The Losing Role by Steve Anderson Page A

colony. Yet he too was
somewhat of a colonial, forgotten in Germany and unknown to
America.

 
    Nine
     
    December 15, 1944. Night had fallen around
Münstereifel, a forest-bound town near the intersection of Germany,
Belgium, and Luxembourg. Deep within the forest, Max, Felix and
Zoock sat perched on crates next to their American jeep, smoking
and shivering as they waited for the attack launch—set for 5:15 in
the morning.
    If only Max could have known that leaving America
would someday lead to this. Their crates and jeep sat on a vast
clearing of cold mud. Above them, the branches hung so densely
intertwined Max couldn’t make out the stars in the sky. It was a
dim catacomb of pine and birch. The forest dripped and trickled.
The constant pit-pat pounded in Max’s head. He closed his eyes and
imagined he was sleeping in a grand high bed, with a feather bag a
foot thick, and he was wearing silk pajamas. A young warm maiden
cuddling up to him . . . His eyes popped open. If only it were
true. These woods housed an armed camp. It reeked of freshly
churned mud, acrid like a salt, and the bitter fumes of blackened
exhausts. Then there was the constant racket of guns being cleaned,
of wrenches clanging, of boots sloshing mud. Soldiers coughed and
sputtered nervous laughs. Engines roared alive, then cut out just
when Max got used to their drone.
    He’d even stuffed paper in his ears. It did no good.
He’d sleep sitting up if he could. But who could sleep? So much had
happened that day. At the Münstereifel train station Special Unit
Pielau was split into teams and attached to the various regular
units that would escort them into battle—and cover their
infiltration behind American lines. Max, Zoock, Felix and their
jeep ended up here in this clearing with the First SS Panzer Corps.
They were one small cog in a monstrous wheel. It seemed the whole
German army had ended up in this remote border region of Northwest
Germany. The latest rumors told that tent cities and masses of
tanks, half-tracks, and artillery had filled every forest. Even
Max’s most unmilitary mind could grasp what was about to go down.
For months the Allies had been racing toward Germany. They
controlled the air. They had the troops and unending supplies. Then
the weather turned worse for the winter. The thick fog, clouds, and
snow would make fighting a grind and air superiority moot. For
American and British commanders, it was the perfect time to let
supplies catch up and the fighting men rest. Their armies were
hunkering down in Belgium, Luxembourg, and pockets of Northwest
Germany. Besides, they need not hurry. Germany was practically a
corpse, and corpses weren’t going anywhere. The Allies could afford
to be complacent in victory. So Hitler and his band of generals
cooked up a wild plan. Beyond the Münstereifel woods loomed
Belgium’s mighty Ardennes Forest, through which German armies had
marched into France both in 1914 and in 1940. France had been taken
by surprise, and the Allies had buckled. So, why not once more into
that breach? It would have to be the West’s largest offensive since
1940—a massive, surprise drive through Belgium and on to the coast
of France seizing Allied posts, depots and bridges along the way.
As in 1940 they’d push the Allies to the English Channel, which
left Paris open to them on the left flank. The window for
opportunity had to be small, Max also knew. The victories of 1914
and 1940 required good weather. With its narrow muddy roads,
rushing rocky streams, and tight confining ravines, the Ardennes in
winter would be a cramped route at best. Hitler’s band of lackey
goons probably had less than a month to get it right. Still, as all
good Germans knew, Hitler and his lackey goons always got things
right on the money.
     
    After midnight now. December 16. Less than five hours
until the attack. Felix passed Max his GI canteen. He’d filled it
with something called Jägermeister, a sweet and sticky herbal
liquor that,