“What’s record mean exactly?”
Bedell-Smith couldn’t help himself, and held up his hand by way of apology to his boss.
None the less, the question stood.
“Sir, the lowest recorded temperature in Germany was nearly -38°. That was 1929. In 1940, Belgium experienced -30°, Austria, up in the Alps, dropped to -52° in 1932.”
Eisenhower was shaken.
“You mean we are heading for those sorts of temperatures, Jimmy?”
“No, Sir, not exactly. We’ve looked at all the predictions and historical data.”
Stagg took the plunge.
“I believe it will be worse, the worst ever recorded, with the very worst reserved for Scandinavia, Denmark, Holland, Western Germany, all through the Alps and into Northern Italy.”
He selected a chart that showed where the Meteorology analysts thought things would go.
Eisenhower exploded.
“Minus 45°? The Rhine Valley… Cologne… minus 45°? Can this be an error?”
The remark stung Stagg and Eisenhower knew it, but he had to ask.
“Sir, there is always room for error, but this data has been checked, checked, and rechecked. I will guarantee this to 5° either way.”
‘So it could be 5° colder!’
Rossiter put their thoughts into words.
“Jeez but that’s fucking cold!”
“Guaranteed?”
Eisenhower sought indecision in his Meteorological supremo and found none.
“Guaranteed, Sir.”
“Thank you, Jimmy”
Stagg departed and Ike nodded to himself as he rapidly digested the latest information.
“That’s the decision made then.”
Ike stood up, suddenly aware that he had been deprived of tobacco for an unusually long period of time, picking a new pack from the side table, and getting a cigarette lit in record time.
“Walter. Tell George and the Field Marshal that they have until Sunday to get Cologne. After that, it’s a no-go. Tell them what Stagg just told us.”
He continued speaking, including the rest of the room.
“We’ve discussed this scenario, but it seems it’s gonna be much worse than we anticipated. I want our provisions for cold weather checked, and any problems highlighted immediately. Arthur’s going to love this, I don’t think!”
The sniggers were genuine, despite the circumstances, as the low temperature could prove to be a big problem for the Allied air forces.
The more so when some talented tenor started singing Christmas songs as he strolled the grounds on sentry duty.
The room cleared, all except Rossiter, who had another story to tell, leaving the two of them with a newly-arrived fresh coffee pot.
Both men laughed as some noisy NCO started ripping a strip off the tenor, his colourful language and intense humour bringing some light to Eisenhower’s dark morning.
“So, Sam, what brings you here?”
“You asked to be kept in the loop over the Soviet agents, Sir.”
“Indeed, Sam.”
“The one that was with the French, supposedly a Polish officer. He was killed on Sunday, supposedly by the woman he slept with. But it wasn’t her.”
“Sounds like a detective novel. Why not her?”
“She was one of ours. She’s dead too.”
“Sorry to hear that, Sam. So what does it mean?”
“It means the French still have a problem.”
“Pull over, man, goddamnit!”
The big WC51 Dodge staff car pulled into a rough area, allowing the front passenger to stand.
His hands caressed the .50cal that was mounted there, betraying his agitation.
“Say that again, Walter.”
Patton listened to the same words, repeated at a slower pace, as a teacher might do to a pupil that doesn’t quite grasp the lesson.
“Sunday! You kidding?”
Clearly, Bedell-Smith wasn’t kidding.
“I understand my orders, General Smith. Yes, I will.”
As the exchange ended, Patton threw the handset skywards in anger. The item returned to ground, pulled back by the cable, dropping undamaged into the snow.
The signaller pulled on the wire and recovered his instrument.
Meanwhile, Patton continued to rant and rave as he extracted a map from his case.
Calm overtook him finally, and he flopped back into the seat.
Slapping the driver on the shoulder, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Now, son. You make this thing sing, and I don’t care what gets in your way. Drive over it if you have to, but just get me to the 4th’s forward command post quickly.”
“Yessir!”
The powerful Dodge leapt forward and Patton almost considered an admonishment, but decided he had asked for it. Besides, the staff car was virtually flying down the road towards the headquarters of the 4th US Armored’s command group.
He consulted the map, starting to plan his new push on Cologne, something he found difficult as the Dodge bounced on every rut the road had to offer.
He had achieved little but a few tentative thoughts before his four star flags arrived at Iversheim, the headquarters of the 4th US Armored Division.
Normally the centre of attention, Patton was surprised to find that he was not the focus of the headquarters staff.
The commander of the 4th was holding centre stage as he bawled out the CCA commander, Johnson Greenwood, summoned for a face to face exchange.
“Force the road, goddamnit. We don’t have time to go around, not now. The Krauts are gonna hit Cologne again, and we gotta be there to help. You’re pussy-footing around too much. Push the boys on now!”
Both officers noticed the figure of their commanding General and saluted immediately.
“Bruce, JP,” Patton acknowledged each in turn, “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on here?”
Clarke, regretting being so openly hard on Greenwood, ceded the floor to the Brigadier General.
“Sir, my boys took Euskirchen about an hour ago. Swisttal a short time later. CCB are moving on past Zulpich, and into the rear of the Hürtgenwald. CCR are hung up at Meckenheim, where the commies have launched a counter-attack.”
The facts of the situation reported, Greenwood moved on to less steady ground.
“Sir, my boys have taken some bad knocks, and I just want time to pull them back together. Besides, the situation at Meckenheim is unclear; I don’t wanna hang my ass out and get fucked by some Soviet column coming from that direction.”
Bruce Cooper Clarke shifted uncomfortably.
“No, JP, no. You get your boys on the road now. I know they’re tired, but so’s the goddamned commies. Weather’s our problem. Real cold weather coming on in. Be with us next week, early. So no let up now. Push hard and keep pushing. Drive these red bastards back. You understand, JP?”
“Yes, Sir. My supplies’ve just caught up, but I’ll go as soon as we’re topped off.”
Patton’s hand slapped his breeches hard, the sound like a gun shot.
“No, the fuck you will, JP! Keep pressing hard, all the time, all the way. Supply’ll get to you in the field if necessary, but you gotta keep pressing. Don’t let the commie bastards get set.”
Greenwood understood that his General was a charger, a man who pushed his men to the limits to get the job done. He also knew that his men had been fighting for months now, some without the benefit of the short breaks they had been able to occasionally organise, and that some were close to breaking point.
“Sir, my command will be moving within thirty minutes.”
“Attaboy, JP. You know if we keep moving the casualties’ll be lower. Now, I’ll leave you to it. Bruce?”