They reached the first of the houses, most still upright, men hustling into doors, then calling out, no sign of the enemy, no sign of anyone at all. Benson was still close to the road, heard engines behind him, spun around, saw the barrel of a cannon coming up and over the ridge they had crossed. It was a self-propelled gun, stopping now, and he saw a sudden flash of fire, the shock of it punching Benson’s ears.
“Face front!”
The shout came from Higgins, and the gun fired again, the muzzle blast deafening, the shock punching him in the back. His ears were suffering again, the ringing too familiar, and he glanced at Mitchell, no words, Mitchell’s eyes staring ahead, cold slits, fury in his footsteps. They moved past more houses, an intersection, narrow streets, and suddenly Fornell was there, pulling the men together, tightening the formation. The thunder from the big guns behind them was roaring overhead, the ground beneath Benson’s feet pulsing, smoke winding in clouds through narrow alleyways that led between the tree-lined streets. Fornell was on the walkie-talkie, nothing Benson could hear, the lieutenant covering one ear, squatting low, trying to hear the voice on the other end. He stood, eyes wide, pointed to an alley, then moved that way, waving the men to follow. Higgins moved up quickly, closer to the lieutenant, Benson close behind him, the others filing into the lane, the sounds of the artillery overwhelming them, a stink of explosives rolling past the houses. Fornell was taking short quick steps, a low crouch, the lane winding, a sharp curve to the right, and he stopped suddenly, Higgins as well, both men dropping low. Benson readied the rifle, nothing to see, the two men in front easing forward, past the corner of a house. Benson moved up close, saw the great hulking monster blocking the lane, the long cannon pointing straight at them. It was a Tiger tank.
Fornell went down, rolled to one side, the others dropping behind him like so many dominoes, many of them still out of the line of fire, not aware what was in front of them. Benson felt paralyzed, hit the cobbled street with both knees, tried to roll away, someone else in his way, no cover for any of them. He wanted to scream, Move, waited for the blast, for the waves of machine-gun fire. But there was nothing, silence from the tank, no engine, no guns. Fornell crawled forward, close to the tank, beneath it now, a grenade in his hand. He looked back, directly at Benson, waved him forward frantically. Benson felt weakness in his legs, tried to obey, crawling, the cobblestones catching his hands, twisting, and he was at the tank, ducked to one side, the maw of the eighty-eight pointed past him, over him.
The lieutenant said with a hard whisper, “Slide under. Come up from behind. Grenade in the hatch. I’ll go up first. One of us will make it.”
Benson thought of the bazooka crew, where the hell are they? But the words didn’t come, the lieutenant’s glare definite, intimidating. Benson felt the grenades hanging at his chest, then crawled under, the stinking hulk of steel close overhead. He could see behind the tank now, another black mass, stopped, frozen. Farther down the lane was an armored truck, machine guns on top. He pushed sideways, rammed tight into the tread of the tank, hopeless cover. But the guns did not fire, no one at the guns, no helmets. He aimed the rifle, searched for movement, any target, and behind him a low voice, moving close, Mitchell.
“Keep going. The tank’s dead. Looks like no one’s home.”
The tank had sealed off the narrow lane, trees and houses close on each side, and so the others began to do as Benson had done, sliding underneath. Mitchell rose up, scampered toward the truck, slipped around to one side, opened the door, pointed his rifle in, did not fire. He waved, and Benson heard the voice of the lieutenant, up above, on top of the tank.
“Halt here! Congratulations, boys. You captured your first Tiger tank.”
Men were climbing up, peering down into the tank’s hatch, and Benson saw a smile on the lieutenant’s face, even Fornell caught up in the moment.
Higgins was beside Benson, who said, “They must have skedaddled. Knew we were coming.”
Higgins wasn’t smiling, said, “Not likely. No Tiger is gonna run from infantry. Even a bazooka can’t hurt this thing.” The artillery was still roaring overhead, and Higgins looked back toward the lieutenant. “This ain’t a damn party. You think we oughta get moving, sir?”
Fornell stared out, looked past the truck, Mitchell climbing up inside, manning the guns. The lieutenant said, “Let’s go, boys. We’ll stake our claim on this thing later.”
Mitchell shouted back toward the men, “Guns are loaded. Plenty of ammo.”
A man popped up from one of the tank’s hatches, said to Fornell, “This thing’s out of gas, sir. Fuel tank shows empty.”
The lieutenant jumped down to the cobblestones. “That explains it. Be grateful for that, boys.” He moved ahead, the men following.
Up ahead, Mitchell was out of the truck, said, “Sir, maybe we can turn this thing around, use it ourselves. Nice damn machine guns.”
“Leave it alone, soldier. Those black crosses on the side will get you blown to hell. We’ve still got a job to do.”
The artillery fire from behind had slowed, and Benson could hear fire coming back the other way, German artillery from across the river. Fornell moved out past the truck, waved the men forward. Benson moved with him, saw the lane opening up into a wide square, troops emerging from another of the narrow streets. But there was no rifle fire, no sound of machine guns, just the slow, steady thumps of distant artillery. The men continued to flow out from the narrow lanes, and Benson saw another tank, across the square, soldiers gathering around it, climbing up. That tank was smaller, shorter cannon.
Beside him, Higgins said, “That’s a Panther. What the hell? The Krauts just shag ass out of here and leave their tanks behind?”
The lieutenant halted the men, moved out toward a gathering cluster of troops, and Benson knew the look of officers, Fornell talking to them, pointing back toward the alleyway. From another side street a jeep appeared, two more behind it, stopping in the wide square. One man stepped out with a map, spread it on the hood of a jeep, the officers gathering.
Higgins said, “This looks pretty good. The brass wouldn’t come rolling in here if it wasn’t pretty clear. The Krauts must have hauled it across that river. I guess that means we captured this damn town.”
Other men heard his words, part of Higgins’s new squad, and one man said, “Medals for all of us! That tank’ll look good in front of my city hall. Maybe the army’ll give it to one of us.”
“Yeah, they’ll give it to you ’cause you’re so damn good-looking.”
Higgins kept his eye on the officers, then said, “Artillery fire across the river means we’re going across the river. Those damn officers need to finish their meeting.”
Benson tried to feel Mitchell’s strange rage, to share it, but the momentary lull was a relief. The cold was coming again, the first time he had felt it since the march began. He looked at the sun, barely above the lowest rooftop, felt the glow on his face, tried to absorb that, his breaths in white bursts. The square was lined with quaint old buildings, homes and businesses, one house blasted to rubble, a gaping shell hole in the roof next door, but most of the homes with only minor damage. There were trees lining the wider street, bare skeletons, and Benson thought of the people, no one showing himself. Maybe they’re in the basements, he thought. Hope so. Hate to think we’re gonna wreck this place. Looks like a nice place to live.
The sound rolled overhead in a hard roar, and Benson ducked, instinct, saw the planes skim past, no more than two hundred feet overhead. More came now, some higher, a formation of five, then five more. Men were staring up, rifles rising, but they all saw, the planes were American. Close by, someone shouted, “P-47s! Go get ’em!”
The planes continued to flow past, and now a new sound, machine-gun fire. One formation rolled up to one side, gaining altitude, then turned in unison, sweeping low again, but farther away. Men were cheering, coming up through the houses onto rooftops, heads and hands poked through upstairs windows. Benson saw men runn
ing into a house, followed them, the men scampering up a stairway, some already at the upstairs windows, some climbing farther, Benson with them, a doorway onto a flat, snow-covered roof. He could see the river now, the hills beyond, stared in amazement, the chattering of fire pouring out of the planes, the formations splitting up, single planes heading across the river, a screaming dive, then back up, rolling over, pulling away. The first blast came now, a shock of fire and black smoke, followed by two more, the P-47s swirling over the river like so many angry birds, circling, then with perfect precision, each one swooping down in a hard dive. He watched one, nearly vertical, pulling up at the last possible second, saw the black stick dropping down, the bomb bursting in a cluster of trees, fire erupting, a perfect strike. Now the planes began to pull away, and Benson felt himself shouting out with the men around him, No, don’t leave! But the planes were not yet through, formations coming together high above, rolling down, skimming the town, low across the river, their machine guns opening up, a strafing run on targets Benson couldn’t see. The hills across the river were bathed in smoke, but the Germans were not silent. He could see streaks of anti-aircraft fire, a burst overhead, and suddenly one of the P-47s came apart, the wing fluttering away, the plane a smoking missile, heading down, impacting straight into the river. There was a silent sickening moment, none of the cheering, the only sound coming from the roar of the planes, and the enemy across the river. Benson stared at the water, saw the debris, flickers of fire, black smoke. The other planes were completing their strafing runs, pulling away now, some of them already gone, their mission complete. He heard the sharp call of an officer, the orders coming from inside the house, the men withdrawing. Benson fought to turn away, still stared at the river, the smoke drifting away, much more smoke on the hills across the water.
“Move it, soldier. Show’s over.”
Benson saw Fornell at the door, realized he was the last man on the roof.
“Sorry, sir. Hell of a thing to see.”
The lieutenant moved away, and Benson followed him down the stairs, darkness in the stairwell, his eyes adjusting. He thought now of the stars, the clear night. My God, that’s why … that’s why the planes came. On the street, Higgins was staring at him with a frown, but Benson ignored the sergeant’s anger, stared up at blue skies, saw puffs of white clouds, felt the cold again. Mitchell was there, and Benson looked at him, saw a smile, rare.
Mitchell said, “That’s what you call air support, kiddo. Things might be a little different now.”
STAVELOT, BELGIUM
DECEMBER 23, 1944, NOON
He marched alongside the rest of Higgins’s new squad, some of the names becoming familiar. They had moved through the town with a battalion of infantry from the Thirtieth Division, wary of German snipers, seeking out the townspeople, some still hiding in their own cellars. But immediately word began to spread that something terrible had happened at Stavelot, something no one expected. Shortly after their first great push, Stavelot had fallen into German hands. Some of the Belgians in the town had responded to the German occupation with resistance, foolishly taking potshots at the Germans from windows and rooftops. The German response had been sudden and devastating.
Reaching an open field, Benson saw jeeps parked in a cluster, men gathered, more jeeps coming up the road beside him. At the edge of the field, MPs had gathered, directing the men, and Benson saw Fornell talking to one, the man waving the platoon into the field. They moved in silence, curious, the men at the jeeps watching them come. Benson saw dark shapes in the snow, a long row, bodies.
An officer spoke aloud. “Get up here, boys. This is what your enemy does.”
Benson tried to see past Fornell, but the lieutenant stopped, seemed frozen in his tracks, said, “Dear God.”
The others moved up with Benson, and he stepped past the lieutenant, could see the bodies clearly, heard the single word, soft and low beside him.
“Children.”
The officer at the jeep said aloud, “One hundred thirty total. Half of them women and children. There’s goddamn babies. Babies!”
Benson saw the faces, gaping mouths, hollow eyes, some naked, several women in ripped dresses, old men, and then, the tiny shapes, dark blue skin, bald heads. Beside him a man dropped to his knees, threw up, another man doing the same behind him. Benson felt only numbness, the sickness staying away, and he stepped back away from the others, walked down toward the end of the corpses, more officers there, a man with a pad of paper, writing furiously, low talk from the others. Benson stopped, focused on the last body, an old man staring up, empty eyes, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. He looked at the old man’s body for a long moment, absorbed it all, his brain grabbing the sight of the bullet hole, the single word … execution. He looked down the long row, heard new sounds, more troops coming up the road, officers and MPs guiding them into the field. His own men were backing away, some still sick, the soft sound of tears, and Benson tried to take a breath, his chest cold and tight, his brain winding into a fist. He had never really understood why Mitchell hated the Germans. But he didn’t need Mitchell to explain anything. Not anymore.
Though the massacre of the Belgian civilians at Stavelot brought a new reality to many of the American soldiers, another horror was to come. A short few miles to the east, near the town of Malmédy, the advancing Americans made another discovery that revealed the vicious desperation of the enemy they were facing. On December 17, as the Americans had rapidly retreated before the advance of Dietrich’s Sixth Panzer Army, one group of Americans had been cut off and captured. Some 150 men of Battery B, 285th Artillery Regiment, were marched out into an open field, and without warning, their captors, men of the 1st SS Panzer Division, suddenly opened fire on them. Some of the Americans managed to flee into the woods, and others who had been wounded survived by pretending to be dead. At least eighty-six American prisoners were killed in what would ever after be known as the Malmédy Massacre. As word of it spread, the resolve of the GIs to crush those responsible was furiously magnified.
On December 16, the surprise of the German assault had engulfed most of the Americans who stood in the way. By Christmas Eve, with the skies clearing, the overwhelming air supremacy of the Allied forces began to make its own contribution, and the confusion and uncertainty within the American commands had sorted itself out. At the point of the attack, which pushed within two miles of the Meuse River, the once-unstoppable panzers were halted not just by the efforts of Bradley and Courtney Hodges, but by another enemy the Germans could never defeat. Hitler had promised his generals that this magnificent attack would be supported and supplied with every necessity, and in a few short days that promise had proven disastrously empty. As had happened at Stavelot, all across the front, on every road, and in every village where the fights were sharpest, the German advance was finally halted not just by Allied guns. It was halted because their tanks ran out of gas.
The Americans who recaptured Stavelot were content to hold their line at the Amblève River; the Germans dug in deeply on the far side, protected by thick woods and steep hills. By holding that line, the Americans had nailed down the German right flank and prevented the Germans from spreading their advance northward toward the vital city of Liège. Worse for the Germans, with Dietrich’s Sixth Panzer Army pressed southward, his troops and their armor were forced onto the same tangle of roadways desperately needed by Manteuffel’s Fifth. The chaotic loss of momentum and the failure to obey Hitler’s timetable had suddenly put the Germans on the defensive. In the south, Bastogne was still surrounded and under increasing pressure. But Patton’s forces had just begun their hard drive into the German left flank.
NORTH OF LUXEMBOURG CITY
DECEMBER 24, 1944
The jeep was moving slowly, blocked on the narrow roadway by a snaking convoy of infantry carriers. Patton forced himself to be patient, knew the drivers were taking these men into a hot fight. For now he had to be satisfied to push them from behind. This time.
&n
bsp; He did not expect the resistance the Germans had put up against his forces, strongholds and powerful counterattacks all along the German southern flank. His armor and infantry divisions had driven northward for nearly a hundred miles in what started out as a typical Patton sweep across open countryside, led by his magnificent tank commanders. The first surge had struck the Germans just as he expected, shoving them back across most of the line. Bastogne was well within reach, and he expected word to come quickly that the siege had been shattered, the beleaguered paratroopers rescued. But the Germans had held the line, shifted positions and regrouped, and all throughout the day had been counterattacking with far more power than Patton predicted. Bastogne was still engulfed by a stout ring of German armor and infantry, and Patton had ordered an airdrop of crucial supplies to the Americans trapped in the city, the only lifeline he could yet provide.
Patton knew that he was confronting the German Seventh Army, and he had been utterly delighted by that news. He knew the Seventh well, what had once been Rommel’s, those troops who had manned the fortifications along the beaches at Normandy. Some of their combat units were the most highly trained and respected in the German army, and yet, even with Rommel at the helm, they had failed to keep the Allied armies off the beaches, failed to prevent them from driving inland. The two-month campaign had resulted in a difficult victory for the Allies, and of course, that was a source of enormous pride throughout SHAEF. But Patton had pride of his own. In early August, ten weeks after D-Day, the remnants of the Seventh Army had failed to slow Patton down in his magnificent gallop through France, the breakout that put Patton’s name on the front page of every newspaper in the States. When he learned that the Seventh Army was the third prong of this German offensive, and the one closest to him, he was overjoyed. This fight would surely go more smoothly than the last, since the Allies knew that, by now, the Seventh was only a shell of what it had once been, that the Normandy campaign had decimated even the finest of those combat units. It was common knowledge that the German army’s manpower was growing weaker, old men and teenagers, poorly trained home troops. Patton had predicted a deterioration in the enemy that went even further—that what Hitler sent into the field now were the worst dregs the Germans could scrape from their factories and labor camps or, worse, battered refugees from the Eastern Front, men who had simply been used up. And yet for two days now, Patton’s forces had been stymied, had not liberated Bastogne with ease, had not bottled up the German infantry in one grand sweeping wave. As he stood tall in his jeep, jostled by chewed-up roads and the slow progress of the trucks in front of him, the frustration dug deep. It figures, he thought. If we’d have blown the German flank to bits, the rest of SHAEF would have had no choice but to let me keep going, maybe drive straight across, all the way to St. Vith or Malmédy, nailing the lid on the entire damn force. We could have swallowed up two panzer armies and the Seventh. There’s a prize, a big damn feather in my helmet that would shut every damn one of them up, every moron who has ever said something witty about all my failings, my stupid mistakes. I’m so damn sick of hearing that. I have to give Ike credit, he’s kept a lid on it. Well, maybe a leaking lid. But by God, there’s nothing stupid about total victory.