No Less Than Victory

  “Stop it, old man. You are here only because the Führer thought you might inspire the troops in the west. This is my command now, and I do not need you wallowing in your own failures.”

  Von Rundstedt absorbed the insult.

  “Old man. Yes, you are quite right, Herr Model. I know my place, and I have done nothing to interfere in your command.”

  Model seemed to regret his words, shook his head. “I did not come to your office to insult you. My apologies, Field Marshal.” He paused, his energy rebuilding. “Two days ago we achieved total surprise. The enemy was as weak in the forest as we anticipated. Our initial thrust was overwhelmingly successful. It appeared that we were going to accomplish the fantastic, that the Führer’s plan was brilliant after all.”

  Manteuffel said with a soft voice, “The plan was never brilliant. You know that. But it is not yet a failure. We can turn to the north, attack the city of Liège. The enemy forces in Aachen can still be cut off and destroyed. This will prevent the enemy from driving toward the Roer, and will give us the delay this war desperately needs. If the Führer will alter his plan and not insist that we continue the drive toward Antwerp, if we might stop short of the Meuse, we can cause significant damage to the enemy in many places, and we can allow our own supply lines to replenish themselves. Time will allow our factories to produce the tanks we must have, and the fuel to drive them. The Americans in front of my army are in chaos. Dietrich has routed his enemy as well. But we have not succeeded in capturing Saint Vith, and we have not captured Bastogne. Those were the linchpins, the critical junctions that would give us the mobility to drive our forces to their goal. The armor must stay to the roads, and it is the roads that have been our downfall. Yes, far better infantry support would have helped this plan, but to my south, the entire Seventh Army has not yet moved with the speed necessary to drive the enemy out of Bastogne.” He paused, looked at von Rundstedt. “Our only weakness is the lack of support. I was told … we were all told that the enemy’s supply dumps would fall easily into our hands, that we could sustain ourselves with American fuel and food and guns. That has not happened. It will never happen! Even in chaos, the Americans have been successful in destroying their supplies before we can capture them. I have stood beside tank commanders while, a kilometer away, a million liters of American gasoline erupt into a useless bonfire, only because we could not move quickly enough, we could not strike with a sharpened spear. I have learned long ago that gasoline is not a tool. It is a weapon. It is as important as the cannon and the machine gun. Am I the only one who believes this? Would we have launched any campaign if any significant part of our army was kept back? If we are to continue with our success, if we are to accomplish any of our goals here, we must have replacement tanks and we must have the fuel to propel them. We must have fuel for the artillery, for the supply trucks. It is not complicated. If the artillery moves up in tandem with the armor, we are unstoppable. Instead, there are delays. There are promises from the High Command that no one had any intention of honoring. By not seizing the vital crossroads, by not driving to the river, we will have allowed the enemy to strengthen his flanks, to come up with a plan of his own. It sickens me.”

  Model looked away from Manteuffel, stared at the map again, and von Rundstedt could feel the gloom from both men.

  Model said, “It is not yet lost, General. There is a lesson from Clausewitz I have always embraced. The point must form the fist. We have made the fist and we have thrown the punch and we have struck the enemy in a soft place. Clausewitz was saying that we should not worry about the flanks, that if you drive your fist hard enough and far enough, the enemy must respond to the point. When I understood how inflexible Hitler was, I tried making the best decisions to allow his plan to succeed. I tried to convince him that if we drive straight and fast, we should not be concerned about the flanks. But he would not agree. He called Clausewitz a fool, out of his time. So, Hitler’s plan called for the Seventh Army to move forward while at the same time expanding along our southern flank, to protect us there. Dietrich had to spread out his advance to the north, slowing down the entire attack, so he could guard against enemy forces on his flank. By doing that, Hitler has tossed the genius of Clausewitz out the window. We should be crossing the Meuse, and instead our mighty army is plodding through a spiderweb of impassable roads, chasing the enemy through the woods like so many cats among a swarm of mice.” Model looked at Manteuffel. “I have seen this play before, General. Yes, we have weakness in front of us, a confused enemy who can be driven completely away, who can be destroyed. But right now, the enemy is building up strength on our shoulders, and the Führer is nervous about that. Because we are moving so slowly, his concern is justified. In front of us is General Hodges. I do not know much of him, except that he was not prepared for us. None of his people expected this attack, so I must believe that General Hodges is not a man like … well, like you, General. But up in the north, there is Montgomery, and he is a man of pride and arrogance, a man with a reputation of his own. He will not allow us to sweep past him without making a show of stopping us. And in the south …” Model paused, took a few steps, pacing again, turned, faced von Rundstedt. “In the south is Patton. For several weeks now, he has been content to pick and poke at the West Wall, small fights of little consequence. I understood all along, that is by design. He is preparing to drive into Germany, hit us hard as he has done so well before. Eisenhower has probably given him a timetable, and General Patton is pounding the walls in his headquarters for that day to arrive. But now his orders will be changed. And because we did not drive our fist forward with enough skill, the great bulldog will be released from his cage, and if he does not drive east and destroy our defenses along the West Wall, if he does not occupy the Saar, then he will go north and tear a hole in our flank.”

  He spun, looked at von Rundstedt, a new idea seeming to appear to him.

  “Do you know what the Führer said to me? He said that one advantage we will have in this campaign is that the enemy will not be able to react with speed, because President Roosevelt is not a man who understands the battlefield. I did not know what he meant. But then … it was Jodl who told me that General Eisenhower must surely get his orders … all of his orders from Washington. The Führer believes that the enemy operates on the same principles that guide us. I admit, I did not know how to respond to that. The High Command does not comprehend that General Eisenhower issues orders. He does not wait to follow them only after they come all the way from his president.”

  Manteuffel said, “The High Command has no grasp of anything beyond their lofty offices. They do not know of front lines and ice-covered roads and mud. Their limousines do not run short of fuel, their mistresses do not lack for stockings and cigarettes. Their feet do not freeze and they do not eat moldy bread. And so, they will not understand what we tell them, what we ask of them. They will not hear us at all.”

  NEAR ST. VITH, BELGIUM DECEMBER 18, 1944, DAWN

  The fighting had thundered past them all through the night, bright flashes on the horizon in every direction, rifle and machine-gun fire rolling through the darkness. Benson had thought they would keep moving, putting distance between themselves and the Germans in the village, that surely they would team up with other GIs who were stumbling through the forest as they were. But with darkness came the uncertainty and the fear, and Benson had followed the lead of the other two men who seemed far more able, far more confident. Once the darkness was complete, Higgins led them into cover, yet another of the densely shrouded spruce trees. There was frustration with that, Mitchell in particular, the man seeming to itch for a confrontation with the Germans who were driving continuously along the roadways and trails that spread through these woods. They had heard more than one mechanized column passing on some road close by, the sounds distorted and muffled by the terrain, and each time Mitchell seemed ready to launch into a fight that would be far too one-sided. But Benson was starting to understand Mitchell’s anger, was feeling it hi
mself. Until now he had no reason to hate Germans, had felt more hostility toward some of the men in his own camp, Lane of course, and the inept Lieutenant Greeley. The Germans had been nameless, faceless, noises in the dark. Even their infantry; the first time Benson had fired his rifle, there was nothing about those men that seemed human, nothing to inspire guilt. But now he could not escape the rising fury at the men who were causing this chaos, the gunners in the tanks whose blasts shattered men into bloody pools, the terrible rips of machine-gun fire that tore men apart. There was a sense of helplessness about all of it, stupid and cowardly, every confrontation ending with the Americans dying or running away. This is not why we’re here, he thought. Others have done better, have won battles, for God’s sake. Normandy … all of it. But we’re not doing anything at all. What kind of army is this … what kind of soldiers are we that we see the enemy and can’t do anything to stop him?

  In the silence, he had stared at the dark hulks of the other two, heard low breathing, sleeping perhaps, or just staring, as he was. The fear had faded away for now, and Benson felt something new. In every place, the foxholes, the bombed-out town, the small village, men had been left behind. He scolded himself, there was no other way, nothing you could have done, but the guilt was there all the same. It came with the faces, those with the horrible wounds, or Yunis, the worthless soldier, balled up like a helpless child in that one muddy foxhole. There had been too many escapes now for Benson not to wonder about that, why Benson had escaped, why Mitchell and Higgins, what was different about them? Was it simply random, pure dumb luck? Benson hadn’t said anything about it, heard none of that kind of talk from the other two. If they had any guilt at all, Benson saw no sign of it from Higgins, and he would never expect to see it from Mitchell. As the hours passed, they did not talk at all, and in the cold darkness, sleep had been brief and fitful, broken by the agony of the pain in his feet, the frozen fingers, the waves of shivering. He tried to steer his mind away from that, but the thoughts rolled back to the faces, the names, all those who had been overrun, routed, and blasted by the unending onslaught. He had no idea of course what had happened to Lane, if he had been killed in the village or was a prisoner. Does it matter that he was a bullying son of a bitch? If he’s dead, is that what justice is? And what of the lieutenant? Benson had to struggle to remember his face, the inept idiot, Greeley. That awful day was a distant memory, the man’s gruesome death a horror that might have never happened at all, a gut-twisting episode from the pages of a bad novel.

  No, he would say none of this to the others, knew that the nighttime was all about quiet and nothing else. He wanted to ask Mitchell if he thought much about Greeley, or the others, the death and horrific wounds, but he knew what the response would be: no response at all. Mitchell had an edgy grit, would not forget any of this, would carry a grudge about it. Mitchell hated the Germans, and Benson didn’t need to understand why. Maybe that makes him a better soldier, maybe he has a soldier’s heart … whatever that means.

  The daylight was spreading through the woods, and Benson tried to flex his toes, flinched from the pain. As he moved, the stiff coat opened slightly, and the cold poured in even more, astonishing, relentless, always worst at first light. He could feel himself stuck to the frozen mud beneath him, pried himself away. Mitchell was closest to him, his back against the tree, and Benson saw the outline of his face, thought, well, Kenny, maybe today you’ll get your fight. Maybe this is the day we can kick the enemy in the ass and send him running. I know damn well that if you get the chance, you’ll run somebody down with that bayonet. Or maybe we’ll just keep running ourselves, like we’ve been doing.

  Benson had become more nervous about Mitchell, wondering if Higgins could continue to control him. Benson was curious about that, why Mitchell deferred so much to Higgins’s authority. The man was only a sergeant, had no more training or experience at fighting this enemy than his two-man squad. But Higgins had shown Benson something, that intangible thing that inspired other men to pay attention, to follow, to obey. Mitchell seemed to know that as well. Benson knew he could never have controlled Mitchell’s temper, his anger at the Germans that might make him reckless. Even in the darkness, there had been opportunity, a patrol moving below them, a small convoy of German artillery moving slowly along one snowy lane. But Higgins had kept him under control.

  Higgins made a low grunt, and Benson responded, Mitchell as well. Benson could see enough in the shadows to know Higgins had retrieved one of the jars of fruit from his pocket. The jar was opened, the smell filling the small space, sweet and syrupy. Higgins passed out two more, Benson’s stiff hands struggling, the jar lid finally giving way. He slurped it down quickly, didn’t notice what kind of fruit it was. The day before, they had learned that the fruit caused more than one problem. There was plenty of time to slip silently behind some tree, to relieve the low stirring in the gut that was plaguing all three men. But far worse was the hunger. The fruit was sugary sweet, and afterward, they were hungry too quickly, the fruit fueling them only for short bursts. Yet there was nothing else to eat. The canteens were filled from the streams, a trickle of water they found in nearly every ravine, the water flowing beneath a hard crust of ice. It was dangerous to drink that, of course, but the threat of dysentery was meaningless now. There was only one priority, to find a safe place, an American position that was not a shambles of wreckage and corpses, where someone was actually in command, where the three men could find some way to eat real food and warm up, trade in worn-out boots and wet clothes, and then find some way to help fight the enemy.

  The jars were empty, tossed aside, and Benson peered up through the thick limbs of the tree, searched the skies, no snow, but still the thick gray clouds. They sat in silence for another minute, Benson again massaging the awful soreness in his feet.

  Higgins was watching him, said, “If we can find a farmhouse, someplace there might be dry clothes, we’ll fix up something in your boots. Even a barn, some dry straw would help. Gotta get your feet dried out.”

  Benson’s boots had come off the night before, sat beside him, a nightlong effort to dry out the insides. His feet had passed the night mostly folded beneath him, wrapped in a dirty mass of white cloth, what had once been a dress. Besides the fruit, it was their only booty from the Belgian family, the dress torn into scraps that might be used to camouflage their helmets should they find themselves hunkered down in the open. But Benson’s misery was crippling for all three of them, and as long as there was shelter, the camouflage didn’t matter. He massaged through the cloth, winced, said, “Toes are the worst. But I think the boots are dried out pretty good. They’re frozen, anyway. Damn, I should have saved more of those socks. They told us to take all we could carry.”

  Mitchell stared down toward his own boots, his gloved fingers rubbing the stock of his rifle. “Shut up. Those supply idiots had no idea what we’d need out here. Look at these gloves. Holes in every finger. Something a four-year-old would wear. What jackass thought these would keep us warm?”

  Higgins pointed to Benson’s boots, said, “Try to put ’em on. The gorilla here is getting jumpy. We better get moving.”

  Benson kept the scrap of cloth around his foot, pulled one boot on, forced the cloth inside, too tight, his toes screaming with the pressure. He took a long breath, knew Higgins was watching, but Benson would not let them coddle him. He glanced at Mitchell, still fondling the rifle, and Benson thought, there’s no way the sergeant will leave me behind. Mitchell would kill him first.

  Mitchell suddenly looked skyward, said, “Listen.”

  Benson heard it now, a steady hum of engines.

  Higgins said, “Those are planes. It must be better weather. Somebody’s flying. Hope like hell it’s our boys.”

  Mitchell crawled out from the tree’s shelter, eyed the woods, then stood, a soft whisper.

  “Far off. Moving away. Coulda been a few of ’em. I don’t know what they think they can see. Look at the fog.”

  Higgins
was out as well, said, “At least they’re trying. Maybe just to let our boys know they’re up there.”

  Benson laced up the second boot, crawled out after Higgins, the skies unyielding, no sunlight, just the gloom of thick gray.

  Higgins pulled out his compass, turned it in his hand, then tapped Benson on the shoulder, said, “Let’s go. The road’s that way, we need to keep in that direction.”

  The sergeant stepped out through the snow, and Mitchell waited for Benson, checking, like a big brother.

  Benson stepped past him, tried to ignore the pinched toes, the soreness. “Watch out for yourself, Kenny. I’m okay.”

  The artillery thundered from the hilltop in front of them, and Benson dropped flat, the others doing the same. The woods were thick, but the shock had passed, and Benson raised up slowly, could see the crest, stumps and cut trees, an opening. The cannon fired again, a hard jolt of sound, and Higgins looked back at them, motioned with his hand, Forward. They crawled, the snow soft, no sound, and Higgins turned his head, one hand over the ear facing the gun. Benson did the same, keeping the shock of the firing to a minimum. The gun erupted again, shaking the ground beneath them, and Higgins was moving quickly, reacting to the rhythm of the gunners. He halted, waited, seemed to brace himself, Benson mimicking him, the gun launching another shell. They were very close, and Higgins crawled quickly to a cut tree, knelt, peered up and over, hands on both ears, Benson and Mitchell copying him. The cannon erupted one more time, and Higgins raised the rifle, jerked his hand, Now!