(3 of 5)
The Ambush. It was now 8:55 a.m., and the situation was bad. Kelly, Belisle and Company A of the 1st Battalion were making their way up the hill toward the place where, unknown to them, the German machine-gunners waited.
On top of our hill we heard, from somewhere on White House Hill, a curious kind of guttural howling and yelling. Then, from just below the white house, figures rushed down the hill. They were our men, the men of the 1st Battalion's Company A. The German machine gun had found them.
Heartsick, we watched those broken ranks stumbling down the slope. It was worse when mortar shells landed in the middle of them. Beside me an awed voice said: "They're getting hell kicked out of 'em, aren't they?" One of the figures suddenly fell over, then gripped himself between his legs. Men tried to reach him but were driven off, and he sat there alone on the slope of White House Hill.
Oh, Suzanna—Kelly's company of our 2nd Battalion was still working up the slope. When he was still some distance from the Germans, rocket shells topped the crest and struck the slope. The brush burst into flame and the whole side of the hill began to burn.
Out of the smoke and flame, Kelly's voice came to us over the belatedly functioning walkie-talkie: "Tanks, definitely German, are now on our right flank below the hill." Then, down the slope in back of us, a voice shouted: "Tanks are around here." Someone yelled uphill to the Colonel: "The 1st Battalion is withdrawing. Get these goddamn men faced around."
Our rear protection was going. The men in the C.P. jumped to their feet and stared at each other.
The valley was shaking with heavy gunfire. Close at hand, above the heavy sound of artillery, came the sharp crackle of machine guns. Bullets whined through trees. A voice yelled, "X unit is trying to haul ass!"
Soldiers were lying behind rifles, facing out into the valley and toward White House Hill. They craned their necks and looked back at us. The Colonel ran toward them and shouted: "Drive down in there and chase the bastards out! Shoot them! Get in there and clean those bastards out! Come on, get up into firing position!"
The men got up uncertainly.
"Get off your ass!" said the Colonel. "Get some men on top of the hill so we can see what's coming up, or for Christ's sake they'll be on top of us before we know it." Drawing his pistol, the Colonel rushed toward the vicious firing himself.
Dozens of voices were shouting at once. The fog of war had descended on us in earnest. Amid these wild scenes, Private "Pete" Sher sat beneath an almond tree, fingering his droopy mustache and guarding the Colonel's radio. Through the crazy chatter of guns he sang plaintively, humorously: "If I had the wings of an angel. ..."
He looked up at me, winked, took out his harmonica and played: "Oh, Suzanna, don't you cry for me."