by Gee, Colin
He acknowledged the arrival of a coffee poured by Von Vietinghoff.
“White has been successful, and laid the groundwork down for the rest of Spectrum in the spring. We can’t abandon that, Sir.”
Eisenhower waited for Von Vietinghoff to finish drinking before addressing him direct.
“And your view, General?”
The German wasted no time whatsoever.
“I agree with Generals McCreery and Bradley. Finish up Blue, and then postpone until we are properly ready.”
Eisenhower nodded at the unequivocal statement.
“Walter?”
“Sir, the way I see it, we can stop Blue now, without prejudicing the greater aims of Spectrum. Blue will be finished, of course, but we can develop some of the other alternatives we discussed, and maybe get an improvement overall.”
Ike nodded at his CoS’s words, wondering if Bedell-Smith was just playing Devil’s Advocate.
“Well, one thing’s for certain. A decision is needed soon. George is pushing hard and about to cut loose some more of his force on a flanking move, and Field-Marshal Guderian has pushed a tank division up front, ready for a full push on eastern Cologne.”
That was only news to Rossiter, who, as he put it, did not normally concern himself with the trivia of frontline battles.
The sound of footsteps interrupted everyone’s train of thought, and Eisenhower raised his eyes to find Group Captain James Stagg clutching paperwork as if his very life depended on it.
Stagg had obviously moved swiftly, a bead of sweat on his forehead despite the coolness of the room.
“Jimmy, what’s got you so fired up?”
“The weather’s changing, General, and not for the better.”
Everyone, even Rossiter, was suddenly wholly attentive.
“All our data reports indicate the temperature will drop dramatically, starting next week, probably Tuesday.”
“Yes, you briefed us on that last week, Jimmy. Has that changed?”
“Yes, Sir. I now believe that we will see low temperatures of a record nature.”
“What’s record mean exactly?”
Bedell-Smith couldn’t help himself, and held up his hand by way of apology to his boss.
None the less, the question stood.
“Sir, the lowest recorded temperature in Germany was nearly -38°. That was 1929. In 1940, Belgium experienced -30°, Austria, up in the Alps, dropped to -52° in 1932.”
Eisenhower was shaken.
“You mean we are heading for those sorts of temperatures, Jimmy?”
“No, Sir, not exactly. We’ve looked at all the predictions and historical data.”
Stagg took the plunge.
“I believe it will be worse, the worst ever recorded, with the very worst reserved for Scandinavia, Denmark, Holland, Western Germany, all through the Alps and into Northern Italy.”
He selected a chart that showed where the Meteorology analysts thought things would go.
Eisenhower exploded.
“Minus 45°? The Rhine Valley... Cologne... minus 45°? Can this be an error?”
The remark stung Stagg and Eisenhower knew it, but he had to ask.
“Sir, there is always room for error, but this data has been checked, checked, and rechecked. I will guarantee this to 5° either way.”
‘So it could be 5° colder!’
Rossiter put their thoughts into words.
“Jeez but that’s fucking cold!”
“Guaranteed?”
Eisenhower sought indecision in his Meteorological supremo and found none.
“Guaranteed, Sir.”
“Thank you, Jimmy”
Stagg departed and Ike nodded to himself as he rapidly digested the latest information.
“That’s the decision made then.”
Ike stood up, suddenly aware that he had been deprived of tobacco for an unusually long period of time, picking a new pack from the side table, and getting a cigarette lit in record time.
“Walter. Tell George and the Field Marshal that they have until Sunday to get Cologne. After that, it’s a no-go. Tell them what Stagg just told us.”
He continued speaking, including the rest of the room.
“We’ve discussed this scenario, but it seems it’s gonna be much worse than we anticipated. I want our provisions for cold weather checked, and any problems highlighted immediately. Arthur’s going to love this, I don’t think!”
The sniggers were genuine, despite the circumstances, as the low temperature could prove to be a big problem for the Allied air forces.
The more so when some talented tenor started singing Christmas songs as he strolled the grounds on sentry duty.
The room cleared, all except Rossiter, who had another story to tell, leaving the two of them with a newly-arrived fresh coffee pot.
Both men laughed as some noisy NCO started ripping a strip off the tenor, his colourful language and intense humour bringing some light to Eisenhower’s dark morning.
“So, Sam, what brings you here?”
“You asked to be kept in the loop over the Soviet agents, Sir.”
“Indeed, Sam.”
“The one that was with the French, supposedly a Polish officer. He was killed on Sunday, supposedly by the woman he slept with. But it wasn’t her.”
“Sounds like a detective novel. Why not her?”
“She was one of ours. She’s dead too.”
“Sorry to hear that, Sam. So what does it mean?”
“It means the French still have a problem.”
1131 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Route 51, North of Eicherscheid, Germany.
“Pull over, man, goddamnit!”
The big WC51 Dodge staff car pulled into a rough area, allowing the front passenger to stand.
His hands caressed the .50cal that was mounted there, betraying his agitation.
“Say that again, Walter.”
Patton listened to the same words, repeated at a slower pace, as a teacher might do to a pupil that doesn’t quite grasp the lesson.
“Sunday! You kidding?”
Clearly, Bedell-Smith wasn’t kidding.
“I understand my orders, General Smith. Yes, I will.”
As the exchange ended, Patton threw the handset skywards in anger. The item returned to ground, pulled back by the cable, dropping undamaged into the snow.
The signaller pulled on the wire and recovered his instrument.
Meanwhile, Patton continued to rant and rave as he extracted a map from his case.
Calm overtook him finally, and he flopped back into the seat.
Slapping the driver on the shoulder, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Now, son. You make this thing sing, and I don’t care what gets in your way. Drive over it if you have to, but just get me to the 4th’s forward command post quickly.”
“Yessir!”
The powerful Dodge leapt forward and Patton almost considered an admonishment, but decided he had asked for it. Besides, the staff car was virtually flying down the road towards the headquarters of the 4th US Armored’s command group.
He consulted the map, starting to plan his new push on Cologne, something he found difficult as the Dodge bounced on every rut the road had to offer.
He had achieved little but a few tentative thoughts before his four star flags arrived at Iversheim, the headquarters of the 4th US Armored Division.
Normally the centre of attention, Patton was surprised to find that he was not the focus of the headquarters staff.
The commander of the 4th was holding centre stage as he bawled out the CCA commander, Johnson Greenwood, summoned for a face to face exchange.
“Force the road, goddamnit. We don’t have time to go around, not now. The Krauts are gonna hit Cologne again, and we gotta be there to help. You’re pussy-footing around too much. Push the boys on now!”
Both officers noticed the figure of their commanding General and saluted immediately.
“Bruc
e, JP,” Patton acknowledged each in turn, “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on here?”
Clarke, regretting being so openly hard on Greenwood, ceded the floor to the Brigadier General.
“Sir, my boys took Euskirchen about an hour ago. Swisttal a short time later. CCB are moving on past Zulpich, and into the rear of the Hürtgenwald. CCR are hung up at Meckenheim, where the commies have launched a counter-attack.”
The facts of the situation reported, Greenwood moved on to less steady ground.
“Sir, my boys have taken some bad knocks, and I just want time to pull them back together. Besides, the situation at Meckenheim is unclear; I don’t wanna hang my ass out and get fucked by some Soviet column coming from that direction.”
Bruce Cooper Clarke shifted uncomfortably.
“No, JP, no. You get your boys on the road now. I know they’re tired, but so’s the goddamned commies. Weather’s our problem. Real cold weather coming on in. Be with us next week, early. So no let up now. Push hard and keep pushing. Drive these red bastards back. You understand, JP?”
“Yes, Sir. My supplies’ve just caught up, but I’ll go as soon as we’re topped off.”
Patton’s hand slapped his breeches hard, the sound like a gun shot.
“No, the fuck you will, JP! Keep pressing hard, all the time, all the way. Supply’ll get to you in the field if necessary, but you gotta keep pressing. Don’t let the commie bastards get set.”
Greenwood understood that his General was a charger, a man who pushed his men to the limits to get the job done. He also knew that his men had been fighting for months now, some without the benefit of the short breaks they had been able to occasionally organise, and that some were close to breaking point.
Fig#104 - Combat Command 'A', 4th US Armored Division, Euskirchen to Weilerswist, Germany, 11th December 1945.
“Sir, my command will be moving within thirty minutes.”
“Attaboy, JP. You know if we keep moving the casualties'll be lower. Now, I’ll leave you to it. Bruce?”
Patton extended an arm and swept Clarke outside the tent.
“General, I was on the verge of relieving him.”
Unlike his reputation suggested, Patton rarely relieved his officers, and was surprised that the genial Clarke had reached that critical point with one of the best officers in his command.
Clarke saw the question in his commander’s eyes and decided straight talk was needed.
“I think he’s nearly done, General. He’s been at the front now...what... since Normandy? A lot of officers have come and gone, but not JP... Old Reliable.”
Patton nodded in understanding.
“Well, I'll tell you straight, Sir. I think he’s cracking up... lost sight of things some... almost like... like what he says is the state of his boys is actually a reflection of him... like he’s telling me that he’s burned out and exhausted, which I think he is.”
“He looked just fine to me, Bruce. His unit’s done good from France to here... and he ain’t failed yet, has he?”
Clarke persisted.
“I know, General, and I wasn’t going to let him fail now. I think he needs to be away from here.”
Patton rubbed his chin, turning to examine the busy Brigadier General through the open tent flap, seeing a man hard at work, acquiring intelligence from the divisional staff, updating his own information before moving off to put his command back on the road to Cologne.
“Alternatives?”
“Go with him up to CCA and give him my support, but he'd know what I was doing for sure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I could leave Bill Bridges with him,” Clarke thumbed in the direction of Colonel Bridges, one of his aides, and a soldier of no little repute, “And he can step in if there's trouble.”
“I like that one better, Bruce.”
Never one to waste much time, Patton strolled back into the tent and pulled Greenwood to one side where they could not be overheard.
“JP, we've given you the ball for some hard yards here. Wish I could lighten your load, but we’ve got a job to do."
Making sure he wasn't overheard, Patton adopted his softest tone for one of his old warhorses.
"I’ve asked General Clarke to give you some assistance here. Colonel Bridges'll be temporarily assigned under your command. Use him to lighten your load, ok?”
“Yes, Sir, General. Thank you.”
Those simple words of thanks told Patton that Clarke was probably right, and that JP was near the end of his tether, for such intrusions would normally not be welcome, and seen as a lack of trust, but he was now committed.
He left again, passing Bridges on the way in.
Clarke was waiting beside his halftrack.
“Sir, Bridges is briefed, and I’ve told him to take over if things go bad.”
“Shit, Bruce. He’ll do just fine. Now, I think CCR would benefit from our presence, don’t you?”
In seconds, the two vehicles were hammering down the road to Wormersdorf, where CCRs commander was trying to sort out a growing mess.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
Robert Frost
Chapter 120 - THE COLD
1300 hrs, Wednesday 11th December 1945, Route 194, near Grossbüllesheim, Germany.
Fig#105- Soviet 38th Army, Euskirchen to Weilerswist, Germany, 11th December 1945.
Fig#106 - Dispositions, Euskirchen to Weilerwist, Germany, 11th December 1945.
The point unit of CCA had been stopped cold, just north of Wuschheim, on Route 194, precisely coinciding with a snowfall that was constant and heavy.
Even as Brigadier General Greenwood was making new command decisions, the air was rent with the sound of vehicles exploding, and the screams of wounded men.
“Here, we push here instead. Get Hardegen’s outfit online and moving straight away. Get’em to take the 182 and outflank these motherfuckers.”
His staff rushed to put the new plan into action.
The compact mixed force, led by Major John Hardegen, was waiting in Kleinbüllesheim, ready to exploit the success of the main advance, but was now tasked with finding an alternate route forward and round the blocking force holding up the main body on the 194.
It was, in essence, a smaller version of CCA, with tank, armored infantry, cavalry, and artillery components.
Greenwood had already sent some of the mechanized cavalry to reconnoitre down Route 182, and the reports had been favourable.
That they had also been favourable for Route 194 did not occur to him at this time, so consumed was he with pushing his command forward.
All the smaller watercourses were frozen solid, something that increased the options for his forces, but he knew how much the Red Army loved breaking up ice with explosives once troops were on it, or over it, so prudence still played a part.
His HQ vehicles were already covered in a thick layer of snow, and the battlefield’s visibility was greatly reduced, the large flakes falling even more thickly than before.
Reasonably, he and his officers considered that was the same for both sides.
Alas, the Gods of War are rarely reasonable in their dealings with man, as Task Force Hardegen was about to find out.
Fig#107 - Initial assault of Combat Command A, 4th US Armored Division, Route 194, Germany, 11th December 1945.
1315 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Route 182, two kilometres southwest of Müggenhausen, Germany.
The cavalry's Greyhound armoured car literally came apart as Hardegen scrutinized its careful advance, something of inordinate power just destroying it in an instant, and ending the lives of all four crew.
Whatever it was, it was to be avoided, and Hardegen screamed into his radio immediately.
“All Mohawk elements, get off the road, get off the road. Dragonfly, get some smoke down either side of the 182, on the bridges and river line, over.”
“Dragonfly, Mohawk-six, roger.”
Dragonfly, the call-sign for the
191st’s artillery officer, contacted the waiting 155mm howitzers.
Zinc chloride smoke shells soon began to burst all around the river and road ahead, drifting back towards the task force and masking the flames of the destroyed M24.
No further shots came from the defenders, wherever they were.
Hardegen was on the radio.
“Mohawk-three-one, push your element down the track to Strassfeld. Push on one mile, and then turn north. Come in on the flank. Be careful, Chris. Mohawk-six, over.”
“Roger Mohawk Six. You too, boss.”
The seven medium tanks selected, one tank platoon enlarged by two stragglers, bolstered by a platoon of M5 Stuarts from D Company, pushed off to the right, followed by their supporting infantry element from the 53rd Armored-Infantry, plus two M36 Jacksons, last remnants of one of the 808th TD’s platoons, recently adopted by the infantry.
CCA was in it up to its neck, but didn’t yet know how deep.
The main thrust up the 194 had run straight into a prepared defensive position, manned by determined infantry from the 101st Rifle Corps, backed up with anti-tank guns, mines, artillery, and a few tanks.
Hardegen’s force, sent on its flanking mission, had hit the join between the 52nd and 101st Rifle Corps, filled with a composite force of exhausted units.
Artem’yev’s guardsmen, pulled back for a rest, were once again pitch-forked into a cauldron of fire.
However, they were not unsupported.
The gun that had claimed the lead M20 was a 152mm, mounted on a tank chassis, in the form of an ISU-152 of the 378th Guards Heavy SP Gun Regiment. It had seven of its friends on the field.
There was also one other vehicle assigned to Artem'yev's command.
Fig#108 - TF Hardegen's assault on Müggenhausen & Strassfeld, 11th December 1945.