Fox On The Rhine (58 page)
But the enemy was moving too quickly. As he had in Africa, the Desert Fox again used captured fuel to resupply his panzer divisions--fuel that, like the panzers, could only cross the river and reach the German leading elements by traversing those precious Dinant bridges. From the British flank the German armor swept north, ready to close a trap upon the Allies that would shatter American supply capability and cut off Montgomery’s entire army group.
All these efforts converged beyond the small Belgian city. Dinant, however, remained the vulnerable flank in Rommel’s dramatic advance. Like Waterloo in an earlier war, Dinant would become the critical point on which everything depended.
Nineteenth Division Mobile Headquarters, Sedan, France, 23 December 1944,1022 hours GMT
Reid Sanger drew a deep breath. This was not the first division intelligence briefing he had run, but he knew that it was the most important. General Wakefield and Colonels Pulaski and Jackson were right in front of the small room, while the rest of the ranking combat command officers and division staff were crowded in wherever they could find room.
“There is no doubt that we’re facing the biggest German attack in the west since 1940,” he began, pleased to see that he had the men’s attention. “In fact, in numbers of our troops and enemy troops engaged, this is undoubtedly the largest battle ever fought by the U.S. Army. And we of the Nineteenth Armored have been given a key role to play.”
He turned to the large map which occupied most of the wall behind him.
“We’ve identified two panzerarmees attacking side by side through the First Army sector. The enemy’s objective is audacious--it seems he wants to cross the Meuse and take out our base of supply here, at Antwerp. This, of course, would surround Monty and the Tommies in the north and leave us high and dry, without enough gas to drive our tanks out of harm’s way.
“To the north we have Guderian, and the Sixth Panzerarmee. He had the direct route, but it seems that he’s been halted at the Meuse. The Tommies, with help from a couple of American armies, have held a line from Namur eastward, and it doesn’t look like the Krauts are getting across the river.
“But the Fifth Panzerarmee, under Manteuffel, is making one hell of an end run. They’ve punctured First Army and crossed the Meuse here, at Dinant. So far we’ve been able to limit them to that one bridgehead, but Rommel has pushed a lot of tanks across there--at least four panzer divisions. To put it bluntly, he’s loose in our backfield, he has the ball, and he’s racing for the end zone.”
Sanger paused as the door at the back of the room opened. When he saw the glowering visage, the big frame with the two pistols holstered in his belt, he reflexively snapped to attention and saluted. “General Patton, sir!”
Immediately the officers of the Nineteenth scrambled to their feet.
“Carry on,” declared the Third Army CO, nodding to the men, then indicating Sanger with his swagger stick.
“Yes, of course General... that is … “ Suddenly the S-2 found himself at a loss for words.
“And what does this mean for us, Ed?” asked Wakefield pointedly. Sanger was grateful for the question; it helped his mind get back on track.
“Third Army has got to hit Manteuffel in the flank and break up his attack. Some of our divisions are fighting into the Ardennes, trying to take Bastogne back. For us, in the Nineteenth, we’ve been given the chance to go for the jugular--here, at Dinant. It’s the only weak spot--he’s got half an army already across the river, and every can of fuel, every round of ammo for those guys is being carried forward across those bridges.”
“So if we get to Dinant we’ll have Germans on both sides of the river?” Jackson asked.
“Yes.” Sanger didn’t pull any punches. “You’ll have to worry about several divisions of tanks and infantry in the Ardennes, here, within a day or two’s march of the city. And I noted he’s got four panzer divisions across the river. One of these, Ninth Panzer, is just moving onto the west bank in our latest recon photos. No doubt, if we make a nuisance out of ourselves, Rommel will have them try to cross back and get into the fight.”
“How do we get there?” inquired Wakefield.
“Our jump-off point is here--Givet, France, a border town on the Meuse. We’ll go up the east side of the river, the same side as Dinant. Roads are rough, but early recon says they don’t have a lot between Givet and Dinant, at least not now. But of course, speed is very, very important.”
“Damn right!” growled Patton, striding through the crowd of officers along a path that seemed to appear magically before him. In five steps the general had joined Sanger on the small stage, and the S-2 wisely stepped aside.
“You men are in a position to win this battle at a stroke,” Patton declared. “And if you don’t do it, no one else is going to.” He glared around the room, as if daring anyone to challenge him. Instead, he received only undivided attention as he turned to Wakefield.
“Hank, you’re going to have to send your boys fast and hard into harm’s way.” Patton fixed his glare onto James Pulaski, whose eyes flashed bright at the prospect before him. “Don’t waste time with prisoners, don’t get slowed down by enemy strong points. Just get to those bridges and knock ’em out, understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“All right, men,” Patton said with the hint of a feral smile. “Let’s go to war.”
Army Group B HQ, Dinant, Belgium, on the Meuse, 0736 hours GMT
‘Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, Herr Feldmarschall,” Carl-Heinz pointed out while maneuvering the car around a series of shell craters on the outskirts of Dinant. In the gray light of the predawn hour, buildings rose from the mist, the skeletal facade of a city ravaged by war. Gaunt, leafless trees seemed to grope through the murk with claws extended, and the Desert Fox shook off a shiver of foreboding.
“You’re right. I had forgotten,” replied Rommel.
“Ach, it doesn’t mean so much I guess, not in the midst of this,” said Carl-Heinz, gesturing at the ruined city. Here and there Rommel saw a glowering Frenchman, eyes expressing all the hatred evoked by the second German conquest in five years.
“It was just south of here that I crossed the Meuse with the Seventh Armored Division,” the field marshal mused as the car moved along paths that had been cleared through the city’s rubble. “Of course, that was back in 1940.”
“I was with Guderian’s corps, then,” the sturdy feldwebel replied. “I remember when the Stukas came wailing down at Sedan... and then we rode across the bridge, and it was all over for the French.”
“And now it comes to this, new tanks with the same old men, attacking the same river against a new enemy...Once again Rommel felt the twinge of melancholy. He wondered if the world would ever be finished with war. So many men dead, so much beauty destroyed.
“There’s the river, Field Marshal,” Carl-Heinz said, pulling the car to a stop near the crest of the bluff that led down to the Meuse. The bridges had been blown by retreating Americans, but Wehrmacht engineers, for once able to work without constant interference by Allied air forces, had quickly created two crossings. Now those precious spans, the tenuous links between Rommel and the panzers spearheading his attack, were gray with troops and tanks. Already four panzer divisions had crossed the river, and he knew that he was watching the fifth, just below.
At least he had fuel for this phase. Bastogne was now safely in German hands, and his panzers had been refueled with American fuel. The campaign so far had captured nearly forty thousand American and British soldiers. His volksgrenadier units had been decimated by the need to guard makeshift POW camps, with thousands of his soldiers no longer available for his use.
Well, that is good duty for those brave men
, he thought. Still, he needed every body he could get.
At the same time, he felt an icy twinge to the breeze coming from the west. Of course it had been cold since the attack had been launched eight days ago, but that had been a damp, chilly murk that had penetrated every fiber of every man’s being. This was different, colder and, more ominously, drier.
The Desert Fox looked across the city his forces had just captured. Speidel and Bayerlein found him here, as their own car made its way along the crowded road. Rommel pointed to the city’s dominating feature, the great citadel perched high on its limestone bluff.
“Bring all the antiaircraft guns you can get your hands on. I want that castle to bristle with them.”
“Of course, Herr Feldmarschall,” Speidel answered. “Will you make your headquarters there, as well?”
Rommel shook his head. “No sense in making it easy for our enemies to find us. Instead, I’ll make my field headquarters in there,” he declared, pointing to a chateau that stood on a bluff several hundred feet above the deep river but was a mile removed from the dominating fortress.
Again he looked west, watching the panzers roll into the distance, vanishing into the forests and countryside as they dispersed for advance and battle. Beyond that horizon, he saw patches of blue sky through the overcast, the first clear air since the attack had been launched eight days ago. It was a bad sign, he knew, but there was no turning back now.
“As soon as you have a land-line established, get me Luftwaffe headquarters, Galland himself, if you please, on the telephone. I have a feeling the weather is going to change, and we’re going to need some fighter protection for those bridges.”
Luftwaffe Advance Airbase, Bitburg, Germany, 24 December 1944, 1118 hours GMT
Even from the field at Bitburg, the jets had to expend precious fuel in the flight to Dinant. Still, Kommodore Krueger had been able to cycle his Me-262s through a rotation insuring that a dozen or more of the lethal fighters were circling the bridgehead during all the hours of daylight. With the assistance of a few other jet Gruppen located near the front, as well as the constant presence of several hundred Me-109s and Fw-190s, the Luftwaffe ensured that Allied air interference with Rommel’s advance was minimized.
Naturally, a few of the hated Jabos made it through the fighter screen to make bomb runs, but the constant harassment had thus far prevented a hit that closed even one of the two bridges. The Allies had allocated most of their air power to this point, and for the three days since the weather cleared, a series of epic battles had torn through the skies over the city on the Meuse. Krueger himself added ten Allied planes, including seven fighters, to his list of kills, and though he lost a number of men from his Geschwader he was satisfied with the way the battle had developed.
Now he squinted through the cockpit glass, nearly blinded by the reflection of sunlight off the fields of snow. The ribbon of river, unfrozen and now an iridescent azure in the sparkling daylight, marked the line of advance. The gray sprawl of Dinant jutted in irregular chaos from the near shoreline. High upon its limestone cliff, the gray mass of the citadel dominated the Belgian city and surrounding countryside. The spire from the Church of Notre Dame had somehow resisted the best efforts of ground and air forces and remained as a lofty observation point high above the southernmost of the two bridges.
Krueger’s eyes quickly rose to scan the clear sky, and he didn’t have to wait long to see his targets: a squadron of American Thunderbolts angling down for a dive-bombing attack. A hundred Mustangs swarmed overhead, but for now the German ace ignored the fighters. His two wingmen remained tight to either side as the sleek jets screamed through the air, blasting past the P-51s as they rocketed toward the ground support aircraft.
The fat Thunderbolts--”Jugs,” as they were called by pilots of both sides--maintained their bomb runs. Krueger allowed his sights to fasten on the first enemy plane and fired a burst of cannon shells into the engine compartment. Black smoke belched, and the P-47 banked away. The second tactical aircraft flinched as the lethal projectiles shattered the bubble canopy, and the kommodore was vaguely aware of his wingmen’s tracers raking the rest of the formation.
In the next seconds the jets were past and Krueger pulled up, leading the flight into the heavens with a speed that the pursuing Mustangs couldn’t hope to match. He cast a look behind, saw the dark waters of the Meuse rocked by surging explosions. He was far above by the time the spray and smoke had settled, but even from here he could see that the two bridges remained intact.
With a quick glance at his fuel gauge, he saw that the dial had dropped to the halfway point. He couldn’t see any more bombers for the time being, but below and behind him were plenty of Mustangs growling for a fight. With a push on the stick he brought the Stormbird over, knowing he had time for one more pass before he had to head back to base and refuel.
It wasn’t until the flight back to Bitburg that he noticed his temperature gauge. The starboard engine was beginning to run a little hot, but still within the tolerance range. He shrugged it off. There were certainly more Allied aircraft to come, and he had important work to do.
578 Squadron Base, Wendling, Norfolk, England