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.”