Patton’s Fourth Armored Division, commanded by his former chief of staff Hugh Gaffey, was still struggling to force a breakthrough into Bastogne. Though only a few miles from the perimeter of the town, Gaffey’s tanks continued to meet heavy resistance, and sharp tank battles erupted throughout the farms, villages, and patches of thick woodlands. To the east of Bastogne, nearer the base of the bulge, Patton kept up the relentless pressure. Increasing numbers of American units, the Fourth, Fifth, Twenty-sixth, and Eightieth divisions, were all gaining momentum. Throughout Christmas Day, the Americans pressed on, the Germans conceding ground. Patton knew, with complete certainty, it was only a matter of time.
BRADLEY’S HEADQUARTERS, LUXEMBOURG CITY CHRISTMAS NIGHT, 1944
“I’m truly sorry, Brad. This must be giving you ulcers. You know I’m behind you on this.”
“Knock it off, George. Don’t bait me. The damn reporters keep trying that stuff, like if they push me hard enough, I’ll explode and give them a nice fat story. The fact is, Ike did what he had to do, and for now, it’s the best way to handle it. Monty’s got his people fully prepared in case the German breaks through our guys. It’s essential that Monty get direct reports of what’s going on with the commands in front of him. And besides, it’s only temporary. Beetle assured me of that.”
Patton felt an explosion of his own, fought to keep the words from igniting the entire headquarters.
“Beetle assures you it’s only temporary? How … can you take that, Brad?”
“I take it because it’s the way it is. You surprise me, George, and that’s not easy for you to do. You think Beetle is secretly plotting with Monty to stage a coup? You think the Brits are trying to toss Ike out the window and put Monty in command? Face facts, dammit. Of course I didn’t like giving up that much of my command. I wouldn’t be human if I felt otherwise. But it has to be this way. This war’s a long way from over, and the Brits are in this thing right beside us. We’re allies, George.”
Bradley crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair, waited while the orderlies carried away the dinner plates. Bradley held his words, Patton knowing he wouldn’t say anything indiscreet in front of aides. The table was cleared quickly, and Patton put a hand on his full stomach, the turkey dinner an unusual treat.
“Nice meal, Brad. Thank you. Glad to hear the men got a fair share of this too.”
Bradley seemed to welcome the change of subject, his mood lightening. “Yep. I don’t know how many exactly, but supply did a whale of a job putting turkey sandwiches into as many hands as we could. Not much of a Christmas gift, but it’s the best we could do. You know, there’s a Christmas tree in the staff quarters, and it made me think of something. In the First World War, somewhere on the Western Front, probably right around here … both sides stopped fighting to celebrate Christmas. The Germans put Christmas trees on top of their trench works, held up signs saying Merry Christmas or something close to that. The officers couldn’t approve any kind of truce, of course, so they just looked the other way, both sides. The damn soldiers went out into no-man’s-land and actually made something of it, some kind of celebration of the holiday. I heard soccer games were played. Damnedest thing. It only happened once, 1914. The war got a little nastier after that. Hasn’t happened at all this time, far as I know. Not anywhere.”
The orderlies returned, poured cups of coffee for both men, and Patton could feel a softness in Bradley he rarely saw. Patton touched the coffee cup, said, “Hitler’s changed the rules. That kind of war is for old movies and romance books. Can’t say I’d have turned my back on any of that, though. It’s still fraternization. The enemy’s the enemy. I wouldn’t trust the Germans not to pull some crap, open up with machine guns, soccer game or not.”
Bradley nodded, sipped the coffee.
“You might be right. But it occurred to me how many times there have been wars in this part of the world. I mean … right out there. Thousands of years, probably cavemen beating hell out of each other with clubs right on this same piece of land. In 1918 … hell, I remember the optimism. Everybody thought it would be the last time.”
“I never thought that. I don’t think it now. I know it’s Christmas, Brad, but you can keep all that peace on earth stuff. It’s never going to be that way, not in our lifetimes, not in our children’s. My job is to make sure that when it does happen again, there are a lot fewer Germans around to start it. Right now, right this minute, my boys are killing the enemy. Right now. Christmas.”
“Doesn’t bother you? Not even a little?”
Patton sipped from the cup, Bradley’s coffee always bitter.
“Nope. The more we kill on Christmas, the less we have to kill the day after.”
Bradley stood, stretched his back, walked around the table, stood facing a curtained window, peered out through the narrow opening.
“No snow tonight. Hope like hell it stays this way.” He turned toward Patton, seemed to realize he was still in front of the window, stepped to one side. “The staff raises hell with me about security. German spies, assassination squads still rumored to be around. Can’t take a drive without armored cars. Same with Ike. Especially Ike.”
Patton couldn’t resist. “Any word on assassination squads up Monty’s way?”
Bradley laughed, surprising him. “Funny you say that. You heard about Monty’s car getting stopped at a checkpoint? Somewhere in the Eighty-second’s sector, I think. Some hotshot MP noncom holds him up, asks all those questions the guys are asking … baseball, state capitals, all of that. Monty and his driver had no clue what the MPs were talking about, and … well, you know Monty. He ordered his driver to ignore all that and move on. Damn if the MPs didn’t shoot out his tires. Ike told me about it. I laughed for half an hour.” Bradley feigned seriousness now. “Our boys can be a little touchy when it comes to baseball.”
“Or Brits.”
Bradley shook his head. “That’s always the thing with you, right, George? If Ike had split up my command and handed it to an American, Devers maybe, or God knows who … you wouldn’t have said a word.”
“Doubt that.”
Patton drank the coffee, knew that Bradley was right. He was feeling restless, the coffee fueling another itch of impatience.
“When is Monty going to put his people on the offensive? You know damn well that my boys are getting the job done, and we’ll keep getting it done. If Monty would attack from the north, the Krauts would be nailed tight. It could end the damn war.”
Bradley returned to the chair, tested the coffee, pushed it away. His mood had darkened, and he hesitated, then said, “I’m not going to have a shouting match with you, George, and this could cause one. A big one. You don’t need to know about every damn conversation I have with Ike. But fine, I’ll tell you. I’ve been bitching like hell about this, and Ike’s been bitching at Monty. You know what Monty’s like. He’s saying that he needs to tighten his lines, to tidy up his defenses along the Meuse. He doesn’t think he can make a decisive move for …” Bradley took a deep breath. “Three months.”
Patton coughed, slapped his hands on the table. Bradley pointed a sharp finger at him.
“I told you … no shouting matches. You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know, and you can’t bitch to Ike any more than I have already. Monty is doing us a world of good by backing up our boys along that river. Just by being there, he might have kept Hodges from retreating too far, and we might still need British guns to keep the other fellow from crossing over.”
Patton was dumbfounded, a fog of fury in his brain. He held on to his temper, slow words.
“Brad. The Krauts aren’t going to make it to the river. We’re putting so much pressure on them right now, they don’t dare stretch out their lines that far. If Monty was to hit them … with our boys … your boys, for God’s sake … hit them at Malmédy, or even farther east, we could cut off the whole damn Kraut position. We could slice this whole bulge right off, like cutting off a wart!”
Bradley
stared down, said slowly, “Monty says that he is concerned that the other fellow is going to hit us hard in the north again, try to break through toward Liège. He also believes the enemy is regrouping for a new push westward. He expects the panzers will make a major push across the Meuse within forty-eight hours.”
“And I expect Santa Claus to drop a grenade into Hitler’s crapper!”
Patton rose up, impossible to sit, paced the room. The words were a hot jumble in his brain, and he stared at Bradley, saw forced calm, Bradley not looking at him.
“It’s a good thing you’re my superior officer, Brad. A damn good thing. If this was my show, there’d be hell to pay right now in Monty’s HQ! Ike or no Ike. This is the stupidest damn—”
“Sit down!”
Bradley’s sharpness was a surprise, Patton caught off guard, his anger tempered by a hard glare from Bradley.
“You’re right, George. It’s a good thing you’re my subordinate. You have one job right now, and you’re doing it, and doing it well. Breaking Monty’s nose wouldn’t do anybody any good at all. Certainly not Ike, and certainly not those boys out there whose Christmas dinner was a stinking turkey sandwich!”
“Monty’s dead wrong, Brad.”
“You think so? Then prove it. Kick the other fellow hard in the ass, and keep kicking him until von Rundstedt pulls his people back into Germany. Capture and kill as many of the enemy as you can. And get your people into Bastogne!”
BASTOGNE, BELGIUM
DECEMBER 26, 1944
The breakthrough came late in the afternoon. Three tanks from Hugh Gaffey’s Fourth Armored Division pushed through a gap in the German position and rolled into Bastogne, met by a desperately grateful Anthony McAuliffe. Though the Germans could have resealed the gap, the pressure from American armor continued, aided by a massive fist of airpower, hundreds of sorties flown by P-47s and light bombers. With the flow of tanks came trucks, ammunition, and supplies for the desperate men of the 101st Airborne, and the tank crews from the 9th and 10th Armored Divisions who had stood beside them. By nightfall on the day after Christmas, Bastogne had been relieved and was firmly engulfed within Patton’s front lines.
ZIEGENBERG, NEAR BAD NAUHEIM, GERMANY
DECEMBER 26, 1944
He led them past the huge pines that flanked one side of his headquarters, a natural camouflage against any Allied fighters. But there had been no raids, the anti-aircraft gunners usually occupying their time with card games, hidden low in their bunkers so the officers would not see. Beyond the small town, more guns had been placed, field artillery, protection against a ground assault that of course had not come. It was the work of an efficient staff officer, his aides protective of him still. He enjoyed having the artillery close by, though as yet no gun had been fired. He took the time to walk among the artillery, as though it mattered, inspecting the men whose crisp salutes always greeted him. It had been a very long time since anyone in Berlin had saluted him at all.
It was frigidly cold, the snow a hard blanket cut by pathways. Von Rundstedt allowed Guderian to lead the way, a three-man parade, cloaked in heavy coats. The staffs had stayed behind, typical when a man of Guderian’s authority had come to visit. They had come to accept that these kinds of briefings were rife with high-level details, meetings that Berlin must have thought were important. Von Rundstedt allowed the game to play out, knew it was part of the job, what little job he could actually perform. At least, visitors gave him something to do.
It was typical of Guderian to lead the way, though von Rundstedt outranked him by far. It was just his way, a display of arrogance that Guderian had earned. Von Rundstedt had to respect the man, even if he didn’t particularly like his brusque manner.
Heinz Guderian could legitimately take credit for the army’s development of the panzer divisions as a primary tool, and the army’s reliance on that kind of power had given Germany most of its successes. Even before the war began, Guderian had championed the necessity of a superior armored force that could drive swiftly and mightily through the enemy’s lines of defense. The tactic had worked in Poland, had worked in France, and for a while had worked in Russia. But Guderian had none of the soft touch of the men who wished to stay close to Hitler, and though the Führer maintained a grudging respect for what Guderian had accomplished, on two occasions, after some angry disagreement between the panzer commander and his Führer, Guderian had been relieved of his command. In July, after the botched assassination attempt on Hitler’s life, Guderian had seemed to sense opportunity and rose up to become one of the principal prosecutors of the conspirators, a brutal show of perfect loyalty that Hitler was certain to appreciate. Though Guderian no longer led tanks into battle, his ongoing loyalty had landed him in the post of the chief of the General Staff, a title that seemed to conflict with the authority of both Alfred Jodl and Wilhelm Keitel. It was one more method Hitler used to shape the theatrics that engulfed the men around him, overlapping authority, keeping his subordinates at odds with one another. It was Hitler’s way of exercising perfect control, since every major conflict would have to be addressed by the Führer himself.
Von Rundstedt knew that Guderian was not the simpering toady that Keitel was, that Guderian used his position to go out into the field, to visit frontline positions, to see the tactical situations for himself. Von Rundstedt suspected that those trips had one more purpose as well: to allow Guderian to escape the backstabbing intrigue floating around Hitler’s inner circle. And so today he had come to von Rundstedt, to find out just what had happened to wreck the Führer’s brilliant plan.
The third man in the procession had been a surprise visitor, a rare civilian, Albert Speer. Von Rundstedt had not spent much time at all with Speer, the man who seemed closer to Hitler than anyone in the High Command. That Speer was on such intimate terms with the Führer had inspired mistrust toward him from the soldiers in Hitler’s circle, but Speer’s greatest enemy was Martin Bormann, the man who claimed the official title as assistant Führer, allegedly Hitler’s second in command. That title impressed no one but Bormann, and von Rundstedt knew that Speer’s rise in influence must have been at Bormann’s expense, which could only breed trouble for both men. It was one more reason von Rundstedt despised going to Berlin.
Speer was a tall, handsome man who had been a part of Hitler’s regime since 1933, something of a wunderkind to find such a special place in Hitler’s circle of social intimates. Speer, an architect by training, had endeared himself to Hitler by providing the plans and scale models for Hitler’s dream of a complete renovation and reshaping of Berlin. He had offered plans for stadiums and palatial structures in other cities as well, to accommodate the Führer’s grand ambitions for the future of Germany. Hitler’s dream of a Thousand Year Reich included the construction of massive monuments that would suit that kind of legacy. Over the years, Speer had designed those monuments, enormously oversized structures that would eventually transform Berlin into a showplace of pure might. Speer’s designs were not especially creative, and his architectural skills had been criticized by noted architects in other countries, who dismissed his work as rigid and unimaginative. But he had styled his architecture to the eye of his master, and the hulking blocky structures were far more impressive for their sheer size and grandiosity than for any tribute to Renaissance artistry. Hitler clearly saw himself as a Renaissance of his own. In the quiet times at headquarters, it was the scale models of the various structures that captured Hitler’s attention. With military matters tossed aside, the Führer would spend hours among the models like a small boy obsessed with his toys, the toys that, one day, Speer would actually build.
Over the past year, Speer’s responsibilities had changed somewhat, the architect now charged with the task of designing and expediting the production facilities necessary for Germany’s prosecution of the war. He had become the authority over armaments manufacture, labor, and factories, which put him at odds with men like Gestapo chief Heinrich Himmler, who saw labor as something to
be squeezed out of the slaves toiling to starvation in the camps. Speer considered that an enormously inefficient waste of manpower, believing that laborers, no matter their ethnicity or level of freedom, should be fed and housed and given the strength and training to make them far more productive. The SS camps were, to Speer, perfect examples of military inefficiency. Men worked slavishly until they died, and so were replaced by more men, who did the same. It was maddening to Speer’s organized mind that Himmler saw no value in teaching the laborers special skills, training them to manage the work of others, or building a hierarchy that, even in the camps, could increase the output and efficiency of the labor being performed. So far, Himmler’s ways had prevailed, but Speer’s power had grown, and his grasp of organization and the efficiency he brought to German factories and production lines had produced results Hitler gleefully appreciated. Von Rundstedt knew that Speer was walking something of a tightrope, that Hitler’s favorite boy might suddenly find himself the target of someone’s plot, the sort of intrigue that seemed to swirl around Hitler every day. The political paranoia was the primary reason von Rundstedt would never have accepted any position where he had to sit at Hitler’s right hand. The left hand could always be holding a knife.
Von Rundstedt had no special feelings about Speer one way or the other, but if Speer had accompanied Guderian, there had to be a reason. Von Rundstedt had to assume that anything he said would be carried back to Hitler word for word.
Guderian led them to a large concrete bunker, a pyramid without a top, the snout of the eighty-eight protruding skyward. The gun’s crew emerged quickly, stood in a neat line, snapped their salutes.
Guderian seemed to enjoy the show. “You may return to your post. If I was not so loyal to my tank crews, I would enjoy commanding you. The eighty-eight is a marvel of engineering, the most feared weapon in the artillery’s arsenal. But you know that, don’t you?”