Fox On The Rhine (27 page)

“More prisoners, sir,” reported Captain Smiggs.

Pulaski looked over the ragged catch, a hundred or more unkempt, unarmed Germans, and he could only laugh. “Smiggy, I never thought that my recon company would be winning all of our battles.”

“Sorry, Colonel... they just seem to want to turn themselves in to the first Americans they see.”

“Don’t apologize--we’re all thankful, or we should be,” the CO declared.

“I see we can’t even refuel without filling our bag,” observed Frank Ballard, coming up to join them. The CCA infantry had taken over from the recon company and were marching the Germans into a semi-enclosed barnyard.

“How long are we here?” Smiggs asked.

“We’ll spend the night,” Pulaski announced. “Smiggy, can you get the lay of the land around here, see where we’ll need to put our pickets? It will take until dark to finish refueling, and we should try to get in touch with Army HQ, arrange to hand off the prisoners and set up our next depot.”

“And if they can’t get somebody here by morning, what about the prisoners?” asked Lieutenant Colonel White, cocking an eyebrow at the CO. “Are you going to want me to leave a company behind again?”

The colonel shook his head. “Then we just leave ’em here on the honor system and move on,” Pulaski replied. “It won’t be the first time--and I think we’ve got more important fish to fry.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” replied White, whose mechanized infantry had sometimes been forced into unwelcome duty as jailers.

Pulaski looked around. Most of the half-tracks had already refueled, but all of Lieutenant Colonel Lorimar’s self-propelled artillery battalion was still waiting to drive into the depot yard. In addition to the eighteen Priests, the M7 howitzers that were Lorimar’s pride and joy, the battalion included a number of ammunition haulers, and numerous other trucks and bulldozers, all of which had a voracious appetite for fuel. As always, Pulaski found it frustrating to realize that his armor could drive a hundred miles in a matter of hours, but then needed to spend twice as much time just taking on gas and ammunition in preparation for the next headlong advance.

During the last two weeks, Combat Command A had carved a swath through France and the crumbling Wehrmacht. They had captured thousands of Germans, destroyed a hundred trucks and dozens of tanks. They encircled strongpoints, cut off enemy communications and transport, blasted through hastily formed defensive positions. They always kept moving, through days of long, fast attacks followed by brief intervals when the combat command regrouped, performed field repairs, and took on additional fuel and ammo. For the most part it was a heady time, a whirlwind of victories that stacked up one after the other, steadily increasing the Americans’ levels of morale, experience, and skill.

Once the German line had cracked, George Patton’s Third Army had been activated, with the Nineteenth Armored Division--and CCA in particular--as one of Patton’s forward spearheads. Pulaski knew that some of Third Army had turned west, and now had enemy garrisons trapped in Brest, St Nazaire, and several other key ports. Hopefully those cities and their harbors would be opened soon, for an advance like this was going to require solid bases of supply--and all those supplies had to come in over the waters of the English Channel or the Bay of Biscay. Other elements of Third Army had turned east and then curled north in an attempt to encircle the German line. And Pulaski’s men, and their counterparts in Bob Jackson’s CCB, had been turned loose to race eastward, and race they had done.

The aggressive combat command charged out of Normandy as a pure, tactical descendent of the dashing cavalry of yore. Along the way CCA liberated countless French hamlets, villages, and towns. In each, the now-veteran tankers had been feted with many bottles--calvados brandy in Normandy, numerous vintages of wines as they moved through different regions. They had been festooned with colorful garlands, cheered by delirious Frenchmen, and mobbed by women who were almost frantically eager to bestow kisses and other favors upon their American liberators. Priests had come from the churches, and Pulaski had been blessed under the shadow of more cross-topped steeples than he could count.

Pulaski had been briefed by General King as well as Colonel Grant, the division S-2. He knew that von Kluge’s replacement, whoever he was, had at last persuaded Himmler to authorize a withdrawal, and the bulk of the enemy forces had wheeled away from their entrenchments and raced eastward. Pulaski couldn’t help but chuckle when he’d heard American officers grousing that this retreat never would have happened if Hitler had still been in charge--but there was a germ of truth to the complaint. After all, under their new leadership, the Nazis had shown more flexibility in their defense, and a willingness to give up a position so that troops could get away to fight another day. Now a great retreat was under way, Germans fleeing for home, struggling to cross the great rivers of France. Already most had passed the Seine, and now the bulk of the enemy was retreating toward the Somme River and Belgium.

Racing to the south of this massive movement, CCA had been the first American unit across the Seine, beating Jackson’s CCB by a day and a half. A day later they had learned that Paris had been liberated, taken first by General Leclerc’s Free French armored division under Patton’s command. Now the Third Army was pulling up to the Seine along two hundred miles of its length, and many American spearheads had joined Nineteenth Armored in crossing the river and continuing eastward. It was not hard to believe that the war was practically won.

He remembered the festive party of just the previous night, when CCA rolled through another town only hours after the Germans had pulled up stakes. His men lingered for about an hour, accepting kisses and wine bottles from the populace in approximately equal numbers. But, as always, Pulaski had ordered them on, and his soldiers had responded with their usual alacrity. Being fast and first had become a matter of pride to the men of Combat Command A.

“My battalion should be into the fueling yard within the hour,” Lorimar reported, breaking into Pulaski’s reminiscing. “Are you going to try and move out tonight?”

“No ... take your time about it, Lorri. We’ll get on the road first thing in the morning.”

“Good news, that,” replied the genial artillery officer. “I got some thirsty Priests over there.”

The others laughed. It was an old joke, but somehow the likable Lorimar made it funny every time he said it.

The colonel noticed a jeep working its way through the controlled chaos of the field depot, and then recognized the dashing figure of his division CO.

“General King!” he declared, joining his subordinates in saluting. “Welcome to our supply base--at least, it’s been our home away from home for two hours and has a whole night to go before we move on.”

“Really letting the moss grow this time, eh Ski?” replied the general with a chuckle, returning a casual salute.

“Just long enough to dig a swimming pool and roast a hog,” Lorimar interjected.

“Good work, Ski, and all you men as well,” declared King sincerely.

“Do we continue east, sir?” asked Pulaski.

“Slight change in orders, from Georgie himself,” the general replied with a grim smile. “We’ve got another opportunity in front of us, and your boys, Ski, are in position to take advantage.”

‘Tell us what you need, General, and you’ve got it!” Pulaski was ready, and Lorimar, White, and Ballard leaned in as well.

“The Krauts are pulling two armies out of Normandy, and we’ve got ’em closed down to one main road.” He gestured to the map on the hood of the jeep. “And it crosses the Somme River here, at Abbeville.”

“That’s no more than fifty, sixty miles north of here, sir.” Pulaski grasped the possibilities immediately.

“Exactly. Now, I’ve got CCB coming up behind you, but they’re a day away. You’ll be on your own, Jimmy, but if you can get to Abbeville, shut down that bridge, your boys would go a long way toward putting the whole German western front into the bag.”

The colonel’s heart pounded at the prospect. Here it was, a chance to win the
real
prize, to shorten--hell, maybe to win--the war. “We can do it, sir!”

“Yessir, General!” Lorimar added.

“Good men. There’s risk, but I think you can all see what we stand to gain.”

“Say no more, General--we’ll be on our way by the crack of dawn.”

The Somme, South of Abbeville, France, 19 August 1944, 1115 hours GMT

As Pulaski saw the rippling waters of the river glittering before him, he felt a rising sense of disbelief and elation. He told Keefer to drive the command half-track off to the side of the road at the crest of the hill leading into the river valley. Leaning with an easy slouch, he watched Ballard’s tanks roll past, racing along the rural lane above the river. The column halted when the lead tanks reached a hillside where the ground sloped steeply away before them. Colonel Pulaski pulled out the map.

“We’re no more than ten miles south of the highway,” he realized, speaking aloud. “What we need is a good track on this side of the river, running north. Keefer, move us up a bit.”

The half-track rumbled through the field beside the lane, which was currently blocked by a column of Shermans. When the big vehicle reached the crest Pulaski looked in the direction he wanted to go and grimaced as he saw a wet valley, flat and slick like a bog, extending far inland from the riverbank.

For the last two days they had swept toward the northeast, leaving the rest of Third Army behind as they raced toward the Somme and the road that was key to the German retreat. General Wakefield had argued with General King and at first tried to put the brakes on his aggressive Combat Command, fearing they were getting too far ahead of themselves. Wakefield had wanted to wait long enough for three divisions to advance abreast, but in the end Pulaski had convinced Jack King of the opportunity that beckoned to them--and reminded them both of the Germans who were getting away every hour. Now they had an open flank before them, a chance to sweep deep into the enemy rear. By all accounts they were attacking a defeated foe, and it only made sense to keep him on the run.

There was one thing Pulaski learned about Henry Wakefield in that encounter. No matter what his initial feelings on a matter, when he made a decision, he stuck with it all the way, working to get his men all the air support and fuel that he could get his hands on. His respect for the man had increased--and for the first time, he found himself caring that he earned Wakefield’s respect in turn.

Patton himself had heartily endorsed the intended encirclement. He had ordered the rest of the Nineteenth Armored, including the reserve combat command, as well as Third Armored and a couple of infantry divisions, to advance in support of CCA. Those troops remained some distance to the rear, and Pulaski knew that it was up to him to carry this attack as fast and as far as it could go.

An armored car came racing along a trail at the bottom of the hill, tires skidding on the dirt road, kicking up a small plume of dust from an excess of speed. Pulaski watched the racing vehicle with a thrill of pride--in some ways, these underarmed and weakly armored little combat cars reminded him most valiantly of the cavalry that was the inspiration for Patton’s armored tactics. The recon patrols drove around the flanks of his command, often rushing into villages and strongpoints in advance of the first Shermans--just like the bold horsemen of an earlier century.

Now the M8 Greyhound raced up the hill, veering around the Shermans. The hatch on the armored car was open, and an officer was waving wildly as his driver steered toward the command half-track.

“Colonel! Colonel Pulaski!”

It was Captain Smiggs, the cocky young cavalryman who commanded the CCA recon company.

“Whatcha got, Smiggy?”

“Down there, around the shoulder of the hill. Sir, it’s an old roadbed, probably Roman--made of stone. And Colonel, it looks dry, and seems to lead clear across the swamp. I’ve sent a platoon ahead to check it out, but there’s tracks... farm stuff, and trucks, too. I’d guess it’s good as gold!”

“Fine work, Smiggy. Keefer, you heard the man--let’s get down there and have a look! Frank!” he shouted to Ballard, who was sitting on the rim of the hatch on his Sherman’s turret. “Keep an eye on things here--but be ready to move!”

“Sure thing, Colonel.”

His driver, by now well attuned to Pulaski’s sense of speed, wasted no time in maneuvering the big half-track onto the narrow lane. They rumbled and lurched along at twenty miles an hour, chasing after the racing armored car.

In another few minutes he saw it, a narrow span across the marsh, clearly ancient, and apparently undamaged by the vagaries of twentieth-century warfare. A few lonely marble crosses marked a small cemetery on the near shore, but then the road extended over trackless greenery. In several places stone arches carried the road across swaths of open water.

“Will it hold a tank?” he wondered as Smiggs climbed out of his car and used his binoculars to scrutinize the far bank.

“Five armored cars and a Stuart drove across it with me, and it didn’t seem to shake much,” offered the captain. “But I guess there’s no telling if it will hold a Sherman until we try it.”

“How big is the marsh?”

“Goes several miles inland from here,” Smiggs reported. “The combat command can get around it, but it might take an extra hour. I’ve got Lieutenant Mitchell up ahead, scouting the road to Abbeville. We found one route with the bridge blown, but he was on another track that looked promising.”

“Good.” Pulaski scrambled out of the half-track and spread out a map across the front of Smigg’s Greyhound. Sergeant Dawson held the map down while the colonel next took out the folder of aerial recon photos he’d been given the day before. “That bridge?” he asked, indicating the span over a small tributary creek flowing into the Somme.

“That’s the one, still intact here.” Smiggs looked at the date and time on the photo. “They must have blown it in the last twenty-four hours.”

Pulaski frowned in concern. “I wonder if they know we’re coming... lots of woods over there. They could have a nasty surprise in our way.”