Killing Patton Part 8

McAuliffe laughs and begins to read.

The letter is dated December 22, 1944: To the U.S.A. Commander of the encircled town of Bastogne, The fortune of war is changing. This time the U.S.A. forces in and near Bastogne have been encircled by strong German armored units. More German armored units have crossed the river Ourthe near Ortheuville, have taken Marche and reached St. Hubert by pa.s.sing through Hompre-Sibret-Tillet. Libramont is in German hands. There is only one possibility to save the encircled U.S.A. troops from total annihilation: that is the honorable surrender of the encircled town. In order to think it over a term of two hours will be granted beginning with the presentation of this note.

If this proposal should be rejected, one German artillery corps and six heavy A.A. battalions are ready to annihilate the U.S.A. troops in and near Bastogne. The order for firing will be given immediately after this two hours' term.

All the serious civilian losses caused by this artillery fire would not correspond with the well known American humanity.

The German Commander.

McAuliffe looks at his staff. "Well, I don't know what to tell them."

"That first remark of yours would be hard to beat," replies Lt. Col. Harry Kinnard, in his Texas tw.a.n.g.

"What do you mean?" McAuliffe responds.

"Sir, you said 'nuts.'"

McAuliffe mulls it over. He knows his history, and suspects the moment will be memorialized. One French general refused to surrender at the Battle of Waterloo with the far more cra.s.s response of "Merde."9 And so the response is quickly typed: "To the German Commander, 'Nuts!' The American Commander."

When the letter is presented to the German emissaries, they don't understand. "What is this, 'nuts'?" asks Henke. The Germans have grown cold and arrogant while awaiting a response. They fully expected to return to their lines as heroes for effecting the surrender.

Col. Paul Harper, regimental commander of the 327th, has been tasked with delivering McAuliffe's response. He orders the men into his jeep and drives them back to the no-man's-land between the 101st Airborne and the Wehrmacht lines. "It means you can go to h.e.l.l," he tells the Germans as he drops them off.

"And I'll tell you something else," he adds. "If you continue to attack we will kill every G.o.dd.a.m.n German that tries to break into this city."

Henke translates to the others. The Germans snap to attention and salute. "We will kill many Americans," Henke responds. "This is war."

"On your way, bud," snorts Harper.

9.

FONDATION PESCATORE.

LUXEMBOURG CITY, LUXEMBOURG.

DECEMBER 23, 1944.

9:00 A.M.

George S. Patton takes off his helmet as he enters the century-old Catholic chapel. Though Episcopalian, he is in need of a place to wors.h.i.+p. The sound of his footsteps echoes off the stone floor as he walks reverently to the foot of the altar. The scent of melting wax from the many votive candles fills the small chamber. Patton kneels, unfolding the prayer he has written for this occasion, and bows his head.

"Sir, this is Patton talking," he says, speaking candidly to the Almighty. "The past fourteen days have been straight h.e.l.l. Rain, snow, more rain, more snow-and I am beginning to wonder what's going on in Your headquarters. Whose side are You on anyway?"

Patton and the Third Army are now thirty-three miles south of Bastogne. Every available man under his command has joined this race to rescue the city. The Bulge in the American lines is sixty miles deep and thirty miles wide, with Bastogne an American-held island in the center. And while Patton's men have so far been successful in maintaining their steady advance, there is still widespread doubt that he can succeed. Outnumbered and outgunned by the Germans, Patton faces the daunting challenge of attacking on icy roads in thick snow, with little air cover. Small wonder that British commander Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery-whom Patton has taken to calling a "tired little fart"-and other British authorities are quietly mocking Patton's advance. He has even heard that many of them are suggesting he hold his lines and not attack, as Monty is doing, for fear that the wily German field marshal Gerd von Rundstedt may be preparing to launch yet another surprise attack that could do irreparable damage to the Allies. "Hold von Rundstedt?" Patton grumbled in reply. "I'll take von Rundstedt and shove him up Montgomery's a.s.s."

Despite those hard words, the truth is that the Third Army may be in trouble. Patton has vowed to Tony McAuliffe and the 101st Airborne that he will be in Bastogne on Christmas Day. However, thanks to the weather, it is very likely he will not be able to keep this promise.

So the general prays.

"For three years my chaplains have been telling me that this is a religious war. This, they tell me, is the Crusades all over again, except that we're riding tanks instead of chargers. They insist that we are here to annihilate the Germans and the G.o.dless. .h.i.tler so that religious freedom may return to Europe. Up until now I have gone along with them, for You have given us Your unreserved cooperation. Clear skies and a calm sea in Africa made the landings highly successful and helped us to eliminate Rommel. Sicily was comparatively easy and You supplied excellent weather for the armored dash across France, the greatest military victory that You have thus far allowed me. You have often given me excellent guidance in difficult command situations and You have led German units into traps that made their elimination fairly simple.

"But now You've changed horses midstream. You seem to have given von Rundstedt every break in the book, and frankly, he's beating the h.e.l.l out of us. My army is neither trained nor equipped for winter warfare. And as You know, this weather is more suitable for Eskimos than for southern cavalrymen.

"But now, Sir, I can't help but feel that I have offended You in some way. That suddenly You have lost all sympathy for our cause. That You are throwing in with von Rundstedt and his paper-hanging G.o.d [Hitler]. You know without me telling You that our situation is desperate. Sure, I can tell my staff that everything is going according to plan, but there's no use telling You that my 101st Airborne is holding out against tremendous odds in Bastogne, and that this continual storm is making it impossible to supply them even from the air. I've sent Hugh Gaffey, one of my ablest generals, with his 4th Armored Division, north toward that all-important road center to relieve the encircled garrison and he's finding Your weather more difficult than he is the Krauts."

This isn't the first time Patton has resorted to divine intervention. Every man in the Third Army now carries a three-by-five card that has a Christmas greeting from Patton on one side and a special prayer for good weather on the other. The general firmly believes that faith is vital when it comes to doing the impossible. Patton sees no theological conflict in asking G.o.d to allow him to kill the enemy. He has even given the cruel order that all SS soldiers are to be shot rather than taken prisoner.

"I don't like to complain unreasonably," Patton continues his prayer, "but my soldiers from Meuse to Echternach are suffering tortures of the d.a.m.ned. Today I visited several hospitals, all full of frostbite cases, and the wounded are dying in the fields because they cannot be brought back for medical care."

Head bowed, Patton prays while Sgt. Robert Mims waits outside with his open-air jeep. When the general is ready, they will set out for yet another day on the road. When Patton finally leaves the chapel and the castle-like headquarters at the Fondation Pescatore, he and Mims will prowl the roads of the Ardennes Forest. Without planes to offer overhead reconnaissance, Patton must see the battle lines for himself.

But these travels also serve another purpose. Patton seeks out his troops wherever he can, encouraging them as they march in long columns of tanks and men up the snowy farm roads. More than 133,000 tanks and trucks travel around the clock toward Bastogne. The infantry wear long greatcoats, many still spattered with the mud of Metz. The tank commanders ride with their chests and shoulders poked out of the top hatch, faces swaddled in thick wool scarves. Heavy snow blankets the roads, forests, and farmlands and also covers their vehicles, muting the rumble of engines and giving the Third Army's advance a ghostly feel. But it can also be deadly: unable to distinguish which snow-covered tanks are American Shermans and which are German Panzers, some U.S. P-47 Thunderbolt pilots have made the cruel mistake of bombing their own.

Patton's jeep has also been strafed, though by German fighter planes. He is a relentless presence in his open-air vehicle, red-faced and blue-lipped as Sergeant Mims fearlessly weaves the vehicle through the long column of tanks and trucks. "I spent five or six hours almost every day in an open car," he will later write in his journal about his zeal to be in the thick of the action. "I never had a cold, and my face, though sometimes slightly blistered, did not hurt me much-nor did I wear heavy clothes. I did, however, have a blanket around my legs, which was exceedingly valuable in keeping me from freezing."

Just yesterday, a column of the Fourth Armored Division that was advancing on Bastogne were shocked to see Patton get out of his jeep and help them push a vehicle out of a snowdrift. The men of the Third Army are bolstered by Patton's constant presence. They speak of him warmly, with nicknames such as the Old Man and Georgie. His willingness to put himself in harm's way and endure the freezing conditions has many American soldiers now believing the general would never ask them to do something he wouldn't do himself.

Back in America, the Battle of the Bulge has shocked the public. The siege of Bastogne is becoming a symbol of bravery and holding out against impossible odds. All across the country, people are taking time during this Christmas season to do just what Patton is doing right now: get on their knees to pray. They ask G.o.d to deliver the "Battered b.a.s.t.a.r.ds of Bastogne," as the newspapers are calling the men of the 101st.

Yet Patton's prayer is unique. He is asking not only for deliverance, but for power. Few men are ever given the chance to change the course of history so completely. If the men inside Bastogne are to be rescued, it will be because of the daring of George S. Patton-as he himself well knows.

But to succeed he will need a little help from above.

The last words of Patton's prayer are for the ages.

"d.a.m.n it, Sir, I can't fight a shadow. Without Your cooperation from a weather standpoint, I am deprived of accurate disposition of the German armies and how in the h.e.l.l can I be intelligent in my attack? All of this probably sounds unreasonable to You, but I have lost all patience with Your chaplains who insist that this is a typical Ardennes winter, and that I must have faith.

"Faith and patience be d.a.m.ned! You have just got to make up Your mind whose side You are on. You must come to my a.s.sistance, so that I may dispatch the entire German Army as a birthday present to your Prince of Peace.

"Sir, I have never been an unreasonable man; I am not going to ask You to do the impossible. I do not even insist upon a miracle, for all I request is four days of clear weather.

"Give me four days so that my planes can fly, so that my fighter bombers can bomb and strafe, so that my reconnaissance may pick out targets for my magnificent artillery. Give me four days of suns.h.i.+ne to dry this blasted mud, so that my tanks roll, so that ammunition and rations may be taken to my hungry, ill-equipped infantry. I need these four days to send von Rundstedt and his G.o.dless army to their Valhalla. I am sick of this unnecessary butchering of American youth, and in exchange for four days of fighting weather, I will deliver You enough Krauts to keep Your bookkeepers months behind in their work.

"Amen."

10.

ADLERHORST.

ZIEGENBERG, GERMANY.

DECEMBER 24, 1944.

1:00 P.M.

The man with one hundred and twenty-seven days to live can barely see.

The sun s.h.i.+nes brightly on Adolf Hitler's pale, exhausted face as he stares up at more than one thousand Allied bombers that have come to destroy the Fatherland on Christmas Eve. The Fhrer stands one hundred and sixty-five miles east of where Patton knelt to pray. Hitler is ensconced in a drab bunker complex known as the Adlerhorst, and the drone of the bombers has pulled him out of the dining room of Haus 1. As his lunch grows cold, Hitler surveys the danger above him.

"Mein Fhrer," gasps Christa Schroeder, the striking thirty-six-year-old brunette who has long served as his personal secretary. "We have lost the war, haven't we?"

Hitler a.s.sures her that this is not the case. So even as the B-17 Flying Fortresses and B-24 Liberator bombers continue their deadly journey into the German heartland, Hitler saunters back inside to eat, pa.s.sing a well-decorated Christmas tree that will soon be lit by candlelight.

The Fhrer's physical condition continues to deteriorate. His unstable gait is that of a senile old man. Lunch is his usual fare of vegetables and fruit-asparagus and peppers are personal favorites-served with salad and rice. A dozen female food tasters have already sampled the fare to ensure that Hitler is not being poisoned. Now, he once again sits down to eat alongside his mistress, the voluptuous Eva Braun. Hitler inhales his food, even though he is barely strong enough to hold the fork in his right hand, which has grown so weak that he no longer signs most official doc.u.ments, leaving his staff to forge his signature.

Hitler's left hand is even worse. He cannot stop its palsied shakes, and so it now rests in his lap. The Fhrer eats maniacally, even leaning his head over the plate to shovel the vegetables in faster. He runs his right index finger along his short black mustache and absentmindedly chews his nails between bites. The Fhrer's table manners, in the words of one witness, "are little short of shocking."

Yet Hitler is a man who has caused the death of millions, and he is now in a very unpredictable mood. This would not be a good day to correct his etiquette.

The Fhrer has been holed up in the Adlerhorst since before Operation Watch on the Rhine began, and now directs the battle from this secret fortress. The elaborate collection of seven houses is actually a cleverly concealed military command post. Nestled in the crags of the Taunus Mountains, the Adlerhorst was built in the shadow of the medieval castle Kransberg, which s.h.i.+elds the Eagle's eyrie from prying eyes. Each building appears to be an innocent German cottage, with wood exteriors and interior furnis.h.i.+ngs of deer antlers and paintings depicting hunting scenes.

But the walls are actually reinforced concrete, three feet thick. Antiaircraft guns are hidden in the surrounding forest, where Hitler takes his daily morning stroll with Blondi, his German shepherd. It is to Adlerhorst that Hitler brought his top generals on December 11 to lay out his counterattack strategy, and it is from the concealment of the underground situation room in Haus 2 that an elated Hitler celebrated the operation's opening success on December 16. He was so overjoyed that he couldn't sleep-a condition no doubt exacerbated by the injections of glucose, iron, and vitamin B he receives from Dr. Morell, his corpulent personal physician.1 In the eight days since the Ardennes battle began, Hitler has had much to cheer. His favorite commando, the scar-faced Otto Skorzeny, and the men of Operation Greif successfully roamed behind American lines, spreading lies and innuendos that caused widespread panic. A few of Skorzeny's commandos were caught and swiftly shot by firing squads for the war crime of disguising themselves in enemy uniforms. But by then the damage had already been done.

GIs everywhere became jittery as news that German soldiers were wearing American uniforms and speaking English spread up and down the Allied chain of command. U.S. soldiers became distrustful of any and all strangers. Cases of mistaken ident.i.ty led Americans to shoot other Americans. Vehicles pa.s.sing through military checkpoints were halted, and the occupants asked to prove their nationality by answering questions about American culture that only a real GI would know.

Those who did not realize the difference between the American and National Leagues, or the name of actress Betty Grable's last motion picture, were often taken into custody. An American brigadier general who thought the Chicago Cubs were in the American League was placed under arrest and held at gunpoint for five hours. British field marshal Bernard Law Montgomery refused to answer questions, then ordered his driver to speed through a checkpoint, at which time the American guards shot out his tires.

When British film actor turned soldier David Niven was unable to recall who had won the 1943 World Series, he answered, "Haven't the foggiest idea. But I did costar with Ginger Rogers in Bachelor Mother."

The sentry let him pa.s.s.

So great was the Skorzeny-induced hysteria that Dwight Eisenhower was placed under around-the-clock protection after one captured German commando confessed that Skorzeny planned to a.s.sa.s.sinate Eisenhower.

In the end, the actual damage done by Operation Greif was intense but did not change the course of battle. Even the flamboyant Skorzeny admitted his subterfuge could not turn the tide of the Bulge.

Hitler stares at the battle maps spread atop the long rectangular conference table in his underground command post. He stops now and then to nibble on the mola.s.ses-filled Lebkuchen2 that temporarily appeases his insatiable sweet tooth. What he desperately longs to hear is some good news from the front. Instead, he hears that Bastogne has not yet fallen. And that the Second Panzer Division is just three miles from the Meuse River but has run out of fuel and can go no farther. Rather than waging war, the Second Panzer now hides in the forest, desperately covering their stalled vehicles with tree branches and heaps of snow to camouflage them from the P-47 Thunderbolts that prowl the Ardennes skies.3 But perhaps the most crus.h.i.+ng blow is the fate of Hitler's great tank commander Joachim Peiper and the men of the elite First Panzer Division.

"The Butcher of Malmedy," as Peiper will forever be known, is trapped in the small village of La Gleize. For three days Peiper has been using what little ammunition he has left to fend off American artillery and tank attacks. He spends his nights in the cellar of his headquarters, talking with an American major whom his unit has taken prisoner. The two men get along extremely well. "He and I talked together from 2300 hours until 0500 hours," Maj. Hal McCown will later report, "our subject being mainly his defense of n.a.z.ism and why Germany was fighting. I have met few men who impressed me in as short a s.p.a.ce of time as did this German officer."4 Obersturmbannfhrer5 Peiper and the First are just two bridges away from crossing the Meuse and spearheading a fatal thrust through the Allied lines toward Antwerp. But that goal, as Peiper reluctantly admits to Major McCown, is now unrealistic.

The SS division is cut off. The Americans have blown key bridges in front of them, making it impossible for Peiper to press the attack. The Germans cannot go forward, but cannot retreat, either. Going back would mean their annihilation. This division is just about out of gasoline, medicine, and ammunition. They eat little except hard biscuits and drink sips of plundered cognac and schnapps. Morale is plummeting, with one of Peiper's soldiers caught committing the mortal sin of removing the SS emblems from his uniform, fearing that he might soon become an American POW and be executed. Instead, he was immediately placed against a stone wall and shot by his own countrymen.

Luftwaffe attempts to resupply Peiper from the air have been disastrous. The parachute drop was off course. The gasoline and ammunition (code-named Otto and Hermann) quickly became American property after they missed their marks. The situation is so bad that Peiper has even taken the extreme step of allowing his most severely wounded SS fighters to be taken prisoner. They have shown great loyalty to him. Ensuring that they receive proper medical care is Peiper's way of returning that devotion.

Colonel Peiper does not want his men to die. Thus he hatches a daring plan that may give hope to a hopeless situation.

Just after 5:00 p.m. on December 23, Joachim Peiper radios German headquarters and asks permission to destroy his twenty-eight remaining Panzers and escape on foot.

The request is denied. The Fhrer refuses any defensive action.

Later that night, Peiper once again pleads for the lives of his eight hundred remaining men, arguing that the only way to save them is to flee through the woods.

Again, permission is denied.

A furious Peiper unholsters his pistol and fires several shots into the radio. Its explosion mirrors the depths of his frustration.

Peiper knows the end is coming. There is no way the First can hold out. If they stand and fight, they will all die. But if they surrender, Peiper will likely be put on trial for allowing the murder of American prisoners of war and innocent civilians. If the United States chooses to hand Peiper over to the Russians, there won't even be a trial. Peiper can be sure that his death will be slow and cruel.

Peiper makes up his mind: the First Panzer must escape, even if it means disobeying a direct order.

The word is pa.s.sed.

By three o'clock on the morning of Christmas Eve, Peiper and every other tanker in the First gather to do something they have not done on a battlefield for a very long time: walk. Tank commanders throughout the division struggle to maintain their stoicism as they leave behind the fighting machines that have given them the G.o.dlike power of life and death for one thrilling and sleepless week. A dozen miles and two river crossings lay between Kampfgruppe Peiper and the German lines. The plan is to travel through the woods by night and remain hidden during the day to avoid being spotted by those dreaded American Thunderbolt pilots.

The men of the First form into a long single-file column and begin their march in complete silence. A skeleton crew remains behind to blow up the now useless Panzers and halftracks. Prisoner of war Maj. Hal McCown reluctantly remains at Peiper's side, walking at the front, amazed at the SS discipline. "The noise made by the entire 800-man group was so little that I believe we could have pa.s.sed within 200 yards of an outpost without detection," he will later write.

The spearhead of Operation Watch is no longer moving forward. Thirty miles east of George Patton's Third Army, the First SS Panzer Division is now in full retreat, the burning hulls of their tanks lighting up the wintry Christmas Eve sky.

Der Heilige Abend, or "the Holy Evening," as Christmas Eve is known throughout Germany, ends late for Adolf Hitler. It is four o'clock on Christmas morning as he slowly ascends the stairs from his War Room and readies himself for bed. Rising at noon, the man who seeks to remove any sort of religious tone from Christmas6 receives the news that Peiper and his division have escaped entrapment. This morning, even as. .h.i.tler lay sleeping, 770 of the 800 men who began the journey from La Gleize swam the icy Salm River and reached the German lines safely.7 After dressing in his usual formal manner, Hitler meets with his staff to celebrate the holiday, drinking a rare gla.s.s of wine and making jovial small talk. Then he descends once again into his War Room. He seeks the latest reports from Bastogne, certain that he can renew his stalled attack if only he captures the road octopus. There is a gleam in Hitler's eye as he scrutinizes the maps, despite his declining physical condition. It is a gleam that his generals know all too well, for it is the look the Fhrer shows when he is divining some ingenious way to outwit his enemies.

Just yesterday, the German submarine U-486 sank the troops.h.i.+p SS Leopoldville off the coast of France, sending eight hundred American servicemen to the bottom of the Atlantic. And Hitler's special V-1 rocket-propelled bombs rained down death on the British city of Oldham, killing twenty-seven innocent civilians as they gathered to celebrate Christmas Eve.

No matter what the Allies might think, Adolf Hitler is far from beaten.

11.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA.

DECEMBER 25, 1944.

5:00 P.M.