“We’re Through to Bastogne”: The Phone Call That Changed the Battle of the Bulge

On the afternoon of December 26, 1944, a telephone rang inside Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF) near Versailles. On the line was General George S. Patton, commander of the U.S. Third Army. He spoke four simple words:

“We’re through to Bastogne.”

On the other end of the line, General Dwight D. Eisenhower exhaled a breath he’d been holding for days. The relief of Bastogne was more than just a tactical success. It was the turning point of the Battle of the Bulge—and the defining moment in one of the most complex relationships of the Second World War: the one between Eisenhower and Patton.

This is the story of that phone call, the gamble that led to it, and what it reveals about leadership, trust, and managing a brilliant but difficult subordinate.

A Crisis in the Ardennes

A week earlier, the situation could hardly have looked worse.

On December 16, 1944, German forces launched a massive surprise offensive through the Ardennes forest. Under cover of bad weather and winter fog, they smashed into thinly held American lines and drove deep into Allied territory, creating a swelling “bulge” on the maps in Allied headquarters.

At the center of this crisis was Bastogne, a small but critical crossroads town. Seven main roads converged there. If the town fell, German armored columns could drive west toward the Meuse River and potentially split Allied armies, cutting supply lines and shattering morale.

The 101st Airborne Division and other attached units were ordered to hold the town. As German forces encircled Bastogne, the defenders dug in. Supplies ran low. The weather remained brutal. The message from the front was clear: they were surrounded.

At SHAEF, Eisenhower had to do two things at once—stabilize a crumbling front and find a way to rescue Bastogne before it was overwhelmed.

The Emergency Meeting at Verdun

On December 19, 1944, Eisenhower convened a high-stakes conference at Verdun with his senior commanders. The atmosphere was tense. Reports from the front were confusing, and no one yet fully understood how deep the German penetration would go.

Eisenhower’s question to his commanders was simple and urgent:

“How soon can you attack north to relieve Bastogne?”

Around the table, generals began thinking aloud, mentally juggling manpower, fuel, road networks, and weather. Most answers were cautious. Shifting large formations in winter conditions was a daunting problem. No one wanted to promise what they couldn’t deliver.

Then George Patton spoke.

He said that he could attack north with three divisions on December 22.

The room went quiet. Patton’s answer sounded like something out of one of his own speeches—bold to the point of impossible. To most of those present, the idea of disengaging units already fighting in one sector, pivoting them 90 degrees, moving them more than 100 miles in winter, and launching a coordinated attack in a matter of days seemed unreal.

Some assumed Patton was simply grandstanding again.

Eisenhower did not dismiss him so quickly.

“I’ve Already Done the Planning”

Eisenhower knew Patton’s reputation: brilliant, aggressive, and often difficult. He also knew that in a crisis, Patton’s drive could be a decisive asset—but only if the claims matched reality.

According to accounts of the meeting, Eisenhower leaned forward and asked Patton directly if he was serious. This wasn’t a rhetorical flourish; this was the fate of an entire airborne division and the credibility of Allied command.

Patton’s reply surprised everyone.

He explained that his staff had already prepared multiple contingency plans, anticipating just such a crisis even before the German attack began. He had war-gamed a potential offensive in the Ardennes and kept plans ready to pivot Third Army north on short notice. He was not improvising; he was executing a plan he had thought about in advance.

“On December 22nd, my Fourth Armored Division will attack north toward Bastogne. I stake my career on it.”

In that moment, Eisenhower faced a huge gamble. If Patton failed, the 101st Airborne and other defenders at Bastogne might be overrun. The blow to Allied morale—and Eisenhower’s own career—would be enormous.

But Eisenhower also understood something else: no one else was offering a better solution.

He made his decision.

“All right, George. You’ve got your chance.”

The meeting ended with a clear directive: Third Army would pivot north and drive to relieve Bastogne.

The Impossible Pivot

What followed over the next several days was one of the most remarkable operational maneuvers of the European war.

Patton’s staff immediately set their contingency plans in motion. Orders went out. Units disengaged from their current positions, turned on icy roads, and began moving north. Columns of tanks, trucks, and infantry snaked through winter landscapes, contending with bad weather, limited daylight, and congested routes.

It was not just a test of Patton’s aggressiveness—it was a test of staff work, logistics, and discipline at every level. Third Army had to hold its existing lines, move large formations over long distances, and coordinate an attack toward Bastogne, all while the enemy offensive was still unfolding.

For Eisenhower, watching from SHAEF, the reports were almost unbelievable. Third Army was actually doing it. Divisions were moving. Units were in position. The attack was forming.

The timing would not match the original December 22 promise, but given the blizzards and chaos on the ground, the fact that Third Army could move at all was impressive.

By late December, the leading elements—especially the 4th Armored Division—were closing in on Bastogne.

December 26, 1944: The Call

By December 26, the Battle of the Bulge had entered its second week. The northern shoulder of the bulge was holding, but the situation remained tense. Bastogne was still technically encircled, though the defenders continued to resist.

In his office, Eisenhower was reviewing reports when the phone rang. The duty officer announced that General Patton was on the line from Luxembourg.

Eisenhower picked up.

“George?”

“Ike, we’re through to Bastogne. The Fourth Armored made contact with the 101st at 1650 hours. The corridor is narrow, but it’s open. We’re pushing supplies through now.”

According to witnesses in the room, Eisenhower’s reaction was visible. For days, he had been carrying the weight of the crisis—the surprise offensive, the danger at Bastogne, the political implications back home. Now, in a single sentence, one of the worst fears had been lifted.

He asked Patton to repeat the news, making absolutely sure he’d heard correctly.

Yes. Contact had been made. The 101st was battered but still holding. A land corridor now connected Bastogne to the rest of the Allied front. Supplies and reinforcements could flow in. Evacuations could begin.

Eisenhower congratulated Patton. Then, shifting immediately back into command mode, he pressed for details. How secure was the corridor? What were the enemy forces doing? How soon could the opening be widened and strengthened?

Patton, characteristically confident, admitted that enemy counterattacks were hitting the corridor but insisted that Third Army could hold and expand the opening.

When the call ended, Eisenhower turned back to his staff.

“Gentlemen, George Patton has just accomplished something I wasn’t sure was possible.”

Public Praise, Private Reflections

Relief of Bastogne was the first clear good news since the German offensive had begun. Back in the United States, newspapers had been full of alarming headlines. People worried about a possible German resurgence and the prospect of a prolonged war.

Eisenhower’s public statement on December 27 was measured and diplomatic. It praised both the defenders in Bastogne and the Third Army forces that fought their way through. It stressed the courage of American soldiers and the skill of their commanders. It framed the relief of Bastogne as a major step in turning back the offensive.

Yet it was in private messages and later reflections that Eisenhower’s true feelings emerged.

To senior colleagues, he admitted that Patton’s performance had exceeded his expectations. He acknowledged the speed, coordination, and aggression with which Third Army had pivoted and attacked. He also recognized something more subtle: Patton had anticipated a scenario that others had not.

While many Allied planners had been caught off guard by the scale of the German offensive, Patton’s staff work showed that he had taken the possibility seriously enough to plan for it. That foresight impressed Eisenhower as much as the execution.

At the same time, Eisenhower did not forget Patton’s past controversies or the challenges of managing him. In personal notes, he admitted how exhausting it could be to balance Patton’s brilliance with his impulsiveness. The relief of Bastogne vindicated Eisenhower’s earlier decision to keep Patton in a frontline command after earlier incidents, but it did not magically erase all concerns.

In a personal message to Patton, Eisenhower reportedly blended praise with boundaries: recognition of a “brilliant operation” coupled with a reminder that success did not excuse future disobedience.

It was classic Eisenhower—encouraging, respectful, but also clear that no one, not even a star performer, was above the chain of command.

A Relationship Redefined

The relief of Bastogne reshaped the Eisenhower–Patton relationship.

Before the Battle of the Bulge, Eisenhower had kept Patton on a relatively tight leash, mindful of his tendency to speak out of turn and create public controversy. After Bastogne, Eisenhower had proof—not just belief—that Patton could deliver under the most extreme pressure.

From that point on, Eisenhower gave Third Army more freedom of action, setting clear objectives but allowing Patton greater latitude in how to achieve them. He understood that Patton’s style worked best when he had room to maneuver and trusted support from above.

For his part, Patton had demonstrated something crucial: he could not only attack boldly, but also prepare quietly, think ahead, and deliver precisely when needed. The Bastogne operation was not just about speed and audacity; it was about preparation, coordination, and respect for the larger strategic picture.

Years later, Eisenhower would single out the relief of Bastogne as one of Patton’s finest achievements. He would also point to it as a key justification for having kept Patton in command despite earlier difficulties. History, Eisenhower believed, would judge Patton by what he accomplished on the battlefield—and Bastogne would stand near the top of that list.

Leadership Under Fire

The phone call on December 26, 1944, was more than a tactical update. It was a moment when several leadership truths converged:

Preparation beats improvisation. Patton’s ability to pivot Third Army was not luck. It was the result of contingency planning done before the crisis. He had thought through the “what if” scenario others had dismissed.

Trust is a calculated risk. Eisenhower did not blindly trust Patton. He weighed the risks and rewards and took a deliberate gamble based on Patton’s track record and the absence of better options. Leadership sometimes means betting on a difficult person because their strengths are uniquely suited to the moment.

Results reshape relationships. After Bastogne, Eisenhower and Patton’s relationship changed. Success gave Patton credibility that no speech or reputation alone could have provided. It also reinforced Eisenhower’s own judgment as a commander-in-chief of a vast coalition.

Genius often comes with friction. Eisenhower was honest about how tiring it was to manage Patton, but he also recognized that in a war of this scale, he needed people who could do extraordinary things—especially when the situation seemed impossible.

In the end, those four words—“We’re through to Bastogne”—were not just a report of success. They were the audible proof that a daring plan, a calculated risk, and a difficult partnership had all paid off.

The defenders of Bastogne would remember the tanks that broke through the snow that day. Eisenhower would remember the moment the phone rang, and he realized that the worst danger of the Ardennes crisis had passed.

And history would remember that, when it mattered most, George Patton delivered exactly what he promised.