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By Friday Bastogne was a wrecked town, its outskirts littered with dead. There had been at least four fighting Germans to every American—the elements of eight enemy divisions. The dead were probably in the same ratio. Bastogne had already cost the Germans dearly, in time as well as troops. On one day alone the enemy had lost 55 tanks and hundreds of men who tried to infiltrate the lines against the G.I.s' Tommy guns and mortars. The Germans were sick of "crazy Americans." They tried a surrender offer.
Air Breaks. Through the lines on Friday came an enemy envoy carrying a white sheet. He delivered an ultimatum: two hours to decide upon surrender. The alternative: "annihilation by artillery." The German commander appended a touching appeal to U.S. instincts: "The serious civilian losses caused by this artillery fire would not correspond with the well-known American humanity."
General McAuliffe did not hesitate. He had been touring the aid stations, had heard the wounded beg him, "Don't give up on account of us, General Mac." He sat at a debris-littered desk, printed his reply with formal military courtesy: "To the German Commander—NUTS!—the American Commander." So there would be no misinterpretation, an officer translated for the blindfolded German envoy: "It means the same as 'Go to Hell.' "
McAuliffe's reply was mimeographed, passed around to his troops. With it went his Christmas message: "The Allied troops are counterattacking in force. ... By holding Bastogne we insure the success of the Allied armies. We are giving our country and our loved ones at home a worthy Christmas present and, being privileged in taking part in this gallant feat of arms, are truly making for ourselves a Merry Christmas."
There was little else merry about Bastogne's Christmas, but the war soon looked up. On the 24th there had been a weather break. Tony McAuliffe could report to the Ninth Air Force that its Lightnings and Thunderbolts had done a "simply tremendous" job of messing up enemy tanks and guns. Trains of C-47 transports had come over to parachute supplies (eventually more than 1,500 tons were dropped). A surgeon arrived by Piper Cub. More medical help was coming. There was a heart-warming Christmas gift: air pictures showing a ring of burning enemy tanks and vehicles all around Bastogne.
The beleaguered did what little they could about Christmas. Some who had shelter in houses brought in fir trees, decorated them with paper and any sort of bright bit that stuck out of the rubble. Pfc. William Horton hung on one tree a tiny celluloid doll—one of its eyes had been punched out. His buddies called the doll "Purple Heart Mary." To the accompaniment of bombs and ack-ack Major Charles Fife puffed out tunes on an ocarina, and the men hummed carols.
The Germans made Christmas grim with heavy shelling and more attacks. A bomb hit a house used as an aid station. In it were more than 100 wounded. The house flamed into a furnace before more than a few of the wounded could be carried out. But there was vengeance on the perimeter: the wily paratroops let German tanks filter through to ambush by the tank destroyers. The day's score in tanks: 32.