The Forest of Ardennes—December 16, 1944
The men of the 106th Infantry will never forget the sound that started it all.
Thunder.
It wasn’t thunder, though.
Across an 80-mile front, 1,600 German artillery batteries began firing simultaneously, causing the ground to tremor. The Ardennes, which had been tranquil just hours earlier, descended into anarchy. Like smoke, snow shot from the trees. The dust of broken earth rendered the sky gray.
Shells fell like falling planets as Private Andy Harper gripped his helmet inside a foxhole close to St. Vith.
“Remain motionless! His sergeant shouted.
“It seems like the world is ending! Andy responded with a yell.
The Germans were on the attack.
Conflict in the Bulge.
Hitler’s final risk.
The goal of the operation was to divide the Allied armies in half.
It was also effective.
December 19, Supreme Headquarters
The red arrows of the German onslaught were piercing deep into Allied defenses on the enormous battlefield map that General Dwight D. Eisenhower was standing over. Officers gathered around him, their faces pallid and their breathing labored. A sense of dread pervaded the air.
The Ardennes was intended to be a peaceful area where weary divisions might recuperate. Rather, the swiftly advancing German spearheads were engulfing tens of thousands.
Eisenhower used the back of his pencil to tap the map.
“The entire Western Front collapses if they get to Antwerp.”
Nobody said anything.
At last, Eisenhower turned to face the person who stood idly in the rear of the room, his hands behind his back and his mouth clenched as if he were trying to contain his frustration.
George S. Patton, Lt. Gen.
He had an electric presence, like a generator had been connected into the room.
Eisenhower posed the question that everyone was afraid to ask:
How long will it take you, George, to detach your troops, head north, and launch a counteroffensive?”
Patton didn’t blink at all.
“Sir, forty-eight hours.”
The other generals burst into uncomfortable, incredulous laughter.
Beetle Smith, Major General, shook his head.
“Not possible. Eastward facing is the Third Army. Your supply chains—
Patton interrupted him.
“I’ve already given my corps commanders three backup plans. They simply don’t yet know which one they’re carrying out.
Eisenhower raised an eyebrow.
“You had this planned before I inquired?”
Patton stepped forward and stated, “Sir, the Germans are not cunning enough to have chosen this moment. Because they believe us to be slow, they chose it. They believe that our responses are bureaucratic.
He bent down to look at the map.
“I plan to disprove them.”
There was silence in the room.
Eisenhower examined him. He was aware of Patton’s shortcomings, including his erratic behavior, ego, and fury. However, he was also aware that Patton was the only European commander capable of moving an army as if it were a live thing.
“Very well,” Eisenhower muttered.
“Take action.”
With a salute, Patton turned on his heel and went away.
One of the policemen whispered,
“It’s not possible.”
However, Eisenhower muttered as he saw Patton vanish down the corridor:
“If anyone can, it’s him.”
Third Army Headquarters—1:14 p.m., December 19, 1944.
Officers awoke before Patton could even shout when he rushed into the tactical room.
He did not sit. He didn’t get warm. He plunged directly into the storm.
“We’re on the move, gentlemen,” he yelled. Not tomorrow. Not this evening. Right now.
Majors and colonels looked at each other in disbelief.
They had anticipated fresh directives rather than a complete reversal of the Third Army.
However, Patton didn’t pause in shock.
He gestured toward a huge map that was affixed to the wall.
We should turn 90 degrees north, according to the Twelfth Army Group. through snowfall. via ice, through traffic bottlenecks. A damn mule wouldn’t go on those roads.
He punched the table with his fist.
“It will be finished in 48 hours.”
There was a murmur in the room; some cheeks were pale.
Hugh Gaffey, Major General, cleared his throat.
“With all due respect, sir, moving the III Corps that quickly means—”
Patton yelled, “Means miracles.” “For this reason, I anticipate that you will all turn into saints within the next two days.”
Colonel Harkins, another officer, spoke cautiously:
“Sir, the men are worn out. For weeks, they have been making constant progress. They are not prepared for the temperatures of the Arctic.
Patton’s eyes grew piercing.
The Germans aren’t either. However, you know what?”
He leaned closer.
“We’re Americans. We improvise. We persevere. We prevail.
He poked his finger northward.
At Bastogne, the 101st Airborne is encircled. They are dead if we don’t get to them. And this fight goes on for a very long time if they are dead.
Quiet.
Patton wasn’t exaggerating, as all the men in the room understood.
Patton’s tone became almost respectful.
“We will rescue them. Every one of them.
A young captain took a deep breath. “So, what’s the strategy, sir?”
Patton smiled, electrifying and wolfish.
“Go. Everything. Right now.
The Nightmare of Logistics Starts
The Third Army changed from a machine of momentum to one of impossible mobility over the course of the following six hours.
Truck convoys screamed out of staging zones.
Battalions of artillery whirled about as if they were trained dancers.
On slick roadways, fuel units hurried to reroute tank resupplies.
Orders were screamed by radio operators so quickly that their voices broke:
“Immediately turn north—red priority!”
Expect congestion as all supply lines have been redirected!”
“Snow conditions are deteriorating—chains are necessary!”
Soldiers dropped spoons mid-bite in eastern French dining halls as runners erupted in yelling:
“Directions from Patton! Get your equipment ready! In an hour, we’ll be moving!”
Thirty-six-hour sleep-deprived men clambered to their feet.
Slinging his gun, Staff Sergeant Bill Timmons spoke to the private beside him:
“What does Jesus Christ desire right now?”
In response, Private Leon Jacobs said:
“To establish that he is Patton.”
The snow grew deeper.
The winds increased.
Like steel, night descended.
December 20 at 2:07 a.m. Somewhere close to Metz
A path that was barely wide enough for one car was crawled by a column of Sherman tanks.
Lieutenant Adam Brewer held his hands close to a little heater in the second tank, which was no warmer than air.
“How long will we be heading north? Corporal Dent inquired.
“Until Patton tells me to stop.”
Do you believe he is insane enough to do this?”
After a moment of hesitation, Brewer shook his head.
“No. He is more insane. He believes we can succeed.
Troops marched behind them, sometimes knee-deep in snow. Overcoats were sliced through by wind. Boot buckles, eyelashes, and eyebrows all developed frost.
Nobody voiced any complaints.
They had learned a fact from war:
Patton’s movement signaled the arrival of something significant.
Jeep Patton—Taking on the Blizzard
Instead of traveling in a heated staff car, Patton rode in an open jeep, his scarf blowing behind him like a general’s banner as the snow lashed his face.
Grasping the windshield frame, he rose from the seat and yelled at passing units:
“Boys, keep going!”
“Bastogne will be relieved by the Third Army!”
“More quickly! The Krauts will not wait at all!”
Through chattering teeth, soldiers responded with cheers.
PFC Bob Ferrell, his driver, shouted over the wind:
“Sir! If you continue to remain that way, you will freeze to death!”
Patton did not take a seat.
“I didn’t make it this far in life to keep my skin intact, Ferrell! Continue!”
As Patton examined the countless convoys—so many that headlights rendered the night white with motion—the jeep veered into snowdrifts.
The Prayer That People Continue to Discuss
The blizzard had gotten so dense by daybreak that air support was no longer feasible. Patton was aware that without a clear sky, his tanks would not be able to penetrate.
Scattering snow from his coat, he rushed into the VIII Corps chaplain’s tent.
“Father O’Neill!”
The chaplain jumped to his feet.
“Yes, General?”
“Please write a prayer for me.”
“A prayer, sir?”
“A prayer, indeed! Patton yelled, “For favorable weather conditions.”
O’Neill blinked. Do you want me to offer up prayers for the weather?”
“Please pray for a goddamn miracle for me.”
The chaplain paused for just a moment.
“What ought it to say?”
With a frantic, urgent gaze, Patton drew closer.
“Ask the sky to clear so we can murder our adversary.” Request weather that will allow us to do this task.
“And you want it recited by your whole army, sir?”
“No.”
Patton smiled.
“I want them to think it’s true.”
250,000 prayer cards were created and disseminated around the Third Army in a matter of hours.
It was repeated by men in foxholes.
It was spoken over engines by tank crews.
Like a covert agreement with fate, officers murmured it.
Because if Patton believed, perhaps God did too; even the unbelievers said it.
December 22, Miracle Over the Ardennes
The clouds broke the following morning.
broadly. Suddenly. It is impossible to describe.
The snow gleamed in the sunlight like polished armor.
Fighter planes from the United States screamed into the air.
Patton’s chief of staff muttered in the operations tent:
“My God. That prayer was effective.
Patton smoked a cigar.
“The side with the best commander is favored by God.”
He directed smoke at the ceiling.
“And the best strategy.”
The sky was clear.
Third Army convoys crowded the roadways.
Bastogne was still in control.
There was a race to the 101st Airborne.
22, December 1944, Bastogne, Belgium
The Siege at 101st Airborne Headquarters Gets Tighter
While standing in a dimly lit cellar with only one lamp, Lieutenant Colonel Harry Kinnard listened to the sound of German artillery hammering outside. With every strike, the ground shook, signaling the impending doom like a drumbeat.
His men were worn out. frozen. I’m hungry.
The medical supplies were exhausted. There were rations on ammunition.
Before it struck the ground, the blood froze.
Bare teeth were used to tighten tourniquets.
More than they sewed, medics prayed.
The 101st Airborne held, and still did.
The acting commander, General McAuliffe, examined a communication from the Germans requesting capitulation.
According to Kinnard, “they want to negotiate.”
McAuliffe mumbled the word that would go down in history like a bullet as he coughed, fatigue almost doubling him over:
“NUTS.”
The response was succinct and defiant.
German leaders were perplexed.
Parachutists from America?
Laughing, in the midst of?
They thought Patton would arrive despite the cold, hunger, and death that were revolving through the lines like a carousel.
Somewhere in the icy darkness…
The engines of America rumbled.
In the meantime, Patton’s Third Army
23 December, 4:30 a.m.—To the south of Luxembourg
Under the tenacious command of Major General John S. Wood, the 4th Armored Division had been advancing through minefields and blizzards for days.
An army strung across snow like a live chain was visible now that the skies were clear.
The engines of Sherman tanks roared.
Over frozen roadways, halftracks trembled.
Infantrymen passed frost-crusted mile markers.
Private Leon Jacobs breathed into his hands inside one tank.
“How near are we?” he inquired.
Under a wavering lantern, Lieutenant Adam Brewer examined the map.
“Forty miles.”
Jacobs let out a moan. “It feels four hundred.”
Brewer chuckled gloomily. Are you aware of Patton’s remarks?”
Jacobs gave an eye roll. “Don’t tell me.”
“We’ll do it in one day because it’s impossible to travel thirty miles in two days,” he added.
Into his scarf, Jacobs swore.
And we willingly followed this man?”
December 23: The Command Jeep of Patton
Patton’s jeep cut through the night, the snow crackling beneath the tires.
Unwilling to sit, he got up once more and held onto the windshield frame with his bare hand, knuckles white against the cold.
When the troops saw him, they applauded.
“Dude, what a miracle worker! Someone shouted.
Patton retorted, “
“I make miracles obsolete, not perform them!”
Like a banner, his scarf snapped in the wind.
In the moonlight, his pistols with pearl handles gleamed.
Behind him, a colonel muttered:
“He’s crazy.”
To which another officer responded:
“Yes. However, he is rather mad.
The German Trap Tightens on Christmas Eve
Conditions within Bastogne went from dire to disastrous.
On icy stone floors, the injured lay shoulder to shoulder.
There was no more morphine, so calls for it went unanswered.
Around aid stations, blood turned the snow scarlet.
Morale remained high, though.
Because at night, when the artillery stopped and quiet descended, the paratroopers leaned in and spoke one word:
“Patton is on his way.”
The final blow was prepared by German armor outside the lines.
If Patton didn’t succeed…
Bastogne would collapse.
The Western Front as a whole might fall with it.
What’s at stake?
The result of the conflict, nothing less.
24 December, 11:50 p.m.—Close to Chaumont
Patton was standing over a huge paper map that was supported by grenades and coffee mugs. The air was clouded by the officers’ gathered bodies.
The roads were congested.
There was not much fuel left.
The level of German resistance had sharply increased.
Gaffey was the first to speak.
“The Krauts are waiting for us, sir—”
Patton interrupted him.
“They certainly are!”
He struck the table with his fist.
“But they aren’t expecting us tonight, for sure.”
A captain scowled. “It’s Christmas Eve, sir.”
Patton looked down at him.
“Let’s then give Bastogne a gift.”
He glanced at his staff.
The Third Army cracks the German ring tomorrow, December 25.
There is no request here.
Officers straightened, one by one, frostbitten and tired.
They had faith.
1944’s Christmas Morning: The Breakthrough Starts
8:45 a.m.—Attacks by the 4th Armored Division
As American armor moved forward, fog swept across frozen plains.
With engines roaring like awakened monsters, Shermans spread out across the white plain.
Over the radio, Lieutenant Brewer shouted:
“Retain your formation! Take a look at those treelines! Probably mine!”
Tracers sparkled on tank hulls as German machine guns cut through the fog.
With their boots slipping on the ice, infantrymen scrambled for cover.
A sergeant growled:
It seems as though the entire Reich is firing at us!”
However, they continued to move.
Bastogne was one mile closer with each mile north.
Their every move was bought with blood.
Paratroopers Hold the Line Inside Bastogne
Private Sam Wilburn ate a Christmas “dinner” of frigid beans and snow in a foxhole surrounded by frozen roots.
He heard artillery in the distance.
“It sounds better,” he whispered.
The Krauts might alter their style for Christmas. Corporal Henry Boyd made a joke.
Wilburn gave a slow shake of his head.
“No, that’s tank fire.
American tank fire
Boyd froze.
“Patton?”
Wilburn gave a feeble smile.
“Patton.”
Despite the cold, paratroopers raised their heads around them.
It was like warmth coming from beneath the soil, and they could feel it.
There would be relief.
4:50 p.m. on December 26, 1944—The Arrival of the First Sherman
It was the climax of the battle.
The German defenses of Bastogne were hammered by the 4th Armored Division.
Fire broke out in the tanks.
The snow was blasted by anti-tank guns.
In the frigid muck, soldiers crept.
Battered but still alive, Lieutenant Brewer’s tank advanced.
“Just one more village! Brewer yelled.
The radio squealed:
Less than two kilometers separate Lancaster Dog Two and Bastogne!”
Brewer struck the turret’s side with his fist.
“Then let’s get this done!”
Shermans rushed into Bastogne’s periphery.
Incredulous, the German troops withdrew, thinking Patton would never make it in time.
However, American armor continued to move.
On heated engines, snowflakes hissed.
Then—
Ahead, through the smoke, came a straggle of disheveled American paratroopers.
Sergeant Ernest Premetz, one of them, looked in shock before yelling:
“Oh my god! The 4th Armored is here!”
The cracking voices of the infantry cheered.
Cheeks were frozen with tears.
Paratroopers beat gloved hands against tank hulls.
They were spared.
Patton Receives the Report That Evening
Rushing into Patton’s headquarters tent was a junior officer.
“Sir! The siege has been lifted! There is relief in Bastogne!”
Patton let out a single, deep breath.
A rare quiet moment.
Then he stated:
“All right. Let’s drive these jerks back to Berlin now.
THE PRICE OF WINNING
December 25, 1944: Hellish Christmas
The men of the 101st Airborne spent Christmas morning huddled in frozen foxholes, eating cold rations and firing at German artillery positions that pounded Bastogne like a drum of iron, while American families back home carved turkeys and opened presents.
Snowflakes floated through shellfire-blackened trees. The men were pelted with pine needles and mud after every blast. They battled fatigue, hunger, and frostbite with the same ferocity as they did the enemy.
To share with his friend, Private Frank Horvath used a combat knife to break open a chocolate bar that was as stiff as a brick.
He mumbled, “Merry damn Christmas.”
His friend managed a grim smile.
“Enjoy yourself when Patton arrives.”
Horvath gazed up at the sky, which was gloomy, heavy, and resonant with the steady rumble of guns in the distance.
“There won’t be anything left of us to save if Patton doesn’t get here soon,” he said.
The Ultimatum from Germany
German officers brought a white flag and a message to Bastogne that morning.
An official request:
Give up or be destroyed.
The 101st’s acting commander, General Anthony McAuliffe, read the message, arched his brows, and laughed.
Then he scrawled his renowned response:
“NUTS.”
The American messenger smiled when the Germans inquired about the meaning of the message.
“It means you can go to hell.”
The men repeated the words like gospel inside the broken town.
“NUTS!”
“Hell with them!”
“We’re not giving up anything at all!”
bravery. Resistance. At all odds, a middle finger was raised.
But panzers wouldn’t be stopped by bravery alone.
Patton was necessary.
Rushing Toward the Bulge with the Fourth Armored Division
The 4th Armored Division fought through villages that had been reduced to ruins on freezing roads south of Bastogne, each one protected by German tanks that sprang out of the snow like steel monsters.
Riding atop his Sherman tank with snow crusting his brows, Lieutenant Colonel Creighton Abrams—yes, that Abrams—led the attack from the front.
He narrowed his eyes at a far-off intersection.
He said, “Clear that intersection.” Before we reach Bastogne, there is the final choke point!”
His guys charged ahead.
Shells fired by Sherman tanks illuminated the night like fleeting molten suns.
With terrible accuracy, the German artillery retaliated.
Smoke and snow combined.
Screams combined with smoke.
Patton’s forces continued to press forward.
Patton Won’t Give Up
Officers at Third Army Headquarters pleaded with Patton to slow down, reorganize, and allow units to rest.
He didn’t raise his gaze from his maps at all.
He snarled, “The men in Bastogne aren’t sleeping.”
“But, sir—”
“NO ‘but’! Tomorrow, we get to them.
His finger pierced the map with such force that the paper was torn away.
“It doesn’t matter if the roads become glass. If the tanks freeze in place, it doesn’t matter to me. If the engines are buried by the snow, it doesn’t matter to me. We relocate.
His employees looked at each other with fear, loyalty, and exhaustion.
Patton wasn’t making unrealistic demands.
He was requesting it.
Dec. 26 at 3:15 p.m.—The Revolution
As the 4th Armored Division neared the southern border of Bastogne, German machine-gun fire swept across the treeline.
When Private Horvath heard it, he crouched behind a burned-out jeep:
A rumble, low and deafening.
Not the artillery.
motors.
engines made in America.
He raised his head as a Sherman tank emerged from the smoke, its white star on its armor resembling a steel pledge.
On the turret, a gunner exclaimed while waving his helmet:
“Have a Merry Christmas, boys!” says the Third Army.”
Horvath gazed, astonishment giving way to delight.
“They succeeded!”
“We’ve been saved!”
“PATTTTOOOON!”
Men sobbed. They let out a yell. Rifles were shot into the air.
Others just fell back in relief.
Unstoppable despite being beaten and covered in ice, Patton’s tanks rolled in.
The siege was lifted.
A Quiet Explosion of Awe at Eisenhower’s Headquarters
Eisenhower read the message twice when it arrived at SHAEF headquarters.
According to the story, Bastogne was relieved.
He put down the paper and muttered,
“Oh my god, he really did it.”
A British commander shook his head across the room.
“That movement could not have been executed by any other living commander.”
Eisenhower grinned with respect and fatigue.
“No,” he muttered. “Just Patton.”
The Arrival of Patton
Patton accompanied the first convoys into Bastogne that evening.
-20°F is the temperature.
Poor visibility
Ground: unadulterated ice
Opposition from the enemy is still strong.
Mud-splattered, frostbitten, and famished, his men trudged toward him, smiling as if they had already won the battle.
A sergeant on staff saluted.
“General… assumed we wouldn’t see you.”
Rarely did Patton give an enlisted man the salute in return.
“Sergeant, you held,” he said. “The most difficult aspect of war.”
German artillery erupted from miles away behind them, flashing the sky. They were angry and upset, but it was too late to make a difference.
The queue had remained intact.
since Bastogne was still standing.
due to the 101st’s will to give up.
due to Patton’s refusal to go back.
The Reaction in Germany
Hitler’s fury reverberated throughout his alpine bunker upon learning of the breakthrough.
The weather was to blame.
He held the generals accountable.
He blamed everything but himself, including the fuel, the roads, and the Americans.
However, his employees realized the reality:
The final opportunity for the Germans to win the Western Front had been ruined by Patton.
Hitler’s last gamble, the Ardennes Offensive, had crumbled under a hammer like ice.
The Answer to Patton’s Prayer
The skies were pristine on December 27.
The horizon was full of American bombers.
Above, fighter jets screeched.
The paratroopers who were stranded received food, ammo, and medication from supply planes.
The weather persisted for several days.
Soldiers joined the Third Army after joking that God had heard Patton’s request.
Officers brought it up, and Patton, driving his vehicle through the snow, grinned.
“Gentlemen,” he declared, “a good plan carried out brutally today is preferable to a flawless plan carried out the following week.”
He paused.
“Having friends in high places is also beneficial.”
A Victory Measured in Blood
German forces left the Ardennes in ruins two weeks later.
Where they fell, thousands of Americans lay still.
Entire woods were shredded.
Villages had vanished.
Families were uprooted.
The ground was scarred for life.
There was always a cost to victory.
However, the Allies were now convinced of one thing:
Germany would never get better.
Hitler’s final attempt had failed because a general refused to give in to fear, weariness, or winter.
Because warriors marched toward the impossible on numb feet.
Because bravery froze but did not shatter.
⭐ Patton’s Last Thoughts
Patton stood outside Bastogne on New Year’s Eve, 1944, gazing up at the sky, which was illuminated by distant explosions and tracer fire.
General Manton Eddy said softly next to him:
George, it was a miracle. An absolute miracle.
Patton kept his gaze fixed on the horizon.
“No,” he replied. “Men were involved.”
A puff of breath left his lips and disappeared into the darkness.
“And the men prevailed.”
“THE ARDENNES HAMMER”
On December 24, the snowfall became more intense, as though the sky was attempting to put an end to the conflict. Over the Ardennes, thick flakes floated, casting a chilly white fog over bodies, tanks, and shattered villages. The majority of generals would have viewed the loss of mobility as a curse.
Patton recognized a chance.
He looked at the chart on the top of his jeep’s hood and mumbled, “Bad weather means the Luftwaffe stays grounded.” “No air from Germany.” Not a single Stuka. Not a Messerschmitt. Only God and us.
His employees looked at each other anxiously. Patton had already asked God to clear the sky in the well-known weather prayer. He now desired the reverse.
Colonel Harkins boldly said, “You can’t have it both ways, sir.”
Patton lighted a cigar, his face momentarily illuminated by the orange flare.
“I want God on our side, Colonel, but I want to keep Him guessing,” he continued.
THE WINTER MARCH
Unmatched in the European Theater, the Third Army advanced northward. But there was a price for haste. Numerous troops marched till their socks froze in place of their boots. Others’ canteens were blocks of ice, so they substituted snow for water.
A young private named O’Donnell fell in one column. He was pulled to the side of the road by his sergeant, who then slapped him awake.
“Soldier, get up! Because your feet hurt, are you going to allow the Krauts to defeat Bastogne?”
O’Donnell remained silent. He just got up, picked up his weapon, and continued to walk.
The road transformed into a dynamic river of movement:
Sherman tanks are advancing.
Churning in slush on halftracks
The running of medics between units
Chaplains praying for the terminally ill
Engineers manually removing icy debris
Additionally, Patton’s speech could be heard over megaphones everywhere:
“STAY GOING! BASTOGNE NEEDS YOU!”
The Third Army charged instead of merely marching.
“NUTS! The line is held by Batogne.
The situation within Bastogne was terrible.
There wasn’t much food. The ammunition was running low. Inside icy basements, the injured were lying on straw. Knives that were heated over candles were used by doctors.
Day and night, the town was bombarded by German artillery.
The 101st Airborne, however, held firm.
The German commander ordered their surrender on December 22. Half-frozen and tired, General McAuliffe delivered one of the most famous responses in military history:
“NUTS!”
Like wildfire, that one word spread across the foxholes. For the first time in days, soldiers chuckled.
Patton smiled widely when he heard about it.
“That is bravery worthy of Caesar’s legions,” he declared.
However, bravery was unable to prevent famine. It was unable to prevent frostbite. 200,000 Germans surrounded Bastogne despite it.
Patton alone could.
HITLER’S FINAL GAMBLE FALTERS
With mounting rage, Adolf Hitler gazed over the map of the Ardennes from his bunker in the Wolfsschanze.
How come they haven’t broken? He insisted. Why is Bastogne still intact?”
His generals glanced at each other in terror. Nobody wished to mention the name.
At last, General Jodl said:
“Mein Führer… Patton is on his way.”
Hitler struck the table with his fist.
“PATTON IS ONE MAN!”
Jodl’s tone faltered.
“Sir, Patterson is in charge of a full army. Additionally, he moves it more quickly than any army in history.
Hitler’s face went white as he realized.
His last bet, the Ardennes attack, was failing.
DAY OF THE SKY OPENING
The impossible occurred on the morning of Christmas.
The clouds parted.
Warm, golden sunlight poured across the Ardennes. Pilots were both amazed and delighted as they hurried to their aircraft.
They had been grounded for days. Currently, the U.S. Wave after wave was blasted over the beautiful sky by the Air Force.
Over German supply lines, P-47 Thunderbolts shrieked. Convoys were bombarded by B-26 aircraft. Precious ammunition and medical supplies were dropped into Bastogne by airborne resupply.
Patton’s voice cracked as he gazed up into the sky.
“Well, God,” he muttered, “I requested it. And you fulfilled your promise.
Soldiers nearby observed him and remained silent. Despite his arrogance, they genuinely thought that Patton walked with the blessing of something more than human at these times.
THE LAST PUSH
The 37th Tank Battalion, Patton’s vanguard, moved toward Bastogne on December 26. Wreckage and ice clogged the highways. Men were shot down from treelines by German snipers. Panzers were hiding in the mist.
Standing atop his Sherman, Colonel Abrams, the general’s future father, yelled:
“Go ahead! RAM THE BASTARDS!”
The battalion roared forward.
There was a German roadblock with tall log barriers.
“Tankers! Abrams yelled. “You are familiar with the routine!”
Splintering logs like toothpicks, one Sherman sped up and crashed right through the barricade.
It was American paratroopers who first heard the engines, faint at first, then clear.
A soldier took hold of his friend’s arm.
“Those are OUR engines, tank engines!”
Weak, tired, but victorious, a shout swept across Bastogne.
The first tank broke through the western border a few moments later.
Weeping and flailing his helmet, a paratrooper charged forward.
Leaning out of the turret, Abrams shouted:
“Have you all placed your Christmas gift orders?”
PATTON’S BEST SUCCESS
Word got out like wildfire:
BASTOGNE IS RELIEVED.
Rifles were shot into the air, men cheered, and they hugged. Unable to comprehend the relief, some people just fell to their knees.
Patton himself reached the edge of the town later that afternoon. He exited his jeep, looked around at the damage, and mumbled,
“Beautiful… incredibly beautiful.”
He meant the bravery. The stamina. The human spirit is indestructible.
The conclusion of the Battle of the Bulge was predetermined, even though it would go on for weeks.
Hitler’s attack had not succeeded.
Patton had made a difference.
The Allies would march to triumph.
THE PATH TO SUCCESS
December 31, 1944 — The border between Luxembourg and Belgium
The year was burning to the ground.
Through the icy valleys, Third Army trucks moaned, their engines coughing as though they were being pulled from the ground by sheer willpower every mile. Men marched with their stomachs empty save for cold food, their boots as rigid as bricks, and their scarves frozen to their cheeks. They were slashed like knives by the sideways-falling snow.
However, the line continued northward.
Wearing his renowned sheepskin under a heavy jacket, Patton sat in the front seat of his vehicle. The general never slept, according to his driver. Patton’s fist struck the side of the jeep each time it slowed.
“Son, hurry up. We will require fewer coffins if we move more quickly.
Tanks, half-tracks, and artillery formed a massive steel serpent that twisted across the Ardennes behind them.
There was no marching Third Army.
It was rushing.
The collapse of the German Gamble
East Prussia, inside the Führerbunker
Anger and cigarette smoke filled the room.
Hitler’s hands were shaking as he inspected the maps. The red arrows were getting smaller, compressed on all sides, where a week before his marker had tracked deep into Belgium. His generals made an effort to talk carefully.
“The Americans move too fast, Mein Führer.” They adjust more quickly than anticipated.
Hitler punched the table with his fist.
“Patton, Patton, always!”
Like venom, he spat out the name.
“Get Army Group G’s reserves and bolster the bulge!”
A general took a deep breath.
“No more reserves are available.”
Hitler fixed his unwavering gaze on the chart as if his will alone could turn the tide.
However, the war had changed.
Bleeding out across the Ardennes woodlands was the final German gamble.
PATTON GOES AHEAD
January 2, 1945—The Line of Bastogne
The battle was far from over, but Bastogne had been relieved.
With every Panther, Tiger, and King Tiger they could muster, the Germans launched counterattacks in an attempt to protect their escape routes. As Patton’s forces battled through villages whose names would never appear in history books—Chaumont, Lutrebois, and Harlange—the night sky throbbed with artillery flashes.
Every home was a stronghold.
Every field is a cemetery.
Wiping frost from his Browning, Sergeant Michael “Mickey” O’Brien gazed at the private next to him in the wreckage of a farmhouse.
“Do you know why we’re triumphant? He inquired.
Harrington, the private, blinked. Is it because Patton is insane?”
In spite of the cold, O’Brien laughed.
“Because the Germans believe that winter is theirs.” However, Patton believes that everything is his.
Snow and wood fragments rained down on them as a shell shrieked overhead. Mickey whispered as he lowered his helmet:
“This crazy bastard will get us through it.”
He was correct, too.
HITLER IS TURNED ON BY THE ARDENNES.
Headquarters of the Third Army, Ettelbruck
Patton was standing in front of a huge map. He tapped the Ardennes with a riding crop while his staff officers looked on.
“There,” he murmured. Hodges pushes from the west, while Montgomery pushes from the north. And we strike the underbelly,” he said, slashing the crop across the map.
A colonel voiced his worries.
“The roads are frozen, sir. The visibility is—
Patton interrupted him.
Visibility is overrated, Colonel. The Germans are also unable to see.
Reaching over to the table, he took his helmet.
“We complete this. No matter how long it takes, today or tomorrow. However, we complete it.
The staff exchanged knowing looks as he strode out.
Now Patton could not be stopped.
THE ENCIRCLEMENT
1945 January 10–16 — Houffalize Pocket
The Germans who were fleeing were trapped.
The Americans and British pressed down from the north. Patton’s men charged upward from the south. Once a peaceful village, Houffalize turned into a hammer and anvil.
Once arrogant and unyielding, German soldiers now looked worn out, icy, and terrified. Their armored columns slowed due to a lack of fuel. The bullet rationed ammunition.
Major Klaus Richter gave the order to abandon it when the last tank ran out. With trembling hands, he lit a cigarette and gazed into the trees.
He said, “We were promised a breakthrough.”
American artillery was closing in as his radio crackled.
They had discovered a grave rather than a breakthrough.
The enclave was sealed on January 16 as Allied forces gathered outside Houffalize.
The Bulge was in ruins.
Hitler’s last western attack was in ruins.
WINNING—AND THE PRICE
Bastogne Cemetery, January 20, 1945
Rows of white crosses were covered in silent snowfall.
The wind pulled at Patton’s coat as he strolled between them by himself. At one stone, he stopped and used a gloved hand to brush away the snow.
PVT. James R. Whitman
The 101st Airborne
19 YEARS OLD
Patton’s jaw became tense.
In those twenty-four hours, he had shifted heaven and earth.
Bastogne was saved by him.
Hitler’s gamble had been smashed by him.
He had brought about victory.
However, the price…
The rice was arranged in tidy, frozen rows.
He took off his helmet and prayed in a low voice.
“Lord, please don’t let their deaths have been in vain. And grant me the fortitude to complete what they began.
THE PRAISE OF EISENHOWER
January 25, 1945—Headquarters of the Supreme
In front of his generals, Eisenhower stood.
“Gentlemen, the Battle of the Bulge is over,” he declared. The battle was the biggest the U.S. Army has ever engaged in in combat.
He looked over at Patton.
“And you were the only one who accomplished the impossible.”
Patton nodded curtly.
“Ike, I’m just doing my job.”
Eisenhower grinned.
He moved close and touched Patton’s shoulder, saying, “George, you saved an entire division from annihilation by turning your entire army 90 degrees in the middle of winter.”
“This will be remembered by history.”
Patton averted his gaze, uneasy with the compliment.
“First, let’s remember the men in the foxholes.”
Eisenhower gave a serious nod.
“Yes, we will. However, the commander who guided them will also be remembered by the globe.
THE FIGHT CONTINUES
Hitler’s last hope had been the Bulge.
Germany’s fate was sealed by its failure.
The Rhine crossing would occur in the spring.
Then the Ruhr’s encirclement.
Next, Berlin.
Patton would support his men at every turn, exerting more effort than before to bring the German war machine to its ultimate demise.
However, something had shifted within him.
War was no longer a source of glory to him.
The faces of young men he was unable to bring home were visible to him.
He observed the price engraved in stone.
He continued to fight, nevertheless.
THE PRAYER FOR CLEAR SKIES IN THE FINAL SCENE
March 1, 1945— A Tiny Chapel Close to the Front Line
At a wooden pew, Patton knelt.
The chapel was dimly lit by candles that flickered. With his breath hazy in the chilly air, he took off his gloves and clenched his hands together.
Generals weren’t present.
Not a single reporter.
There are no soldiers present.
George S. Patton alone—
the legend’s creator.
In front of Bastogne, Hitler muttered the prayer he had already instructed his chaplain to write:
“Lord, grant us favorable conditions for combat.”
Let us strike with certainty.
And when the final round goes off…
Give our adversaries peace—
and tranquility to our men.
He stayed there for a while.
A warrior requesting understanding rather than victory.
He stood up at last.
He fixed his coat, put his helmet on his head, and left the chapel into the chilly morning light.
He was still needed in the conflict.
And Patton—brilliant, imperfect, unstoppable—approached the gunfire.
THE END
