by Colin Gee
He puffed on his cigar before resuming his classic pose.
“Gentlemen, the situation cannot endure… must not endure… which is why President Truman and I are here. If not this suggestion, what? What would you have us do? There is no option for inactivity in Poland. We must either do something positive, or withdraw… and we simply cannot… must not… rely on some unsupportable vision of unprecedented success from Operation Atlantic to cloud our vision… our decision making… and our unpalatable duty.”
Churchill took a deep breath.
“Now, what are our options? General Eisenhower, you have said that to further reinforce the bridgehead is a fool’s errand. So we have no option to expand operations. We are left with a choice between status quo or reduction, unless you can bring some new idea before us.”
Winston resumed his seat, drawing on the rich Cuban cigar and carefully avoiding sending any of the smoke in Truman’s direction.
“Breakthrough to ‘em, Prime Minister. Give us the word and we’ll smash through the goddamned commies all the way to Warsaw.”
Patton’s simple reply avoided the issues that had first steered Churchill and Truman down the path of contemplating withdrawal.
“General, that is not an option as things stand.”
Truman expected no rebuttal, but it came anyway.
“Yes it is, Mister President. Use the bombs, and we will carve our way through the bastards like a hot knife through butter.”
Truman made a display of anger, slapping his hand, palm down, on the table.
“No! We cannot! How many times do I have to tell you all? The use of those weapons in Japan has caused so many problems for the Alliance! To use them here, unilaterally, without political consultation, would almost certainly ensure the end of support for our cause from too many nations to count.”
Alexander got in before George Patton had time to draw breath.
“Then, Sir, have a consultation. Lay it out before our Allies. Tell them we need to use these bombs to succeed. Tell them the alternatives if we don’t use them… if we lose… sir.”
“The process would be a waste of time, Field Marshal. We have had deputations from numerous nations, stating their clear position on further use in the Far East, let alone in mainland Europe. No, no, no. it’s not happening. Find us another solution to the Polish problem.”
George Patton could control himself no longer.
“No! No! No! Can’t you see it, Mister President? The Commies have orchestrated it all, goddamn them. All of this crock of shit… this… this… anti-bomb thing.”
He strode round the table and went up to a map of Europe.
“We got bombs… let’s use the damn things… hit ‘em hard, where it hurts… here… here… here… destroy their will to fight.”
‘Blood and Guts’ virtually punched each spot on the map as he marked out his preferred targets of Moscow, Leningrad, and Chelyabinsk.
“General Patton, please sit down.”
“Sir, you gotta understand that all we need to do…”
“General Patton, sit down.”
Eisenhower rose to interject.
“George, com…”
“The hell I will… the HELL I will! We’re in possession of the goddamn means to end this thing and lack the goddamn spine to do it! My God, what’ll history think of the men in this room, eh? Commanders of the greatest army ever assembled, with the best weapons, and best soldiers, and no goddamn balls to use it!”
Truman virtually flew out of his chair.
“Sit down, General Patton!”
“The hell I goddamned will!”
Eisenhower shouted.
“George! Enough!”
Patton turned to him, his eyes ablaze, and with no pretence of control.
“Ike, you see it. You have to goddamn see it! We’ve the tools and this sonofabitch won’t do what’s needed to be done.”
Truman flushed with colour and stood rock still, exuding white hot anger, a feeling of something wholly unpleasant, a something that stopped even the mad as hell Patton in his tracks.
“You, General Patton, are hereby relieved of your command. You, General Eisenhower, will have this officer placed under arrest, awaiting proper disposal by courts-martial.”
Patton went from white anger to realisation in a split second.
He opened his mouth, but Eisenhower closed him down immediately.
“General Patton, stand down.”
Ike nodded towards the door that had flown open in the middle of the furious exchange, a door now filled with three gun-toting MPs who had wondered if World War IV had commenced in the meeting room.
“Captain.”
The MP officer strode forward, into the centre of more military and political muscle than he had even seen in his lifetime of service.
“Sir.”
“Arrest General Patton and escort him to his quarters in this building. You and your men will stand guard on his door and he is not to leave, or be allowed to see anyone, until I personally relieve you. Is that clear?”
The Captain nodded, the orders crystal clear, but the reasons lost on him.
“George… George…”
Patton, shocked and stunned, turned his head from the silent Truman to his field commander.
“Sir?”
“General, surrender your sidearm to the arresting officer.”
“What?”
“Your gun, General Patton… give the man your gun.”
Patton retrieved the Colt.45 revolver with the distinctive stag horn grip from his holster and passed it to the waiting MP, who moved it on to his sergeant like it was a hot coal from hell itself.
“Now… please… go with this officer, General.”
To everyone’s surprise, George Scott Patton did exactly what Eisenhower ordered, without so much as a word or a look back.
The silence in the room was deafening and laden with a disbelief akin to having witnessed the arrival of aliens in their midst.
Von Vietinghoff coughed, drawing all eyes to him.
He rummaged in his briefcase.
“President Truman, Prime Minister Churchill, if you are looking for options, there is something that the German staff have been looking at for some time, something that might provide you with the alternative you seek.”
He divided his paperwork into four section, one for each of the politicians, one for Eisenhower, and the final copy, surprisingly for most, for the Frenchman, General Alphonse Juin.
The men in the room felt their pulses slow as the German general restored normality, as best it could be restored.
All except Truman.
He accepted his copy in silence and resumed his seat, his hands still displaying the tremors of anger that had taken hold of him moments beforehand.
Those observing the scene noticed him bring himself under control and the body relaxed. They then noticed the name on the folders, and immediately those with a sprinkling of the German language felt some understanding of what it might contain.
‘Fall Erwachen Riese’
Operation Awakening Giant…
Less than an hour later, thoughts of abandoning the Polish bridgehead were but distant memories, and the basic plan that was Erwachen Riese had approval to be developed into the major operation it represented, an operation that required the German Army to take up the offensive and become the major instrument of prosecuting the ground war against the Communist forces in Europe.
Military minds that had sought a resolution were calmed and encouraged by the developments, and the potential of the German plan.
Some of those minds failed to recall previous thoughts on recent German activity and intentions.
Von Vietinghoff had played his part to perfection.
“Mister President?”
“Yes, General?”
“What are we going to do about George?”
“He’s finished, General Eisenhower. End of. I cannot let that go.”
Ike opened his mouth to protest and
closed it just as quickly.
Truman was right.
“He’s been our finest, Sir. A hard man to replace… a hard-charger…hot-headed for sure… but it’s stood us in good stead a number of times…”
Truman looked directly into Eisenhower’s eyes as he gently grasped his commander’s arm.
“I cannot let that stand… you do understand that, Ike?”
Eisenhower replayed some of the expressions from the moment that the peak had been reached. The faces of Allied officers struck dumb that such a display should be performed in front of the US President… on the US President.
“Yes, Sir. He’ll be hard to replace.”
Truman squeezed Ike’s arm once more.
“Yes and no. You have a pool of talent… none like George, that’s for sure, but you’ll find someone to do the job. But do understand this, General… he’s finished. Finished.”
“Yes, Mister President.”
“Thank you. Now, lead on, General. I’m told that the lunches here are excellent.”
Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best; it removes all that is base. All men are afraid in battle. The coward is the one who lets his fear overcome his sense of duty. Duty is the essence of manhood.
George S. Patton
Chapter 161 – THE MATURATION
0930 hrs, Monday, 15th July 1946, Fulda, Germany.
The US artillery opened fire, sending shell after shell into the Soviet positions to the east of the ravaged town.
Fulda was in ruins, smashed to pieces as the forces of East and West swung back and forth over its bricks and mortar.
It had changed hands eleven times in the last fortnight, as determined Soviet counter-attacks smashed into the US defensive positions, only to be thrown back out again by equally determined American ripostes.
There were no civilians left in the town, leastways, none alive, although an exploding shell occasionally revealed a corpse or some body part left over from previous battles.
The last occupation of Fulda had spent much of the 65th US Infantry Division’s offensive capability, and two of its three regiments were moved to the flanks to regroup and absorb replacements.
Bemused officers from the 260th and 261st Regiments of the Battle-axe Division found less than the required number of men available to fill the holes left by dead and wounded men, and many of those that were available came from non-fighting trades.
The 259th Regiment, nearly at full strength and not worn out by weeks of heavy fighting, was moved up to hold the centre ground in and around Fulda. They were made very aware that it was ground hard won, and that they were not to let it go.
Elements of the 15th US Armored Division slipped across the Fulda River and into the frontline positions, called forward to help them hold it.
A lot had happened to Nathaniel Parker in the new war, some of it to his benefit, but much not.
The man who had caused so much trouble during his time at the Haut-Kœnigsbourg Colloque had changed, was less pushy, less inclined to run off at the mouth, and more wise to the ways of war.
It would also be fair to say that he was still considered to be an ass by those above and below him, but for different reasons than back in 1945.
His command, C Company, 361st Tank Battalion, was one of two tank formations committed to the east bank of the Fulda River.
Fig # 196 - Plan of attack on Height 493, Fulda, Germany.
The combat reports of the 65th Infantry indicated that the Soviets used their armour up front in their defence and counter-attacks, and Major General Lindsay McDonald Silvester, commander of 15th Armored, had ordained that he would put some of his best armour up front as a counter, especially as the anti-tank and tank destroyer support units were still recovering after being chewed up some miles to the south.
There was another reason for the deployment of B and C companies up front.
The tanks were slow, especially off-road, so Silvester kept the more manoeuvrable Easy Eights back to react to events, leaving the heavy Super Pershings to lie closer to the enemy.
Leastways, that had been the plan, but orders from Corps made him swing into action and, given the time scale, the General had no choice but to employ the two heavy tank companies in the attack.
Parker checked and rechecked his map, reassuring himself that his memory was good, and that he understood the task assigned to his unit.
Infantry from the 259th Regiment of Battle-axe Division were to lead off, ensuring that they held the heights on the left flank of the advance, striking quickly through Niesig and up the main northern height that over looked the valley, namely Height 434, a wide area covered with the tress of the Michelsrombacher Wald.
Fig # 197 – Allied order of battle, Lehnerz and Height 493, Fulda.
A combination of combat engineers and recon troopers were tasked with acquiring Künzell, securing the southern flank.
Once that was achieved, Parker’s tank company was to advance in support of the left flank of the 367th [Colored] Armored Infantry Battalion, which was tasked with capturing and holding the vital height 493, from where the entire area could be overseen.
His initial requirement was to capture and hold Lehnerz, but he would take orders from the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of the Armored-Infantry, so the new Parker, more tactically aware, capable, and responsible, had also studied the area north and east of Height 493, just in case he had to go in harm’s way there.
Happy with his understanding of the battle to come, he emerged from the turret of the monster tank, swinging up his binoculars to take in any sights of the battle being fought in and around Niesig.
Smoke and dust obscured his vision, but he could decipher enough of the battlefield to understand that the progress was good, something immediately reinforced by the crackle of the radio, announcing the start of phase two of the 259th’s advance, as well as reporting minimal casualties.
“Crew report.”
“Driver, everything good, Major.”
“Gunner, no problems, Sir.”
The four men had no issues, and neither had he expected any, but it paid to be sure, and you could never check too much.
“Father, did you check the squawk box?”
“Yes, sir, Major, sir. Dawn check, sir.”
The new and painfully young addition to the crew was keen and efficient, but somehow Parker felt he wasn’t going to quite fit in.
“Check it again, father.”
Lawrence Priest pushed open his hatch and dropped to the ground, smiling at his nickname, seeing it as a sign of acceptance from the experienced men, who, for their part, saw it as nothing more than ragging the new boy.
The telephone burst into life, marking a successful test of the vital communications tool.
“OK, father, Get back aboard.”
Following procedures, Priest moved quickly round to the front of the tank, from where the driver could see him, before clambering back up the front plate and dropping into his hull gunner position.
Soviet counter-fire, nowadays rarely effective, made its presence known amongst the advancing 259th’s infantrymen, a blossoming orange ball indicating where some vehicle had taken a devastating artillery or mortar hit.
Over the radio, the warning order gave everyone the heads up to be ready to move.
Dewey, the gunner, popped his head up through the hatch and produced a packet of cigarettes, using a hand gesture to seek permission.
Parker nodded and Dewey lit two, slipping one between the commander’s lips, receiving a grunt by way of acknowledgement.
Sucking gently on the ‘Old Gold’, the harsh unfiltered smoke drying his throat, Nathaniel Parker checked Height 434 again, sensing rather than seeing the progress of the lead infantry elements. He looked again to the south, but had no view of the progress towards Künzell.
The radio crackled with an urgent report from one of his commanders.
Turning to face the
direction the captain’s unit was placed, the rising smoke confirmed the seriousness of the fire that had started to engulf one of his heavy tanks.
‘Fucking artillery got lucky, goddamnit.’
It was an inauspicious start to the attack, a near miss having started a fire in the engine compartment, but the captain moved his command to another tank, kicking out the incumbent sergeant and leaving him to sort out the fire fighting and repair of the command tank.
Ears accustomed to the sounds of battle suddenly prickled at the changes ringing around the fields and houses.
“That’s high-velocity shit.”
“Damn right, Art, something…”
The radio assaulted his ears, calls for help and warnings scrambling with each other for priority and airtime.
An organised attack had suddenly gone completely pear-shaped.
“Brandy-two-six, Brandy-two-six, all units Brandy. Prepare to move forward. Out.”
The useless soldier that Parker had been was now a serious asset, and the asset instinctively knew that the 259th’s doughboys had run into trouble.
No order came.
Parker waited.
The combat seemed to be intensifying.
As one, he and Dewey threw their dog ends away and exchanged simple nods.
The gunner dropped into the tank and called for APCR in the gun.
“Brandy-two-six, Brandy-two-six, all units Brandy…advance.”
B Company and its support units moved forward.
The 259th had moved past Niesig and were in the valley between the village and their final objective when all hell broke loose.
Mines had been the start, and then a handful of anti-tank guns.
The infantry pressed on until Soviet tanks came into play, at which time the fight became uneven and assault quickly turned to a desperate fight to preserve the units.
Soviet mortars switched targets to heap more hurt on the bogged down GIs, and casualties started to mount.
Bazookas knocked down a few of the T34m44s, but not enough, and the lead elements of the Battle-axe Division were suddenly in danger of being overrun.
