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Why Patton Was the Only General Who Trusted Black Soldiers to Save Bastogne

The snow didn’t just fall in December of 1944. It felt like it was trying to bury the entire world.

Imagine standing in a muddy field in the Lorraine region of France. The temperature is dropping so fast that the oil in the engines turns into a thick, useless sludge. The wind cuts right through your jacket, stinging your face like invisible needles. It is the kind of cold that settles deep in your bones and refuses to leave.

Amidst this frozen gray landscape, rows of M4 Sherman tanks sit silent and heavy. Thirty tons of American steel, painted olive drab, now dusted with white frost.

But the men climbing over these steel beasts, checking the tracks and greasing the gears, look different from the other soldiers in the Third Army. Their skin is dark. Their voices, low and rhythmic as they work, carry the accents of Harlem, Chicago, and the Deep South.