by Colin Gee
“Ernie, will you cut the ‘can’t do’s’ and give me Rheinböllen… and when you’ve done that, on to Mainz. You can do it, and you will do it. Just keep an eye on your right flank and work with Twenty-three Corps to stay secure. Hugh Gaffey will hang on to you, no problem.”
Patton twisted a smaller map to face him and studied it whilst he made the hum response to Harmon’s continued concerns.
“Listen, Ernie, I’m putting Twenty-one Corps online behind you, and I’m gonna drop the 15th Armored into line too, so you have some real beef back-up. Yes, it’s a goddamned logistical nightmare but we’ll overcome as always.”
Harmon was obviously somewhat soothed by this addition.
“Seventeen Corps will head towards Koblenz. The rest of the Army’ll close up, ready to exploit the breakthrough, and I want it to be you, Ernie.”
Patton laughed at his Corps Commander’s response.
“You and I go back way too far for me to soft-soap you, Ernie. Now, I’m relying on you. Stick to Plan Delaware until I tell you otherwise, clear?”
Patton listened to the rest of Harmon’s words, looking at the staff around him, already working out how best to implement the plan he had outlined to Harmon.
He nodded in approval, for no one’s benefit but his own.
“Remind me, where’s your HQ at? Fit for purpose is it?”
Patton already knew the answer to question number one.
“Excellent. Best you get yourself forward then, cos that will be my HQ this evening, Ernie.”
Patton pursed his lips as Harmon told him the Corps HQ was nearly ready to move forward.
“Okay, Ernie. Pass on my thanks to General Baade and his boys and let’s get this show on the goddamned road.”
He hung up and passed the telephone back to the waiting signaller, who had desperately hung on to the cable to stop Patton losing the connection.
“Right, I can see you’re all on the ball here. Get the orders cut and sent for Seventeen, Twenty-one, Twenty-two and 15th Armored... get the rest of the Corps’ prepped ready for an immediate move.”
Orders issued, Patton stood back and let the staff officers rush off like a firework display rocket bursting.
Repacking his pipe, he silently beckoned to his CoS, Hobart Gay.
Chuckling, he passed on the gist of the exchange.
“Old Gravel was none too pleased ‘bout airing his right flank, Hap.”
“Can’t say that I blame him, General.”
Patton nodded at Gay’s honesty.
“He won’t have anything to worry about. Look at the bigger picture.”
Pointing with the stem of his pipe, Patton ticked off the concerns.
“Sixth Army Group are doing just fine... good advances... no issues hanging onto our coat tails.”
Another stab towards the map.
“The sonsofbitches are just melting away from us... in fact... all across Europe... look at it all, Hap.”
“Yes, I know, General. But are they going ‘cos we’re shoving, or going according to their plans. I just don’t like it... seems too easy… they’re too quiet.”
Patton laughed again, using up the last of his daily allowance before lunchtime.
“What are you, Hap, some goddamned western movie? Well just so... we’re the cavalry and them there red men, the sonsofbitches, are the Indians... and we always win.”
There was no arguing with that, so Gay and Patton set about the business of deciding who would go where and, before Hamm’s church clock struck six pm, the entire Third Army was on the move eastwards.
Hamm was quiet once more.
1238 hrs, Thursday, 28th March 1946, US Third Army Headquarters, Haserich, Germany.
Patton’s humour had evaporated earlier that morning, when his headquarters, on the move forward from Wittlich-land, had been hit by an unexpected Soviet air incursion.
Three dead and eight wounded did nothing to calm his anger, and, even though he had blazed away with his .50cal from his Dodge command car, shooting off a belt of ammo had not assuaged his anger, neither had the downing of one of the enemy craft.
The air waves crackled with anger as he tore a strip off the highest ranking USAAF officer he could reach by radio, making the man personally responsible for covering every inch of air over Third Army.
Patton had almost calmed down when the headquarters convoy reached the river bridge at Zell-Mosel.
Despite the ongoing clear-up operation, graves registration and service units had made only modest inroads into the detritus of battle.
Normally unshaken by the sights and aftermath of intense combat, ‘Old Blood and Guts’ remained remarkably quiet until arriving at the selected headquarters position at Haserich.
Ahead, Third Army’s soldiers pressed hard towards the Rhine.
Standing with his hands on his hips, the classic Patton pose, he considered his personal options, which took about two seconds, as part of his mind was already determined to go forward.
“Hap, you’re gonna hold the fort here. I’m going on up to Ernie’s HQ, just to put a burr under his ass. Be back later.”
The statement brooked no argument, not that Gay was going to raise one; he knew his man too well.
Patton was already some distance away, calling the Captain in command of his escort to ‘get the men mounted the hell up’.
Within two minutes, Patton’s convoy was only noticeable by the faint noise of engines in the distance.
0621 hrs, Monday, 1st April, 1946, US Third Army Headquarters, Rheinböllen, Germany.
George Patton had been awake for over three hours, dragged from his bed by news of Soviet counter-attacks.
The last report arrived, speaking of successful defence and battle lines held... and more besides.
Hobart Gay took the message and moved to his commander, who was contemplating the successes of Harmon’s XXII Corps.
Ernest Harmon had already beaten back a number of concerted counterattacks and was following up hard, pushing the 16th Armored Division up alongside the 35th Infantry and pressing the retreating Soviets all the way to the Rhine.
“General...”
His concentration broken, Patton accepted the proffered message form.
“Well I’ll be goddamned. Mark it up, Hal.”
Patton returned the paper, substituting it for coffee, and watched as his CoS directed the staff to upgrade the situation map, reflecting the unexpected turn of events at Koblenz.
‘Sonofagun... damn...’
Small raiding parties had been paradropped, some had even used boats to get upriver, and all had met with startling success.
Every bridge on the Rhine from Neuwied to Koblenz-Horchheim had been primed for blowing, and each was saved by the speedy intervention of the raiding parties.
Only the Metternich Bridge over the Moselle had been destroyed completely, the Pfaffendorfer Bridge in Koblenz proper partially damaged, the recent repairs made by Soviet engineers removed by Soviet high-explosives.
Clearly, the bridge was still capable of supporting the vitals of war, as made clear by the report from US XVII Corps’ 4th Armored Division, which indicated that their lead elements were already fighting in the Koblenz districts of Ehrenbreitstein, Horchheim and Pfaffendorfer Höhe, all on the east bank.
Opportunity knocked twice before lunch, as Harmon’s boys broke through to the Rhine at Mainz, although heavy resistance prevented them from crossing at the rush.
Patton had already dispatched amphibious assault equipment to broach the huge river at Sankt Goarhausen, and had begged more from SHAEF and US 12th Army Group, most of which was already on the road for Mainz.
It was a good day for the Third.
1714 hrs, Saturday, 13th April 1946, US Third Army Headquarters, Ducal Palace, Wiesbaden, Germany.
The good days had continued, only the odd temporary setback discouraging the ebullient Patton, whose confidence cascaded down to the very point of Third Army.
Wiesbaden’s Duc
al Palace provided Patton and his staff with a much needed bricks and mortar location where they could wash away the grime of being on the road for nearly two weeks.
The old Music Hall in the Mittelbau provided a suitable venue for the main business of governing a vast army, and it was here that George S. Patton received the news of a bloody defeat.
“Goddamnit! What was the man thinking? That the sonsofbitches would keep on running? Goddamnit!”
Third Army had crossed the Rhine with an ease that beggared belief.
Mainz fell after a short but intense tussle, 35th Infantry and 16th Armored taking a heavy hit but getting the job done.
Koblenz felt a few hammer blows, as Soviet commanders desperately tried to push the XVII Corps back over the Rhine. The counter-attacks all failed but ate up valuable time, allowing the Red Army to re-establish itself in the hills beyond.
The small crossing that Patton manufactured at Sankt Goarhausen became a success beyond his wildest dreams, and he focussed much of his bridging assets there.
Four separate bridges appeared, permitting US III Corps to come up and, with all the spare units Patton could muster, from tank-destroyers to engineers, cross the Rhine and exploit the relative absence of organised Soviet resistance and linking the crossing points at Koblenz and Mainz with incredible speed and efficiency.
Ernest Harmon’s XXII Corps had been moved to the flank for a rest on the 8th April, allowing US VI Corps to take up the running for Frankfurt.
The experienced units of VI Corps, 10th US Armored and 45th US Infantry, slugged it out with battle-hardened Soviet units, pushing their way into the western outskirts of Frankfurt by the evening of April 12th.
Meanwhile, Patton organised further excursions.
Hindered by US Sixth Army Group’s problems around Heidelberg and Mannheim, even Old Blood and Guts shied away from launching his men around to the south of Frankfurt, which inevitably meant his eyes had turned to the northern route.
He ordered US XXI Corps through the mountains and deep into enemy lines, intent on cutting enemy supply lines through Butzbach and Reichelsheim. He reassigned 15th US Armored Division for some extras clout.
Major General Fairvale, commander of 15th Armored, was the subject of Patton’s present tirade.
The inexperienced division, despite having some of the best tanks available to the US Army, had walked into a Soviet trap at Bad Nauheim, one that cost the division heavily, as well as halted the flanking drive in its tracks.
“Goddamnit!”
Contrary to perceptions, Patton rarely fired his Generals, preferring to mould them and educate them in place.
However, in this moment, and given other issues relating to the command of the 15th, he made an executive decision.
“Fairvale gets a rear line job as of now. Who we got to replace him?”
“General Silvester?”
Lindsay McDonald Silvester had been commander of 7th Armored, but had been relieved following perceptions of poor performance in the German War.
His mind processed matters for a moment before he made a swift decision.
“Find Major General Silvester and tell him he’s ordered to report to me a-sap.”
Thirty-five minutes later, the newly appointed commander of 15th Armored, feeling uplifted by Patton’s full confidence in his abilities, was on the road to, as Patton had put it, ‘get the goddamned division sorted out and moving east before I put my boot up everyone’s ass.’
1117 hrs, Wednesday, 17th April 1946, outskirts of Reiskirchen, Germany.
Colonel Bell was a man on a mission.
Commander of the 359th US Infantry Regiment, he had driven into the front line to resolve an unexpected situation.
His men had been slugging their way forward since taking up the front position for the assault on Giessen and, until this moment, they had done everything he asked.
Until now.
First and Second Battalions had taken a rousting in Giessen, Wettenberg, and Buseck, even with tank support from the 4th Armored’s CCB.
Grosse-Buseck had seen a severe reverse, one that cost CCB nearly a quarter of its tanks and armored-infantry, as well as rendering 2/359th virtually combat ineffective.
Raymond E. Bell, pressurised from above, the desire for forward progress cascading down from Patton to every manjack in the field, had pushed through his Third Battalion and part of CCB, in order to rush Reiskichen before the Red Army could settle.
In short, the result was a disaster, although not one he had fully appreciated, as radio communications with his forward units had been all but lost, the messages broken and interrupted, failing or simply not getting through at all.
His lunge forward brought him into the presence of the commander of Love Company, Major William S Towers.
For his sins, Towers had been ordained as temporary commander of 3/359th by the fickle finger of fate, as a devastating combination of artillery and mortar fire left barely a dozen men of the Battalion command structure standing.
“Say that again, Major.”
“I won’t do it, Colonel. It’s suicide, plain and simple.”
“You’ll do as you’re fucking ordered, Major, or I’ll have your rank and kick you up front with a rifle.”
“You’ll do as you wish, Colonel, but I ain’t ordering these men into certain death... no way and no how.”
Bell’s eyes widened in disbelief as the flagrant disregard for rank and authority continued.
Towers maintained his defiance, pointing around the position in all directions.
“Colonel Bell, Sir, we simply don’t have a King Company any more. Wiped out pretty much... few survivors fallen in with Item for now. The 7th Armored’s boys took a fearful shellacking and they’ve fallen back. No way they’re going to go in again, short of the rest of their division arriving.”
He gestured the Colonel forward.
“Look here, Sir. As far as the eye can see... mines... all sorts... not hastily laid either, but real professional job. Engineers have been swatted away whilst trying to get us some fighting room. Round to the right there, more mines, mix of wire obstacles too, all covered by machine-guns.”
He moved his arm, taking his Colonel’s eyes away from the death trap on the right flank.
“On the left there, see where the tankers got to?” he didn’t wait for a reply, plunging on into his plea for common sense, “Line of mines just behind them and then the Reds opened up a can of whoop-ass on them. Anti-tank guns... we couldn’t get to them. Armored-infantry tried... well, you can see what happened there, Colonel.”
Most of the half-tracks were still smoking.
“Basically, we can sit here and stop them coming back, but we’ve no power to move forward. Artillery’s still got supply issues... the 7th’s outta tanks... battalion’s shot away command-wise... there’s nothing to be done that isn’t suicide, Colonel, and the President’s entrusted me with these boys so don’t think I give two hoots about my career, position and rank, when the alternative is to lead them into a slaughterhouse.”
Bell looked Towers straight in the eye.
“Have you done, Major?”
“Yessir.”
First Sergeant Micco slithered into the position with a report, but sensed the atmosphere and wisely held his tongue.
Bell spoke, his voice much calmer than it had been previously.
“You’re right, Major. No sense it pushing again with no support. I simply didn’t understand the situation.”
Towers nodded and a line was drawn under the confrontation.
“Now, you’ve got Third for the foreseeable future. Get them shaken out for defence a-sap. Report to me on your status, casualties, needs... you know the drill. Orders are simple. They shall not pass, Major. Clear?”
“Crystal, Colonel.”
The message went from the 359th Regiment to divisional command... to Corps command... to Army command... to Patton.
It was greeted with the normal tirade, but it passed
quickly as George S Patton understood its significance.
He held the telephone receiver in his hand, silently waiting for his connection to be made.
A voice growled in his ear.
“Bradley.”
“Brad, it’s George.”
“Morning, George. Please tell me this is a social call.”
“’Fraid not, Brad. Bottom line is I’m spent for now. Can’t get into Frankfurt unless you let me bomb it, and you won’t, so I can’t. Been stopped just west of Giessen now, and we just ain’t got the power to muscle through any more. Supply problems, high casualties... I have to let the Third recover, Brad.”
The man on the other end of the line understood how much that cost the man who prided himself as a charger and a go-getter.
“No shame, George. You’ve done well, Heck, everyone’s done well, but we got it wrong again, didn’t we? Across the board, we’ve lost momentum. The Reds have stopped us. OK, we’ve gained a lot of ground, but now they’ve stopped us.”
Patton nodded unseen.
“Next time we won’t make the mistake of underestimating them… yet again.”
The silence was disturbed only by the light crackling of the phone line, as both men contemplated the incredible resilience of the Soviet soldier and the professionalism of the Red Army command.
Each man’s face altered, unknown to the other, as thoughts of undiscovered enemy units turning battles invaded their thoughts.
‘Why are they so good at hiding stuff?’
“Okay, George. You may discontinue the attacks. Sort your line out as you need, but don’t give anything back if you don’t absolutely need to. I don’t need to tell you to be aggressive where you can be, but nothing fancy.”
“Thank you, Brad. I’ll have my full report with you soon.”
“No shame, George. Look after your boys now.”
“Goodbye. Brad.”
“George.”
The Allied Armies’ largest formation had been stopped, albeit after some excellent successes.
