With the summer of 1944 dissolving into autumn, Allied soldiers were filled with hopeful skepticism. Their swift advance across France had them on the doorstep of Germany’s border. Most thought the end of the war was nigh. But that optimism soon crashed into something much more tangible than illusions: the Siegfried Line. The Westwall, as the Germans called it, was not merely a concrete and steel wall—it was a last stand.
Europe has a long tradition of static defenses. From Roman walls to the bunkers of Verdun, there has always been a desire to keep ground by stone and sweat. Hitler’s Westwall was no different. Drawn from the same cloth as older defense concepts revived in the 1930s, it ran for hundreds of miles, defended by bunkers, anti-tank obstacles, and barbed wire. It was Germany’s way of saying: this far and no farther.
By September, the momentum the Allies had gained after the Normandy breakthrough started to flag. Supply lines were being stretched taut. There just weren’t enough trucks, rails, or gas to keep everything rolling at the speed they desired. And while the Allies were recovering their breath, the Germans were establishing themselves. They retreated to the Siegfried Line, fortifying positions, setting up mines, and preparing for a nasty struggle.
General Eisenhower did not decide to focus on a single pinpoint but to advance on a broad front, running from the Netherlands south through France and into the Ardennes. North of the main effort, Lieutenant General Courtney Hodges and his First U.S. Army were assigned the task of breaking the line north of Aachen, Germany’s imperial city. To provide Hodges with more strength, General William Simpson’s Ninth Army was withdrawn to assist in closing up the front.
The actual task was left to ground troops. Major General Leland Hobbs’ 30th Infantry Division, which was in XIX Corps, was chosen to lead the charge. They were tasked with pushing east from Geilenkirchen, breaking through the Siegfried Line, and connecting with the 1st Infantry Division at Aachen. It was a tall order. The landscape was formidable—cliff-like riverbanks, boggy fields, dense forests, and an entire system of bunkers and concrete blocks intended to halt tanks in their tracks. Even one area featured a medieval castle with a moat.
In preparation, Hobbs drew his men back and allowed them to train. They practiced on extensive models of the battlefield and learned to identify concealed bunkers. Cutting down a pillbox wasn’t exactly glamorous—it involved crawling under fire, chucking grenades, and hand-to-hand combat. Artillery and air power were deployed to break up the defenses first, with heavy pieces such as the 155mm M12 firing shells into German positions for days. But even direct hits couldn’t always penetrate the thick walls of the bunkers.
The offensive began on October 2. Artillery pounded to screen Allied bombers, who came in with high expectations but registered mixed outcomes. Most bombs fell short, and even napalm had little effect amidst the soggy forests. That left the work for the infantry to do the most difficult. Soldiers waded across the Wurm River under heavy fire, while engineers scrambled to construct footbridges behind them.
The 117th Infantry pushed firmly, capturing more than ten pillboxes and gaining Palenberg by the close of day, but with more than 200 casualties for a single day’s fighting. The 119th fared worse, fighting through forests in which tree bursts turned the overhead canopy into a killing zone. Shells burst in the treetop canopy above the men, showering them with shrapnel. Rimburg Castle and its moat and mine fields proved a killer barrier.
Pillboxes weren’t randomly placed—they were part of a calculated defense. Each one covered the others, with overlapping lines of fire. According to division intelligence, the key was finding the central bunker in each cluster. Take that one out, and the others could be flanked. Easier said than done. In the open, it was dangerous. In the woods, it was chaos. Close-quarters combat became the norm, sometimes with enemy soldiers just yards away.
The reinforcements finally arrived. The 2nd Armored Division swept over the river and assisted in clearing the town of Ubach. German counterattacks quickly and hard came afterward, including some of the heaviest artillery barrages ever to face the Americans. Nevertheless, with tanks and infantry fighting together, the line began to break. The 119th eventually broke through Rimburg Castle after days of hard fighting and moved on to the railway line.
On October 6, the Germans launched a full-scale counterattack, temporarily retaking ground and compelling a U.S. withdrawal. But by nightfall, the Americans had regained the lost pillboxes. Ten days later, XIX Corps had driven a six-mile-deep wedge into the Siegfried Line. It was a costly victoryUnits that had fought through the woods cost more blood than the troops fighting in open terrain.
In hindsight, there have been questions raised about whether the Allies should have attacked those heavily fortified positions at all. Perhaps, goes the argument, it would have been wiser to bypass. But Eisenhower’s general front strategy needed pressure all along the front simultaneously. There was no place to cut corners.
Two decades later, what’s left of the Siegfried Line still marks the landscape—ruined concrete, half-frozen bunkers, grown-over tank traps. They’re silent now, but they’re reminders of the intense battle that raged there. Breaking the Westwall wasn’t swift, and it wasn’t effortless. But it exhibited the toughness, the resolve, and the sacrifice of men who fought on from one bunker at a time.