Ike had managed to save Patton’s job by having him make public apologies to the soldiers he had slapped, along with apologies to the hospital staff who had witnessed these incidents. Patton hadn’t liked eating crow, but he liked being a general, so he had done as Ike told him.
Now, here was a chance to redeem his reputation.
“I’ve got a plan,” Patton announced to the room. “We can kick these Nazi sons of bitches all the way back to Berlin.”
The others looked at him with interest. It was true that Patton was full of himself, but he did not make idle boasts.
“We’re spread too thin,” another officer pointed out. “We’ll never get troops there in time to reinforce our lines. The Germans are going to push right through.”
“I’ll have the Third Army there in hours,” Patton said confidently.
“George, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Eisenhower said. He lit another cigarette. The air in the room was hazy with tobacco smoke.
“My boys will be there. You can bet on it.”
After Patton had outlined his plan, the generals looked at the battlefield map. They hated to admit it, but they had few options. Eisenhower gave his approval.
As the meeting broke up, there were a few subdued exchanges of “Merry Christmas.” Nobody felt all that merry.
Except for Patton. He hummed Jingle Bells as he left the room.
Unbeknownst to Eisenhower or anyone else in the room, his boys were already on their way to relieve the embattled forces in the Ardennes region. He had given the orders even before the meeting, taking a gamble that Eisenhower would approve.
Already, hundreds of tanks and thousands of men were on the move to the Ardennes. Once they got there, it would be another nail in the coffin of Operation Watch on Rhine.
Until then, the American forces would just have to hang on and stop the German juggernaut as best they could.
CHAPTER 16
"Obersturmbannführer Friel has orders for you," said Breger, the scar-faced sergeant. Von Stenger recognized him immediately. Having watched him shoot down the American POWs, Von Stenger was not going to forget Breger anytime soon.
Von Stenger looked around for Friel, but he was nowhere in sight. By now, the column was stretched like a rubber band — the front part raced toward Friel's objective of crossing the Meuse River and advancing into France, while the slower end dragged along behind. Somehow, Friel still had time to worry about the placement of a single sniper.
"And what are the Obersturmbannführer's orders?"
"You are needed at the rear of the column," Breger said. The barely suppressed grin on the Scharführer’s face suggested that he liked giving orders as a proxy. "We are being harassed by snipers. In fact, I believe the Obersturmbannführer's exact words were, 'I don't want those GIs coming up the road after us and fucking me in the ass.' "
That sounded about right. For all his polished ways, Friel had a soldier’s foul mouth. "How many snipers?"
"Who knows? Who cares? But you are the expert, so the Obersturmbannführer was sure you would take care of it."
Von Stenger raised an eyebrow. He was sure that last bit was the sergeant's own invention. It was clear by now that Breger was one of those noncommissioned officers who despised officers. Perhaps all of them did, come to think of it — but most were better at hiding it.
"I will see what I can do to protect the Obersturmbannführer’s ass," he said. He started to turn away, irritated by the sergeant, but then turned back to Breger, raising one finger as he did so, as if he had just had an idea. Which, in fact, he had. "I could use another man. However, it is dangerous work, Breger, so you would not want to undertake it yourself. You are too valuable, of course. You may have someone in your unit you can spare. Preferably a man who fears nothing."
As expected, the Scharführer was insulted. "You call shooting a few snipers dangerous work? Sir, I can tell you—"
"When you find a man for the job, send him to me," Von Stenger said curtly, and turned away.
"I will go myself," Breger said. "There is no need for another."
"Very well," Von Stenger said. "Be ready in ten minutes. And Breger — see if you can find a machine pistol."
Breger stood there for a moment after the sniper walked away, realization coming over him that Von Stenger had tricked him into something. He gazed after the sniper, eyes smoldering, then stomped away to get his gear.
Von Stenger walked over to the Schwimmwagen, where his SS driver waited.
"Leave the vehicle," Von Stenger said. "Put on your warmest clothes — in fact, put on all your clothes — and bring your weapon."
"Yes, sir."
Minutes later, the Scharführer joined them, carrying an MP 40 submachine gun, and the trio set off for the rear of the column. They faced an oncoming stream of vehicles and men.
"Are we going to walk the whole way?" griped the sergeant, in a tone that made it clear that he thought the sniper must be an idiot. "It could be miles in this mess!"
Von Stenger did not answer. It was indeed hard going, like swimming against the tide. The passage of so many vehicles had churned the road into a soup of slush, mud, and spilled diesel fuel and motor oil. Tanks, trucks, and military vehicles of almost every description formed the oncoming current. The faces of the troops they passed looked grim, many of them pale with cold and fatigue. But they held their heads high. They were on the offensive. They were gaining ground, bringing the fight to the Americans. No one had felt this way in months. It was almost possible to ignore the cold, gray air around them.
Finally, they neared the end of the column. Traffic thinned out. A lieutenant in a jeep was pulled to one side, supervising a crew pushing a truck out of a muddy rut. His eyes fastened on the telescopic sight on Von Stenger's rifle and he waved his driver toward him.
"Sir, those American snipers back there are chewing us to pieces. It is like a shooting gallery, and we are the targets."
"How far back?"
"A couple of miles. You will hear them shooting — or should I say, it may be the last thing that you hear."
As Von Stenger shifted to get his left boot out of a puddle, his coat opened slightly, revealing the Knight's Cross at his throat. The young lieutenant caught sight of it and his eyes widened.
"Sir, are you Von Stenger? I have seen your photograph. What an honor! Those Americans do not stand a chance."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Von Stenger said, oddly touched. "And thank you for this information. I will shoot a sniper for you."
They moved on, laboring through the half-frozen mud. The SS sergeant smoked a cigarette but kept his mouth shut with the air of the long-suffering soldier saddled with an idiot for an officer. Finally, Von Stenger saw what he was looking for — a captured United States Army truck with an olive drab canvas top. The truck was moving slowly enough that Von Stenger simply stepped out in front of it and raised a hand in a gesture that indicated "stop," like a gendarme directing traffic on a Paris street. He walked up to the driver's open window.
"Sir?" the puzzled driver asked. Another man sat next to him. They both had their helmets off. One man was gray-haired, while the other’s bald head gleamed. Both were deep into middle age. Clearly, even the SS was running low on men at this late hour of the war.
"Turn this truck around," Von Stenger said. "You are returning to the rear of the column with me and two of my men."
"Yes, sir." The driver did not look happy, but he did not argue. "How far back do you want me to go?"
"You will know when to stop."
Schiffer came up. "Do you want me to drive, Herr Hauptmann?" he asked. “Those two old men look like grandpas.”