Most interesting to me, as an avid WWII history buff, was a very moving tale from that war I don’t remember hearing before. I’m reprinting it here in its entirety with permission from Mr. Ryan’s daughter, Victoria Ryan Bida. My thanks to her for her kindness.
The Major of St. Lô
By Cornelius Ryan
In the little French town of St. Lô, the elders often gather on the bridge over the river Vire to talk about that which elders know most about – the past. And at this time of the year, now that the apple orchards are in blossom once again and the sun drenches the countryside, there is much to remember. Was it not another time like this, back in 1944, when the invasion began across the beaches only a few miles away? How many brave men died in the hedgerows? And who would believe now that twelve years ago all that remained of St. Lô was a pile of rubble – the aftermath of the invasion’s greatest battle? So it goes. But as always, when they talk of the war, the conversation soon turns to the day the town was liberated after 43 days of battle, and to the story of their own personal hero, the American soldier they call the “Major of St. Lô” – a man they never knew.
And if in the telling there is much brandishing of canes and much quivering of down-swooping Norman mustaches, it is only because some point has not been emphasized enough or some detail has been momentarily forgotten. For it is the story of the “Major of St. Lô” that the elders love best – and here on the bridge that saga has been interwoven with legend and the legend has become inseparable from history.
The kerosene lamp hissed quietly. In his battalion command post Major Thomas D. Howie eased his stocky frame into a more comfortable position against the earthen wall. Outside it was dark, but war has no real night. Along the 40-mile American beachhead heavy guns flashed intermittently; streams of tracer bullets waved up into the clouds, and flares hung here and there in the sky.
In the command post – an oversized foxhole with the remains of a barn over it as a roof – the major and his company commanders sat watching Captain William Puntenney, of Phoenix, Arizona, Howie’s executive officer, mark up the battalion situation map. Working on the map’s plastic overlay with a grease pencil, Puntenney quickly sketched in the 29th Division’s latest positions. “That’s the picture, Major,” he said.
The front lines remained much the same – Howie could see that at a glance. Here a field had been taken or lost; there a ditch or sunken road had been captured or recaptured. But the advance of the 29th, “the Blue and the Gray” Division, through the bloody hedgerows of Normandy could be measured in yards. Major Howie’s unit – the 116th Infantry’s 3d Battalion – had gained less than 100 yards in 24 hours. But it was within three miles of the division objective – St. Lô.
Howie ached to take St. Lô, as did every battle-weary soldier in the division, right up to Major General Charles H. Gerhardt, the commanding general. Once the town with its vital network of roads fell, the full force of American armor could begin to maneuver and the longed-for breakout might be achieved. For beyond the pile of rubble that had once been a town the hedgerows ended and the plains began.
The Germans appreciated what St. Lô’s loss would mean. Until their front could be reinforced, the Allied forces had to be contained in their shallow bridgehead, their backs to the sea. And what better place to fight for time than in these natural trenches of Normandy, where mounds of earth topped by a jungle of bushes surrounded every field? The German high command had issued the order: “Starre Verteidigung.” (“Stand fast.”)
But to Tom Howie the capture of St. Lô had become a personal matter. The men of the 3d Battalion had fought almost continuously for 41 days without rest – from the moment they hit Omaha Beach on the misty morning of June 6th. That morning the thirty-six-year old major (a former English literature teacher and athletic director at Staunton, Virginia, Military Academy) had captured a machine-gun post, singlehanded. Howie felt that casualties alone had earned his men the right to be first into St. Lô. And when they took it, maybe the whole battered division would be relieved.
Tonight, in the smoky closeness of his command post the major had little time to think about relief. His foot soldiers were dug in near Martinville, a hamlet straddling a dirt road leading into St. Lô. And the fighting had been toe to toe all day. The 3d Battalion and the Germans laced one another’s hedgerow positions with machine-gun fire, tossed hand grenades across the narrow fields, fired rifles at one another at almost point-blank range.
But a mile to the south, on the outskirts of La Madeleine, a small village near St. Lô, Major Sidney Bingham’s 2d Battalion was in much greater trouble. The Second had been hit with everything the Germans could throw at them – from artillery bombardment to tank assault. Now they were surrounded and cut off. Out of food, short of ammunition and with casualties mounting, their situation was hourly becoming more desperate.
Major Howie studied the new attack order before him. He had many vital decisions to make within the next few hours. The Third had been ordered to attack directly through the Germans’ tough Martinville line. Howie was going to the rescue of Bingham’s lost battalion.
While other units of the division were to attack on either side of his battalion, Howie’s men had been given the toughest assignment. The Martinville line had held them up for days; now they were being asked to drive through it fast and advance more than a mile. Although all the other officers present knew how Major Howie itched to capture St. Lô, none saw the bitter disappointment for him in the attack order. After relieving the lost battalion, Howie’s unit was ordered to stand fast and hold the La Madeleine positions. Bingham’s men were to push on to St. Lô.
Howie outlined his plan: the battalion would make a silent attack, using bayonets and hand grenades—nothing else. “We’re going to give the jerries a touch of steel,” he said quietly.
At the end of the briefing, Howie asked his executive officer, Puntenney, to stay behind. When the two were alone, the major spoke: “Bill, take a look at these boots. I’ve had the same shoes since I left the States. Look at ‘em! I’ve marched and fought in ‘em for days. But I’ll be damned if I’ll make one more attack without a new pair.”
“Where in the world am I going to get you a new pair now?” said the surprised exec.
“Bill – I don’t care where you get ‘em, but get ‘em,” the CO barked.
Puntenney left the dugout to carry out the order.
In the dank blackness of their foxholes, Howie’s men quietly sharpened their bayonets and sweated out the dawn. In his own lighted dugout Tom Howie read his Bible, as he did every night, and wrote a letter home. Earlier he had written his wife, Elizabeth, and their six-year-old daughter at Staunton: “I have no physical reason for thinking so, but I’ve always felt that your prayers would be answered and that we’d have a grand reunion some fine day.” Now, he wrote to another member of his family: “There is no need to worry about me….” He did not mention the impending attack.
It began at 4:30 A.M. A thick early-morning fog carpeted the area when Howie – in a new pair of boots – and his veterans fixed bayonets and rose quietly out of their foxholes. Ahead of them the German hedgerows lay quiet, as though anesthetized. In silence the helmeted figures slipped quickly from their hedgerow positions and disappeared into the fog.
They raced across the cut-up fields, soft earth deadening their footsteps. Nobody spoke. They darted into the hedgerows. Bushes rustled. Twigs cracked sharply. There was a startled shout. Suddenly all along the German line there were quick shouts, muffled screams, the compressed blast of grenades, the abrupt stuttering of Schmeisser “burp” guns—the awful commotion that soldiers make when they are surprised into death.
The first German positions fell fast. Howie’s men were through and beyond before the enemy knew what had happened. Deftly, quickly, the men of the Third hit the next line of outposts, and the next. In this way, with surgical preciseness, the major’s battalion cut through the Martinville line in less than an hour. Shortly before 6:00 A.M. Howie’s men made contact with Major Bingham’s 2d Battalion east of La Madeleine.
Down the road, not more than a mile away, lay bombed and shelled St. Lô, the shattered spires of the Cathedral of Notre Dame reaching defiantly out of the heaping ruins. To Howie’s cocky infantrymen, huddling in their foxholes, St. Lô seemed only a bus stop away.
The staffs of the two battalions immediately conferred. The linkup, at best, was only temporary. Although the 29th Division’s dawn attack along the St. Lô front had been successful, with troops now almost astraddle the heights overlooking the town, it would be some time before supply lines could be opened. Howie’s men had brought communications, ammunition, medical supplies, rations and – more important – themselves. La Madeleine could be held, but it was obvious that the relieved 2d Battalion was exhausted. After three days of almost continuous assault its ranks had been decimated. Bingham’s men could not push on to St. Lô. The job was up to Howie – if regimental headquarters agreed.
Howie waited impatiently for his communications to be set up. Speed mattered now. If the Third pressed on before the Germans fully recovered from the attack, Howie felt sure his men could make St. Lô. But the Germans wouldn’t sit still for long, especially with a strong force sitting on their doorstep. Both Howie and Bingham knew better.
So did Major General Gerhardt back at division headquarters.
All night Gerhardt had sweated out the advance of his men. Previously he had told his assistant division commander, Brigadier General Norman (Dutch) Cota, to assemble an armored task force and hold it in readiness to dash into St. Lô from the north. Now, as he stood before his big war map with Cota, he thought about this powerful trump card. Had the time come up to send Task Force “C” storming into St. Lô?
“You better get ready, Dutch,” he said. “Sometime within the next twenty four hours, you’ll be on your way. It’s near the end, but it isn’t over yet. Jerry’s going to counterattack hard wherever he can.” He tapped the map with a forefinger. “And particularly here. They’ll throw everything they’ve got at La Madeleine.”
At La Madeleine the lull had already ended.
Far away, the trained ears of the infantrymen heard the shrill birth of the first barrage of mortar shells. They held their breath, listening in the strange hypnotic way that soldiers listen to determine direction by sound. Down they crouched in their foxholes. The barrage screamed toward them like a hundred express trains all converging on a lonely station. The earth shuddered. Bursting shells fine-combed the ground above them. Then it was over and the next shelling began.
Howie crawled from foxhole to foxhole. “Keep down.” he yelled at his men. “Keep down. We’re getting out of here soon. We’ll get to St. Lô yet.”
Doubled up, dodging from foxhole to foxhole in between shell bursts, he returned to his command post. His company commanders were waiting for him.
“Have you got regiment?” he demanded.
Somebody handed him a phone. Above the noise Howie tried to quickly explain the position.
“The Second can’t make it,” he yelled into the phone. “They’re too cut up. They’re exhausted. Yes – we can do it. We’re in better shape. Yes – if we jump off now. Okay.” A big smile crossed his face.
“See you in St. Lô,” he said.
He slammed the phone down and, still smiling, turned to his company commanders. “Well, you heard it,” he said. “We’re going in. Where’s the map?”
Almost deafened by the incessant mortar shelling, Howie’s officers gathered around as the major gave the order for the attack on St. Lô. None of them heard the incoming whine of the mortar shell that ended the conference.
The shell burst a few yards away. In that millisecond of destruction, most of the officers were picked up by the blast and slammed to the ground unhurt. Captain Puntenney, standing on the dugout step, was hurled bodily into a hedgerow. Dazed and shaken, he extricated himself from the bushes and saw Howie standing upright a few yards away. The major had his arms in front of him, holding his body. Puntenney rushed over. “My God, Bill, I’m hit.” Howie said.
Puntenney carried him to the bottom of the dugout and held him for a few minutes in his arms. He didn’t get much wear out of these boots, thought Puntenney as he lowered the body of his CO into the dust.
Several hours later, at division headquarters, the operations officer, Lieutenant Colonel William J. Witte, gave the news to General Gerhardt. “General,” he said, “Tom Howie is dead. The 3d Battalion attack never really got going.”
Gerhardt said nothing. He was sad and terribly angry – sad, because of his fondness for Tom Howie and angry because of the awful casualties his division was suffering. His silent anger infected everybody in the headquarters. Somehow Tom Howie’s death crystallized all the courage and all the heartbreak spilled over in the battle of St. Lô.
Gerhardt called General Cota. “Dutch,” he said, “one of the last things Tom Howie said was, ‘I’ll see you in St. Lô.’ We’re going to fulfill that promise. Take Tom Howie with the task force – he’s going to lead the 29th into St. Lô.”
The next day in St. Lô the townspeople heard a rumor. A powerful column of American tanks, it was said, was heading for the town.
At first they did not believe the story, for there had been many such rumors since the invasion began. But this time it was true. Far off, along the road leading into St. Lô from St. Clair, they heard the rumble and clank of tanks mixed in with the thunder of the enemy’s exploding shells. And so in the cellars, in the crypt beneath the church, in all those places where families had survived the bombs and the shells the news spread swiftly. People spoke in whispers, in fear perhaps that they still might be wrong. “They are coming,” they said. “Today is the day.”
The sounds of the tanks and the exploding shells grew closer. Now, in ones and twos the townspeople left their shelters; they climbed the walls of rubble, stood behind shuttered windows or crouched in doorways oblivious of the dangers. They had waited too long to miss this moment.
The approaching column was clearly marked by a great cloud of dust which bowled along, reaching above the trees lining the road. Here and there black smoke tinged with flame spiraled up through the dust from burning and exploding vehicles. Overhead, clusters of shells whistled toward the road as the Germans stepped up the tempo of their artillery barrage. But under the rain of bursting shells the great cloud of dust came rolling steadily forward and suddenly it rolled into the outskirts of St. Lô. The Americans had arrived.
General Cota’s task force poured into the town in an apparently endless column. Prowling tanks swarmed through the streets overrunning the German rear-guard antitank positions; self-propelled guns swung into position and began answering the incoming artillery fire; infantrymen climbing through the rubble routed out the last snipers; and the townspeople threw flowers and from hiding places produced bottles of wine which they had saved for this great day.
In their happiness some cried and others remained dazed, unable to believe that the town had been liberated. But in the midst of it all, as the townspeople watched they saw a strange procession threading through the town.
Slowly down the main street rolled an olive-drab ambulance surrounded by an honor guard of armored cars. The column drove through the debris, passing the men and machines who had captured the town, passing under the limp blue and gray flag of the 29th Division now hanging in victory from a second-story window. And as the townspeople watched, hushed and incredulous, the little procession turned into the shell-pocked main square and came quietly to a stop before the shattered Cathedral of Notre Dame.
The ambulance doors opened and a detail of men carefully lifted down a stretcher. Struggling upward, they climbed to the top of a great mound of brick and stone before the ruins of the cathedral. And there, to lie in state on this altar of rubble, they placed the bier with the flag-covered body of Major Thomas D. Howie.
Standing today on a pedestal of concrete, near the bridge over the river Vire, there is a bronze bust of Major Thomas D. Howie. It was erected by the townspeople of St. Lô, and at this time of the year the base of the statue is covered with flowers. The townspeople honor not only the memory of Major Howie, but also the 7,000 men—almost half the 29th Division’s fighting strength —who were killed or wounded in the battle for the town.
The elders shrug their shoulders and try to explain the sentiments of the townspeople this way: “L’homme n’est rien, I’oeuvre est tout.” (“The man is nothing, the work is everything.”) But they look admiringly at the statue and in the same breath they say wonderingly: “Such determination this man had – surely there was some French blood in his veins.”
“The Major of St. Lô,” © 1956 by Cornelius Ryan.
