Ernest Hemingway – The Battle of The Bulge, Martha Gellhorn & Christmas, 1944

The so called Battle of the Bulge, the last great German offensive of World War II (what British historian Max Hastings has called “An American Epic”) was, in many ways, a disaster waiting to happen for both the allies and the Germans.

The general thinking in the allied high command – especially in the American high command – was that Hitler was finished, that he may even have been ousted from office, and that the remainder of the war was simply a mopping-up exercise that could wait until the worst of the winter was over. The best of the German high command all agreed the war was lost, but were still happy to follow Hitler’s delusional orders for an offensive against what he, in his less than lucid moments, still saw as a mob of ill assorted morons who were no match for his elite fighting forces, who might, just might smash their way to the North Sea and win the war. The very best of Hitler’s high command – at least those at the front – saw little more than a chance to slow up a determined enemy, and give Germany a chance to plead for a negotiated peace.

When Model’s and von Rundstedt’s forces attacked through the Ardennes in the early hours of Saturday 16th December, 1944, the allies were, in Max Hastings words “…wholly unprepared…”, as three German armies fell  upon Bradley’s forces in the Reor sector, with three extremely depleted, and somewhat demoralised American infantry divisions (including Tubby Barton’s 4th) taking the brunt of the German advance in the Ardennes. The result was a chaotic rout, made even more so by many German special forces acting behind allied lines dressed as GIs.

By the early evening of the 16th December Ernest Hemingway had, somehow, managed to get through by telephone to Barton’s confused HQ, and explained to Barton that although he was pretty sick, and about to head home, he still wanted to get close to where the action was. Was it worth his while to make his way north he asked Barton. Barton told Hemingway that the German attack was a “…pretty hot show…” and that he, Hemingway, should make his way to Barton’s now somewhat perilous command post in Luxembourg where, just a few miles away, Generalmajor Franz Sensfuss’s German 212th Volksgrenadier Division were attempting a river crossing to cut the main road to Luxembourg City, and isolate Barton’s 4th before they could successfully summon help.