Fog of War

Normandy was only the beginning, of course, what happened at and on at Utah Beach was the trailer of a story that would run throughout Europe for almost a year, bringing immense devastation and millions of deaths--and, of course, on the other side of the ledger, sweet liberation. Each action had its own players, its own setting, its own peculiar plot twists. Just off the beaches, the bloody battle at St. Lo was fought within the ancient hedgerows, what we might call fence lines, that stood in the fields for centuries and therefore sprouted trees, heavier cover than field grasses that made tanks of little use.

But the Allies moved on, liberating France and finally stepping ever into Germany itself. For the U. S. First Army alone, the Battle of Huntgen Forest (the longest battle in American military history--September to December, 1944) cost 33,000 killed and wounded; some claim estimates could stretch to almost twice as many.

All those lives were impacted, as was the German countryside, of course, because the Allies wanted to get to Berlin and end the killing and get the peace at last. The first step was the ancient, historical city of Aachen, where none other than Charlemagne had created the Second Reich. The battle for Aachen went street to street, house to house.

Now again we're at war. No American troops are directly involved, taking fire or dodging missiles; but make no mistake, we're at war. People are suffering and dying for no apparent reason but the delusion of one horrifyingly powerful little man--not Hitler, but some of the players in this death drama are easily recognizable.

The Nazis promised the nation that the fight for Aachen would not let up, that they would defend the city bravely and the enemy would be vanquished. But when it became clear that Aachen would fall, Gerald Wilck, the commander of Germany's troops, did exactly what Hitler had demanded would never happen, he officially surrendered the city of Charlemagne on October 21. Eventually, block after block fell into Allied hands, but only after fierce hand-to-hand fighting.

It may surprise you to know--as it did me--that not all of Hitler's military brass loved the man, der Fuhrer. Once Wilck was captured, he told Allied commanders that it was known far and wide in the corps that Hitler's closest advisors were adept liars. Hitler wouldn't hear the truth, and because he wouldn't, he couldn't and therefore didn't. The failed attempt on his life was largely the design of military who took note of too much madness to continue to follow the orders of a man whose mind was the definition of disorder. The only people Hitler trusted were those who told him only what he wanted to hear. Sound familiar?

A couple of school boys picked up a rifle and started firing in the direction of the Allied troops. A German soldier grabbed that rifle away from them and ordered them gone. Nazi propaganda made the boys into heroes, but, ironically, fed into general German unease when the action of three little boys were contrasted with the massive Allied front. But then, the Nazis weren't skilled at irony. Their loudest advocates were true believers.

Wilck said Heinrich Himmler, one of Hitler's chosen, probably used the story to tell Hitler that there was great reason for rejoicing since a new battalion had been created.

I've been reading about the Battle of the Bulge because of the odd juxtaposition of four people of my acquaintance who were part of that gigantic event, all of whom have or had indelible memories but none of whom were in a position to understand much at all of why it was they were there and what exactly was going on around them.

Meanwhile, we too are at war.

What my friend Diet Eman used to talk about was "the fog of war," the way in which war mists everything, makes truth a lie and exalts a lie into truth, makes killers heroes, sours our attention into hate, makes death somehow glorious.

I've always respected by Mennonite friends who are pacifists, but it's just not in me. There's just too much evil in the world.