No Less Than Victory
Higgins kept them moving on the edge of the wooded trail, Benson and Mitchell close behind him, what had become their usual place, the others strung out in single file. Farther out in the woods, another squad had the unenviable task of slogging through the trees, their sole advantage a lack of concern for mines in the road. The lieutenant who sent them out had seemed to melt away behind them, and Benson had been surprised at that. He didn’t know the man well, but the face and name were familiar, the officer heading up another of the platoons that had survived the various fights in the Ardennes. The first joke had come from Mitchell, that the lieutenant was another of those delegate and disappear officers. But Benson had sensed a strange jitteriness in the man, what must have been the effects of too many days on the line. It happened often to the junior officers, the men who led their patrols and squads straight into the enemy. The survivors of that duty were fewer in each campaign, and Benson had wondered about the guilt of that. But this lieutenant had seemed less like a man carrying guilt than a man about to come unglued. The orders for the patrol had come at Higgins’s squad in a spray of chatter that sounded far more like the words of a frightened newcomer than a man who could claim to be seasoned. It was no wonder he stayed behind, Benson thought. If he was here, up front, he might suddenly go nuts. It could get us all killed. I’d just as soon follow the sarge.
Higgins was more somber than usual, glanced back frequently, keeping the men spaced apart, less vulnerable to a sudden burst of machine gun or a mortar shell. Benson felt the wetness in his boots again, the mud several inches deep, the squad easing alongside the roadway in a parade of low cursing. Past Higgins, he saw a clearing up ahead, the trail seeming to end at the hill’s long crest. Higgins stopped them, seemed strangely unconcerned.
The men gathered closer, and Higgins said, “That jackass lieutenant told us to check out this hilltop, that Kraut infiltrators could be setting up artillery positions. That’s stupid as hell. The Krauts hauled their last cannon out of here by oxcart days ago. But we’ve got to report back on what we found. Spread out along this tree line, and if you can find a dry place to sit, park your ass where you can see across. Any Krauts show up, raise hell. We’ll kill an hour or so up here, and we can tell that damn lieutenant we did the job. Where is that jackass, anyway?”
Mitchell said, “He stayed behind, didn’t say why.”
“Yeah, well, we know why. The word got passed along to all the officers about Williamson, and none of these field officers want to be the next one to eat it. They’ve lost too many of their buddies to take any risks. So they give that job to us.”
Benson thought of the logic of that and shrugged. “I suppose they’re right, Sarge. Seems like we always lose a lieutenant first—”
The bullet cracked past his ear, and Benson froze for an instant, the others reacting by scattering out, dropping low.
“What the hell … ?”
“Get down!”
Mitchell pulled him hard, Benson falling forward, his rifle jammed under him, punching his ribs. Beside him, a man rose up, firing the M-1, a steady rhythm, emptying the clip. The man quickly reloaded.
Higgins shouted, “What the hell are you shooting at? You see anything?”
Benson saw the wide-eyed stare of the new man, the replacement, searching the field in pure panic.
“Krauts, Sarge!”
The man fired again, eight quick shots, another clip, and Higgins crawled toward him, yanked at the rifle, yelled into the man’s face. “Knock it off! You’re not even aiming!”
Higgins was red-faced, moved back toward Benson, growling, “Idiots send us these repple-depple rejects.” He reached Benson now, said, “Could you tell the direction, which way it came?”
Benson was struggling to breathe, rolled over, then rose up slightly, a quick glance across the open ground. He saw a cluster of low brush, a skirt of cover along the far trees a hundred yards away. He pointed that way. “Maybe there. The brush.”
Mitchell peered up, said, “Yeah, maybe so. Those short trees. Good cover.”
Higgins said aloud, “All of you, when I give the word, lay down some fire on that brush line! Aim low. If that’s where they are, they’re lying down!” He looked at Benson now, said, “You don’t shoot. Ease over to that tree, get a good vantage point. When we open up, you watch that brush, see if anything moves, any smoke, anything. You got that?”
“Yeah, Sarge.”
Benson fought the pain in his ribs, crawled low toward the trees, the closest one a fat pine. He slipped behind it, sat up, thought, I sure as hell hope that’s where it came from. If it’s a sniper back here in this timber … I’m a sitting duck. Higgins was waiting for him to get into position, and Benson took a deep breath, nodded, timed his movements for Higgins’s command.
“Fire!”
Benson rolled around, stared out past the tree, the chorus of rifle fire slicing through the brush, thin branches cut, the brush shuddering from the impact. He stared, searched, and now the cry came, the man rolling out, a stumbling crawl, one hand in the air.
Higgins shouted, “Nobody moves! We hit one of them. But they could be setting us up.”
Benson watched the German crawling toward them, no weapon, another sharp cry, but Benson stared past, kept his gaze on the brush line. He heard voices behind him, men coming up through the trees, the sergeant from the other squad, responding to the firing. Higgins explained, and the sergeant pulled his men up closer, spread them along the tree line, added power to deal with whatever enemy might be across the field. Benson kept his stare to the front, the German still crawling toward them, and there was a single shot, the man suddenly collapsing, lying flat. Benson turned, saw Mitchell aiming, smoke from the rifle barrel. He felt a shock, wanted to say something, the sergeant speaking first.
“What the hell was that for? He was giving up!”
Mitchell lowered the rifle, no expression, and Benson saw the man’s dark quiet eyes. “Don’t think so. I thought I saw a grenade.”
Higgins said nothing, looked toward Benson. “Anything?”
Benson searched for movement again, any sign of something besides brush. Suddenly a hand appeared, waving, another, shouts, and now, the pop of a rifle, the bullet cracking past Benson’s tree.
Higgins shouted, “Dammit! Give it to ’em again!”
The men responded, more now, supporting fire. Benson watched the brush, saw one man roll out into the open, another.
Higgins called out, “Cease fire! Enough of this crap. Sergeant, can you move some of your men to the left, that low ground, come up behind them? God knows how many there are. Watch it. They could be on the move.”
“Got it.”
The other squad leader was gone quickly, some of the soldiers in the woods shifting that way. Higgins said, “There can’t be too many of ’em. Gotta be a scattered bunch, cut off, hiding out, trying to get the hell out of here. That looked like somebody was giving up, and somebody still wanted to fight. Let’s not give them time to argue it out.”
“It’ll be a short argument,” Mitchell said.
Benson saw the sergeant looking at Mitchell, no response, and now there were shouts, out in front, commotion at the brush line. Benson saw the other GIs, one man waving them forward.
Higgins was up quickly. “Let’s go! Party’s over.”
They scampered across the open ground, and Benson saw two men, hands in the air, and then, two more, smaller, younger. The faces showed terror, an M-1 pointed at each man’s head, the four paraded out into the open. The two adults had uniforms, the boys in ragged civilian clothes, and Benson saw the faces, focused on the young, felt a sudden jolt of recognition.
Mitchell had seen as well. “Well, look what we got here. It’s an old friend of ours, Sarge.”
It was the boy from the farmhouse, the boy with the hidden grenade. Behind them, the other sergeant was shouldering his rifle. “I wouldn’t call them much of a threat. Only two weapons in the lot of ’em. These two are just kids.”
Higgins said, “Search them carefully. Start with this little bastard. We’ve met him before.”
The other sergeant backed away, said, “I think we found all the guerrillas that are up here. And they’re all yours, as far as I’m concerned. Congratulations, Higgins. You’ll make the lieutenant proud. Mission accomplished. I’m taking my squad back to the village. You?”
Higgins watched as two of his men rummaged through the pockets and waistbands of the four Germans, said, “Yeah, right. We’ll be there, right behind you.”
No one else was speaking, and Benson felt a strange mood in the others, stared at the boy, saw the hatred dulled by the fear of the others. The soldiers stepped back, and one man said to Higgins, “Clean. That’s all they had, two rifles.”
Higgins looked at the fallen men. “Seven all told, and only two weapons? And they still tried to make a fight of it. Crazy damn people.”
Mitchell said, “Hey, Sarge. Look at the insignia on the soldiers’ collars. They’re SS.”
Benson saw what Mitchell was pointing to, the small jagged symbols, like two lightning bolts.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Higgins said. “Look here, SS man. I’m your mongrel swine of an enemy. Guess I should be impressed how damn tough you are. How much did it take you to scare these kids into trying to kill us?” He turned away, said, “Let’s move out.”
Higgins started across the field, then stopped, watching as the men guarding the prisoners prodded them forward.
Benson saw Mitchell hanging back, and he stayed with him as Mitchell said, “I’ll guard ’em. You boys go on ahead.”
“Fine with me.”
“All yours.”
The other men moved away, and Mitchell motioned with the rifle, the prisoners all watching him. They followed the GIs out in single file, hands still up on their heads, the farmer’s boy last in line. Benson saw the black stare in Mitchell’s eyes, the same look he got from the boy, and he felt the uneasiness stirring again.
“Kenny, don’t do nothing. Let the army handle ’em.”
Mitchell moved in behind the Germans, his rifle pointed at the back of the boy. “Don’t worry, kiddo. Somebody’s gotta watch ’em. You know how these bastards are. One of ’em tries to shag ass, we need to be ready.”
Higgins had waited for them, the others moving back down the road, and Higgins said, “We’re gonna make some good time going back. Gonna be dark soon, and I don’t wanna get caught out here. One guard’s not enough. I’ll help you out, make sure we bring ’em in as quick as we can. Right?”
Mitchell nodded, kept his stare on the Germans in front of him. “No sweat, Sarge.”
Higgins looked at Benson, said, “Get up front, Private. Take the point.”
Benson saw the look between the sergeant and Mitchell, felt a raw stab of cold, and Higgins had him by the arm, gave him a soft shove.
“Get up there and take the point.”
Benson felt paralyzed, the others moving away, and he started to speak, saw a hard stare from Mitchell, a brief shake of his head. Benson said, “You … can’t do it.”
“Take the damn point, Private! Get going!”
The rest of the squad were strung out on the trail, watching, and Benson felt helpless, quivering in his hands. He obeyed, moved up past the others, heard low mumbles, still felt the cold in his brain. The squad followed him out into the muddy roadway, and Benson stayed to the side, out of the deeper mud. The road curved away downhill, and Benson felt the old panic returning, but different this time, no fear of what was ahead of them, no enemy guns, no artillery, no Tiger tanks. He was moving quickly, trying to get away from the prisoners. He ignored the others, thought of the town, where the officers would be, command and order. Behind him, the rest of the squad was moving quickly to keep up with him, no one objecting, opening up space between themselves and the Germans who trailed behind, and the two men who guarded them with their rifles. Benson tried to think of the lieutenant, that they would have to report to him on their accomplishment, flushing out the soldiers. No, that’s not your job. That’s for the sarge. Nothing for me to do but find some chow and make like this day’s over. He knew the sounds were coming, pushed himself faster, thought, it’s war, dammit. It’s war. But … no, it’s up to the sarge. Whatever he says is what happened. He sensed the strange fear in the others, some moving up beside him, hurrying to get away, and Benson knew, no one would speak of it, no one would recall anything, no matter what was going to happen in the woods behind them.
The Allied push continued all across the rugged terrain, through villages and small cities, the patches of open land between Germany’s borders with Belgium and Luxembourg, and the Rhine River. Despite Hitler’s rabid calls for an unbreakable defense across every inch of German soil, the soldiers of his army had accepted the reality they faced. Outgunned in every way, the German forces had no choice but to withdraw to the safety of the Rhine’s defenses, making the best use of the tall peaks on the eastern shores that allowed German artillery to hold off the advancing Allied tanks and infantry. As the Germans sought the safety of the river, they were predictably proficient in destroying the remaining bridges that spanned the waterway. The Allied commanders continued to press forward, driving their troops closer to the river itself, but every soldier and every engineer who gazed at the river understood that without a bridge, they would have to force an amphibious crossing. With so much German strength regrouping on the far side, that kind of operation, even in darkness, could be a murderous disaster.
In the mists of a foggy dawn on March 7, one company of the American Ninth Armored Division drove into the hills along the western banks of the river near the town of Remagen, and with the first hint of daylight discovered to their utter amazement that a stout stone-and-steel railway bridge was still intact. Across the bridge itself, German troops were making a rapid retreat, while on the far side, German engineers worked frantically to complete their wiring of demolitions that would destroy the bridge completely. The first American officers to absorb the sight debated whether the bridge should be shelled, cutting off the German retreat, but they understood that such a decision had to come from higher up. That authority was Brigadier General William Hoge, who ended all arguments by issuing the order that, instead of destroying the bridge, the Americans should make every effort to cross it. Led by Captain Karl Timmerman, a company of armored infantry scampered frantically across just as German demolitionists were completing their wiring of explosives. Though minor blasts rocked the Americans in their tracks, the primary charge, a five-hundred-pound block of TNT, failed to ignite. Timmerman kept pushing, some of his men climbing up into the bridge’s steel superstructure to fire at the Germans who tenaciously held to their positions. After tense minutes on both sides, the Germans finally retreated. The sole remaining bridge across the Rhine River had fallen into American hands.
Though American engineers worked feverishly to strengthen the span, the bridge was now a target for the Germans. After repeated assaults from German dive-bombers and artillery strikes, the good work of the American engineers came to a costly end. Ten days after Captain Timmerman’s crossing, the weakened bridge collapsed into the river, killing twenty-eight engineers who were doing all they could to keep it intact.
The bridge at Remagen did not give the Allies a massive breakthrough across the Rhine. As Eisenhower knew, the primary crossings would still have to come from Montgomery’s sector in the north, and from Patton and Devers in the south. Strategically, the Remagen crossing was only a minor victory, but the meaning of that success was not lost on the men of either side. Not only had the Germans failed to stop the Allies from continuing their drive into German territory, but at Remagen the Americans had breached the artery that symbolized Germany’s lifeline.
TRIER, GERMANY
MARCH 14, 1945
“What do you think, Colonel? Old Courtney redeem himself?”
“If you say so, sir.”
Patton knew that tone in Codma
n’s voice.
“Don’t patronize me, Charlie. Hodges deserved every bit of the grief he got. He was caught with his damn pants down, and damn near gave Antwerp back to Hitler. Nobody knows how he screwed up more than he does. So he’s allowed to strut a little for putting his people across the Rhine before the rest of us. I don’t need to remind Brad or Ike that it was my boys who yanked his sausage out of the fire. Hodges can have his little parade at Remagen, or whatever Ike thinks he’s entitled to. We’ve still got the big job, right in front of us.”
“I should think, sir, that Monty would say the same thing. He’s making quite a bit of noise about driving across the Rhine, still thinks Berlin is his own private plum.”
Patton caught a glimpse of a smile from Codman, unusual.
“I don’t give a donkey fart what Monty thinks. But I tell you this. If we don’t get our people punched across that damn river before Monty does, I might as well go home and teach nursery school. I guarantee you, right now Monty’s up there preparing. He’ll still be preparing after I’ve ended this war, after Hitler’s been strung up by his own people, after Ike has been elected king of France, and God knows what else. But by damn, Monty will prepare. You hear me? If Monty makes it over that damn river before we do, it won’t be because he did anything at all. It’ll be because we sat on our asses and gave him the glory. Not going to happen, Charlie. Not in this command. I don’t care what Ike thinks, or Bradley or Devers either. We’re getting across that damn river if it kills …” Patton stopped, knew he had gone too far. “Well, you know what I mean. No excuses allowed. Ike doesn’t want to hear ’em from me, and I won’t hear ’em from Gaffey or Walker or anybody else in my command.”
“Yes, sir. I’m certain that has been communicated throughout the Third Army.”
Patton knew Codman was right. No one in Patton’s command had to be reminded that to Patton, the enemy included commanders who weren’t necessarily German.
Patton paced the wide office, said, “Any idea who had this place before?”