by Jeff Shaara
“Everything’s tough, Harry!”
Eisenhower’s mind filled with details, the deception, McNair’s new place at the top of Patton’s fictitious First Army Group. We’ll need someone else. Just like that, someone else. Good God. He moved numbly to the car and sat down in the back, the door closing. Butcher came in on the other side, sat quietly.
“We have to wire General Marshall,” Eisenhower said. “I’ll recommend that McNair be buried right here, quietly, no ceremony. I know he’d have preferred that, to be closer to his men. We sure it was our own bombs? Could it possibly have been enemy shelling?”
“It’s…unlikely, sir.”
The car began to move, and he glanced at Butcher, who stared ahead, wrapped in his own gloom.
“What’s it going to take, Harry?” Eisenhower said. “What else do we have to do?”
“Don’t know, Chief.”
Eisenhower sat back and tried to rest his head on the seat, but there was no rest. His brain was boiling over with details: the hopes; the planning, problems, and controversies; and the death of men because of someone’s pure stupidity. He thought of Bradley: his map, his enthusiasm, his red circle around Saint-Lô. God help us, he thought. Can’t something go right for a change?
For the first two days of Operation Cobra, the going was as slow and difficult as it had been since early June, a heavy-handed slugging match between two blind boxers. The reports flowed back to Bradley and Eisenhower, meager gains, minor breakthroughs, setbacks, losses, the bocage country still as formidable a foe as the Germans. Then the reports began to change. Even though there had been no great collapse, no surrender, nothing that would tell Eisenhower there had been a victory at all, Bradley’s optimism was ignited with each passing day by word of solid gains. The Americans had finally pushed southward far enough to draw clear of the hedgerows. In front of them, the haggard Germans seemed to realize that their best efforts were not enough, and their stout resistance had begun to give way.
Bradley’s forces now totaled twenty-one divisions, and any war of attrition had shifted even more strongly in favor of the Americans. As Joe Collins’s Seventh Corps fought their way through the rugged ground south of Saint-Lô, closer to the coast, Troy Middleton’s Eighth Corps pushed hard to break the far left flank of the German defense. On July 30, Middleton captured the town of Avranches. The Americans had driven thirty-five miles from their starting point at Saint-Lô.
As the Americans paused to catch their breath, a call was made to Adolf Hitler from the headquarters of Army Group West. Field Marshal Hans von Kluge notified his Führer that the German left flank had completely collapsed. What von Kluge did not know was that behind the exhausted Americans, who were only beginning to realize the scope of what they had accomplished, another massive fist was ready, fully prepared to resume the push. On August 1, the American Third Army officially began its existence. After so many months of infuriating inactivity, George Patton was finally returning to the war.
* * *
41. PATTON
* * *
The image was still fresh in his mind, his deliberate tour of the enormous parking lots inland from Omaha Beach, wooden crates and canvas-covered mountains. The ships were unloading every day the weather would allow, so the mammoth stockpiles of supplies and hardware continued to increase. He had met the soldiers as well, his new army, men who greeted him with cameras and hearty cheers. Patton had obliged them with a brief speech, off the record, nothing of course for the reporters. He didn’t need Eisenhower telling him to shut up. That was a lesson he had learned. But the soldiers would hear what he wanted them to hear, and so the words had come.
“I’m proud to be here to fight beside you. Now let’s cut the guts out of those Krauts and get the hell on to Berlin. And when we get to Berlin, I am going to personally shoot that paper-hanging goddamned son of a bitch just like I would a snake.”
The scattered cheering had burst into an eruption of pure affection, the soldiers seeming to realize that this man was one of their own. With all the talk of delay and indecision, the griping that filled the ranks, someone had finally come to France who knew how to win the war.
Patton did not share their joy or their unbridled optimism. As he left Omaha Beach, the inspections began, his daily visits to the various division commanders and the men who served them. There were the veteran units and those newly arrived, and it was the veterans who concerned him most. As he marched through their camps, he carried the reports on what they had failed to do, the sluggishness and lackadaisical advances toward an enemy that seemed far more prepared. Too often, the new men seem underprepared and the veterans worn out. Patton understood why there had been so many failures. No matter how much they cheered their generals, it was the soldiers themselves who had to do the work, who had to show the enemy who the better man was. It was the army’s dirty little secret that too often the infantry had bogged down or, worse, had been driven back when they confronted an enemy they had been told they would simply sweep away.
Patton studied those men and began to realize that many of the same soldiers who so raucously welcomed his words had not been sufficiently trained and, worse, were not being led by the kind of officers Patton believed the army needed. He did not share his views openly, would not open up a messy controversy when his command was only hours old. Though he groused to his diary about Eisenhower’s leadership, he appreciated that privately Eisenhower shared his views about the inadequacy of the training. Both men were aware that propaganda was not confined to the Germans. In the training centers throughout the United States, the American troops had been surrounded by colorful posters, drenched in speeches from their officers, drilled to believe they were unstoppable, the best equipped and the most feared fighting men in the world. But the training itself had not met that promise. Patton knew he faced a challenge. The sting of failure had infected several of the infantry divisions, particularly the Ninetieth. The army clearly needed something or someone to inspire them to become better soldiers. In Patton’s mind, no one was more suited for the job than George Patton.
Patton’s Third Army was now one of two such commands under the overall leadership of Omar Bradley, who, in North Africa and Sicily, had been Patton’s subordinate. Bradley’s original command during Overlord, the American First Army, was now commanded by Courtney H. Hodges, a man Patton had known well, even before World War One. Like Patton, Hodges had once fought under Black Jack Pershing in Mexico, in futile pursuit of the bandit Pancho Villa. Patton’s Third Army was the second half of Bradley’s new command, which was designated the Twelfth Army Group. The change in command structure put Bradley on equal footing with Bernard Montgomery, who still commanded his Twenty-first Army Group. Montgomery’s command now consisted of Henry Crerar’s First Canadian Army, and Miles Dempsey’s Second British Army. The changes meant a significant promotion for Bradley and, in the eyes of many Brits, a demotion for Montgomery. Patton paid little attention to anyone’s complaints about whether or not Montgomery had received justice.
Patton’s new training regimens for the Third Army had become brutal, but there was more to the army’s problems. The weapons weren’t measuring up, the tanks in particular proving woefully inadequate to match the firepower and strength of the German machines. The antitank guns were inferior as well, particularly the clumsy bazookas that were more likely to draw deadly fire onto their own crews than to take out an enemy tank. Washington’s weak reply to the complaints had echoed what Montgomery too had insisted, that force of numbers would overcome the inadequacies. But Montgomery had been unable to prove that theory. Patton realized, as did Eisenhower, that throwing greater numbers of weaker tanks at a well-equipped enemy only killed more tank crews.
As his army organized and grew, Patton grew as well, accepting that the increased responsibility he had so lusted for had finally come his way. His incessant griping was silenced by his new role, and his army had responded well to the man who would lead them. He knew there would be no mi
racles, that many of the same problems would still plague his men as they drove forward to face a fanatical enemy. Patton was delightfully aware that Montgomery’s failures were due to his cautiousness and set-piece management on the battlefield, traits Montgomery had built his reputation on. Patton despised Montgomery’s tactics as deeply as he despised the man himself. Whether or not his troops and their weapons were equal to what the Germans would put in front of him, Patton brought another factor that the Germans had not faced before. The inspiration came from another general and another time, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Then it had been a Confederate, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, who crushed a far superior enemy by combining audacity and speed. Patton was supremely confident that, if it had worked for Jackson, it would work for him.
During the first week of August, he proved it.
Once his command became official, Patton’s mobile forces pressed south and west from the breakthrough that the Americans had wedged open around Avranches. The overall plan called for a sweep west, to occupy the Brittany peninsula and capture the valuable port cities along that western coast: Brest, Lorient, and Saint-Nazaire. Patton would certainly comply, but shifting a major part of his army away from the main theater in Normandy caused a knot in his gut that he could not meekly accept. The open country of the Brittany peninsula was an easy mark, and Patton’s troops had little trouble sweeping over miles of farms and villages that the Germans seemed unwilling to fight for. But the ports were a different story, and Patton found that what Bradley and Eisenhower assumed to be ripe picks were in fact well-entrenched and fortified German outposts, manned by inspired officers who were still enthusiastically obeying Hitler’s orders to hold to the last man. There would be no easy prizes for Patton on the coast of Brittany. As Hodges’s First Army faced off with the heavier lines of German resistance along the base of the Cotentin Peninsula, Patton chafed for a more meaningful role, some way to convince Bradley that the Third Army should drive east, not west. On August 7, the Germans opened that door.
BRADLEY’S HEADQUARTERS, NEAR ISIGNY
AUGUST 7, 1944
Bradley held the pointer and stabbed at the map.
“They hit us this morning, all along this area here. The Thirtieth took the brunt of it.”
Patton felt the nervous excitement in the room, the staff officers behind him studying the maps, reports shuffling through their hands. Patton pointed to the “30” on the map. “How are they holding up?”
“All right for now. But the German has given himself an opportunity. If the Thirtieth gives way, the enemy might drive through to Avranches and anchor himself back on that damned coast. That’ll cut you off. That’s their plan, anyway. I’m sure Hitler looked at this same damned map and thought he could drive a knife into our front and split us apart. There’s danger of a gap opening up south of the Thirtieth’s right flank, so I’m pulling your Thirty-fifth Division up that way and putting them under Hodges for now. I don’t want to hear any griping about it, George.”
Patton had already noticed the weakness in the American position, said, “No griping. Plug the hole. If you don’t, the Krauts will push right into Avranches. But that’s as much gas as they’ll have. Damn, this is one stupid attack. There’s no chance in hell of this working. There’s too many of us on his flanks.”
“It’s desperation, George. And it gets better. I was pretty sure he was coming.” Patton saw a hint of a smile on Bradley’s face, unusual. “We picked up quite a few reports, the communications between von Kluge and Berlin. Von Kluge probably bitched like hell about this, any good soldier would. I’m betting the order came from Hitler himself, more of his hold-every-inch crap. Hitler looks at a map and sees his invincible army like you would see your queen on a chessboard, so von Kluge got the order to jam that army—specifically, his panzers—down our throats. It just happened to be bad luck for the Thirtieth Division that they were sitting in the dead center of the line. They took a heavy hit, but they’re busting up the panzers too. The weather’s been perfect for our air people, and they’ve taken a hell of a punch out of the German lines. Right now, we have two choices, and Ike is leaving the decision up to me. One, we can pull you back this way, seal the weakness in our lines, consolidate our forces into a tighter front. You’ve got twelve divisions, George, and four would probably be all we’d need. The rest would keep up your drive through Brittany.”
“What drive? We’ve taken the damned place with nothing to brag about. The Krauts who were still out there wouldn’t stand up to us. If we didn’t grab them, it’s only because they hauled their asses back into the port cities. You want me to spend the rest of this war laying siege to a bunch of rinky-dink ports? You want four of my divisions just to plug a hole? Why, so we leave it to the Krauts to decide what they want to do next?”
Patton realized his voice had risen and heard stirring behind him, both his and Bradley’s aides nervously shifting in their chairs.
“Dammit, George, let it go. I said we had two choices. Ike expects me to think this through, not just bust out of here with the first idea that comes to mind. You can’t fight a war with your temper.”
Patton bristled, held it, let out a breath, and waited for Bradley to continue.
“The second choice is to go hell-for-leather. The other fellow has opened himself up to flank attacks on both sides, creating a perfect salient. Monty has three corps lining up…here…to move south pretty quickly.”
Patton sniffed. “How quickly?”
“Can that, George. Monty’s not your concern. You’ve been bellyaching for ages about doing something, so I’ve got an idea that ought to make you pretty happy.”
Patton heard the seriousness in Bradley’s voice, grew more serious himself and stared at the map.
Bradley continued. “I know damned well von Kluge sees what he’s done to himself, but with Hitler chewing his ass he had no choice. He’s given us a chance, and we should take it. We need to hit them as hard as we can. As hard as you can. Use the Loire River as your right flank, and drive those four divisions east. Try to reach Le Mans. If the enemy doesn’t pull back to meet you, we might have an opportunity to hit him from behind, to pinch him between you and Hodges and Monty.”
Patton studied the map, saw Bradley smiling at him.
“Well? You like choice number two better?”
“I think we should go farther east: Chartres, Dreux. That’ll put us thirty miles from Paris. This thing could be over in ten days.”
“Dammit, George, keep your head on straight! Paris? The enemy is right in front of us, and he’s dangerous as hell. We have an opportunity to cut him off and maybe destroy the whole German Seventh Army in the process. I don’t care a damn about Paris. You don’t have to conquer all of Europe to do your job.”
Patton absorbed the scolding, studied the map. “Le Mans, huh? I guess that’d work.”
“No sulking, George.”
Patton shook his head, kept his eyes on the map. “You want Le Mans, we’ll get it. You want the Seventh Army, we’ll get that too.”
Bradley crossed his arms, still holding the pointer. “This is an opportunity, George. Let’s see what we can make of it.”
Patton turned, the silent order to his aides to head for the door. He felt his heart racing, so very rare now, the flash of excitement building. He glanced back at Bradley, forced a smile, saw seriousness, concern, doubt.
“I’ll handle it, Brad.”
He passed by Bradley’s aide, ignored him, and followed his own people out the door, his mind filling with thoughts of Stonewall.
NEAR AVRANCHES
AUGUST 8, 1944
He shouted furiously, the truck drivers staring at him with open mouths, obeying his order.
“That way! Step on the damned gas!”
The column surged through the intersection, a dozen two-and-a-half-ton trucks coughing black smoke as they rolled past him. He glared at the drivers as they passed him, one hand on the butt of the pistol in his belt, his chest
out in a hard defiant stance. They know who I am, he thought. No one else out here has three stars on his damn helmet.
The column had spread out, a benefit of the faster speeds, and he waited for a gap, the end of one particular line, one regiment. The gap was nearly a hundred yards wide, and he stared at the distant truck, sniffed out loud.
“You’re too damn slow. It’s gonna cost you.”
He turned and stared at the dumbstruck driver whose truck sat idly, crowding the side road, the low rumble of trucks behind, another column. All right, he thought, it’s your turn. He held up a hand and waved the truck forward, the driver responding, the truck lurching into the intersection, more following closely behind. The column turned onto the single road, filling the gap in the advance. Patton tried to ignore the dust, fought the need to cough, the show of weakness he would not allow them to see. Damn this anyway.
“All right! Speed it up! Let’s move!”
They continued to roar past him, a solid line of olive-green vehicles, every one filled to capacity with men who now saw their commander for the first time. The cheering came again, hands in the air, some scrambling to pull a camera from a backpack, futile, the trucks moving away too quickly. But they called to him still, word seeming to spread magically through the enormous column as to just who the traffic cop was at this clogged intersection. Good, he thought. Let them know who runs this outfit. Even if I have to bust up the damn traffic jams myself.
After long minutes, he repeated the maneuver, waiting for a gap in the column on the smaller road, bringing forward the waiting column from the larger road. He had predicted something like this, knew from the maps about this astounding annoyance, two main roads funneling into one. For more than an hour, Patton’s jeep had crept along at a snail’s pace, the shouts of the men around him more infuriating than pleasing. When he finally reached the intersection, he had seen the police box. It was standard procedure, the boxes put into place so an MP could direct traffic without being run over. But the box had been unmanned, someone’s failure, and the converging columns had ground to a virtual halt, neither one able to figure out the mathematics of two roads merging into one. Patton had exploded, stepped furiously into the box, and for more than two hours he had directed the traffic himself.
