Nennig is a small town located on the Mosel River. It is about ten miles from the French border and directly across the river from Luxembourg. During the entire month of January 1945, German and American troops fought for control of that town. Artillery fire reduced it nearly to rubble. There is no way of knowing how many men died in Nennig, the best estimate is two or three hundred killed and between six hundred to a thousand more wounded. Frozen bodies collected from the streets could be counted but those in collapsed houses were still being recovered six months later.
So, why did we fight so hard and for so long to capture a small cluster of fifty or sixty houses? There are pompous military explanations, but we fought because the American army wanted the town and the German army wanted to keep it.
Back in the sixties my division began having annual reunions, each lasting about three days, and dedicated to the proposition that the best way to cope with horrible memories is to confront them. Because the division had fought three major battles in Nennig, that little town was a major topic of conversation. “Man, was I scared! Do you remember how cold it was? I can still remember the smells of Nennig, and the night sounds of pigs fighting over the remains of bodies they found.” There were funny tales like the night when the password was from the song “Marzi Doats.” One boy forgot it and, when challenged, he said “Rosie Dozy!”
My wife, Marie, and I have visited Nennig several times, first in 1961 when we were on our way to LSU after a two-year project at Firestone’s rubber plantation in Liberia. We drove down the main street, started up to the ridge where some bitter fighting had taken place, but memories of frozen bodies haunted me so badly that we had to leave.
We returned in 1992 and met several interesting people. Waldemar Bach was a geologist, but his hobby was the history of Nennig. He had written two small books about the town and was interested in what I remembered of the fighting there. We also met the Baron von Hobe Gelding, who owned most of the land around Nennig and lived in a large castle that the American army had largely destroyed during the war. He is a fascinating man, who runs the oldest and one of the best wineries in the Mosel valley.
In 1994 we joined other members of my division and veterans of the Eleventh Panzer Division who had fought against us, to dedicate a peace memorial. The U.S. First Armored Division sent a band representing the current American army and Germany sent a paratrooper unit. The weather was cold, there were long speeches in English and German, some military music and the unveiling of a monument. I don’t like ceremonies, but I enjoyed meeting former members of the Panzer division, and corresponded with one of them to get more information on who they were. In 1942 the Eleventh Panzer had fought to within sight of Moscow before being stopped by cold weather and, in 1943, had been almost successful in a drive to rescue the German Sixth Army at Stalingrad.
Marie and I kept in contact with the Baron and with Peter Bach, Waldemar’s son, by e-mail. In 1992, Peter had been a thirteen-year-old who was just learning English. Now he works as a safety engineer for Daimler Benz, and speaks excellent English. Through Peter, we found that Waldemar was interested in publishing another small book about Nennig and the war experience. He wanted me to collaborate with him.
In June, 2004, Marie was scheduled to present a paper at a botany meeting in England, so we decided to see Nennig for “one last time.” After visiting with the Bachs to discuss the book and visiting the Baron to give him two bottles of Louisiana’s finest wines, Marie and I began a memory walk through town. I wanted to find some sort of handle on what I would write for Waldemar’s book.
We began at the corner of Martinusstrasse and Berger Weg, where my company had begun their part of the attack. This was our first intense battle; we began the attack with 180 men and ended the day with around fifty who were still capable of combat. Most of the casualties were wounded; the others were simply listed as “missing”. We don’t know how many were killed.
The homes along Martinusstrasse were attractive, with neatly kept yards. We stopped at the cemetery and walked in to see the denkmal, the word means “thought memorial” for Nennig men who had died in the World Wars. I was surprised that so many from this small town had died in WWII, or were listed as “Missing in the East”.
Then we walked on to the Marketplatz, where the more brutal fighting had taken place. Now, there are attractive homes, no stores at all except for a single beer hall. We reached the fork where a stone-lined stream of spring water had run down the middle of the road. That had been our source of drinking water. About thirty yards up Weinbergstrasse, at about the spot where we discovered a soldier’s body had been lying in our drinking water for about a week, there is an attractive fountain, pouring water into a reflecting pool. Then the stream goes underground again, flowing to another fountain in the old Marketplatz, where it is part of an attractive shelter.
We moved on, past the church, on a street called Romer Strasse, to a row of houses where an open field had been, the place where men charged toward a hill that blazed with machine gun fire. Neatly kept backyard gardens give no hint of the slaughter that had taken place. After that we walked up the old Kreuzweg, the Stations of the Cross, that had led to our positions in an apple orchard. The trail was newly paved and the Stations of the Cross had been refurbished so that they seemed almost new. We stopped at an open space beside Station Three, where our trail had turned off for the climb up to the orchard. That’s where the frozen body of a German soldier had been, with his rifle pointing at anyone climbing the hill.
We went back to a hotel for lunch and began a conversation with a middle-aged couple who lived in Nennig—or nearby. In my very poor German I began telling them that I had fought here in the war, nearly sixty years ago.
They were very much surprised that there had been any fighting here in Nennig. Had any of the buildings been damaged? Why did the German army want to defend a small town like Nennig? I considered various answers and decided that I was glad they didn’t know about the horrors that young German and American soldiers had faced here. That was sixty years ago. Today, Nennig is a beautiful suburban village. During the summer vacationers crowd in to camp in the fields along the Mosel River. The new Nennig is quiet and peaceful.
I am profoundly glad.
