Honor Before Glory Read online

  Now Sakumoto and others were perhaps a few hundred yards from the surrounded battalion. Before dawn his group had included Joseph Laurence Byrne, a lanky New Yorker of basketball-player height who was deeply respected by the Japanese Americans he commanded. He was one of the few Caucasian officers for whom many of his men would have given their lives. But the combat veteran had stepped on a mine a few hours earlier and was killed instantly. He was twenty-seven years old.

  The logging road on the ridge that Sakumoto and the rest of the 442nd had followed was now tinged red with the blood of Japanese American citizens. Two years earlier, in the hysterical days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, many of them had been forced into internment camps on desolate prairies and in deserts of the West, only because of their ethnicity. Now they were dying while their families remained behind barbed wire.

  These men had died not on a mission of great strategic significance but one of isolated rescue. It was a mission some officers and enlisted soldiers openly criticized at the time. Others questioned it in the decades that followed, including the commanding officer of the men Sakumoto and the rest of the 442nd had been sent to save. It was a rescue mission that epitomized the extraordinary World War II combat record of the “Go For Broke” regiment.

  Sakumoto reached for a cigarette.

  CHAPTER 1

  A STRONG FORCE WILL FOLLOW

  FIRST LIEUTENANTS MARTIN HIGGINS AND HARRY HUBERTH STARED at the map of the Vosges Mountains of eastern France on October 23, 1944. After seven weeks of near-constant battle, they had learned that the 1st Battalion, 141st Regiment (1/141), would spearhead an advance onto a seven-mile ridge where the Germans had been dug in for weeks. Later in the day the battalion would depart from Bruyères and Belmont, two towns southwest of the ridge. A logging trail would lead Higgins, Huberth, and the rest of the 1/141 east toward an increasingly desperate enemy dug in deep in the mountainous forest.

  Higgins and Huberth could imagine what they would do if they were defending the ridge. They would make the enemy’s advance through this part of the Vosges as costly as possible at the onset of winter. Battlefield doctrine would call for booby-trapped roadblocks to force the attackers into minefields; machine guns would be positioned along routes the advancing enemy troops were forced to take to bypass those minefields. Foxholes would conceal the ridges’ defenders until those troops were only yards away. Terrain would be used to the defenders’ advantage, by holding the high ground with crossing fields of fire and preparing fallback lines of defense in case they became necessary.

  They would wage a battle of attrition from dug-in positions and count on the mountainous terrain, dense forest, cold, rain, and mud to sap the attackers’ strength and combat effectiveness. Their artillery would pulverize known resupply and medical evacuation routes. Further, they might hold some units in reserve for a counterattack on both flanks of the ridgeline if the advancing troops overextended themselves.

  The ridge was in the southern Vosges Mountains, a range that extended ninety miles, north and south. The Vosges ran largely parallel to the German border, which was about twenty miles to the east. The west–east ridge was a relatively narrow stretch of dense forest with a slight bend to the southeast. It was rarely more than three hundred yards wide, most of it sloping gently to the north, where it met an endless series of ridges and hills that constituted the rounded mountain range far to the north.

  The south side of the ridge fell away precipitously, almost cliff-like in some areas, nearly three hundred feet to a valley filled with farms. The slope of forty to forty-five degrees made a direct climb up from the valley below difficult, and the density of the forest made it nearly impossible. Any attempt would exhaust a man in minutes. Logging roads carved across the southern face offered the only reasonable access onto the ridge for the valley’s residents.

  One decent road rose from the valley floor onto the ridge. It started in Biffontaine, a ravaged French village of about forty buildings at the southern foot of the ridge. A tall gray church at the junction of three streets dominated Biffontaine, a battered building pockmarked by machine-gun sprays that had torn chunks out of its stone facade and massive wooden front door. To the south wheat and cornfields, now stubbled and dark brown following the summer’s harvest, stretched for miles. Small stands of barren trees, sturdy stone farmhouses, and stately barns throughout the valley were connected by rutted paths made muddy by October’s rains. Germans controlled the valley and the ridges surrounding the valley.

  A single logging road ran the length of the ridge. Side roads, little more than paths cut through the forest from the north and south, climbed up onto the ridge and reached the main longitudinal route, like veins in a leaf. It was a rugged forest with only a handful of narrow trails. The 1/141 would have limited ability to maneuver. The officers would have to guard against surprise flanking attacks. The likelihood of an ambush was substantial.

  Higgins spoke his mind at the briefing. “If a strong force does not stay close to the 1st, a gap could form which the Germans might easily exploit and surround my unit,” the former horse soldier told Lieutenant Colonel William Bird, the commanding officer of the 1/141. Higgins greatly admired Bird, who had been wounded in battle less than two weeks earlier.

  “A strong force will follow, move out,” said Bird.1

  THE DAY BEFORE, A UNIT OF THE 100TH BATTALION, 442ND Regimental Combat Team, had advanced across part of the same ridge, not far from the 141st’s present position. It rode toward death atop growling tanks, toward the same enemy positions that now worried Higgins and Huberth. Germans were hunkered down behind boulders, in ravines, and in makeshift burrows in the misty morning forest, probably on both sides of the trail, the Japanese American soldiers suspected. Surely, their tanks’ grinding rumble and exhaust would give the Germans plenty of warning. They would be poised to open fire in an instant.

  The men had already endured brutal and chaotic fighting. For some men, it was their first week in battle, and some units had advanced farther than others. A hundred yards could create a dangerous gap that the Germans might exploit. When units found themselves in danger of being separated, others were sent forward to establish contact and reestablish the line of advance. Staff Sergeant Itsumu Sasaoka, Sergeant George Suyama, Sergeant Harry Kamikawa, Private William Yamaka, and the rest of their platoon were riding on the tanks to reach a unit that needed to be reinforced before the advance toward Biffontaine could resume.

  German riflemen first heard the tanks approaching and then smelled their exhaust drifting through the trees. Seconds later they centered their crosshairs on the Japanese American soldiers as they appeared alongside or on top of their light tanks. Some soldiers flinched when the first shot clanked off a tank. A split second later the forest erupted on both sides of the trail. German infantry attacked from all sides. Part of the initial burst ripped into Sasaoka, who had crouched on the last tank of the convoy. As his uniform turned crimson, he hung onto the tank’s machine gun and “directed a hail of bullets in the enemy positions in a last desperate attempt to prevent the other members of his platoon from being subject to the lethal enemy crossfire.”2 Weakened by blood loss, Sasaoka fell off his tank, landing hard on the forest floor. Another man took his place and sprayed the forest with suppressing fire. Pistols, rifles, and machine guns grew hot when Suyama, Kamikawa, Yamaka, and others returned fire as the firefight intensified. They could have jumped off the tanks toward cover, but most did not.

  The tanks had rolled ahead as the firefight stretched to more than a half mile. Four Japanese Americans were knocked off their tanks. No one could afford to stop and come to their aid. The Americans pushed deeper into the forest as night fell. When the trail narrowed and choked off the tanks’ advance, the reinforcement platoon jumped off, fought through the German positions, and reached the other members of the 100th who had been threatened with annihilation. Now the commanding officer of the 100th, Lieutenant Colonel Gordon Singles, could concentrate on Biffontaine,
at the southern foot of the ridge, his battalion’s objective.

  The next day they reached the valley hamlet. The Americans advanced from house to house, routing Germans out of cellars, steeples, attics, and garden sheds. Despite three German counterattacks, Biffontaine fell to the Americans about the same time as the 1/141 was preparing to head out on its patrol. The 100th had lost more than 150 men in taking Biffontaine. Itsumu Sasoaka, George Suyama, Harry Kamikawa, and William Yamaka were among the losses. Sasoaka, Kami kawa, and Yamaka had been captured by the Germans; no one could find Suyama.

  Although Higgins and Huberth would not have to worry about a German assault directly from Biffontaine as their men assembled, the inherent danger of their mission had been only marginally lessened. The exact strength of the enemy on the ridge remained unknown.

  HIGGINS HAD JOINED THE UNIT ONLY A FEW MONTHS EARLIER. He had grown up in New Jersey, the son of a devoted Boy Scout scoutmaster who taught his scouts military-style close-order (marching) drill. At five-foot-seven, Higgins was deemed too small for football but was a solid basketball player who was quick to make friends in tough neighborhoods and drove a Model A to the Jersey Shore on outings. Higgins was Irish, didn’t run from a fight, and loved horses. He had joined the New York National Guard in 1939 after earning a degree in economics from St. Peter’s College. After graduating from officer candidate school in December 1942, Higgins was assigned to the 10th Cavalry, the famed “Buffalo Soldiers.” His father had raised a son who was uncommonly confident, self-reliant, and spoke French.

  Early posts had included Camp Lockett, east of San Diego. On horseback Higgins patrolled sage- and manzanita-covered mesas and dry washes clogged with ironwood trees along the Mexican border. On those patrols he had met and teamed with Harry Huberth, who shared Higgins’s love for horses. Huberth had dreaded the prospect of becoming an infantryman as war approached. He had used his New York family connections to find a sympathetic army recruiter who got Huberth assigned to the cavalry.

  On February 10, 1944, their unit loaded onto trains bound for Camp Patrick Henry, Virginia. From there the USS General William Mitchell had delivered the men to Casablanca, Morocco, in March. That same month they learned the unit would be disbanded. World War II had little need for horse soldiers. Higgins opted for a combat assignment rather than stay with what would become a logistics unit. Huberth was told he was being sent to the infantry when his request for an armored unit was denied. They joined the 141st Infantry Regiment from Texas, a veteran combat unit. Both would fight their war from foxholes, not saddles.

  HIGGINS’S PATROL WAS PART OF THE MUCH LARGER ADVANCE BY THE VI Corps that had reached the Vosges foothills in late 1944.a Beginning with the Normandy invasion in June, massive Allied armies from the North and South had driven the Germans out of western and central France after four years’ occupation and pushed them back nearly to the doorstep of Germany. If the 141st and the rest of VI Corps could break out of the Vosges to the east, they could drive across the Alsatian plain, where American armor, air, and artillery would be more effective, and reach the Rhine River on the German border. That reality wasn’t lost on the Germans. The seemingly impenetrable Vosges Mountains could become their last line of defense if the Germans were to keep the Allies out of the fatherland.

  Adolf Hitler had ordered that the Vosges be held at all cost, in part to buy time for the Germans’ Ardennes Offensive, better known as the Battle of the Bulge, in two months’ time. In addition, rumors circulated that a miraculous secret weapon was being developed by the Germans that would change the direction of the war. The German military had only to dig in and keep the Allies out of Germany.

  Beginning on October 15, Operation Dogface called for the VI Corps to capture Bruyères, in the western foothills of the Vosges, and then cross the mountains and capture St. Die, along the Meurthe River, a week later. St. Die was an industrial, road, rail, and communications center. The 36th Division’s assignment was to secure the VI Corps’ southern flank. Higgins’s objective, the end of a ridge overlooking the villages of La Houssière and Corcieux in the valley to the south, would enable the 36th to monitor German positions that could threaten the VI Corps’ right flank.

  To reach that objective, the commander of each squad, platoon, and company of the 1/141 likely had only two things on his mind on October 23 as he prepared for the patrol—his unit’s tactical objective and the predilections of his men. Higgins, Huberth, and the other officers needed to know which men in their companies tended to lay down wide swaths of fire before clearly identifying an enemy target. To make matters worse, American units in the region had suffered from a shortage of mortar and artillery ammunition for several weeks.

  It was also critical that they know which men in their units might fall prey to human nature and rush to a wounded buddy’s aid. When they did, two men were sidelined. Soldiers nearby might have to widen their field of attack or defensive line to make up for the loss. When that happened, the ranks would be thinned and the unit’s firepower lessened.

  Some commanders could be harshly candid in their assessment of each soldier. In the final briefing before combat, they gathered their men, looked each man in the eye, and reminded him of a habit or tendency that might jeopardize the mission or the men. If everyone knew everyone else’s strengths and weaknesses, some commanders said, it im proved the unit’s overall situational awareness and combat strength.

  As the departure hour approached, the company commanders could not allow themselves to think of the casualties that might begin in less than an hour. Instead, they had to be ready and available to inform their men if they received critical last-minute information. No commander wanted to hold new information about enemy placement or firepower that he had been unable to disseminate before a patrol.

  JUST BEFORE NOON ON OCTOBER 23, THE THREE COMPANIES OF the 1st Battalion moved out of Belmont, a village to the west of the ridge, where the entire 141st Infantry Regiment had assembled and briefly rested.b Each company had been assigned to a single farm, with one farmhouse designated as the regiment’s command post. Higgins’s battalion moved to the western end of the ridge, picking a member of the French Resistance, Henri Grandjean, and a local wood cutter, Pierre Poirat, as guides.

  A wall of forest towered nearly three hundred feet above them as they approached the western foot of the ridge. They skirted along the edges of the farm fields along tree lines in the event German artillery found them and they had to take cover. Then, stringing out on a logging road, they reached the ridge’s high point of just over seven hundred feet in elevation. If it weren’t for the forest that enveloped them, Higgins would have had a commanding view of the valleys to the west and south as well as along the entire ridge to the east.

  Rain peppered Higgins’s Company A as it took the lead and advanced on paths between stands of towering fir trees. The forest floor was relatively flat and barren, so the Americans made good time—too good, as the afternoon passed and all three companies continued east. Then, shortly after sunset, Higgins’s company took heavy enemy fire. Soon German artillery began pounding his position into the night, forcing him to fall back, as Company B, commanded by Huberth, and Company C, commanded by First Lieutenant Joseph Kimble, caught up. It wasn’t until 2125 that they dug in for the night, carving slit trenches in the forest floor in search of rest.c They had advanced four miles on the logging road, much farther than they had expected.

  The patrol jumped off again at 0700 the following morning. Higgins and the other company and platoon leaders of the 1/141 faced a German roadblock first thing in the morning, composed of downed trees that were probably booby-trapped and reinforced with land mines in the immediate area.

  It was the latest obstacle the 141st faced after more than two months of near-constant fighting since Operation Dragoon, the amphibious landing on the French Riviera on August 15 as part of the Americans’ 36th Division. Major General John Dahlquist, a man new to combat, commanded the 36th Division. From the moment Dahlquist
went ashore that day near Marseille, he had been in hot water with the commanding officer of the VI Corps, Major General Lucian Truscott Jr.

  Operation Dragoon’s objectives had been to seize the strategic ports of Marseille and Toulon along a forty-five-mile stretch of the Côte d’Azur between Agay and Cavalier-sur-Mer from the Germans’ Nineteenth Army. Once ashore, Truscott’s VI Corps would proceed up the Rhone Valley toward Lyon. Hemmed in by the Provençal Alps to the east and mountains to the west, Truscott’s force would advance north-northeast across a series of undulating plains and ridges on both sides of the Rhone River. Rapid advancement north from the Riviera could cut off German armies in western France as they retreated east toward Germany. A successful landing could also draw German troops away from Normandy, to the north.

  Inexplicably, in the middle of the first day’s landing, Dahlquist had decided to go ashore with an aide and climb onto an outcrop to observe the afternoon’s landings. He apparently took no radio equipment with him. When unexpected enemy fire stalled the landings, General Truscott on the USS Bayfield could not reach Dahlquist to discuss the situation. A meticulously planned amphibious landing on several beaches—which had begun that morning with thirteen hundred bombers pounding the coastline—could unravel by midafternoon. As Truscott’s frustration heightened by the minute, a navy admiral in charge of the landing craft implemented a contingency landing plan in Dahlquist’s absence to keep the highly choreographed landings from falling behind schedule.

  Truscott never truly forgave Dahlquist for being incommunicado, later saying that achieving some of Operation Dragoon’s objectives had been pushed back by at least a day due to Dahlquist’s poor judgment. Truscott grew even angrier with Dahlquist when he learned that Dahlquist had sent the admiral a thank-you note for making the tactical decision in his absence.