Harry Turtledove (Editor) - Alternate Generals II

German resistance was light, but determined, and we drove them back from the roads into the snowy wasteland.

"Another two days, maybe three," Custer promised, "and we'll be hanging some SS scalps on the lodge pole."

For the first time since Sepp Dietrich had joined the Nazi Party and the SS, in 1928, he disobeyed an order of Hitler's. He ordered his Sixth Panzer Army to turn south, toward Bastogne.

Custer's feared presence on the battlefield, and his reaching Bastogne and continuing his attack had been reported by German scouts. Dietrich decided he couldn't chance having the mad cavalryman in his rear. No one knows if he heard of the pot-sweetening convoy of tankers trundling along behind CCA.

His decision, and disobedience, was reported to Hitler in Berlin. The Fuhrer went into one of his typical screaming rages, then quieted, and examined the map.

"No," he is reported to have said. "Perhaps my Sepp is right in this. Perhaps, when he smashes the American Third Army, takes whatever fuel they might have, and then renews the attack… perhaps this might be the real surprise that turns the tide."

Of course, he didn't communicate his semi-approval to Dietrich. Hitler never admitted he might be wrong.

The SS was on the move-four armored divisions, about 30,000 men, First SS Panzer "Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler," Second SS Panzer "Das Reich," Ninth SS Panzer "Hohenstauffen," and Twelfth SS Panzer "Hitler Jugend," plus one division of paratroopers, Third Parachute Division.

They were heading south, toward us… and we didn't know it.

The first sign of trouble was in a nameless little village. We took fire from well-positioned heavy machine guns and some light cannon. The infantry came off the tanks, and started forward, using the shattered building walls for cover.

Then three Panthers ground into sight. They'd been hiding, hull down, in a covert just below the village, a scattering of panzergrenadiers covering them. Two Shermans exploded as they opened fire, then an M10 blasted one and a second with its 90mm. The third German tank had time to reverse back for cover, and somebody hit its turret in the rear with a bazooka round. The round exploded, doing little damage, and the Panther was gone. The German soldiers were quickly gunned down by our machine gunners, and scouts darted forward to check the bodies.

In a minute, Custer's radio cracked.

"Curly Six, this is Arrowhead Six."

Curly Six was Custer's call sign, Arrowhead Six Abrams.

"This is Curly Six," Custer said.

"Those troops who just hit us were SS," Abrams said. "They've got the sleeve tabs of the Twelfth Division."

The troops of Hitler Jugend Division were known for their ruthlessness, as well as suicidal fanaticism in combat. And, as far as we knew, they were supposed to be miles away, to the northeast.

Custer looked worried, told Abrams to push on, then ordered his commo officer to make contact with Tenth Armored and CCB. "Tell them hubba-hubba one time," Custer said. "The game's afoot."

We went on, the road winding past small farms and fields. To show how memory is tricky, I remember it being deathly quiet, with the only sound the low rumble of engines and the ominous grinding of treads on the frozen ground, but of course this is absurd. There would have been shouts, the occasional blast of gunfire as a machine gunner reconned some building he wasn't sure was empty by fire, the crackle of radios and other sounds of an army on the move.

We approached another village, little more than a dirt crossroads with a scattering of walled farmhouses around it, trees not yet torn apart by shellfire around the farmhouses.

The land opened on the other side, climbing through virgin snow to trees and a second group of buildings that appeared abandoned.

Then German 88 shells exploded around us, too fast for us to hear their approach, greasy black against the snow.

"Son of a bitch," Custer said. "They're up there, in those buildings."

Foot soldiers were coming off the tanks, finding any cover available. More 88s came in, airbursts in the trees, and I saw men pirouette, go down, be scattered like bowling pins. Inexperienced soldiers went flat, experienced ones stood close to the trees, giving a narrow target to the overhead bursts.

Abrams didn't need any orders. He put the 37 thon line, and the M4s went up the hill, men stumbling through the deep snow behind the tanks.

There was another explosion… a 75mm, I think… against the brick wall our armored car sat beside. The driver stood up, turned back to us without a face, fell dead, and the engine died.

"Unass this pig," Custer shouted, and the surviving crew obeyed.

A staff halftrack rumbled toward us, Paul Harkins standing next to the driver. An 88 drilled through its engine compartment, and Harkins vanished in the blast. Flames rose out of nowhere, and a Panther rumbled from behind a barn, smashed over the halftrack toward us.

A self-propelled gun had a clear field of fire, and put a 105mm shell into the Panther's belly, and it exploded.

"They're in a damn' minefield," Custer shouted, and I looked upslope, and saw explosions, men falling, a Sherman's track rolling, like a huge rubber band, back downhill as the tank flamed up.

There were men pushing, shoving, some trying to get forward to fight, others to get the hell out of the way. A man screamed, the scream abruptly cut off, as a tank backed over his legs.

Custer ran for an M4, pulled himself up on the deck, grabbed the track commander's mike, got through to the command net.

He gave swift orders-bring the road units up on line, and support Abrams.

"Get those damn' SP guns up here," he ordered.

Custer had a tight smile on his face, was clearly enjoying himself.

I would have thought there was nothing left to burn in this ruined village, but flames crackled, and greasy smoke boiled down the lanes.

Another scream came, this one in terror, and a King Tiger, the Germans' biggest tank, rumbled slowly toward us, tearing the barn it'd hidden in apart.

Its huge 88mm cannon slammed, and a Sherman blew up, turret spinning high into the air, then crashing down on a group of machinegunners.

I was on the Sherman's deck, beside Custer, as he ordered the tank commander to take the Sherman behind a house, and come back in on the Tiger's rear.

The TC obeyed, and the front horns of our tank crashed into the ancient stone of the building, pulling it toward us. I ducked behind the turret, saw, falling from an upstairs window, an old woman in white. She was screaming, waving her arms, but the air wouldn't hold her, and she fell in front of our tank.

The Sherman ground over her, leaving a patch of blood and entrails in the slush, and we were around the corner and could see the Tiger's stern.

"Don't miss," Custer advised. Our tank fired its 75mm cannon, the shell going just over the Tiger's turret. The gunner corrected, and his second shell hit the turret at its base. The Tiger lurched, then smoke poured out. Machine-gun fire chattered from the street as our infantry took care of the crew.

"Good boy," Custer shouted. "Now, let's go get those cannon that're giving Abrams a hard time."

We moved forward, into the open again, and I looked up the slope. The 88s up there weren't cannon, or even SP guns, but more Tiger tanks.

A handful of Abrams' tanks scuttled back toward us, through the smoldering ruin of ten, no, fifteen, M4s on the slope, and the attacking infantry was tumbling back down the hill.

But we had bigger, closer problems. SS soldiers were streaming into the street, and the battle was suddenly swarming hand-to-hand. There was no order, no organization, just a swirling mass of fighting, killing, dying soldiers, Germans and Americans intermingled.

Two Americans sprawled, hit by submachine-gun fire, and an SS man running past them paused, and put a deliberate burst of Schmeisser fire into them.