Countdown to D-Day

by Peter Margaritis

  Wednesday, December 15

  Rommel is enjoying leave at home with his wife and son. They spend a nice day together. Rommel and his son later go on a long walk and discuss a variety of subjects.

  During this leave, he and Manfred discuss the boy’s draft dilemma. The war has taken its toll on the German male population, and calls for more enlistments keep getting stronger. The latest draft mobilization is digging deep into the younger German male population. Minimum draft age is now the lowest ever, and both father and son know that Manfred will soon either have to enlist or be involuntarily assigned to a military unit.

  On one of their talks, Manfred broaches the idea of joining the Waffen-SS. An enlistment drive for this élite arm has started locally, and 15-year-old Manfred, impressionable, feels that its neat, inspiring uniform would look good on him. In the posters going up around the area, the SS men depicted look especially regal, bold, invulnerable. So Manfred suggests to his father that he might join.

  The field marshal, caught unaware by the boy’s remark, snaps, “Out of the question.” Scowling, he quickly adds, “You’ll join the same service I did, thirty years ago.”

  Manfred, noticing the vehemence in his tone, tries to reason with him. After all, his father has usually given him a good deal of latitude in most decisions. Does not the SS get the best of the supplies, he asks.

  Rommel, taking a deep breath, admits that this is true. He concludes, “But my decision is final. I will not under any circumstances allow you to serve under a man who I have reason to believe has been carrying out mass killings.”

  Manfred is silent a few moments as they walk on. He finally asks, “Do you mean Herr Himmler?”

  “Yes,” Rommel replies. He shakes an index finger. “Under no circumstances are you to say anything about this to anyone, do you understand? You maintain absolute silence about this.”

  Manfred nods his head. “Look, son,” Rommel continues quietly, his voice carrying a strange intensity. “The war, as you know, is not going well for us. I’ve heard that there are some people like Himmler who are trying to burn the bridges of the German people behind us by committing atrocities like these.”

  Manfred is surprised at hearing this. Realizing the implications of the statement just made to him—entrusted to him—he vows to keep his dad’s revelation a secret. They both agree that another service would do well for Manfred, and the boy promises that he will make a decision soon, before he risked being sacrificed on the Östfront.

  Thursday, December 16

  Rommel’s senior staff members are in Paris, enjoying themselves and preparing their new headquarters at Fontainebleau.

  ***

  Generalfeldmarschall von Rundstedt is preparing for the holidays, staying at the Hôtel Georges V in Paris.1 He leads a life of leisure, despite his critical position. He often goes out and dines at his favorite restaurant, the Coq Hardi in nearby Bougival.2 Oh, he is to be sure, still a loyal German officer; but he is also an honorable Prussian; an aristocrat, one of the last of a dying breed. He represents the finest Germany has to offer, and looks down with arrogance upon those uneducated, ill-mannered Nazis. He pities their lack of refinement, especially in their writings and in their artistic expression.

  Yes, he knows that his contempt for them is often all too noticeable in his demeanor—especially these last few years, when he has become really cantankerous. Still, despite the fact that Hitler sacked him, von Rundstedt’s allegiance (and his ambitions) have always persuaded him to step forward whenever called upon, no matter what he has called the Führer in private. Unfortunately, Hitler, that uncouth World War I corporal, has often kept him from making clear logical military choices. That has infuriated him a number of times.

  He remembers once storming into his quarters, fuming in front of his staff. “Without Hitler’s consent,” he growled to no one in particular, “I can’t even move my own sentry from my front door around to the back!”3

  He is the first to admit that he has been saddled with an impossible task here in France. How can he create a formidable coastal wall of defense with few men, little material, and no commitment from OKW? No matter what, it is a losing proposition. One the Allies will someday take advantage of.

  1Built in 1928 by Joël Hillman, near the Champs-Élysées and close to the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps the finest Hôtel in France, its cuisine is as good as any in the world, and its wine selection, even during the war, was impressive. This was partly because a number of sections with some of the best vintages were hidden from the Germans by the employees who built brick walls in front of the precious stocks. Over the decades before and then after the war, the Hôtel had served as a type of “home away from home” for movie stars and other famous personalities. During the liberation of Paris, General Eisenhower himself would use it as a temporary headquarters. Ironically, in 1942, General Hans Speidel (then a colonel), who would in a few months become Rommel’s new chief of staff, had often met in this Hôtel with fellow conspirators to devise a way to overthrow the Nazi regime.

  2The “Dauntless Rooster,” a famed inn and restaurant located about 15km west of his Hôtel, on the Seine River along the Rennequin Sualem Wharf.

  3A comment von Rundstedt would make often, even after the war.

  Friday, December 17

  Generalfeldmarschall Rommel continues his leave in Herrlingen, Austria. Russian prisoners are digging out a six-meter deep air raid shelter beneath his new villa, and the landscaping around the house is being worked on, even in the cold.

  Rommel inspects what has been done on the grounds so far with the man who has been designated his landscaping supervisor—Hermann Aldinger, who is also his private adjutant. While touring the grounds, he runs into the Bürgermeister of Ulm. They chat a while. Then Rommel asks him a strange question. Looking at the mayor, he asks, “Say, are there many Prussians around here?”

  The mayor pauses and then answers something like, “Some, I think.”

  Rommel replies, “Well, don’t let so many Prussians come and live here!” A crack no doubt on their aristocratic, superior blue-blood attitudes.

  They chat some more, and then Rommel asks him, “What do you think of the war?” The mayor is caught off guard and hesitates. Certainly this is a dangerous question in the Third Reich. One must be careful of the opinions given to others. The mayor cannot think of a safe answer, so he remains silent.

  Rommel had put that same question in the fall of 1943 to 52-year-old Oskar Farny, 1 one of his old World War I friends, on his farm in the middle of Bavaria. Rommel had needed someone to keep his papers and special mementos safe. So on August 22 he had persuaded his pilot to fly him up from Italy to Farny’s farm in his Storch aircraft to visit his old friend and to ensure his valuables were safely hidden away. They had landed in one of the nearby fields, and Rommel spent a good part of the day visiting with the farmer.

  They had talked for a few hours, swapping old stories about their days in the Württemberg mountain battalion, while they dined on a lunch of trout, crab, and afternoon tea.

  The conversation had drifted off, and they had sat there in silence for a while. Rommel, deep in thought, had looked at Farny and had impulsively asked him the same question: “Oskar, what do you think about the war?”

  Farny, surprised and embarrassed, had also hesitated. Finally, he had looked seriously at Rommel and had said somberly, “If our field marshals start flying out into the country and ask the farmers questions like that, the war isn’t going well.” Rommel had nodded in reply, quipping, “No doubt about it.”

  1Farny was raised in Ravensburg, Württemberg. An infantry lieutenant in World War I, he had met young Erwin Rommel who was in his regiment, and a friendship had begun between them. After the war, he took over his father’s acreage and became well known for his cheese and beer products. He modestly became a local conservative political leader in the Reichstag, although he retired from politics and went back to farming when Hitler came into power. Farny had no love for
the Nazis, and during the war, he undertook several secret communications with conspirators such as ex-Mayor Karl Goerdeler and Otto Gessler.

  Saturday, December 18

  Generalfeldmarschall Rommel, his leave now over, journeys by car today to his new headquarters at Fontainebleau, 65km south-southeast of Paris. This is the first time that Rommel has returned to France since mid-February of 1941, when he turned over command of his famed 7th Panzer—the “Ghost” Division—to General der Panzertruppen Hans Freiherr von Funck.1

  Ah, the good old days! Barreling through France, overwhelming confused French units. Today though, it is an entirely different story. Great Britain, now joined by the abundantly resourced United States, pounds them continually from the air, with raiding forces sometimes as large as a couple thousand aircraft. The enemy controls the seas, while scores of enemy divisions of all types are drilling right across the Channel, getting ready to assault the Reich’s “Festung Europa.”

  It will be up to Rommel to stop them.

  In the meantime, he has to get settled in. His lavish, openly decadent quarters, once the bawdy home of the controversial and (in his mind) notorious Madame de Pompadour, are completely beyond what he has expected, despite the stories that he had heard about the palatial settings. Truly, this is a totally different world from that impromptu, fly-infested headquarters tent he had used in the desert some three years before, and he is not thrilled with the idea of his headquarters in the home of such an infamous lady. Well, he does not plan on becoming absorbed in the French good life as his predecessors have done. He is on a mission, and cannot afford to have his head turned by the rich life, his passion for his objectives obscured by the Parisian night lights, or his energy for inspections slowly drained by the theater. He has to stay lean and hard, above the life of luxury.

  As he enters the magnificent building in the evening, he is welcomed by his staff. Leading them with a smile is his chief of staff, Generalleutnant Alfred Gause; “Der Chef.” Gause has been at his side since North Africa. The two of them have gone through thick and thin in the desert, and Gause has seen Rommel at his best and at his worst. He has seen him overjoyed and triumphant, and has suffered with him in his heartbreaking defeats.

  Rommel’s gear is brought to his room, and he immediately calls a meeting with his staff to go over some quick strategies. Tomorrow, he will have to call on his commanding officer—the legendary Gerd von Rundstedt, Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater. Rommel is not sure how the meeting will go, although he assumes the old man is miffed over his appointment. So Rommel will have to be on his best, most diplomatic behavior. Well, he can do that, so long as the old man accepts his presence and agrees to either cooperate or to stay the hell out of his way…

  After a particularly sumptuous dinner and then a social hour, Rommel turns in.

  1General der Panzertruppen Hans Freiherr von Funck.

  Sunday, December 19

  Generalfeldmarschall Rommel travels to Paris with some senior staff members to formally call on his new superior, Generalfeldmarschall von Rundstedt. He arrives around 11 a.m. at von Rundstedt’s winter headquarters, the Hôtel Georges V. The old Prussian greets Rommel formally, somewhat stiffly; each field marshal, of course, is carrying his marshal’s baton. Rommel notes that von Rundstedt’s staff members are at ease and relaxed. Paris life evidently agrees with them.

  After some chitchat, 1 they move to a parlor, while their 1a officers go into conference. Rommel, concerned over the lack of defenses that he has seen so far, is ready to get down to business. He gives his report of the weakly defended Danish coast.

  Von Rundstedt counters by giving Rommel a rundown on the military situation. He speaks in short, terse sentences. He explains that they can command at any one time up to fifty divisions in France. Unfortunately, many of them are just here temporarily for rest and refitting before going back to the East. So naturally, for these units, constructing defensive barriers in France is the last thing on their minds. Out of desperation, von Rundstedt had created what were essentially “static” divisions. These were new units made up of inferior, recuperating, and even foreign troops, and lacked any type of mobile transport.

  Von Rundstedt explains that the command structure is both an administrative and an operational nightmare. Göring commands the Luftwaffe, so not much help there. He also administratively oversees the Luftwaffe field divisions, and that makes for some logistical red-tape nightmares. The civilian laborers on the coastal defenses are part of Albert Speer’s OT. The SS formations, especially the Waffen SS and engineer units, are under Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, who of course, also oversees most of the security forces, including the Gestapo.

  Other units, including native country security forces and the local police, are commanded by the military governors, Hermann Hannecken in Denmark, Alexander von Falkenhausen in Belgium, and 57-year-old Carl-Heinrich von Stülpnagel in France. The Kriegsmarine officially controls the naval batteries, marine units, and of course, the fleet units. Dönitz directly controls the U-boats… And there is a total lack of naval craft.

  “Technically,” von Rundstedt concludes, “I command all the forces in the West; but my deputy is Feldmarschall Sperrle, a Luftwaffe commander, and so, all I really control are the army units.” He sighs and laments, “How wonderful it would be to control a unified command, like Eisenhower does.”

  Rommel asks him what he thinks the biggest problem is.

  “Well,” von Rundstedt replies, “we totally lack any kind of mobile reserve to react to any kind of a landing. And a powerful mobile reserve is the best possible way to defeat the invasion.”

  They discuss possible strategies. Rommel states that he would like to stop the enemy at the waterline. Von Rundstedt thinks that is impossible, given their resources and the enemy’s control of the air and the sea. He would rather counterattack inland, at a point of their own choosing.

  “Look,” he adds, staring at Rommel, “I understand that we have to make it as hard as possible for the enemy to land; but we simply do not have enough men to protect the entire coast. And the Allies are too powerful in the air and at sea to really prevent an initial landing.”

  He pauses, then goes on. “But once they regroup and start inland, then we can outflank them with a powerful armored assault that has been organized, say somewhere around Paris. It would smash into their lines and would split the landing in two, driving a wedge of steel that would roll right onto the beachhead itself.” Rommel pauses and then replies, “I don’t think that their air force or navy will allow us to maneuver, much less roll down onto their beachhead from any distance. So our entire survival depends on defeating this invasion, and we must do it immediately, before they get a foothold on the continent. And we’re going to have to stake everything on a battle that the enemy gets to pick ‘where’ and ‘when’. That means we must be ready everywhere if we’re to react decisively without delay.”

  They pause. “Well, it doesn’t make much difference anyway,” von Rundstedt concludes glumly. “We have no powerful reserve. Each of the mobile units that refit here in France just recuperates. When they’re back up to tolerable strength, they get sent back to the Eastern Front to plug up holes in the lines.

  So essentially we have no sizable mobile units, especially panzers, that are permanently assigned.”

  It was true. Just between October of 1942 and October of 1943, some 53 divisions had been ordered to the East, with 12 of them being panzer divisions and another five of them being panzer-grenadier divisions.

  “And of course, there’s no chance that they can spare any divisions from over there to help us out here in the West.” For replacement troops, he often got misfits, walking wounded, and even Ostruppen—Russian prisoners of war, each of whom for different reasons was fighting on the side of Germany. Naturally, their motivations were highly suspect, to say the least.

  The enemy totally commands the sky and is a common presence above, bombing their forces here and there. Equipm
ent and raw materials are in short supply. And despite all these problems, there seems to be a permanent holiday atmosphere all over the country.

  “And, as I have said, I have no panzer reserve,” von Rundstedt says softly and sadly. Looking down, he adds, “Da ist nichts.”

  Rommel gazes at him as he sighs. The old man softly finishes with, “It looks very black to me.” Rommel is surprised at this remark, because the Prussian has uttered this last sentence in English.2

  Rommel tries to reassure him, OKW has not forgotten him, and supplies and men will soon be coming. When the invasion comes, OKW will shift a few infantry units down from Scandinavia, a few from Italy, and some Jäger divisions from the Balkans. Plus, a number of panzer units will be put at their disposal.

  Rommel says that hopefully he can make a difference and use his influence to make some changes. “In the meantime,” he adds, “we can get Goebbels and his men to broadcast my presence here. That ought to stir the other side up some.”

  Rommel finally changes the subject. He tells von Rundstedt that he is staying at the famous Madame de Pompadour estate at Fontainebleau, but that he would like to move his staff into a headquarters closer to the coast. “That way,” he concludes, “I can have easier communications with the units out there.”

  Von Rundstedt agrees. They chat some more, each trying to get somewhat comfortable speaking to each other. OB West finally invites Rommel to stay for lunch.

  They adjourn to the elaborate dining room. Both staffs are somewhat nervous at the luncheon, so if they speak at all, it is in low tones. The field marshals eat in relative silence, broken by the clinking of dinnerware, or an occasional remark, attended by silent waiters. Their senior officers of course follow suit, later they will remember this as one of the strangest lunches of their careers.