by Len Levinson
“Come in,” said Model.
The door opened, and General Hasso von Manteuffel entered, dressed in a leather topcoat with a black wool scarf wrapped around his neck. Manteuffel advanced to the desk and saluted. “I’m sorry to be late, sir, but the roads are quite bad this morning.”
“Take off your coat, and sit down. Make yourself a cup of coffee if you like.”
Manteuffel removed his coat and hat, hung them on pegs, and poured some coffee into a tin cup. He was five feet, four inches tall, descended from a long line of Prussian military officers, and was a former Olympic pentathlon champion. After carrying the coffee to the chair in front of Model’s desk, he sat and sipped some of the coffee, waiting for Model to tell him the purpose of the meeting.
“New orders have come down from Berlin,” Model said. “We go over to the attack again on the 30th.”
Manteuffel groaned. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“We recommended a withdrawal to a defensive line east of Bastogne, but the Führer wouldn’t hear of it.” Model adjusted the monocle in his right eye. “He wants us to take Bastogne, and since the city is in your sector, the responsibility falls to you. Can you tell me candidly what you think your prospects will be?”
“If I am reinforced sufficiently, I think I can take the city. But I can’t promise you I can hold it. Everything depends on the relative strength between us and the Amis.”
“Fortunately,” Model said, “our lack of fuel is no longer a problem for us because tank operations cannot be mounted in the terrain we have now. Subsequent battles in this godforsaken country will be won or lost by the infantry soldiers. I will make available to you, as of twelve noon today, the following units which have just arrived from Germany.”
Model passed Manteuffel a sheet of paper with the units listed upon it. Manteuffel read down the list and saw that he was receiving the equivalent of five new divisions.
“This is very impressive,” Manteuffel said. “I think I can do anything with this amount of reinforcement—except there’s one possible problem. Are these units full strength?”
Model shook his head. “No. My estimate is that they are all approximately half-strength or less, but still, it should give you numerical superiority over the American units fighting around Bastogne now.”
“Yes,” replied Manteuffel, “but that’s only now. What about the days and weeks to come? The Amis have many more reserves to draw from than us. Sooner or later they’ll overcome us in Bastogne. They know its strategic significance as well as we—that’s why they’ve fought so hard to keep it. Our only hope is to... ”
Model raised his hand and interrupted. “I have no more hopes and neither should you. All we can do is follow our orders like good soldiers. The time has long since passed for anything else. At least the German people can rest secure in the knowledge that their generals and field marshals have executed their orders to the best of their ability.”
“I doubt whether that will give them much security,” Manteuffel replied drily, “but I suppose you’re right. There’s nothing else we can do.”
Model smiled. “Don’t despair, Manteuffel. The Führer has gambled everything on this campaign, and who knows, he may be right. He’s been right before. If we can capture Bastogne and hang onto it, the entire picture might change here in the west. If the Allies become stalemated, they might agree to a reasonable settlement with us. Don’t forget that the Americans must be under a great strain because they’re fighting us here and the Japanese in the Pacific. No one should know better than we the hazards of fighting a war on two fronts.”
Manteuffel looked at the list of units again. “I don’t think the Amis will expect an attack of this magnitude at this stage of the game,” he said. “I see no reason why we should not take Bastogne. When will these units arrive in my sector?”
“They should arrive today,” Model replied.
~*~
In the afternoon, Captain Anderson of Charlie Company approached the command post tent of the first battalion. It was still snowing, but the temperature had warmed a few degrees. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was ten minutes early, so he took out a cigarette and lit it up.
He moved toward a pine tree whose boughs offered some protection from the wind. Standing and shifting nervously from foot to foot, he wondered what the meeting would be about. It was probably something big if all the company commanders had been called to it.
His hand shook so badly he had difficulty bringing the cigarette to his lips. He debated to himself whether or not to tell Colonel Sloan that his nerves were shot. An officer couldn’t command effectively if he wasn’t in full control of his faculties, but the alternative would be to let his exec, Lieutenant Irving, take over the company while he went to the hospital, and he didn’t think Irving could do as well as he.
Besides, he wasn’t under any more pressure than any of his men, and if they couldn’t go to the hospital, neither should he. He puffed the cigarette and wished he had a pill or a drink to calm him down. He hoped no one would notice that his hands were shaking and that he was falling apart.
A jeep stopped by the road and Lieutenant Lawrence “Bull’ Braxton of Able Company got out. Braxton was short and wide, a friendly officer who smoked cigars. Bull Braxton saw Anderson standing beside the tree and walked toward him.
“Waiting for a train?” Braxton asked, a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“Just smoking my last cigarette before the meeting.”
Braxton puffed his cigar. “You got much of a trench foot problem in your company?”
“Not too bad. Only eight men went on sick call this morning with it. The problem is that they wear extra socks in their boots, which makes the boots too tight and cuts off circulation.”
“I don’t let my men wear extra socks,” Braxton said. “I have my officers make spot checks throughout the day to make sure.”
“They’re liable to get frostbitten toes that way.”
“Not if they keep moving around they won’t.”
Anderson inhaled his cigarette, thinking Braxton was right. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have done the same thing, but he was getting tired. He wasn’t the officer he’d been when he took over the company in September. His men deserved an officer better than he. They were depending on him, and somehow he’d have to provide better leadership.
“You cold?” Braxton asked.
“A little.”
“Thought so. I can see your hand shaking. Maybe we’d better go in.”
“After I finish my cigarette.”
Braxton narrowed his eyes as he looked at Anderson’s face. “You’re looking a little green around the gills, Bobby. You all right?”
Anderson smiled. “You’re not looking so great yourself.”
Braxton shrugged. “Well, the weather has been real shitty.”
“It’ll break before long.”
Major Cutler stuck his head out of the command post tent. “Let’s go you two! The meeting’s about to begin!”
The two officers walked toward the big walled tent. Anderson was more worried than ever, because Braxton had noticed something was wrong with him. I’d better keep my hands behind my back, Anderson thought, and speak only when I’m spoken to.
They entered the tent and saw all the company commanders and staff officers crowded around the map table. A kerosene lamp hung over the table and a gasoline stove sputtered and roared in the corner. Anderson smiled and nodded to the other officers.
“How’s everything out your way, Bobby?” asked Major Chalmers, the battalion S-4 (supply) officer.
“Pretty quiet,” Anderson replied.
“TEN-HUT!”
Everyone snapped to attention as Lieutenant-Colonel William “Rabbit” Sloan entered the tent. He was a short man with buckteeth and a wiry frame.
“At ease,” he said.
He approached the map table and wore his helmet low over his eyes. The top buttons of his field jacket were undone, showi
ng the collar of a dirty tee shirt. Anderson looked at Sloan and realized he was gaunt and hollow eyed too. The weather and constant fighting was taking a toll on all of them. The whole Hammerhead Division should be pulled back from the line for a rest, but there was no one to take its place.
“Well men,” Sloan said, looking down at the map table, “the Third Army is attacking first thing in the morning. Our objective will be to capture and occupy the line between Wardin and Cafe Schumann. We’ll jump off at six o’clock in the morning, and we’ll go like hell.”
Sloan paused, and the officers looked at each other. Their men were tired and cold, sick with trench foot and the flu, and the weather was horrendous.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sloan said. “You’re thinking that the men won’t be able to do it. Well, they will do it if they’re properly led. You’ve got to give them something to fight for. You can tell them that if they capture their objective there’s likelihood that they’ll be placed in reserve for awhile.”
Major Ingalls, the battalion personnel officer cleared his throat. “Is there likelihood that they’ll be placed in reserve, sir?”
“Probably not, but you can tell them anyway.” Sloan pointed to the map. “The fight here in the Ardennes is entering a crucial stage. Bastogne is the linchpin of the whole battle, and there’s the danger that the krauts might snip off the narrow corridor we’ve made into the city from the south. That’s why we’ve got to widen that corridor. If we fail to win a decisive victory here in Belgium, the war could drag on for a few more years, but that’s not our main worry. Our main worry is Patton. If any unit in the Third Army fails to reach its objective, you can be sure that the heads of its officers will roll. I’m not telling you that to scare you—I just want you to know the score, that’s all.”
Sloan proceeded to explain the movement of his companies, the details of artillery support, and the availability of reserves. He pointed out the last known estimates of German positions and strength, told them that fresh ammunition would be brought to the companies after chow that evening, and said that the weather forecast predicted more snow, so they couldn’t count on air support.
“I want every company to send out a patrol tonight to make sure of what’s in front of it,” Sloan said. “That way we’ll have a better idea of what we’ll be facing. I want the reports of those patrols on my desk no later than 0400 hours. Any questions?”
~*~
“Sir, there’s an American courier here to see you.”
Field Marshal Montgomery looked up from the desk in his command post trailer. “Wait three minutes, then send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The aide left the tiny office, and Monty scratched his mustache, wondering what the Americans wanted now. During the initial days of the Battle of the Bulge, he’d been appointed commander of the American First Army when it had been cut off from the rest of the American forces in the area by the sudden German advance. Since then, he’d suffered an endless series of unpleasant incidents and disagreements with the Americans, who didn’t seem to like him and put the worst possible interpretation on everything he said or did. He thought the Americans too impulsive in everything they did. They were like spoiled children accustomed to getting their way in all matters, but a day would come when their brashness would not be enough, and then what would happen to them?
After three minutes the door opened, and a young American captain entered Monty’s office, strode to the desk, and saluted smartly.
“Captain Freedman reporting with a message from General Eisenhower, sir!”
“How do you do Captain,” Monty said good-naturedly. “Have a seat.”
“Yes, sir!” Captain Freedman sat abruptly.
“Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time sir. I must get back to General Eisenhower.”
“But surely a cup of tea... ”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t.”
Monty shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you know what’s best. What do you have to report?”
Captain Freedman leaned forward and said earnestly, “The American forces in the south are launching a full frontal attack on the enemy tomorrow morning in order to widen our corridor to Bastogne and secure a new line to the north and east of our current positions, sir. General Eisenhower would like to know, sir, if you might be able to mount an offensive of your own at around the same time, to divert the enemy and take some pressure off our own attack.”
Monty wrinkled his forehead and smiled. “You’re not giving me much time.”
“General Eisenhower would like to know, sir, how much time you’d need?”
“I’d say from seven to ten days. We’d need the time to regroup, refit, and tidy up our lines before we’d be able to commit ourselves to a serious offensive.”
Captain Freedman nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll relay your response to General Eisenhower without delay.” He jumped to his feet and threw a snappy salute.
“One moment, Captain.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Which of your units will be attacking tomorrow morning?” Monty asked.
“The entire Third Army, sir.”
“The entire Third Army?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So soon?” Monty was flabbergasted. “But they’ve only just arrived on the battlefield! I can’t imagine how they can launch a full frontal attack so quickly.”
Captain Freedman smiled. “Well, sir, we fight a war a little differently from the way you British do. We regroup, refit, and do everything else right on the line of attack.”
Monty thought for a few moments. “I see,” he said. “Well, you may return to General Eisenhower. Please convey my best wishes to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Freedman turned and marched out of the trailer. Monty sat and stared at the door for a few moments, then rose and advanced toward his map table. He traced the American lines in the south with his eyes and could perceive what they were trying to do. But he didn’t understand how they could attack so soon. Many factors contributed to the success of a campaign, and it took time to iron them all out. You had to organize your attacking armies somewhere behind the lines, equip them, and send them forward. That sort of preparation simply couldn’t be done right on the line of attack. Monty shook his head sadly. He knew the Germans still were extremely strong in the Ardennes, and it appeared to him that the Americans might get the thrashing of their lives if they weren’t careful.
“I’ve tried to tell them,” Monty muttered to himself, “but they won’t listen.”
~*~
The first platoon constructed a windbreak out of branches, bushes, and tent halves, and they huddled behind it, eating cold C rations and smoking cigarettes.
“C’mon Sarge,” Private Wheeler said excitedly, “What happened then?”
“Well,” Mahoney replied, “I asked her if she wanted to lie down on the bed.”
“And then what happened!”
“Well, we walked across the room to the bed.”
The GIs stared at Mahoney and savored his every word, not knowing that he was telling them a pack of lies. His first night with Madeleine had been nothing like this, but they wanted a good hot story, and he thought he ought to give one to them for the sake of their morale, which had been ravaged by Lieutenant Woodward.
“Then,” Mahoney said, “she was breathing hard and squirming like a snake, so I thought I’d grab some tit. I kept kissing her to distract her, and slipped my hand into her blouse.”
“Wow!” screamed Riggs the moron. “What did it feel like, Sarge?”
“Just like a regular tit.”
“But I mean how like a regular tit, Sarge?”
“Don’t you know what a tit feels like, Riggs?”
Riggs wrinkled his big nose and wrung his hands. “Yeah, I know what a tit feels like, Sarge.”
Pfc Caddell guffawed. “Aw—come on, Riggs. Whose tit did you ever feel?”
“My kid sister’s.”
Caddell laughed uproariously and fell to the snow, clutching his big gut. The other men laughed too, slapping Riggs on the back, and Riggs looked puzzled because he didn’t know what was so funny.
“Hey Riggs,” Cranepool said. “What did it feel like?”
“You mean my kid sister’s tit?”
“Yeah.”
Riggs closed his eyes. “Lemme think.”
Everyone became quiet. Caddell stood and brushed the snow off his uniform. They all looked at Riggs, and Mahoney could see that the bullshit session was taking their minds off the war for a little while. They needed to unwind like this because Lieutenant Woodward had kept them under too much pressure.
Riggs opened his eyes. “Like marshmallows,” he said.
Mahoney was struck by the aptness of Riggs’s description. That was exactly what tits felt like. Riggs might be a moron, but he knew about tits.
Riggs smiled happily because he knew he’d said the right thing.
“Hey, Riggs,” Fannuchi said, “you’ll have to introduce me to your kid sister when we get back to the states.”
“Okay,” said Riggs, “but her husband Billy might not like it too much.”
“Shut the fuck up you guys,” said Grossberger the medic. He turned to Mahoney. “And then what happened.”
Mahoney scratched his cheek. “Well, I think it was about time that I picked up her dress.”
“Holy shit!” yelled Private Puleo, holding his helmet on with both hands. “Whatja see, Sarge?”
“Her drawers—what else?”
“What color were they, Sarge?”
“Black lace, as I remember.”
“Black lace,” repeated Puleo, his legs giving way underneath him. He fell into the snow. “Black lace,” he muttered. “Oh my God, black lace panties.” He rolled through the snow groaning and humping. “I’d give anything to see a pair of black lace panties right now.”
