A Silent Night on Elsenborn Ridge

The 99th Infantry Division, also known as the "Checkered Board Division", was named for the blue and white checkered pattern originally on the family crest of William Pitt, the founding father of the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Checkered Board Division had not been on the "Ghost Front" in the Ardennes Forest very long and they made the most of their stay. The biggest complaint was their hot chow had stopped and even the canned food was running out. They were down to concentrated food bars stuck together with chocolate; the soldiers nicknamed them "Hitler's Secret Weapon." This was considered the easy life and most felt the war would be over soon.

Jeff was not so sure that the war would end so quickly. He reached the command bunker and slid in after taking one more look around. He glanced at the luminous watch face on his wrist and noticed that it was 2326 hours.

"Almost the sixteenth," he spoke softly to himself. Corporal Atkins, sitting on a small wooden crate in one corner of the bunker, looked up at him and said, "What, sir?"

"Nothing, just talking out loud. Oh, Atty please let the CO (Commanding Officer) know I'm back and I'm sending the SITREP to regiment." The lieutenant sat down on a makeshift bench in the bunker and a shiver ran up and down his spine, "Lord, do we really need this drizzle?" He picked up the field phone receiver and turned the crank on the body of the unit. A metallic ring sounded on the other end.

"Regal Blue," (The callsign of 99th Division - REGAL; and the 394th Infantry Regiment - BLUE.) the metallic voice sounded.

"Regal Blue this is Blue Diamond Three (BLUE – 394th, Diamond – Dog Company, Three – the XO), all clear." The report by Lieutenant Jeffreys was to the point and was the same report heard all throughout the 99th ID. After Jeff had made the report, he placed the receiver in the slot at the top of the unit where it belonged. He turned up his coat collar, took off his helmet, pulled a knit hat out of a pocket, and put on the knit cap that had a very small brim on the front. Unfolding the cap over his ears, Jeff set the helmet down on his head and tipped it over his eyes. "Wake me when you need me Atty," Jeff muttered stretching out his legs and wriggling his back against the dirt wall.

"Will do, sir."

Before going to sleep, Jeff whispered a prayer. "God, be with my men, help them all to survive the night. Amen."

What seemed like a few short minutes to Jeff was actually five hours when he awoke. The metallic click - click of what used to be the bell on the field phone was chattering at him and the corporal. Jeff grabbed the receiver and sleepily spoke, "Blue Diamond Three." He listened and grunted, "I'll be right over." He turned to pick up his carbine and spoke softly over his shoulder. "Atty, call up the first, second, and weapons platoons and find out if they've heard anything, get the commander and the shirt up." Before Atkins could reply, Jeff disappeared into the early morning mist.

As Jeff walked along with the snow crunching under his feet, he tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes. He glanced at his watch and saw that is was 0452 hours. Walking quickly but cautiously, Jeff kept his carbine unslung and carried it ready to use if need be. As he approached the third platoon's foxholes, he stopped and listened, hoping to hear nothing but expecting to hear the clanking sound of armor.

Tanks were the fear of any infantryman. These huge hulking 45-ton steel monsters could rain instant death from miles away or drive over top of you as you fired at it with your rifle. German armor was nothing with which to fool.

Jeff reached the platoon leader's foxhole and quickly dropped in. "What do you have, Ron?"

Staff Sergeant (S/Sgt) Ron Wilson was the type of person that is referred to as a "long drink of water,” standing about six - foot - four and probably weighing 175 pounds. Ron had jet-black hair that was just visible under his helmet. His drawn face had a very bushy black mustache which, somehow, looked out of place and his face had not seen the edge of a razor in a few days. S/Sgt Wilson had been the platoon sergeant until just a few days before. The platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Leo Wilder, had been stricken with appendicitis and rushed to the regimental hospital. He shifted uneasily in his foxhole and as he did you could hear the mud slosh around at the bottom.

"Nothing definite, sir. We have had reports up and down my line of what sounds like tanks. Personally, I have a very uneasy feeling," Ron replied to the lieutenant.

For the first time, Jeff felt the uneasiness. Believe it or not, it was too quiet. "Make sure all your men are awake. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." Jeff trotted back to the command bunker. "Atty, call up first, second and weapons and make sure everybody is awake." The corporal got to work and Jeff reported to the commander

"That's it Jeff?"

"Granted Sir, it's not much but S/Sgt Wilson's been through this before. I trust him."

"Okay Jeff," his superior used his nickname, "go back out to the third lines and give me a situation update."

Jeff pulled the bolt on his carbine back far enough to ensure that a round was chambered and ready to use. He then climbed out of the hole and cocked his head to one side, like a dog, to listen better. Jeff took off his helmet and folded the earflaps up on his jeep cap and ... "What was that?" Tanks, he was sure he heard tanks. He glanced at his watch: 0528 hours. He jumped back into the bunker uncharacteristically, splashing mud.

"Tanks, Sir! Tanks!" Jeff turned the crank on the field phone. "Hurry up, Division, hurry up." He heard the phone on the other end being picked up but before he could say anything, there was crackling and whistling before the quiet dawn was split wide open by a terrific explosion.

"REGAL! This is BLUE DIAMOND! ... We're being attacked by what appears..." WHOMP! WHOMP! Shells were landing everywhere. "Tanks, tanks!," screamed Jeff into the receiver. The line was dead.

"Jeff get out to the third!" screamed Captain Weinrich.

Jeff plunged through the darkness. He ran about 25 yards and had to throw himself flat on the snow-covered ground as a terrific explosion sounded off to his left. He lay there long enough to be covered by frozen ground and snow then sprang up, as if shot from a sling, and ran on. "Keep you eyes peeled!," he screamed. "Get you rifle grenades ready!" He stopped at a foxhole and stared in. The hole was smoldering and through the smoke Jeff could see what was left of two men. He ran on, not really thinking about the sight, shells exploding everywhere. Now the sound of small arms fire could be heard. "Great, now we have infantry as well as armor." Thoughts coursed through Jeff's brain as he tried to sort out what was really happening, what he'd been trained for and what he had to do as the leader of these men. Some thoughts became verbalized as he raced along his lines. "Don't shoot! You'll give your positions away!" "Get your head down!" "Reposition left!" "Hold your fire!" Even with this he could still hear the crack crack of the M-1 Garands and the slow budda-budda of the Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR). He reached S/Sgt Wilson's position and threw himself in.

The sergeant barely looked away from the front of his position. He spoke over his shoulder, "Glad to see you made it back Lieutenant. Looks like more than a probing patrol to me."

"I know, I know, that's what worries me. Try to keep your men calm and wait until they can see the enemy before opening up, but when they see them, make sure they fire with everything they have." With this said, Jeff listened a little and jumped out of the hole running this time towards second platoon further to the left.