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

10



ADLERHORST

ZIEGENBERG, GERMANY

DECEMBER 24, 1944

1:00 P.M.

The man with one hundred and twenty-seven days to live can barely see.

The sun shines brightly on Adolf Hitler’s pale, exhausted face as he stares up at more than one thousand Allied bombers that have come to destroy the Fatherland on Christmas Eve. The Führer stands one hundred and sixty-five miles east of where Patton knelt to pray. Hitler is ensconced in a drab bunker complex known as the Adlerhorst, and the drone of the bombers has pulled him out of the dining room of Haus 1. As his lunch grows cold, Hitler surveys the danger above him.

“Mein Führer,” gasps Christa Schroeder, the striking thirty-six-year-old brunette who has long served as his personal secretary. “We have lost the war, haven’t we?”

Hitler assures her that this is not the case. So even as the B-17 Flying Fortresses and B-24 Liberator bombers continue their deadly journey into the German heartland, Hitler saunters back inside to eat, passing a well-decorated Christmas tree that will soon be lit by candlelight.

The Führer’s physical condition continues to deteriorate. His unstable gait is that of a senile old man. Lunch is his usual fare of vegetables and fruit—asparagus and peppers are personal favorites—served with salad and rice. A dozen female food tasters have already sampled the fare to ensure that Hitler is not being poisoned. Now, he once again sits down to eat alongside his mistress, the voluptuous Eva Braun. Hitler inhales his food, even though he is barely strong enough to hold the fork in his right hand, which has grown so weak that he no longer signs most official documents, leaving his staff to forge his signature.



Hitler’s left hand is even worse. He cannot stop its palsied shakes, and so it now rests in his lap. The Führer eats maniacally, even leaning his head over the plate to shovel the vegetables in faster. He runs his right index finger along his short black mustache and absentmindedly chews his nails between bites. The Führer’s table manners, in the words of one witness, “are little short of shocking.”

Yet Hitler is a man who has caused the death of millions, and he is now in a very unpredictable mood. This would not be a good day to correct his etiquette.

The Führer has been holed up in the Adlerhorst since before Operation Watch on the Rhine began, and now directs the battle from this secret fortress. The elaborate collection of seven houses is actually a cleverly concealed military command post. Nestled in the crags of the Taunus Mountains, the Adlerhorst was built in the shadow of the medieval castle Kransberg, which shields the Eagle’s eyrie from prying eyes. Each building appears to be an innocent German cottage, with wood exteriors and interior furnishings of deer antlers and paintings depicting hunting scenes.

But the walls are actually reinforced concrete, three feet thick. Antiaircraft guns are hidden in the surrounding forest, where Hitler takes his daily morning stroll with Blondi, his German shepherd. It is to Adlerhorst that Hitler brought his top generals on December 11 to lay out his counterattack strategy, and it is from the concealment of the underground situation room in Haus 2 that an elated Hitler celebrated the operation’s opening success on December 16. He was so overjoyed that he couldn’t sleep—a condition no doubt exacerbated by the injections of glucose, iron, and vitamin B he receives from Dr. Morell, his corpulent personal physician.1

In the eight days since the Ardennes battle began, Hitler has had much to cheer. His favorite commando, the scar-faced Otto Skorzeny, and the men of Operation Greif successfully roamed behind American lines, spreading lies and innuendos that caused widespread panic. A few of Skorzeny’s commandos were caught and swiftly shot by firing squads for the war crime of disguising themselves in enemy uniforms. But by then the damage had already been done.

GIs everywhere became jittery as news that German soldiers were wearing American uniforms and speaking English spread up and down the Allied chain of command. U.S. soldiers became distrustful of any and all strangers. Cases of mistaken identity led Americans to shoot other Americans. Vehicles passing through military checkpoints were halted, and the occupants asked to prove their nationality by answering questions about American culture that only a real GI would know.

Those who did not realize the difference between the American and National Leagues, or the name of actress Betty Grable’s last motion picture, were often taken into custody. An American brigadier general who thought the Chicago Cubs were in the American League was placed under arrest and held at gunpoint for five hours. British field marshal Bernard Law Montgomery refused to answer questions, then ordered his driver to speed through a checkpoint, at which time the American guards shot out his tires.

When British film actor turned soldier David Niven was unable to recall who had won the 1943 World Series, he answered, “Haven’t the foggiest idea. But I did costar with Ginger Rogers in Bachelor Mother.”

The sentry let him pass.

So great was the Skorzeny-induced hysteria that Dwight Eisenhower was placed under around-the-clock protection after one captured German commando confessed that Skorzeny planned to assassinate Eisenhower.

In the end, the actual damage done by Operation Greif was intense but did not change the course of battle. Even the flamboyant Skorzeny admitted his subterfuge could not turn the tide of the Bulge.

* * *

Hitler stares at the battle maps spread atop the long rectangular conference table in his underground command post. He stops now and then to nibble on the molasses-filled Lebkuchen2 that temporarily appeases his insatiable sweet tooth. What he desperately longs to hear is some good news from the front. Instead, he hears that Bastogne has not yet fallen. And that the Second Panzer Division is just three miles from the Meuse River but has run out of fuel and can go no farther. Rather than waging war, the Second Panzer now hides in the forest, desperately covering their stalled vehicles with tree branches and heaps of snow to camouflage them from the P-47 Thunderbolts that prowl the Ardennes skies.3

But perhaps the most crushing blow is the fate of Hitler’s great tank commander Joachim Peiper and the men of the elite First Panzer Division.

“The Butcher of Malmedy,” as Peiper will forever be known, is trapped in the small village of La Gleize. For three days Peiper has been using what little ammunition he has left to fend off American artillery and tank attacks. He spends his nights in the cellar of his headquarters, talking with an American major whom his unit has taken prisoner. The two men get along extremely well. “He and I talked together from 2300 hours until 0500 hours,” Maj. Hal McCown will later report, “our subject being mainly his defense of Nazism and why Germany was fighting. I have met few men who impressed me in as short a space of time as did this German officer.”4

Obersturmbannführer5 Peiper and the First are just two bridges away from crossing the Meuse and spearheading a fatal thrust through the Allied lines toward Antwerp. But that goal, as Peiper reluctantly admits to Major McCown, is now unrealistic.

The SS division is cut off. The Americans have blown key bridges in front of them, making it impossible for Peiper to press the attack. The Germans cannot go forward, but cannot retreat, either. Going back would mean their annihilation. This division is just about out of gasoline, medicine, and ammunition. They eat little except hard biscuits and drink sips of plundered cognac and schnapps. Morale is plummeting, with one of Peiper’s soldiers caught committing the mortal sin of removing the SS emblems from his uniform, fearing that he might soon become an American POW and be executed. Instead, he was immediately placed against a stone wall and shot by his own countrymen.

Luftwaffe attempts to resupply Peiper from the air have been disastrous. The parachute drop was off course. The gasoline and ammunition (code-named Otto and Hermann) quickly became American property after they missed their marks. The situation is so bad that Peiper has even taken the extreme step of allowing his most severely wounded SS fighters to be taken prisoner. They have shown great loyalty to him. Ensuring that they receive proper medical care is Peiper’s way of returning that devotion.

Colonel Peiper does not want his men to die. Thus he hatches a daring plan that may give hope to a hopeless situation.

Just after 5:00 p.m. on December 23, Joachim Peiper radios German headquarters and asks permission to destroy his twenty-eight remaining Panzers and escape on foot.

The request is denied. The Führer refuses any defensive action.

Later that night, Peiper once again pleads for the lives of his eight hundred remaining men, arguing that the only way to save them is to flee through the woods.

Again, permission is denied.

A furious Peiper unholsters his pistol and fires several shots into the radio. Its explosion mirrors the depths of his frustration.

Peiper knows the end is coming. There is no way the First can hold out. If they stand and fight, they will all die. But if they surrender, Peiper will likely be put on trial for allowing the murder of American prisoners of war and innocent civilians. If the United States chooses to hand Peiper over to the Russians, there won’t even be a trial. Peiper can be sure that his death will be slow and cruel.

Peiper makes up his mind: the First Panzer must escape, even if it means disobeying a direct order.

The word is passed.

By three o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve, Peiper and every other tanker in the First gather to do something they have not done on a battlefield for a very long time: walk. Tank commanders throughout the division struggle to maintain their stoicism as they leave behind the fighting machines that have given them the godlike power of life and death for one thrilling and sleepless week. A dozen miles and two river crossings lay between Kampfgruppe Peiper and the German lines. The plan is to travel through the woods by night and remain hidden during the day to avoid being spotted by those dreaded American Thunderbolt pilots.

The men of the First form into a long single-file column and begin their march in complete silence. A skeleton crew remains behind to blow up the now useless Panzers and halftracks. Prisoner of war Maj. Hal McCown reluctantly remains at Peiper’s side, walking at the front, amazed at the SS discipline. “The noise made by the entire 800-man group was so little that I believe we could have passed within 200 yards of an outpost without detection,” he will later write.

The spearhead of Operation Watch is no longer moving forward. Thirty miles east of George Patton’s Third Army, the First SS Panzer Division is now in full retreat, the burning hulls of their tanks lighting up the wintry Christmas Eve sky.

* * *

Der Heilige Abend, or “the Holy Evening,” as Christmas Eve is known throughout Germany, ends late for Adolf Hitler. It is four o’clock on Christmas morning as he slowly ascends the stairs from his War Room and readies himself for bed. Rising at noon, the man who seeks to remove any sort of religious tone from Christmas6 receives the news that Peiper and his division have escaped entrapment. This morning, even as Hitler lay sleeping, 770 of the 800 men who began the journey from La Gleize swam the icy Salm River and reached the German lines safely.7

After dressing in his usual formal manner, Hitler meets with his staff to celebrate the holiday, drinking a rare glass of wine and making jovial small talk. Then he descends once again into his War Room. He seeks the latest reports from Bastogne, certain that he can renew his stalled attack if only he captures the road octopus. There is a gleam in Hitler’s eye as he scrutinizes the maps, despite his declining physical condition. It is a gleam that his generals know all too well, for it is the look the Führer shows when he is divining some ingenious way to outwit his enemies.

Just yesterday, the German submarine U-486 sank the troopship SS Leopoldville off the coast of France, sending eight hundred American servicemen to the bottom of the Atlantic. And Hitler’s special V-1 rocket-propelled bombs rained down death on the British city of Oldham, killing twenty-seven innocent civilians as they gathered to celebrate Christmas Eve.

No matter what the Allies might think, Adolf Hitler is far from beaten.