The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  He saw a jeep now, and the helmets of two MPs, bouncing along the side of the wider road and skidding to a halt. They emerged, scrambling into the intersection, and saw him now, but he pretended to ignore them, motioning crisply to the oncoming trucks, calling out, “That’s right. Step on the gas. There’s a war up there, you know!”

  “Sir! Good God, it’s—”

  He turned to the MPs with an evil smile, continued the steady waving motion of his arm, and said, “Hello, boys. Someone sleep late this morning?”

  “No, sir! No…sorry, sir. We’ll take over…if you want us to!”

  He spun toward them, both hands on his hips. “I’m doing just fine, thank you! Get back in that vehicle and drive back along this column and tell each driver to keep close to the man in front of him! These are soldiers, boys! This is an army! I want them up where they can kill the enemy!”

  They hesitated, one man still unsure. “Sir, we should be doing…that.”

  “Yep, you should. But I’m doing it now.” Patton turned back to the line of trucks and waved them forward: more cheers, men standing up in the beds, raucous calls, cameras, his name. “You heard me. Get going!” The MPs scrambled back to their jeep, spun around in a cloud of dirt, and disappeared behind the column.

  Morons, he thought. There was artillery now, a long row of cannon, pulled by smaller trucks, and he motioned them into the intersection. He studied the guns as they passed, thinking, This is kind of fun, actually. Can’t do it too much longer, though. I’m already late to the war.

  His aide was Lieutenant Colonel Charles Codman, whose clipped, precise manners made him an odd contrast to the man he served. Codman had joined Patton’s staff in Sicily a year before, bringing with him the culture and grace of a well-traveled businessman. He spoke several languages and seemed comfortable in any company, but he was a soldier as well, having been decorated as a pilot in the First World War, that particular pedigree Patton would always value in any man he served with. Even better, Codman took every dressing down Patton had given him and stood tall in the process. Patton knew, as did everyone in his command, that cursing and shouts went with the job, at least in Patton’s headquarters. If you didn’t take it personally, and did your job to Patton’s satisfaction, you got along with him just fine.

  They rode alongside marching columns, soldiers in motion, all forward. Patton nodded to them as they reacted to the jeep, more of the same enthusiasm he had grown used to. He leaned forward.

  “This still the Ninetieth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. They don’t look too bad. Make damned sure they keep moving. This isn’t a vacation, for God’s sake. I want these men to win something for a change.”

  “Yes, sir. They will, sir.”

  “Damn right.”

  Patton had attended Teddy Roosevelt’s funeral, one of the select few invited to the low-key affair. But the business of war took precedence to sentiment, and immediately Patton had sought out Ray McLain, the man Eisenhower had selected to take the job left open by Roosevelt’s death. McLain had commanded the Forty-fifth Division in Sicily, and Patton had been gratified and relieved that the Ninetieth, for all its difficulties, was finally in the hands of a man who would by all accounts whip it into shape. The Ninetieth was now assigned to Patton’s command, a homecoming that McLain had seemed to appreciate as well. As the surge continued eastward, Patton had positioned the Ninetieth on the vanguard of this part of the infantry advance, testing whether or not McLain had truly turned their fortunes around. So far, they had yet to meet a real test. As had happened throughout most of Patton’s extraordinary advance, German resistance had seemed mostly to collapse from the pure weight of Patton’s audacity. No one in the Allied command had ever raced so many troops forward with so much raw speed. Before German resistance could jell into a cohesive defense, Patton’s forces would be past them. Those units who did form some kind of wall were simply overrun by the stampede of the Americans. Patton had no interest in stopping anywhere along the way to wage a static battle. To Patton’s staff, the greatest challenge was coming up with maps that Patton had not yet driven his army beyond. On August 8, the first units of Patton’s Fifteenth Corps reached Le Mans, seventy-five miles from Avranches, rolling into the city with virtually no opposition. Almost immediately, the order was given, and the vanguard of Patton’s forces turned north. To their west, von Kluge’s Seventh Army was still prodding the American front, but with Bradley’s strengthening of the lines, and the incessant air assaults on the German positions, the steam had been drained from von Kluge’s futile attack. With Patton now moving up behind them, the Germans were in danger of being surrounded. Bradley’s plan was working.

  * * *

  42. PATTON

  * * *

  NEAR ARGENTAN

  AUGUST 12, 1944

  “Too slow, Ray! I want that damned town under our belt by three o’clock!”

  McLain stood tall, didn’t flinch. Patton had gone through this exercise before and knew McLain had a perfect handle on his men. The job would be done.

  “Three o’clock it will be, sir.”

  Patton raised the binoculars and saw movement on the horizon: a column of tanks—his own.

  “Look at them, Ray! Wide open ground! Your boys can make damned good time if they’ll just stick close to the armor. Nobody in our way! You’ve got too many men on foot!”

  “We’re trying to close up to them. The trucks are pushing hard, but the traffic’s pretty rough. There are too few trucks up this far, and some of my boys have no choice but to walk. Slows us down.”

  Patton lowered the field glasses. “Too few trucks?” He turned and saw Codman at the jeep. “Where’s that supply convoy we passed?”

  Codman responded immediately. “Five miles back, maybe closer. They should be up this way pretty quickly, if they keep pushing.”

  Patton stared back down the road, dust everywhere, cursed to himself. “I want them up here now. Right now! Get on the radio, find out who’s in command of that column. They’re hauling…what, blankets? Damned waste of gasoline.”

  He heard the roar of engines, the dust clouds billowing up on the road, and was surprised to see the lead truck. Good, he thought. Very damned good. We’ll see about walking.

  “Hold those people up, right here!”

  Codman obeyed, aides scrambling into the road, arms waving, the lead truck skidding to a halt.

  Patton moved that way, ignored the dust, shouted, “Who’s in command here?”

  The driver stepped down, saluted, wide-eyed, said, “Captain January, sir!” “Who? What kind of stupid-ass name is that?”

  “Uh…I don’t know, sir!”

  “Well, where the hell is Captain January?”

  Men were emerging from the trucks farther back, some staring in frozen disbelief at Patton. One man moved quickly forward: clean uniform, a voice like a child.

  “What’s the meaning of this? I’m under orders from General Patton to get these supplies into Argentan!” The man stopped, stumbled, caught himself, his eyes on Patton. “Oh!”

  Patton waited for the man to compose himself. He’s twelve years old, for God’s sake.

  “You would be Captain January, then?”

  January saluted, stood stiffly. “Yes, sir. My column has arrived on schedule, sir.”

  “Oh, stuff that noise, Captain, I want your trucks. Get your cargo unloaded immediately. We’ll make a dump right out here in this field.”

  “Sir? Unload…here?”

  “You deaf, January? Right here! Right now! I need these damned trucks.”

  The man seemed to quiver. “But, sir, these trucks are assigned to me. General Lee will want to know what happened to them—”

  “General Lee is back in London sipping tea in his castle. I’m in charge out here, and as far as you or anyone else is concerned these are my trucks. I have rifle-toting soldiers who are walking when they need to ride. You get that? Why in hell am I explaining this to you? U
nload this junk right now!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Patton turned and saw McLain watching him with a slight smile, which McLain tried to hide. Patton moved that way again and gripped the binoculars.

  “Morons. An army of morons. If John Lee ever pries himself away from his caviar long enough to actually visit this war, I’ll drive him right up to the Kraut lines and show him what this army is supposed to be doing.”

  McLain couldn’t help the smile now. “The army needs supply people too, sir.”

  “Bull. The army needs supplies. The people I can do without. January! I should put a rifle in that kid’s hands, see what kind of soldier he is.”

  Patton raised the glasses again, stared across a wide hilly plain, a column of trucks in view now, the tanks gone, over the horizon.

  “Time to go, Ray. I need to look at a map. We should be in Monty’s front yard about now.”

  NEAR LAVAL

  AUGUST 12, 1944

  “Where the hell is Monty? I thought the Brits were supposed to be here by now!”

  Bradley didn’t respond, the phone silent for a long moment. Patton raised his voice. “You hear me okay, Brad?”

  “I hear you, George. Monty’s had some trouble. The Canadians haven’t pushed through Falaise yet.”

  “Trouble? Dammit, Brad, we’re right where we’re supposed to be! You ordered me to hold up at Argentan, and that’s what we’ve done! Monty was supposed to be staring at us. Now, you’re telling me he’s still—what, twenty miles away?”

  “He’s doing what he can, George. It’s been a tough go. I need you to hold at Argentan for now. The enemy is finally pulling back from Hodges’s lines, and he’s going to be heading your way.”

  Patton felt the explosion coming, shouted away from the phone. “Of course he’s coming! That’s why we’re here!” He tried to calm himself, saw officers watching him: the corps commander, Haislip; McLain; others; none of them happy. Patton gripped the phone, tried to hold his control, spoke slowly.

  “Look, Brad. We can advance to Falaise ourselves, put some tanks up there in an hour. The Krauts are still to the west, and we’ve got a perfect shot at cutting them off completely! That was the plan, right?”

  There was silence again.

  After an agonizing pause, Bradley said, “Yes, that was the plan. But you have to hold at Argentan. I want no confusion on that point, George. None at all. Falaise is inside Monty’s boundary. It won’t do for you to cross over. It could cause problems.”

  Patton felt the hot burst in his brain, that word again: problems.

  “Brad! Let me send my boys up there. Haislip already has tanks moving that way. What the hell difference does it make about Monty’s boundary? We’ll drive the British back into the damned sea. We’ll make our own Dunkirk! But we have to close this gap!”

  “Nothing doing! You button up at Argentan, and build up your shoulders. The enemy could hit you pretty quick.”

  “To hell with that! The enemy won’t come anywhere near us! He’s got a twenty-mile gap to slip through!”

  “It’s eighteen miles, and Monty knows what he has to do. If you extend to Falaise your lines will be thin. The German is bringing his whole force back your way.”

  “He’s bringing his whole force because he’s retreating! He’s beaten! All we have to do is scoop him up! Dammit, Brad!”

  “Enough, George. You have your orders. Hold your position at Argentan!”

  The phone clicked: silence. Patton still held it to his ear, in desperate hopes that Bradley would change his mind. But Bradley was gone, and Patton knew what he had to do. He looked toward Haislip.

  “General, order the recall of your armor. We are not to extend our position north of Argentan.”

  “What? Sir—”

  Patton shook his head, silencing the man. He stepped away from the communications truck and walked up a low rise, Codman following.

  Patton waved him away. “No. Everybody stay put.”

  He moved up to the top of the rise, saw the last glow of the sun. Patton stared that way and thought of von Kluge. The German attack against Hodges had been a desperate gamble: idiotic strategy, Hitler’s strategy. Now von Kluge has to get his people out of a hell of a jam, and we’re going to sit here and let him do it. God help me. Won’t anyone let me win this war?

  For the next week, the Argentan–Falaise gap flowed thick with German soldiers, who endured an unending horror of air strikes and artillery barrages. But there was no armor and no infantry to bar their escape. The cost to von Kluge’s army was catastrophic, but even in catastrophe, tens of thousands of German soldiers survived the desperate march. On August 19, Montgomery’s army finally pushed southward to close the door, Crerar’s Canadians and elements of a Polish division meeting the Americans face-to-face at the town of Chambois. For the Germans who did not escape the pocket, the statistics told the tale of the damage that had been inflicted on von Kluge’s army: ten thousand dead, fifty thousand prisoners. Predictably, von Kluge bore the full brunt of Hitler’s rage, yet another commander who could not fulfill his Führer’s dreams. On August 17, von Kluge received the order to return to Berlin, to make way for yet another of Hitler’s ambitious generals. It was von Kluge’s final order and one he would not obey. The next day, as his car took him away from his army, he ordered his driver to stop along the side of the road, and there Hans von Kluge swallowed a capsule of cyanide. He was dead in seconds.

  Within days, Patton’s army continued their push eastward, far outstripping the ability of a seething Montgomery to match either Patton’s speed or his achievements. Despite Montgomery’s ongoing sluggishness, and brewing disagreements with Eisenhower and Bradley over the next phase in their operations, Patton’s focus remained on the goal he had set for himself, the liberation of France and the obliteration of the German army.

  On August 15, the Allied cause received a considerable boost, the launch of Operation Dragoon, a massive American-led invasion of southern France. Though the operation had been a hot topic of debate, supported by Eisenhower and dismissed vigorously by Churchill, the operation was as great a success as Eisenhower had long predicted. Within short weeks, Allied forces driving northward from the Mediterranean would liberate the crucial port city of Marseille and then sweep all German resistance completely out of southern France, driving them back toward Germany itself. At the same time, Patton’s forces had reached the Seine and the Meuse rivers. On August 25, the Germans surrendered the city of Paris.

  Though every thought turned toward the end of the war, the escape by so many German soldiers through the Argentan–Falaise gap would come to haunt the Allies. Far from being beaten, those same soldiers would regroup. Even with Germany’s resources so drained, they would resupply, and they would fight again. In the words of General Jim Gavin:

  The battle of Normandy ended on a very bad note. What could have been a battle of annihilation had been a battle that allowed many Germans to escape and fight again. As they went reeling across France to their homeland, using horses, bicycles, broken-down vehicles, and any other form of transportation they could get their hands on, many French, Belgian, and Dutch people who saw them making their way through the occupied countries were convinced that the war was over.

  Those people were mistaken.

  * * *

  43. ROMMEL

  * * *

  HERRLINGEN, SOUTHERN GERMANY

  SEPTEMBER 6, 1944

  He had been carried home by car on August 8, but the wounds were still severe, the pains—headaches mostly—never leaving him completely comfortable. His skull had been cracked in four places, that fact driven into him by a frustrated doctor. Rommel was a miserable patient at best. After too many days of his angry impatience, gripes about hospital beds and snail-like nurses, the doctor presented Rommel with a human skull and, with one blow of a mallet, demonstrated just what Rommel’s injuries involved. The skull had been shattered into bits across Rommel’s bedsheets. Though Rommel continued to su
ffer through the aggravation of his recovery, after the doctor’s graphic illustration he endured with a bit less complaining.

  But now he was home. He was still impatient, the damage to his eye so severe that he wore an eye patch, and the farsightedness in his healthy eye meant that he could not read without incurring yet another headache. But there had been help, from Admiral Ruge to Lucie to Speidel, those close to him reacting with infinite tolerance, helping him pass time by doing the reading for him. In mid-August, his son, Manfred, had come home, a leave granted the boy by officers who did not question when he might return. Now it was Manfred who read to him, Rommel and his son sharing time together that had been very rare before. Rommel had always known that his duty would keep him from home, so the boy had grown into adolescence rarely spending time with his illustrious father. Now, for a time, the yawning gap between them could be remedied. Even now, the boy did not talk of their years apart, as aware as his father that a soldier’s life did not inspire close-knit families. But Rommel took advantage of these precious days, delighted by the fifteen-year-old’s bright mind. Throughout long conversations Rommel learned something new about his son that had far larger meaning than their own relationship. Manfred had grown up in a world where Adolf Hitler reigned supreme, and Rommel could not just dismiss his son’s continuing loyalty to the Führer. Hitler had, after all, indoctrinated an entire nation and was still supported by the fanatical loyalty of much of his army. The Gestapo’s wide sweeping net had brought prominent names into the public eye, those men who had dared to conspire to murder the Führer, and Rommel had not been surprised that the army and the public had responded with carefully orchestrated outrage toward those men now labeled enemies of the Fatherland. Even his son reacted with furious umbrage that anyone who called himself a German would participate in such a grievous act. It was a conversation Rommel would not pursue. In his own mind, Rommel was disgusted with the conspirators, but not out of any loyalty or affection for Hitler. He despised the notion that any army officers could toss aside his oath and accept the murder of a superior, no matter the circumstance. But his soldier’s mind saw deeper into the tactic, appraised and weighed, and he was just as disgusted by their amateurish planning. The plot had been created by a network of aristocratic drawing-room strategists who had depended on a crippled man to arm and place a bomb. Those men were mostly dead now, executed in ways too brutal and too graphic for him to discuss with his son. And it was not yet over. The Gestapo was continuing a relentless purge of anyone who could be drawn into some connection with the plot itself or even with the conspirators.