Bloody Bastogne Read online

  ~*~

  The closer the Hammerheads got to Bastogne, the stiffer the resistance became. They still were three miles away on Christmas night, and the next morning the Germans fought them to a complete standstill.

  General Hughes directed the attack from the front, exposing himself to enemy fire continually and exhorting the Hammerheads to push forward, but the Hammerheads could take no ground. There simply were too many German tanks out there. Finally, at ten o’clock in the morning, Hughes called General Patton and stated that he needed help. Hughes expected to be chewed out, but Patton only said that he’d send whatever he could.

  Hughes hung up and looked over the top of his trench at the battlefield. A vast panorama of war was spread before his eyes. Tanks fought on the road and in the open fields, and infantry soldiers advanced against each other in the surrounding woods. Hughes felt certain that he could break through on the road if he had another ten or twenty tanks, but he’d already committed his reserves and didn’t have anything left.

  He hoped Patton would send help soon because he was afraid the Germans might breach his lines.

  The battle seesawed back and forth for the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon. General Hughes shifted units constantly and probed for weaknesses in the German line, but he couldn’t find anything. The field was littered with ruined German and American tanks, and a constant stream of ambulances carried the wounded to the field hospital a few miles back.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, an aide told Hughes that tank reinforcements were on the way from the rear. Twenty minutes later they arrived, twenty medium tanks covered with ice and muck. They stopped nearby, and a husky cigar-smoking man climbed down from the lead tank.

  Hughes walked toward the lead tank, and saw that the cigar-smoking man was a colonel with rugged lumpy features. The colonel took one look at General Hughes’s stars, drew himself to attention, and saluted.

  “Colonel Creighton Abrams reporting, sir,” the man said.

  Hughes returned the salute. “Good to see you, Abrams. I want you to lead us into Bastogne.”

  “Yes, sir!” Abrams replied.

  Hughes returned to his radio and organized the attack. The tanks in the field below would protect Abrams’s flanks, and Abrams would try to bull his way through the road. A battalion of infantry would follow on trucks in case foot soldiers were needed, and he decided to send the first battalion of the Fifteenth Regiment, which was fighting in the woods nearby.

  ~*~

  Captain Anderson received the order over his field radio and gradually moved his men back squad by squad so that Baker Company on the left and Dog Company on the right could cover his positions. When his company was withdrawn, he marched the men out of the woods and up the hill to the division’s command post.

  Colonel Simmons met them and told them to load onto the trucks lined up behind the tanks from the Fourth Armored Division.

  General Hughes stood near Colonel Abrams’s tank. The word was passed forward that everything was in readiness, and General Hughes raised his arm in the air and pointed it toward Bastogne.

  “MOVE ’EM OUT!” he yelled.

  The tanks revved their engines and rolled down the hill. The German tanks in the fields saw them coming but were too heavily engaged to do anything about them. In the lead tank, Colonel Abrams told his gunner to use the cannon to keep the road clear.

  The tank drivers brought their big lumbering vehicles to top speed. A German tank rumbled onto the road in front of them, and Abrams’s gunner fired on it immediately. The shell streaked forward and scored a direct hit, blowing the German tank off the road and onto its side.

  The Combat Command roared down the road, followed by Charlie Company in trucks. Shells exploded all around the road, and bullets whizzed through the air. In the fourth truck from the front, Cranepool and his men hugged the floor and squirmed to get lower, as bullets whammed into the fenders of the truck.

  A German shell hit one of the American tanks, and the tank behind it pushed it off the road and kept going. American artillery on the hill behind them redoubled their efforts to cover the column, and more German tanks were transformed into blazing funeral pyres.

  The German commander in the woods below, seeing the American tank force breaking through, feared encirclement.

  He immediately ordered that his men fall back and reorganize to meet that threat.

  On the American hill, General Hughes studied the battlefield through his binoculars and perceived, through the smoke, that the Germans were pulling back.

  “We’ve got them on the run boys!” he shouted. “Now go after them! CHARGE!”

  ~*~

  The tanks and trucks sped along the road to Bastogne. They passed forests and fields, crossed a bridge that the Germans had neglected to blow, and didn’t even bother to slow down for a few platoons of German infantry that fired at them.

  They barreled down a hill, crossed a valley, and then at the foot of the next hill, an artillery piece fired in front of them, and one of the American tanks was blasted to smithereens.

  General Abrams realized it probably was an eighty-eight straight ahead up the hill, and he’d have to send the infantry up to knock it out. He ordered his tanks off the road and told them to disperse and then radioed Captain Anderson of Charlie Company, telling him to lead his men through the woods and put the eighty-eight out of action.

  The trucks rumbled into the field and hid behind some trees. Captain Anderson ordered the men to unload, formed the first three platoons into a column of twos, and ordered his heavy weapons platoon to lob mortar rounds up the hill at the eighty-eight.

  The first platoon took the point, and Lieutenant Woodward led it up the hill. Not far behind him, Cranepool trudged beside the medic, Pfc Grossberger, and heard the first of the mortar rounds go pop behind him as they were fired at the artillery emplacement.

  The hill became steeper, and the men had to pull themselves up by holding onto the branches of trees. A few of them fell and toppled backwards for ten or twenty feet, but Lieutenant Woodward was surefooted as a mountain goat, and had no patience with the men who couldn’t move as quickly as he.

  “What’s the matter with you guys?” he chided. “You’re like a bunch of old women!”

  Cranepool had come to dislike Woodward considerably, and several times during the past few days, he’d thought about putting a bullet through Woodward’s head. Cranepool knew that if Mahoney had been around, the sparks really would fly. Mahoney couldn’t tolerate arrogant officers, but he usually handled them pretty well because he generally knew more than they did.

  The big German eighty-eight fired again, and the men from the first platoon could see its smoke up ahead.

  “There it is!” said Corporal Fanucchi, pointing up the hill.

  “Keep your voice down!” replied Lieutenant Woodward. “Skirmish line!”

  The first platoon formed a skirmish line, and the second platoon did the same on the first platoon’s right flank. Captain Anderson held the third platoon in reserve, while his fourth platoon, which was his weapons platoon, lobbed mortar rounds at the eighty-eight, without having much effect from what Cranepool could see.

  Lieutenant Woodward signaled to Captain Anderson, and Captain Anderson radioed the mortar squads, telling them to stop firing. Seconds later the woods became quiet.

  Captain Anderson spoke to Lieutenant Woodward. “Move ’em in,” he said.

  Lieutenant Woodward raised his carbine in the air and shouted, “LET’S GO, MEN! FOLLOW ME!”

  He ran up the hill, holding his carbine at port arms, and the rest of the platoon followed him. To the right, Sfc Frank Guffey led the second platoon forward. The men shouted battle cries and whooped it up to give themselves courage and scare the Germans.

  Cranepool peered through the branches ahead and saw the gray sandbags that surrounded the eighty-eight.

  “We’re almost there, men!” Lieutenant Woodward yelled. “Let’s go!”
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br />   Cranepool tripped on a piece of ice and fell on his face, just as he heard a loud burst of machine gun fire to his front. Men around him screamed, and he turned to see blood spurt from the chest of Pfc Finch.

  “HIT IT!” screamed Lieutenant Woodward.

  He dived on to the snow, but his order was unnecessary because all of his men had dived for shelter as soon as they had heard the machine gun fire. Some of them didn’t make it, and their blood dribbled over the snow.

  They were pinned down by two machine guns in the German artillery emplacement. Cranepool looked up the hill and saw the flashes coming from their barrels. If Mahoney had been there, he would’ve had a plan figured out already for silencing the machine guns, but Lieutenant Woodward thought he’d better get some advice from Captain Anderson.

  “Sir—we can’t move!” he said excitedly.

  “Try to move your platoon around the emplacement and take it from behind. I’ll cover you with the second and third platoon.”

  Captain Anderson handed the walkie-talkie to his runner and looked at the artillery emplacement. “All right men— come with me!”

  He crawled to the left, and the first platoon followed him. They cradled their rifles in their arms and kept their heads low as they slithered over the snow. They made their way around the emplacement and gradually approached it from the rear. Lieutenant Woodward gathered his squad leaders and told them that the first and second squads would move close enough to throw hand grenades, and the third and fourth squads would provide cover in case any Germans showed their heads. He would stay back with the third and fourth squads to direct the operation.

  Cranepool returned to his squad, told them what to do, and when Lieutenant Woodward gave the signal, he moved them forward. They crawled through the underbrush and around trees toward the artillery emplacement. Cranepool’s knees had become frigid due to constant contact with frozen snow. He crawled over a snow-covered log, all the while keeping his eyes riveted on the artillery emplacement, and he thought that in about twenty more yards they’d be able to get off some grenades.

  A shot rang out, and he saw a puff of smoke coming from the sandbags up ahead. The bullet zipped into the snow a few feet from Private Parker, and they all stopped cold, trying to burrow lower into the snow. More single shots were fired, and Cranepool realized that the Germans had expected an attack from their rear and posted a few riflemen to cover it.

  “Gimme some BAR fire!” Cranepool yelled.

  His two BAR men jammed rounds into the chambers of their automatic weapons and opened fire on the rear of the bunker. The Germans stopped shooting their rifles as they ducked to avoid the bullets.

  Cranepool pulled a grenade from his lapel and jumped to his feet. “LETS GO!” he screamed.

  He yanked the pin and ran with his arm back toward the artillery emplacement. The men in his squad followed him, also with hand grenades ready, and the BAR men kept firing, preventing the Germans from taking careful aim at Cranepool and his men.

  A German hand grenade came flying out of the emplacement, and Cranepool jumped up, catching it in midair with his left hand. He dropped to the ground, threw the German hand grenade back into the emplacement, and then lobbed his own grenade in. He dived to the snow as his men threw their grenades and followed him down.

  The grenades exploded one after the other, and the artillery emplacement became enveloped in smoke. Cranepool waited a few seconds, then jumped to his feet and charged.

  “Up and at ’em!” he hollered.

  He and his men ran toward the emplacement, which was now silent and shrouded with smoke. Behind them came Lieutenant Woodward and the second squad. The rest of Charlie Company attacked from the front. Cranepool jumped up onto the wall of sandbags and dropped into the emplacement, holding his carbine ready and peering through the smoke for movement and danger.

  Mutilated Germans lay everywhere, and the sandbags were splashed with blood. The huge artillery piece was in the middle of the emplacement, and on the other side, American soldiers jumped down on dazed and bleeding Germans. Some of the Germans hadn’t been wounded, but they knew they were licked and raised their hands in surrender.

  Lieutenant Woodward arrived in the emplacement and appeared satisfied. He kicked a few Germans onto their backs, and found the captain who’d commanded the artillery crew sprawled dead over its rear sight. Woodward took the dead officer’s pistol, looked at it, smiled, and jammed it into his belt.

  Captain Anderson came around from the other side, holding his .45 in his right hand. “Any prisoners back here?”

  “No, sir,” said Woodward.

  “All right. Let’s get back to the trucks.”

  They climbed out of the artillery emplacement, taking their prisoners with them. Cranepool realized he had to take a piss, and paused to unbutton his fly. Suddenly he heard a sound. He grabbed his rifle and screamed: “HIT IT!”

  Everybody scrambled to the snow, and Cranepool looked north into the woods.

  “What is it!” demanded Lieutenant Woodward.

  “I heard something in those woods over there.”

  “Where?”

  Cranepool pointed with his carbine.”There.”

  Lieutenant Woodward raised his binoculars, and focused them on the spot Cranepool had indicated. He saw movement in the woods, and two men in American Army uniforms emerged.

  “Hello over there!” one of them shouted. “What outfit are you with?”

  “Third Army!” replied Woodward.

  “THIRD ARMY!”

  More American soldiers emerged from the woods, jumping up and down and shouting happily.

  “THE THIRD ARMY IS HERE! WE’RE RELIEVED!”

  They ran toward Charlie Company, holding out their arms. Cranepool got to his feet and saw a soldier with the patch of the Screaming Eagles on his shoulder. Cranepool didn’t think he’d ever seen such joy on a man’s face. The soldier grabbed Cranepool’s hand and pumped it wildly.

  Cranepool struggled to keep his balance. “Are you from Bastogne?” he asked.

  “You’re goddamned right!” the soldier replied, pointing behind him. “Bastogne is just on the other side of those trees there! And it’s about time you fucking guys got here!”

  Chapter Twenty

  In a little hotel that had not been damaged too badly by the fighting in Bastogne, Mahoney and Madeleine lay naked underneath a dozen blankets, kissing and writhing against each other, feasting on each other’s bodies.

  They’d been doing this ever since Christmas Eve. She had had to report to the hospital from time to time, and he’d made a few appearances at General McAuliffe’s headquarters, but they’d spent most of their time in this dingy, little, unheated room, eating C rations and making love.

  Mahoney was surprised by the depth of feeling he had for the little ex-whore. Instead of becoming tired of her, as he did with most women, he found the enchantment becoming stronger. He tried not to dwell upon what might happen in days to come because he was certain he’d be killed when the Germans resumed operations against Bastogne. In fact, he couldn’t understand why it was so quiet today. He didn’t know that many Germans soldiers who’d surrounded the city had been siphoned away to fight the threat coming from Patton’s Third Army in the south.

  They made love languorously, moaning and sighing, making little motions and kissing softly. It was the kind of lovemaking they did for hours on end, devoid of anxiety, two souls intermingling and at peace.

  Through the pleasure and lazy sensuality, Mahoney became aware of a commotion in the street below. He raised his head and perked up his ears. “What the hell is that?”

  She gazed at him, her cheeks flushed and eyes sultry. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Something’s going on down there!”

  Mahoney jumped out of bed, threw on his field jacket, and dashed to the window, opening it up and looking down into the streets below. He saw paratroopers running through the streets, screaming and waving their rifles in the air.


  “HEY!” Mahoney shouted. “WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON?”

  A paratrooper looked up at him, and his face was crazed with delight. “THE THIRD ARMY IS HERE!”

  “Holy shit!” Mahoney said.

  “What is it?” asked Madeleine.

  “We’re not surrounded anymore!”

  She got out of bed, wrapped herself in a blanket, and stood at the window beside Mahoney. They looked down and saw paratroopers and civilians pouring through the streets, heading toward the southern part of the city. They cheered and shouted, shook hands and passed bottles of wine around, as joy and celebration descended on Bastogne.

  “Here they come,” said Mahoney, pointing toward the south.

  They leaned out the window and saw the tanks of the Fourth Armored Division rumbling down the street. Children ran beside the tanks and screamed happily. Their parents applauded, and some of them cried, overcome by the emotion of the moment. The paratroopers from the 101st Airborne jumped up and down and cheered.

  Colonel Creighton Abrams stood in the turret of the lead tank, grinning and holding up his hands, making victory signs with his fingers while the news was flashed around the world that bloody Bastogne had been saved.

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