DECEMBER 16, 1944, 6 P.M.
Eisenhower lit another cigarette, sat back in his chair. Tedder was up, moving around the small office, stopped close to one wall, a makeshift barrier of plywood. He stared at it, smiled, put his hand on it.
“You know, Ike, no one would fault you if you had a bigger office.”
“This place is a palace, for God’s sake. This was von Rundstedt’s headquarters, you know. He used to sit right here, maybe in this same chair. I get the irony of that. It seemed appropriate for me to move in here, especially to the French. But this place is a little ridiculous. Look at the size of these rooms. We could hold banquets in here, and we’d have to shout to be heard. I had them put up that plywood, divide things up a bit. Make these offices a little more practical. A lot more comfortable too.”
Tedder laughed, rapped a knuckle against the plywood wall. “Monty wouldn’t see it that way. This place would suit him quite well. Without the room dividers.”
“I don’t give a hot damn what suits Monty. I’d just like him to do his job and keep his mouth shut.”
Tedder turned toward him, was filling his pipe from a small pouch of tobacco. “You’ll be fortunate if you get one out of two, Ike.”
Eisenhower stared at the large map that hung against the far wall. “I’m going to have to hand him some of the American units up close to his flank. Once we begin to push east, the Brits are going to need some strength they don’t have now. I have to tell you, Arthur, no one in this command is happy about that. You should hear Patton bitch. But Monty’s drive will be crucial, once we get going. I’m expecting a jump-off date in early January, and we can’t have any screwing around. If Monty has a few of my boys …” He stopped, knew it was another of his intolerable slips, a show of nationalism he had no tolerance for in the others around him. “Sorry. You know what I mean, dammit. If Monty has some American support to add to his own, it might encourage him to move a little quicker. With Patton and Devers pushing hard in the south, I can bet you Monty’s not going to want to drag his ass behind. Patton knows the job in front of him, and it has nothing to do with Berlin, but I’ve already heard noises down his way that he thinks he should be the first one in, all that same Messina business again. I’m not having another damn race like they did in Sicily. Patton needs to keep his focus on Frankfurt. As far as I’m concerned, Berlin has very little to do with ending this war.”
Tedder seemed surprised. “What do you mean? That would pretty well signal the end, don’t you think? I don’t care how blindly the German people still support Hitler, if he loses the capital, not even the Gestapo will believe they can still win.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. I’m much more concerned with driving our people across the Siegfried line. After that, we have some pretty stout rivers to cross, and the enemy won’t make that easy for us. Berlin is a word for the newspapers. You ever heard of Ulysses Grant?”
Tedder nodded, smoke rolling up from his pipe. “Quite so. One of your most capable battlefield commanders. Did a pretty thorough mop-up of old Robert E. Lee, if I recall your history.”
“Grant understood war. That’s why he won. When the time came, he ignored Richmond, ignored the symbolism of a capital city. He knew that if you want to win a war, cities have very little to do with it. You have to kick the hell out of the other guy’s army. That’s what I intend to do.”
There was a gentle knock at the door. Eisenhower put out the cigarette, said, “What?”
An aide appeared. “Sir. General Bradley has arrived.”
“Outstanding.” He looked up at Tedder. “I invited Brad to come down, have some dinner. I could tell he was itching to get out of his HQ. I can always tell when he wants to talk about things, get something off his chest. Won’t do it on the phone. I know him better than that.”
“I suspect he also wants to shake your hand.”
Eisenhower frowned, said, “I don’t want a big deal made out of this. No damn ceremonies.” He looked up at Tedder, winked. “Well, maybe a little one. But only after it’s official.”
The word had come from Washington the day before. Eisenhower had been nominated to receive his fifth star, the highest possible rank in the American military. Despite his own staff’s insistence that he don the extra star right away, he had refused, would instead wait until the order came from George Marshall that the nomination had been formally approved. Eisenhower knew that if there was some political subterfuge, some hidden enemy in the Congress who pulled the right string, it would be much easier to add the fifth star to his collar than to remove it.
Tedder tapped the pipe into the ashtray, said, “I’m off then, with your permission. There’s some row about gasoline for a couple of the fighter wings, something to do with who gets what. I won’t bore you with the details.” He clamped his hat under his arm, made a short bow to Eisenhower, was quickly out the door.
Eisenhower heard the voices outside, a hearty greeting between Tedder and Bradley, mutual respect that had often been hard to come by between American and British commanders. Bradley was there now, stood in the open door.
“So, what the hell do I call you now? Your head growing like a balloon? No, I don’t suppose so. Not like some. But, Mister Five Star. Nice ring to it, eh?”
Eisenhower motioned him into the office, Bradley shutting the door behind him.
“How about you call me Ike until I tell you differently. You hungry? I’m about ready for some supper.”
Bradley sat, glanced around the office, shook his head at the plywood walls. “Sure, chow sounds fine. Your mess hall’s got a better menu than the one in Luxembourg.” Bradley paused. “So, what am I allowed to call MacArthur?”
Eisenhower smiled, knew Bradley had something in his craw. Supper would wait. “Anything you like, as long as it doesn’t leave this office.”
Bradley seemed to think, choosing his words, but the humor was gone. “It’s a knockdown brawl, Ike. MacArthur’s screaming at the War Department for every soldier he can get, and they’re too intimidated not to oblige him. We’ve got regiments along our front at two-thirds strength, and the manpower people in the States keep making excuses why we’re not getting the troops. Well, no, they’re making one excuse. MacArthur is getting the replacements faster than we are. That wasn’t the plan, never was. Washington expects us to wrap this up before we commit everything to the Pacific. So why do they let him bully them? It’s going to cost us, Ike. We start the new campaigns without full strength, we’re going to lose people we shouldn’t lose. The German is severely weakened, and that’s a situation we have to take the best advantage of. Since Normandy, our greatest successes came when the German popped up out of his hole and gave us a shot at him. That’s what I’m hoping for now. Every time the German launches a counterattack, we chew it to pieces. But we have to have the people, Ike. The rifle companies have been busted to hell, and you know as well as I do, it makes no difference how many men you can count on a division’s payroll, you have to be at full strength on the front lines. We need riflemen worse than we need anyone else. MacArthur needs headlines, and he’s got a big damn mouth.”
Eisenhower had expected this, but Bradley was rarely this animated.
“I’ll send a cable to Marshall. Not much else I can do, you know that.”
“Five stars, Ike. Your bitching just got a little more volume added to it.”
Eisenhower shrugged. “Maybe. At least now I match Monty’s rank.”
Bradley smiled, his anger settling down. “I wonder if he knows that a five-star is equal to a British field marshal.”
“I promise you he knows it. He already sent me congratulations. Took the opportunity to remind me that he’s about to win our bet.”
“You made a bet?”
“A while back … a long while back, I bet Monty five bucks that we’d have this war over by this Christmas. He asked me if I wanted to go ahead and pay up. I told him there were still nine days left. He’d have to wait.”
&n
bsp; Bradley sniffed, stared down at his hands. Eisenhower knew how much he despised Montgomery.
“What?”
“Maybe that explains a few things, Ike. Leave it to Monty to drag his ass into battle like a herd of turtles, just so the war would last long enough to win him five bucks.”
“Sir! Excuse me?”
The door opened, and Eisenhower was surprised to see his chief of intelligence, the British general Kenneth Strong.
“What’s going on, Kenny?”
Behind Strong, Eisenhower saw another man, a British colonel, familiar, part of the intelligence staff. Strong stepped into the room, acknowledged Bradley with a curt nod, said, “Sir, we have received a rather disturbing report. I apologize for the apparent tardiness of this. It seems that at five this morning, the enemy opened up a considerable assault against the American First Army sector. Five separate points across the Ardennes front have been hit.”
“A demonstration, probably,” said Bradley. “Von Rundstedt has to know that Hodges is stretched pretty thin in that area. But it’s hardly a place to launch an offensive.”
Eisenhower could see that Strong was clearly concerned. Strong held out a piece of paper, said, “We’re not as confident about that, sir. These reports are sketchy at best, and we’ve not heard any direct confirmation from the forward command posts. The air people can’t confirm either, since that entire area is socked in. Fog and snowstorms for a couple days now, not expected to lift anytime soon.”
Eisenhower felt an uncomfortable stirring in his stomach. “Do we know the enemy’s strength? Any specifics about what kinds of units are involved? How many divisions?”
Strong glanced at his colonel, who said, “Best we can tell, sir, the attack is being made with a considerable amount of armor. We received several reports of a significant artillery barrage early this morning, but after that most of the outposts and regimental commands went quiet. The reports that did get back to General Hodges were, again, sketchy at best. General Hodges did not feel this warranted an immediate response. At least, that’s what I was told late this morning—”
Strong interrupted. “With all respects to General Hodges, sir, we’ve been unable to reach him directly. His headquarters is to the north, and we seem to be somewhat … separated. Early reports suggested that the attack drove primarily against General Middleton’s Eighth Corps sector.” Strong moved to the map on the wall, pointed. “Here.”
Eisenhower reached for a phone, waited impatiently for the voice to respond.
“Get General Smith in here, and whatever senior staff is available. Now!”
Strong seemed to wait, and Eisenhower stood, felt the energy flowing, stared at the map, flags indicating the position of the various divisions.
Smith was at the door, Eisenhower’s chief of staff moving in quickly. “What’s going on, Ike?”
Others were there as well, and Eisenhower said, “Beetle, the enemy is up to something. It could be pretty big.”
Strong pointed at the map again, and Eisenhower already knew what the gap between the small blue flags meant. Strong said, “There are suggestions … I hesitate to call them reports, that the Germans have sent their Sixth Panzer Army toward Saint Vith, and their Fifth toward Bastogne. Infantry and armored columns are reported all across the sector, but those two towns are primary intersections. It makes tactical sense that if the Germans intended to breach our position there, those two towns are key to their success. I expect further details very soon.”
Eisenhower said, “They didn’t choose the Ardennes by chance. We’re thin there, too damn thin, and von Rundstedt knows it. That’s why Hitler brought that old son of a bitch back into command, to run a campaign like this, to hit us hard. We should have known that.”
Bradley said, “I’m not too certain about this, Ike. He could be setting us up for a major attack somewhere else, either north or south. My guess is north, since we know he’d love to hand Aachen back to Hitler. The Ardennes is a hell of a place for a winter offensive.”
Eisenhower was surprised at Bradley’s disagreement, shook his head. “No. We’re too strong on both ends. We’re weak in the middle. Hodges and Patton are spending all their energy driving east, and there’s a big damn gap between them. Those troops spread across the center are just … sitting there. And there aren’t very damn many of them.”
Bradley stared at the map. “But the Ardennes. Jesus, Ike, it’s a hell of a place to launch anything. There aren’t enough roads through there to support an armored blitz. In those hills, they measure the snow in feet, for God’s sake.”
Eisenhower looked at Bradley, said, “They’re not beat, Brad. We may have overestimated that.”
Bradley’s expression began to change, absorbing the message. Eisenhower looked at the map again. “We were supposed to think the enemy was going backward. I thought … hell, we all thought they were headed back behind the Rhine, make their stand there. Maybe that’s what we were supposed to think.” Eisenhower looked at the others, no one speaking. “Hitler seems to be very good at remembering his victories. He did this four years ago, the same damn place, and the French were standing around just like we are now, saying, It can’t be done. In a month’s time, the British were driven to Dunkirk and the French were whipped. Well, we’re not going to be driven anywhere, and we’re damn sure not going to be whipped. We have armor on both flanks, and I want a call to go out to Patton—and find a way to reach Hodges, even if you have to go through Monty. They are to suspend their attacks to the east and concentrate available armor toward the flanks of the German advance. Move whatever troops we can move and put them into the fight where the threat is greatest. Brad, that’s for you to determine. Find out just what the hell is going on up there, and make damn sure everyone knows about it. You’re right about the snow. The roads are lousy through there, and unless von Rundstedt has some secret weapon for moving tanks across mountainsides, they can’t advance very quickly.” He searched the room. “I need some weather reports. Get Group Captain Stagg or some of his staff. Find out how long this crappy weather is going to keep the tactical air people on the ground. That’s the key.” Eisenhower couldn’t take his eyes from the map, the small blue pins that marked the line. “On narrow mountain roads, columns of tanks don’t stand a gnat’s chance against our airpower. Hitler might have ordered this attack come hell or high water, but an old bastard like von Rundstedt knows it won’t work unless the weather keeps us out of the air. So far, he’s called it right. Get me some damn weather reports!”
He backed away from the map, saw Bedell Smith standing beside Bradley, both men anxious to go. Eisenhower nodded, said, “Find out, gentlemen. Facts. Troop strength. Who we’re up against, where they’re going, and how strong they are. If we got caught with our pants down … well, dammit, pull them back up!”
Eisenhower pointed toward the door, the room emptying quickly, and he saw Smith put an arm on Bradley’s shoulder, Smith saying, “Well, Brad, you wanted the enemy to counterattack. Looks like you’ve got your wish.”
Bradley stopped, looked back at Eisenhower.
“Yeah. I just didn’t want one quite this big.”
DECEMBER 16, 1944, MIDNIGHT
There had been no sleep, no stopping to reconnoiter. The men had moved steadily west, through patches of snow and heavy timber, staying in the lower ravines, where the creeks flowed past icy banks, soft noises that hid their own or magnified the silence around them. The darkness was oppressive, but the blanket of snow allowed just enough visibility for the men to stay close to one another. Benson had followed the man in front of him, presumed it to be Mitchell most of the time, the men gathering occasionally around the sergeant, a glimpse of Higgins’s compass, whispers of where they should move next, what each man might have heard. Higgins did not bully them, and Benson could see that the sergeant seemed as frightened as they were but did not let it rule his decisions. They all knew there were others in the woods, men from both sides, the Americans driven from their cove
r by an onslaught of German power none of them expected. Higgins had made a priority of finding more of their own, and they had come across a few scattered, terrified men, huddled into hiding, drawn out by the shadows of familiar helmets. Higgins hoped to find more organization too, retreating columns led by field officers, who might know exactly what was happening, how far they had to go, which roads and trails were safe.
Though Higgins relied on his compass, the terrain did not cooperate, and often they were forced to move the wrong way, winding around some deep ravine, the best way to stay in cover. Benson knew, as they all knew, that despite the compass they were most certainly lost, but none of the men had any reason to argue with Higgins about where they were heading.
They continued to find others, small pockets of men who usually let them pass, then a sharp call, English, Higgins quick to respond. There were anxious greetings, every man feeling the safety of increasing numbers. But no officers were among them, not yet, and Higgins spoke to other sergeants, men leading fragments of squads, remnants of platoons. All the while, artillery fire streaked overhead, hard rumbling that echoed through the valleys, the Germans shelling positions far back, driving a massive wedge of power forward across the ragged network of roads. Higgins and the other sergeants kept their men as far from the roads as they could, no one wanting to suddenly stumble into flat open ground in the midst of a German column or, worse, a regiment of German infantry on the prowl for men exactly like these lost Americans. Throughout the night, the noises from the larger roads could be heard above them, the roads carved into hillsides, winding in a haphazard pattern that hid and then magnified the sounds of the rolling machines. They knew the sound of the tanks, the steel treads distinct even on snow-packed roads. But the other vehicles were a mystery, each man imagining the variety, self-propelled artillery pieces, troop trucks and staff cars, armored anti-aircraft carriers, even motorcycles. The noises came in surprising waves, the men slipping around a hillside only to hear some caravan in motion close above them, and so they backed away, staying in their cover, changing direction, trying another way.