Nothing except his orders.
“What should we do now, Colonel?” Dennis White, reflexively chewing on his pipe, squinted up at Pulaski.
The file of Combat Command A vehicles--tanks, halftracks, jeeps, and tracked guns--was rolling to the right and left of the narrow lane they had followed to the village. The artillery batteries were taking positions behind a couple of low hills, while the men of the armored infantry battalion were busy digging foxholes and setting up machine gun nests atop the surrounding hills. But for now the preparations were cursory, since Pulaski had made it known that he hoped they weren’t going to be here very long.
“Damned if I can tell you,” Pulaski grunted. “I know what I want to do--get CCA onto this road, race down to Avranches. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts we could get there before sunset tomorrow!”
“Christ, Colonel--let’s give ’em a knock-out punch!” declared Ballard. The ex-boxer’s jaw was set, and he looked like he was ready for a match.
If he had been given a little more time, he might have decided to do just that, but even before the village was fully occupied his attention was drawn to a couple of jeeps racing down the lane in the wake of the fast-advancing armored spearhead. Presumably because he traveled through a combat zone, General Wakefield had wisely stowed away the one-star flags that had previously decorated his jeep, but even so Pulaski recognized the division executive officer when he was still a half mile from the village.
The colonel greeted the general as soon as the jeep pulled into the small square, a plaza between the church, mill, and. inn that seemed to be about all there was to Sainte-la-Salle. A few local Frenchmen and women had hesitantly come forth from their homes, and now they gathered in front of the chapel, watching the Americans with considerable interest.
“General--welcome to Sainte-la-Salle!” Pulaski announced through a broad grin. “What you see is what you get.”
“Good work,” Wakefield agreed, looking around. “Not much of a social center, is it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “What kind of losses did you take getting here?”
Pulaski’s ebullience faded a little. “Five tanks, sixteen men killed and another two dozen wounded, already evacuated. But we cut right through the damned Krauts, General! Blew up a couple of tanks and knocked out two of their eighty-eights.” He shook his head at another memory. “Also, we learned that the reports about the Panther were right. Ballard saw two of his Shermans go toe to toe with one of the bastards. The Panther just took its time shooting one Sherman and then the next while the shells from those popgun 75s were just bouncing off the frontal armor. We did finally get the son of a bitch from the side, though.”
“Now you’re holding here?”
“Well, I was getting the men started on some positions... but listen, General--I’m glad you’re here,” Pulaski declared. “You can see we’ve beat Third Armored to the road! Hell, there’s no sign of ’em as far as I can see. What say we get moving toward Avranches?”
Wakefield shook his head. “Nothing doing, Jimmy, sorry. General King’s got his orders from Corps, and we’re sticking to the plan.”
“Where is General King, sir?” asked Pulaski, unable to hold his tongue against the borderline insolent question.
The general shrugged, his face a mask. “He had an urgent call from Army HQ--asked me to come out here and report on progress.”
“What the hell happened to Third Armored, then?” The colonel knew that his tone revealed his exasperation. Wakefield frowned, but didn’t make any direct rebuke.
Instead, the general merely shrugged. “Haven’t heard, though I’d guess they ran into some stiff resistance somewhere up north of here. I’ve gotta say I’m impressed by the time you made, though. A nice piece of attacking, Jimmy.”
Pulaski tried again. He pointed down the empty roadway. “But look--there’s nothing down there! At least let me move past those hills, set up a position for the Third when they finally come through here... damnit, General, we’ve got the Germans reeling back on their asses! Let me get on with finishing the job.”
“I told you, Jimmy, I can’t let you do that. There’s the plan, made by Bradley himself, and if CCA is on the road when a whole armored division tries to roll on through, there’ll be chaos.”
“But that’s just the point--we’ll be down the road and out of Third Armored’s way! If we hit some resistance, we’ll deploy, take out any roadblocks. Sending CCA down there will only let the next guys move that much faster!” Wakefield clenched his jaw and Pulaski saw that he was pushing too hard, especially with his own officers watching. Slowly, he thought to himself. He knew his own eagerness was starting to run away with him, and that was no way to get results.
Further debate was halted by the arrival of another jeep convoy, this one distinguished by a three-star general who wore two .45 automatics and swaggered up to the officers with a belligerent scowl. General George S. Patton cut a dashing swath on the battlefield, and there wasn’t a man in the village square who didn’t recognize him.
The officers of Nineteenth Armored saluted and stood straight as Patton marched right up to them.
“Henry, goddamn it, what the hell are you doing?” demanded the famous commander, in a voice that was almost incongruously high-pitched as it emerged from such a warlike visage. “Sitting on your ass here while the Krauts are getting away! D’you think you’re on a goddamned picnic?”
Pulaski could see Wakefield’s face harden.
“General, I’m following orders. Get to this town and hold,” Wakefield shot back. “Orders from General Bradley and Jack King, my bosses.”
“Get these goddamned tanks moving down this road, now!” snapped Patton. “Jesus Christ, don’t you know you’re out here to fight a war?”
“On what authority?” demanded Wakefield. “I’m under Eight Corps, First Army.”
“Your division CO is getting the news right now--Third Army is activated, and I’m your new boss! And if you keep sitting here on your ass you’re going to find yourself out of a job!” The army commander stalked into the middle of the dirt street, spun around with both hands upraised. He kicked through the dust with his cavalry boots. “Damn it, Hank, look around you! This pissant little flea hole doesn’t mean crap--it’s Avranches that we need. And your boys here are at the front of the line--you need to get ’em rolling!”
Wakefield drew a deep breath, then turned to glare at the CCA commander. “Colonel Pulaski?” he roared.
“Yes, sir!” Pulaski snapped off a salute, made sure that no trace of his elation showed on his face.
“You heard the general.” Wakefield’s voice was a growl.
“We’re ready to move out, sir!” Pulaski declared, turning to shout at his men. “Men of CCA--mount up! On the double! Colonel Ballard, get D Company rolling right away, have a look over those hills. The rest of us will be along the road in a minute--give us cover if you see any sign of the Krauts!”
Patton nodded with a smug grin. Wakefield’s face was impassive, but Pulaski noticed his fists were clenched tight. He’d heard rumors that there was bad blood between his division exec and Old Blood and Guts Patton, and now he believed it. And he’d stepped in it, too, implicitly taking Patton’s side against his own XO. He knew he shouldn’t have done that, but it had been impossible to resist. He knew he was right, but he shouldn’t have been so impatient.
Immediately the Stuart tanks that formed D Company, the light armor company, rolled forward. They rattled through the ditch and over stone walls, fanning out as they drove southward from Sainte-la-Salle. Soon the M5s were rolling up the first of the nearby hills, rumbling over the crests, spreading to protect both flanks of the long highway.
In and around the village more engines roared, and tracks clattered as the first Sherman tanks rumbled down the road within a minute of Pulaski’s orders. The infantry, gunners lugging their heavy machine guns, lumbered down from the hilltop to scramble into their half-tracks and chase along behind the tanks. By th
is time Colonel Pulaski had scrambled into his halftrack, and Keefer had started the command vehicle down the road in the wake of C Company’s fourteen remaining tanks.
When he looked back, the last thing he saw was the two generals standing side by side.
Excerpt from War’s Final Fury, by Professor Jared Gruenwald
At the moment of Hitler’s assassination, the situation for Germany was bleak to the point of hopelessness. The Soviet Union’s eventual victory was assured. Why, then, would Stalin consider making peace with his bitter enemy, someone who had double-crossed him scant years ago?
This was the genius of Operation Carousel. How can two sides consumed with mutual distrust, even hatred, negotiate a peace? The answer is in two parts: first, that each party gains through negotiated peace more and better than it could through military action, and second, that the terms of the peace make it difficult or impossible for either party to renege.
Stalin had growing distrust for the Western Allies, as is well known. The alliance between the Communist Soviet Union and the democratic West was one of convenience. As the war moved into its final phase, farsighted people on both sides were looking forward to an inevitable Third World War, involving the West versus International Communism, centered in the Soviet Union. Churchill, Patton, and even Rommel were among those who expressed grave concern about what would come next. Stalin could only assume that with the defeat of Germany, the unwelcome attention of the West would turn toward him.
By conquering as much as possible of Eastern Europe, as well as by supporting indigenous revolutionary movements throughout Western Europe, Stalin hoped to turn the postwar political environment to his favor. While his faith in the “historic inevitability” of Communism sustained his long-range vision, he knew that Marx did not predict instant or easy victory, or victory without some setbacks along the way. Operating on the principle that “Marxism helps those who help themselves,” Stalin needed to look forward to securing his postwar base, for the “good will” of the Western Allies, he knew, would evaporate as soon as Germany fell.
Heinrich Himmler understood the realpolitik as well as Stalin. His problem was that Germany, trapped in an unwinnable two-front war, decimated by poor military decisions by the late führer, was hardly in a position to impose a unilateral peace. He couldn’t merely offer what Stalin already had; that would not change Stalin’s behavior. But he could offer Stalin several things of value. First was wider access to territory than Stalin would get from the Western Allies, including that bête noir of classic Russian foreign policy: a warm-water port on the Mediterranean. Second was a destabilized political environment that prevented the West from checkmating Stalin’s moves. It is possible he believed that a tripartite rather than bipolar world would give Stalin additional maneuvering room. Finally, there was access to newer technology. Russia’s classic need to modernize was unchanged under Communist rule. And Germany, even in ruins, possessed far more advanced technology than Stalin could get elsewhere.
One element that did not become known until well after the war was that Himmler, through his own back channels and independently of Minister von Ribbentrop, had been feeding Stalin a steady stream of “black propaganda,” forged documents purporting to show a growing Allied intent to make the Soviet Union the next target. This had been done with a high degree of finesse and subtlety, with material having been slipped to Soviet agents through unrevealed German moles, over some time, more evidence that Himmler’s Operation Reichsturm option was one of long planning. This propaganda effort may have played a crucial role in the diplomatic negotiations that were to follow.
It went without saying that the two men would double-cross each other at their earliest opportunity, but neither would double-cross until--or unless--it would redound to his advantage. This was an odd basis on which to build mutual trust, but definite knowledge, however base or distasteful, is a solid foundation on which to build effective diplomacy.
Himmler’s moves, as we shall see, were therefore obvious …
OPERATION COBRA
August 1944
Rockefeller Center, New York, United States, 1 August 1944, 0800 hours GMT
Chuck Porter stubbed out his cigarette and reached into his shirt pocket for another as he watched the chattering Teletype machine. Most of the AP Early team was clustered around as well; nobody moved. It was four o’clock in the morning, New York time; people were just starting work in England.
FLASH/BULLETIN
LONDON, 1 AUGUST, 0800 GMT
COPY 01 HIMMLER NEW FÜHRER
DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS
LONDON, 1 AUGUST (AP) BY EDWARD REED
GERMAN RADIO BROADCAST TODAY THAT HEINRICH HIMMLER, HEAD OF THE NAZI SS AND GESTAPO SECURITY FORCES. HAS BEEN NAMED CHANCELLOR AND FUHRER OF THE THIRD REICH BY THE NAZI GOVERNMENT MEETING AT THE REICHSTAG.
IN HIS ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, HIMMLER PRAISED HITLER AND PLEDGED THAT “THE THOUSAND-YEAR REICH SHALL STILL FULFILL ITS DESTINY” AND THAT “THE FORCES ALLIED AGAINST US WILL SHORTLY KNOW TO THEIR SORROW THAT THE GERMAN PEOPLE REMAIN STRONG EVEN WHEN THEIR SUPREME LEADER HAS BEEN MURDERED BY COWARDLY TRAITORS.'
WITHIN AN HOUR OF HIS ELECTION, UNDERGROUND SOURCES REPORT THAT A STRING OF ARRESTS AND EXECUTIONS HAS TAKEN PLACE, INCLUDING THE EXECUTION OF COLONEL STAUFFENBERG, REPUTED TO BE THE ASSASSIN OF HITLER AND FAILED COUP LEADER. THIS IS DENIED BY THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT, WHO STILL BLAME THE ASSASSINATION ON “AMERICAN JEWISH SPIES.”
THE NEW NAZI LEADERSHIP INCLUDES GENERAL ADOLF GALLAND AS HEAD OF THE LUFTWAFFE....
Chuck turned away from the Teletype as it continued to spew out a list of military and cabinet appointments. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like the Nazis have one last gasp in them after all. Still, nobody’s as crazy as Hitler; they’ve got to realize it’s all over but the shouting, and I think you’ll see some peace overtures coming soon.”
“Suppose they do have some new secret weapon?” asked one of the night shift editors, a brown-haired, slightly cynical older reporter named Eaker. “Maybe they’re going to put the war in extra innings.”
“Bullshit,” pronounced Porter with finality. “In fact, I want to alert the London bureau to start digging for early word on peace overtures. I know the phrase is ‘unconditional surrender,’ but with Hitler dead, my bet is we’ll start talking with any halfway decent offer.” He inspected the long line of faces and didn’t see any opposition. “Good. Let’s see if we can’t get a decent scoop out of this.”
Avranches, France, 1 August 1944, 1322 hours GMT
“It’s a hell of an opportunity, Jack, Hank...just look at them go. The whole country’s ours for the taking!” George Patton was in a great mood as he stood with Jack King and Henry Wakefield, looking across the bridges south of the city, gesturing at the columns of Shermans and half-tracks rolling across those spans and roaring into the French countryside.
“You’re right, General. It’s one helluva chance,” King enthused. “I’ve got Pulaski and Jackson in a race to see who can get to the Seine first.”
Patton chuckled. “Good men, there. I’ll tell you, my money’s on Pulaski.” The general gave Wakefield a wink. “You too, Hank?”
The division XO nodded, forced himself to return a smile. “Jimmy’s in a hurry, General, that he is.” He was still stinging about the tongue-lashing Patton had given him at Sainte-la-Salle. It didn’t help his mood to know that Pulaski had been right: CCA had raced all the way to Avranches before Third Armored appeared on the scene.
However, Wakefield was a practical enough man to admit to himself that the Third Army commander was correct about the combat commands’ deployment, and about the situation in general. The U.S. Army, and particularly the armored divisions under Patton’s command, had achieved a breakthrough of historic, even epic, proportions. The Nineteenth Armored, with Third and Fourth Armored Divisions hot on its heels, had rolled right through Avranches. In some places in the large city the enemy had fought hard to defend each block, while elsewher
e the Americans had been slowed more by celebrating French than by fighting Germans.
But now they were through the city and had seized the key bridges over the Selune River south of the town. From here Old Blood and Guts was sending his spearheads racing across the countryside. Everywhere American tanks embarked on a surging offensive to liberate France, and to drive the Germans back to their own border and beyond. Patton had charged the Nineteenth with reaching the Seine, and crossing it if they could; King had subsequently informed both his combat commanders that they would make such a crossing, and that the only acceptable question was who would reach the east bank first.
The emphasis on speed still seemed vaguely reckless to Wakefield, not a proper way to run an advance. The division--hell, the whole of Third Army!--was attacking without flank protection, relying on the rapidity of movement to protect itself from counterattack. But the XO could not argue with success, so he could only pray that it continued.
“Well, Jack--keep ’em rolling,” Patton said, accepting the salutes of his subordinate generals before climbing into his jeep. “Good luck to you and your boys!”
“Thanks, General! See you in Paris!” shouted King as the army CO roared away. The division commander raised his binoculars and stared at the file of tanks and half-tracks moving across the bridge. “There goes your lead combat command, Hank,” he declared fiercely. “Ski’s got ’em on the move.”
“Yes, sir.”
“General?”
King and Wakefield turned to see that Bob Jackson had joined them. Somehow the CCB commander had managed to keep his uniform neat, his face clean shaven, even in the midst of the campaign.
“Ready to move out, Bobby?”
“Right away, sir... I just wanted to check on the fuel priorities. Can we get the trucks on the Paris highway by tonight?” Wakefield nodded. This was proper planning, an element of an armored campaign that deserved careful attention. Apparently his division CO had a different opinion, because King’s voice was sharp.
Fox On The Rhine Page 18
