Killing Patton The Strange Death of World War II's Most Audacious General

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Gen. Tony McAuliffe receives the bad news. The Americans have taken two hundred and seventy-five casualties in Noville. Team Desobry lost eleven of its fifteen Sherman tanks. Under cover of fog and darkness, the 101st Airborne and Tenth Armored, along with what is left of Team Desobry, fall back into Bastogne’s inner defenses, soon to make their last stand.

McAuliffe is exhausted. He barely slept last night because the German air force bombed Bastogne, with one bomb almost destroying his command post in the basement of the H?tel de Commerce. He moves his headquarters to the basement of a Belgian army barracks. Just before noon he steals away to a small, quiet room, zips himself into his sleeping bag, and naps. His staff knows to wake him if anything of importance occurs.

Meanwhile, in the meadows and forests ringing Bastogne, the men of the 101st have managed to turn the problem of being surrounded into a tactically positive situation. They keep their perimeter tight, facing outward, waiting for the German attack. Despite the light snow that now falls on their positions, they even feel secure enough to climb out of their foxholes for a few minutes to shave and use the slit latrine.6



General Anthony McAuliffe (right) conferring with General George Patton (left)

With a break in the action, rumors and innuendo spread up and down the line, and the men are now hearing that George S. Patton is sending an armored division to bail them out. Maybe two. They can’t be sure of this—any more than they could believe the rumor that C-47s were going to airdrop precious supplies of food and bullets into Bastogne last night. That never came to pass. What confuses the men of the 101st is that the weather seems to be too rough for American planes to fly a vital aid mission, and yet the Luftwaffe has no problem dropping bombs on Bastogne.7



A depressing (and true) rumor also spreads that the Germans overran Bastogne’s field hospital last night. The wounded were taken prisoner, as were the doctors and surgical staff. All the medical supplies, including surgical instruments and doses of the antibiotic penicillin, were captured. This will become a life-or-death issue when the fighting resumes, because that penicillin is vital to the survival of the severely wounded.

At noon on December 22, 1944, the situation on the American front lines is tense—but quiet enough for some of the men of the 327th Glider Infantry Regiment to actually stand outside their foxholes on the Kessler family farm south of Bastogne, making small talk.

A most odd sight then presents itself. Marching toward them from the direction of Arlon, carrying a white flag as large as a bedsheet, are four German soldiers. They walk into the American lines fearlessly, even strolling past a bazooka team on the outer perimeter without hesitation. The men of F Company shoulder their M-1 carbines, but the Germans keep coming. “This doesn’t make sense,” says one American, wondering why the Germans appear to be surrendering.

Three American soldiers walk cautiously up the road to greet the Germans. They soon stand face-to-face with two officers and two enlisted men. The officers wear polished black boots and long, warm overcoats. One of them, the short and stocky captain, carries a briefcase.

The Americans never take their fingers off the triggers of their M-1 rifles, unsure if this is a trick.

It is not.

In fact, it is a gesture on the part of the German general Heinrich Lüttwitz, commander of the forces surrounding Bastogne, that is both gallant and arrogant. He thinks it absurd to needlessly slaughter so many brave American soldiers. Instead, Lüttwitz is offering Tony McAuliffe and the 101st a chance to save their own lives by surrendering. War being war, however, should the Americans refuse to throw down their weapons, Lüttwitz will order that Bastogne be leveled, and every American soldier annihilated. There will be no prisoners.

“We are parlementaires,” says the short, stocky German junior officer. His name is Hellmuth Henke, and his English is perfect. “We would like to speak to your officers.”

The major wearing the uniform of a Panzer commander says something in German to Henke, who quickly corrects himself: “We want to talk to the American commander of the surrounded city of Bastogne.”

Henke motions to his briefcase, in which he carries a note for McAuliffe.

The Germans have brought their own blindfolds, suspecting that the Americans will not let them see their defensive locations. Eyes covered, they are soon marched on a roundabout tour of the American front lines. Nobody, it seems, knows quite what to do with them.

Finally, Maj. Alvin Jones gets the radio message that “Four Krauts have just come up the Arlon road under a white flag to our Company F, and they’re calling themselves parlementaires. What do we do with them?”

Jones has no idea; nor does anyone know exactly what it means to be a parlementaire.8 But he retrieves the note, leaving the Germans sitting impatiently in the large foxhole that serves as F Company’s forward command post, awaiting a response.

Soon enough, word of the note is passed up the chain of command. Within an hour, Tony McAuliffe is being awakened to the news that a German surrender demand is making its way to his headquarters.

“Nuts,” he mutters, still half asleep.

Jones soon arrives with the note. There are two, actually: one typed in German and the other in English.

“They want to surrender?” McAuliffe asks, taking the note from Lt. Col. Ned Moore, his chief of staff.

“No,” Moore corrects him. “They want us to surrender.”

McAuliffe laughs and begins to read.

The letter is dated December 22, 1944:

To the U.S.A. Commander of the encircled town of Bastogne,

The fortune of war is changing. This time the U.S.A. forces in and near Bastogne have been encircled by strong German armored units. More German armored units have crossed the river Ourthe near Ortheuville, have taken Marche and reached St. Hubert by passing through Hompre-Sibret-Tillet. Libramont is in German hands. There is only one possibility to save the encircled U.S.A. troops from total annihilation: that is the honorable surrender of the encircled town. In order to think it over a term of two hours will be granted beginning with the presentation of this note.

If this proposal should be rejected, one German artillery corps and six heavy A.A. battalions are ready to annihilate the U.S.A. troops in and near Bastogne. The order for firing will be given immediately after this two hours’ term.

All the serious civilian losses caused by this artillery fire would not correspond with the well known American humanity.

The German Commander.

McAuliffe looks at his staff. “Well, I don’t know what to tell them.”

“That first remark of yours would be hard to beat,” replies Lt. Col. Harry Kinnard, in his Texas twang.

“What do you mean?” McAuliffe responds.

“Sir, you said ‘nuts.’”

McAuliffe mulls it over. He knows his history, and suspects the moment will be memorialized. One French general refused to surrender at the Battle of Waterloo with the far more crass response of “Merde.”9

And so the response is quickly typed: “To the German Commander, ‘Nuts!’ The American Commander.”

When the letter is presented to the German emissaries, they don’t understand. “What is this, ‘nuts’?” asks Henke. The Germans have grown cold and arrogant while awaiting a response. They fully expected to return to their lines as heroes for effecting the surrender.

Col. Paul Harper, regimental commander of the 327th, has been tasked with delivering McAuliffe’s response. He orders the men into his jeep and drives them back to the no-man’s-land between the 101st Airborne and the Wehrmacht lines. “It means you can go to hell,” he tells the Germans as he drops them off.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” he adds. “If you continue to attack we will kill every goddamn German that tries to break into this city.”

Henke translates to the others. The Germans snap to attention and salute. “We will kill many Americans,” Henke responds. “This is war.”

“On your way, bud,” snorts Harper.