Sample ‘graphs from what may just be the best, most gripping account of George Patton’s fabled three-division offensive intended to relieve the beleaguered, semi-frozen 101st Airborne at Bastogne (a “relief” which the dogfaces of the 101st swore forever after was NOT needed) you’re ever gonna see:

You wake up to a frost-laced window and the sound of a four-star general whistling in the hallway. You swing your feet onto an icy plank floor and feel the cold bite up through your wool socks. Your breath rises in white plumes above the narrow iron cot. Outside the cracked window a sentry’s boots crunch on frozen gravel and somewhere a field telephone rings twice and cuts off. You strike a match for the paraffin lamp, splash yesterday’s basin water on your face, and scrape a safety razor across two days of stubble. The mirror shows the hollow eyes of a man who has slept four hours. From the hallway you hear the Old Man still whistling, already dressed, already ahead of you.

You sit across from General Patton as an orderly pours black coffee into thick white china. Powdered eggs, bacon, and a slice of stale bread sit on your plate. The General is already on his second cup and tapping a pencil against a folded situation map. He does not small-talk. He tells you the Germans are running out of gas and will be stopped, and that by noon you will both be in Verdun standing in front of Ike. He says it like a weather report. You notice the ivory grip of his revolver is already at his hip, even at breakfast.

Read it all, gang, I promise you won’t be sorry you did. EXCELLENT job, Doug.