by David Healey
Hitler had chosen the Ardennes as his breakout point through the encircling Allied forces because the region seemed an unlikely choice. The rugged hills and terrain made it difficult country for moving troops. As a result, the Americans had barely defended it. Many of the troops stationed in the Ardennes were veteran units due a good rest, or green units who needed time in the field.
While in many ways the choice of the Ardennes was brilliant, the rugged nature of the region also worked against the Germans. Massive tanks had to follow each other single file down the narrow country lanes, forcing the Kampfgruppe to spread out over many miles. Given enough time, the Germans could still break out. However, the clearing sky meant the clock was ticking.
Over coffee that morning, Friel had explained to Von Stenger that the Ardennes was not like Russia, where the flat plains had enabled his armored column to move swiftly as it captured village after village, leaving flames and ashes in their wake. That was why they had nicknamed themselves The Blowtorch Brigade, much to Hitler's delight.
"A more apt name for us now might be The Turtle Brigade," he mused.
Friel ordered his driver to get him to the front of the column. With as much speed as possible, the driver maneuvered between trucks and massive tanks, all of them creeping along the muddy road.
The car bounced wildly over the ruts, doing Von Stenger's head no favors. He had enjoyed a bit too much wine last night, but Friel had roused him early to ride along with him. The jarring motion made his headache throb. Thick diesel fumes permeated the air itself, making his stomach churn. But the car ride beat walking. His injured leg was stiff as a result of the hillbilly sniper's trap.
They soon ground to a halt behind a stalled panzer. Friel cursed in frustration.
"Faster!" he shouted at his harried driver.
He took out his map and attempted to read it. The town at the crossing was called Trois Ponts. The river loomed ahead like a finish line. They had to get across.
"Do you want me to keep going, sir?" the driver asked as they passed the lead tank.
"Go, and do not stop until we are back in France."
Friel stood, wind slapping at his reddened face, and waved at the lead tank to keep up. The panzer had been lagging behind, trying not to outpace the rest of the column, but what Friel needed now was speed.
"Almost thirty kilometers per hour, sir," the driver said.
"Good, good." Friel said. "You are doing a fine job, Paulsen."
"Thank you, sir."
It was true that Friel's men would follow him anywhere because he led by example. Looking up at him now, standing in the vehicle like a captain at the prow of a ship, Von Stenger thought that Friel certainly looked the part of conquering hero.
Around a bend in the road, the village came into view. There was a bridge in town that would get them across the river. Having this goal in view was a sensation like a starving man getting sight of a plate of sausages. They had done it!
"Ha, ha! You see, Kurt, that is our key to victory. And not an American anywhere. We have caught them napping again."
Von Stenger had to smile back. Friel's enthusiasm was infectious. "I must say that this village is a beautiful sight."
Friel waved the tanks forward.
Not so much as a cat or dog moved in the streets—the villagers had long since fled at the sound of the approaching tanks.
"Go! Go!" Friel urged his driver, and the car raced into the deserted streets. Von Stenger kept his rifle ready, just in case any partisans decided that a German officer made a good target. They turned a corner, almost on two wheels, and raced down the road toward the river.
Von Stenger saw the rubble before he saw the water. Two stone piers rose up out of the river.
The bridge was gone, along with their chances of crossing at this place.
It was hard to know who had destroyed the bridge. It could have been American engineers, Allied planes, or possibly French resistance fighters—the vicious Maquis. In the end, it did not matter how the stone bridge across the river had been destroyed, but only that it was gone.
Friel stared at the ruins for a full minute. Von Stenger attempted to read some emotion on the Obersturmbannführer’s face, but the young tank commander seemed lost in thought.
“Breger!” Friel finally called. “Pass the orders to burn the village. We will show them what happens when they oppose German troops. When the cowards return, there will be nothing left.”
Under Breger’s direction, men soon filled the streets, splashing gasoline and setting the village on fire. Von Stenger watched with a sickened feeling. The smell of the greasy flames did not sit well on his queasy stomach.
Something exploded and blew skyward to form a mushroom-shaped cloud.
Satisfied, Friel turned back to his map.
So close a moment ago, the road to Antwerp and victory now seemed as far away at the surface of the moon.
"What are you going to do?"
"There is still a chance that the bridge near Habiemont may be intact." Friel waved his map. He still clung to his precious rollbahn. "It is only a few miles away. With luck, we can cross there.”
That’s when they heard an angry whine in the clouds. Fighter planes, coming fast.
Please let them be Luftwaffe, Von Stenger thought.
But as the planes broke from the cloud cover, coming in low, they opened fire on the German column below.
CHAPTER 23
"Do you see that smoke?" Jolie asked.
"Whatever it is, it’s a helluva big fire," the Kid said.
"Kid, you've been in the Army too long. You're starting to swear. What would your mama say?" Vaccaro leaned out of the back of the truck, trying to see up the road. "We'll, I've got some good news, and some bad news. The good news is that we're gonna find out what’s burning because we are heading right toward that big plume of smoke rising up into the sky."
"What's the bad news?" the Kid wanted to know.
"The bad news is that we're gonna find out what’s burning because we are heading right toward it," Vaccaro said. “My guess is that where there’s smoke, there’s Germans.”
"Everybody hang tight," Lieutenant Mulholland said. "They'll let us know when they need us."
The snipers did not have to wait long. Not more than twenty minutes passed before the truck came to a halt. Out the back of the truck, they saw a couple of soldiers running back the way the column had just traveled.
Vaccaro yelled out to one of them. "Buddy, what's the rush?"
"Panzers coming down the road right toward us!"
"Everybody out," said the lieutenant. "It's time to go to work."
The snipers jumped out of the truck. All around them, the American column was in disarray. There had been so much focus on catching up with the Germans that no one was really prepared for the Germans coming back at them. The Americans couldn’t know it, but with the bridge at Trois Ponts gone, the German column had no choice but to backtrack and find a different river crossing.
If it came to a fight, it would be one sided. The Americans had a single tank destroyer, but nothing else heavier than a couple of machine guns mounted on Jeeps. A tank would knock through them like a bowling ball through a stand of ten pins.
"Damn, but I wish we had a bazooka," Vaccaro said. "At least then we'd have a chance against tanks. Remember that crazy English bastard who knocked out a tank with a bazooka back in Normandy?"
"You got a can opener, don't you?" Cole asked. "That might work on one of them panzers, if you had enough time. Like a hundred years."
"Very funny, Cole. I hope you can still make cracks when the Germans line us up and shoot us like those poor bastards at Malmedy."
Cole gave him a cold grin. "Ain't happened yet."
Mulholland gave orders: "Listen up, we're going to deploy on the south side of this road. We'll get back in those trees." The lieutenant waved to where the edge of the forest began maybe a hundred yards from the road. "Once the Germans get here, we can put dow
n some suppressing fire."
"With four rifles?" Vaccaro asked. "Lieutenant, these are tanks we're talking about here."
The lieutenant and Cole said simultaneously: "Shut up, Vaccaro."
They hurried into the trees. Jolie went with them, carrying a pair of binoculars so that she could act as a spotter.
They didn't have to wait long before the first panzers came into view down the road. Against the white winter landscape, the tanks stood out like leviathans. The Germans were still half a mile away, well out of range. No soldiers on foot were visible, but they could see a German looking out from the open hatch of the lead panzer.
"Look at those things," Vaccaro muttered. "King Tigers. Big as a goddamn Tyrannosaurus rex."
"What in the hell is that?" Cole asked.
Vaccaro looked at him. "Cole, I keep forgetting that you're from East Peckerwood. It's a dinosaur, Cole. A Tyrannosaurus rex was the King Tiger tank of dinosaurs."
"If you're so goddamn smart, city boy, tell me where them dinosaurs are now."
"How many dinosaurs have you seen? They're extinct, Cole."
"My point exactly."
Cole put his Springfield across a fallen log. Through the scope, the German standing in the hatch of the lead panzer sprang closer to life. He wore a helmet, and goggles. Cole put the crosshairs on a point slightly above and to the left of the German, to allow for trajectory and the light breeze this morning that had cleared off the low-hanging clouds. Just below the German in the open hatch was the tank's gun, pointed up the road at the American column. The dark maw of the tank's muzzle looked massive.
"If you miss and he shoots back, his gun is a lot bigger," Vaccaro said.
"Shut up, Vaccaro," Jolie whispered. "Cole is trying to shoot."
Cole was only dimly aware that either of them had spoken. He had already slipped into his shooter's trance. Nothing existed beyond the target and his finger on the trigger. He let out a breath. Held the crosshairs on that point in space that felt right. It was not something that he could measure or even explain—it was simply where the bullet needed to be.
Gently, gently, he took up tension in the trigger. When the rifle fired, the Springfield pounding into his shoulder, it actually surprised him.
The German tank commander crumpled and slid down into the tank like a dead gopher.
Cole worked the bolt. "T rex my ass."
The bullet had taken out the tank commander, but it had not stopped the tank. Like an angry bull, but one made of steel and spewing diesel fumes, it kept coming. The red flag this bull saw, however, was not the snipers hidden in the woods but the American column on the road before it. The Americans deployed across the road, but they were no match for the panzer. A machine gun opened up on the German tank, but the stream of bullets bounced harmlessly off the steel hide. Then the tank did come to a stop. The main gun elevated slightly, and then moved a little to the left.
All the while, more tanks were coming up the road behind the first panzer. They were turning down a side road, though—a narrow track that roughly paralleled the river. The Germans were not interested in returning down the road they had already traveled. The single King Tiger had been assigned to pin down the Americans while the other tanks in the column took the side road. The tank’s barrel was pointed right down the road.
"Cole?" Vaccaro asked.
Again, Cole ignored him. He was hunched behind the scope, studying every inch of the armored behemoth. Finally, he found what he was looking for—a tiny glass lens no more than two inches high and six inches wide, just where the armor sloped down. This was the tank driver’s periscope. At this range, hitting that periscope would be like hitting the moon.
Dimly, Cole was aware of the whirring noise the tank turret made as it took aim, and the nervous shouts of the soldiers on the road who were being targeted.
Cole put his crosshairs on the tank and fired.
The King Tiger seemed to pause. Cole's bullet had found its mark, smashing the periscope and effectively blinding the tank. Even if he had not hit anyone, the bullet would have rattled the crew inside.
"I'll be damned," Vaccaro muttered.
One rifle bullet was not enough to stop a tank. The tank was only temporarily blinded. After a pause, the gun in its turret made some final adjustments.
But Cole had bought the Americans time. They managed to spread out. When the tank fired, it would no longer have a concentrated target. Far behind the panzer assigned to pin down the American column, a row of tanks and trucks turned down the other road as steadily as ants.
Then came the whine of aircraft engines. Coming fast. The snipers looked at the sky. Two planes flew nearly wing tip to wing tip, at no more than two hundred feet elevation, moving at astonishing speed through the leaden sky.
"I hope to God those aren't Luftwaffe planes," Vaccaro said.
It took just seconds to answer that question. They saw the familiar American star on the wings. These were P-47 Thunderbolts, moving at more than four hundred miles per hour. The planes dipped even lower and released a pair of bombs that sailed down as expertly as a touchdown pass toward the German tank.
The snipers burrowed themselves as far under the fallen log as they could and covered their ears.
The tank vanished in a burst of smoke and debris. The ground shook and the blast seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. The tank, which until an instant before had been about to dole out death and destruction to the Americans, now burned like a July Fourth bonfire.
In perfect precision, the planes circled back and swept low toward the German column. Though caught by surprise, the Germans quickly sprang into action. Lines of white-hot trailers stitched searing patterns against the sky as several heavy machine guns opened up on the planes. But these were not clay pigeons—the planes moved too fast for the reflexes of the gunners. The planes were soon out of range, but not before they had dropped more bombs, leaving another flaming tank and a burning truck in their wake.
The planes looped around and returned again, but this time they simply strafed the Germans on the road. The big .50 caliber bullets chewed up anything that wasn't armored, leaving behind more wreckage. The German gunners were better prepared, leading the planes like a duck hunter leads his quarry, so that the planes flew right into a stream of machine gun fire reaching toward the sky. Smoke trailed from one of the planes as the Thunderbolts raced away. This time, they did not reappear.
The German column quickly regrouped. While the aerial attack had wreaked havoc, these soldiers were veterans of many such attacks. Those who could got back to business, and the Kampfgruppe rolled on.
"Looks like they forgot about us," the Kid said.
"Don't be so sure," Vaccaro replied.
The Germans were not about to leave their flank unprotected from the soldiers on the road. A second panzer rolled into position beside the burning hulk. It wasted no time pumping a shell into the nearest American truck on the road. The truck blew apart, scattering fenders, doors and hood like steel confetti. The Americans on the road scattered, but the snipers were well hidden.
"What now, Lieutenant?" Vaccaro asked. "I don't think we can do much good here without a bazooka."
Mulholland patted the front pocket of his coat, where he kept a map. "The Germans must be headed toward Habiemont. There's another bridge near that town where they'll try to cross the river. We can try to beat them there."
"How, sir? They're thick as hookers in Times Square on that road."
"Who said anything about taking the road?" Mulholland said. "We're going cross country."
• • •
Some things were easier said than done. Cutting cross country through snow-covered fields on a sprawling battlefield was one of them. The snipers stared out at the world of white before them.
Through that snow, every mile on the way to the bridge at Habiemont would be as exhausting as running a marathon.
“I got an idea,” Cole said.
He drew his knife and headed towar
d a stand of saplings at the field’s edge. With two swift motions, he cut down two of the saplings. Taking one, he bent it around until it was in an oval shape, then tied the two ends together with a piece of half-inch rope. He then wove the rope back and worth in a rough web pattern, like a drunken spider might make. He repeated the process on the other sapling. Within five minutes, he had the makeshift snowshoes strapped to his boots.
With Cole’s help, the others followed suit. “Keep this up, Cole, and you’re going to make Eagle Scout one of these days,” Vaccaro said.
The snowshoes would not have held up for an Arctic expedition, but they were enough to get them to the bridge—which they needed to do, fast.
“Cole, do you have any other tricks we should know about?” the lieutenant asked, already breathing hard. With the snow shoes they didn’t sink as far into the drifts, but it was still a workout to move quickly.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Cole said. “It’s a little something I call running. It gets you there faster.”
The snipers broke into a trot. Off to their left, they could see the German column far in the distance. Headed to the same place. The race was on.
They heard more planes coming. “Those planes will slow them down and buy us some time,” the lieutenant said. “Like Cole said, let’s hoof it.”
CHAPTER 24
Von Stenger stared in horror and wonder as the American planes decimated the column. A P-47 Thunderbolt fighter-bomber carried two 500-pound bombs. For the Germans on the receiving end, it was a devastating arsenal. The thousands of pounds of high explosive turned once-fearsome tanks into burning hulks.