by Jeff Shaara
Model did not change his stare, continued looking straight at the wall. Von Rundstedt glanced at the papers again.
“Field Marshal Model, you lie well. The Führer is fortunate to have such loyal officers as you. And me, of course. Let no one suggest I am not loyal. The Gestapo’s files on me are no doubt thick enough.” He paused, shook his head, felt a growing hate for this man, such blind obedience to disaster. “After all that you and I worked on, all the maps, the proposals, so much risk of encouraging the Führer’s wrath, may I ask what changed your mind? Why is it you now believe the larger campaign will work? I have a great many copies of the proposals we have made, which still bear your signature. The Gestapo no doubt has those as well. Do not forget that. But you agreed with my smaller objective, and you stood beside me in our efforts to convince Hitler and those fools in the High Command that their ambitions were at the very least … exaggerated. Now you are his champion? You actually believe we shall reach Antwerp?”
Model removed the monocle, wiped it slowly on a white handkerchief. He turned it over between his fingers, seemed to search for any flaw he could wipe away. After a long moment, he placed it back against his eye.
“The Führer’s plan does not have a leg to stand on.”
Von Rundstedt let out a low laugh, felt an aching for the brandy glass.
“Oh yes, I see. You are doing the right thing. So, this is the world we now inhabit, eh? This is the cause we serve? I have worn this uniform for fifty-four years, Field Marshal, longer than you have been alive, yes? I have served with many fine officers whose company I did not enjoy, but I recognized ability. I respect men who know how to lead troops in the field, who have the fighter’s instinct, who know how to crush their enemies. You and I will never be friends, Herr Model, but I respect you. I respect that you are a professional soldier. You know very well what victories require. There is no victory to be had with the Führer’s plan.”
Model did not seem to appreciate the compliment, took a step backward. “There is no argument to be had either, Field Marshal. I have delivered to you the Führer’s final decision. There is to be no more discussion.”
Model turned away, suddenly exited the room without another word.
“I suppose you are dismissed, Field Marshal.”
Von Rundstedt opened a drawer, saw a glass crusted with a remnant of brandy, obviously overlooked by the annoying staff. He reached for the bottle, poured the glass half full, took a quick sip, poured again. He turned toward the window, but his legs ached, a new pain in his back. He sat back in the chair, saw the barren treetops waving, a hard blast of wind. The brandy went down smoothly, the heat welcome, and he thought, Hitler brought me back to this command because they needed … what? An old soldier? A scapegoat? And so, I will do his bidding, no matter how catastrophic the result. Do I have a choice, after all?
He downed the rest of the brandy, looked again at the gray sky outside his window. God help us. God help Germany. We shall not survive this.
NEAR ST. VITH, BELGIUM DECEMBER 11, 1944
If you puke again, I’m gonna ram this rifle up your butt, you got that?” “Easy, Lane. He’ll be okay. Right, Eddie? You’ll be fine.”
Benson didn’t feel fine at all, leaned hard against the tailgate of the big truck. He reached out, tugged at the flap of canvas, trying to close the gap, shielding them all from the cold windy blast. He turned toward the voice, Mitchell, forced himself to smile, a casual wave of his hand.
“I’ll be fine.”
Lane was sitting beside him, packed in close. He tried to lean away. “You stink like nobody’s momma. You’re a damn washout, I know it. Can’t even take a truck ride. Stay the hell away from me from now on, you got that?”
Benson didn’t answer, felt the cramp in his stomach still, the sour taste of the vomit, stared gloomily out through the canvas flaps. He didn’t like Lane, suspected none of them did. Lane was a bullying man, always looking for a target for his inflated anger. It was just bad luck that Lane sat beside him, but Benson’s seat at the rear of the truck had not been by chance. He had always suffered from motion sickness, knew that if this truck was on the road for more than an hour, his guts would twist yet again, the same ailment he had suffered in the backseat of his father’s Ford. He glanced at Lane, avoided the man’s scowl, thought, it’s your own damn fault you sat next to me. I’m not interested in following you around, not one bit. You’re not even a part of this regiment. Not my part, anyway. He stared out through the canvas again, knew that wasn’t really true. No, we’re a team. That’s what the officers keep trying to tell us. We’re all part of the 423rd now, no matter that some of us got here three weeks ago. Why does stupid seem to qualify you for a rifle company? Just counting to ten is a challenge for this jerk. Why the hell did they have to send him to this outfit anyway? He stared out into the cold, engulfed by his silent griping. He tried to ignore the rumble of the truck, the whiff of exhaust, the stirring under his belt.
In the weeks before the 423rd Infantry Regiment had sailed for England, there had been many newcomers, replacing men whom Benson had known well. He had been one of the originals, training with the 106th Division’s first base in Tennessee, and then Camp Atturbury, in Indiana. All through those early days, the 106th’s three infantry regiments, the 422nd, 423rd, and 424th, had worked themselves into what someone must have thought were effective fighting units. But after months of rumors and speculation, the officers hoping to receive orders on just where they might be put to use, the entire division had begun to endure the indignity of losing an enormous amount of manpower. Entire companies had disappeared, shipped off to destinations no one bothered to explain. Information was carried by rumor, cautionary tales that Benson tried not to believe. As the strength of the division was stripped away, the greatest concern he faced was the fearful worrying of the others who remained, his friend Kenny Mitchell, or their platoon sergeant, that any one of them might be next to go. As the rumors flew, the officers began to speak of the replacement depot, what the troops knew as the repple-depple. Word spread that the 106th was being broken up to supply replacements for other divisions chewed up by the Normandy invasion, or the campaigns since. The men in the rifle companies had no idea if their commanders had protested, or if some vicious controversy was brewing. But generals don’t talk to foot soldiers, and Benson only knew that every lieutenant seemed as mystified as the men in their platoons, and just as angry that the 106th was being dismantled, fueling rumors that the division might cease to exist altogether. For the men who remained at Camp Atturbury, there was still an effort to maintain pride in their unit, and the officers never let up reminding them of the meaning of their nickname, the Golden Lions—a snarling symbol of fighting ferociousness that was easy to inject into young recruits. But as so many troops departed, that esprit was drained away as well.
As the summer of 1944 rolled into fall, word flew through the camp that someone in Washington had changed his mind. The 106th would again become a full fighting division. The flow of men now came the other way, replenishing the regiments, refilling the barracks. But it was quickly apparent that many of the new soldiers were not soldiers at all. These men had come because orders had been passed down that staff offices and supply depots from every branch of the service were to be stripped of excess personnel, some of these men coming from various stateside bases, some from air force units. As they repopulated the regiments, they brought along a serious wave of bad morale. Most of the new men had been perfectly content in their rear-echelon roles, many engaged in idyllic busy-work, sleeping in comfortable quarters. Friction was inevitable as the new men moved in alongside the originals on the rifle range, or joined in for the first time on lengthy marches most of them couldn’t stop griping about. Many, like Lane, brought a serious chip on their shoulder. Almost none of them had been trained as infantrymen, and few even knew how to fire a rifle. Though the drill instructors had worked feverishly to put these men into some kind of shape, in a few short weeks word
came that the 106th was scheduled to ship out to England. If there was to be a crash course in combat survival, it would not come in the farmlands of Indiana. The division crossed the Atlantic, arriving in England in mid-November, but their stay was as brief as promised. Battle-ready or not, by the first week of December, the Golden Lions were on their way to the Continent. As the word passed for the men to board the transports yet again, Benson knew only what the officers told him. They were going to France, and there would be no more training, no more practice.
The journey across the Atlantic had been its own slice of hell, the only cheerful note coming too often from the sailors, who bragged longingly of those glorious days when German submarines darted through the convoys, as though every seaman had dropped his personal depth charge on a U-boat. There were very few submarines now, which seemed to disappoint the seamen, though Benson wondered what might happen if an actual U-boat suddenly appeared. These naval heroes might experience a little seasickness of their own.
The journey across the English Channel had been brief, but not brief enough for some. Many had been told that the North Atlantic was the roughest water they would ever see, but storms rolled through the Channel as well, and Benson had suffered through hours of seasickness worse than anything he had gone through in his father’s old Ford. The regiments came ashore at the port at Le Havre, and Benson had fled the transport ship in desperate need of dry land. But Le Havre was anything but. Benson had tried to feel some kind of excitement that he was actually in France, but there was no rest, no sightseeing, nothing but awful weather. The men had marched away from the ports through vast rivers of mud and sheets of freezing rain. He ignored the ones who spouted off about their eagerness to meet the enemy in battle. The weather soon washed away every hint of loudmouthed enthusiasm, and the familiar griping had come with full fury. In Le Havre, they had been ordered to leave their duffel bags behind, some supply officer gleefully announcing that their personal belongings would most certainly be delivered to them very soon. Instead of extra shirts, underwear, and other gear, the men were to carry only extra pairs of socks and cold-weather gear that might have been useful had the world around them not seemed so completely infested with mud. They all wore the standard-issue clothing, long johns beneath their wool uniforms, a reasonably warm field jacket, and a wool overcoat. But on the march away from the port, the mud had seeped up into their boots, soaking their pant legs and oozing into every opening in their clothing. Some of the most miserable men had fallen out of line, but the MPs were there, and even the most dedicated shirker discovered there was nowhere else to go.
After several miles of raw soaking misery, the columns had been ordered to pass alongside a line of supply trucks. From the back of the trucks came vast crates of overshoes, as though someone in a warm supply depot had suddenly realized he had forgotten something. Their late arrival inspired loud volleys of cursing, the men taunting the supply troops, who mostly ignored what they had heard too many times before. To Benson’s surprise, the overshoes actually worked, but there was a price. Though they kept your feet somewhat drier and warmer, they made walking much more difficult. With this new weight on their feet, the men had resumed their slogging mud march.
After half a day’s agony, the marching columns finally came upon unending rows of trucks, and the officers happily announced that, for now anyway, the march was over. As the men were portioned out to the trucks, there had been an eruption of sarcastic cheers, but the drivers weren’t smiling, and the men in charge of the convoy had been as grouchy as the drivers they commanded. Benson didn’t care. Motion sickness was far better than stepping through knee-deep mud.
The two-and-a-half-ton truck could carry fourteen men facing one another on hard seats like two rows of wool-coated sardines. In Benson’s truck, the platoon sergeant rode up front, in the passenger seat, and Benson thought of him now, one of the originals from Tennessee, a perpetually gloomy man named Higgins. Benson had tried to like his sergeant, thought it was a smart thing to do, especially in the beginning, but Higgins didn’t seem to like anyone, and though he wasn’t particularly sadistic, he held his men to a training schedule that was grim and rugged. Even so, it was hard for the platoon to find fault with him. Higgins had been alongside his men in everything they had been required to do. He might be sitting up there with his feet under a heater, Benson thought, but he had to carry as much mud in his boots as the rest of us. These guys are always cussing about him, but he’s never done anything to me I wouldn’t do in his place. He can’t be much older, and he earned those stripes somehow. In the barracks, after the long marches, Benson had pointed out Higgins’s wedding ring, had asked about his wife, whether there were children. Higgins had given him short clipped answers, the message clear: Mind your own business. Benson glanced toward the front of the truck. Sure he’s grouchy. He wants to get back to his kids. Makes sense to me. I’d feel the same way, I guess. I don’t even have a girlfriend, and I’d give up this seat to anyone who wants it. Anybody who thinks joining the army is all about traveling the world hasn’t seen this damn place. He glanced briefly at the others, muddy feet and rifles, heads mostly down, breathing in white mist, the cold and cigarette smoke. He thought of the captain, his company commander, Moore. It was a brief overheard comment, Moore talking to another officer on board the transport ship.
We’re not going to be much use to anyone if it comes down to fighting.
Benson fought the sickness again, his gloved hands gripping the M-1 pointing up between his knees. Germans. Benson looked past Lane to the others, some whose names he still didn’t know. He focused on his friend Mitchell, head down, trying to sleep. He’s afraid too. I know he is. His momma writing him all the damn time, Please don’t get hurt. Ken Mitchell was Benson’s age, barely twenty, had come from the same kind of small-town boredom that inspired many of these men to enlist.
Benson stared down, thought of sleep, impossible, tried to endure the shaking of the truck, the stink of exhaust. He sat back against the padding of his heavy coat, thought, where the hell are they taking us, anyway? I don’t know how to fight a damn war. Germans? What makes anyone think this bunch of GIs is gonna do anything about the Germans?
Benson reached a gloved hand up to his ears, tugged at the wool hat, stretched it as far down as he could. His helmet was no protection from the weather at all, actually made it worse, the steel as cold as the air around him. The plastic helmet liner wasn’t much better, but the men had been issued what was quickly dubbed a beanie, a small round wool cap that was their only protection from the icy winds that turned a man’s ears to raw red agony. He rubbed his gloves against his ears, his fingers nearly numb. The gloves were thin, and his were wet, no way to escape that. He stuffed them down between his thighs, against the M-1, shivered, glanced at Mitchell, his head bobbing and rocking with the rhythm of the truck. Damn you anyway. Beside him, Lane was silent, but Benson could feel the man’s tightness, anger always there. Save it for the Krauts, you stupid moron. That’s where we’re going, anyway. If the Krauts are as miserable as I am, this war oughta be over in days. How ’bout we all go home to our mommas and give up this stupid game? You promise not to shoot at me, I’ll promise not to shoot at you. Bet the generals would love that.
The truck bounced again, and Benson felt his stomach roll over, a stab of misery, fought it. He was angry at himself for his weak stomach, thought, you haven’t eaten anything since dawn, so there can’t be much else to toss out. There was a narrow gap in the canvas flaps, and he peered out, felt a new swirl of cold pushing through. Behind the truck, the road was a chopped-up mess of pavement and gravel, with patchwork repairs made by the engineers to accommodate so much heavy traffic. Immediately behind them was another truck, and he glanced at the expressionless face of the driver, saw someone next to him holding up papers, a map perhaps. Benson knew that behind that truck were dozens more, maybe hundreds. He wasn’t sure of their own place in line, just that the entire division was moving on these miserable r
oads, heading off into … someplace.
He shifted in the seat, heard a grumble from Lane beside him, was readying for yet another confrontation when the truck suddenly slid, the back end fishtailing. Across from Benson, Mitchell raised his head, obviously awake, and groans came from the others. Benson gripped the canvas, saw that what had been ragged pavement was now deep ruts in thick, soft mud. The road had narrowed, and there was fog, the rain heavier, turning to sleet. To the side he could see patches of thick trees, and beyond, fogbound hills, no more open fields. There’s nobody watching us now, he thought. No more civilians. Been a while. We gotta be in the middle of nowhere. There’s not even a farm.
As the convoy had passed through the larger towns, there had been many civilians, heavily dressed adults standing with their children, small bundles of brown and gray, all of them watching the unending parade of green machines. There had been some cheers, people holding flags that weren’t French, and Benson had guessed they had moved across the Belgian border. Many of the onlookers were waving, weary smiles, as much of a welcome as these people could muster. Benson had seen the driver in the truck behind him tossing something out toward the people, pieces of candy, most likely, or gum. The children had responded with dutiful glee, their parents grateful. Benson didn’t know anything about Belgium, wasn’t sure what language these people spoke. Wouldn’t have mattered, he thought. No time for a chat.