He continued to stand in the rear of the jeep, steadied himself against the seat in front of him. His impatience was growing, the progress of the troop convoy far too slow. They were men of the Eightieth Division, reserves moving up to share part of the load of their own units who had gone in before them. Some moron is up there trying to dodge potholes, he thought, or maybe some idiot MP directing traffic by reading a manual. No reason at all we should be moving this slow.
He heard something from Codman, beside him, his staff officer speaking into a radio.
“Well, dammit, bring up the rest of them! Or would you prefer the general lead them himself?”
Patton held back the smile. As one of Patton’s senior aides, Charles Codman had the authority to blister anyone’s bottom, and he had finally seemed to step into the task. Codman was usually a soft-spoken man, utterly efficient, had been with Patton since the early days in North Africa. Patton enjoyed hearing the man’s anger, knew that he had learned well from the master. Codman signed off the radio, started to speak, and Patton held up his hand, didn’t want to hear it, not now. He knew what was happening, knew that too many of the field commanders expected a casual waltz through the German lines.
After a silent moment, he said, “They were too slow to put in their strength. Uncoordinated attacks. But not anymore. Enough of this pussyfooting. Some reporter told me that there’s a Hollywood producer back in Paris already planning to make a movie about the One Oh First in Bastogne. Martyrs. That’s the word the jackass used. I ordered that reporter the hell out of my camp. If I could find that Hollywood idiot, I’d throw him in the English Channel. These jerks are come over here assuming we’re going to fail. But I’ll be damned if anyone is going to be sacrificed in front of my command. Those civilians expect miracles every time we hit the enemy, and now they’re giving me hell for not delivering one at Bastogne.”
Codman laughed, surprising him. “Sorry, sir, but you’ve spoiled them. And you did expect something of a miracle here yourself.”
Very few of Patton’s staff could make that kind of observation out loud, and he looked down at Codman, rolled the cigar around in his mouth.
“You’re right. Keep your mouth shut about it. We get back to HQ, I want those reporters sealed up in a room. Maybe a big wooden box. No airholes.”
He stared ahead, still standing, the jeep lurching slowly behind the covered truck in front. The cigar had gone out, the bitter taste lingering, and he spat it out in the snow, thought, at least we’re fighting this time. I didn’t have to beg Brad to take my handcuffs off. Patton couldn’t help thinking of the name, so perfectly etched in his brain, what were now just words on a map no one wanted to talk about. The Argentan–Falaise gap. It had been the German Seventh Army’s last stand in France, and instead of annihilation, a sizable percentage of those who were able to escape did exactly that. The eighteen-mile gap between the two French towns had been left wide open, and on one side, Patton had been held fast by orders from Bradley that infuriated him still. As the Germans slipped past, they had endured unspeakable slaughter at the hands of pursuing American artillery and Allied airpower, but still, they did slip past. That was a thorn buried deep into Patton’s gut. His army had been there, a great bulldog held on a chain, surging forward, teeth bared, prepared to seal the gap from the southern side. The argument with Bradley had been sharp, but Bradley would not yield, and Patton knew that Bradley’s inflexibility had come from Eisenhower. Bradley is a better commander than that, he thought, would have seen the opportunity that I held in my damn hands. But across the gap on the north side sat Montgomery, and the British commander could not be swayed, was not prepared to move his troops quickly enough to seal off the Germans in a pocket that would have destroyed the Seventh Army forever. In his long career of frustrations, that was the frustration Patton hated the worst, standing idly by while a desperately beaten enemy simply ran away, through an opening that Patton could have shut down tight, an opening that Montgomery should have closed. The orders from Bradley stated it plainly: If Patton advanced, he would be intruding, trespassing into Montgomery’s territory, the precious boundary drawn by some logistics officer that could not be violated lest Montgomery’s feelings be hurt. It gave Patton a sour taste in his mouth every time he thought of it, every time he thought of Montgomery at all.
He was thinking a great deal about Montgomery these days, knew that there had been an ongoing battle of wills at SHAEF. For months after the successes of the summer, Montgomery had lobbied hard to be granted command once again over all Allied ground forces. Montgomery had strongly suggested that the campaigns waged through the autumn had been, in his words, a failure, and that the failure should be placed squarely at the feet of the supreme commander. Naturally, in Montgomery’s mind, the only one to rescue the collapsing Allied initiatives was Montgomery himself. Though Eisenhower had often flirted with the idea of replacing Montgomery altogether, in effect, firing him, strong political currents in England made him virtually irreplaceable. Patton knew that Eisenhower’s decision was his alone, a point made to Eisenhower by Winston Churchill, who seemed to despise Montgomery as well. But Churchill could not control the morale of the British troops, and Eisenhower knew that Monty was their man. To Patton’s intense annoyance, Eisenhower had stuck with Monty. But the latest attempt by Montgomery to reclaim the command he had lost after Normandy was making him no friends at SHAEF. Montgomery continued to insist that the only way to end the war would be his own punch directly across the Rhine River, and the Americans would simply be his support. Beyond politics, there were other major flaws to the plan that seemed obvious to everyone but Montgomery. To cross into the lower Rhine Valley meant first crossing the Roer River, which was blocked by several dams, still tightly in German hands. If the Germans opened the dams, the entire valley southward would be a flood zone, and not even the best Allied engineers had the means to force a crossing through what would become vast swampy lakes. Logistically, capturing the dams would be intensely difficult, requiring a decisive well-timed assault on a broad scale. The attack would also require flexibility and audacity. Though Montgomery was a master of the well-organized set-piece battle, audacity was not a description that fit him at all. Any rapid thrust toward Berlin required the kind of all-out bravado of a man like Patton, a comparison Montgomery would never have swallowed.
Montgomery’s annoying insistence that he be placed in overall command had continued, the man seeming to be oblivious to the reality that the number of American troops in the field was now vastly larger than the British, a trend that would only continue. It was the simplest rationale Eisenhower had for denying Montgomery’s absurd lobbying, and no one but the British newspapers was giving Eisenhower much grief about it. But then, with the Germans so successful at driving a wedge into the middle of the American First Army, Eisenhower had been forced to hand Montgomery an enormous gift.
Soon after Patton returned to his own headquarters, there had been a call from Bedell Smith, Eisenhower’s chief of staff, seeming to prepare Patton for a piece of bad news. With the American forces spread so widely apart, Hodges and his primary ground commanders were almost all up on the northern side of the bulge. As well, Bill Simpson’s Ninth Army, deployed around Aachen, was physically cut off from Bradley’s command. Some phone lines were intact, at least for now, but any face-to-face meeting between Bradley and his generals there was a logistical impossibility. As a result, Eisenhower had ordered that Simpson and Hodges be placed under Montgomery’s command for as long as it took to drive the Germans back. The pill had been enormous, and Patton had still not swallowed it. Patton’s command was left more or less intact, the one part of the army Bradley still controlled. But Patton knew Omar Bradley well enough to know that, sure, Bradley would obey Eisenhower’s order, but it would be a mighty blow to Bradley’s pride. Bedell Smith’s explanation had been cool and logical: Because Montgomery was rapidly spreading a strong British defense behind the Meuse River, it made sense that he should also con
trol the movements and deployment of the increasingly organized Americans who were much closer to him than they were to Bradley. Patton thought of Bradley now. Yeah, I’ll bet he enjoyed like hell hearing chirpy little Beetle Smith telling him he was losing half his troops. Or maybe Ike told him. Would have been the decent thing to do. I’ve seen Brad screw up once in a while, but he can run this show better than Montgomery, no matter what Ike or anyone else says. I’d love for Brad to tell me what he said back to Beetle, but he won’t say a word against Ike. Not that kind of man. That’s a good thing, I guess. They already know how I feel about Monty. He wants to run the whole damn show, win this war by himself, have his one-man parade through England, get his knighthood, or princehood, or whatever the hell the British do. He’s a clever son of a bitch, and if Ike isn’t careful, Monty will grab every piece of this war for himself.
Patton’s impatience with the trucks in front of him was starting to boil over, fueled by his thoughts of Montgomery.
“Let’s go! Get your asses in high gear!”
The shouts attracted the attention of the men in the truck in front of him, men who had already taken their photographs, who had cheered him joyfully. They cheered him again, but he wasn’t in the mood for smiles, shouted down to his driver, the ever-patient Sergeant Mims.
“John, I’ve had enough of this traffic jam. Find some damn command post close by. I need to scream at some people. Doesn’t matter who.”
EIGHTIETH DIVISION FORWARD COMMAND POST,
NEAR DIEKIRCH, LUXEMBOURG
DECEMBER 24, 1944
“Where is General McBride?”
The lieutenant seemed to quake, staring at Patton with eyes that had never seen the enemy.
“Sir! Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Good God, son, just tell me where he is.”
“General McBride is forward, sir. He was angry … if I can say that, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest the general has a temper—”
“Oh, shut up, Lieutenant. Forward is good. It means he’s kicking someone in the ass. If you’d have told me he was in Paris, I’d have to shoot him. Maybe you too. Who’s in command here? It’s sure as hell not you.”
The young man pointed sheepishly to a closed door, said, “Major Hickey is the ranking officer present, sir. He requested not to be disturbed.”
Patton looked at the closed door, his brain painting large fat letters across it, Kick here. He moved past the lieutenant, who backed away, clearing a wide path. Patton scanned the edges of the door, flimsy, glanced around, the entire house showing its age, run-down, unpainted walls. I gotta hand it to McBride, he thought. He isn’t going to put his people up in anybody’s mansion. Good. Patton put a hand on the door, tested, and the door opened under the weight of his hand, unlocked. He was mildly disappointed, allowed the door to open completely, saw the back of the major’s head perched above a wooden chair, a telephone planted against his ear.
“Forty-eight. Oh hell, make it fifty.”
“Fifty what?”
The man turned in his chair, clearly annoyed, saw Patton now, the phone tumbling out of his hand, and he stood with a clatter, said, “Uh … cows, sir. Cattle.”
Patton rested his hands on his two pistols, stared at the man, the major glancing down at the phone dangling toward the floor, and Patton said, “Doing a little rustling, are we?”
“Sir … greetings. We didn’t expect you. Uh … rustling. Oh, no, sir. Well, yes, sir, I suppose you could say that. Supply made a deal with a local farmer for some beef. The men have been eating … well, crap, sir. K rations for days now. I thought we should give them something better.”
Patton imagined the scene, a herd of cattle marching into a regimental supply depot.
“General McBride know about this?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“He’ll approve. Knows how to take care of his men.” Patton paused. “This sort of thing used to happen in the Civil War, you know. Union boys were chomping away on a bunch of steaks when Stonewall Jackson attacked them at Chancellorsville. Catastrophe for the Federals. Just make sure there’s no German Stonewall out there, watching your boys stuff themselves.”
“Most definitely, sir.”
“McBride’s up front?”
“Yes, sir. Left here about two hours ago. General Summers is back at division HQ. I can get him on the phone for you, sir. The supply traffic is a real bear, and I’m not sure when General McBride will return.”
“No, I don’t need to talk to his assistant, and yeah, I know about the damn traffic. McBride’s a good man. Feisty little son of a bitch. I like that. He give you any indication what he’s expecting to do up there?”
“Yes, sir. He has been frustrated with our lack of progress. I believe he intends to relieve at least one regimental commander.”
Patton felt immensely satisfied by that response.
“Yep. Feisty.” He turned, walked out of the office, stopped just beyond the door, looked back toward the major, who stood stiffly, unmoving. His tie was perfect, his hat in place, and Patton thought, McBride’s taught you well. He looked down toward the phone, which dangled loosely, a slow twist in the wire.
“Your man’s probably still there. You can talk to him now. You make damn sure those steaks find their way forward. Don’t need to fatten up the rear echelon. You got that, Major?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Patton moved through the dark living room of the house, saw several aides standing at sharp attention, men emerging from other rooms, staring at Patton, some saluting. He threw a glance at the terrified lieutenant, who stood at attention against a far wall, blocking a map of the area. Patton thought of examining the map, but the lieutenant was transfixed, immobile. Not worth the bother, he thought. One more word from me, and that kid might piss his pants. Jesus, where do we get these idiots?
“Get your people back to work. There’s a war going on, for God’s sake.”
He stepped outside, cold blue sky, felt a stiff chilling breeze, saw the men staring up, toward the drone of distant engines. He saw them now, a vast fleet of B-17s, the formation spreading out, moving into their bombing runs.
“I’ll be damned. The air boys came through.”
Codman was beside the jeep, said, “Yes, sir, appears they did. There was another flock earlier, medium bombers. They look to be going in just north of Diekirch.”
“How far?”
“The town is three miles or so. The enemy position now lies just beyond, according to General Gay.”
“You talked to Hap?”
“Yes, sir. Had him on the radio just now. He says reports are coming in pretty regularly that our boys are starting to break through some of the logjams. The Fourth Armor is on the move again, closing the gap toward Bastogne. We finally got some confirmation that they’re up against some of the Panzer Lehr Division.”
Patton watched the bombers, the formations spreading out, obviously heading for a variety of targets. The flak was rising up now, flecks of black smoke dotting the skies around them.
Patton focused on Codman. “I knew Panzer Lehr was there. Had to be. Maybe the best tank division in the German army. Some of the SS might be tougher, but I always wanted to go face-to-face with those fellows. Good. Make sure Gaffey gets all the air support he needs. Bombers will play hell with Tiger tanks.”
“Already on it, sir.”
There was a dull thump high above, and Patton saw it now, a cloud of thick black smoke.
Codman said, “Oh dear God. They hit a B-17.”
The plane seemed to float its way to the ground, pieces separating, one wing spinning, slow-motion descent, a trail of fire. Patton felt oddly impressed, thought, hell of a good shot for some Kraut gunner, maybe an eighty-eight. Hope they dropped their bombs. Unlucky bastards.
“Look! There, sir. Parachutes.”
Codman had binoculars, was staring high above the falling wreckage, the plane coming down in a trail of black smoke beyond a far ridge of trees.
“How ma
ny?”
“I count five. Six. There could be more. Thank God.”
Patton moved to the jeep, climbed aboard, stood tall in the back, said, “Good. Can’t afford to lose those crews. Planes we can replace. But we need those boys back in the air.”
All across Patton’s front lines, the pressure on the Germans began to take its toll. Despite the effectiveness of German counterattacks, the combination of airpower and added American strength on the ground finally wore down their resistance. Village after village fell to the American advance, German commanders responding the only way they could to preserve any fighting strength at all. They began to withdraw.