Christmas day in a frozen foxhole

25th December 1944: Frontline troops man a thin defensive line as they await the relief forces heading their way

Two sharpshooters of G Company, 290 Infantry Regiment, US 75th Infantry Division, entrenched in a foxhole on high ground near Devantave. They are providing cover for other members of their unit who are about to advance across open snow-covered ground

The crew of a Bofors anti-aircraft gun view vapour trails in the sky high above the Dutch-German border near Brunssum, 25th December 1944.

… bitterly cold with heavy frost all day, but good visibility and dry. Plenty of our aircraft overhead.

The weather turned clearer but colder on Christmas Day, finally allowing the Allied fighter bombers to enter the battle. The Germans remained frustrated, not having made the progress they had sought. In several places they sought to make a final push, sensing that the Allied response was now gathering pace.

Soldiers of the 1st (US) Infantry Division, wearing sheets as snow camouflage, advance down a narrow lane near Faymonville.

For tens of thousands of men, the day was spent in a slit trench on the Belgium- German border. Raymond Gantter¹ was one of them:

December 25, and a Merry Christmas to you.

Last night after chow we relieved a squad that had been on line for several days. So I spent Christmas Eve and will spend Christmas Day in a dugout facing the German lines. Ah there, Adolf! <em>Frohliche Weinachten!</em>

It was a beautiful and grim Christmas Eve. Shorty and I spelled each other on guard throughout the bitter cold night.

The cold I could endure, but an additional misery landed on me in the middle of the night. I got the GIs! That’s always a tragedy, of course — although in nonnal life, with the luxury of a civilized bathroom at hand, it would seem only an embarrassing annoyance - but this time the tragedy was of major proportions.

You see, our dugout is on the crest of a hill, smack in the middle of an open field and with never a bush or tree to provide cover. It’s not modesty that bothers us, you understand: it’s snipers.

We peer anxiously in the direction of the German lines, unbutton our pants in the dugout, hold them up with one hand while we clamber out, and get the business over in a hurry. We wipe on the run - our naked and chilled buttocks quivering in anticipation of a bullet - and button up again when we’re once more safe in the dugout.

A half-naked man crouching on a hilltop is a defenseless creature, unnerved by the constant sense of his nakedness framed in the sights of an enemy rifle. I winced and shook each time I dropped my pants, expecting every moment to be caponized by a German sniper who combined marksmanship with a macabre sense of humor.

The artillery fire was heavy until midnight. Then it died away, became sporadic. (Because it was Christmas Eve? I wonder.) In the strange silence, the war seemed remote, and I was several thousand miles from Belgium for a few moments.

...

We got no breakfast this morning, Christmas morning. Our squad leader forgot to send a messenger to tell us to come to chow. We waited and hoped and peered anxiously for sight of the runner until there was no longer any point in hoping. Except that it was Christmas morning, I didn’t mind the missed meal: my interior was worn out from my late tussle with the GIs.

Later in the morning I opened a can of C rations, made a little coffee, and ate two dog biscuits. Shorty opened a can of hash and ate it cold. Christmas breakfast! We munched in unhappy silence, and I brooded over the memory of our customary Christmas stollen (how ironically German!), so richly stuffed with raisins and nuts and citron.

The Allied Counter Attack 25 December 1944 - 28 January 1945: Belgian civilians carrying personal possessions flee as the Germans opened an artillery barrage against Langlir in an attempt to halt the American drive on Houffalize.