“Good evening, Captain,” Gavin smiled. “Seems like you had the same idea we did.” Trucks continued to drive out of the motor pool as they spoke.
“Yes, sir. However, it seems we’re a bit late.”
Gavin nodded. “The Eighty-second is moving out first, Captain. We’ve been in camp the longest. I’m taking five hundred trucks. It’s a mess up there. We don’t have time to wait for written orders in triplicate.” Gavin pointed to the motor pool personnel he had under guard. “Our master sergeant here insisted on having those written orders before he let us have any trucks.”
The sergeant overheard the conversation. “General, sir. I’m sorry but I got my orders, sir. Nothing leaves here without written orders from SHAEF. My ass is grass now, sir!”
Sky answered. “You must be hallucinating, Sergeant. There’s no general here. Just me and these boys got the drop on you.” He winked at Gavin. His men would go to their graves swearing General Gavin was not present and had nothing to do with hijacking five hundred military transport vehicles.
Gavin smiled and looked at West. “Your division will follow the Eighty-second at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. By then there should be enough transport for you. After we’re done here you can take what’s left in the depot. Ike has ordered every truck in the theatre to drop their loads wherever they are and drive here. By morning this place will be crawling with transport. I just can’t wait until then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gavin looked at Sky. “We have to leave now, Lieutenant. You’ll drive. We have enough reinforcements now to keep them under guard.” He looked toward the motor pool contingent. “I’m sure those written orders will show up here any time now, Master Sergeant.”
As Gavin stepped toward the doorway, Jake caught his eye. Gavin stopped. “Do I know you, trooper?”
Jake flashed a big grin. “Biazza Ridge, sir.” He pointed to Johnny and then Sky. “With Johnny and Sergeant Johnson.” Sky was still wearing his sergeant stripes even though Gavin had accelerated his promotion due to the crisis.
Gavin smiled and looked around. “I thought so.” He tapped Jake on the shoulder. “Looks like we’ll have another story to tell our grandkids. This will be a big one. Good luck, troopers!”
“Thank you, sir,” Jake replied as Gavin stepped out and into his jeep. Jake and Johnny exchanged a few words with Sky before he joined Gavin.
The jeep feathered into the line of trucks leaving the motor pool and began the long overnight road trip to the First Army Headquarters in Spa, Belgium. The trucks would turn off to Camp Suisse and Sissonne and load up the 82nd Airborne Division before proceeding to Bastogne.
As Johnny, Jake and West exited the motor pool, Johnny lagged behind. He recognized a large Negro soldier among the small group of drivers sitting on the bench. He couldn’t remember the big guy’s name, or if he ever knew it, but he did recall the name of the scrawny young kid sitting beside him.
“Well if it isn’t Abraham Lincoln,” he held out his hand. He knew the name was Lincoln Abraham but Johnny chose to screw around with the young black soldier.
Lincoln Abraham looked up at him through disinterested eyes. “I know you?”
“Queen’s Bazaar Pub, London. I saved that huge mob from getting killed by you.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Lincoln’s face. “It’s Lincoln Abraham…and you probably did save all those guys…from him,” Lincoln jerked a thumb at his perpetual sidekick, Chauncy Gibbons. Lincoln looked at Johnny’s name stenciled over the breast pocket on his combat jacket. “And you’re Kilroy?”
“That would be me.”
Chauncy grabbed the outstretched hand and almost swallowed it up while shaking it. “I’m Chauncy and excuse Lincoln here. He ain’t got no manners that he was born with.”
Lincoln took Johnny’s hand and shook it unenthusiastically. “Kilroy, like in … ‘Kilroy was here’?”
“I’ve got nothing to do with that though we get blamed for that crap all the time.” It became sort of a mysterious happening in the army that the first troops into a town or city would scrawl the words “Kilroy Was Here” in chalk or paint on anything and everything. The words were found on buildings, bridge abutments, knocked out tanks, road signs and even staff cars and command vehicles. Nothing was sacred. It was a universal prank every GI reveled in and many participated in. No one actually believed there was a single mythical “Kilroy” who got to every place first and left his unique calling card.
Johnny paused and looked around. “So what are you guys doing hanging around here?”
“Relief drivers,” explained Chauncy. “We’ll bring you boys to wherever you be heading.”
Johnny nodded. “We’re heading for trouble, for sure. See ya around.” Johnny turned to head back out to the jeeps.
Chauncy stopped him. “Like I said, my friend here sometimes forgets his manners, so let me say thanks for getting us out alive from that bar in London.”
“You’re welcome. I just didn’t like the odds. I think my buddies are still pissed at me for getting them into it. Some of us lost stripes because of it.” Johnny looked at Lincoln for some reaction. There was just an angry expression of defiance.
Finally, he spoke. “See ya around Kilroy.”
“No good deed goes unpunished.” Johnny slipped out the door into the waiting jeep.
Back in Mourmelon the camp was still bustling with activity. Troopers were showing up from cancelled passes and leaves. More showed up as each hour passed. Few slept as every man tried to scrounge weapons, ammo and rations. Armorers worked through the night repairing broken or malfunctioning weapons. Foot lockers belonging to men on extended leave or in the hospital were opened in an effort to find a coat, wool cap or boots that were better than what some of the men had. The divisional mess hall opened early and began serving a huge breakfast of eggs, ham, rolls and butter. It was another one of those “condemned man” meals that the paratroopers had become accustomed to. The men ate their fill.
The officers ordered the troopers to cover their shoulder patches. Many didn’t bother. The Germans always seemed to know whenever they showed up. Not that it made any difference to the men. They were going to “stack bodies” and who cared if the Krauts knew they were coming!
Dawn broke gently under a damp cloudy sky and the trucks began to arrive. A few at first and then some more and finally by noon a flood of transport descended on the camp. MPs stacked the trucks in an orderly manner so they were lined up to embark their human cargo expeditiously. There were the ubiquitous two-and-a-half-ton trucks that hauled everything on the battlefield, and tandem trailers normally used to ferry cattle. The trucks had come from all over the vicinity in response to Eisenhower’s emergency order. The Germans had no such volume of transport and could never have imagined the Allies could command such mobility during a crisis. Before the first truck left Mourmelon, 380 of them were fueled, warmed up and queued to move over 11,800 anxious men of the 101st Airborne to the heart of the crisis.
By mid-afternoon the division was ready to leave. Truck engines growled to a start and the troopers helped each other mount up. Crew-served weapons and ammo were loaded first followed by the paratroopers helping one another with a hand up, the distinction between veteran and replacement slowly diminishing. They were becoming ‘comrades in arms’ heading into a vicious battle. They would rely upon one another, protect each other and die for any one of their brothers.
With the grinding of gears and the whining of transmissions, the first trucks pulled out for the one hundred mile trip. The caravan twisted its way out of Camp Mourmelon and headed east toward the city of Verdun. From there it would turn north toward Belgium and the Ardennes.
Drivers kept their regulation separation but there was still some bunching up as the convoy made its way up and down the inclines in the road. In the fading light of day, all trucks were running with full headlights and taillights. From the air it must have looked like some giant fiery, slithering snake.
> Onward they traveled through the damp, misty night. The stream of vehicles turned north at Verdun and passed through the city of Sedan. Before they reached the city of Bouillon, the front of the 101st convoy caught up with the tail of the 82nd column. At that point the column of nearly 900 trucks stretched out for twenty miles.
Just before midnight, after passing through a village called Neufchateau, the convoy stopped at a small crossroads in the tiny hamlet town of Sprimont. There was an MP on the side of the road talking to a senior officer of the 101st. The MP pointed, the officer nodded, they saluted and parted. Jake and Johnny watched as the last of the 82nd Division trucks drove off to the left. There was immediate trouble in the north and the 82nd Airborne was rerouted to Werbomont in a desperate effort to defend the road hub at St. Vith.
Jake and Johnny could see way up ahead in their own column as the trucks began making a hard turn to the right. As truck after truck turned right, they watched the red taillights head off into the distance marking the road they would soon follow. But the word on their destination was out and it was already being passed from truck to truck like wildfire.
The Screaming Eagles would make a stand in a small Ardennes town to deny its precious road hub to the advancing enemy. The Germans pushed west while the Americans hurried east. The race for Bastogne was on.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Spa, Belgium - December 18, 1944
“The nature of the ground is often of more consequence than courage.”
Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus, Military Institutions of the Romans, c. AD 378
More than any other ground campaign in the War, the Battle of the Bulge was a battle for roads. It was about securing and moving rapidly along the few usable roads and denying them to the enemy. Whoever controlled the roads controlled the fight. In this fluid struggle for force mobility, the crossroad villages and road hub cities became the most important real estate in the Ardennes Forest.
Bastogne was a small market town serving the surrounding farming villages as both a commercial center and the major road hub. With a population of 4,000, Bastogne stood on a high plateau 1,600 feet above sea level. Its surrounding grazing land and rolling hills were a stark departure from the densely forested river-cut ravines and violently undulating terrain that characterized most of the Ardennes. While there were occasional patches of thick pine trees to break up the pastures, Bastogne had no natural defensive features. The Americans would occupy the sturdy stone farmhouses surrounding the town and use them as fortified strong points. Their defensive line would encircle the town to protect the nexus of five major and three minor roads.
St. Vith, less than fifteen miles from the Schnee Eifel, was closest to the front line. The 7th Armored Division was directed to St. Vith in a failed attempt to extricate the 106th Infantry Division from their predicament on the Schnee Eifel. They arrived too late but provided the backbone for the defense of St. Vith. In addition, the village became a collecting place where retreating American formations coalesced, rearmed and turned back to the fight.
Bastogne was further south and farther away from the breakthrough. It was the headquarters of VIII Corps, which watched stunned and helpless as its front collapsed and the Germans raced westward. General Troy Middleton received scant reinforcements in the form of Combat Command B of the 10th Armored Division. That was all the help available until the two divisions of paratroopers were alerted and sent in to put out the fire.
Major General James M. Gavin walked into the Grand Hotel Britannique, Headquarters of the United States First Army, in Spa, Belgium. It was 0900 hours on 18 December and he had been on the fog-shrouded roads all night under a cold, driving rain. A twist of fate had made the thirty-seven year old general responsible for executing orders that were vague and required clarification. The best way to do that, he reasoned, was to visit General Courtney Hodges, commanding general of the First Army.
“Welcome, Jim,” Hodges extended his hand. He breathed a slight sigh of relief.
Gavin took the hand warmly, shook it and looked around the room. It was relatively quiet but he could sense the chaos. Staff officers were moving about hastily. Some were writing on a clear plastic overlay of a map of the Ardennes. Others were on telephones or radios. Typewriters were clicking and coding machines were whirring. A small group of NCOs was packing up files. To anyone else Hodges might have looked gaunt and haggard but Gavin had previously served under him in the Philippines and knew that was how he always looked.
“Thank you, sir. I got here as fast as I could. What’s the situation?”
“Well Jim, the Krauts have ripped open a pretty big hole in our lines.” He walked Gavin over to the large wall map, which was marked with danger points in red grease pencil. The map looked like it had the measles. “They caught us with our pants down. We’ve identified twelve new divisions.” Hodges shook his head. “Where the heck did they get all these new divisions?”
Gavin studied the map. The situation looked bleak. Hodges pointed to the bottom of the map. “They’re pretty much having their way with us right now but I think we can hold this southern shoulder.”
Gavin nodded but his attention was drawn to the center. Hodges continued. “They caved our center, ripped it to pieces. Chewed up the Twenty-eighth and they have two regiments of the Hundred and sixth surrounded.” Hodges was pointing to the Schnee Eifel. “I don’t think we can get them out, Jim.”
Gavin nodded again. Courtney Hodges was highly regarded in army circles. After washing out of West Point for academic reasons, he joined the army as a private, earned a commission and won the Distinguished Service Cross in World War I. He was a protégé of General George Marshall and advanced quietly through the officer ranks to command of the Infantry School. Although widely revered, the Georgia-born gentleman was humble and modest and never sought headlines. He was simply an extremely competent and compassionate commander. Gavin knew the loss of so many men was wearing on him.
Hodges then pointed to an egg-shaped blue grease pencil marking around the town of St. Vith. “We’re going to make a stand around St. Vith. It’s an important road junction and I’ve already sent the Seventh Armored there along with one Combat Command of the Ninth Armored.”
“How long can we hold?”
“We have to hold until we can organize a counterattack. The Krauts took Clervaux late last night and are almost out of the river valleys and into open tank country. We have to deny them the roads. We’re still not sure what they’re up to or where they think they’re going.”
“Is that where you want us, sir?”
“No, Jim. It’s the northern boundary that has me worried. Their First SS Panzer Division is running wild along this stretch.” Hodges made an east west tracing with his finger from the villages of Losheim to Werbomont and back. “Twelfth SS Panzer is right behind them. If your boys can hold them up, it’ll take pressure off of St. Vith.” Hodges paused. “There are more Panzer Divisions attacking in the center. Regular Wehrmacht. Not SS. They’ll probably flow around St. Vith and isolate it but we can’t let them have the roads through the town. We have to force them onto fewer roads, create bottlenecks and congestion in their supply trains, and slow down their advance by virtue of its own weight and volume.” Hodges paused. “We’re going to hold at the shoulders and squeeze his attack into the narrowest possible front. When we have ample forces on his flanks, we’ll counterattack and cut him off at the knees!”
Gavin was elated Hodges had not abandoned his aggressive spirit. Other generals in his position might have collapsed under the pressure and went on the defensive but his approach was textbook. Strengthen the shoulders, reinforce the flanks, and let the penetration overextend itself.
“But we’re not at that point yet,” Hodges explained. “We’re still moving blocking forces into position. Right now we have to slow the Krauts down and buy some time.” He went back to the map and put his finger on the northern boundary. “These SS Panzer Divisions are still a threat to break out to the
north to the cities of Liege or Huy on the Meuse River. The main roads to these two towns cross at the village of Werbomont. I need one of your divisions to defend that city and deny those roads to the Krauts. Who’s first in your column?”
“Eighty-second, sir,” Gavin answered.
“Eighty-second it is. I have another job for the Hundred and first.”
Gavin frowned ever so slightly and Hodges picked up on the facial gesture. “What is it?”
“Nothing, sir. I was hoping to deploy our two airborne divisions side by side. They’re the two best infantry divisions in the world and with some armor and artillery help they could crush anything the Krauts could throw at us.”
“That would be something to see, Jim. But right now I have to deal with another Panzer Corps breaking out to the south of St. Vith. They’re headed for Bastogne. We have to block those roads too. That’s where I need the Hundred and first.”
“Of course, sir. I understand.” Gavin nodded to his G-1 Operations Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Al Ireland, who began issuing the orders using the powerful headquarters radio.
“When will your two divisions arrive?”
“They’re on the road now, sir. They’ll arrive tonight and should be deployed and dug in by tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent, Jim. I don’t know many generals who could move two divisions on ‘R and R’ a hundred miles and be ready for combat in a single day.”
Gavin smiled. “It’s come as you are, sir. We’ll need everything, clothes, guns, ammo, and medical supplies. We were virtually in our pajamas when we got the fire call.”
Hodges allowed himself a small chuckle. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of supplies.”
“Thank you, sir. With your permission, I’d like to recon the positions around Werbomont before my division gets here. General Ridgway should be here late tonight to assume command of his corps and I’d like to start being a division commander again.” Gavin thought for a moment. “Then I’ll personally carry your written orders to Bastogne to make sure there is no misunderstanding. I’ll be back tonight.”
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 60