NOVEL NEXT Chapter 135 Bastogne
The winter at the end of 1944 in Western Europe felt a bit like Eastern Europe!
All of Western Europe was hit by the harshest winter in fifty years—biting winds and fierce blizzards made people wonder if they'd somehow ended up in Russia.
That year, winter came early, and the snowfall was heavy.
By November, northern France was already blanketed in snow.
Despite the heavy snow and freezing weather, people's spirits were burning hot.
Just half a year earlier, on June 6th, the Normandy landings had begun. In just two months, the Allies quickly liberated vast areas of France and Belgium from German control.
The entire Allied world was still basking in the glow of victory. The overwhelming success led some in the Allied ranks to believe that the war was nearly over, and that advancing into the heart of the Third Reich was just a matter of time.
In just half a year, the Germans had lost 450,000 soldiers on the Western Front, along with huge amounts of weaponry. For the "Vultures," this was obviously good news—battlefields everywhere were littered with abandoned weapons and ammunition.
"Vultures" was a derogatory nickname the French gave to the Allied Command's special task force. It wasn't because of their Phoenix insignia, but because these guys, like vultures, would swoop in at the first opportunity after a battle to scavenge any German weapons and ammo left behind. Not just tanks—even loose belts of ammunition scattered in foxholes would be picked clean.
"They're like vultures, greedily searching for anything left behind on the battlefield!"
But now, their good days were over—the Allied offensive had run into the harshest winter in fifty years. Along the German border, near the Siegfried Line, the advance bogged down and came to a halt. From Saar to Aachen, a series of bloody battles were fought, but apart from mounting casualties, there was little progress.
With the Allied offensive stalled, the task force couldn't sweep the battlefields and had to stay put, waiting for the next push before resuming their search missions.
On the road through the Ardennes, sitting in a jeep, Pierre looked out at the snow-covered forests, his brow furrowed tightly.
Ardennes...
Muttering the word, Pierre's mind turned to the Germans' last counteroffensive on the Western Front—the Battle of the Bulge!
That was the Third Reich's final counterattack, their last chance.
How arrogant was the little mustache? He attacked with 250,000 troops against 750,000 Allies. And the most terrifying thing?
He very nearly succeeded.
If the harsh weather had lasted just a few days longer, if the Americans had collapsed like the French instead of holding out, perhaps he really would have succeeded—driving the Allies back into the sea once again.
But in the end, the little mustache still failed.
Well, none of that had anything to do with Pierre. He was here now to pull out the sixth, ninth, and thirteenth search battalions.
Three search battalions—that's a force of 6,000 men.
Thirty percent of the entire task force's strength was in this area. To gather as many weapons as possible, the search teams had always followed close behind the Allies. Since the Allied advance in Belgium and Luxembourg was fast, the task force had committed more forces to the north.
As a result, they ended up in the Ardennes. Now, all three search battalions were stuck in the mountains.
"We have to get them out of there quickly."
Pulling his M43 winter coat tighter around him, Pierre calculated the timing in his mind.
It was now November 27th. Historically, the German offensive began on December 16th. That meant he had about twenty days left.
Time.
"As long as we withdraw the troops to Metz, we'll be safe. Let the Americans handle the fighting!"
With this thought in mind, Pierre glanced out the car window and caught sight of a road sign.
"Bastogne."
Seeing this sign, Pierre frowned. This was the destination of his journey.
In another world, anyone with even a passing knowledge of World War II would know the name Bastogne. This small Belgian town was the linchpin of the entire Ardennes Offensive—right from the start of the battle, it became the focal point for both sides. The German mechanized forces relied on roads for rapid movement, and all seven roads through the Ardennes mountains converged at Bastogne. That meant the Germans had to capture it, and the Allies had to hold it.
Pierre had come here because the search parties, in order to withdraw, also had to pass through Bastogne.
"Bastogne…"
Muttering the name under his breath, for some reason, Pierre felt a wave of unease rise in his heart.
"It's fine, there are still nearly twenty days left!"
Thinking this, the convoy continued driving toward the small town.
Fifteen minutes later, a convoy of jeeps and trucks slowly entered Bastogne. It was just a small Belgian town.
Unlike the relentless offensives of Patton's Third Army on the northern French front, the Ardennes region was a "ghost front." In this cold and quiet place, artillery was usually fired only for calibration, and patrols probing enemy lines were just for training. Even though the two sides were within rifle range of each other, the Germans would quietly watch the Americans eat, while the Americans would watch as women slipped into the Siegfried Line bunkers at dusk. For over two months, both sides had been resting, observing each other, and avoiding provocation.
The area was defended by six American divisions. But three of these were green units, sent to the Ardennes just to "earn their stripes"—in other words, they were meant to gain some combat experience in a low-intensity sector before being sent to bigger battles. The other three divisions were utterly exhausted, having suffered heavy losses in previous engagements, and had come here to recuperate.
Because this was a rest area, there were hardly any troops stationed in Bastogne itself—just a single American company. After a brief exchange, Pierre's convoy entered the town.
When the independent convoy reached the café opposite the town hall, one of the jeeps pulled out and parked in front of the town hall. After getting out, Pierre glanced up at the building and gave an order to Lin Xuedé beside him.
"All right, let's set up headquarters here."
"Yes, sir."
The special task force members in the jeeps and trucks all jumped down.
Seeing these soldiers in American uniforms, the local townsfolk by the roadside were taken aback and murmured,
"Asians?"
To the people of the town, Asians were a rare sight. But over the next few days, more and more task force units withdrawing along various roads gathered in this Belgian town.