The Ardennes is a tricky place—thickly forested with
dense brush among the trees. You can’t imagine getting an infantry company
through the area, much less a fully-mechanized army, with armor and artillery.
But that’s exactly what the Germans did in May, 1940, surprising the daylights
out of the French and British, who’d assumed the region essentially defended
itself.
The Allies never recovered, and within six weeks, the
British had retreated across the Channel, and the French had signed an
armistice with the Germans.
In December 1944, the Ardennes again was lightly
defended, mostly by American troops, many of whom were brand-new
replacements—not combat veterans. Following the debacle at Arnhem in September,
Allied dreams of the war being over by Christmas had shattered, but they at
least thought they’d get something of a respite, so this sector was not
considered at-risk. It was hard enough just staying warm in one of the coldest
winters on record, and mostly without winter gear—not even gloves.
A lot of units that had been fighting across France since
June had been pulled back from the front lines and the men given leave. Despite
being aware that German forces were massing in the area of Aachen, Allied
leaders were counting on the perfectly ghastly weather to provide their primary
defense against attack. On 16 December, the British popinjay-in-chief
Montgomery reported with his usual ex
cathedra assurance, “The enemy’s situation is such that he cannot stage
major offensive operations.”
But on 16 December (the day Montgomery also put in for
Christmas leave to go to England) the Germans poured 200,000 men, including two
Panzer armies spearheaded by 1st SS Panzer Division into the
Ardennes, directly at the American line. The overall troops were mixed,
including tough veterans and scrapings of the very old and the very young from
the Volkssturm. (Many of the numbers were leached from the armies facing the
Soviets, thus substantially weakening the defenses in the east.)
Nonetheless, they had the advantage of total surprise
(due to the failure of Allied intelligence to correctly interpret what data
they did receive, which was less than usual because the Germans maintained
strict radio silence), as well as that of facing largely inexperienced American
replacements, thinly dispersed across the sector. And then there was the
weather, with solid cloud cover rendering aerial reconnaissance impossible.
Plus—Panzers and SS divisions are never anything to be
shrugged off.
When I consider the Ardennes campaign (which became known
as the Battle of the Bulge because of the salient the Germans drove through the
American line), what always stops me is how cold it was for those soldiers. I’m
from Los Angeles; I know nothing from cold. Even after living in some seriously
cold places, being in freezing weather has always been a matter of going from
one warm place to another; not spending hours and days out in blowing snow, much
less worrying about enemy infiltration.
I find horrifying the thought of huddling in shallow
foxholes or makeshift shelters, being colder than you could ever imagine being
and wondering if you’re completely alone in that frozen world, if you’ve been
somehow forgotten in the Larger Execution of the War; no hot food, no radio, no TV, no video games, no electric blanket;
nothing but snow, ice, mist and misery…
The coldest winter in years, with freezing fog making the
world around them invisible. What a nightmare it must have been—to be in a
foxhole, already scrabbling for warmth (not even gloves, remember?), just you
and a couple of buddies, and suddenly you’re aswarm with assault troops you can’t
see until they’re right on you.
Here’s the thing about this battle: while Allied
commanders were emerging from their lousy intelligence-induced fugue, trying to
assess the true nature of the attack and how to counter it, it was those weary,
frightened, half-frozen untested infantrymen, in their twos and fives, who with rifle
and grenade refused to give way. In the worst possible circumstances, they held
their positions just long enough to scupper Hitler’s grand strategy.
Cut off from resupply, they fired and tossed until they
had nothing left, which was just long enough for the generals to settle their
whizzing contests and focus on the task at hand. Before Patton or even the 82nd and 101st
could get there. They held off whatever was
thrown at them until the weather broke on the 23rd and more than
2000 fighter sorties were launched, as well as air drops of food, weapons and
ammunition.
In their shivering and hungry twos and sixes and squads and
platoons, they delayed tank brigades and shock troops just long enough to
totally wreck the plan and leave Hitler’s ability to wage war on either front
vastly diminished. He could replace neither the men nor the matériel he’d spent so
profligately trying to dislodge those infantrymen.
As you’re preparing for your holiday festivities, perhaps
going from one warm place to another, spare a thought to those men who stood
their ground, their frozen, isolated ground, with nothing but small arms and
grit, to hold off Hitler’s last best hope in the bleak mid-winter 70 years ago.
