The Steel Wave (68 page)

Patton’s new training regimens for the Third Army had become brutal, but there was more to the army’s problems. The weapons weren’t measuring up, the tanks in particular proving woefully inadequate to match the firepower and strength of the German machines. The antitank guns were inferior as well, particularly the clumsy bazookas that were more likely to draw deadly fire onto their own crews than to take out an enemy tank. Washington’s weak reply to the complaints had echoed what Montgomery too had insisted, that force of numbers would overcome the inadequacies. But Montgomery had been unable to prove that theory. Patton realized, as did Eisenhower, that throwing greater numbers of weaker tanks at a well-equipped enemy only killed more tank crews.

As his army organized and grew, Patton grew as well, accepting that the increased responsibility he had so lusted for had finally come his way. His incessant griping was silenced by his new role, and his army had responded well to the man who would lead them. He knew there would be no miracles, that many of the same problems would still plague his men as they drove forward to face a fanatical enemy. Patton was delightfully aware that Montgomery’s failures were due to his cautiousness and set-piece management on the battlefield, traits Montgomery had built his reputation on. Patton despised Montgomery’s tactics as deeply as he despised the man himself. Whether or not his troops and their weapons were equal to what the Germans would put in front of him, Patton brought another factor that the Germans had not faced before. The inspiration came from another general and another time, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Then it had been a Confederate, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, who crushed a far superior enemy by combining audacity and speed. Patton was supremely confident that, if it had worked for Jackson, it would work for him.

During the first week of August, he proved it.

Once his command became official, Patton’s mobile forces pressed south and west from the breakthrough that the Americans had wedged open around Avranches. The overall plan called for a sweep west, to occupy the Brittany peninsula and capture the valuable port cities along that western coast: Brest, Lorient, and Saint-Nazaire. Patton would certainly comply, but shifting a major part of his army away from the main theater in Normandy caused a knot in his gut that he could not meekly accept. The open country of the Brittany peninsula was an easy mark, and Patton’s troops had little trouble sweeping over miles of farms and villages that the Germans seemed unwilling to fight for. But the ports were a different story, and Patton found that what Bradley and Eisenhower assumed to be ripe picks were in fact well-entrenched and fortified German outposts, manned by inspired officers who were still enthusiastically obeying Hitler’s orders to hold to the last man. There would be no easy prizes for Patton on the coast of Brittany. As Hodges’s First Army faced off with the heavier lines of German resistance along the base of the Cotentin Peninsula, Patton chafed for a more meaningful role, some way to convince Bradley that the Third Army should drive east, not west. On August 7, the Germans opened that door.

BRADLEY’S HEADQUARTERS, NEAR ISIGNY
AUGUST 7, 1944

Bradley held the pointer and stabbed at the map.

“They hit us this morning, all along this area here. The Thirtieth took the brunt of it.”

Patton felt the nervous excitement in the room, the staff officers behind him studying the maps, reports shuffling through their hands. Patton pointed to the “30” on the map. “How are they holding up?”

“All right for now. But the German has given himself an opportunity. If the Thirtieth gives way, the enemy might drive through to Avranches and anchor himself back on that damned coast. That’ll cut you off. That’s their plan, anyway. I’m sure Hitler looked at this same damned map and thought he could drive a knife into our front and split us apart. There’s danger of a gap opening up south of the Thirtieth’s right flank, so I’m pulling your Thirty-fifth Division up that way and putting them under Hodges for now. I don’t want to hear any griping about it, George.”

Patton had already noticed the weakness in the American position, said, “No griping. Plug the hole. If you don’t, the Krauts will push right into Avranches. But that’s as much gas as they’ll have. Damn, this is one stupid attack. There’s no chance in hell of this working. There’s too many of us on his flanks.”

“It’s desperation, George. And it gets better. I was pretty sure he was coming.” Patton saw a hint of a smile on Bradley’s face, unusual. “We picked up quite a few reports, the communications between von Kluge and Berlin. Von Kluge probably bitched like hell about this, any good soldier would. I’m betting the order came from Hitler himself, more of his hold-every-inch crap. Hitler looks at a map and sees his invincible army like you would see your queen on a chessboard, so von Kluge got the order to jam that army—specifically, his panzers—down our throats. It just happened to be bad luck for the Thirtieth Division that they were sitting in the dead center of the line. They took a heavy hit, but they’re busting up the panzers too. The weather’s been perfect for our air people, and they’ve taken a hell of a punch out of the German lines. Right now, we have two choices, and Ike is leaving the decision up to me. One, we can pull you back this way, seal the weakness in our lines, consolidate our forces into a tighter front. You’ve got twelve divisions, George, and four would probably be all we’d need. The rest would keep up your drive through Brittany.”

“What drive? We’ve taken the damned place with nothing to brag about. The Krauts who were still out there wouldn’t stand up to us. If we didn’t grab them, it’s only because they hauled their asses back into the port cities. You want me to spend the rest of this war laying siege to a bunch of rinky-dink ports? You want four of my divisions just to plug a hole? Why, so we leave it to the Krauts to decide what they want to do next?”

Patton realized his voice had risen and heard stirring behind him, both his and Bradley’s aides nervously shifting in their chairs.

“Dammit, George, let it go. I said we had two choices. Ike expects me to think this through, not just bust out of here with the first idea that comes to mind. You can’t fight a war with your temper.”

Patton bristled, held it, let out a breath, and waited for Bradley to continue.

“The second choice is to go hell-for-leather. The other fellow has opened himself up to flank attacks on both sides, creating a perfect salient. Monty has three corps lining up…here…to move south pretty quickly.”

Patton sniffed. “How quickly?”

“Can that, George. Monty’s not your concern. You’ve been bellyaching for ages about doing something, so I’ve got an idea that ought to make you pretty happy.”

Patton heard the seriousness in Bradley’s voice, grew more serious himself and stared at the map.

Bradley continued. “I know damned well von Kluge sees what he’s done to himself, but with Hitler chewing his ass he had no choice. He’s given us a chance, and we should take it. We need to hit them as hard as we can. As hard as
you
can. Use the Loire River as your right flank, and drive those four divisions east. Try to reach Le Mans. If the enemy doesn’t pull back to meet you, we might have an opportunity to hit him from behind, to pinch him between you and Hodges and Monty.”

Patton studied the map, saw Bradley smiling at him.

“Well? You like choice number two better?”

“I think we should go farther east: Chartres, Dreux. That’ll put us thirty miles from Paris. This thing could be over in ten days.”

“Dammit, George, keep your head on straight! Paris? The enemy is right in front of us, and he’s dangerous as hell. We have an opportunity to cut him off and maybe destroy the whole German Seventh Army in the process. I don’t care a damn about Paris. You don’t have to conquer all of Europe to do your job.”

Patton absorbed the scolding, studied the map. “Le Mans, huh? I guess that’d work.”

“No sulking, George.”

Patton shook his head, kept his eyes on the map. “You want Le Mans, we’ll get it. You want the Seventh Army, we’ll get that too.”

Bradley crossed his arms, still holding the pointer. “This is an opportunity, George. Let’s see what we can make of it.”

Patton turned, the silent order to his aides to head for the door. He felt his heart racing, so very rare now, the flash of excitement building. He glanced back at Bradley, forced a smile, saw seriousness, concern, doubt.

“I’ll handle it, Brad.”

He passed by Bradley’s aide, ignored him, and followed his own people out the door, his mind filling with thoughts of Stonewall.

NEAR AVRANCHES
AUGUST 8, 1944

He shouted furiously, the truck drivers staring at him with open mouths, obeying his order.

“That way! Step on the damned gas!”

The column surged through the intersection, a dozen two-and-a-half-ton trucks coughing black smoke as they rolled past him. He glared at the drivers as they passed him, one hand on the butt of the pistol in his belt, his chest out in a hard defiant stance. They know who I am, he thought. No one else out here has three stars on his damn helmet.

The column had spread out, a benefit of the faster speeds, and he waited for a gap, the end of one particular line, one regiment. The gap was nearly a hundred yards wide, and he stared at the distant truck, sniffed out loud.

“You’re too damn slow. It’s gonna cost you.”

He turned and stared at the dumbstruck driver whose truck sat idly, crowding the side road, the low rumble of trucks behind, another column. All right, he thought, it’s your turn. He held up a hand and waved the truck forward, the driver responding, the truck lurching into the intersection, more following closely behind. The column turned onto the single road, filling the gap in the advance. Patton tried to ignore the dust, fought the need to cough, the show of weakness he would not allow them to see. Damn this anyway.

“All right! Speed it up! Let’s move!”

They continued to roar past him, a solid line of olive-green vehicles, every one filled to capacity with men who now saw their commander for the first time. The cheering came again, hands in the air, some scrambling to pull a camera from a backpack, futile, the trucks moving away too quickly. But they called to him still, word seeming to spread magically through the enormous column as to just who the traffic cop was at this clogged intersection. Good, he thought. Let them know who runs this outfit. Even if I have to bust up the damn traffic jams myself.

After long minutes, he repeated the maneuver, waiting for a gap in the column on the smaller road, bringing forward the waiting column from the larger road. He had predicted something like this, knew from the maps about this astounding annoyance, two main roads funneling into one. For more than an hour, Patton’s jeep had crept along at a snail’s pace, the shouts of the men around him more infuriating than pleasing. When he finally reached the intersection, he had seen the police box. It was standard procedure, the boxes put into place so an MP could direct traffic without being run over. But the box had been unmanned, someone’s failure, and the converging columns had ground to a virtual halt, neither one able to figure out the mathematics of two roads merging into one. Patton had exploded, stepped furiously into the box, and for more than two hours he had directed the traffic himself.

He saw a jeep now, and the helmets of two MPs, bouncing along the side of the wider road and skidding to a halt. They emerged, scrambling into the intersection, and saw him now, but he pretended to ignore them, motioning crisply to the oncoming trucks, calling out, “That’s right. Step on the gas. There’s a war up there, you know!”

“Sir! Good God, it’s—”

He turned to the MPs with an evil smile, continued the steady waving motion of his arm, and said, “Hello, boys. Someone sleep late this morning?”

“No, sir! No…sorry, sir. We’ll take over…if you want us to!”

He spun toward them, both hands on his hips. “I’m doing just fine, thank you! Get back in that vehicle and drive back along this column and tell each driver to keep close to the man in front of him! These are soldiers, boys! This is an army! I want them up where they can kill the enemy!”

They hesitated, one man still unsure. “Sir, we should be doing…that.”

“Yep, you should. But I’m doing it now.” Patton turned back to the line of trucks and waved them forward: more cheers, men standing up in the beds, raucous calls, cameras, his name. “You heard me. Get going!” The MPs scrambled back to their jeep, spun around in a cloud of dirt, and disappeared behind the column.

Morons, he thought. There was artillery now, a long row of cannon, pulled by smaller trucks, and he motioned them into the intersection. He studied the guns as they passed, thinking, This is kind of fun, actually. Can’t do it too much longer, though. I’m already late to the war.

H
is aide was Lieutenant Colonel Charles Codman, whose clipped, precise manners made him an odd contrast to the man he served. Codman had joined Patton’s staff in Sicily a year before, bringing with him the culture and grace of a well-traveled businessman. He spoke several languages and seemed comfortable in any company, but he was a soldier as well, having been decorated as a pilot in the First World War, that particular pedigree Patton would always value in any man he served with. Even better, Codman took every dressing down Patton had given him and stood tall in the process. Patton knew, as did everyone in his command, that cursing and shouts went with the job, at least in Patton’s headquarters. If you didn’t take it personally, and did your job to Patton’s satisfaction, you got along with him just fine.

They rode alongside marching columns, soldiers in motion, all forward. Patton nodded to them as they reacted to the jeep, more of the same enthusiasm he had grown used to. He leaned forward.

“This still the Ninetieth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. They don’t look too bad. Make damned sure they keep moving. This isn’t a vacation, for God’s sake. I want these men to win something for a change.”

“Yes, sir. They will, sir.”

“Damn right.”