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.
