Hitler's Last Days (10 page)

“That first remark of yours would be hard to beat,” replies Lieutenant Colonel Harry Kinnard, in his Texas twang.

“What do you mean?” McAuliffe responds.

“Sir, you said, ‘nuts,'” answers his chief of operations.

McAuliffe mulls it over. He knows his history and suspects this moment will become famous. One French general refused to surrender at the Battle of Waterloo with the far more crass response of “merde.”

And so the message is quickly typed: “To the German Commander, Nuts! The American Commander.”

When the letter is presented to the German emissaries, they don't understand. “What is this, ‘nuts'?”

Colonel Joseph Harper, regimental commander of the 327th, who delivered McAuliffe's response, illuminates them. “It means you can go to hell.” He adds, “And I'll tell you something else. If you continue to attack, we will kill every goddamn German that tries to break into this city.”

The Germans snap to attention and salute. “We will kill many Americans. This is war.”

“On your way, bud,” replies Harper.

*   *   *

Rumors and innuendo spread throughout the army. There is a rumor that C-47s are going to airdrop precious supplies of food and bullets into Bastogne. And the men are hearing that George S. Patton is sending an armored division to bail them out. Maybe two divisions. But they can't be sure of this.

In fact, at the moment Patton is asking for help from another source.

CHAPTER 12

FONDATION PESCATORE

LUXEMBOURG CITY, LUXEMBOURG
DECEMBER 23, 1944
9 A.M.

G
EORGE
S
.
P
ATTON TAKES OFF HIS
helmet as he enters the Catholic chapel. Though Episcopalian, he is in need of a place to worship. His boots echo on the stone floor as he walks reverently to the foot of the altar. The scent of melting wax from the many votive candles fills the small chamber. Patton kneels, unfolding the prayer he has written for this occasion, and bows his head.

“Sir, this is Patton talking,” he says, speaking candidly to the Almighty. “The past fourteen days have been straight hell. Rain, snow, more rain, more snow—and I am beginning to wonder what's going on in Your headquarters. Whose side are You on anyway?”

Patton and the Third Army are now thirty-three miles south of Bastogne. Every available man under his command has joined the race to rescue the city. The bulge in the American lines is sixty miles deep and thirty miles wide, with Bastogne an American island in the center. And while Patton's men have so far been successful in maintaining their steady advance, there is still widespread doubt that he can succeed. Outnumbered and outgunned by the Germans, Patton faces the daunting challenge of attacking on icy roads in thick snow, with little air cover.

So the general prays.

For three years my chaplains have been telling me that this is a religious war. This, they tell me, is the Crusades all over again, except that we're riding tanks instead of chargers. They insist that we are here to annihilate the Germans and the godless Hitler so that religious freedom may return to Europe. Up until now I have gone along with them, for You have given us Your unreserved cooperation. Clear skies and a calm sea in Africa made the landings highly successful and helped us to eliminate Rommel. Sicily was comparatively easy and You supplied excellent weather for the armored dash across France, the greatest military victory that You have thus far allowed me. You have often given me excellent guidance in difficult command situations and You have led German units into traps that made their elimination fairly simple.

But now You've changed horses midstream. You seem to have given von Rundstedt [German field marshal and Hitler's commander in chief on the western front] every break in the book, and frankly, he's beating the hell out of us. My army is neither trained nor equipped for winter warfare. And as You know, this weather is more suitable for Eskimos than for southern cavalrymen.

But now, Sir, I can't help but feel that I have offended You in some way. That suddenly You have lost all sympathy for our cause. That You are throwing in with von Rundstedt and his paper-hanging god [Hitler]. You know without me telling You that our situation is desperate. Sure, I can tell my staff that everything is going according to plan, but there's no use telling You that my 101st Airborne is holding out against tremendous odds in Bastogne, and that this continual storm is making it impossible to supply them even from the air. I've sent Hugh Gaffey, one of my ablest generals, with his Fourth Armored Division north toward that all-important road center to relieve the encircled garrison, and he's finding Your weather more difficult than he is the Krauts.

This isn't the first time Patton has resorted to divine intervention. Every man in the Third Army now carries a three-by-five card that has a Christmas greeting from Patton on one side and a special prayer for good weather on the other. He firmly believes that faith is vital when it comes to doing the impossible. And even though he has given the cruel order that all SS soldiers are to be shot rather than taken prisoner, Patton sees no theological conflict in asking God to allow him to kill the enemy.

Patton continues:

I don't like to complain unreasonably, but my soldiers from Meuse to Echternach are suffering tortures of the damned. Today I visited several hospitals, all full of frostbite cases, and the wounded are dying in the fields because they cannot be brought back for medical care.

Patton's prayer is clear. Not only is he asking for deliverance, he is asking for power. Few men are ever given the chance to change the course of history so completely. No one, not even Dwight Eisenhower, is standing in Patton's way. If the men inside Bastogne are to be rescued, it will be because of the brilliance of George S. Patton—as he himself knows. But to succeed, he will need a little help from above.

The last words of Patton's prayer are for the ages.

Damn it, Sir, I can't fight a shadow. Without Your cooperation from a weather standpoint, I am deprived of accurate disposition of the German armies and how in the hell can I be intelligent in my attack? All of this probably sounds unreasonable to You, but I have lost all patience with Your chaplains who insist that this is a typical Ardennes winter, and that I must have faith.

Faith and patience be damned! You have just got to make up Your mind whose side You are on. You must come to my assistance, so that I may dispatch the entire German army as a birthday present to Your Prince of Peace.

Sir, I have never been an unreasonable man; I am not going to ask You to do the impossible. I do not even insist upon a miracle, for all I request is four days of clear weather.

Give me four days so that my planes can fly, so that my fighter bombers can bomb and strafe, so that my reconnaissance may pick out targets for my magnificent artillery. Give me four days of sunshine to dry this blasted mud, so that my tanks roll, so that ammunition and rations may be taken to my hungry, ill-equipped infantry. I need these four days to send von Rundstedt and his godless army to their Valhalla. I am sick of this unnecessary butchering of American youth, and in exchange for four days of fighting weather, I will deliver You enough Krauts to keep Your bookkeepers months behind in their work.

Amen.

Head bowed, Patton continues to pray while Sergeant John Mims waits outside with his jeep. When the general is ready, they will set out for yet another day prowling the roads of the Ardennes Forest. Without planes to offer overhead reconnaissance, Patton must see the battle lines for himself.

Their travels also serve another purpose. Patton seeks out American forces wherever he can, exhorting his troops as they march in long columns up the snowy farm roads. Tanks and trucks travel round the clock toward Bastogne. The infantry wear long greatcoats. The tank commanders ride with their chests and shoulders poking out of top hatches, faces swaddled in thick wool scarves. The heavy snow covering the roads, forests, and farmlands covers their vehicles and mutes the rumble of engines, giving Third Army's advance a ghostly feel. But it can also lead to death: Unable to distinguish which snow-covered tanks are American Shermans and which are German panzers, some U.S. P-47 Thunderbolt pilots will make the cruel mistake of bombing their own.

General Patton rides in his customary open-air jeep.
[Mary Evans Picture Library]

Patton is a relentless presence in his open-air vehicle, red-faced and blue-lipped as Sergeant Mims fearlessly weaves through the long column of tanks and trucks. Patton is frozen from the cold air as he rides to the front lines to rally his men. “I spent five or six hours almost every day in an open car,” as he will later write in his journal about his zeal to be in the thick of the action. “I never had a cold, and my face, though sometimes slightly blistered, did not hurt me much.…”

Just yesterday, a column of the Fourth Armored Division that was advancing on Bastogne was shocked to see Patton get out of his jeep and help the soldiers push a vehicle out of a snowdrift. The men of the Third Army are bolstered by Patton's constant presence. They speak of him warmly, with nicknames like The Old Man and Georgie. His willingness to put himself in harm's way and endure the freezing conditions has many American soldiers now believing the general would never ask them to do something he wouldn't do himself.

CHAPTER 13

ADLERHORST

LANGENHAIN-ZIEGENBERG, GERMANY
DECEMBER 24, 1944
1 P.M.