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By Root 2590 0

into three lines. Patton’s plan had been approved by the corps commander, the tactics carefully drawn to match the expectations of the infantry. The first line of tanks would lead the infantry far enough for the foot soldiers to get close to their first objective, to confront the German defenses that spread out from both banks of the river. The second line of tanks would move up when the first began to falter, either from enemy fire or the ever-present likelihood of mechanical and fuel problems. In the rear, the third line would serve as the reserve, pushing through if needed, or perhaps used to mop up stubborn pockets of German resistance. The first two lines were the speedy and compact Renault tanks, while the third was a combination of the Renaults and the larger French Schneider tanks, the slower and far more unreliable machines that the Renaults had rendered obsolete.

He stood up on the dugout, stared into fog, could hear the roar of the tanks, peppered by distant bursts of machine-gun and rifle fire. The field artillery was still active, some of the smaller guns rolling past the command post, moving forward into the rain and mist, disappearing on the muddy road. He was pacing, glanced at his watch, nearly six, the sounds of the fight still growing, spreading out all across the front. He jumped down from the top of the dugout, saw men watching him, said, “Anything from Brett?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

He climbed back out into the rain, could see waves of thick fog drifting over the road, more cannon rolling forward. He had confidence in Soreno Brett, the old-line infantryman and machine-gunner who now commanded his front-line battalion. No, he thought, if there’s anything to tell me, he’ll tell me. The second line was commanded by Captain Ranulf Compton, a man who had proven himself capable, but who did not seem to have Major Brett’s sense of outright hostility to the enemy, a trait that Patton found greatly appealing. The third line was commanded by a Frenchman, Major Chanoine, a quietly competent field officer who seemed pleased to be serving with the Americans in any capacity at all.

The fight seemed to drift away in front of him, the only sound the roar of the tanks. He felt himself churning with energy, gripped his useless binoculars with one hand. There was nothing to see, no hint of what was happening. He paced along the dugout for a few long minutes, leaned out, looked down, no one coming up to meet him, no news. It was more than he could stand.

“Knowles! Edwards!”

The faces appeared in the dugout, the two officers staring up at him.

“We’re moving forward! Bring the runners!”

The dugout burst into activity, and Patton walked out into the soft mud of the road, could see the wide tracks left by the tanks. The men emerged now, one struggling with several small cages, the carrier pigeons, another grappling with a coil of telephone wire, the heavy metal box that held a telephone. Patton felt the frustration bursting out of him, thought, Can’t you move any faster? But he held on to the words, glanced at each of the runners, the men who might not survive the day. He saw his orderly now, Joe Angelo, the young man holding Patton’s stout walking stick. Patton took it from the man’s hand, stabbed it into the ground, said, “You have my compass?”

Angelo reached into a small pouch, said, “Right here, sir.”

He could see the young man was shaking, nervous, took the compass from him, looked the young man in the eye, tried to calm him. “Good. Is your rifle loaded?”

Angelo held out the Springfield, a familiar routine between them, the gun offered for Patton’s inspection. Patton nodded, said, “Just keep it clean, Private. You might need it.” He turned, moved farther out into the road, said, “Let’s move! Follow these tracks.”

They fell into line behind him, Angelo and two other men moving out beside him, rifles in their hands. He glanced down at the tank tracks, probed with the walking stick, the mud not thick, the road firm, thought, Good ground. They should move quickly. We had damned well better walk fast, or this whole