Bloody Bastogne

by Len Levinson

  Ike pointed to the new fifth star on his epaulette and grinned. “You know, George,” he said. “I don’t know why, but every time I get promoted, I also get attacked.”

  Patton winked. “That’s right,” he replied, “and every time you get attacked I’m the one who has to bail you out.”

  ~*~

  Meanwhile, the 101st Airborne Division, known as the Screaming Eagles because of the eagle depicted on their shoulder patches, arrived in Bastogne under the temporary command of Brigadier General Anthony McAuliffe. The division’s usual commander, General Maxwell Taylor, was in Washington D.C. for conferences in the War Department.

  McAuliffe was the division’s artillery officer, a stocky dark haired man who tended to be economical with words. The city was in a state of chaos when he arrived, as civilians were trying to move back to safety, and the Screaming Eagles occupied the city. McAuliffe took over the headquarters vacated the day before by General Troy Middleton and the Eighth Corps staff, and the first thing he did was hold a meeting to determine what the situation was in the area.

  Reports indicated that German armored units were heading toward Bastogne at top speed on the three roads that led into town from the east. McAuliffe thought the matter over quickly and decided to send three combat commands out to cover the three roads and attempt to block the Germans for awhile.

  He knew he couldn’t hold them back for long, but he thought he could hold them long enough for help to arrive.

  ~*~

  Eight miles to the east, General Fritz Bayerlein was leading the famous Panzer Lehr Division through a thick fog toward Bastogne. He’d been told by his commanding officer, General Heinrich von Luttwitz, that Bastogne had to be taken immediately at all costs, “otherwise it would remain as an abscess on the German main lines of communication.”

  Bayerlein rode in an armored half-track, and behind him were fifteen tanks and four companies of infantry in halftracks. The rest of the Lehr Division was advancing toward Bastogne from other directions.

  Bayerlein was a skilled panzer leader and had been Rommel’s chief of staff in the Afrika Corps. He became commander of the Afrika Corps following Rommel’s departure, and after the final debacle in North Africa, he was appointed to lead the Lehr Division, which had been formed from panzer units that demonstrated the latest blitzkrieg techniques to trainees, politicians, military brass, etc. It had taken severe losses since the Allied landings on Normandy beach, but had been brought to full strength for the Ardennes Offensive.

  Now, in the darkening afternoon of December 19, Bayerlein peered into the fog and began to feel apprehensive about what lay ahead. He couldn’t see much and thought he might blunder into a trap. The quick advance into Belgium had stretched out supply lines, and he was concerned about a flank attack. The sound of his panzers echoed from surrounding mountains, and he wondered if he might also be hearing American tanks closing in on him.

  Suddenly, looming up out of the fog in front of him, were two civilians walking toward Bastogne. One was unusually tall, and the other was extremely thin. Both wore black berets and appeared to be farmers. They turned around as the panzer column approached. Bayerlein raised his hand, signaling the panzers to stop. He told a few of his aides to come with him and climbed down from the halftrack, heading toward the two men.

  “Are you men from around here?” Bayerlein asked with a friendly smile.

  “Yes, we’re from Bastogne,” replied the tall man.

  “Are there many Americans there?”

  “Oh yes, a great many Americans. And on this road too. When we came by earlier in the day we saw fifty tanks and an American general just a short distance from here.”

  “Fifty tanks, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. Just down the road from here.”

  “About how far would you say?”

  “Two or three miles.”

  “I see. Thank you very much for the information.”

  The tall man raised his hand. “Heil Hitler.”

  Bayerlein smiled. “Heil Hitler.”

  The two men continued their walk and disappeared into the fog. Bayerlein turned to his aides. “You see men,” he said, “there are many German sympathizers here in Belgium, thank God.”

  The officers returned to the halftrack, and now Bayerlein was convinced that the engine sounds he’d heard in the distance belonged to the American armored force directly in front of him. He didn’t dare to attack fifty American tanks with his small force, and visibility was too poor to conduct effective battle anyway.

  “We’ll camp here for the night,” he told his aides. “Set up a defensive perimeter and post guards. I also want a patrol sent out to find out exactly where the Americans are.”

  His orders were passed down, and his tank section prepared to bed down. He didn’t know it, but he could have taken Bastogne by surprise that night if he’d pressed on.

  ~*~

  Ahead of Bayerlein in the fog, Sergeant Mahoney and Private Dunphy walked swiftly toward Bastogne. Dunphy trembled all over, not just from the cold, but from fear.

  “Jesus, Sarge,” he said, “I still think we should have hid when we heard those tanks coming. What if they shot us?”

  “They didn’t shoot us,” Mahoney replied, “but they probably would have if they’d found us sneaking around in the bushes. We couldn’t see what was coming, remember? What if they’d had troops coming on both sides of the road? They would’ve shot us right on the spot.”

  “Oh God,” Dunphy said, clutching his breast. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  “You’ll have to get over that,” Mahoney told him. “We’ve still got a long way to Bastogne.”

  Mahoney and Dunphy continued to trudge through the night and fog. They’d been on the move since early in the day, when they’d left Stembelot. Staying off the roads, they’d cut through woods and fields, moving in a straight line, and thus were able to get in front of the panzer columns advancing on the convoluted road system. When the fog rolled over them, Mahoney had decided to return to the road. Shortly thereafter, they’d encountered Bayerlein’s panzers.

  Mahoney knew Bastogne was straight ahead and was anxious to get there. He didn’t like being in the open in countryside overrun with Germans. In Bastogne he was certain he’d be safe. He was unaware of the massive panzer force bearing down on Bastogne from all directions.

  “HALT!” said a voice ahead in the fog.

  “Now what?” Mahoney said to Dunphy as they both raised their hands.

  Three crouching American soldiers came toward them out of the fog.

  “They look like civilians,” said one of them.

  “But they might be German spies.”

  Mahoney smiled at them. “We’re American soldiers trying to make it back to our lines.”

  The GIs asked Mahoney and Dunphy what units they were with and became more suspicious by their answers.

  “Listen,” Mahoney said to them, “we just passed fifteen German tanks and a bunch of personnel carriers down the road. You’d better let us through so we can tell your C.O.”

  The GIs searched Mahoney and Dunphy for weapons and upon finding none, marched them back to the American fortifications farther down the road. Soon, through the fog, Mahoney saw houses. They entered a small village where paratroopers from the 101st Airborne were setting up a defense. The guards took them to one of the houses and turned them over to some other soldiers, who locked them in a room.

  “Hey—we’re American GIs like you!” Mahoney protested.

  “Shut the fuck up!” replied a paratrooper, slamming the door in Mahoney’s face.

  The room had no furniture, so Mahoney and Dunphy sat on the floor.

  “What now?” Dunphy asked.

  “All we have to do is convince them of who we are,” Mahoney replied. “It shouldn’t be too hard for you, since you’re in the First Army, but I’m not.”

  Mahoney took out a package of cigarettes and lit one up. He didn’t offer one to Dunphy bec
ause Dunphy didn’t smoke. Mahoney hoped the paratroopers had passed along the word about the German tank force down the road. Surely the Germans would send out a patrol sooner or later to probe for Americans. Mahoney hadn’t seen any tanks or tank destroyers in the little village, and it was probable that the paratroopers didn’t have them because armor wasn’t part of a paratrooper’s equipment.

  After a while, the door opened, and a corporal pointed to Mahoney. “You—come with me!”

  Mahoney got up and followed the corporal out of the room. They crossed a big room where paratroopers were piling furniture in front of the windows and entered another room. A captain smoking a pipe sat behind a shaky field desk. He had crew cut blond hair and the neck of a bull.

  “Have a seat,” the captain said.

  Mahoney sat down, and the captain proceeded to ask questions. Mahoney explained who he was, what he was doing in the Ardennes, and what he’d been through during the past few days, omitting the part about the women on the farm. “There are about fifteen German tanks down the road,” Mahoney concluded, “and maybe a hundred German soldiers. I think you’d better get the hell out of here while you’ve still got the chance.”

  The captain shook his head. “No,” he said, “we’re not going anywhere, but you are. I’ll have to send you back to Bastogne to get your story checked.”

  Mahoney felt relieved. “They know me at Eighth Corps headquarters there,” he said.

  “The Eighth Corps isn’t in Bastogne anymore,” the captain said. “They’ve moved to Neufchateau.” He pointed to the screaming eagle patch on his arm. “We’ve got Bastogne now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Corporal Edward Cranepool of the Hammerhead Division’s Fifteenth Regiment sat with other members of his platoon in a bombed out steel mill in the Saar valley, eating C rations and taking a brief respite from the war. They’d just captured the steel mill, and bodies of dead Germans lay near them. Pfc Grossberger, the medic, patched up the GI wounded. The platoon had been ordered to hold the steel mill and await further orders.

  Explosions and gunfire could be heard from their left and right, but they ate without showing much concern. Lieutenant Woodward, the new platoon leader, had posted guards, so they wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

  “Gee,” said Pfc Warren Tyler from Biloxi, Mississippi, “I wonder how old Sergeant Mahoney is doing these days.”

  Cranepool glanced up, because he and Mahoney had been close friends. Cranepool thought of Mahoney as something between a big brother and a father, and wished he’d return to Charlie Company where he belonged.

  “Don’t worry about Sergeant Mahoney,” replied Pfc Grossberger, bandaging an arm nearby. “I’m sure he’s doing all right.”

  “Has anybody heard from him?”

  Everybody shook his head. Nobody had heard from him.

  “You’d think he’d at least write a letter,” said Sergeant Leary. “He’s probably drunk in some fucking whorehouse someplace, and he’s forgotten all about his old platoon.”

  “Naw,” said Cranepool, “he’s probably too busy.”

  “Where in the hell is he supposed to be?” asked Corporal Fanucchi.

  Everybody shrugged. Nobody knew exactly where Mahoney was, except that he was somewhere in the First Army on TDY.

  Private Antone Sequira looked off into the distance. “I remember the day we went over that river in France—what was that river, Baxter?”

  “The Moselle I think it was.”

  “Yeah, the Moselle. Sergeant Mahoney really was something on that day, bleeding from everyplace but kicking ass everywhere he went. He was killing just about a German every minute.”

  Private Richardson, a recently arrived replacement who had formerly been a finance clerk, appeared skeptical. “A German a minute! That’s impossible!”

  Private Sequira grinned. “Not on that day it wasn’t. The krauts were as thick as flies. All you had to do was shoot your rifle, and you’d hit one of them.”

  “Oh-oh,” Leary said. “Here comes the looie.”

  They looked up and saw the new platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Dennis Woodward of Wilmington, Delaware, approaching across the floor of the factory. He was tall and lanky, with the strap from his helmet hanging down to his chest. The men hadn’t accepted him yet as one of them because he’d only been around for two weeks, but that didn’t seem to bother Woodward at all.

  He knelt down among them and chewed gum, looking them over calmly. Sometimes new second lieutenants were intimidated by their men but not Woodward. He’d graduated from West Point six months ago, and it was impossible to intimidate him.

  “We’ve got new orders,” he said. “We’re going to withdraw from this area during the night and head north. I don’t know exactly where we’re going yet, but the krauts have launched a big counteroffensive into Belgium, and we’ve got to go and help out.”

  “Our whole division?” asked Cranepool.

  “This division and two others,” Woodward replied, “with the rest of Third Army behind us.”

  The men lowered their forks and looked at each other in astonishment.

  “Holy shit,” said Sequira, “that must be a helluva counteroffensive the Germans have got going.”

  “Must be,” replied Woodward. “After you finish chow, get ready to move out.”

  “I thought you said we wouldn’t leave until tonight,” Grossberger said.

  “It’s best to be ready in case we have to go sooner.” Woodward stood up. “Carry on.” He turned and walked away.

  The men of the First Platoon looked at each other.

  “This don’t sound good,” said Sergeant Leary.

  Cranepool took out his pack of cigarettes. “Whether we fight the krauts up there or down here—it don’t make a fuck to me,” he replied.

  ~*~

  In Bastogne, General McAuliffe jumped out of his jeep and walked toward the front door of his headquarters building. He wore a zippered battle jacket with a fur collar and his breath made clouds in the cold night air. He was returning from an inspection of fortifications on the edge of the city.

  Entering the building, he climbed the stairs and made his way through the long corridors to his office. In the middle of one of the corridors, he heard a deep voice hollering angrily, and McAuliffe thought the string of curses extraordinary. He stopped, turned to the door, and opened it.

  He saw a big man wearing civilian clothes sitting on a chair surrounded by paratroopers.

  “What the hell’s going on in here!” McAuliffe said.

  The paratroopers snapped to attention, and so did the man in civilian clothes.

  “At ease,” General McAuliffe said. He looked at the big man in civilian clothes. “I asked what’s going on in here.”

  “Well, sir,” said a first lieutenant, “this man here was picked up by the 501st Parachute regiment and...”

  The man in civilian clothes interrupted him. “They didn’t pick me up!” he shouted. “I was trying to get back here to Bastogne, and I ran into the stupid bastards!”

  McAuliffe looked at him. “Shut up!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McAuliffe turned to the lieutenant again. “Go on.”

  “He claims to be from Third Army and he’s here on TDY with Eighth Corps, but that sounds fishy to me. He’s probably a spy, sir.”

  “I’m not a spy!” the civilian yelled.

  “I thought I told you to shut up,” McAuliffe said.

  “Sorry sir,” said the man, “but I’m getting tired of being treated like a German. I’m an American GI, and I was in Clervaux when the Germans came.”

  “What were you doing in Clervaux?”

  “I was in a whorehouse.”

  McAuliffe grunted. “He sounds like a real GI to me.” He looked at Mahoney carefully and saw the map of Ireland on his face. “What’s your name?”

  Mahoney told him his name, rank, and serial number, and provided a brief summary of his experiences since Clervaux, leaving out the pa
rt about the Belgian women on the farm. McAuliffe knew something about the Hammerhead Division because an old friend of his was one of the regimental commanders. He asked Mahoney a few questions about the Hammerheads, and Mahoney answered all of them satisfactorily.

  McAuliffe shrugged. “I think this soldier is who he says he is. Get him a uniform and a rifle, and have him report to my office. He might come in handy for something.”

  “But sir,” protested the lieutenant. “He might have memorized all that information. I think we should lock him up until we know for sure.”

  “I don’t think any German in the world could impersonate a GI from New York this well,” he said. “Do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General McAuliffe left the room and proceeded down the corridor to his office. He entered it and his sharp young paratrooper clerks shot to their feet.

  “At ease,” he told them, walking to his desk. He took off his helmet and hung up his jacket. His straight black hair was parted almost in the middle, and he smoothed it with his hands as he sat behind his desk.

  Lieutenant James, one of his aides, walked through the open door. “Sir?”

  McAuliffe looked up. “What is it?”

  “General Middleton called, sir. He wanted you to call him as soon as you get back.”

  “Get him for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant James picked up the telephone and told the operator to put him through to General Middleton in Neufchateau, while McAuliffe looked over the reports lying on his desk. They indicated that his three combat commands were heavily engaged on the roads leading to Bastogne from the east. He also learned that he didn’t have much artillery ammunition left.

  Lieutenant James handed him the telephone. “General Middleton will be on directly, sir.”

  McAuliffe took the phone and held it to his ear as he continued studying the reports. He learned that a new unit, the 705th Tank Destroyer Battalion, had arrived in Bastogne earlier in the afternoon and would stay to help augment the defense of the city.