Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER FOUR

The bold strike by Germany had originated in the mind of Adolf Hitler and had been a closely held secret, even as he’d gathered troops, trucks, tanks, and planes all through the autumn of 1944, moving them into position using the mental chessboard of his mind. When German troops finally surged into the Ardennes, it was a single-minded projection of Hitler’s will.

He had unveiled the plan at his secret lair, called Adlerhorst, German for “Eagle’s Aerie.” This hideout was located near Koblenz, a town on the Rhine riverfront, roughly fifty miles from the Belgian border.

Der Führer had summoned dozens of generals and other key officers there to reveal his plans. Under cover of darkness, in a cold rain, they had arrived, not knowing what to expect. Among these officers was Obersturmbannführer Ingo Bauer, a veteran of the monthslong struggle to halt the Allied push across Europe. Bauer spotted General Manteuffel and the chillingly blunt Sepp Dietrich, even Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, and felt out of place in such exalted company.

What in the world was he doing here?

Some officers, Bauer included, half expected to be shot. There was some precedent for that.

After all, it had been only six months before that Claus von Stauffenberg had tried to assassinate Der Führer by detonating a briefcase filled with explosives during a meeting. Hitler had survived and launched a savage purge of anyone even slightly connected with the plot. Rumors spread of basements with meat hooks, or buckets of water and electrical wires, as the Gestapo and SS dealt with the traitors.

The assembled officers were informed rather brusquely that they would soon be addressed by Der Führer himself.

The secrecy surrounding the meeting and the security efforts did little to alleviate their fears. They were relieved of their briefcases and any sidearms. The officers were then brought to a large room and seated by rank. And yet they were treated more like prisoners than Germany’s command staff.

Young SS guards with MP 40 submachine guns stood around the edges of the room, watching the officers with open disdain, as if hoping for some excuse to pull the trigger. They seemed to view the gathered officer corps not with respect, but with disgust for a group of balding fat men who seemed intent on losing the war.

Perhaps their thinking mirrored that of Der Führer.

“No one in the audience dared move or even take his handkerchief out of his pocket,” one general later recalled.

Bauer held himself stiffly at attention in his chair, scarcely breathing. Like the others, he hadn’t ruled out the possibility of mass execution.

However, he found himself excited about seeing Hitler. Although he was tired of the war and wondered how it could possibly go well for Germany in the end, he had always found the German leader inspiring.

Then a side door opened and the leader of the Third Reich appeared.

A barely audible collective gasp filled the room.

Hitler’s appearance shocked them. He looked stooped, pallid, and he dragged one foot as he walked. Even his voice was low and hesitant. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had rallied the German people and enthralled millions with his energy. Bauer had to admit that he had fallen under Hitler’s spell as much as anyone.

However, each military loss that Nazi Germany had suffered in the last few months must have been like a body blow against its supreme leader.

Only when he warmed to his subject and the possibility of victory did some of his old fire and confidence return.

Before the spellbound — and captive — audience, Hitler revealed his plan. He had been working to gather these forces since September. It was to be a multipronged effort.

Several divisions of troops that included the Second SS Panzer Division Das Reich and Volksgrenadier divisions, more than one hundred transport planes carrying paratroopers, hundreds of panzers, nearly two thousand heavy artillery guns, mortars, and V-1 rockets.

Under the direction of Otto Skorzeny, specially trained infiltrators who spoke English and wore American uniforms would wreak havoc behind enemy lines. These men were taking a huge chance, knowing that they would be shot as spies if captured.

At least a thousand of the Luftwaffe’s remaining operational bombers and fighters would take to the air, including a handful of the new Messerschmitt 262 jet fighters that crossed the skies at 525 miles per hour. Nothing that the Allies had could keep up with them.

Hitler was gambling everything.

But even Hitler wasn’t so mad that he didn’t grasp the enormity of the gamble he was making.

“You must know that we are besieged,” he said bitterly. “Surrounded on all sides by our enemies. The forces of the Russian dogs snarl at us from the East. Here against die Allierten we have our best chance of success, or at least of driving a wedge between our enemies. We must exploit their natural suspicions and jealousies.”

Here Der Führer paused. He seemed to gather himself for what he was about to say.

Eventually he continued: “It will not be possible to assemble such a force again. If we should fail here, there will be dark days ahead.”

Hitler was not someone who ever wanted to speak about the possibility of defeat. To hear Der Führer make this admission was incredible.

All that the stunned officers could do was listen — and think of a thousand reasons the plan would fail. Bauer could certainly think of a few.

Hitler did not ask for questions, and no one dared to ask any.

Once Der Führer had finished, there was an opportunity for the officers to filter past him for a quick handshake and a few words of encouragement. They had seen a glimpse of their old leader, but given his physical condition, and the hard fight ahead that they all faced on the battlefield, it was hard not to feel as if this might be the last time they saw their leader, or vice versa.

Bauer had never met Hitler in person. Normally Bauer didn’t lack for confidence, but in Hitler’s presence he found that all he could manage was to stammer, “Mein Führer.”

Nonetheless, he felt Der Führer take full notice of him, even if it was for the briefest instant. It was like stepping from a dark room into the full glare of the sun. Then Hitler’s attention turned to the next man. A little shaken, Bauer moved on.

Some of the bolder officers even took the opportunity to lobby for changes to the plan, but Hitler would not hear of it. He simply brushed off these concerns. With thoughts in the backs of their minds of those rumored cellars where the Gestapo waited with meat hooks on which to hang troublemakers, the generals were in no position to argue.

Good career soldiers tended to be pragmatists. They weighed the odds. The odds of defying Hitler and surviving were not very good.

Although Bauer could not have known it, the situation was completely different from the one at Allied headquarters, where some debate was expected, even if Eisenhower ultimately made the decisions. Even from the top, FDR and Churchill might cajole, but they did not dictate — they delegated.

“The reasoning is sound enough,” one general confided to another on the ride back. Bauer overheard him, although the general was keeping his voice low so the driver couldn’t eavesdrop. Gestapo spies were everywhere. “We might just manage to drive a wedge between the Allies.”

“Yes,” the other general agreed. “And perhaps more time will enable us to deploy our new weapons and turn the tide. But the Ardennes? In wintertime?”

His companion just shook his head. Curiously, he then quoted from a poem called “Charge of the Light Brigade,” written by an Englishman, Lord Tennyson. It was a poem about bravery and duty in the Crimean War, even in the face of a fatal military blunder.

“Theirs not to make reply,

“Theirs not to reason why,

“Theirs but to do and die.”

Bauer didn’t say anything, but he thought that summed up the situation perfectly.

Just four days after that mysterious and fateful meeting, the attack began.

The sheer scope and fury of the attack immediately put American forces in disarray.

There was good reason for that. First, the Ardennes region was thinly defended, not seen as a priority. The mountainous terrain seemed like all the defense that was needed.

To that end, the sector was jokingly called both a nursery and an old folks’ home. It served as a training ground for new units before facing the enemy. On the other hand, several units that had been worn out in the long months of fighting across Europe had been sent here for rest and relaxation. The theory was that they could expect plenty of both.

A bonus was that at its best, the snowy villages of the region looked picture perfect as winter weather arrived. Here and there, hidden châteaus and even crumbling castles were tucked into the valleys. There wasn’t much to do except sleep, eat, and admire the scenery.

That was just fine with the weary GIs.

From the German perspective, the choice of the Ardennes region had as many pros as cons. The Germans knew well enough that the Ardennes region was only lightly defended. But there were good reasons for that.

There were no highways that ran directly from Germany into Belgium. The hilly terrain created a natural barrier. Advancing troops would be forced to use the narrow mountain roads that linked one town to another, hopscotching from one village to the next. Along the way, it would be necessary to cross mountain streams spanned by small bridges.

None of it was ideal, especially for moving heavy tanks, including the new sixty-ton Tigers. But once free of that terrain, upon crossing the Meuse River, it would be nothing short of a glorious race to Antwerp across wide-open territory.

The attack began before dawn on December 14, with a massive artillery barrage and German advance. Taken by surprise, the thinly spaced and unprepared American defenders were quickly overwhelmed. The roads soon became choked with retreating soldiers, moving away from the German advance at a snail’s pace. The thin frozen crust on the roads quickly turned to mud due to the sheer number of boots and vehicles. The mud made the retreat even more of a slog.

Many of the demoralized soldiers lacked winter gear, not even coats or gloves, and several didn’t carry weapons. It was not a force that was ready to turn and fight. They were just concerned with placing one foot in front of the other, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the Krauts.

Retreat was a mindset, or possibly a disease. Once it took hold, it spread like a fever. Some who caught it became close to panic. It took leadership to turn that around, and in the confusion caused by the German attack, leadership was lacking.

Corporal Brock Sumner was among those caught up in the rout, not that he was happy about it. Brock was a big man who used his size to bully others. He was only a corporal, but he lorded it over mere privates like he was a general.

“Last time I checked, we were here to fight the Krauts, not run from them,” he grumbled, looking around at the long lines of retreating soldiers. He saw lots of scared faces, although some were just dead tired. He sure as hell didn’t like to think of himself that way.

“Nobody seems interested in that,” the soldier slogging along next to him pointed out. That man’s name was Lavern Barr, but naturally everyone called him Vern.

“I just wish to hell one of these so-called officers would actually take charge,” Brock said. “We’re supposed to fight, ain’t we?”

“I don’t think most of these fellas have got much fight in them,” Vern pointed out.

Brock looked around again at the sea of retreating soldiers, the line of troops stretching in front of him and also behind as far as he could see.

“Yeah, but with this many guys we ought to be able to knock the hell out of the Krauts, if we could just turn around and fight,” Brock said. “We are sure as hell going the wrong direction.”

In many ways, Brock was simply echoing his training. Army philosophy was to advance. Maybe it was football thinking. The best defense was a good offense.

Advancing sure as hell beat running, as far as Brock was concerned.

Up ahead he could see commotion. There was a tank — actually, a line of three tanks — plowing right up the middle of the road. The Sherman tanks were forcing the retreating soldiers into the ditches. Jeeps, trucks, whatever else was in their way, were also being forced off the road. A handful of support infantry traveled in the wake of the tanks.

“What’s going on?” Vern had seen it too.

“Looks to me like somebody has finally got the right idea,” Brock said. “They’re moving toward the fight, not away from it.”

The tanks traveling against the current of the retreating column were causing more than a little consternation. A few arguments broke out, but nobody was going to win an argument against a Sherman tank. Any truck or jeep that refused to move out of the way found itself nudged into the ditch.

The bully in Brock liked that.

Off to one side, avoiding the mess on the road, a jeep was driving across the field, heading toward them. Brock could see an officer in the passenger seat. Suddenly the jeep came to a stop, close enough that Brock could hear a major shouting orders to the advancing tank unit.

“Take no orders from anyone who’s not Seventh Armored!” the major shouted. “I don’t care if they’ve got stars on their collar. If anybody gets in the way, run them over!”

As the Sherman tanks approached, Brock made up his mind. He gathered up his squad and told them, “Enough of this retreating shit. We’re hitching a ride with these tanks.”

If the men in the squad disagreed, they knew better than to argue.

The tanks were forced to move slowly, but at least they were moving in the right direction. Their pace was slow enough for Brock and his men to climb aboard. In the hatch, the tank commander made it clear in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want Brock bumming a ride.

“Corporal, get the hell off my tank!”

“We’re going with you. We’re in this war to fight,” Brock shouted over the revving engine. “We’re sure as hell not here to run!”

The tank commander gave him a nod, then grinned. “In that case, welcome to the Seventh Armored. Now hang on!”