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The barrel of the panzer’s ca
The Americans panicked and ran for the back door. Bernie turned in time to see Von Leinsdorf cut the throat of the wounded GI. He heard the crew in the tank crank another shell into the chamber, and sprinted for the door as the ca
Bernie landed facedown in the snow. He turned and looked up, groggy, lost in a white, silent world. His senses haywire, he staggered to his hands and knees, trying to remember where he was. A shrill, bell-like tone screamed out of the deep silence and pierced his mind. He felt someone grabbing for him, tugging him to his feet by the sleeve-Von Leinsdorf-then pulling him into the fog. Bernie saw the spi
They lurched into the fog, Bernie trailing Von Leinsdorf, trying to keep him in sight. He knew he was shouting, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Von Leinsdorf vanished ahead of him in the fog. Bernie turned his head to look for him, and a tree hurtled at him out of the white. He had no time to stop or change course-a low-hanging branch clotheslined him across the neck and everything went black.
14
Malmédy
DECEMBER 17, 8:00 A.M.
The order came down from First Army headquarters in Spa shortly after 7:30 A.M. to abandon the 67th Evacuation Hospital. The situation to the east had grown steadily worse during the night, as waves of new wounded continued to arrive, overwhelming the facility. Confirmation that Waffen-SS panzer divisions were moving toward Malmédy hastened the decision to withdraw; stories about their atrocities to female prisoners preceded them. Doctors and nurses were ordered to drop everything and take only what they could carry. The hospital’s chief surgeon asked a skeleton staff of five volunteers to stay behind and tend the few men who were too critically wounded to transport. Every nurse in the ward raised her hand, so they had to choose by drawing lots.
Earl Gra
“There’s a hundred damn rivers in this part of Belgium,” said Gra
After describing in detail the map of the river he’d found in the boot of the dead German, Gra
“Sounds like the Meuse,” said the officer. “There’s three bridges southwest of Liège at Engis, Amay, and Huy.”
“How far apart are they?”
“They’re all within twenty miles of each other. You got any maps with you?”
Carlson handed him one, folded to that section of the river. “I’m looking at it. What’s their tactical significance?”
The officer thought for a moment. “If Jerry’s looking to get across the Meuse, that’d be a damn good place to try-”
“How so? What good does it do them to cross that far south?” asked Gra
The line crackled and went dead. Gra
“Earl?”
“Let’s go,” he said finally, heading outside. “Bring the maps.”
A fleet of trucks and ambulances lined up behind the tents to convoy patients and staff back toward Liège. V1 rockets and German planes continued to scream westward above the clouds overhead. Red crosses were being hastily painted on the canvas tops of the transports, as the staff hoped to ward off attack from the air.
Gra
“I was thinking, shouldn’t we tell somebody what we know?” asked Carlson.
“What do we know, Ole?”
“You know, about the Krauts and the murders and-” Ole stuttered for a moment.
“And what?”
“I don’t know what. But somebody at HQ ought to hear about this.”
“We tried, Ole. Nobody’s answering the god damn phone.”
“Well, we should just drive over there.”
“They’ve got their hands full. For all we know they’re not even there anymore.”
“But these guys are killing GIs, Earl.”
“There’s a lot of that going around today.”
“But they’re Krauts-”
“I know that, Ole, and you know that, and we’re go
Gra
“Everybody’s got their job today and we got ours, okay? And, by the way, mine doesn’t include having to cheer you the fuck up,” said Gra
Baugnez Crossroads, Belgium
DECEMBER 17, 1:00 P.M.
“Private Tenella! Private Tenella!”
Bernie came to lying on the worn wooden floor of a small café. An American sergeant was staring down at him, holding his dog tags in one hand, shaking him by the shoulder with the other. The man’s voice sounded muffled, as if Bernie had cotton stuffed in his ears. It took him a moment to co
At least thirty other GIs were huddled nearby in the room, crouched or sitting. None carried weapons. Two American medics moved from man to man, tending to the injured. Bernie thought he recognized some faces, then looked at their shoulder patches and realized they were part of the same unit they’d ridden into Malmédy with only the day before, the 291st Combat Engineers. Then Bernie saw the half dozen black-jacketed SS grenadiers holding submachine guns near the door. Their commanding officer, a tall, whip-thin captain, stood nearby, jabbering angrily at a middle-aged male civilian.
“Where are we?” Bernie asked in a harsh whisper.
“Who the fuck knows?” said the sergeant. “Keep it down. You gotta keep quiet, for Christ’s sake, you were moaning so loud. They just beat the piss out of a guy for less.”
“How’d I get here?”
“We found you in the woods, ’bout half a mile back, and carried you in.” Bernie had to concentrate, reading the man’s lips to understand him. “We were about to saddle up when this big column of Kraut tanks rolls up on us so fast we couldn’t even put up a fight.”