General Patton looked at the maps in the conference room of his headquarters, pleased to see that his Third Army was rolling again. If it continued at this pace it would be out of the countryside in a few days and hammering at the gates of the cities and towns in the Saar.
General Maddox approached him. “Sir?”
Patton looked up. “What is it.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news, sir. General Donovan has been killed in action.”
Patton blinked. It was a rare thing when a general was killed in action. “Are you sure?”
“Yes sir. They have his body at his division hospital, and it’s been identified by his chief of staff, General McCook.”
Patton took a deep breath. He’d known Donovan well, and they’d hoisted many a glass together for their paths had crossed frequently in their long Army careers. “How’d he die.”
“It’s rather strange, sir. He was leading an attack on a hill in his front.”
“That crazy son of a bitch,” Patton said.
“McCook said General Donovan went to the front to get his men going. A company commander saw him fall. Evidently, he was right out in front of everybody.”
“Well,” Patton said softly, “I guess you can’t keep an old soldier down. I’ll be in my office if anybody wants me for anything.”
“Yes sir.”
Patton picked up his helmet, put it under his arm, and walked to his office, hanging the helmet on a peg and sitting behind his desk. He looked at the papers, the picture of his wife, and a trophy he’d won for playing polo. General Donovan was almost like a member of his family because he’d known him for so long. They’d even been at West Point at the same time, although Patton had been two years ahead of Donovan.
At least he died fighting, Patton thought. I hope I go the same way when my time comes. He hoped Donovan’s wife wouldn’t take it too hard, but every soldier’s wife had to know that her man could get hit at any time.
Patton took out a piece of paper and positioned his pen—he wanted to write the letter to Mrs. Donovan before very much time elapsed. He wrote the date in the upper right-hand corner and then had a thought that stopped his hand cold.
He realized that Donovan probably had died because of him. If he hadn’t chewed out Donovan in his office earlier that day, Donovan probably wouldn’t have gone out to the field to lead his troops personally, and he wouldn’t have got himself shot.
“Damn!” said Patton, banging his fist on the desk. “Damn!”
But he knew that if he had it to do over again, he would have done the same thing. The only way to win a war was to keep attacking, and the side that was winning usually suffered less casualties than the side that was losing. Statistics showed that the German army opposite him was suffering six times the casualties he was. You had to keep attacking.
Donovan shouldn’t have tried to be a young officer again. He’d probably had a few too many drinks under his belt and took his nickname “Bayonet” Donovan too seriously. I didn’t kill him, Patton thought. The dumb bastard killed himself. But nobody has to know that.
Patton picked up his pen and again started the letter to General Donovan’s widow.
~*~
Mahoney was proven right. With control of the hill, the front in that area opened up. Armor poured through the gap and raced toward the German rear, cutting communication lines, blowing up ammunition and fuel dumps, and encircling large numbers of German troops.
The American infantry soldiers followed, mopping up pockets of resistance and taking hordes of German soldiers prisoner. But the bulk of Army Group G was able to retreat and regroup. By the end of the day the American tanks and troops were meeting stiff resistance again.
“I don’t know how they do it,” Captain Anderson told his platoon leaders at a meeting that night in his command post foxhole. “I thought we had them on the run, but I guess they’re not licked yet.”
Sergeant Guffey of the second platoon grunted. “We’ll have to kill a lot more of the bastards before they’re licked.”
“I guess so,” Anderson replied. “Anyway, we’ll have another chance tomorrow. If we keep moving the way we have, we ought to reach Saarlautern in a few days. Our orders are to move right into the city if the bridges are intact. Otherwise we hold up and wait for engineers. Any questions?”
Mahoney spoke. “I got a man in my platoon who’s acting weird, sir. I don’t know if he’s a psycho or if he’s just trying to get sent to the rear.”
“Olds?” asked Captain Anderson.
“How’d you know?”
“I saw him running away from the enemy today. Maybe I should court-martial him. When he doesn’t pull his weight he endangers the lives of everybody around him.”
“If it was up to me,” Mahoney said, “I’d put the son of a bitch in front of a firing squad.”
“I don’t know,” Anderson replied. “I guess before we do anything we should make an effort to shape him up. We might be able to turn him into a soldier.”
“I doubt it,” Mahoney said.
“We should try at least. We need every man we can get. See what you can do, Mahoney.”
“Yes sir.”
After the meeting, Mahoney returned to his platoon area. He checked in with Pfc. Knifefinder, then made his way to the first squad. He spotted Olds right away. Olds was hopping around with his hands held in front of him like a kangaroo, making the sounds of a rooster crowing.
Mahoney walked up to him, reared back his fist, and punched him in the mouth. Olds collapsed into the mud, out cold. Mahoney turned around and walked back to his foxhole, stepping inside and sitting down. He threw away the cigar butt in his mouth, took out a cigarette, and lit it up.
Knifefinder was looking at the prostrate body of Private Olds. “Gee Sarge, he still out cold. You must have hit him pretty hard.”
“I didn’t hit him that hard,” Mahoney replied, “but if he keeps up that cock-a-doodle-doo shit I’ll break his fucking head open.”
A few minutes later, Private Olds raised his head from the mud. He spit out some blood, shook his head, and remembered what had happened. Groaning, he got to his feet and staggered to his foxhole. He didn’t feel like playing kangaroo anymore because he was afraid Mahoney would hit him again.
He dropped into his foxhole and sat with his back against the wall. He was all alone in the foxhole because nobody would have anything to do with him anymore. He’d been seen by too many men running away from the enemy. He thought that the only thing to do now was to shoot himself in the leg, but he’d have to wait until a battle was going on and he’d have to make sure nobody would see him, otherwise he’d get a one-way ticket to a court-martial and the stockade. Self-inflicted wounds were a serious offense in Patton’s Third Army.
These men around here are all like animals, Olds thought. They’re a bunch of filthy brutes and that Mahoney is the worst of the lot. If it weren’t for the war, most of these people would be in jail because they couldn’t function in civilian life.
Olds scowled and lit a cigarette, trying to remember the happy days before the war when he was a rich young playboy living it up in Los Angeles, his hometown.
~*~
Directly in front of the Hammerhead Division, in a bunker covered with sand bags, was General Otto Dobbeling, the commander of the German 44th Infantry Division. Beside him was Colonel Franz Wolkenstein, his chief of staff. Frowning, they studied the map of the front.
“It appears,” said Dobbeling, “that our most intelligent move would be to fall back to Saarlautern, blow the bridges, and fight the Americans there. The position would be much more favorable for defense than what we have now.”
“That’s true, sir,” Wolkenstein replied, “but you’ll never get permission to move back.”
“There’s no harm in trying,” Dobbeling said, picking up the field telephone.
He told the operator to connect him with General Balck and then leaned against the map table, weary from commanding his division throughout a disastrous day. Dobbeling was forty five years old, with a square youthful face and close-cropped brown hair. An Iron Cross first class hung from his collar, and he was a short man, five feet six inches tall. Finally General Balck’s voice came over the wires.
“Sir,” said General Dobbeling, “after a careful examination of my situation, I am herewith requesting permission to move back to Saarlautern, blow the bridges over the Saar River, and establish a strong defensive position there.”
Balck didn’t hesitate a moment before making his reply. “No,” he said. “I forbid you to retreat.”
“But sir, the terrain here is too open and difficult to defend. If I could get to Saarlautern and blow that bridge, I could make Saarlautern an impregnable fortress.”
Balck laughed. “Like Metz?”
“The Americans paid a heavy price for Metz,” Dobbeling reminded him.
“You should make them pay a heavy price for the ground you’re fighting on right now.”
“But I’m short of men and material. I have received no replacements for a month.”
“I’ll have some headquarters troops for you in a few days.”
“A few days may be too late,” Dobbeling said.
“They’d better not be too late,” Balck replied.
“I can’t fight if I don’t have anything to fight with.”
“You do have something to fight with,” Balck retorted. “Your division is still intact, isn’t it?”
“Yes but...”
Balck interrupted him. “You should know by now, my dear Dobbeling, that numbers are not everything in battle. The victorious field commander is the one who knows how to apply decisive force at the decisive point at the decisive time. Surely you’re aware of that.”
“Yes but...”
“Then do it, General Dobbeling. Do it. Times like this call for ingenuity. The Americans are under a great strain too, you know. They’ve been attacking for days on end, their supply lines are stretched to the maximum, and they’re taking huge casualties. This might be the right time for a cleverly planned riposte. If you don’t think you’re up to the task, I’ll find somebody who is. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No sir.”
“Over and out.”
Dobbeling hung up the phone, frowning. He knew that Balck had been a great general once, but now he just was talking in slogans like the rest of the fools and liars. Apply decisive force to the decisive point at the decisive time. What did that mean in a fluid situation where you were outnumbered and outgunned?
“What did he say?” asked Wolkenstein.
“Utter nonsense,” Dobbeling replied.
“He won’t let us retreat?”
“No.”
“So what will we do?”
“We’ll retreat anyway, but so slowly that it’ll look as though we’re being pushed back. Then we’ll stop in Saarlautern, set up a strong defense, blow the bridge, and turn the Saar into a river of American blood.”