And he didn’t know what to do about it. The sense of impotence, of failure, was nearly intolerable to Bücher. Rommel and Manteuffel had sent him here to speed up the offensive, to see that a key crossroads in the Wehrmacht’s path was seized and held. But it seemed that he could do nothing to break through the armored shell of American resistance.
The car that rumbled up to the building sounded no different from the myriad of machines that constantly arrived here--until the guard at the door snapped to attention.
“Herr Feldmarschall!”
Bücher heard the feldwebel announce Rommel’s arrival, and the SS general immediately stood ramrod straight.
The Desert Fox, his scarred face a match for Bücher’s own, strode easily into the headquarters, his cane virtually ignored except as a pointer. He nodded smilingly to Bücher as the staff made way for him at the map table.
“Still outside the city, eh, Horst?” The army commander’s tone was calm, even friendly--further gouges into Bücher’s sense of pride.
“Yes, field marshal. I am sorry to report that each of three panzer divisions has been repulsed outside Bastogne.” The general’s shame urged him to beg for forgiveness, to offer his abject apology, but the discipline instilled in a lifetime of service held him silent.
“Yes... I think something needs to be done.”
The SS general stood at attention and waited.
“We have three different efforts under way, and this is clearly dispersal of our strength. General Bücher... I would like you to take the leading elements of all three divisions and command an attack against the city.”
“Of course, sir!”
“You understand my needs?”
“Yes--Bastogne must be taken, and quickly.”
“Correct. You will take such elements of the panzer divisions as you can gather to form Kampfgruppe Bücher. Then, I suggest that you attack from the west.”
“Yes, field marshal!” Bücher hesitated, then voiced his concern. “But from the west ... isn’t that exceptionally risky? That’s where the American relief forces are approaching.”
“Precisely. And that’s where the city defenses are likely to be the weakest. Concentrate all the artillery from three panzer divisions against your target zone, and then strike on a very narrow front. And, General Bücher, good luck to you. The success of our attack now rests upon your shoulders.”
SS General Horst Bücher had learned the arts of warfare from the famed commando Otto Skorzeny and had quickly advanced through SS ranks because of his Aryan heritage, his quick and ruthless mind, and his total loyalty to the party. And now he had a combat command and a military objective: Bastogne, thanks to the trust placed in him by Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.
He sat upright in the hatch of a Tiger tank’s turret, surrounded by a cacophony of artillery fire, shells exploding everywhere, splintering trees and scarring the landscape. Around him were dozens more of the armored behemoths, mottled white in winter camouflage. The Americans were dug in on the heights before him, and he imagined them cringing under the tumultuous onslaught. He knew that just beyond this hill ran the road to the west, and the city limits of Bastogne. And he knew that, as soon as this barrage was lifted, he would lead these tanks through the pulverized forest and into the key crossroads.
Bücher didn’t stop to wonder about the source of his confidence, but he was utterly certain that he would win. He had sought out many role models and mentors in his career, beginning with the Hitler Youth leader who counseled him to turn in his father so many years ago, and onward and upward. Virtually every man he had put his trust in had disappointed him, as had his father. This one was weak in his dedication to the Party, that one was a drunken whoremonger, the other one was not pure in his Aryan genotype. Only two men--Adolf Hitler, who was nearly a god, and Heinrich Himmler, his earthly apostle--had not disappointed him in his dedication, and neither of them was quite mortal in Bücher’s eyes.
Now there was a third: the Desert Fox, a man who represented all that was good and noble about the German race. And this great man trusted him--him, Horst Bücher!--and today he had the chance to prove it by leveling this pocket of American resistance.
Yet there was a deeper challenge underlying Bücher’s concern, and he was not sure what to do about it. For the first time the purity of his Nazi faith had begun to weaken, to show signs of inner tarnish.
After the Metz Massacre, he had received his long-expected order from Führer Himmler: He was to kill the Desert Fox at the conclusion of this battle, once victory was certain or defeat inevitable, and to make it look like a combat death. That would be easy for a man of Horst Bücher’s skills, but he had reached a decision, a momentous one for him. Führer Himmler’s massacre at Metz--for Bücher had instantly known the truth about who had arranged it--had sickened him, not because of the deaths, but because of the dishonor, especially when he knew Rommel was right.
Therefore, Bücher would disobey the orders to kill Rommel, the first time in his life he had ever disobeyed a Party directive, the first time in his life he had ever condoned behavior his leadership believed to be treasonous, or even mildly anti-Party. For once, Bücher saw Himmler’s directive about Rommel as being self-serving, motivated by envy, not by Party. Surely, he thought, Adolf Hitler would never have done anything like that. The Metz Massacre would have been justified had the retreat been cowardly or unneeded, but Himmler was simply wrong about the military situation. He wished he could argue the point, but he knew that would be futile.
What does it matter? he thought. I am planning to disobey my orders, and I know the penalty for disobedience. It is I, not the Desert Fox, who will not survive this campaign.
His mind snapped back to the present, to the awareness that the artillery fire was slackening. Now he could hear tank engines rumble into life. He dropped through the hatch as the massive panzer began to inch slowly up the artillery-scarred hillside.
Somehow American soldiers had survived, and gunfire pinged off German armor. But the panzers replied with cannons and machine guns, and the huge treads crushed right over the crude trenches. Here was an enemy machine gun nest, quickly obliterated by fire from the tanks’ main guns. There an American tank destroyer took a few bold shots, until the crew in the open turret was killed by swarming panzergrenadiers. At the hilltop there was no pause as direct hits on two Shermans knocked out the last barrier before the city.
Soon the German tanks were rolling down the hill, some of them racing onto the road, others driving right around the houses and fields that formed the city’s fringe. The barrage had reduced many buildings to rubble, but these were still defended, infantry shooting rifles, automatic weapons, and bazookas amid the mounds of shattered stone.
Three Tiger tanks formed the leading edge of the sally along the main road, while five Panthers rumbled behind. Bücher’s command tank followed the Panthers; while companies of panzergrenadier infantry spread out to either side. Guns firing constantly, the panzers growling slowly, inexorably into the city. The sound of BAR and rifle fire sputtered in the tight confines. Smoke grew, confusing the landscape, combining with the ice and freezing rain in a way to give the phrase “as cold as hell” a very special meaning. Americans held sniper positions in every tall structure, and their own tanks returned fire. But whenever a Sherman fired, a position could be marked and fire returned, the heavier fire of the Tiger tanks invariably destroyed the undergunned, underarmored enemy.
The joy and passion of deadly combat swelled within Bücher, and he rose to sit atop the turret, signaling for the infantry and the rest of the armor to move up. The combat spilled through the streets of Bastogne. House by house and street by street the enemy was forced back.
Bullets filleted the air around him as Bücher shouted furiously, dismounting from the tank and drawing his pistol. He rushed among the infantry, waving them forward. It was unwise, stupid, but death was not something Bücher feared, it was something he welcomed. And the presence of an SS general ris
king enemy fire like a common soldier was something that soldiers noticed, remarked on. Victory must be certain if a general officer would risk himself so!
Now tanks and infantry pushed into the city square. A feldwebel raced up to Bücher, saluting over the silly grin on his face.
“Good news, Herr General! We’ve captured the fuel depot before the Amis could destroy it!”
Bücher threw back his head and laughed, exultant at this final triumph, the reserves needed to carry Rommel’s offensive over the Meuse and beyond. He lifted his pistol, firing the weapon into the murk of a burning building, a place where the Americans had refused to surrender.
A Sherman was backing down a side street, muzzle pointed forward. A shell from an eighty-eight made a direct hit, shattering the turret and barrel. The cheers and yells of his soldiers showed the battle was moving forward; Americans were retreating and his men were fighting, shooting.
“Rache fur Metz!” he heard one man shout. He was surprised that there were common soldiers who did believe the propaganda message about the American atrocity at Metz. Revenge was a good message.
So he, too, shouted “Rache fur Metz!” Soon other soldiers picked up the cry, and Bücher saw another American fall, shot in the back in the growing rout.
Nineteenth Division Mobile Headquarters, Sedan, France, 1524 hours GMT
Sergeant Johnson brought Wakefield a steady stream of reports as the battle developed through those overcast December days. At first the general had thought that the initial messages must be some kind of overreaction, but as he huddled in his headquarters tent, his big hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee it was pretty obvious that the situation was deteriorating quickly. The German capture of the Stavelot fuel dump had been a stunning reversal. In moments, the campaign had changed from one in which the Allies had ample fuel resupply and the Germans little or none into one in which the situation was in dire danger of reversal.
“Even with the loss of Stavelot, we’ve still got some fuel reserves,” Colonel Sanger began, answering the unspoken question that was first in everyone’s mind. The S-2 was holding an impromptu intelligence briefing on the fourth day of the battle. All the commanders of the Nineteenth had gathered around, sharing Wakefield’s certainty that they would soon be thrown into the fight.
“That being said, there’s a lot of news that’s less pleasant. First Army’s getting ripped up all along the Seven Corps front,” Colonel Sanger explained. “It seems like a lot of units aren’t even responding. Like they’ve been overrun or cut off already.”
“The whole corps?” Pulaski demanded, blinking in astonishment.
“That’s what it seems like.”
“Damn.” It occurred to Wakefield that, a few weeks earlier, Nineteenth Armored had been a part of that corps. “It looks like being assigned to Third Army might just have pulled our fat out of the fire.” For the time being, anyway, he privately amended.
“Any word from Patton?” the colonel asked, directing his question to the division CO.
“No, but I heard that Ike got all the top brass together to try and figure out what’s going on.”
“Well, we’re ready to move.”
“You got those tank destroyers OK?”
“Yes sir,” Pulaski replied. “That Zimmerman is sharp... I’ve put one platoon with each of my task forces.”
“Good. You’ll be out in front. Bob?”
“CCB is ready too,” pledged Bob Jackson in a Virginia drawl. “Give my boys half a minute to kiss their girlfriends good-bye, and they’ll be ready to attack hell itself.”
The jangling of the general’s telephone interrupted the conference, and Wakefield moved with alacrity to take the instrument at Sergeant Johnson’s summons. He listened for a minute to the familiar, high-pitched voice of his army commander. When he hung up, it was with a sense of resolve mingled with relief. At least now they could do something.
“Jimmy, how soon can you have CCA rolling?” Wakefield’s voice was tense, and the colonel obviously shared his emotion. “Within the hour, General. Where do you want us?”
“You’re on the left flank of Third Army... in the best position to get up to Dinant. The Krauts are crossing the river there, and after they do they’re sure to turn north, toward Antwerp. You’re to move against Dinant, with CCB coming right behind. You’ll have enemy panzer divisions on both sides of you when you get there, but that’s the only crossing Rommel has. You take out those two bridges, and his army is cut in half. I want you to see if you can’t cut their supply line right there.”
“You got it, General. We’re ready to go!” Both colonels acknowledged the orders, and Wakefield was already heading toward the door.
“All right, then. Move out!”
The Kremlin, Moscow, Soviet Union, 21 December 1944, 1922 hours GMT
Intelligence briefings continued in another quarter as well. The GKO, the State Defense Committee of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, followed the military situation with great interest.
“And what do you think of the chances of the Desert Fox?” asked Stalin, sipping a cup of tea.
It was always difficult for a briefing officer to determine what kind of answer Stalin wanted, whether an honest answer or one that fit his own preconceived notions. The deceptively calm, even casual delivery with which Stalin asked the question was an unreliable gauge.
Sweating even in the cold Kremlin conference room, the briefing officer collected his thoughts to give the best answer he knew. “Because of the oil we sold Germany, Rommel has sufficient reserves to launch a solid attack, and can continue to move if he captures Allied reserves on the way. It’s a difficult situation for him at best, but if he reaches Antwerp, the course of the war will alter in serious ways. Ultimately, the Allies will advance through Italy and attack from the south, but that is a slower campaign.”
“And if he does not take Antwerp?”
“Then he will return to the Westwall and continue to fight a holding action, trying to wear the Allies down. But whether he wins or loses, he has now stretched the war out for at least one additional year. We can adjust that amount of time either way by selling or by withholding oil from the Germans.”
“Very good,” said Stalin. “That gives us the time we need to build up a massive offensive that will capture all of Germany to the banks of the Rhine in one single march. Molotov, what would your young friend think of that?” Molotov had been very impressed by the German military attaché von Reinhardt.
“I suspect he knows. Germany’s trouble is that they have too few options. They must smash the Allies, negotiate a quick peace that is not too painful, then move back against us, and that is highly improbable. The Allies will still exact an enormous price for peace, because with few exceptions their leaders are unable to see the long-range consequences. All that reinforces our long-range plan.”
“I would prefer greater certainty. Let us discuss ways to interfere with any temporary successes the Germans might achieve.”
Excerpt from War’s Final Fury, by Professor Jared Gruenwald
The spearheads of the great Fuchs Am Rhein offensive cut through the lightly held First Army front with stunning force. For the first time, the American army experienced the full might of the Blitzkrieg. Rommel attacked with fifteen panzer divisions, a half-dozen top-line infantry divisions, and nearly thirty divisions of the Volksgrenadier, the under-equipped formations made up of older men and youths drafted during the last year of the war. The tanks led the way, driving fast and hard while the foot soldiers came forward in waves to overwhelm bypassed strong-points.
Though in many places surprised formations--mostly infantry, with a few artillery elements in support--recovered quickly to offer serious resistance, the tide of the attacking Wehrmacht was too powerful to halt. The practice of Blitzkrieg--lightning war--conceived by Guderian and perfected by Rommel, worked as well as it had in 1940 and 1941. The armored spearheads plunged deep into the American rear, while those bypassed defenders wh
o were not quickly captured were at least surrounded and effectively cut off from reinforcement or retreat. The capture of the Stavelot fuel dump, in particular, was a huge success for the Germans and a disaster for the Americans.
Rommel’s plan involved the use of two great armies on the attack. On his right flank, the Sixth Panzerarmee under Guderian was to drive for the Meuse, cross that river barrier, and sweep all the way to Antwerp. This was the direct route to victory. On the left, the Fifth Panzerarmee under Manteuffel was to thrust westward, securing the open flank of the attack to reach the Meuse and, if possible, cross.
In the north Guderian’s panzer forces bypassed the areas of initial resistance, most notably along the crest of Elsenborn ridge. Leaving these zones for the infantry to mop up, several armored divisions seized key road junctions at Monschau, Malmedy, Stoumont, and finally Spa. With the capture of that last town, the road to the Meuse lay open, and “Hurrying Heinz” Guderian wasted no time in sending his lead Kampfgruppe racing toward that great river. His goals included the propaganda prizes of Liege and Brussels, and, of critical importance to Rommel’s master plan, the key Allied supply port of Antwerp beyond.
South of the Sixth Panzerarmee, the Fifth made even more dramatic progress, although it, of course, had farther to go. Charged with protecting Guderian’s long flank, General Hasso-Ecard von Manteuffel, a classically trained cavalry officer who had attained notable success on the Russian Front, sent his panzers in an all-out dash through rugged country in a race to reach the Meuse at Dinant. The force ran into serious resistance at the key crossroads of Bastogne, and only Rommel’s arrival on the scene and inspirational plan of attack allowed the Germans to seize that town before the arrival of American relief forces. At the same time the Wehrmacht troops captured enough petrol to send their spearheads forward with renewed determination. Capturing interim Allied supply dumps on the way to Antwerp was also an essential part of Rommel’s plan. Not only was his own supply of petrol limited, capturing Allied supplies achieved two additional goals: first, it allowed his spearheads to race ahead of his own necessarily slower resupply efforts, and second, it deprived Allied troops of their own opportunity for refueling, taking at least some American tanks out of the battle as effectively as if they had been destroyed in battle.
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