No Less Than Victory
No one smiled except Eisenhower, who responded, “All right, George, let’s not be that damn cheerful. I’d rather we held the line at the Meuse. I don’t think de Gaulle would appreciate our strategy if we let the enemy scare hell out of Paris.” Eisenhower pointed to the map. “This is what we think we know. The enemy has punched a bulge in our defenses nearly forty miles wide. Fortunately, he has not yet captured Bastogne, though he is driving past on both sides. That may be a conscious decision on von Rundstedt’s part, to just move on past and not tie his people up in a knot by bogging down there. So far, there’s not much we’ve been able to do about it. Saint Vith is just as bad, though the enemy doesn’t have the place completely enveloped, best as we can tell. Hanging on to both those cities is critical. The road networks fan out westward in such a way that the enemy would have several easy paths toward the Meuse.”
Bradley cleared his throat, said, “I have spoken to Hodges on the phone. He’s getting a handle on this thing, shifting forces into position, mainly from the north. We’re holding out in that direction pretty well, but that was to be expected. We’re strongest in that area. Matt Ridgway is moving his paratroop corps down to help out, and as you can see, several infantry and armor divisions are joining the fight.”
Eisenhower looked at Devers, said, “Jake, I need you to shore up your juncture with the Third Army, tighten those lines. You already know why.”
Devers nodded, and Patton caught the man’s look, thought, fine, you want me to do the talking. Patton did not wait to be asked.
“We’re already on it, Ike. I’ve put Walker’s Twentieth Corps in line facing east, and Jake’s people are moving up alongside. We’ve already established boundaries and flanks that are pretty well defined, and we’re doing all we can to make them secure. Nobody’s slipping between us.”
Eisenhower absorbed Patton’s words. “I agree with you there, George. Walton Walker’s the right man for that job. But how quickly will you be ready to push the rest of your people north? You’ve got to withdraw from contact with the enemy, pull back far enough so they can maneuver without being detected, turn them ninety degrees, and then advance with as much speed as possible. That’s a lot of maneuver, George.”
The question annoyed Patton, who did his best to hide it.
“I was ready the minute I got the order. We’re shifting our people now, and we can begin attacking the enemy flank on the twenty-second.”
He heard the low comments, saw surprise on every face at the table. Eisenhower said, “December twenty-second? Three days? That’s pretty amazing, George. How much strength are you talking about?”
Patton was annoyed again, didn’t see anything amazing about it.
“Three divisions. The Fourth Armored, the Twenty-sixth and Eightieth infantry.”
Eisenhower looked down, shook his head. “That may not be enough, George.”
“If you want me to move the whole damn Third Army, I can do that too. But it won’t be done in three days. Seems to me, by looking at your map, Hodges doesn’t need help eventually, he needs it right now. My three divisions can smack the enemy pretty damn hard, and I guarantee you, whatever Krauts are holding their flank, they aren’t expecting me to hit them that quickly with that much power. Isn’t that the point here? I would think we would all appreciate that surprise works wonders on a battlefield. Judging by your map there, it worked pretty damn well against Hodges.”
Patton caught the glare from Bradley, knew he had slid a toe across the fine line of decorum that Eisenhower tried so hard to maintain.
Eisenhower seemed not to notice, rubbed one hand across his chin, lost in thought. He shook his head. “George, I don’t mean to cast any doubts here, but you understand the logistical problems of shifting that many men onto a limited number of roads, realigning their supply systems, all the rest?”
Patton held his anger as tightly as he could, one foot tapping the floor beneath the table. He gritted his teeth, said in a muted hiss, “I know what has to be done, Ike. We’ll do it on the twenty-second.”
Eisenhower looked at the others, and Patton saw the wide eyes, the doubt. “Well, then, go to it,” Eisenhower said. “Jake, your people can fall in where George’s pull away?”
Devers nodded, not nearly as sure of himself as Patton would have liked. Patton stared at him, and Devers caught the look, seemed to straighten, said, “If George can move that quickly, so can we. General Patch is in touch with Walker already. As George said, their flanks are being established, and communication lines are being put in place. The enemy’s not slipping past us anywhere along that entire line.”
Eisenhower seemed to animate, rubbed his hands together, looked at Bradley, who smiled back, nodded in hesitant approval.
Patton appreciated that, knew that Bradley would side with Eisenhower no matter which way Eisenhower went. Patton looked at the map, studied, asked, “Who’s in Bastogne? How much strength. Can they hold out until I get there?”
Bradley said, “Ridgway says the One Oh First Airborne is moving in there pretty quickly, and last night, Middleton reported that units of the Tenth Armor moved in. The German has been a little skittish about marching in there like he owns the place, so he must think we’ve got more people there than we do.” Bradley looked at Eisenhower. “That’s a break, Ike. A big break. Same thing’s happened at Saint Vith. The panzers look like they’re wanting to surround the city instead of just moving right in. Some of our boys there are putting up a hell of a scrap, but I’m not sure who’s doing the fighting. The infantry has been scattered all over those hills, and the Seventh Armor is split up to cover every damn road. Hodges has no idea who’s in command of the town itself. But whoever’s responsible, it’s given us a little time to pull some of the scattered infantry units together. Ridgway is moving the Eighty-second Airborne up in support as quickly as he can. Hodges says the Thirtieth and First divisions are in motion, plus units of the Ninth Armor.”
Eisenhower held up his hands, the growing hum of talk around Bradley silencing.
“That brings me to another major point. The bulge the enemy has jammed into our front has made communication with General Hodges difficult at best. We can reach him by phone now, but a face-to-face is out of the question.” He paused, looked at Patton, as though Eisenhower wanted something from him. “In my position, a crisis such as this offers two options. We can fall back and regroup our forces, forming a stout defensive line, and then await the enemy’s next move. Or we can do all we can to stifle that move as it is happening. I believe the latter is the only acceptable option.” He looked at Patton, as though asking for a comment. “Do you all agree?”
Patton took the opening.
“Damn right we agree.”
Eisenhower did not hesitate. “I have ordered Monty to shift as much of his strength to the west bank of the Meuse as he can spare, to build up that line as an impenetrable defense should the enemy continue his push unabated. I do not expect that to happen, but Monty has done the right thing by accepting my strategy.”
Patton sniffed, did not want any of this conversation to shift toward Montgomery.
Bradley said, “Hodges is doing all he can to hold up the enemy’s advance. I have confidence that will only improve our situation.”
Patton thought, he changed the subject. Brad hates Monty as much as I do. Good for him.
Eisenhower stood, the staffs jumping into motion, the map pulled down, disappearing into a thick roll of paper. Devers moved to the door, never seemed to want to have any kind of informal chat with Patton, and Patton watched him go, thought, he’s scared to death. Just get the job done, Jake. Dammit, you outrank me, and you act like you’re on my staff. The staffs were filing out of the room now, tight quarters, Patton moving closer to the stove, the heat loosening stiffness in his knee.
Eisenhower moved close to him, said, “You know, George, every damn time I get promoted, every damn time I add a star, the enemy picks that time to attack. Hell of a lack of graciousness.”
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Patton saw a hint of a smile, said, “That’s okay, Ike. Every time you get attacked, I pull you out of the fire.”
Bradley was there now. “Hell of a gambit, George. I’d love to see you pull this off.”
Patton saw both men looking at him, felt them searching him for some sign of doubt. He pulled his shoulders back, a show of friendly defiance, said, “I’ll pull it off. We’re already moving. We’ll hit those bastards hard. Monty can do whatever he wants to on the other side of the river. Tell his boys to play some cricket or something, because I promise you, Ike, no Kraut will ever get that far.”
Eisenhower patted him on the back, and Patton made a short nod toward Bradley.
“Work to do. I better get going.”
He moved toward the door, felt the cold rushing in, a slap in his face. Outside, he saw the strange armored car that had brought Eisenhower to the meeting, the response to all the rumors about assassination squads targeting the Allied commander. That’s okay, he thought. If Ike sleeps better at night, I suppose that’s good for all of us.
He saw his own car, Harkins there, waiting, the driver holding open the door. Harkins said, “It went well, sir. Exceptional, I’d say.”
Patton said nothing, moved past him, slid into the car. He waited, already impatient, Harkins moving around to the other side, the doors shutting, and Patton noticed the car already running, the good work of the driver, the car’s heater doing its job. He thought of Eisenhower, the grand show of morale, trying to convince the others that what had happened to Hodges wasn’t so bad after all, that it was inevitable the bulge could be closed, the enemy tossed back. I know that’s true, he thought. Well, I believe it’s true anyway. He chuckled to himself, thought, all right George, you’ve bitten off a hell of a mouthful. Time to start chewing.
As Patton began the extraordinary task of shifting most of his Third Army northward, one of his primary goals was to secure the vital junction at Bastogne. Before the Germans could occupy the virtually undefended city, the Americans had thrown together a hasty defense, which eventually consisted of the 101st Airborne Division anchored alongside one company of the 10th Armored Division. To the dismay of the Germans, Bastogne was no longer an easy target. Though they kept up pressure on the city, they seemed reluctant to push forward an all-out attack. For the most part, Manteuffel’s tanks and the infantry of the Seventh Army slid past, surrounding Bastogne and hemming in the American paratroopers and tank commanders who fought stubbornly for their defenses. Given such stout resistance, Manteuffel considered Bastogne to be more trouble than it was worth, and, knowing how badly his timetable had been shattered, the German general believed his drive westward should be the priority. But Field Marshal Model would hear none of that, and insisted that Bastogne be captured. Once the city fell securely into German hands, the Germans could claim a hold on vital intersections that might eventually aid a defensive action, should the need arise. Patton’s move northward was a secret to no one. In their haste to move, many of his commanders ignored protocol and spoke openly on their radios, which provided German eavesdroppers with far more details than Patton would have liked. Though Bastogne was surrounded, the Germans south of the city began to prepare for Patton’s arrival. If the troops and armor at Bastogne were to be rescued, Patton’s columns would first have to fight. On December 22, Manteuffel’s subordinate, General Heinrich von Lüttwitz, who commanded the troops besieging Bastogne, attempted to convince the Americans to surrender the city. Under a flag of truce, the German general sent a staff officer to the American line, with a message, an offer that the Americans give up and thus avoid certain massacre. The aide and his message were brought to General Anthony McAuliffe, the 101st Airborne’s commander. His written reply to von Lüttwitz was simple and direct, a single word that would echo through American military lore for all time.
“Nuts.”
At St. Vith, the final blow came from two directions, German tanks and mechanized infantry finally ripping holes in the tattered defenses of the town. Throughout the day on December 21, both sides had made much of their fight with artillery, a duel that caused enormous casualties on both sides. The Germans kept up their pressure, probing small-scale attacks, seeking out any roadway that might collapse under the weight of a few of their massive Tiger tanks. But the American armor, supported by a ragtag defensive line of detached infantry, engineers, and headquarters staff, blunted each German push. By that night, most of the shelling had stopped, a reprieve that allowed both sides to lick their considerable wounds. While exhausted Americans sought to improve their lines, shifting strength to the most vulnerable positions, they believed that darkness had ended the fight, that the Germans would wait for dawn to begin their push again. But the Germans had no intention of spending a quiet night in their tanks. At 10 P.M., they launched a sudden full-throttle attack, and in the chaos of darkness, the Germans made perfect use of flare guns and star shells, illuminating the American positions, and creating perfect targets. The result was a tidal wave of German steel that the Americans could not hold back. By the morning of December 22, St. Vith had fallen, and armored columns from Sepp Dietrich’s Sixth Panzer Army rolled into the city from both north and south. With the vital intersection in German hands, the Americans had no choice but to pull away to the west, sacrificing the key position, and once again making a frantic attempt to draw in those troops who had been cut off or driven away, pulling back as much force as they could. This time, the retreat was more organized, the armor and artillery holding back German pursuit as the fragments of makeshift infantry units, supply trucks, and other vehicles fled to the west. For another long and brutal day, the Americans held on to their escape routes, keeping open a narrow peninsula that led toward the Salm River, a dozen miles west of St. Vith, where the newly arrived Eighty-second Airborne had established a stout defensive line. For the ground troops, the weather was more of a benefit to the Allied side. As the Americans around St. Vith slipped through Dietrich’s fingers, they were aided by a vicious snowstorm. The men on the march suffered, as they had suffered for more than a week. But this time, the Germans could not press the fight. American artillery provided a harrowing blanket of covering fire, allowing most of the Americans to reach safety at the river. If the Germans were to press their attack and cross the Salm, they would have to face the wrath of hard-core experience. The Eighty-second Airborne had already bloodied the Germans in Sicily and throughout the campaign in Normandy, and were coming off long weeks of rest and recuperation. Whether or not Dietrich expected his panzers to continue their hard-charging drive, the German commanders on the front lines were less enthusiastic about assaulting a position on the far side of a river, defended by one of the toughest fighting units in the American army.
Model and von Rundstedt knew what the Americans did not, that the Führer’s great plan had already gone awry. Both Bastogne and St. Vith were to have been overrun on the first day of the attack, and by now the timetable had called for Model’s powerful thrust to have already driven across the Meuse. Model and von Rundstedt had expected delays from the poor roads, the terrain, the weather. But they had not expected the Americans to put up such an astounding fight. That fight came from scattered and broken remnants of infantry and armored units, bits and pieces who were not supposed to be fighting at all. From engineers to kitchen crews to army musicians, American units had managed to punch holes in the German wave, slowing them just enough to allow the Allied commanders to adjust. While Hodges shifted infantry and armor divisions into line, Matthew Ridgway had put his paratroopers where they most needed to be. Hitler’s dream had met reality. Model knew, as did von Rundstedt, that the great drive toward Antwerp had already been delayed by nearly a week.
As the chaos that had rolled through Hodges’s command began to sort itself out, neither Allied intelligence nor the generals in the field were aware how badly Hitler’s plan had been gutted by the delay. The key intersections at St. Vith and Bastogne had been far tougher to swallow than the German
s had expected, but between them, where so many American forces had been trampled and scattered across the miserable terrain of the Ardennes, the German push continued. The gap between the two cities was more than thirty miles, and there, in the German center, through small villages and winding forest trails, Manteuffel’s panzers continued to drive forward. Hodges was still charged with the urgent job of finding some way to blunt that spear, to stop the German forces before they could reach the Meuse. On every map, the German thrust was narrowing, a deep wedge shoved into the American lines that had inspired a description embraced by the newspapers back home. The campaign that Hitler had named Watch on the Rhine now had a different name: the Battle of the Bulge.
Throughout the campaign, one piece of the German plan had worked to perfection: Hitler’s prediction of bad weather, which had eliminated Allied airpower from the equation. But the German commanders knew that even their Führer could not control the weather indefinitely.
Benson’s feet responded well, the bloody blisters healing beneath a thick smear of some kind of ointment. His bed in the field hospital had been needed for far more serious patients, something Benson didn’t question. He had seen them, blue hands and lips, bloody rags for shoes, ghastly wounds, some barely alive at all. For a full day he had stayed in the hospital alongside the medics and the few doctors, doing anything he could to help. There could be no boots on his feet, not yet, and so he worked barefoot, warming his feet by the stove that supplied heat to the enormous tent. When the order came to withdraw from St. Vith, Benson’s apprenticeship with the medics ended. His feet were healed enough to wear boots, new ones this time. In his backpack were stuffed half a dozen pairs of new socks.