‘Might they do that?’ he asked as the Horch sped south.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Theo shrugged. ‘I’m not in contact with them, though I’m supposed to report in daily. In any case they wouldn’t tell me. But I do know not everyone was in favour of your proposal.’
‘I can imagine.’ Rommel grunted. ‘We need to move fast. And you have reported in by the way.’
‘What?’
‘Your reports: they’ve been going off to the American diplomat in Bern each day as scheduled.’
‘But saying what?’
‘That everything’s proceeding!’ He glared. ‘Which it is!’
The strain was telling, Theo realized, wringing the grit from the old warrior like water from a rag. Sick and spent, he’d been fighting this war for five years, virtually without pause, from France to Africa to Italy and back to France. Only to end up like this, crushed between an unstoppable Allied juggernaut and an insane despot. And as if to underline the point he was soon falling asleep again.
Blaskowitz hedged his bets. Since Army Group G wasn’t yet fighting anyone, technically he had no need to order a ceasefire. And though a second Allied invasion of France was expected, it seemed unlikely in the coming few days, thus his was a simpler dilemma. Nevertheless, he spent over an hour whining to an increasingly frustrated Rommel, before finally giving in.
‘All right, Erwin!’ he said at last. ‘You can count on my support, but only if I receive clear written orders from Rundstedt, or his successor, to cease hostilities, and also written assurances of safe conduct for me and my officers from the Allies.’
‘Then you’ll do it.’
‘And immunity against any sort of, you know, criminal charges.’
‘Understood. Then you’ll do it?’
‘Given those provisos, yes, the moment I receive confirmation of a ceasefire in the north, I will follow suit.’
‘Slippery bastard!’ Rommel muttered as they climbed back into the car. ‘Won’t stick his neck out either way.’
‘Can you count on him?’
‘He’ll blow with the wind. If everything goes as planned, he’ll issue the order.’
‘And if not?’
‘If not?’ Rommel snorted. ‘Then it won’t matter anyway!’
They set off, the driver propelling the Horch swiftly northwards into the darkness. He too had been working days and nights with no rest, and somewhere near Auxerre, with everyone’s heads nodding, he requested they pull in for an hour, bumped down a farm track and switched off beside a stream. Theo kept watch while they slept, listening to the peaceful murmur of water, and the leaves rustling in the trees. Only now did he appreciate the full implications of their mission. And its enormity. Less than thirty hours Rommel had, he calculated, to complete the negotiations, make the arrangements, and issue the order for all German forces in France to cease hostilities. How such news would be received in Berlin he could only imagine, but threats, denials, counter-orders, arrest warrants and bitter denunciations would all surely follow. And the Allies? How would they respond? Were they functioning well enough to make best use of this opportunity? Would they race like mad across France, storm into Germany and end it all quickly? Before it was too late for Clare? The questions were endless, the answers unknown. Will you look for me? she’d written, as though foretelling her own arrest. I pray so. Somehow he must get word to her that he was. And that she must hold on, and stay alive, until he found her.
By breakfast they were back in La Roche-Guyon where, pausing only to eat, bathe and change, Rommel closeted himself in his office with Hans Speidel. Theo went too, soon learning that the chief of staff had not been idle during their absence, confirming that all but three field commanders were now in accord with Case Green, those three being die-hard Nazi waverers whom Rommel must convert personally. Meanwhile, a fourth, General Feuchtinger, Hans von Luck’s superior at 21st Panzer, was nowhere to be found.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Rommel fumed.
‘Nobody knows. Rumour is he lives in a mansion on the Loire with his girlfriend and only shows up for parades and medal ceremonies.’
‘Well, find him! And tell him to report. He’s in command of the whole division!’
The matter was in hand, Speidel soothed. However, two other issues had arisen requiring the field marshal’s attention. Firstly, Resistance contacts in Germany had tipped Speidel off that an attempt on Hitler’s life was imminent.
‘The Stauffenberg lunacy, you mean?’
‘Well…’ Speidel glanced at Theo.
‘It’s all right, the Junge met the man.’
‘Good heavens. Well then, yes, most probably. And I wondered if we should perhaps consider pausing our plans until it happens. I mean, it could play to our advantage if the attempt is successful.’
‘No! It will only create chaos and muddy the waters. In any case there’s no time for pausing: the Allies are about to attack. We must ignore this nonsense and advance Fall Grün without delay. Stauffenberg’s bound to mess it up anyway. What’s the second thing?’
In a similar vein, Speidel went on, an intercepted enemy signal indicated that British special forces were preparing to enter France and carry out a ‘capture or kill’ mission on the field marshal.
‘Well, well.’ Rommel chuckled. ‘This must be the fourth time! What have I done to upset these fellows so?’
‘You should consider it a compliment,’ Speidel said. ‘But we suspect it is a back-up plan, in case Fall Grün should, you know…’
‘Fail?’
‘… become compromised in some way.’
Rommel waved the matter away and went on planning. And by late morning he and Theo, plus Sergeant Daniel the driver and their armed guard Holke, were back aboard the Horch heading west to the front line. The three wavering generals were Dietrich Kraiss of 352nd Infantry Division, Walter Harzer of 9th SS Panzer and Sepp Dietrich of 1st SS Panzer Corps. Dietrich had already given covert support to the scheme but wanted assurances, Harzer was hard-line SS and might take some convincing, whereas Kraiss sounded close to despair. His infantry division was deployed to the west near Saint-Lô, and speeding along in bright sunshine with the roof down, it was there they drove first.
In the event Kraiss’s conversion proved foregone. Visibly moved to see Rommel striding into his bomb-ravaged HQ, Kraiss, his uniform grimy and plastered with dust, greeted him with a heartfelt clasp of hands. The 352nd, it emerged, once proud and strong, had been reduced to a battered shell following six weeks of bloody fighting against the Americans in the Bayeux sector. Now, with its strength down by half, its armour all but gone, and no rest or replacements in sight, total destruction loomed.
‘The Führer promises supplies and reinforcements,’ Kraiss lamented. ‘At least he did at first, but now we hear nothing, and I fear we are to be sacrificed.’
Rommel nodded. ‘As are we all, my friend.’ Producing his cigarette case, he lit one for Kraiss and led him to a corner. Theo stayed back, sensing what came next must pass between them alone. Drained and disillusioned though he was, Kraiss was nevertheless a loyal and long-serving officer, bound by sworn oath to his leader. Abandoning that allegiance would not come easily. Furthermore, Rommel could not pull the 352nd back, nor provide them with rest, or reinforcements; he could only offer sympathy and understanding. And Case Green.
A shell smashed into a nearby building. Theo turned to look. Dust clouds billowed, and debris fell like rain, while out in the smoke-filled street men were scurrying past hefting weapons and ammunition boxes, while others helped the injured. All inexorably rearwards, he realized, recalling Speidel’s map, and the bulge south of Bayeux where the 352nd struggled to hold on. How much longer could it survive? In the corner of the room Kraiss’s gaze was cast down, and as Theo watched, Rommel, murmuring softly, reached out and gripped his shoulder.
‘He is agreed,’ he said grimly as they returned to the car. ‘I will say nothing more.’ Five minutes later they were racing eastwards aga
in, twenty miles to Thury where 9th SS Panzer Division, formerly a crack armoured unit, had been badly mauled in weeks of fighting south of Caen. These men wore the black uniform of the SS, and were answerable to no one but its leader, Heinrich Himmler. Having lost their commanding officer to injury, a replacement had just been appointed. Tough and experienced, Walter Harzer had refused point blank to discuss Case Green on the phone with Speidel, insisting it must be Rommel only, and in person. Pulling up outside the tents serving as Harzer’s command post, Rommel leaped from the car and strode inside.
Ten minutes later he was back, Harzer at his side. Tall and fair with piercing eyes, Harzer’s gaze fell on Theo.
‘Is this him?’
‘Yes.’
Harzer nodded. ‘Then good luck, Hauptmann.’ And with that he turned and left.
‘Drive!’ Rommel ordered, slamming the door.
Time passed; the car sped east.
‘Sir?’ Theo queried eventually.
‘Incredible!’ Rommel shook his head.
‘He agrees?’
‘Yes. He sees it as his duty to save what’s left of his division, pull it back nearer to Germany and make a proper stand, to save the Fatherland. He agrees entirely with my analysis, says defending Normandy is a pointless waste of men and equipment and that High Command, including Himmler, must be made to see sense.’
‘So he’ll cease fire?’
‘When I give the order. But he’ll not surrender his division. He’s going to try and get it out.’
Their final call was to Sepp Dietrich, commanding 1st SS Panzer Corps based twenty miles south of Thury near Argentan. The route took them through several rear echelons and Rommel stopped frequently to offer cheer and encouragement to the men, who grinned and waved at his passing. Thirty minutes more and they reached the mairie serving as Dietrich’s HQ.
‘Stay in the car,’ he ordered. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’
But it was an hour before he emerged again. ‘Sepp’s old school,’ he explained, settling beside Theo. ‘It’s the policeman in him. He wants every contingency covered, every last detail spelled out. It took a while.’
‘But he’s agreed?’
‘Yes, thank God. What’s more…’ He produced a note. ‘Feuchtinger’s turned up. He’s meeting us at Lisieux.’
‘Will he consent?’
‘Unless he wants to be shot for abandoning his command!’ He checked his watch. ‘If we hurry we’ll be with him by sunset, and back at La Roche-Guyon by nightfall.’
‘And then?’
‘Then…’ Rommel hesitated. ‘Well, then we’re all set. You send your message to the Allies, and I issue the order. To stop fighting at midnight.’
‘My God, so it’s really happening.’
‘Yes. It’s time for the madness to end. Before it kills us all.’
They set off, speeding along straight Roman roads across a flat plain of crop, the orange ball of the sun setting behind them. After the town of Trun they turned more northward and the way became wooded, plunging them into shade one moment and open fields of golden sunlight the next. The smell was of pine woods and ripening corn. Rommel, in reflective mood, stared out at the passing scenery.
‘What will you do, Junge?’ he asked after a while. ‘When this matter is over.’
‘I don’t know. Return to my unit, I suppose. And await what happens. My original unit that is.’
‘Ah, 2nd Battalion of the 1st Fallschirmjäger Brigade, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When did you last see them?’
He thought back. John Frost, Jock Pearson, Brigadier Lathbury, Vere Hodge and the Newfoundland. Swimming the river to take the bridge. Exactly a year ago. ‘It was last July. In Sicily.’
‘Hmm. Long time to be away.’
After Vimoutiers they drew near the village of Livarot, before which they passed a tiny hamlet called L’Angleterre.
‘Angleterre, see, Junge!’ Rommel nudged him. ‘Ironic, wouldn’t you—’
‘LOOK OUT!’
The two Spitfires pounced at more than 300 mph. Diving from behind and out of the burning orb of the sun, there was no time to spot them, or take evasive action, or do anything but shout a strangled warning. And even as Daniel slammed his foot to the floor, their guns opened up, shredding the road behind and then tearing viciously into the car and its occupants. Daniel was immediately hit, and with the Horch travelling at more than sixty, it lost control, skidded off the road and crashed into a ditch, slamming everyone violently forward. Daniel and Holke smashed into the dashboard, while in the back Theo felt himself catapulted skywards, flying through the air like a flung doll, to crash into a stone wall beyond the ditch. Lying in a tangled heap, pain and giddiness overwhelming him, he raised his head briefly to see Rommel, still in the car, his bloody head thrown back, sliding lifelessly down the seat.
CHAPTER 11
The date of this is Monday 17 July 1944, at about five in the afternoon. According to the reports and notes I find in Rommel’s files, a local pastor happens upon the scene about ten minutes later whilst cycling home from church. What he sees, he writes in a letter to Lucie, is the wrecked Horch nose down in the ditch, with both front occupants clearly dead (Daniel and Holke). Meanwhile, a young German officer with blood all down his face is trying to haul an older one from the back. The older officer has severe head wounds and also looks dead to the pastor, but the younger one screams that he isn’t and begs him to get help, which he does, pedalling off to Livarot where there’s a monastery with a doctor. A cart is quickly procured and the pastor returns with the doctor to find the young officer sitting in the road cradling the older one in his lap. The youth, seemingly delirious, insists again he isn’t dead and exhorts them in various languages to save him before it’s too late [my italics]. Both are then conveyed to Livarot where they’re attended to by the doctor, who confirms the older one is indeed alive, although barely. An ambulance is then summoned from Bernay, twenty-five miles away, where there’s a military hospital, and it’s while waiting for it to arrive that the younger man, who has a broken arm, smashed ribs and wounds to his head, tells them that the unconscious officer is Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, on a mission of vital importance. He declines to give his own name, nor does he accompany the field marshal to Bernay, saying he will go to the dressing station at Lisieux which is much nearer. Later in the evening a farmer conveys him there in his van, and he’s never heard from again. But according to the monastery doctor, so the pastor concludes in his letter, the youth’s actions and insistence that the older man be saved were crucial to the field marshal’s survival.
*
A peculiar and not altogether happy hiatus extends over Ulm in the days following my release from prison. As if the whole city is holding its breath or is in limbo or something. Everyone knows the end is at hand, yet the days tick by and nothing happens. Except that the rumble of distant artillery moves off, as though Ulm isn’t important enough for the war to visit. Rumours abound as always, one being that it was American guns we heard, not Russian, which is a comfort to the citizenry; another that Stuttgart, some forty miles to the northwest, is now in Allied hands; a third outlandish one is that Hitler’s preparing to flee Berlin and make a stand in the Bavarian Alps. But nothing can be checked or verified, newspapers don’t exist, the radio only broadcasts old speeches and martial music, so all we can do is twiddle our thumbs and carry on waiting.
Back at the Revier work resumes, POWs continue to get sick and we continue to hold parades and clinics. The only difference is they now include German civilians who queue up in the misguided belief that we have the staff, skills and supplies to treat them too, which we don’t. Indeed, basic essentials like food, fuel, medicines and raw materials are all running out, the water and electricity supplies are intermittent at best, as are the telephones, and even Ulm’s wonderful tram system is close to collapse; all this because there are no spares or supplies, municipal workers aren’t being paid, and
the prisoner labour force has also downed tools, unsurprisingly. So nothing runs, nothing gets fixed, nobody comes and everyone’s fed up.
On the plus side, I wander into Münsterplatz one day to find market stalls bearing unexpected treasure: radishes, spinach, cabbage and baby turnips, early spring vegetables bringing much-needed nutrition and variety to our meagre diets. Also, with Vorst gone, Prien and the guards cowed, and the town garrison reduced to boys and old men, we are effectively prisoners in name only, unshackled, answerable to no one, and free to come and go as we please, except during curfew. The bombings stop too, which is a relief, and even the weather perks up, with days turning mild and bright in the late April sunshine, such that a leisurely stroll through Ulm’s rubble is almost a pleasure.
Which all just makes the waiting so much harder. Everyone feels it: prisoners, townsfolk, soldiers and civilians, young and old, the homeless and the destitute especially, friend and foe together. We’ve paid our dues, served our time and completed our sentence. Now we just want the whole ghastly nightmare to end.
Erik, to my surprise, more than anyone. Hitherto the voice of reason and calm, our roles seem to reverse such that he’s the one stamping about losing his temper, while I, improbably, am preaching prudence and restraint.
‘Five years, Dan!’ he rants furiously one evening. ‘Five years of my life that I will never get back, stolen by these bloody bastards!’
‘Not for much longer now, old chap.’
‘And for why? For nothing! For being a doctor in Dutch uniform! It bloody makes me want to kill someone!’
‘I do understand. Another radish?’
My own mood at this time is oddly conflicted. Psychologically I’ve already packed my bags and left, my thoughts like Erik’s turning repeatedly for home, London, family, friends, resuming ordinary life, my work and career and so on. And yet these seven months of captivity, and especially my time here in Ulm, have affected me deeply. I’m not the same man who leaped from that Dakota back in September; the battle, the frightful week at the Schoonoord, then Apeldoorn, Fallingbostel, Bergen and finally Ulm – even that bizarre interlude at Stalag 357 – these places, people and events have had a transformative effect. The regiment too, of course, has made an impact, its bravery in battle, its doggedness and pride, even in the face of defeat, stamping an indelible mark on my psyche. Colonel Lea, Arthur Marrable, Jack Bowyer, CSM Barrett on the Arnhem road, dear old Cliff Pountney, Pip Smith, Bill Alford, the young sapper Jenkins at 357: all these men taught me much about who I am, and how to be better at it.
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