The reporter could see that this was a retreat and a big one--and a disaster for the Americans. The evidence was undeniable, in the wide stares of the drivers, the hunched, defeated posture of the men clustered in the backs of the crowded vehicles. The jeep sped around the line of trucks. Here and there a truck had broken down, and invariably the disabled vehicle was unceremoniously pushed into the ditch to clear the road for the rest of the disorganized column. When he looked closely, Porter saw the insignias of several divisions, most notably the 99th and 106th. These were intermingled without any pattern, further proof that this was a general rout.
The corporal pulled up at the farmhouse that had been his bivouac, an artillery regiment CP, or command post. Porter got out, and the corporal sped off. The officers and staff were madly gathering maps and papers, burning some, jamming others into satchels, which were hastily tossed into jeeps and trucks.
Of course, there had been the rumors last night: the Germans were attacking with tanks; the unit would be going into action in the next few days; this was a serious raid intended to break up First Army’s imminent drive through the Westwall and on to the Rhine. The artillery officers had laughed about the futility of the Nazi maneuvers as if anyone could stop this inexorable Allied advance.
No one, Porter noticed, was laughing now.
“Hey, where are the Krauts?” an American officer shouted as Porter entered the CP.
“Cornin’ fast!” he replied. ‘Tiger tanks in the lead! They’ve crossed the Ansleve Bridge and are heading this way.”
“Porter!” It was the regimental CO, shouting to him as the driver overrevved his jeep. The other officers of the CP started scrambling into their vehicles, and engines were roaring into life all around. “Get in! We’re falling back before Jerry gets here!” Porter piled into the back of the jeep as the driver popped the clutch and tore away from the inn in a skidding frenzy of churning slush. Behind him, the German army was pulling into the biggest gas station in Europe.
SHAEF Headquarters, Paris, France, 1540 hours GMT
“What’s the word, Brad?” General Eisenhower asked, fixing his subordinate army group commander with a frank stare. “This isn’t any spoiling attack, is it?”
“No, sir, it doesn’t seem so. But I’m confident First Army will be able to stop the Krauts before they do any real damage.”
“Monty doesn’t think so.”
“What does he have to say about it?” George Patton, uncharacteristically silent until now, spoke up with a belligerent glare.
“He thinks this is a major offensive, and I happen to agree with him.”
“What’s their objective?” challenged Patton. “Besides knocking First Army around and delaying the move against the Rhine? It’s not like they think they can kick us out of France any more! This is a desperation move. Rommel’s out of options, so he’s drawing to the inside straight.”
“Nevertheless, the potential is serious. Intelligence has ID’d what? Some eight panzer divisions? Two panzer armies?” Ike retorted. “That’s one helluva punch, and if they cross the Meuse, they could do some real damage.”
“They’ll never get that far!” Bradley insisted, though his voice lacked an element of conviction. “If nothing else, they don’t have the fuel.” Patton nodded in emphatic agreement, his cigar held tightly between his teeth.
“You’ve got to remember, the British have been here before,” Eisenhower countered, in his ever-rational, patient delivery. “In 1940, to be precise. The Krauts came through the Ardennes, and the next thing you know the British Expeditionary Force was scrambling into fishing boats on the beaches at Dunkirk.”
“But the U.S. Army is here now!” Patton roared. “And damn it, Ike, I’m not about to let some goddamn goose-stepping Nazis push me back from the Siegfried Line.”
Eisenhower nodded. “I know, George...and I agree with you. But that doesn’t change basic facts. And one fact is this: Rommel cannot be allowed to cross the Meuse.”
“We can stop him!” Bradley interjected.
“I hope so--but I’ve made a decision that will help. I’m transferring First Army to Monty until this mess is over. He’ll take charge of the northern flank of this bulge in our lines.
You, Brad, with Third Army, are to shut them down on the south.”
Eisenhower held up his hand as both generals started to protest. “We’ll argue about it later. For now, Monty’s got the word. He’s drawing his Tommies down to the river, and will hold a line from Namur eastward. If the Germans get that far, they’ll be stopped.”
“And what about us?” demanded the red-faced Patton. “You’ll have to get yourself into the attack as soon as possible. Drive north, try to reach this road junction here--Bastogne, the name is. It’s almost surrounded, and it’s a key to travel through the Ardennes. I’m trying to get the 101st Airborne--truck-mounted for now--into there to try and hold the line, but it seems like the Krauts are moving too fast.”
“I already have plans drawn up for a turn north,” said Patton confidently. “Fourth Armored will be on the way by this evening.”
“This evening?” the supreme commander replied, startled. Patton grinned.
“And just to be on the safe side,” Eisenhower continued, “I want you to send somebody as far west as the Meuse. Tanks, a whole armored division if possible. Someone that can drive northward, in case Rommel reaches Dinant, here in Belgium.” Eisenhower indicated a little dot on the map. “Do you have anybody in position?”
“It’s pretty goddamn unlikely Rommel will make it to Dinant. If so, though, I can get someone in position,” Patton answered. “It’s the Nineteenth Armored--that’s Henry Wakefield’s boys. They’re refitting after Metz, farthest west of any of my units.”
“Well, George, think they can handle it?” asked the Supreme Commander.
“They’re Third Army now,” growled Patton. “And they did okay in Metz.”
“Then give them the job.”
Near Stavelot, Belgium, 18 December 1944, 1718 hours GMT
Chuck Porter stopped, put his hands on his knees, and took several great, heaving breaths. In spite of the snow and cold, he was sweating. Behind him, he could hear the crackling of breaking twigs and the crumping sound of boots against snow. In the dim gray light nothing much was visible past about three feet. Porter had no idea where he was--except that he was trapped, cut off, and probably about to die.
The end had come upon him suddenly. Out of the trees came a line of panzers; noises of screams mixed with gunfire and the booming of great cannon, flashes of blinding light mixed with swirling smoke, the sensation of his jeep swerving suddenly, leaving the road, upending in a ditch. He had been thrown out onto a snowbank, bruised and cut but not seriously injured.
Scrambling up and into the trees, heart pounding, he had virtually no memory of the brief battle; it was a blur, a mental block. When he caught his breath and looked back from the shelter of the trees, he saw the surviving American soldiers with hands up, surrendering to rifle-wielding Germans wearing gray uniforms.
He turned to run, rustling the bushes, making too much noise. He heard
“Dort! In den Büschen! Erhalten Sie ihn!”
His college German, rusty at best, helped him decipher the shouts; “There! In the bushes! Get him!” He did not stop to think whether surrender would be the best choice; he simply ran, hearing the growing sounds of footsteps behind him. He was out of shape, terribly out of shape. Tree branches slashed at his face, he was tangled, trapped.
He stopped, gasped, pushed through, ran again. Then his foot twisted in a gnarled tree root and he went face down in the snow. And they were upon him.
“Kamerad! Bitte schiefien Sie nicht! Ich übergebe!”
he called out, begging them not to shoot; he surrendered.
“Ich bin ein amerikanischer Zeitungsreporter”
He had no idea if it would help by telling him he was an American newspaperman, but he would say anything, anything to avoid the sound he feared would be next, the point-blank sound of a rifle firing, ending his life.
He could barely understand the soldier’s barked command.
“Stehen Sie oben! Setzen Sie Ihr überreicht Ihren Kopf!”
Awkwardly, he stood up and put his hands over his head, trying to keep his hands in plain view. He hoped he was translating properly. This was not the sort of German phrase he had studied in his long-ago classes. They never teach you anything practical, he thought.
The soldier yelled out new commands:
“Bewegung! Schneller! Erhalten Sie zurück mit den anderen Soldaten!”
He couldn’t move any faster, not with his hands over his head, but he struggled through the snow at his best possible speed, crossing through the ditch and up into the knot of shivering American prisoners. He noticed the wrecked jeep; the sergeant who had been driving was dead, crushed in the wreckage, one arm hanging into the snow. He shivered in fear and guilt The soldier who had captured him was talking to an officer, a tall, thin-faced colonel, if his reading of Wehrmacht insignia was correct.
“Er sagt, daß er ein amerikanischer Zeitungsre-porter ist,”
he was saying.
“Ein amerikanischer Zeitungsreporter? Sehr interessant. Trug er eine Waffe?”
replied the colonel. Porter strained to hear, to make out the language. They were clearly talking about him. “He says he’s an American reporter.” “An American newspaper reporter? Very interesting. Was he carrying a weapon?”
“Nicht daß ich beachtete. Er trdgt eine Karte irgendeiner Sortie rung, aber ich kann nicht lesen, was es sagt,”
replied the soldier. Porter listened intently, pointing eagerly to the press card the soldier mentioned.
“Lassen Sie mich mit ihm sprechen”
The colonel came over to him, gestured to one of the guards, who grabbed the reporter by the shoulder and shoved him forward. The guard escorted him to a command half-track to talk privately.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
asked the officer.
His reply was halting as he grasped for the words.
“Ein wenig. Ich studierte es in der Hochschule.”
He spoke only college-level German, just a little bit at that.
The German officer smiled, then switched to a formal English, somewhat accented. “I speak a little English; I studied your language in the college as well. I am Colonel Gunter von Reinhardt, intelligence officer for Army Group B. And you would be?”
“Porter. Chuck Porter. Associated Press, Paris bureau chief.” He gave a deep sigh of relief. His heart was still pounding with fear, but he realized he had just drawn a royal flush.
“Bureau chief?” He looked skeptically at the press pass Porter wore around his neck. “And you would normally find an Associated Press bureau chief in the front edge of a combat zone, rather than in an office many kilometers away?”
“When the bureau chief can get away with it, yes,” Porter said with a tentative smile. “The same way you might find an intelligence officer in combat rather than in headquarters.” He held his breath, wondering if a smart remark like that could get him shot.
Reinhardt laughed. “When he can get away with it. Indeed. And you are seeing somewhat more of combat than you had wagered, correct?”
“I am, colonel. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” Irony and humor seemed to be the right tone to take with this particular Wehrmacht officer. Porter knew he’d be spending the rest of the war in a POW camp.
Well, maybe I can turn this into a book when it’s all over,
he thought.
“And as a reporter, you are always looking for interesting news stories, a unique angle?”
“Of course I am,” Porter laughed. “Got any good leads?” Reinhardt looked at the newspaper reporter with calculating eyes. “I understand that while you are an American, and presumably patriotic, you are also a reporter and believe in accurate news. Is that correct?”
“Yes, on both counts.”
The German officer reached a decision. “Very well. I am thinking that you might prove useful as a communications channel as well as a neutral reporting source on the events of today and the next few days.”
“Colonel, I’d like to do my job as a reporter even under these circumstances. But I want you to know that I’m neither a propagandist nor a traitor,” Porter said.
“Of course not,” said the colonel seriously. “That is not my purpose. I will ask you only to be an honest channel of information. If you are interested, there will be only one requirement, and that is your parole. No attempts to escape, no attempts to go into areas we set as off-limits. Do you agree?” Porter thought for a moment, inspecting the offer for hidden traps. “If I decide I can’t go along with what you want, I can elect to become a regular prisoner of war. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Reinhardt turned to the guard.
“Dieser Mann kann vom Gebrauch zum Feldmarschall sein. Ich werde ihn mit mir nehmen. Er hat sein Wort, um gegeben nicht zu versuchen zu entgehen.”
Porter translated in his head. “This man may be of use to the field marshal. I am going to take him with me. He has given his word not to try to escape.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” the soldier said, saluting. He took a long, mean look at his prisoner, as if to send the message that Porter had better not try anything.
Porter had no intention whatsoever of doing so.
Mobile Command Post, Army Group B, St Vith, Belgium, 19 December 1944,1757 hours GMT
“Pull in here,” Rommel said, and Carl-Heinz obediently turned off the road to park between a pair of half-tracks. The whitewashed vehicles clustered like suckling piglets around the shambling ruin of what had once been a sprawling inn. A small banner beside the doorway identified the building as the forward army headquarters.
“Get a cup of tea and a bite of bread,” the field marshal suggested. “I’m going to get an update on the situation, but be ready to move again within the hour.”
Before Carl-Heinz could acknowledge the order, Rommel was out the door, striding purposefully into the makeshift headquarters. Only as he returned the salutes of the guards at the door did he realize that he had left his cane behind in the car. He should be exhausted, he told himself. He’d been on the road for more than seventy-two hours, never napping for more than a few minutes in the lurching car. Yet instead, he was more energized than he had been since getting wounded. In fact, he realized in surprise, he hadn’t felt this much vigor since the heyday of his campaign in Africa!