Killing Patton The Strange Death of World War II's Most Audacious General (15 page)

The twelve men later manage to sneak back to American lines. The Americans who have been taken prisoner in Büllingen, meanwhile, are not murdered once they finish gassing up Peiper’s Panzers. These men of the Second Infantry Division are marched back to German lines, where they are locked in POW cages.

They are the lucky ones.

*   *   *

As George Patton remains in his headquarters in Nancy, unaware of the extent of the German offensive, Joachim Peiper and his men race toward the town of Huy, sixty miles away, where the first key bridge crosses the Meuse. Impatient and frustrated, Peiper urges his crews to press forward with all due haste. He does not need to remind them that American bombers have been leveling German cities, killing innocent civilians—perhaps even some of their own family members. Operation Watch on the Rhine is a chance to achieve vengeance as well as victory.

Dressed in their trademark gray tunics, with the SS lightning-bolt logo on their collars and the death’s-head insignia on their caps, Peiper’s SS troopers have served with him on the cruel battlefields of Russia, in the hills of northern Italy, and during the American invasion of Normandy. The men of the Leibstandarte think of Peiper as a father figure, even though the blue-eyed officer is younger than many of them. Peiper’s men are considered a cut above their fellow members of the Waffen SS, as the military branch of the SS is known. The regular army soldiers in the Wehrmacht would never dream of comparing their battlefield skills or prestige with those of the First SS Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler.
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SS death head insignia

The First surprises a convoy of thirty-three American trucks between Modershied and Liegneuville just after noon. The Americans of Battery B, of the 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion, have just driven through Malmedy. This timeless village is nestled in the valley formed by a ring of low, thickly forested hills. It is a quaint crossroads, with narrow lanes spoking out to the north, southwest, and east. It is the sort of place where cows clog the country roads and where everyone knows one another.

*   *   *

The first and last trucks in the American column are quickly destroyed by Peiper’s Panther tanks. This makes it impossible for the Americans to flee on the one-lane roads, so they leap from their vehicles and dash in all directions. Some hide as best they can, while others sprint for the cover of a nearby tree line.

Twenty-year-old corporal Ted Paluch, who is thousands of miles away from the safety and comfort of his family home in Philadelphia, crouches in a roadside ditch. He clutches his M-1 carbine, which proves no match for the Panzer that lowers its main gun. Paluch has no choice but to surrender, as do more than one hundred other men from Battery B.

Joachim Peiper watches the herding of prisoners dispassionately from the seat of his halftrack, then orders his driver and the rest of the tank column to continue their rush to the Meuse. He chooses a route to the southwest, not knowing that a single thrust north to Elsenborn Ridge would link him up with the Twelfth Panzer Division, allowing them to destroy the Ninety-Ninth Division and open up those vital roads to Antwerp.

Meanwhile, Paluch and the men of Battery B are marched away from the road, into a small field that offers them no place to hide should they attempt to run. The Americans were on their way to the town of St. Vith. They had stopped in Malmedy for lunch, and enjoyed almost two hours of peace and calm. Now they are led into a field with their hands high. They can clearly see the skull-and-crossbones insignia on their captors’ tunics, denoting that they are not normal German soldiers but the feared SS. The one hundred Americans are frisked and, in defiance of Peiper’s orders, stripped of everything of value: socks, watches, gloves, cigarettes. As this is happening, German halftracks and tanks rumble past just fifty yards away, as part of the long procession following Peiper to the Meuse.

The Americans are tense and confused. The Germans seem to be polite, if a bit brusque.

The first pistol shot comes without warning.

An American POW falls dead.

As if they have been waiting for this signal, machine guns from the single-file column of tanks and halftracks open fire, stopping only to reload as they slaughter the Americans. Terrifying bursts of German automatic weapons fire echo across the wintry countryside. Each weapon is capable of firing at least 850 rounds per minute, meaning 14 bullets per second from every single MG-34 machine gun zoom toward the American targets. Every tank carries more than 5,000 rounds, but the men of the First Panzer are too professional to waste ammo on prisoners. Instead, the gunners fire off a quick burst for fun as they pass through the crossroads. They leave helpless U.S. prisoners in their wake, jerking in spastic dances as bullets riddle their young bodies. Many more have already fallen limp into the snow, where some will remain until the spring thaw reveals their corpses.

The initial round of shooting continues for two full minutes. When it finally stops, SS men walk the field, pistols in hand. “Hey Joe,” they call out, using their best American accents in the hope that a fallen soldier will respond. “Hey, Jim.”

The deception succeeds. Every man who makes a sound is immediately shot in the head.

The SS troopers ask if any of the Americans need medical assistance, then shoot those who reply.

Any man who moans is shot in the head. Any man whose breath can be seen on this cold Sunday afternoon is shot in the head. Any man who flinches or cries out when he is kicked is shot in the head.

Cpl. Ted Paluch lies very still on the cold pasture, playing dead. He hears the Luger pistol shots as his buddies are executed one by one, and the German laughter that accompanies every new murder. Nearby, Cpl. Charles Appman lies beneath a fellow soldier, and feels the body quiver as that man is shot in the head. Appman wonders if he is next, and whether he will feel any pain as the bullet enters his skull. Seeing a bright white light, he will later recall that he feels the presence of God.

In all, eighty-four Americans are murdered in cold blood in what will come to be known as the Malmedy Massacre.

But the killing of POWs is not limited to Malmedy. Even as Ted Paluch and Charles Appman play dead throughout the afternoon, Peiper’s men are slaughtering more American POWs as the SS tanks continue their race to the Meuse. In the next three days, Hitler’s elite bodyguards will murder more than 350 American soldiers and 100 Belgian civilians.

*   *   *

Corporals Paluch and Appman remain motionless for hours. Their hands and faces are numb when they hear the last tank rumble past. Finally, the coast may be clear. Desperate, Paluch and Appman climb to their feet and sprint across the field and over a barbwire fence to safety, destined to marry, raise children, have careers, and live well into their eighties. Once they and the other survivors reach the American lines and report their atrocities, the horror story of the Malmedy Massacre races up the Allied chain of command.

The speed of the news is unparalleled. A patrol from the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion comes upon the first survivor at 2:30 that afternoon, even as Ted Paluch and Charles Appman are still playing dead. Four hours later the First Army’s top generals know what happened. And four hours after that, every soldier up and down the American lines knows that the SS is murdering American POWs in cold blood.

The Americans seethe. The rules of war make it a crime to kill a man who has surrendered. Many American commanders tell their men that there will be no SS troopers taken prisoner. If the Germans are not going to comply with the rules of war, then neither are the Americans.

8

T
WELFTH
A
RMY
G
ROUP
H
EADQUARTERS

V
ERDUN,
F
RANCE

D
ECEMBER
19, 1944

10:30
A.M.

George S. Patton is cold.

Patton hunkers down in the passenger seat of his open-air jeep, puffing quietly on a cigar. The lamb’s wool collar of his parka is cinched against his throat, and his helmet is pressed down tight on his head. He says very little as his driver navigates the streets of this ancient French town. The general ignores the arctic cold air that has been blasting him throughout the ninety-minute drive from his headquarters in Nancy. It is not Patton’s way to let the elements affect him.

Patton’s driver, Sgt. John Mims
¹
of Abbeville, Alabama, slows at the entrance to the old stone barrack serving as Twelfth Army headquarters. The sentry snaps to attention and salutes. In return, Patton touches the gloved fingertips of his right hand to his steel helmet. The jeep passes onto a muddy parade ground, and a quick glance at the assembled cars shows that Dwight Eisenhower and his staff have not yet arrived from Versailles. Nor is Omar Bradley’s official vehicle in view. Courtney Hodges, the general in command of the First Army, is also not in attendance—though this does not surprise Patton. Hodges failed to anticipate the German attack through the Ardennes, and then spent two days denying that it was happening. He even passed the time procuring a new hunting rifle and then actually held a raucous staff Christmas party. Now that the extent of the carnage is known, Hodges has locked himself in his office, where he sits hunched over his desk, his head buried in his arms. His staff explains to all who ask that he has the flu.

General Bradley is surprised and distraught. As recently as last night, he was still telling an aide that the German offensive did not concern him.

Bradley now looks like a fool. The German army has been decimating American forces for the last twelve hours. The situation has led Eisenhower to call an emergency meeting of the top Allied commanders. Patton’s Operation Tink is no more. As the irascible general predicted almost two weeks ago, Courtney Hodges and his First Army need to be rescued. And it is Patton’s Third Army that will have to do it.

*   *   *

“The present situation is to be regarded as one of opportunity for us and not of disaster,” Dwight Eisenhower tells the crowd of generals and senior officers seated at the long conference table. Ike will officially be promoted to five-star general tomorrow. But rather than looking elated, he is pale and tired. A glance around the dank second-floor room shows that British field marshal Bernard Law Montgomery is not in attendance.
²
A situation map covers one wall. The air smells of Patton’s cigar, other officers’ cigarettes, wet wool, and wood smoke from the fire burning in a potbelly stove. The low flame fails to warm the room, meaning that almost no one has removed his thick overcoat.

Eisenhower continues, forcing a smile: “There will be only cheerful faces at the conference table.”

“Hell,” Patton interrupts, “let’s have the guts to let the sons of bitches go all the way to Paris. Then we’ll really cut them up and chew ’em up.”

Patton’s brash remark fails to get much more than a grim chuckle. But it sets a tone. As it was on the desperate battlefields of North Africa, Sicily, and France, Patton’s aggressiveness is once again vital to Allied success.

“George, that’s fine,” Eisenhower responds, once again reclaiming the room. “But the enemy must never be allowed to cross the Meuse.”

This is the line in the sand. Joachim Peiper and his SS Panzers are desperate to reach the Meuse River and secure its bridges in order to advance the German attack.

Eisenhower’s G-2 intelligence chief, the British major general Kenneth Strong, briefs the room on the current location of the American and German forces. Since late September, the German army has successfully prevented the U.S. and British forces from making any significant advances into the Fatherland. The war has become a stalemate. The Allies were foolishly assuming the Germans could never reverse the tide. That was a mistake.

If the seventeen divisions of German soldiers now marching through the Ardennes can somehow make it across the Meuse, the war could change radically—and not in the Allies’ favor.