The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943-Chapter 139 - 149: We Can’t Let Patton Steal the Glory

Chapter 139: Chapter 149: We Can’t Let Patton Steal the Glory

December 13th.

That morning, a thick blanket of snow covered the buildings of Bastogne, giving the small town an air of peace and tranquility.

Inside Pierre’s command post, everyone wore smiles on their faces, exuding confidence.

It wasn’t just because the Germans surrounding them had run out of food, but also because two pieces of good news had arrived half an hour earlier. The first was:

"Patton is coming."

This referred to the rapid advance of Patton’s Third Army’s left wing toward Bastogne—they had already broken through the German lines. The second message came from the Eighth Army:

"Air resupply will begin at 4 p.m."

With several pieces of good news coming together, the soldiers in the foxholes and on the defensive perimeter—those who had held out here for eleven days—were now brimming with confidence. But their confidence didn’t come from these two messages; rather, it was the result of their stubborn resistance against the attacks of five German divisions over the past eleven days!

Even though, in reality, the Germans had only attacked from one direction, they had still held off five German divisions. Even if it was just a matter of unit designations, so what?

Five divisions were five divisions!

Now that they heard reinforcements were coming to relieve them, instead of excitement, a competitive spirit arose among the troops!

They were reluctant to be the ones who needed rescuing!

"We don’t need their rescue at all!"

In the command post, Sun Delin said boisterously.

"Rescue? Rescue who? We’ve lost 200 men, the Germans have lost over 3,000. For every ten shells we fire, the Germans fire one. Even without those Americans, we could still give the Germans a thorough beating..."

As he spoke, Sun Delin seemed to have forgotten that he had been the one most concerned about American reinforcements at the start. But now, after eleven days of fighting, he no longer cared about American help.

"So, Commander Pierre, my suggestion—no, the brothers’ idea—is that we break through the German lines ourselves. Instead of waiting for others to rescue us, we should go on the offensive and smash the Germans directly."

"That’s right, Commander Pierre, we don’t need their help."

"Exactly! We’ve worn the Germans down from fat to skinny, and just when they’re about to collapse, the Americans swoop in to steal the glory. We can’t let them have it that easy."

What does it mean to be bursting with confidence?

This is what it means!

Eleven days ago, even though they were full of heroic resolve to live and die with Bastogne, their courage at that time was tinged with tragedy.

But after eleven days of fighting, that initial heroism had turned into confidence—a confidence earned by repelling one German attack after another.

But that wasn’t the most important thing. The most important thing was that, after sharing hardship together, the entire task force now identified with Pierre—and with each other. This was something money couldn’t buy. In the past, they were just paid employees, but now, they were a collective—a group with shared experiences and shared honor.

"So you’re all suggesting we go on the offensive?"

"Yes. We fought all the hard battles, and now someone else wants to swoop in and take the credit? No way."

"A counterattack means casualties!"

Pierre smiled.

"It doesn’t matter who gets the credit. Frankly, every extra drop of blood we shed for Europe’s freedom isn’t worth it—our blood is precious! Why spill it for European interests? We’ve already lost more than two hundred brothers. In the future, at most..."

Pointing out the window, Pierre’s expression grew solemn.

"...at most, they’ll put up a monument here to commemorate our sacrifice and contribution. Other than that, Europe will always be Europe—it has nothing to do with us. If we’re going to bleed, it should be worth it. It should be for ourselves!"

Although Pierre’s words were rational, everyone had to admit the boss was right. Indeed, they had already defended the honor of soldiers and their nation with their blood—any more would be wasted.

"But letting Patton steal the glory really doesn’t sit well!"

"Exactly, Commander Pierre. Sure, it’s not worth it to bleed for foreigners, but if we let them take the prize after all our effort, it just doesn’t feel right!"

Hearing their words, Pierre understood how they felt. He knew morale could be encouraged but shouldn’t be dampened.

After thinking for a moment, he said,

"Then let’s not let them take it!"

With a 66-degree grin, Pierre said,

"How many shells do we have left?"

In the early hours of December 14th, although it was still dark, in Bastogne...

In the forests on the southeastern outskirts of Bastogne, a convoy of over a hundred tanks, assault guns, and half-track armored vehicles was making preparations for the final counterattack. Everyone gazed forward with eyes full of anticipation.

This was Pierre’s armored unit—they were equipped with tanks captured from the Germans: StuG III and IV assault guns, Jagdpanthers, Panzer IVs, and even Panther tanks. The iron crosses on the tank hulls hadn’t even been fully painted over.

5:35 a.m.

"Dragon Roar! Dragon Roar! Dragon Roar!"

The radio operator, who had been waiting quietly, immediately relayed the signal to the artillery positions as soon as he received the order. The signal was instantly passed to every gun emplacement.

The artillery company commanders, waiting by their telephones, shouted orders the moment they received the "Dragon Roar" signal:

"Open fire!"

The artillerymen, who had been waiting eagerly, pulled the firing lanyards at once. Accompanied by a series of deafening blasts, hundreds of massive orange-red fireballs suddenly erupted in and around Bastogne, illuminating the world and casting an excited glow on the faces of the artillerymen. Nearby, the ammunition handlers were already hefting shells, ready to reload. No assistants were needed—so exhilarated were the ammo handlers that they lifted the forty-kilogram shells by themselves.

The 150mm howitzer shells, each weighing over forty kilograms, screamed through the air with a sharp whistle, like the winter wind howling through the trees. For the Germans besieging Bastogne from the southeast, for at least that instant, it sounded like the wind rustling through the treetops.

But in the next moment, the shells came shrieking in. The battle-hardened veterans, hearing the ominous whistling overhead, instantly sensed the danger.

"Artillery! Get down—!"

Suddenly, an old soldier shouted, but before he could finish, a series of violent explosions erupted all around.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Hundreds of shells struck the German defensive lines with deadly accuracy. One foxhole after another was blown sky-high by the fierce blasts.

The German soldiers, cold and starving in the snow and ice, pressed themselves as low as possible in their foxholes to avoid the barrage. But today’s bombardment was different from before; it continued relentlessly for more than ten minutes, showing no sign of stopping. With near-apocalyptic ferocity, it seemed intent on destroying everything. Foxholes were filled in by the intense shelling, and many German soldiers were buried alive right where they hid.

"The Russians! The Russians are here—!"

Some veterans who had fought on the Eastern Front shouted in agitation, recognizing the familiar intensity of the artillery. Under the ferocious barrage, thousands of panicked German troops were either killed outright or fled in terror, only to be blown sky-high by the shells.

The bombardment lasted a full three hours, from 5 a.m. until 8 a.m. At 8:30, the long-awaited tank units launched their assault. And what greeted the task force’s armored battlegroup?

A field strewn with corpses. For the boy soldiers of the 26th Volksgrenadier Division defending the outskirts of Bastogne, most had never imagined facing such overwhelming artillery fire. Many were scared out of their wits, crying for their mothers in the trenches and foxholes. The veteran soldiers, thinking the Russians had arrived and terrified of falling into their hands, scattered in all directions. As the task force’s armored units advanced under the cover of the barrage, they encountered almost no resistance—some Germans even mistook them for their own. Smiling, they stepped forward to greet what they thought were friendly tanks, only to be cut down by machine guns and tank shells a moment later.

There was no helping it—this tank unit was entirely equipped with German tanks. In fact, there were still a dozen American M4 tanks inside the city, brought in by retreating U.S. forces, but the Americans weren’t included in this action... Even though, over the past ten days, those Americans had served as instructors, teaching them armored warfare.

But as the saying goes, "When the apprentice masters the craft, the teacher goes hungry." That’s true anywhere in the world...