Operation Winter Thunderstorm
Based on the diary of Hans Burtschel
by Audrey K. Wendland
Here is an account of a few days in the
life of Hans, a twenty-two year old squad leader in the Hoch 4, the High
Mountain Battalion. He is a half-starved Austrian, a foot soldier who
hopes merely to survive day to day. He knows almost nothing about the
"big picture" of the war. Around Christmastime in 1944, it is a relief
to be transferred to the Apennines of northern Italy, after two years of
fighting the Russians in the Caucasus. Now his task is to make soldiers
out of the replacements in his squad, inexperienced kids hardly old
enough to shave.
His nemesis is a lieutenant nicknamed
"Caesar"-- the most hated officer in the 2nd Company. One
frigid evening, Caesar struts around the campfire as he relays a new
order to the disheartened troops.
"The Allies are trying to force their way
through the Futa Pass and we will mount a diversionary action,
code-named Operation Winter Thunderstorm. A regimental task
force is on its way and the Hoch 4 has been assigned a key role. Our
objective is to push the US 92nd Infantry Division back to
the town of Barga. About 15 miles. Then retreat to the existing front
lines."
Fifteen miles, Hans thinks. That didn't sound too
bad although he knows that fifteen miles can seem like a hundred in the
mountains.
"The 92nd is an all-Negro unit
called the Buffalo Soldiers," Caesar continues. "Pampered Americans,
all of them." His glance zeroes in on the squad leader. "Hans, you
will be attached to my platoon as the point squad. Tomorrow you and I
will lead this assault."
There is little sleep for Hans that
night. The battalion is not up to full strength and his squad has no
experience in combat. The next day might see the end of them all.
At 4:30 a.m., Caesar rouses the company.
After shouldering their packs, they are not more than a few miles down
the road when they run into a group of medics tending to casualties.
The 1st Company has stumbled into a minefield and there is
muttering amongst the squad. But they soldier on through the deep snow
to the base of a hill. Under a canopy of chestnut trees, Hans and
Caesar crawl to the top. From there, Hans can see the tiny hamlet of
Sommocolonia on the opposite slope, where the 92nd is
quartered. The village is crowned with twin towers that give it a
menacing fortress-like appearance.
"See that cart path winding down into the
valley?" asks Caesar. "Let's go that direction. You start out with
your squad and I'll follow."
Hans moves his squad down the hill,
spaced apart in a skirmish line. When they reach the bottom, a barrage
of white phosphorus descends on the troops. The men are seized with
fits of coughing and choking and they run directly toward the ramparts
of the 92nd, to escape this trap of foul air. Caesar
scampers up the hill and into a vacant foxhole. The black soldiers fire
a few machine-gun bursts and withdraw into the village.
One of the Hoch 4 sharpshooters picks off
a sentry up in the tower. The Hoch 4 machine-guns open fire. Then,
without warning, the American artillery shifts and comes down on the
village. One cathedral tower receives a direct hit and splits apart,
collapsing in a cloud of dust and smoke. The CO is wounded and taken
out of the action.
Hans crawls over to the foxhole where
Caesar is hiding. "What now?" he asks.
"Take your squad to the ravine over
there, and try to outflank the Americans. They might try to escape
along the main road."
An order is an order, impossible or not.
Hans and his squad scramble up the ravine and when they come out on the
main road, they see a sign hanging askew from an abandoned building. It
points to Sommocolonia-Barga.
"We're hungry," one of the fellows says.
He begins to rummage in his pack for something to eat. "Let's wait for
the rest of the platoon to catch up."
Hans agrees to wait. He is in no hurry to get
killed. It is almost dark when the platoon arrives and the troops
straggle off in what they hope is the right direction. A few hours
later, they stumble upon a black top road littered with pieces of
American equipment, bazookas and cartridge belts, all ample evidence of
a hasty retreat. A little farther down the road, they come across an
abandoned hotel with mattresses in an unlocked basement. What luxury!
Within minutes, the mattresses are spread in the yard and the troops are
fast asleep. The next thing Hans remembers in the sound of Caesar's
voice, shouting an order.
"Everybody up! I'm in command now. The CO has been
wounded. Move back 300 feet. Our artillery is about to lay a barrage!"
Angry curses fill the air. Where was our artillery
when we needed them before? What happened to the task force! Where are
the Americans?
But knowing it is no use to complain, the platoon
moves on toward Barga. By daybreak, Hans realizes they have gone around
in circles and now they are on the other side of Sommocolonia. He leads
the troops into the little medieval village and the sound of their
hobnail boots echoes on the empty cobblestone streets. All the citizens
had evacuated.
Hans finds a courtyard just off the main square and
the squad sits down to rest. A few comrades doze off. Then, from the
corner of his eye, Hans sees a tall rifleman appear in an archway. He
wears a khaki uniform. There is netting over his helmet and his skin is
the color of mocha coffee. He is followed by three companions.
Hans cocks his machine-gun. "Hands up," he shouts.
"Look out! These guys are Americans!"
The Buffalo soldiers drop their rifles. "Are you
Germans?" the first one asks, apparently puzzled by the uniforms. The
Hoch 4, being mountain troops, wear winter-white whereas the normal Nazi
uniform was gray.
"I am Austrian," Hans replies in his limited
English. He gestures for the group to sit down and they look relieved,
until Caesar and some high-ranking officers strut into the courtyard.
"We'll take charge here," Caesar barks out. "We can
use these prisoners to carry ammunition. Hans, take your squad down the
road to Lucca. The rest of the company will meet you at the railroad
station."
Hans waves a friendly farewell to the Buffalo
Soldiers. These guys are lucky. The war is over for them.
Still leading the advance, Hans moves his men toward
Lucca. By now, he feels weak from hunger and exhaustion. As they
trudge past the rows of abandoned houses, he hardly notices a redbrick
mansion with a circular driveway in front. They arrive at the little
railroad station and a new order is delivered from the rear. The Hoch 4
has reached its objective. The mission is declared a success.
Hans feels a surge of relief. Now all he has to
worry about is the safe return of his men. They start to dig in their
packs for something to eat and Hans pulls out a can that looks a little
different. Usually these tins contain stewed cabbage with traces of
meat that could be horse or donkey. It was hard to say. This one was
labeled: "Young spinach vintage 1942." Just then, shouts of joy erupt
from the redbrick mansion and Hans hurries to see what the excitement
is all about.
As he enters, he can hardly believe his eyes. In
room after room he finds boxes of American K-Rations stacked up to the
ceiling, more boxes with cartons of American cigarettes, boxes of
chocolate bars and countless other goodies. Other rooms contain stacks
of revolvers and pistols and machine-guns. Apparently, this house had
served as a regimental supply depot and arms dump for the 92nd
Division.
Accustomed to scarcity and deprivation, Hans is
dazzled by such extravagant abundance. How could anyone hope to defeat
an army like this, with so much of everything? He begins to foresee
that more divisions would come; that it was just a matter of time until
the Hoch 4 with its tins of cabbage and green replacements would no
longer exist.
The eight young men in his squad never had seen food
like this before. They toss out the German spinach and begin to stuff
K-Rations and chocolate bars into their packs. Everyone in the company
is filled with euphoria. The packs grow heavier by the minute, at least
130 pounds by now. Daylight starts to fade and Caesar appears to
announce another order.
"Company! Form up your lines," he shouts. "We've
got to move out!" He sees Hans and strides over to him. "You and your
squad will stay here for one hour, to cover the departing troops. Is
that clear? One hour."
Hans stands at attention but his heart drops to his
boots. The 92nd might return at any time and kill them all,
but he snaps a salute. "Yes, sir," he says. He posts Karl, his
machine-gunner, in front of the mansion and herds his squad into a
nearby vacant house.
"I don't like this any better than you do," he says,
"but we have to stay here for one hour. I don't want to hear any
griping from anyone."
The only sound is the thud, thud of marching feet
leaving the village. The squad sits down to munch on chocolate bars.
They smoke American cigarettes. Slowly the minutes tick by. Then
softly, softly, from a far distance, comes the ominous sound of
approaching vehicles. The youngsters try to look nonchalant but Hans
can see the fear in their eyes.
"That sound is still a long way off," Hans says. "We
have just half an hour to go. Everyone take off your boots, tie the
laces together and hang them over your shoulders. These boots make too
much noise. Have your packs ready to move out. Fast. I'll tell you
when."
Firing erupts from the ridge and the young soldiers
grow even more edgy. By now, it is easy to distinguish between the
rattling of tank treads and the sound of approaching trucks.
"How much longer are you going to keep us here?" one
of the fellows asks. "No one will know if we take off now, before the
hour is up."
Hans says nothing. These kids didn't understand what
might happen if an order was disobeyed. A toady like Caesar could have
them all shot.
"For God's sake," another one begs. "Let us get the
hell out of here. That sounds like an entire division coming down the
road."
Now Hans stands tall and addresses his men. "This is
what happened to me in the Caucasus. My best and friend and I disobeyed
an order to save the lives of our friends. They promised not to tell
but a couple of them went back on their word. I'm lucky to be alive.
Now go out to the back yard and wait until I give the signal."
Hans knows that lurking in his squad could be some
fanatic from the Hitler Youth, someone who wouldn't think twice about
betraying his own father. He checks his watch. Ten minutes to go. He
walks out to the street and in the dim light of the moon, he can see the
gaunt figure of Karl, still standing guard. Hans signals with a low
whistle and the machine gunner leaves his post. The two head for the
back yard where the squad is waiting, just as the advance vehicles pull
to a stop in front of the regimental HQ. Hans can hear the Buffalo
Soldiers talking to one another as the minutes creep by. At last, the
hour is up and Hans gives the signal to go. He sets a face pace across
the grassy yard, heading for the back road. No one makes a sound.
All along, Hans had counted on the darkness and his
knowledge of the route back to the lines, but the squad is struggling
under the heavy burden of the packs. They can't keep up the pace. When
he thinks they are a safe distance away, Hans calls a halt. Now another
decision has to be made.
He stands near a deep ravine to address his men. "I
am going to tell you something that must never be discussed with anyone.
Ever. Is that clear?" He scrutinizes each young face as they glance at
one another uneasily.
"Before I begin, each one of you must
step forward and shake my hand. This is a solemn vow you can never
break." Looking spellbound, each man gives Hans a firm handshake and
falls back in line.
"Our packs are too heavy," he continues.
"We can dump the steel shell casings into this ravine to lighten the
load. That will save about 22 pounds. Are you with me on that? Then
lace up your boots."
The comrades don't need to be told
twice. They pitch out the hated steel ammunition that often rusted and
jammed the machine guns. They re-distribute the K-Rations and
cigarettes and chocolate bars. Within an hour, the 1st squad
catches up with the rest of the company.
The respite is brief. The company is
ordered to move out while they still had the cover of darkness. If they
wait until daylight, enemy planes could spot the column on the road.
The men march as far as the main highway, where they collapse without
waiting for an order. Caesar is furious. He strides up and down the
road, yelling at the troops.
"Get off your packs! Dump all that
loot! Don't you realize we could be attacked by enemy planes?"
The troopers shout their disgust. They
are not going to part with their American rations, enemy planes or not.
Even the NCOs side with the men. A 1st lieutenant from
another company comes to see what the trouble is all about. He demands,
"Where is the leader of the point squad?"
A runner is sent to the rear to get
Hans. When he reports and much to his astonishment, the officer issues
another command. "This corporal is your leader now. Pick up your packs
and carry on."
The griping ends. The men shoulder their
heavy loads and begin the long march back to the lines, knowing that
Caesar has been disgraced. In the darkness, no one seems to notice how
the men of the 1st squad have a little easier time of it, or
the way they grin at one another and stick as close as possible to their
leader.
#
Added note: Hans ordered his squad to surrender
during the Battle for Mount Belvedere in February 1945, the turning
point of the war in northern Italy. He had grown fond of these kids and
wanted them all to survive. Hans went on to become an important figure
in the labor movement in Austria. In 1999, he attended a National
Reunion of the 10th Mountain Division, as a guest of the
colonel to whom he had surrendered. I attended that reunion and had the
chance to read his diary in translation.