that we'll be able to penetrate German airspace. Whoever has been feeding us the IFF codes for the Luftwaffe is continuing to do so." IFF, short for identify friend or foe, is an electronic system on every combat aircraft that emits a signal when interrogated by another aircraft or a ground-based air defense system. If the correct response comes back from the aircraft being interrogated, it is considered friendly. If not, it is deemed to be hostile and engaged or tracked. With the Luftwaffe's IFF codes, the aircraft of the 79th Air Wing would be able to make it to their designated targets without interference from the German long-range air defense system. Even when it was discovered that the IFF codes had been compromised, confusion would reign and engagements between opposing aircraft would rely on visual rules of engagement rather than radar alone.
Looking back at MacHaffry, Big Al smiled. "Okay, get back to Boomer and tell him to stand by. I don't want to push the Germans too far, not until it's really necessary."
Satisfied that everything that could be done about the Luftwaffe was in hand, the assembled group looked to the portion of the map where the symbols of the 10th Panzer Division sat clustered west of Alsfeld. Prentice, the G-3, pointed out that the 55th Infantry Division, with two brigades and six battalions, was an even match for the 10th Panzer's three brigades and six battalions. Though Big Al agreed, saying that he intended to leave that fight up to the 55th's commander, he also stated that he would suggest a holding action at Alsfeld with one brigade, and a maneuver to the north and west with the other. To assist in this fight, Big Al directed Prentice to issue orders attaching one squadron of the 14th Armored Cavalry Regiment to the 55th. The rest of the 14th Armored Cavalry would cover the corps rear and the maneuver by the 4th Armored Division's 1st Brigade.
Finished, Big Al asked if anyone had any questions or comments. Prentice, looking at the map, asked if he thought that the 4th Armored Division's 1st Brigade would be able to cover the distance from Fulda to Highway 19 and still be able to strike north in time to influence the battle. Big Al smiled as he prepared to answer. "That's Scotty Dixon's brigade you're talking about. If I asked him to secure a bridgehead on the moon, the only question he would ask is what side of the moon we wanted it on." Then, on a serious note, he looked at the map. "If anyone can do it, he can." Unsaid was a follow-on comment that Big Al kept to himself: And if I'm wrong, Scotty's brigade will be wiped out and we fail.
While the general pondered and staff officers scurried about issuing orders to this unit and that, the first casualties arrived at the 553rd Field Hospital just as the sky in the east began to lighten, announcing that another cold gray day was dawning. The appearance of real wounded soldiers whose bodies were torn, twisted, or burned in combat had the same effect on the personnel of the 553rd that news of the first battles had had on the staff of the Tenth Corps. But they hid any outward manifestation of that shock or dread behind the mask of medical professionals. For the task of the men and women of the 553rd Field Hospital was to save those who were suffering from true shock, the shock of physical and psychological trauma caused by what was being called the Battle of the Two Felds.
Working in pre-op, Hilary Cole, like every other nurse in the unit, walked a fine line between maintaining a detached professional attitude when dealing with the broken and traumatized soldiers entrusted to her care and opening her heart to their sufferings. In some cases, where the soldier was unconscious or under heavy sedation, this was easy. Then all she had to do was cut away those parts of the uniform that would interfere with the surgeon's work, remove old dressings, often hastily applied in adverse conditions and contaminated with dirt and mud, and clean the wounds as best she could.
It was when the soldier was conscious and able to talk that Cole had to be on her guard. Often these soldiers had no idea of how seriously they had been injured. They knew they had been hit, and they felt pain. But the shock of the wound, coupled with adrenaline dumped into their system by their bodies, and sedatives administered at battalion aid stations, masked for the most part the severity of- their condition. Inevitably those who could would ask the question that the nurses working in triage and pre-op dreaded, namely, "How bad is it?"
Having worked in shock-trauma before joining the Army, Cole had seen serious injuries before and had learned to deal with that question. While working as quickly as possible, Cole would try every ploy she knew to change the subject. She'd ask the patient's name, where he came from, what his unit was, anything to take his mind off of his injury and save her from having to lie about it. That was not always possible. One soldier, missing his left foot from the ankle down, would not be put off by Cole's diversions. The more she told him to calm down and relax, the more upset he became. Finally, angry and upset, he began to struggle to sit up as Cole was trying to cut away the blood-soaked field dressings. Stopping what she was doing, Cole turned away from his left leg and leaned over the soldier, taking his face firmly between her hands. Mustering all the calm she could, she looked him in the eye and quietly told him his foot was gone. For a second there was a pause as the horror of her statement struck home. Then he closed his eyes and let himself slump back down as he tried desperately to absorb the reality of losing his foot. Finally, just as Cole finished and was preparing to leave, the soldier reached out and grabbed her arm. His face betrayed no more fear, no anger. He only nodded and whispered, "Thanks."
Taken in isolation, Cole and the other nurses could have handled such incidents. But as the day wore on, Cole's ability to keep her emotions in check, her efforts to isolate herself from the pain and suffering of the young men and women she worked on, oozed away like the blood that soaked through field dressings. By midmorning Cole could feel herself begin to lose it as she realized that no matter how fast she worked there were always two or three more waiting for her attention. Still, like the other nurses, she kept working, dealing with the screamers and those barely alive. She had to, as she watched two more wounded brought in. For a second Cole felt like she was the only one there, left alone to deal with cuts and gashes that measured a foot or more, burns that made the human body look like badly burned beef, severed limbs that refused to stop bleeding, abdominal wounds that revealed the intestines, and shattered bones that stuck out of the body in ways she never thought were possible. And there was no end, no letup.
Turning her attention away from the door, Cole forced herself to focus on the soldier lying before her. He was a young man, maybe twenty, twenty-one at most. From his waist down, blood seeped through his burned uniform from numerous wounds. Unable to deal with him properly, his battalion aid station had sent him straight to the 553rd with only hasty patching and treatment. It was now up to Cole to prepare him for the surgeons.