It is the Battle of the Bulge, and the Nazis are staging a furious counterattack against the advancing American army. With no good intelligence on German positions, General George Patton sends for the Third Army’s greatest scout, Private Irving Feldman.

“The future of this war depends on you,” the general says.

“You shouldn’t worry,” says Feldman, who stands all of 5’2” and weighs all of 120 pounds. “I’ll go, I’ll come back, I’ll let you know.”

And off he goes into the foggy forest. A night passes; no Feldman. The next day the Americans are shelled. “Where is he?” Patton demands. No word. A snowstorm blankets the Third Army. No Feldman. Another night. Another day. Finally, Patton is tempted to succumb to despair when, through the lines, comes the scout. His clothes are in rags. He is bloodied and gasping for air. He’s brought directly to Patton.

“What I’ve seen, you shouldn’t know from it,” Feldman says.

“I shouldn’t know from what?” Patton says. “Give me your report before I slap you.”

“All right, all right,” Feldman says. “On the left flank it’s no big deal. They got some tanks, they got some men. Send in the planes, you can take them all out in one shot.”

“Good, good,” Patton says.

“And on the right flank is also good news. They got all their planes in one spot and they don’t got fuel. Send the tanks right through and you can mow them down and make a path out. But right in the middle…”

“Yes?” says Patton.

“In the middle you shouldn’t go. Don’t even bluff. You got to stay away from the middle? You hear me? Stay away.”

“My God, man,” says Patton. “What on earth is in the middle?”

Feldman shudders and says, “They got there such a big dog…”