by Jeff Shaara
8 A.M.
He had emptied half a dozen clips, Mitchell even more, the Germans in the field seeking cover, their advance slowed by the withering fire from the men on the ridgeline. The shell holes in the open field made for excellent cover, the Germans bunching up, returning fire, but the Americans had the advantage, protected by their foxholes on the higher ridge, the machine gunners raking the open ground, keeping the Germans from moving forward. Benson was searching through his rifle’s sight, no targets, his breathing in heavy bursts, and he heard someone shout, “Hold your fire! Pick a target!”
He wanted to look that way, knew the voice, Higgins, farther up the ridge somewhere, another hole. He’s okay, thank God. There was a pause in the rifle fire, both sides content to sit in their cover, but the lull was only in front of him. Up on the road, the tanks had continued to roll past, clear and distinct, machine-gun fire and tank guns blasting their way to the rear. The men were responding there as best they could, bazooka crews and anti-tank guns fighting back. Benson lowered his head, his helmet down below the surface, safe, and he looked that way, the fight a steady chatter, sharp blasts, the sound of tank treads. Down below, in the churned-up field, the Germans were starting to fire their rifles again, some with machine guns, heavier machine guns back on the far ridge. But the German fire was scattered, men protecting themselves by shooting wild, their targets well hidden. To the left, one of the thirty-calibers was working the open ground with regular blasts, and Benson could hear the men, the machine-gun crew, knew their sergeant, the distinctive gruffness in his voice.
“Change barrels. Don’t let up. We’ve got ’em pinned down!”
Mitchell fired his rifle again, and Benson jumped at the sound, more ringing in his ears.
Mitchell said, “They’re all ours now! We’ve got ’em trapped! Can’t move forward or backward. Stupid! Marched right out in the open.” He yelled out now, “So what you gonna do, Krauts? Wait for dark?” He fired the rifle again.
Benson said, “Kenny! Save your ammo! How much you got left?”
“Hell I don’t know! I don’t keep count.”
Benson looked past him, saw Yunis down in the foxhole, holding his rifle against his chest. The man’s eyes were red, tears on his face, his whole body quivering. Benson felt sick looking at him, wondered if Mitchell had even noticed. Benson wanted to feel angry, stared at Yunis, but he couldn’t help feeling the cold in his own pants, his own embarrassment.
Mitchell turned, seemed to notice Yunis for the first time. “You son of a bitch! You goddamn coward! Get up here and fight!” Mitchell raised one foot, jammed a boot hard against the man’s helmet, pushing Yunis into the mud. “We survive this, I’m going to kill you myself!”
Yunis was crying, the sickening wail again, and Benson turned away, peered up, the pops of rifle fire still coming from the men around him, the Germans responding. There were streaks of fire from the far trees, the heavier machine guns using tracers, the ground churned up in front of the foxhole, someone’s sweeping fire. Benson hunched low, checked the rifle, had lost count of the rounds still in the clip, thought, four or five, I think. He put a hand on the clips in his bandolier, six. Is that enough? What happens now? Will they bring us more?
The machine guns had slowed their firing behind him, and he couldn’t take his mind from that, the ammo, how much do they have? How much do the Krauts have? He wanted to look back, but the cracks and zips from the German rifles were still coming overhead, no one daring to expose himself for long.
He saw Mitchell aiming the rifle, searching, saw a curl to his lip, viciousness in the man’s face. Mitchell was whispering, talking to himself. “C’mon, you Kraut bastards. Let’s see you try to run away. That’s what you want, ain’t it? Get the hell out of here. I see you moving, your helmet … just a little higher …”
The blast came behind them, no shriek, no sound at all but the impact in the broken trees. Benson flinched again, ducking low, heard the whistle from shrapnel spraying past close overhead. Mitchell was down as well, the cursing fury still there, and Benson heard the word shouted out, echoing across the ridge.
“Mortars!”
More blasts came now, a pattern, steady, distinct, no warning at all until the high-arcing shells impacted. Benson huddled low, nothing else to do. There were no other sounds now, no one firing, the mortars peppering the entire ridgeline. He heard a scream, a brief sharp cry, someone hit, but the voice was erased, the mortar shells falling again. Benson couldn’t help staring at Yunis, his hands on his head, the barrel of his M-1 stuffed into the mud. Benson felt rage at the man, useless, suffering like some child, the man with no guts at all. Benson looked up, thought of the Germans in the field, said to Mitchell, “We’ve got to keep an eye on them!”
“Shut up! Stay down until it stops! They can’t advance into their own mortar shells!”
The shelling slowed, one last shell coming down to the left of their hole, a punctuation mark, tossing dirt in their foxhole, something hard, heavy, and Benson saw now it was a boot, a piece of a dead man. Yunis yelped, and Mitchell picked it up, tossed it out, said, “They’re killing dead men. That’s a waste of ammo, you Kraut bastards.”
Mitchell was up again, the brief quiet interrupted by more rifle fire. Benson stood, raised the rifle, his heart racing, white-clad men in the field moving up the hill again. The machine guns started up behind the foxhole, and Benson felt gasping relief, thought, thank God, thank God, they survived. He stared at the Germans as they fell, some tumbling facedown, some rolling in the snow, crawling back to their cover. Mitchell yelled again, “It didn’t work! We’re still here! Ha!”
He fired the rifle, four shots, the clip popping out with a metallic clink, and Benson searched for targets, nothing, too late, the Germans too well hidden.
Mitchell reloaded the M-1, said, “They thought they could take us out with mortars. It cost them half a dozen men. Go on, Kraut bastard, try that again.”
Benson realized now that the fight on the left, along the main road, was slowing. The tanks were there still, but the firing was scattered, mostly bursts of machine-gun fire, nothing else. He heard different engines, trucks, other vehicles, all in motion, the invisible column moving past them, behind them. There was a sudden burst of firing far to the right, and it was behind them as well, along another ridge. He turned that way, knew not to rise up to look, nothing to see anyway. There were hard thumps, tank guns, anti-tank artillery, and he strained to hear over the sporadic noise around him.
“Kenny, they’re behind us.”
“Like hell! Those are our boys, kicking hell out of the Kraut tanks.”
Benson knew Mitchell was usually right, but still he listened, another battle growing farther down, distant, in a long ravine that spread out to the southwest.
Mitchell turned that way now, leaning with his back against the foxhole, staring in silence. After a long moment, he said, “You might be right. Where the hell are our tanks? We’ve got enough artillery back there to stop anything. It’s coming. I know it.”
The fight seemed to spread out far to the south and west, and Benson focused on the continuous sound of vehicles, close the other way. “Up on the road. Those are Krauts. They’re not fighting anymore, they’re just … moving. They’re going past us. Jesus, Kenny, what the hell is going on?”
A voice came from behind them, startling him, Benson raising the rifle. But the helmet was American, and he saw the face, Higgins, the sergeant rolling, tumbling down into their foxhole, heavy on top of them. Mitchell cursed, but Higgins silenced him with a hard look, different, a look Benson had never seen.
“We have to get out of here. Captain Moore has ordered us to pull back. The Krauts have driven our guys back all along the ridgelines. There’s a hell of a lot of armor out there. The captain’s CP is gone, blown to hell. There’s no communications except the wireless radios, and he’s tried to find someone who knows what’s going on. He reached D Company, across that road, and they’re already pull
ing out. They can hear fighting farther to the north, toward the Four Two Two. That’s all he knows. We’re being left behind out here.” Higgins paused, out of breath. Even Mitchell was silent, waiting for more.
Higgins looked at the three of them, said to Yunis, “You’re not worth a crap, are you? I can tell. You still got a full belt of ammo. Well, if you’re not going to fight, divide it up with these guys. Now! Do it!”
Yunis reacted, obeyed, and Higgins looked at Benson, then Mitchell, said, “The machine gunners are going to lay down a heavy fire for about ten seconds. That’s all they’ve got left. When they start shooting, get your asses out of here. Move back, but stay to the left of the kitchens. Krauts are in those woods, all around the road. We need to make our way back as close to Saint Vith as we can. That’s gotta be the Kraut objective. Captain Moore’s already trying to get there, to hook up with the other company commanders. The wireless sets are working a little bit, and when I left him, he was still trying to raise some of the other guys above the road. These damn woods cut down on the range, but he thinks that everyone knows how important Saint Vith is. Division HQ is back there, and if the Kraut armor is pushing that way, they’re gonna need all the help they can get.”
Higgins looked up slowly, peered out, ducked again. “Looks like that Kraut infantry is staying put for now. But they’re gonna try more mortars, you can bet on that. They see us moving around, they’re gonna open up with everything they’ve got. No screwing around. Get back off this ridge as fast as you can. We’ll meet up … hell, wherever we can.” He paused. “If we can’t find a way back to the town, the captain says we may be on our own out here. That’s all I know.”
Higgins peered up again. “Give me a little covering fire. I think this squad’s still got half a dozen guys in good shape. I’ve gotta pass the word. Give me ten minutes, then expect the machine gunners. You understand?”
Benson nodded, and Mitchell said, “We’re ready, Sarge.”
Benson raised up, aimed the rifle, Mitchell doing the same, and Benson aimed at a clump of black dirt far down the hill, knew it hid a cluster of Germans. He glanced back at the sergeant, who gave a sharp nod, and now both men fired, Benson emptying his clip. Higgins was up and out of the hole quickly, slithering his way down the ridge. Benson wanted to watch him, make sure he made it, but the Germans responded with fire of their own, a heavy machine gun from the far woods, pops and cracks in the air above. Benson squatted down, and Mitchell said, “He made it. Saw his boots disappear. I think that’s Milsaps and Lane down there, maybe Donnelly. They’ve been firing pretty steady, so I think they’re okay.”
Benson felt a strange empty shock, bent his knees, leaning against the muddy dirt.
“They pushed right past us. We couldn’t stop them.”
“No time for whining about it. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”
Benson looked at Yunis, who seemed calmer now, his head down, staring at nothing.
“What about him?”
The German machine gun had stopped. Mitchell looked up, nothing to see, bent low again. “What about him? He feels like fighting, he can fight. He feels like curling up in his momma’s arms, he can stay here.”
“We can’t just leave him behind.”
Mitchell kicked at Yunis’s leg, the man jumping, startled.
“The hell we can’t. I’m not carrying him on my back. Hey … gutless!”
Yunis looked up, reacting to Mitchell’s words as though he had never seen the man before.
“What? What do you want?”
“We’re about to get our asses out of here. Can you run as good as you cry?”
“Easy, Kenny. Look, Yunis … Arnie. We’ve got to get out of here. Keep your head down and run like hell. Follow us, okay?”
Yunis nodded slowly, but the look in his eyes didn’t change.
There was a shout down the line, and the machine guns started now, short bursts, another one farther away. Mitchell bent low, seemed to coil like a spring.
“Let’s go!”
Benson did the same, a last glance at Yunis, who didn’t move at all. Mitchell uncoiled, was up quickly, crawling, and Benson followed, his boots slipping on the muddy walls of the foxhole. He was crawling furiously, his knees in wet snow, cradling the rifle in his bent arms. He saw others doing the same, saw the tree line behind them, broken and blasted timber, the ground falling away on the other side. The machine guns stopped, more shouts, and Mitchell rose to his feet, running, bent low. Benson tried to follow, slipping in the mud, pushed himself hard, his boots finding the traction. He shadowed Mitchell, the man running in jerking zigzags, easing past the debris of so many shattered trees. The Germans were firing, cracks and whistles, but the shots were scattered, wild. Mitchell was upright, the higher ground behind them, and Benson followed closely, stayed with him step for step. The ground still fell away, the men running downhill, gaining speed, some stumbling, losing control, the snow deep, tangles of timber. The hillside rolled into a thick bottom, an icy creek, and Benson felt the ground softer, the snow melting into deep mud. He struggled, the ground sucking at his boots, his breathing in cold hard gasps, and Mitchell stopped beside the creek, tested the icy edges with his boots. Benson put a hand against a small tree, his chest heaving, others there as well, one man with a wound, a bloody bandage on his arm. They stared at each other, searching faces, and Benson saw the sergeant, Higgins, vomiting in the snow, rare weakness. The others gathered closer, waiting for the sergeant’s authority, any authority at all, and Benson saw the faces clearly, names in his head, Milsaps, Donnelly, Lane the bully, no bully at all now, just another scared soldier.
Higgins was back on his feet, looking back, searching, scanned the others now, said, “The machine gunners went the other way, I think. Dammit!” He kept his stare on the hill behind them. “The Krauts watched us pull out. So they’ll be coming like hell, you can bet on that. We’ve got to keep moving. They’ll probably slow down enough to take a look at our foxholes, see what kinds of stuff we left behind.” He turned toward the main road, still hidden by the trees. “Listen.”
They all stood quietly, followed Higgins’s gaze. There were vehicles in motion still, sounds of a fight to the west and south. Higgins said, “Captain Moore said to get across that road, join up with whoever we can find. I don’t think that’s likely until dark. The road goes straight to Saint Vith, and if you get lost, use the road to guide you. But stay clear of it.”
“Where’s the captain, Sarge?”
The voice came from one of the others, Benson ignoring the name.
“How the hell do I know? We’ve got no radio, and these woods are stuffed with Krauts, all moving west. We might be in a footrace, boys. If they take Saint Vith, well, hell, I don’t know what that means. If I knew what was going on, they’d have made me a general. Too much talk. Time to go.”
Higgins slogged through the icy creek, the others following. Benson glanced back up the ridge, through the shattered trees, black and broken ground, the stink of explosives still around him. He hesitated, stared at the hilltop they had left, heard voices, German voices, thought of Higgins’s words, They’ll search the foxholes. Benson started to move, tried to escape the image in his mind, Yunis, curled up like a ball, waiting for whatever the Germans would do to him.
In early December, Eisenhower had spent most of his time on the move, visiting corps and division commands, greeting the troops, most of them already settling into a routine of small-scale assaults, probing and taking advantage of those sectors where the enemy might be weak or unprepared. Since troops on both sides were hampered by the poor weather, air support was either limited or nonexistent, and so the single greatest Allied advantage had been neutralized. Once the weather cleared, the planes would begin their missions again, tactical support for the ground forces that would ramp up the intensity of the Allied drive into Germany. All along the Allied lines, the commanders had begun each day with a weather report, which came to them with dismal consistency.
The winter weather was growing steadily worse, especially around the Ardennes, where Hodges had stretched thin his lines with untested troops. Eisenhower had seen the maps, knew that the defenses along the Ardennes were far weaker than he normally would have allowed. But with such bitter cold, and increasing amounts of snow, the Allied command had to assume no one on either side had much to worry about.
On December 16, as the German thrust across the Ardennes Forest blew past the vastly unprepared American defensives, the power of the surprise was absolute. The Germans had so completely disrupted American communications that the highest-ranking commanders had no idea what was happening to their troops. For a full day, three German armies drove westward, cutting off or annihilating the stunned Americans, without anyone in the American command centers understanding just how severe the German assault was. Courtney Hodges’s First Army, whose divisions were stretched thin along the ridges and dense woods of the Ardennes, were quickly driven into total chaos. The chaos spread all the way up the chain of command, through Hodges’s headquarters, and then higher still, to Omar Bradley, who commanded all American ground forces. Though some Allied intelligence officers had reported the massing of German forces along the eastern edges of the Ardennes, no one among the highest-ranking commanders gave the reports much credibility. It was after all, winter. Since the Normandy landings in June, the Allied forces had waged a steady, if inconsistent campaign to drive the German army back into their own homeland, a campaign that had been mostly successful. Not Eisenhower, not Bradley, not Hodges, had imagined a scenario where the Germans would suddenly turn the tide in the other direction. Despite the various stumbles along the way, to Eisenhower and the generals under his command, victory had been a foregone conclusion. Even as the German forces were driving the bulge deeper through the Ardennes Forest, no one at SHAEF had any idea what was happening, and few command posts near the fighting had any way of letting them know.
SHAEF, VERSAILLES, FRANCE