Chapter Four
January 30 Afternoon
Captain Matthews cautiously lifted his head. The afternoon sun beat down on him, and he tried to wet his dry and chapped lips, but his mouth was too dry. After leaving the German armored column, he had almost stumbled into a German infantry platoon hurrying towards the sound of firing. Luckily for him, their attention was directed forward and they missed seeing him dive to the ground behind some rocks. Now he was peeking out to see if the way was clear. Not seeing anyone, he got to his feet and climbed the slope, taking his bearings from the sun and trying to work his way eastward.
He reached the top and cautiously peered over. More German infantry were wending their way along the bottom slope, heading generally northeast. He heard a noise behind him and turned and saw some German halftracks hauling an artillery battery, following the infantry platoon he had just avoided. Caught between the two groups, he tried to pretend that he was a mole and burrowed as deep into the ground as he could. He held his breath as the two groups passed by, separated by the ridge with him on top of it.
After they passed, he breathed a sigh of relief that he had again remained unnoticed and slithered down the slope. He took a quick glance around but none of the Krauts had been so thoughtful as to drop a canteen for him. He started walking again, his sweaty shirt sticking to him.
After about half an hour of trudging, he was startled by sudden firing ahead of him and close by. He climbed a vantage point from where he could see a firefight raging no more than a mile away from him. It looked like the Germans that had passed by him were tangling with some French soldiers. He hesitated, wondering if he could sneak close enough to get some water from a dead body, but more Germans started appearing and he dismissed that idea. Forced to go around the fighting, he slipped to his right, but heard in time the noise of an approaching vehicle. Again he imitated his favorite animal and planted himself in the ground. More Germans passed by, hurrying into the fray.
He sat up and wiped his face. “Drew, old boy,” he said to himself, “you have had more lucky breaks today than any one has a right to. You had better mind your p’s and q’s before you run out of luck.” He made a sudden move to get to his feet when a bullet splatted by his head. Shocked, he spun around to see an Arab mounted on a camel not a hundred yards away drawing another bead on him. Only his unexpected move had saved him from being killed. He feverishly pulled out his .45 and snapped a shot just a split second before the Arab pulled his trigger. It was not because of his deadly skill with a pistol that he hit the Arab, spoiling his aim and knocking him sideways in his saddle. The camel took off with the wounded man hanging on. Drew stared after him, wondering why he had shot at an American uniform for, and then remembered that at a recent briefing they had been told that the Bedouin tribesmen hated the French and were aiding the Germans in hope of becoming independent. Undoubtedly he had been equated with the French.
Being that as it may, he had just lost an opportunity to get a water bottle, although that was the best shot he had ever made in his life. But now he had to hightail it out of there before someone else came along. After another half hour or so, he stopped to take a breather, the heat and rugged terrain tiring him out. As he rested, he could hear the distant rumble of firing coming from three different directions. He grimaced, somebody was taking a pounding and he didn’t think it was the Germans.
Marking where the sounds of battle were coming from, he headed off, trying to pick his way around them. As the sun sank down behind him, giving the promise of welcome relief from the heat, he was forced to duck and hide from two more close encounters with passing Germans, but both times he heard them coming in plenty of time. With all the fighting going on all around him, he was surprised not to find any bodies lying around to rifle for supplies, and he softly and fluently cursed his bad luck. By sundown, the sound of firing was dying down, his stomach was growling and his throat was parched. He found a place to hole up in some rocks and spent a miserable night, shivering in the cold and frustrated by his lack of progress, both of finding supplies and making his way to the Faid Pass, although he was closer to the pass than he realized.
General Welvert, the French division commander, had spent an equally frustrating day. When he learned about the attack on his position at the Faid Pass, he had telephoned General McQuillin, commanding Combat Command A of the First Armored Division, begging for help However, McQuillin was hesitant to move without orders, so he called his superior, General Ward of the First Armored Division, who passed the request to General Fredendall, the corps commander, who in turn passed it on to General Anderson, the army commander. Anderson approved the request and sent it back to Fredendall, who rarely left his underground bunker and only pushed counters around on his maps. He ordered McQuillin to launch an attack, but by the time he got the order, there were mix-ups and delays, and McQuillin delayed the attack until the next day. General Welvert could only beg and fume, as he heard of his units being destroyed while the Americans delayed.
While all this delay was going on, American troops waited all afternoon and late into the night for orders to move out. Some of them waited in trucks for hours that night, shivering in the cold air, before being ordered to stand down and go back to their camps for a few hours rest.
Back to Table of Contents