came through from Bradley’s headquarters, Twelfth Army. Seemed like they were a little off course.”
“Who was in it?”
“Couple of officers. A lieutenant, I think, that’s who I talked to. They had a private driving.”
“Was their pass in order?”
“I think it was.”
“Where were they headed?”
“Somewhere south of here.”
“You get any names?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, that’s all I remember.” Another shell exploded, even closer, and the MP ducked again. “Jesus, what the hell’s happening?”
“There’s a war going on,” said Grannit.
He steered them past the checkpoint, getting bogged down in traffic and mud on the main road halfway through the village.
“I never been shelled before,” said Carlson. “You been shelled before?”
“No. I’d say once is enough.”
“Yeah, I don’t need to go through that again.”
“Next chance you get at a radio, call Twelfth Army,” said Grannit, “see if they’ve got any patrols in this sector answers to that description.”
Carlson wrote it down.
“Where we headed, Earl? We going after them?”
“Has our job changed in the last ten minutes?”
“I guess not.”
“These are wrong guys, Ole.”
“Okay, so we’re going after ’em. So where we going?”
“You remember the location of that field hospital where they took Sergeant Mallory?”
Carlson searched his notebook. “I think I wrote it down.”
“It was Malmédy, wasn’t it?”
Just as Carlson found it in the book. “Sixty-seventh Evac.”
67th Evacuation Hospital, Malmédy
DECEMBER 16, 8:00 A.M.
When the artillery barrage began at dawn, no one at the hospital paid it much mind: By the time it ended an hour later, shells had started to land near Malmédy, word came in that the Germans had punched a hole through the American line, and paratroopers had been spotted on the ridge less than three miles away. The operating theater, which had been running at less than a third of capacity during the recent lull, was put on full alert.
A wave of ambulances arrived within minutes—front-line soldiers with blunt trauma and shrapnel wounds. Many had suffered puncture wounds when shells shattered the trees, firing splinters in every direction. A number of civilians were injured when a rocket hit near the town’s medieval Catholic cathedral after morning mass, knocking down a wall and ringing the bells.
Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson entered the large tent complex on the outskirts of Malmédy just after 7:30 A.M. They moved past a crowd of wounded GIs stacked in the prep area, located the surgery ward, and found the senior nurse on duty, Dorothy Skogan, working in postop recovery. Grannit showed his credentials and asked about Sergeant Vincent Mallory. Skogan didn’t know the name, but recognized him from Grannit’s description.
She told them Mallory had arrived earlier that night, without dog tags, just after 3:00 A.M. , accompanied by a medic and a pair of MPs. He had been shot three times and his complicated surgeries lasted over two hours. By the time they finished, the soldier had stabilized, his severe blood loss restored by transfusion. The surgery team had just wrapped out of the OR when the bombs started flying.
“What’s his condition?” asked Grannit.
“Critical but stable. Severe blood loss, shock and hypothermia. Gunshot wounds to the right shoulder, left hip. His jawbone’s shattered, most of his teeth fractured.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No. Won’t expect him to be for hours, if then.”
“Well. We really need to talk to him.”
“That may be difficult, Lieutenant. The bullet tore up his tongue, and we had to wire what was left of his jaw to a plate. I didn’t even know his name until you just told me; he didn’t have his tags.”
Grannit looked at Carlson, frustrated. He quickly told her that Mallory had been shot and left for dead with three other men for over twenty-four hours before they’d found him. “Anything strike you as
“Who was in it?”
“Couple of officers. A lieutenant, I think, that’s who I talked to. They had a private driving.”
“Was their pass in order?”
“I think it was.”
“Where were they headed?”
“Somewhere south of here.”
“You get any names?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, that’s all I remember.” Another shell exploded, even closer, and the MP ducked again. “Jesus, what the hell’s happening?”
“There’s a war going on,” said Grannit.
He steered them past the checkpoint, getting bogged down in traffic and mud on the main road halfway through the village.
“I never been shelled before,” said Carlson. “You been shelled before?”
“No. I’d say once is enough.”
“Yeah, I don’t need to go through that again.”
“Next chance you get at a radio, call Twelfth Army,” said Grannit, “see if they’ve got any patrols in this sector answers to that description.”
Carlson wrote it down.
“Where we headed, Earl? We going after them?”
“Has our job changed in the last ten minutes?”
“I guess not.”
“These are wrong guys, Ole.”
“Okay, so we’re going after ’em. So where we going?”
“You remember the location of that field hospital where they took Sergeant Mallory?”
Carlson searched his notebook. “I think I wrote it down.”
“It was Malmédy, wasn’t it?”
Just as Carlson found it in the book. “Sixty-seventh Evac.”
67th Evacuation Hospital, Malmédy
DECEMBER 16, 8:00 A.M.
When the artillery barrage began at dawn, no one at the hospital paid it much mind: By the time it ended an hour later, shells had started to land near Malmédy, word came in that the Germans had punched a hole through the American line, and paratroopers had been spotted on the ridge less than three miles away. The operating theater, which had been running at less than a third of capacity during the recent lull, was put on full alert.
A wave of ambulances arrived within minutes—front-line soldiers with blunt trauma and shrapnel wounds. Many had suffered puncture wounds when shells shattered the trees, firing splinters in every direction. A number of civilians were injured when a rocket hit near the town’s medieval Catholic cathedral after morning mass, knocking down a wall and ringing the bells.
Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson entered the large tent complex on the outskirts of Malmédy just after 7:30 A.M. They moved past a crowd of wounded GIs stacked in the prep area, located the surgery ward, and found the senior nurse on duty, Dorothy Skogan, working in postop recovery. Grannit showed his credentials and asked about Sergeant Vincent Mallory. Skogan didn’t know the name, but recognized him from Grannit’s description.
She told them Mallory had arrived earlier that night, without dog tags, just after 3:00 A.M. , accompanied by a medic and a pair of MPs. He had been shot three times and his complicated surgeries lasted over two hours. By the time they finished, the soldier had stabilized, his severe blood loss restored by transfusion. The surgery team had just wrapped out of the OR when the bombs started flying.
“What’s his condition?” asked Grannit.
“Critical but stable. Severe blood loss, shock and hypothermia. Gunshot wounds to the right shoulder, left hip. His jawbone’s shattered, most of his teeth fractured.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No. Won’t expect him to be for hours, if then.”
“Well. We really need to talk to him.”
“That may be difficult, Lieutenant. The bullet tore up his tongue, and we had to wire what was left of his jaw to a plate. I didn’t even know his name until you just told me; he didn’t have his tags.”
Grannit looked at Carlson, frustrated. He quickly told her that Mallory had been shot and left for dead with three other men for over twenty-four hours before they’d found him. “Anything strike you as
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