No Less Than Victory

by Jeff Shaara

  “Large-scale disasters. You can’t keep your generals from making mistakes here and there. War is full of small disasters. Look at Market-Garden. Monty comes up with a plan that’s so damn complicated, a plan that relies on audacity and luck. And yet Monty is the one man in your whole command who is least likely to pull that off.”

  “But I had to let him try. It was his damn plan, after all, and it was his sector. And I believed him. It sounded great. A terrific idea. In hindsight, if Patton had been up there, it might have worked. But that’s the point. Monty doesn’t command this entire front. If he had put together some kind of Market-Garden fiasco that involved this entire army, it could have been a disaster. Capital D. That’s what I can’t allow.”

  “The bitching’s growing louder, Ike. I’m hearing it from London, and I’m hearing it from below.”

  “Monty? I know. I assume you heard about the cargo ships at Antwerp.”

  “Just got word this morning. The first ones were finally unloaded.”

  “Yeah, let’s celebrate that. Monty’s big damn victory. How do I pat him on the back for opening up that damn port eighty-five days after we took the place? We marched into Antwerp in September, Arthur. Monty crows like some big red rooster about taking the city, and seems to forget that the Germans control forty miles of waterway between the port and the ocean. He acts like he forgot that a quarter million enemy troops are sitting tucked into their defenses along every mile of the waterway, and they probably aren’t going to let our ships just waltz past their guns. Then he sends the poor damn Canadians, who have been beat to hell already, sends them through swamps and mud holes to slug their way straight into the German positions. So, yes, it takes eighty-five days before the port is usable. And now he’s blaming the Canadians for the delay, says it was all Henry Crerar’s fault. If I were Crerar, I’d give Monty a bloody nose. And worse, the Canadians were so wiped out by the fight, they couldn’t stop the enemy from retreating. It was Falaise all over again. Monty should have figured out a way to box the Germans in from behind, pinned them against the water. Instead, tens of thousands … hell we don’t know how many, but it was a load of them. They escaped, reinforced their defenses in Holland, or slipped back into Germany. And you know as well as I do, we’ll be looking at them again one day.”

  “You spoke to the prime minister yesterday, right? What’s he say?”

  “You know how Churchill is. He told me a long time ago that I could fire Monty if I thought it was the right thing to do. No problem at all. But yesterday he reminds me in his cheeky little way that, oh yes, by the way, if Monty goes, the British troops in the field will probably stage an open revolt, and the British people will call off their end of the war. No problems for us there.”

  “He’s hearing that from Brooke. For the life of me, Ike, I can’t understand why the chief of the Imperial General Staff is such a bloody champion of Bernard Montgomery. Monty would never be where he is without Brooke’s backing.”

  “Let it go, Arthur. Monty’s not the enemy here. He’s just today’s designated pain in the ass.”

  Tedder was up out of the chair now, pacing slowly. Eisenhower knew that Tedder was one of the few high-ranking Brits who despised Montgomery.

  Tedder turned toward him, pointed at Eisenhower with his pipe. “He’s still crowing about his plan, you know. He’s running all over the place telling people that you’ve held him back. If he’d been allowed to do things his way, he’d be in Berlin by now.”

  Eisenhower had been through the anger too many times. His jaw was clenched, a familiar headache rising up from the back of his neck.

  “Look, Arthur. I can’t control Monty’s mouth, no matter how wrong he is. He was wrong about Market-Garden and he was wrong about Antwerp. And, yes, he’s wrong about Berlin. But he’s not the only one making mistakes. You know how tough it’s been to bring supplies forward. Bradley had to shut Patton down because we didn’t have the fuel for him to keep going. His tanks ran out of gas, or I guarantee you, with or without orders, Patton would have tried to take Berlin himself. It’s Sicily all over again. Hodges spends too much time taking Aachen when he could have bypassed the place altogether and moved east. Patton sulks by launching small-scale attacks on Metz, says he has to keep his people from getting bored.”

  “He took Metz.”

  “So what? Did Hitler surrender? No, Patton took a ton of casualties and used artillery and gasoline he’ll need later. Jake Devers is so eager to keep up with Patton’s flank that he leaves a flock of Germans in the Colmar area behind him, so now he’s got a major problem to his rear, a potential to disrupt his entire supply line. Hodges got his people bogged down south of Aachen into what Bradley doesn’t want to admit is a serious mess. For two weeks, what should have been our grand fall offensive has come apart because we didn’t realize that the Hürtgen Forest was full of Germans who decided to stick around and kick our asses. Some of our boys are taking a hell of a beating in that place. It’s been raining there for, what? Two weeks? We’ve got people drowning in mud, while the Germans are digging in for the long haul.”

  Tedder looked down, and Eisenhower knew what he was thinking. “Go on, say it. I approved every one of these moves. Yep. I trusted my people to make the right decisions. Since we let the enemy go at Falaise, we haven’t exactly had a bunch of headline-grabbing victories, have we?”

  “You can’t control the weather, and you can’t make every field command. You’ve got good people …”

  “Can that crap, Arthur. The fact is, I agreed with Monty. I thought the Germans were beat, that they had nothing left to fight for, or fight with. But hell, that’s what the enemy is thinking about us. The Germans still have generals who know how to fight a war. They know that we overextended our supply lines, while the enemy shortened his. Our frontline people are exhausted, as much as those Germans who escaped out of France. Now the weather is turning, and who do you think that helps? One of those nasty little rules of war. Bad weather is always an advantage for the guy on defense. And now the guy on defense is fighting to protect his own soil.”

  Eisenhower paused, massaged the headache, watched as Tedder returned to the chair. Tedder put the pipe in his mouth, smoke rising, the room filled with the sweet smell.

  After a long moment, Eisenhower said, “I made another mistake too, Arthur. I thought Hitler might have enough rational good sense to accept that he was defeated. But then, I go back to the president issuing that damn proclamation, all of that unconditional surrender stuff. Worst mistake we could have made, and everyone knew it. Played right into Hitler’s hands. The German soldier is being told that he’s got to fight to the death, because that’s what we’re making him do. Goebbels’s job is easy as hell. We’ve handed the enemy the best propaganda tool possible. Roosevelt has basically told them, We won’t talk to you, we won’t negotiate with you. We’re just going to shoot you and bomb you until you surrender. Goebbels is smart enough to remind the German people that, gee, this sounds familiar. Remember the Treaty of Versailles? That’s what Germany’s enemies are trying to do, make it 1919 all over again. No wonder they’re digging in.”

  “You think we should go into winter quarters, as such? Regroup, rebuild?”

  “We can’t. The Germans need time more than we do. We can’t hand it to them. We have to keep up the pressure. But dammit, we have to do it right. If Hitler isn’t going to quit, I’m betting that some of those German generals know the score. We keep pressing them, it’s possible we’ll get some wholesale surrenders.”

  Tedder nodded. “They tried to kill him once, maybe they’ll try again.”

  Eisenhower lit a cigarette. “I don’t think so. Everything we’ve picked up from the Ultra intercepts say that the Gestapo has eliminated anyone who might be a threat. That has a way of keeping a lid on dissent. And those generals are Germans, after all. First thing they’re trained to do is follow orders.”

  HEADQUARTERS, OB WEST, KREFELD, GERMANY

  DECEMBER 6, 1944
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br />   He missed Paris. Outside, the air was thick with icy wetness, a chill he could feel all through his bones. At seventy, he was Hitler’s oldest senior commander, but age mattered very little to the High Command anymore, seniority in the army determined more by how truly loyal Hitler believed you to be. He stared at the bleak skies, leafless tree limbs, bent from too much wind, thought, I am senior to everyone, and no one. The only troops I control are those who guard my own door.

  He tried to pull himself erect, but his back was stiff, his joints sore, common ailments that had hounded him for more than a year. Will they ever expect me to go into the field again? Even these soldiers will see me as I am, not as I am supposed to be. And what is that anyway? A loyal Nazi, willing to fight to the last breath so my Führer’s dreams can be realized? Who believes that anymore, if we ever believed it at all? Even those pathetic sycophants who surround him, Jodl and Keitel, the rest of them, so many cattle at Hitler’s trough, spewing out a steady stream of compliments for our Führer’s genius. Is that how the army feels as well? They must, most of them. They are still good soldiers, no matter that so many of them are no longer here. How many armies can we lose, entire battle commands swept up by our enemies? North Africa, Russia, France … and where shall it happen next? Right here? My command? Of course, if that is how history is to read, then my name shall be included among the great failures. That is, after all, the true reason they brought me back to command.

  Behind him, there was a gentle knock at the door. He ignored it, kept his stare toward the window, the bleakness of a gathering winter. A dog appeared, scampering past his window, a brutish-looking mongrel. Farther out in a muddy field, soldiers were calling out, playing some game with the dog. The knock came again, a bit firmer.

  “I am not asleep. You may enter.”

  The door burst open, too much noise, and von Rundstedt turned, was surprised to see Model, heavy boot steps. Behind him, the door closed, von Rundstedt catching a brief glimpse of an apologetic aide. Von Rundstedt tried to focus on the younger field marshal, thought, he marches everywhere. Going … nowhere.

  Model was much younger, a tight-mouthed, exhausting man, the ever-present monocle clamped against his right eye. Von Rundstedt thought of the dog. A fitting comparison. Model did not salute, rarely saluted anyone.

  He stared past von Rundstedt, said, “I would never assume you to be asleep at your post, Field Marshal. But I just arrived, and General Zimmerman said you were alone. You should know that we have failed once again to convince the Führer that his plans should be amended. General Westphal is extremely frustrated, and has returned to Italy to advise Field Marshal Kesselring. I have been given instructions that we are to carry out Watch on the Rhine exactly as the plan was presented to us previously. Despite my efforts, and the efforts of several senior commanders, including Dietrich and Manteuffel, no one at the High Command received our suggestions with any flexibility. After long hours of discussion, I was ordered to return to my headquarters and, along the way, to bring you this.”

  Von Rundstedt saw the thick envelope in Model’s hands, knew already what the documents said.

  Model continued, “These orders are specific and do not leave any further room for maneuver on our part. I believe the Führer has grown weary of those who question his brilliance.”

  There was no sarcasm in Model’s words. No, he is pure puppet. He will die for his Führer, no matter how stupid the strategy. The old man moved slowly to his chair, sat stiffly, tried to settle comfortably, too many pains. He looked up at Model, who kept the firm stare, already impatient to be leaving, his message delivered. Von Rundstedt had never liked the man, liked him less with every conversation. But Field Marshal Walther Model was in command of Army Group B and, as such, was directly under von Rundstedt’s authority. It was the same now as it had been months earlier, when another field marshal had stood before von Rundstedt with obvious contempt, playing the game by the army’s rules, pretending that what this old man had to say carried actual authority. Then, it was Rommel, and despite months of arguments and all the disagreements about strategy, von Rundstedt knew that Rommel disliked Hitler and distrusted Hitler’s senior staff as much as he did. Hitler knew it too. After Rommel’s suicide, word had filtered through the army, rumors inspired by the Gestapo, that Rommel had been considered a conspirator, one of those who had known of the plot to kill Hitler. Whether or not that was true, Rommel was gone now, and von Rundstedt knew the army was weaker for it. And what does that matter? he thought. Generals do not control this army. True authority has not been in our hands for many months. Hitler no longer trusts us. He ignores the men who must actually fight for him. No matter that Hitler himself has never visited his own front lines. Von Rundstedt took the thick folder, opened it, saw maps, unit designations. He pretended to care, had memorized the absurd plans a month before, took Model’s word for it that the High Command had changed nothing at all. He heard Model breathing, could tell the man was anxious to leave, and he took his time with the papers, enjoyed keeping Model waiting. He glanced up at the man, Model averting his eyes upward, and von Rundstedt glanced at a map, too familiar, thought, so now Hitler must think of this man as his new puppy. And yet he is crude and vulgar with no respect for the army or his place in it. But by damn, Hitler knows he’s loyal. I suppose he is. For now anyway.

  Von Rundstedt pushed the folder away, had no more patience for the game. He reached for a bottle of brandy, searched for his glass, but it was gone, already whisked away by someone’s annoying efficiency.

  “I’d offer you some of this, but you’d have to drink from the bottle.”

  Model stiffened, said, “In my career, I have broken many an empty bottle. In Russia, a good commander often fueled himself with the only means at hand.”

  Von Rundstedt leaned back, couldn’t avoid looking at the monocle, smiled. Well, there’s something to be proud of, certainly. Drunk generals are good generals. He couldn’t help the sarcasm, the unavoidable need to puncture this man’s massive ego.

  “It seems that lately the Russian generals have a bit more of that fuel than we do.”

  Model had no humor, seemed to be insulted.

  “Do not speak to me of Russia, Field Marshal. It was a glorious campaign.” He paused. “There were mistakes in the field. There was disobedience. So much has changed.”

  Model had been a significant hero early in the Russian campaigns, but that seemed like decades ago now. The old man knew that toying with Model would get nowhere, and his energy was already slipping away.

  “Will you please sit down, Field Marshal? All that decorum you insist on displaying is wearing me out.”

  Model did not move. “I have no need to linger here,” he said. “The brandy can wait for another time. Perhaps a toast to our victory when our troops liberate Antwerp.”

  Von Rundstedt squinted at Model, shook his head.

  “Good God. You don’t believe that nonsense any more than I do. I might have no choice but to accept your insubordination and your insolence, but lies and duplicity I will not tolerate, not in my own headquarters. You and I are both aware that Hitler’s plans are absurd. We do not have the manpower or the supplies capable of maintaining the campaign that has been laid out for us … for you. It is, after all, your glorious command. But do not dare to insult me with talk of victories, Field Marshal. You and I endured too many hours together designing alternatives. In the event you have forgotten, you and I went to great lengths to convince the High Command that there was a better way, a more efficient battle plan that could trap the enemy in his surge around Aachen. It is a plan that can still work. We have brought the Americans to a virtual stalemate on very difficult ground, and we have inflicted heavy casualties. But the weather is changing rapidly, and any offensive action we undertake now must be precise and focused on a narrow area. Our ability to strike with armor and artillery is limited, and our fuel supplies are insufficient to make a drive beyond what you and I have proposed. It is entirely logical
that the enemy will expect us to pull back and settle into a winter’s rest, and likely he will do the same. His attacks south of Aachen and at Metz are nothing more than exercises for our benefit, to convince us that he is coming still. But I know this land, I know what winter can do here. It is no different now than it was in the First Great War. Any major offensive now will be crushed under the weight of the weather. There are inadequate roads to advance the strength that the Führer has ordered.” His voice was rising now, the last explosion of energy. “Hitler lusts for the memories of our great surge through the Ardennes four years ago, how easily we swept aside the French and the British. But that campaign took place in the spring, Field Marshal. We have reminded the Führer of that too many times for me to recall. And now you bring me news that he has ignored common sense and military reality once again. But do not dare tell me that, now, you agree with him.” He paused, saw no change in Model’s expression. “There can still be a victory at Aachen. We have the opportunity to cut off a sizable number of American divisions. We can surprise him …”

  Model pointed to the papers.

  “Read the Führer’s orders, Field Marshal. The plan is to be followed precisely as he designed it. Our orders are to destroy the enemy by pushing hard and fast on a narrow front through the Ardennes. We shall then cross the Meuse River, and once on flatter ground, the armor shall continue their push and sweep rapidly toward Antwerp. We shall liberate Antwerp in a matter of days. By such a rapid advance, we shall divide the British and American forces, and that will compel the British to resign from the war. We shall supply ourselves with fuel and vehicles by the rapid capture of the enemy’s numerous supply compounds and storage facilities. With maximum use of speed and secrecy, this offensive shall catch him totally unprepared. It was explained to me that there is brilliance even in the name of the operation, since the Führer chose Watch on the Rhine. Should enemy intelligence learn of it, they will interpret it to mean a defensive posture along the Rhine River. Hitler has thought of every detail.”