Truth of War Story
The Account of Wilfred H Haughey, Jr.
My name is Wilfred Haughey. My father is also Wilfred Haughey, so I guess I must introduce myself as Wilfred Haughey, Jr. My family lives in Battle Creek, Michigan. I have very fond memories of growing up there. My father is married to Edith Haughey, my mother. Together my parents have had eight children, including me. During peacetime, my father is an ear, nose and throat doctor. He is also president and secretary of the Calhoun County Medical Society.
I was born around 1911. In 1912, my father joined the Army Medical Reserves and served as a Captain and Major in World War I, which was where he was in charge of the care of some of the first American casualties due to gas. He sent us letters all the time while he was in the war, and we are very proud of him. While he tried to sound upbeat and cheerful, we could tell that the things he saw were destroying him on the inside. I was thinking of him when I went to Europe to fight in World War II.
I am in the 1st battalion of the 10th infantry regiment of the 5th infantry division. Our division is also known as the “Red Diamond.” I am very proud of the little emblem that rests on my sleeve. It connects me to something larger than myself. It gives me something to fight for.
It is September of 1944. The Germans have occupied the French city of Metz. I imagine it to be relatively heavily fortified, as I have been hearing some of the officers talking of it as the, “iron fortress.” Our objective is to defeat the Germans and take Metz for the Allies. Our plan is this. The Fifth Infantry Division (my Division) will cross the Moselle near the village of Dornot while the Second Regimental Combat Team (RCT) will attack directly from the west.
It was a good plan. However, we did not count on the solidity of the German defenses at Dornot, and lost more materials and men than was necessary trying to cross. They had 88’s firing on the river, making bridge assembly very difficult. Since crossing the bridgehead at Dornot was a no-go, another way across needed to be arranged.
Now, at 2200, orders are given for the 10th Infantry Regiment (my Regiment) to cross the Moselle tomorrow, September 9. Exactly when and where we are going to cross will be decided by our commander. Our mission is to secure the high ground to the north of the small town of Arry on the east bank.
We find a spot around 10 miles downstream of where we tried to cross by Dornot. The other regiments remain where they are as to provide a mouse for the cat to affix its attention while we steal across silently in assault boats. The river is rough and causes many a man to get water down his trousers. Being in the army, we have been through worse, and then some.
Arriving on the other side, we scout the area for somewhere to set up our bivouacs. Then we prepare for the advance that’s going to happen tomorrow. Guns cleaned, gear checked, boots oiled, gear double-checked, knifes sharpened, grenade pins checked, ammunition checked, guns re-cleaned. When you step onto that battle field, you don’t want to have to run back to pick up your canteen that you dropped because you didn’t secure it properly, or have your gun misfire and kill a comrade because there was a buildup of dirt on your barrel that you forgot to clean. After everything is looked over and taken care of, we get a sludgy dollop of gruel that passes for food, and then on to our bedrolls for some sleep.
I lay awake late into the night, thinking of different ways to win this battle. Coming up with an idea, working it over, playing it out in my head. Coming up with new ones when I realize the previous idea won’t work. One idea after another, each one crazier and less likely than the last. When my plans start involving the rising of the dead and invasion of extraterrestrial beings, I decide it might be time to get some rest. I imagine I can get a good three hours rest before I have to rise again in the morning.
We wake up instantly, without sound; boot camp has taught us well. Rolling up our bedrolls and tying them to our packs, we get ready for mobilization.
As we are getting ready, organizing into our battalions and checking our gear, I contemplate some of the better plans I came up with last night. “If the Germans decide to maneuver us over here, then we must counter-attack here,” I mutter to my self, trying to exhaust all of the possibilities.
“Hey, you say something to me,” the guy next to me asks.
“What? Oh, no. Sorry, I was just muttering to myself.”
“No matter, just wondering if there was something I needed to know. Guess not.” Then he notices the emblems on my sleeve. “Hey, you’re Tenth Reg. First Battalion, right?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Well I heard that you guys are supposed to report to the mess tent.”
“Oh, really? I better get going, thanks for telling me.”
“No problem.”
I gather my pack and hurry over to the mess tent. It looks as though I’m the last one, not by too much though; Jerry Pitts is still putting down his pack. I look around and see everybody in my battalion but our battalion commander, Langitt. “Any of you guys know where Langitt is,” I ask the group.
“No.”
“I’m about to tell you why he’s not here,” says a big man whose uniform identifies him as Lt. Col. Breckinridge. “Lt. Col. Langitt got sick and had to be evacuated. I am also supposed to tell you that Haughey is now in charge of this battalion.”
“Good luck,” he says to me as he walks away from the stunned group that is now under my command. “Where you’re going, you’re gonna to need it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I watch him go as he walks away, back to where he is needed, wherever that may be.
It suddenly dawns on me that this is my chance to put into place those plans I have been coming up with. I think back to my best one. “Yes, I think that that could definitely work.”
Now that I have command, I go down to inspect the site we plan to attack. We travel to the grove of trees by the river. They are tall cypress trees that extend high above everything else.
We paint our faces, hands, necks, and really any exposed skin green. We don’t think the Germans will be looking for soldiers in the trees but its better to be safe than sorry.
Climbing the trees, hand over hand; I am reminded of the rope drill we did in training camp till our hands bled and the ropes were so slick with blood, it was impossible to climb even a few inches.
As I clear the top of the tree, I pull out my tactical binoculars and I see for miles. I can see Metz clearly to the north, and the Germans troop movements. It becomes clear to me that the only way to defeat this Goliath-like force with my David-like battalion is with a direct attack.
“Well I think I got what I came for. Lets head back before we get spotted by a sniper or something,” I say to the others as I jump down from the last limb of the tree.
Back at camp, I learn that large caravans of what seem to be German resources and reinforcements are going to pass through Marieulles in two days time. I realize that if those supplies reach Metz, we won’t stand much of a chance of taking the city.
“Suit up, men. We’re mobilizing tomorrow,” I instruct my battalion when I reach our circle of tents. “We’re taking out that caravan.”
We rise early, around 0400. We are used to being up early, as morning hikes in boot camp usually started around 3 in the morning. There are still moans and groans from the men complaining about the early hour. I give the order to “Form up, men! Ready, march!”
We start off, one foot in front of the other. And that is how we continue throughout the miles ahead of us. Right, left, right, left, and so on, till we cannot walk anymore. We set up camp to spend the night. We still have a ways to go until we reach our destination.
Lying in my tent, I mentally prepare myself for the attack. I try to prepare for the lives that will inevitably be lost. It is dreadfully saddening, to see these young soldiers, some of which are barely men in years, being forced to throw away their childhood and youthfulness in this perverted idea called war. This war takes these boys, these babies, these innocent little babies, and makes them bear burdens only men should have to endure. This heavy weight on the shoulders of these babies smothers the child inside. It causes them to be old men existing in young boys’ bodies.
How many of them will die in this attack, I ask myself. How will I deal with that responsibility? I do not know. Eventually, I fall asleep.
We awaken in the morning with cold in our bones and anticipation in our hearts. We warm our hands over the fire, while slowly digesting the sludge that passes for food around here. We pack up our tents, stomp out our fire, and resume our march east.
We arrive at the town at around 0900. The caravan is scheduled to come through around 1300, so we will have just enough time to prepare.
I instruct the men to fan out and look for an ideal ambush area. The echo of footsteps is eerie in the deserted city. It is almost as if the city resents our presence and is trying to scare us away.
That’s silly, I tell myself, cities can’t talk. Besides, it is no use diverting attention to things that will just distract me from the objective. I shake my head once to clear my head.
It is 1337, and the caravan has not made an appearance. We are beginning to wonder if it is coming at all, when, suddenly, our radios crackle with life. “Target sighted. Target ETA is 5 minutes.”
“All right, you heard him boys. ETA in five, prepare yourselves.”
Anticipation fills the air as guns are checked, grenades are counted, and jackets are adjusted. In the distance, we see the dust cloud rising. It spirals up, mixing with the clouds in the sky. Our anxiety grows, and we start to fidget. Two minutes pass, and we can hear the rumble of the engines. Another minute, and we can see the individual vehicles of the caravan. In 30 seconds, they are upon us.
Waves of noise and dust assault us as the landmines we set up in the road explode, taking out the first two vehicles in the caravan. This stops the progress of all the vehicles. If there was ever a good time to attack, this was it.
“Fire!” I cry, as crates fly everywhere. Machine gun fire rips apart the air, piercing the sides of the vehicles.
It seems to take the Germans a while to process the fact they are being attacked. When they do, they respond with fierce intensity. I can hear the distinct sound of MG42’s, the two-handed machine guns commonly used by the Germans, coming from the caravan. First one, then two, then five machine guns start firing on our position. Machine guns are now popping up out of the tops of all of the vehicles. I had not counted on this much firepower from the Germans.
I realize that bullets from rooftops aren’t going to stop this caravan. Vaulting over the low wall of the 1-story building I was on, I call for cover. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, giving me that edge I need.
As I sprint towards the third vehicle (the first and second ones being destroyed by the landmines we set up), I pull a grenade off of my belt. I run up to the cab, punch the glass out of the window with my fist, and drop the grenade in the cab. I can hear panicked German curse words coming from the cab as I jump off and sprint to the next vehicle. I hear the explosion behind me and think; One down, a whole lot more to go.
At this point, the other machine gunners have noticed that I am a threat. They try to direct their fire towards me, but every time they try, my men barrage them with so many shells they have to turn their fire back to the rooftops.
It makes me proud to see these men I have trained since recruitment perform valiantly under heavy stress. Because of their persistent gunning, I make it to the fourth vehicle without issue. I again run up to the cab and break the window with my fist and drop a loaded grenade in.
I drop back to the ground, ready to sprint to the next vehicle. Then, off to my right, I see little puffs of dirt being kicked up by some invisible force. Each one seems to be a little bit closer to me than the last one. Time slows as I realize what these little puffs of dirt mean. I try to run from these little puffs of dirt, but my fate has already been sealed.
I do not feel the first bullets pierce my skin, my adrenaline is so high. I look down and see small explosions of red burst out of the front of my jacket. That is when I start to feel it. My legs stop moving, and I find it harder and harder drawing breath. The last thing I see before my vision goes black is one small little daisy, poking up through a crack in the dirt.
I was born around 1911. In 1912, my father joined the Army Medical Reserves and served as a Captain and Major in World War I, which was where he was in charge of the care of some of the first American casualties due to gas. He sent us letters all the time while he was in the war, and we are very proud of him. While he tried to sound upbeat and cheerful, we could tell that the things he saw were destroying him on the inside. I was thinking of him when I went to Europe to fight in World War II.
I am in the 1st battalion of the 10th infantry regiment of the 5th infantry division. Our division is also known as the “Red Diamond.” I am very proud of the little emblem that rests on my sleeve. It connects me to something larger than myself. It gives me something to fight for.
It is September of 1944. The Germans have occupied the French city of Metz. I imagine it to be relatively heavily fortified, as I have been hearing some of the officers talking of it as the, “iron fortress.” Our objective is to defeat the Germans and take Metz for the Allies. Our plan is this. The Fifth Infantry Division (my Division) will cross the Moselle near the village of Dornot while the Second Regimental Combat Team (RCT) will attack directly from the west.
It was a good plan. However, we did not count on the solidity of the German defenses at Dornot, and lost more materials and men than was necessary trying to cross. They had 88’s firing on the river, making bridge assembly very difficult. Since crossing the bridgehead at Dornot was a no-go, another way across needed to be arranged.
Now, at 2200, orders are given for the 10th Infantry Regiment (my Regiment) to cross the Moselle tomorrow, September 9. Exactly when and where we are going to cross will be decided by our commander. Our mission is to secure the high ground to the north of the small town of Arry on the east bank.
We find a spot around 10 miles downstream of where we tried to cross by Dornot. The other regiments remain where they are as to provide a mouse for the cat to affix its attention while we steal across silently in assault boats. The river is rough and causes many a man to get water down his trousers. Being in the army, we have been through worse, and then some.
Arriving on the other side, we scout the area for somewhere to set up our bivouacs. Then we prepare for the advance that’s going to happen tomorrow. Guns cleaned, gear checked, boots oiled, gear double-checked, knifes sharpened, grenade pins checked, ammunition checked, guns re-cleaned. When you step onto that battle field, you don’t want to have to run back to pick up your canteen that you dropped because you didn’t secure it properly, or have your gun misfire and kill a comrade because there was a buildup of dirt on your barrel that you forgot to clean. After everything is looked over and taken care of, we get a sludgy dollop of gruel that passes for food, and then on to our bedrolls for some sleep.
I lay awake late into the night, thinking of different ways to win this battle. Coming up with an idea, working it over, playing it out in my head. Coming up with new ones when I realize the previous idea won’t work. One idea after another, each one crazier and less likely than the last. When my plans start involving the rising of the dead and invasion of extraterrestrial beings, I decide it might be time to get some rest. I imagine I can get a good three hours rest before I have to rise again in the morning.
We wake up instantly, without sound; boot camp has taught us well. Rolling up our bedrolls and tying them to our packs, we get ready for mobilization.
As we are getting ready, organizing into our battalions and checking our gear, I contemplate some of the better plans I came up with last night. “If the Germans decide to maneuver us over here, then we must counter-attack here,” I mutter to my self, trying to exhaust all of the possibilities.
“Hey, you say something to me,” the guy next to me asks.
“What? Oh, no. Sorry, I was just muttering to myself.”
“No matter, just wondering if there was something I needed to know. Guess not.” Then he notices the emblems on my sleeve. “Hey, you’re Tenth Reg. First Battalion, right?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Well I heard that you guys are supposed to report to the mess tent.”
“Oh, really? I better get going, thanks for telling me.”
“No problem.”
I gather my pack and hurry over to the mess tent. It looks as though I’m the last one, not by too much though; Jerry Pitts is still putting down his pack. I look around and see everybody in my battalion but our battalion commander, Langitt. “Any of you guys know where Langitt is,” I ask the group.
“No.”
“I’m about to tell you why he’s not here,” says a big man whose uniform identifies him as Lt. Col. Breckinridge. “Lt. Col. Langitt got sick and had to be evacuated. I am also supposed to tell you that Haughey is now in charge of this battalion.”
“Good luck,” he says to me as he walks away from the stunned group that is now under my command. “Where you’re going, you’re gonna to need it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I watch him go as he walks away, back to where he is needed, wherever that may be.
It suddenly dawns on me that this is my chance to put into place those plans I have been coming up with. I think back to my best one. “Yes, I think that that could definitely work.”
Now that I have command, I go down to inspect the site we plan to attack. We travel to the grove of trees by the river. They are tall cypress trees that extend high above everything else.
We paint our faces, hands, necks, and really any exposed skin green. We don’t think the Germans will be looking for soldiers in the trees but its better to be safe than sorry.
Climbing the trees, hand over hand; I am reminded of the rope drill we did in training camp till our hands bled and the ropes were so slick with blood, it was impossible to climb even a few inches.
As I clear the top of the tree, I pull out my tactical binoculars and I see for miles. I can see Metz clearly to the north, and the Germans troop movements. It becomes clear to me that the only way to defeat this Goliath-like force with my David-like battalion is with a direct attack.
“Well I think I got what I came for. Lets head back before we get spotted by a sniper or something,” I say to the others as I jump down from the last limb of the tree.
Back at camp, I learn that large caravans of what seem to be German resources and reinforcements are going to pass through Marieulles in two days time. I realize that if those supplies reach Metz, we won’t stand much of a chance of taking the city.
“Suit up, men. We’re mobilizing tomorrow,” I instruct my battalion when I reach our circle of tents. “We’re taking out that caravan.”
We rise early, around 0400. We are used to being up early, as morning hikes in boot camp usually started around 3 in the morning. There are still moans and groans from the men complaining about the early hour. I give the order to “Form up, men! Ready, march!”
We start off, one foot in front of the other. And that is how we continue throughout the miles ahead of us. Right, left, right, left, and so on, till we cannot walk anymore. We set up camp to spend the night. We still have a ways to go until we reach our destination.
Lying in my tent, I mentally prepare myself for the attack. I try to prepare for the lives that will inevitably be lost. It is dreadfully saddening, to see these young soldiers, some of which are barely men in years, being forced to throw away their childhood and youthfulness in this perverted idea called war. This war takes these boys, these babies, these innocent little babies, and makes them bear burdens only men should have to endure. This heavy weight on the shoulders of these babies smothers the child inside. It causes them to be old men existing in young boys’ bodies.
How many of them will die in this attack, I ask myself. How will I deal with that responsibility? I do not know. Eventually, I fall asleep.
We awaken in the morning with cold in our bones and anticipation in our hearts. We warm our hands over the fire, while slowly digesting the sludge that passes for food around here. We pack up our tents, stomp out our fire, and resume our march east.
We arrive at the town at around 0900. The caravan is scheduled to come through around 1300, so we will have just enough time to prepare.
I instruct the men to fan out and look for an ideal ambush area. The echo of footsteps is eerie in the deserted city. It is almost as if the city resents our presence and is trying to scare us away.
That’s silly, I tell myself, cities can’t talk. Besides, it is no use diverting attention to things that will just distract me from the objective. I shake my head once to clear my head.
It is 1337, and the caravan has not made an appearance. We are beginning to wonder if it is coming at all, when, suddenly, our radios crackle with life. “Target sighted. Target ETA is 5 minutes.”
“All right, you heard him boys. ETA in five, prepare yourselves.”
Anticipation fills the air as guns are checked, grenades are counted, and jackets are adjusted. In the distance, we see the dust cloud rising. It spirals up, mixing with the clouds in the sky. Our anxiety grows, and we start to fidget. Two minutes pass, and we can hear the rumble of the engines. Another minute, and we can see the individual vehicles of the caravan. In 30 seconds, they are upon us.
Waves of noise and dust assault us as the landmines we set up in the road explode, taking out the first two vehicles in the caravan. This stops the progress of all the vehicles. If there was ever a good time to attack, this was it.
“Fire!” I cry, as crates fly everywhere. Machine gun fire rips apart the air, piercing the sides of the vehicles.
It seems to take the Germans a while to process the fact they are being attacked. When they do, they respond with fierce intensity. I can hear the distinct sound of MG42’s, the two-handed machine guns commonly used by the Germans, coming from the caravan. First one, then two, then five machine guns start firing on our position. Machine guns are now popping up out of the tops of all of the vehicles. I had not counted on this much firepower from the Germans.
I realize that bullets from rooftops aren’t going to stop this caravan. Vaulting over the low wall of the 1-story building I was on, I call for cover. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, giving me that edge I need.
As I sprint towards the third vehicle (the first and second ones being destroyed by the landmines we set up), I pull a grenade off of my belt. I run up to the cab, punch the glass out of the window with my fist, and drop the grenade in the cab. I can hear panicked German curse words coming from the cab as I jump off and sprint to the next vehicle. I hear the explosion behind me and think; One down, a whole lot more to go.
At this point, the other machine gunners have noticed that I am a threat. They try to direct their fire towards me, but every time they try, my men barrage them with so many shells they have to turn their fire back to the rooftops.
It makes me proud to see these men I have trained since recruitment perform valiantly under heavy stress. Because of their persistent gunning, I make it to the fourth vehicle without issue. I again run up to the cab and break the window with my fist and drop a loaded grenade in.
I drop back to the ground, ready to sprint to the next vehicle. Then, off to my right, I see little puffs of dirt being kicked up by some invisible force. Each one seems to be a little bit closer to me than the last one. Time slows as I realize what these little puffs of dirt mean. I try to run from these little puffs of dirt, but my fate has already been sealed.
I do not feel the first bullets pierce my skin, my adrenaline is so high. I look down and see small explosions of red burst out of the front of my jacket. That is when I start to feel it. My legs stop moving, and I find it harder and harder drawing breath. The last thing I see before my vision goes black is one small little daisy, poking up through a crack in the dirt.