Of course, we’re all just a little bit nervous about the Nazi jet fighters, but Dinant is close enough to England that we’ll be able to put up just about every fighter escort we’ve got. Their jets might be better than our fighters, but we’ve got a lot more fighters, so the odds are going to be on our side. One way or another, those bridges are going to go down.
I wish I could be there for Christmas, but I will be home by next Christmas, either because the war will be over or because we will be flying back on our War Bond Victory Tour. So I will see you very soon.
Love,
Digger
South of Dinant, East Bank of the Meuse River, Belgium, 25 December 1944, 1140 hours GMT
The column of Shermans was rumbling along at more than twenty miles per hour. They were still in friendly territory, but Pulaski knew they had crossed the border from France into Belgium a few miles back. At any minute they might encounter the initial screen guarding Rommel’s southern flank, the lethal crack of a hidden gun that would signal the opening round of battle. His recon spearhead under the apparently teenage Captain Holland were racing ahead. Those brave men sped along in Greyhounds and jeeps, but the rest of the combat command was close behind.
This was no time for caution. For two days the division had raced across country. It was Christmas Day, now, and the holiday had brought a wonderful present: The skies were clear, and the cold temperatures were actually a benefit to the movement of tanks and trucks. Roads that had been quagmires a few weeks before were now frozen hard, and once the unit had formed up--and Pulaski had located a priest to say a very quick mass--CCA had been off and running. Captain Zimmerman and his first platoon of tank destroyers were rolling right behind, with Task Force Ballard. White and Miller’s men, each with its own platoon of TDs--tank destroyers--came along directly behind.
The improved traveling weather was a fine development, especially because the main highway ran on the far side of the river. Since CCA of the Nineteenth Armored had rumbled through the border town of Givet, the American tanks had been making their way along a succession of country roads and winding lanes. A series of deep gorges plunged like defensive trenchworks perpendicular to the convoluted bank of the winding river, and these made for slow, even painstaking progress. But Pulaski was reluctant to take his men too far to the east. Their objective, after all, spanned that very flowage. Still, as the rumbling tanks, half-tracks, and trucks worked their way on a narrow road through the woods of another stone-cored ridge, he began to wonder if they weren’t wasting time in this rough terrain.
His musings were interrupted as the column ground to a halt. In his command half-track ten tanks behind the leader, Pulaski rose to stand in the turret and realized that the first Sherman must have reached the horizon of this next ridge. In another moment he saw Frank Ballard making his way stiffly down the steep trail, a route that was barely wide enough to let the tank commander squeeze between his hulking charges and the enclosing trees.
“There’s a Kraut A/T gun, an eighty-eight, with a look over the road,” Frank reported from the front of Pulaski’s half-track. “They let the recon boys slip past, hoping for big game. Lieutenant Pinnow caught a look at it and signaled back. It’s a good spot for an ambush, Ski--I’m thinking we should send some infantry across the valley to take it out.”
“How long to get ’em over there?”
“An hour at least, maybe longer. It’s more than a mile away, steep terrain.”
James Pulaski jumped down from his vehicle. “I’d hate to lose the time,” he said, following Ballard back up the trail. “Let me get a look at the lay of the land.”
A minute later, binoculars pressed to his eyes, he lay beside the lieutenant colonel in the brush next to the road. The dirt track, frozen hard as steel and dusted lightly with snow, crested through a narrow pass and then twisted down the far side of the ridge. A pasture ensured that no trees obscured the view of the road from the opposite elevation. Though both men scoured the far rise, Pulaski knew that an antitank gun would be well camouflaged, all but invisible to observers until it began to fire.
“Pinnow put it there, near the crest, below that stone outcrop.”
Pulaski stared, but the emplacement was very effectively camouflaged and remained invisible to his eyes.
“They’ve got a good, clean shot for the first hundred yards,” Ballard pointed out.
“But afterward we’ll be into the woods down there, pretty safe from shelling,” Pulaski countered.
“True, if there’s just the one. If they have a battery of guns, it won’t make any difference. We’ll never cross that first gap.”
Pulaski looked through the powerful lenses again, ignoring the eyestrain that started to give him a headache. How many guns could there be? Certainly not many; this rugged ground was not an obvious route for a counterattack against Dinant. He made his decision.
“We don’t have time for a dismounted attack. Bring a tank destroyer up here, park it in these trees next to the road. Then have your lead boys make a break for it, guns tracked on the far bluff.” That last suggestion was merely for psychological effect. A moving Sherman stood little chance of scoring a hit with its main gun. “We’ll have the M10 keep an eye out, ready for counter-battery fire.”
Ballard hesitated only a moment before nodding. “I’m going in the lead tank,” he informed Pulaski, his jaw set.
The colonel was on the point of denying permission, but he understood what Ballard was doing, and he couldn’t argue with it. So he nodded, and a minute later the M10 tank destroyer was rumbling into position, flattening several saplings in order to clear a shot at the opposite ridge. The lumbering vehicle looked very much like a Sherman tank, except for the fact that the turret was open to the sky. This exposed the crew to considerable danger but allowed the vehicle to accommodate a much larger gun than even the 76-mm Sherman’s armament. In this case, the M10 had a three-inch gun that, while it would have difficulty with the armor of a Panther or Tiger tank, would be lethal against lesser panzers or any antitank gun emplacement.
“Good luck, Frank,” Pulaski said.
“Thanks, Jimmy.” With that, Ballard climbed back into the turret of the first Sherman in line. Expanding on one of the lessons of Abbeville, Frank had taken his upgunned M4s and formed them into a single company, and he determined that his own vehicle would ride at the lead of this potent formation. Buttoning down the hatch, he vanished into the armored monster as it immediately snorted into life.
Pulaski stayed at the ridge crest as the column started forward. His binoculars dangled on his chest as he squinted at the far side, trying to will any Germans hidden there to reveal themselves. White patches of snow marked many meadows in his field of view, but the landscape was broken by countless patches of gray-and-brown rock, small houses, many stone fences, and lots of wooded groves. There were a thousand hiding places, any one of which could conceal another lethal gun position.
With a lurching jolt, the M4 rumbled over the crest, quickly skidding through a turn to race down the narrow, exposed road. Abruptly the tank accelerated, taking off like a sprinter as it rumbled toward the shelter of the trees. The next tanks rolled forward, all the tankers sensing the menace in this speedy deployment
The colonel saw the muzzle flash of the eighty-eight and felt the impact of the shell through the soles of his feet before he heard the sound of the gun. It was right there draped in white camouflage in the shade below the cluster of rock. How could he have missed it? A violent explosion jolted the air, sending dirt cascading. Pulaski cried out in relief as he saw that the shell had missed the racing Shermans. By then Ballard was halfway down the slope. The other M4s were racing behind without slowing down.
And then the tank destroyer spoke, roaring out a response with a flash of flame and smoke. The crew was good. Their shot smashed into the German gun emplacement in a violent eruption of flame and debris. Pulaski got a glimpse of a barrel pointing skyward and then swept his eyes across the rest of the
ridge looking for another gun.
But there was no other resistance. By the time Ballard’s tank had vanished into the woods at the base of the slope, the whole column was rolling forward. Pulaski swung onto the door of his half-track as it crawled by.
“Only one gun,” Sergeant Dawson observed laconically. “They must be thin down here.”
Pulaski mumbled an agreement, relieved that their first encounter hadn’t been bloody--at least, not for the men of CCA.
At the same time, his mind once again rekindled the smell of burning tanks and the wreckage-strewn fields of Abbeville. Just when he thought the memories were gone they seemed to surge back, as strong and oppressive as ever.
Temporary Supply Depot, Dinant, Belgium, 1211 hours GMT
“Baron von Esebeck? You took the photograph of that tank, right?” said Chuck Porter, offering his hand.
“Yes, I did,” von Esebeck smiled.
“Good work. After this is over, drop me a line. AP is always in the market for good stringers.”
Esebeck laughed. “The German News Agency will be able to use American stringers as well, if you’d like to do some stories for us.”
“Maybe we can talk about some contracts later on,” Porter said. “When this current story is over.”
His newsman’s itch was going full blast, especially after seven days as a prisoner of war. There were a bunch of stories here, and he was ready to interview everybody in sight. He didn’t know how or when he’d be able to file the stories, but he was imagining the byline: “Somewhere Behind Enemy Lines, by Chuck Porter.” This was a Pulitzer-making situation; somehow he’d get the most out of the opportunity.
Dinant was a good-size burg in Belgium, as nearly as he could make out, and to hear the Germans talk, it was now German property.
Colonel von Reinhardt had introduced him to the baron, a real nobleman! Porter was impressed, though also disappointed the man didn’t wear a monocle; he looked just like a normal person. Esebeck was more of a military man than Porter, but Porter had managed to gather that the Germans were across the Meuse River in force, with two bridges nearby so that more tanks as well as convoys of fuel could continuously reinforce the advance. Apparently, American resistance had, so far, kept them from bridging the river in more places.
“The key, you see--as I suspect your generals have by now figured out themselves--is here, in Antwerp.”
“Antwerp? I don’t get it,” said Porter.
Esebeck smiled a superior smile. “What do tanks run on?” “Gasoline, I guess. Maybe diesel fuel.”
“And can they just pull up at a station and yell, as you Americans say, ‘Fill ’er up and check the oil!’?”
“Guess not,” Porter said. He was starting to figure it out, but it never hurt for the interviewee to underestimate your intelligence.
“And therefore, this fuel has to be brought in, then taken on trucks to the tanks.”
“Makes sense.”
“And would you care to guess where most of the fuel for your army arrives?”
Porter looked up at the baron. “I guess that would be Antwerp.”
“That’s right. And when Antwerp falls, shortly thereafter, all your tanks will become fixed-gun emplacements.”
“Shit,” Porter said. That would shut down the war in Europe completely. The best the Allies could hope for would be stalemate.
“I would say that’s the appropriate American response,” Esebeck said.
“And what stands between you and Antwerp?” Porter asked.-“The bridges of Dinant,” Esebeck replied.
Waterloo, Belgium, 1621 hours GMT
Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, beret tilted rakishly, strode back and forth in the small temporary headquarters of the British Twenty-First Army Group. “It’s up to us to pull the Americans’ fat out of the fire once again,” he said with a shake of his head. Artillery fire thundered, the sound booming from the distant south.
“Excuse me, sir?” said a staff general hesitantly. “But is it wise to have yourself, the entire headquarters, here, so far ahead of our main body?”
“We must see the ground in order to make a plan,” replied the field marshal. “For it is here, tomorrow or the next day, that the issue will be decided.” He frowned, looked at a large map on what had once been a dining room table. “We’ve held at Namur, all the way to Liege. And still that crafty Desert Fox gets across the river, in the Yank’s sector of course.”
“Yes sir,” agreed an aide, opening a folder and laying out a series of aerial reconnaissance photos.
“Are these the most recent pictures?” Monty clucked in displeasure. “They were taken yesterday noon!”
“I’m afraid the blasted rocket-planes have cleared our fellows out of the sky, at least for the time being,” reported the RAF liaison officer. “We hope to get something fresh later today.”
The field marshal studied the pictures. “These show better than three divisions already across the Meuse, and turning this way. We know that Rommel can move quickly....” He stroked his chin pensively, toying with his thin mustache as he concentrated. “Yet there have been no reports from Charleroi. Can you ring them again?”
“The phone is still out,” replied the aide. “We’re working on restoring the line. Our radio calls have not been able to raise any reply.”
“Surely they’re not within twenty miles of here, not, yet,” suggested another staff officer, an older colonel.
“Surely.” Montgomery nodded decisively. Taking a deep, invigorating breath he turned to the window. “What an auspicious omen!” he declared, sweeping his hand over the vista of gentle green hills and small orchards. “A British army to gather once again on the fields of Waterloo--my opportunity to defeat Rommel for good, this time as decisively as Wellington did Napoleon!”
He stroked his long, thin nose thoughtfully. He still smarted at the criticism of his defeat of the Desert Fox in the Battle of El Alamein in Egypt. Claims that his pursuit of a broken enemy had been too slow, that a preponderance of Allied equipment and air power had made his victory inevitable. Rubbish! He had won a great victory, blast it all! Well, this time there would be no doubt. No doubt at all who was the supreme military genius of the war.
“When is General Horrocks going to get here?” he asked, checking his watch.
“Advance elements of Thirty Corps are less than an hour away, Field Marshal,” replied the aide. “And until then we have First Armored, now on the scene.”
“Splendid.” The field marshal nodded at the line of Sherman tanks rumbling through the valley road, a few hundred yards away. “I don’t see how the Jerries can get here before that!”
The fresh crump of gunfire, surprisingly close, broke through his reverie. Explosions burst among the British tanks on the road, while other blasts ripped through a nearby orchard. “What the devil is that?” he demanded, staring to the south. “How did they get here so fast?”
Montgomery did not panic--it was not in his nature. Instead, -he turned to give orders that would start to set things right, that would stop the enemy breakthrough in its tracks. He frowned, wishing he had a little more time. He saw racing vehicles coming over the horizon, British recon elements in a disorderly retreat from an enemy that must certainly be close behind.
He did not hear the whistling sound of the next artillery barrage, was not aware of the shell that tore through the roof of his headquarters. He would never know of the two panzer divisions that had raced north faster than any soldier had a right to expect, that even now commenced a surprise attack against a hastily raised British position.
And the explosion that tore through his body happened so quickly he never heard the sound.
Army Group B Field Headquarters, Dinant, Belgium, 26 December 1944, 0621 hours GMT
“Good news, Herr Feldmarschall.” Reinhardt maintained his even tone, but his eyes sparked with the portent. “Both the Second and the Twelfth panzer divisions are into Brussels.”
Müller added his o
wn positive tidings. “The one hundred sixteenth is regrouping in the city. Unfortunately, we did not capture the fuel reserves there that we hoped to find. Still, we have that great depot in Stavelot as well as the reserves in Bastogne--so long as we hold the bridges here in Dinant, we have easily enough petrol to carry three divisions and more all the way to the coast.”
“Splendid. It would seem that Montgomery is no Wellington, eh?”
The staff officers shared a hearty laugh. It was Speidel who raised his coffee cup in a toast. “Rather, perhaps, Napoleon could have learned a thing or two from our Desert Fox.”
With a dry chuckle, Rommel turned his attention back to the map. He pictured the fields at Waterloo, now littered with the wrecked hulls of British armor. Like every European professional military man, he had visited them in his youth. Monty had tried to make his stand there, but the spearhead advancing from Dinant had made him too thoroughly outflanked. The lone British armored division on the scene had been overwhelmed at the crossroads north of La Belle Alliance, and the stone walls of Hougomont farm had given little pause to the guns of Rommel’s Tigers. Reinforcements, American armor and British infantry, had arrived at the field too late, for by then the road to the Belgian capital was firmly in German hands.
And now that Brussels had been taken, there remained no real obstacles between the panzer spearheads and the great Allied supply center at Antwerp. Rommel began to believe, to really believe, that the attack would succeed.
Fox On The Rhine Page 48
