– March 28, 1945. The war was supposed to be over. The German army was collapsing, and American tanks were driving deep into Bavaria. But when soldiers of the U.S. 45th Infantry Division approached the city of Aschaffenburg, they saw something that made them stop. Bodies hung from the lampposts lining the street—civilians, old men, women, even teenagers.

Signs hung around their necks: “Here hangs a traitor.” Because they believed in the Americans. These people hadn’t fought the U.S. Army; they had tried to surrender—hanging white sheets from windows to save their homes. For that, their own German commander had executed them. The Americans stared at the swaying bodies—not sad, but furious.

They looked at the city ahead—a medieval fortress town, beautiful and historic—and made a decision. They weren’t going to capture Aschaffenburg. They weren’t going to risk lives in house-to-house fighting for a city that murdered its own people. The American commander picked up the radio and called for heavy artillery.

He didn’t ask for precision—he asked for everything. “Level it,” he effectively said. “Turn every building into dust. If they want to die for Hitler, let’s help them.” This is the true story of Aschaffenburg’s destruction—the day the U.S. Army stopped playing by the rules, the day they met a fanatical Nazi major and delivered brutal punishment.

To understand why a city was erased, meet the villain: Major Emil Lamberth. Lamberth wasn’t a normal soldier; he was a fanatic—a true believer in National Socialism. By March 1945, most German officers knew the war was lost and sought honorable surrender. Not Lamberth.

He commanded Aschaffenburg, a city on the Main River, and received a personal order from Hitler: Festung Aschaffenburg—Fortress Aschaffenburg—defend to the last stone. He took it literally. Civilians and history meant nothing to him—only obedience. With few regular soldiers, he turned to the Volkssturm and Hitler Youth—old men with hunting rifles, fifteen-year-old boys, and convalescents pulled from hospital beds.

He issued a terrifying ultimatum: anyone who tried to surrender would be shot; anyone who hung a white flag would be hanged. “We fight until the Americans are dead or we are,” he declared. The people were terrified. Seeing American tanks approach, they quietly sewed white flags.

But Lamberth had spies everywhere. On the morning the Americans arrived, his squads roamed the streets, dragging people from houses and hanging them. When the U.S. troops arrived, they didn’t see a city surrendering—they saw a city held hostage by a madman.

The 45th Infantry Division—the Thunderbirds—arrived on March 28 confident this would be easy. Another town, another surrender, they thought. They sent a small force into the suburbs, walking down quiet streets past shuttered windows and closed shops. Suddenly: a shot, then machine gun fire, then a Panzerfaust’s roar.

The Americans scrambled for cover—taking fire from everywhere: the church steeple, basement windows, even the sewers. It wasn’t just soldiers firing. Civilians were pulling triggers—old men in suits, women dropping grenades from rooftops, children firing rifles. Lamberth had forced the population to fight, warning they’d be butchered if they surrendered.

The American soldiers hesitated. They didn’t want to shoot women or kids. And because they hesitated, they died. Casualties mounted; ambulances raced; the easy victory became a meat grinder.

Commanders met in a post outside the city, angry at losing good men to civilians who should have surrendered. Then reports arrived about the hangings—scouts found bodies in the town square, murdered for trying to stop the fighting. Everything changed. The mood shifted from liberation to punishment.

The commander studied the map of Aschaffenburg and the Schloss Johannisburg—a massive stone fortress dominating the city. That’s where Lamberth was hiding. He made his choice: no more boys would die in narrow streets. No knights and castles—just technology and brute force.

He called for the big guns: 155mm long-tom artillery, M12 gun motor carriages—self-propelled heavy guns designed to crack concrete bunkers—and the Air Force. He issued a new order: pull back. Get out of the streets. “We’re not taking this city—we’re knocking it down.”

That evening, the bombardment began. By morning, it wasn’t tactical—it was an eraser. Heavy guns lined the hills overlooking the city and fired point-blank. Instead of high arcs, barrels lowered and fired straight into buildings—systematic destruction, block by block, house by house.

The 155mm shells smashed medieval timber-framed homes. Buildings didn’t just break—they disintegrated. Fires erupted. The city began to burn. Overhead, P-47 Thunderbolts dove and struck. Inside the city, it was the apocalypse.

In his bunker beneath the castle, Lamberth ordered men to hold. “The Americans are weak,” he shouted. “They’re afraid to come in.” The Americans weren’t afraid; they were efficient. They saw no point in dying for a city that chose to fight. An American sergeant wrote, “We sat on the hill and watched it burn. After seeing those bodies on the lampposts, I didn’t feel a thing. They brought this on themselves.”

It was one of the war’s most controversial decisions—destroying a city to save American lives. Was it justified or excessive force? We bring you the hard questions of history. If you want the truth uncensored, subscribe now. Join us on the front line.

After days of shelling, the city was a ruin, but Schloss Johannisburg stood. A massive red sandstone fortress built in the 1600s, its walls eight feet thick. Lamberth and his most fanatical troops were inside. The Americans moved to finish it—without storming the gates.

They brought an M12 gun motor carriage—155mm on tank tracks—and parked it point-blank in front of the castle. German soldiers peered through arrow slits and saw the massive barrel aimed straight at them. The first shell hit the main tower—stone exploded and dust filled the air.

They fired again and again, punching holes through walls that had stood three centuries. The castle caught fire; the roof collapsed. Inside, the wounded screamed. Teenage soldiers cried, begging Lamberth to surrender. “Herr Major, we cannot fight a wall of fire.”

Lamberth pulled his pistol and threatened his own men—the Feldgendarmerie and camp police kept order. Finally, the men had enough. On the morning of April 3, firing from the castle ceased. A white flag emerged from a hole in the wall. The Americans held fire.

Slowly, German soldiers walked out—covered in red sandstone dust, coughing, stumbling like ghosts. Then Major Lamberth emerged, uniform crisp, medals shining, head high, arrogant to the end. He approached Lieutenant Colonel Felix Sparks—the same Sparks who would later liberate Dachau—and saluted.

He started a speech about honor and duty. Sparks looked at the ruins, the smoke, the dead civilians in the streets—victims of Lamberth’s fanaticism. He didn’t salute back. He ordered his MPs, “Get him out of my sight before I shoot him myself.”

Lamberth was stripped of weapons and thrown into a jeep. As he was driven away, surviving citizens emerged from cellars—no cheers, only spit and curses. “Murderer!” they shouted. “You destroyed our home!” The battle for Aschaffenburg lasted ten days; it should have lasted ten hours. Because of one man’s fanaticism, the city was ninety percent destroyed.

Hundreds of civilians were dead. Hundreds of American soldiers were killed or wounded. When General Patton heard about the battle, he was grimly satisfied. He visited the ruins, looked at the rubble that had been homes, and said, “It is a good lesson. If they want to fight, this is what happens. We will not trade American lives for German buildings.”

Patton used Aschaffenburg as a warning for the rest of the war. Whenever the Third Army approached a town, they sent a message: Remember Aschaffenburg. Surrender now, or we will bring heavy guns. Most towns surrendered immediately. The city’s destruction saved thousands of lives later by proving the Americans weren’t bluffing.

And what became of Major Lamberth—the man who hanged his own people? He wasn’t treated as an ordinary POW. He was tried for murder—not for killing Americans, which is war, but for killing German civilians who tried to surrender. He was found guilty and sentenced to death.

In the confusion of postwar appeals, his sentence was commuted to imprisonment. He lived, but in disgrace, hated by his countrymen. Aschaffenburg’s destruction is a brutal story—not of glory, but of war’s terrible logic. American soldiers didn’t want to raze the city.

But when they saw bodies on lampposts and realized they faced a fanatic who valued ideology over life, they did what they had to do. They stopped being liberators and became destroyers. Mercy has limits. Push a good man too far, and you don’t get negotiation—you get a 155mm shell through your door.

The commander ordered the city destroyed to save his men. Was it the right choice—or a war crime to level a city? The debate continues. What would you have done? Tell us in the comments. And to see how U.S. soldiers took revenge at Dachau, click the video here. Thanks for watching.