No Less Than Victory

by Jeff Shaara

  The men smiled, obvious pride, and von Rundstedt nodded his approval toward their lieutenant, who ordered them back into the bunker. Guderian moved away, glanced around, no one within earshot, allowed von Rundstedt and Speer to move close, turned and faced the old man.

  “We have suffered a setback at Bastogne, is that true?”

  Von Rundstedt rubbed his chin with the cold leather of his gloves, said, “I should think this meeting should include Field Marshal Model. He can speak much more precisely on the frontline situation.”

  “If I wanted to talk to Model, Model would be here. What of Bastogne?”

  “The enemy was able to break through our best defensive efforts. We knew we would be confronting General Patton’s forces in the south. He is not a man who will accept defeat for long.”

  “So, you respect Patton?”

  “Don’t you? I believe that General Patton has modeled much of his strategy from the lessons he learned from you, General. You should be flattered.”

  Guderian seemed to consider the compliment, and von Rundstedt smiled to himself, thought, yes, his ego enjoys a good stroke now and then.

  Guderian moved past the momentary glow, said, “The Führer expects your forces to reclaim the city. He expects this to happen immediately. He is not so enamored of General Patton.”

  Von Rundstedt thought for a moment, sifted through the myriad sarcastic responses. He fought that temptation, said, “It is my belief that Bastogne was an opportunity lost. It was General Manteuffel’s feeling that the city should be bypassed in exchange for the speed his tanks could offer in their drive westward. In hindsight, General Manteuffel erred in not securing Bastogne earlier in the campaign. But the goal was to send his armor forward and not be so concerned with the flanks. I believe that is a principle you understand well, is it not, General?”

  Guderian pondered the words, a hard scowl on his face.

  “You would mock my strategies then? You would dare to place blame at my feet?”

  Von Rundstedt forced shock into his expression.

  “Most certainly not! You misinterpret my meaning. I have always appreciated your philosophy of battle. To paraphrase what you have often said yourself, Speed eliminates concern for flanks. If we had been able to achieve such speed in this campaign, I have no doubt it would have been a success.”

  The scowl faded, and after a moment von Rundstedt saw a hint of a smile.

  “Nicely stated, Field Marshal. You have managed to compliment the Führer’s plan, while you lay failure at the feet of others. Perhaps I underestimate you.”

  Von Rundstedt did not respond, the opening for Guderian to continue.

  “Bastogne must be recaptured. Those are the Führer’s orders. Your first orders. I have had a lengthy conference with the Führer, and he is aware that the weather did not aid our forward movement. I have tried to convince him that the enemy’s ability to move vast numbers of tanks and artillery in the path of our advance is a problem.”

  “You are a master of understatement, General.”

  Guderian ignored the comment, continued. “The Führer believes more than ever in the fighting spirit of the German soldier. He is less enthusiastic about the spirit of his generals.”

  Von Rundstedt let the comment pass, thought, when has it ever been different?

  Guderian paused, seemed troubled, glanced at Speer, who so far had said nothing at all.

  “The Führer is of the opinion that, despite the delays, our campaign has had the desired effect. The enemy has been considerably softened across the entire front. What is required now is one sharp blow, one strike to open the gates across the Meuse River. This operation will yet succeed. We must not rely solely on technology. The Führer believes that our past reliance on the tools of war has been detrimental to our success. To state it plainly, we were not provided with a strong armored reserve or additional artillery because this army should not require it. We must have faith in our troops to carry out their Führer’s orders.”

  Von Rundstedt felt paralyzed, his mouth opening slightly, felt the cold in his chest, the three men standing in frigid silence. Guderian looked away slowly, and von Rundstedt rolled the words over in his mind, thought, you must have exploded when you heard that. No one could believe such foolishness, certainly not a man who knows the value of armor.

  After a few seconds, Guderian said, “The Führer is no longer interested in hearing complaints from you and Field Marshal Model about the lack of gasoline. It was your job to capture the enemy’s fuel depots, and thus the failure lies with those men who did not take advantage of opportunity.”

  Von Rundstedt looked at Speer, who was staring at the ground, who seemed to share Guderian’s unease. So, that is the message, he thought. That is why Guderian has come, to inform us that the fantasy of victory is yet within our grasp.

  Looking at Speer, he said, “Has Herr Speer accompanied the general to confirm that the Führer’s orders were properly communicated? Are you here because you are a reliable witness to this absurdity?”

  Speer seemed surprised by the question.

  “It is not my place to offer opinions of the Führer’s strategies. I felt I should visit the headquarters where so much is being decided. I assure you, Field Marshal, I am not here to spy on General Guderian’s performance.”

  Von Rundstedt smiled at the word.

  “A fine performance it was. So, Herr Speer, are you in agreement that it is not tanks or guns or rockets that will decide this war? It is our beloved private with his bolt-action rifle who will carry the day? Never mind that the enemy is pouring hundreds of new tanks and artillery pieces through the seaports he has taken from us. Never mind that our soldiers have suffered mightily at the hands of the enemy’s technology. Never mind that when it was promised to us, our own technology did not materialize. Tell me, Herr Speer, why is that so? Where are the tanks that were promised us? Where was the Luftwaffe’s vast armada of planes to sweep the enemy from the skies? Where are all those secret weapons the Führer has been speaking of? That is your department, yes?”

  Speer reacted slowly, no anger.

  “I cannot respond to your questions, sir, because I do not have the answers. I can assure you that the factories are operating at maximum capacity, despite the enemy’s best efforts to bomb them to oblivion.”

  Von Rundstedt laughed, couldn’t help himself, shivered in the cold.

  “The enemy bombs our factories every day and every night and you expect me to believe that they are unharmed?”

  Speer shook his head.

  “I am not saying that at all, sir. We continue to suffer significant destruction, however, repairs are made rapidly to every damaged production line, and we are continuing to produce the materials you require. I did not make promises about numbers. It is not my job to do so.”

  “No, I suppose not. My apologies to you, Herr Speer.”

  Guderian seemed to lose patience. “I am aware that when the two panzer armies were slowed by enemy resistance, we required, at that precise moment, reserve armor which we did not have available. With some difficulty, I have explained that to the Führer. It is not a point he will consider. It is a familiar argument to me, and one that is … frustrating. But we have our orders now, and you will carry them out.”

  Von Rundstedt mulled over the words, had a sudden burst of clarity.

  “You are giving those orders to me. I am expected, of course, to pass them along to Field Marshal Model.” He laughed, shook his head. “I am no fool, General. I am being given a task that we cannot complete, and so, I will be the one who is labeled with failure. The Führer has great affection for Herr Model, and very little for me. Yes, I understand my part in this. If Herr Model were standing in the streets of Antwerp at this very moment, the bands would play for him. However, since he is not, the orders to repair this situation have come to me. Very clever. Very clever indeed.”

  Guderian seemed increasingly uncomfortable, turned away, seemed to search the trees.
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br />   “I will now inspect the troops in this sector. I will test their morale, and report on their fighting spirit to the Führer.”

  Von Rundstedt held out his hand toward Speer, who seemed suddenly miserable. Speer took the hand, a firm shake, and von Rundstedt thought, perhaps I am wrong about him. He sees precisely what is happening. And it appears he does not like it at all. Very good, young man. I respect you for that.

  “It was pleasant having your company, Herr Speer. You may certainly visit this headquarters anytime. General Guderian, you may inspect anything you wish while you are here. I am certain that you will find the spirit of this army to be exactly as your Führer expects it to be. I am returning to my office. I am too old to suffer the cold.”

  DECEMBER 27, 1944, LATE EVENING

  More than ever before, the old man knew he was merely an afterthought. The reports continued to come, someone in Model’s headquarters informing him of the day’s fighting only when it seemed to be convenient. But the reports from Bastogne had been exactly as he expected. The renewed attempt at capturing the city had been a meager effort, the troops in that sector beaten back decisively by the American forces Patton continued to shove into the area.

  But the final report of the day had brought meaning that no one, not even the most optimistic general, could misinterpret. With the Allied pressure coming from both north and south, the point of Model’s westward spear had been narrowed to a single striking force, the Second Panzer Division, whose men still performed with the fighting spirit that Hitler had predicted. The Second had reached the town of Celles, Belgium, still pressing forward toward the Meuse River, preparing for a direct confrontation with British tanks that defended the river crossings. But the panzers had not been prepared for a sudden attack on their right flank by units of the American Second Armored Division, supported by infantry from the American Eighty-fourth Division. The results of the fight had been a catastrophe for the Second Panzers, who lost half their men and most of their heavy armor. No other German support could reach the area, and thus the point of the spear had been thoroughly crushed.

  Von Rundstedt stood at the map, staring, no longer seeing, had studied too many maps now, details his brain would no longer absorb. He felt that peculiar pain in his chest, but it was not his heart, no illness. It was far deeper than that, a hard shocking pain to a soldier’s instinct when a victory does not come. There could have been victory here, he thought. No matter the foolishness of the plan, when we launched this campaign, this army had the fight in them, would still do whatever we asked them to do. Every general knows that no matter the mapmakers and the numbers on paper, when you put men and tanks into motion, when you put men to killing other men on a battlefield, anything can happen. No strategist can predict every outcome. But now … no matter what kind of illusions float through Berlin, we have an outcome.

  So what happens now, old man? Can Model rally his troops, find the gasoline and the armor to replace what he no longer has? Does he still believe this is a fight he can win? Guderian does not believe that, no matter the ridiculous speech he was ordered to give, no matter the orders he carries here from his Führer. How must he feel about that? A brilliant strategist, serving his supreme commander as an errand boy. Or worse. A propagandist.

  Von Rundstedt reached for a bottle of cognac, nearly empty, thought of drinking it without a glass. What does it matter, anyway? But his instincts took over, decorum always, and he reached for the glass, poured the bottle empty. Across the office, the map seemed to loom over him like some kind of shroud, unavoidable. The glass was in his hand now, not nearly full enough, and he sat back in the chair, his eyes blurring. He downed the cognac, no pleasure in the soft burn. The pain came again, the raw and unavoidable shock from the reports of the Second Panzer’s disaster. You knew this moment would come, he thought. Model knew, Manteuffel, all of them. So why is it so difficult? Am I to be satisfied that all of us were right, that this was the inevitable conclusion? There will never be any pride or any vindication in telling Hitler that he was wrong, that he is always wrong. And yet, if he had been right … just this one time … perhaps this war could have ended well for us, for all of Germany.

  He had kept his aides away, did not need anyone to update the map, to redraw the thick lines showing troop movements, colored pins showing the positions of the enemy. It no longer matters, he thought. What matters, and what will always matter, is that on this day, we reached the end. We were turned back, and we do not have the means to change that. No matter what Hitler believes, no matter what any of them believes, we have lost any momentum we had, any superiority. He looked again toward the map, thought of the name of the town, Celles. A place no one will ever care about, no one of us will ever see. It holds only one meaning. It is two miles shy of the Meuse River, and it is as far as we were able to go.

  NEAR HASSELT, BELGIUM

  DECEMBER 28, 1944

  He had been pushing for a meeting with Montgomery, and—with Bastogne secured, and the German western thrust well contained—it seemed an opportune time. But Monty would not come to Versailles, insisting that his guardianship over Hodges’s army meant diligence, the kind of watchful eye the British field marshal could not exercise by taking himself away from his forward headquarters. So, Eisenhower would go to him.

  The weather had turned again, snow and ice on every road, travel for the supply and troop convoys miserable once again. It made sense that if Eisenhower was going to travel anywhere beyond the outskirts of Paris, the only way to move was by train.

  He rode in a small private compartment, the train nothing like the luxurious rolling headquarters used by other generals in other wars. Though he had his privacy, there was little time for relaxation. The staff had loaded him up with every report he had sought, troop movements and orders, Bradley and Devers keeping him fully briefed on action in their sectors. There were newspapers as well, British, with headlines that annoyed him every time he glanced at the bold black print. Montgomery’s newly acquired control of the American First and Ninth armies had made an enormous splash, the papers seeming to believe that it was a first step toward Monty’s eventual dictatorship over the entire Allied operation. He stuffed the papers beneath the stack of yellow legal pads, scribbled writings of his own that meant more to him than anyone’s news in London. He knew the reception to Montgomery’s new authority would be handled like a fat ripe plum of propaganda, and it was hard for him to object officially. The British people had been suffering under severe shortages, and the casualty counts were an ongoing nightmare for British families. Eisenhower appreciated that any good news, even this kind of good news, was a positive thing.

  The train was crowded with MPs, a platoon of top-notch security personnel chosen to safeguard the commanding general. The rumors of assassination squads had continued, and from the frontline troops to the rear command centers, reports filtered up the ladder that Germans in American uniforms were still running rampant through Allied-held territory. The edginess of the guards at the myriad roadblocks was becoming a hindrance to the movement of anyone not traveling with an entire convoy behind him. The stories still came to Eisenhower’s desk, outraged inconvenience for senior officers who might have forgotten the capital of Illinois. Montgomery’s bullet-ridden tires had been the most dramatic tale, and Eisenhower smiled every time he thought of it. But on every roadway and country lane, the roadblocks were infected with an edgy panic that some jeep carrying a squad of German spies would slip past, depositing a handful of grenades or machine-gunning the guards. Whether anyone ever succeeded in reaching the supreme commander was not as important to the MPs and frontline outposts as what was happening right in front of them. Eisenhower couldn’t fault anyone for that.

  The MPs had patrolled cautiously all through the train, searching for the bravehearted assassin who might find the way to climb aboard. It didn’t seem to matter to the officer in charge that the train would not stop at all along the way. Eisenhower tried to ignore the security, sat quietly
in his own compartment, could hear footsteps above him, guards tramping on the roof of his car. He looked out toward the clouds of blowing snow, said aloud, “All right. This is enough stupidity for one day.”

  He moved out into the corridor, aides responding from the next compartment, and Eisenhower said, “Get those MPs inside. Give ’em some coffee and make sure nobody’s dying of pneumonia. The only way any spy is leaping onto this train is if he’s blown in here by the wind. By then, he’ll be stiff as a board. You got that?”

  “Sir, General Smith insists—”

  “Yeah, I know. Beetle’s reading too many murder mysteries. Get the MPs inside. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eisenhower moved back to his compartment, an aide appearing behind him, carrying a tray.

  “Sir, we have some lunch prepared for you. We weren’t certain if you would be sharing lunch with Field Marshal Montgomery.”

  Eisenhower lifted the white napkin covering a large croissant, a mound of dark red ham beside it.

  “This is a hell of a lot better than anything Monty will give me. I’ll take it. You did check it, right?”

  “Sir?”

  “For poison. Those assassins are a crafty lot.”

  The man seemed suddenly alarmed, pulled the tray back. Eisenhower took it away from him with a mild jerk.

  “Give me that. You people need to stop this nonsense. How long until we get to Monty’s HQ?”

  “Uh, we’re about twenty minutes out, sir.”

  “Go up front and double-check that. I want enough time to settle my damn lunch before I have to deal with Monty. I don’t need to be belching into his face. Not by accident anyway.”

  Eisenhower took the man’s hand, felt himself holding only a light squeeze, as though the man’s fragility was still a concern.

  “Freddie, it’s good to see you.”