No Less Than Victory

by Jeff Shaara

  Codman seemed unsure of the question. “You mean, this building?”

  “Yeah. Some Nazi official, looks like. One of those iron-thumb kind of jackasses, terrorizes the whole city, then runs like hell when we show up. Like to meet the guy, have a little chat about how much fun he had abusing his own people.”

  “The local officials had pretty much cleared out when we occupied the city, sir.”

  “Yeah, my point exactly. Scrammed right on out of here. What about that general? What’s his name?”

  Codman pulled a pad from his pocket. “Well, according to the G-2, his name is … Major General Ernst George Edwin Graf von Rothkirch und Trach.”

  “Good God. No wonder they’re such good soldiers. Look at the names they have to live up to. What the hell do I call him? Ernie?”

  “How about … General, sir?”

  Patton laughed, had rarely seen Codman in such a lighthearted mood. Victory will do that, he thought. Capturing a place as important as Trier puts everybody in a good mood.

  “Fine. At least he doesn’t outrank me. Let’s go have a chat.”

  The German was short, thin, gray-haired, with a face that showed more age than the man’s years. Patton studied him for a few seconds, thought, I bet that’s how most of them look right about now. How much more of this can they take?

  The German was standing, respectful, guards in each corner of the room. Patton noticed a lack of medals, thought, some GI souvenir hunter probably grabbed them. Damn shame. The man deserves to keep his mementos. All he’s got left. Doesn’t seem the type to have groveled his way to the top.

  Patton eyed his interpreter, said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, General. I’m General Patton.”

  “Yes, I know who you are, sir. It is my honor to be in your custody.” Patton couldn’t help feeling the flattery, sensed something sober in the man, an air of intelligence. Patton had prepared a brief speech, a dressing-down to this man who would dare to follow the scourge that was Hitler. But the German’s quiet humility disarmed him, any browbeating suddenly inappropriate. Patton searched the man’s eyes, saw no arrogance, none of the chest-puffing superiority that so many of the captured German officers carried with them, as though their captivity were all part of their greater plan. Patton still watched him, the German staring past him, a hint of sadness seeping through his show of dignity.

  “You commanded a corps, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. Fifty-third. I was part of the Seventh Army.”

  “I understand you were involved in the assault on Bastogne. Messy little affair. Took some doing for our boys to pull that one out.”

  “We made many errors, General.”

  “We made a few. Fewer than you.”

  Patton waited for something else, but von Rothkirch was clearly conceding the stage.

  “I’ll not ask you for your secrets. Waste of time for both of us. You don’t have much left to hide. A good many of your people are either rounded up or dead, and more are coming in that way every day. Sorry, don’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s just war. Under different circumstances, I might be the one who had lost his medals. I sure as hell wouldn’t be squawking to you if these guards were Germans.”

  Von Rothkirch did not react.

  Patton said, “I have to ask you one thing. You faced us in the Ardennes, and maybe before. You had your chances, many of ’em. Some of ’em against me, some against … well, other people. Hell of a fight, sometimes. But all that changed. We’ve got you, got your people, your whole army is falling backward. By now you know damn well what we bring to this fight. You know that your people cannot possibly hold us off for long, not with your losses and our superiority in numbers, our superiority in the air. Why in hell do you continue to fight? You cannot believe for a second that you can still win this thing. Not for one second. But still you fight. It makes no sense, none at all.”

  Von Rothkirch tilted his head, absorbed Patton’s words.

  “I would not use that term, General. What we do on the battlefield makes plenty of sense. I am an officer in the Wehrmacht, and I have lived my entire life by following orders. I can do nothing else. My personal opinion about our chances for victory, if I had one … cannot matter. My personal beliefs have no place on the battlefield, or even in my headquarters. I am no different from any of my superiors, or my subordinates. We are all under orders. As long as the orders instruct us to carry on the fight, we will.”

  It was the perfect answer, and Patton knew he had nothing left to say. He made a quick short bow, said, “General, despite your orders, your war is over. You shall be treated with respect due your position. But you are a prisoner of war. The only orders that matter to you now will come from me.”

  Von Rothkirch lowered his head in acknowledgment, still none of the arrogance, no defiance. Patton felt a strange respect for the man, had not expected humility. He spun on his heel, motioned to the door, the guard pulling it open. Outside, Codman was waiting, held out a cup of coffee. Patton shook his head. “No, not now.”

  “I’m curious, sir. What was he like?”

  Patton led Codman toward the outside door, saw the car waiting. The guards stood stiffly along the walkway, white helmets and perfect neckties, rifles held upright. Patton ignored them, moved toward the open car door, then stopped, thought a moment.

  “They’re a great people, Charlie. And they’re fools. It’s a damn shame we have to kill so many of them to prove it.”

  He had been excited about walking through Trier, knew too much of the extraordinary history of the place not to be curious. It wasn’t the facts and historical monuments that attracted him, but more the feel of the place. He moved past a small shop, a bakery, most of it destroyed. He tried to ignore the wreckage and debris, the streets themselves fairly clear, the good work of the engineers, making way for his army’s continuing push eastward. Codman was just behind him, followed by several MPs, nervous and efficient men, eyeing the destruction and what might lie beyond, in some hidden place. There had been no sign of snipers for more than a week, but Patton knew he could not order the MPs away, that both Eisenhower and Bradley would erupt at him if they knew Patton took a stroll through anyplace where someone could pick him off from a rooftop. He stopped, shuffled his feet in the muddy earth, looked down.

  “Caesar was here, you know. Walked these streets. This one. Scrape away some of this muck and crud, and I bet you’ll find out this roadbed is Roman. He probably marched through here leading his legions, flags flying, trying to find the best way to kill as many of his enemies as he could.” He looked at Codman. “I rather appreciate that, you know. I’d love to give him a ride in a tank. That’d be a damn sight more impressive than a chariot. A few armored cars, a half-track or two … that would have sent those damn Goths or whoever else scurrying back into their caves.”

  A screaming whistle split the air overhead, and Patton looked up, flinched from instinct. He caught a glimpse of silver ripping past, a faint trail of smoke, the sound rolling over him, then, just as quickly, gone.

  Codman said, “What in hell was that?”

  The sound rumbled still, distant, fading, and Patton stared that way, gray skies, nothing left to see. He had seen the V-1s before, but this was very different, nothing like the low-pitched whine of the flying bombs.

  Codman said, “Wasn’t a V-2. You never hear them at all.”

  Patton heard men calling out, others who had heard the sound, who had caught a glimpse, and now he understood.

  “I know what it was. I’ve seen the reports, Ike mentioned them. That, Colonel, was a damn Nazi jet airplane.”

  “What? You sure, sir?”

  Patton stared at empty sky, waited for another, wanted a better look.

  “I’m sure. G-2 has been spewing with reports from the air boys. Those things have started coming after our bombers, and the fighter escorts don’t have the first idea what to do about them.”

  “Jets? How fast?”

  Patton shrug
ged.

  “No idea. We’ll get one sooner or later. Figure out all the secrets. Supposed to be one more of Hitler’s secret weapons. Their propaganda’s spitting out this stuff even now, how the war is about to change, how they’re cooking up something that’s gonna throw us back into the sea. Hard to believe anybody in Germany believes this stuff.”

  “I believe what I just saw, sir. Pretty frightening impression. They could play hell with our aircrews.”

  “For a while, maybe. But get hold of it, Colonel. We heard this crap before, remember? The V-2s scared hell out of us for a while. All that talk about bombs that could wipe out whole cities. It’s never as bad as the propaganda people say it is. It’s like Hitler enjoys being the bogeyman, finding some scary new toy to toss our way. Well, I’m not scared of any of it. Doesn’t change a damn thing. We’ve still got a job to do, and so far Hitler hasn’t shown me he can stop us.”

  Patton still looked skyward, searched, only silence. “Hope I see another one of those things. I bet those sons of bitches are fun to fly.”

  HEADQUARTERS, OB WEST, ZIEGENBERG, GERMANY

  MARCH 10, 1945

  The call had come first from Siegfried Westphal, von Rundstedt’s chief of staff. Westphal was the most loyal and efficient officer von Rundstedt could name, and others had felt the same way, especially the other commanders Westphal had served. Throughout the war, the young man’s assignments had reflected the enormous respect that came his way, even from the High Command, those officers close to Hitler who seemed incapable of offering respect to anyone who might be a rising star. Though it never seemed to affect Westphal one way or the other, his various superiors—Rommel, Kesselring, and now von Rundstedt—all recognized that a wave of Hitler’s hand might take Westphal straight to Berlin to occupy a seat held now by one of the maddeningly mindless yes-men the field commanders had to endure. So far, Hitler’s own staff, who were expert at protecting their own lofty perches, had been successful at keeping Westphal in the field. So much the better for those he served.

  Von Rundstedt had always known that his command existed at Hitler’s whim, and when the need came for a scapegoat, von Rundstedt would fill that role perfectly. Though disdainful of Hitler, he knew the wisdom of keeping his disrespect at least somewhat discreet. In July, when Claus von Stauffenberg had nearly succeeded in assassinating the Führer, von Rundstedt had been outraged that an army officer could have carried out such a plot. No matter how much rationalization had fueled the conspirators, how necessary the death of Hitler, an attack on the nation’s supreme commander was the kind of treason von Rundstedt could never accept. He had reacted by loud condemnation of the plot, and had served on the army court that ultimately sentenced many of the plotters to death, whether the evidence supported such a drastic fate or not. It was a show in part, for the benefit of those close to Hitler, particularly the Gestapo, who were now suspicious of every officer in the army. Even though he had to accept the blame for the failures to hold the enemy away from the beaches at Normandy, his show of loyalty kept his name prominent among the army’s hierarchy. Though Hitler knew von Rundstedt was no friend, the Führer also knew he could still be of value. Now von Rundstedt’s predictions were being fulfilled. Once again, Hitler needed a scapegoat, not only for the complete collapse of the Ardennes offensive, but for the enemy successes that had followed. The final straw had now come as word reached Berlin of the failure to destroy the Remagen Bridge. Von Rundstedt knew little of the specifics, which field officer or engineer should have been blamed, whose neck should have gone into Berlin’s noose. The High Command had reacted to the loss of the bridge with predictable venom, executing three officers virtually on the spot, men who may or may not have been culpable at all. The importance of the enemy’s new bridgehead had been emphasized by Field Marshal Model, who had taken it upon himself to command the defensive efforts around Remagen, what von Rundstedt knew was yet another futile effort to hold back the Americans. Even with the army’s failures of December and January, von Rundstedt knew that blame would slip past Model. Hitler simply liked the man, and usually, in this army, that was enough.

  Von Rundstedt had stayed away from Berlin as much as possible, had no need to hear Hitler’s furious tirades at the failure of those generals who commanded an army that Hitler still considered invincible. Not only had the old man avoided the screaming directed toward his own failings, he would not give Hitler the satisfaction of relieving him face-to-face. With the loss of the bridge at Remagen, Hitler needed his scapegoat, and used the old man exactly as he had planned. If an important bridge had been captured, it meant that a disease had infected that part of Hitler’s army. Von Rundstedt had fulfilled the destiny assigned to him.

  The man assigned to replace him had been something of a surprise. Von Rundstedt had expected the job to go to Model, but Model was at his best in the field, and with enemy pressure mounting all along the frontier west of the Rhine, Model was exactly where Hitler needed him to be. Instead, Hitler would bring to western German the only man who had thus far succeeded in giving the enemy as good a fight as he had received. For nearly three years, Albert Kesselring had commanded German forces in North Africa and Italy, and though the Italian campaign had become something of a sideshow to Hitler’s concerns, Kesselring had kept the Allies bound up in a vicious stalemate there for more than a year. But Italy was no longer a priority to Hitler, and Kesselring had shown not only that he could effectively manage an entire theater of the war, but that he had the unusual ability to handle difficult subordinates, most notably, Erwin Rommel.

  Kesselring was in fact Luftwaffe, presumably answering to the authority of Hermann Göring. But for the past several months, no one in the German High Command seemed to be concerned with Göring at all, Kesselring included. If Hitler wanted Kesselring to take command of OB West, Göring would have little to say about it.

  They called him Smiling Al, an unfortunate label that had stuck to Kesselring since his earliest days in the service. Von Rundstedt always respected the man, ridiculous nickname notwithstanding, and he never really believed that Kesselring spent much time smiling at anything. When word came from Westphal that Kesselring was on his way, the old man was more curious than fearful.

  So, you did not come here to execute me?”

  Kesselring seemed alarmed at the question, realized now that von Rundstedt was teasing him. He laughed, still uneasy, said, “No, Field Marshal. Your service to the Reich has run its course, that’s all. The Führer felt that some fresh perspective—”

  “Stop. Don’t speak to me of perspective, don’t even speak to me of the Führer. You might also temper your happy thoughts about this Reich we have all given so much to create.”

  Kesselring looked toward Westphal, who stood at attention against one wall.

  “Tell me, Siegfried, is the Field Marshal always so … blunt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kesselring lowered his head, a long deep breath.

  “More blunt than Rommel?”

  Westphal hesitated to respond.

  Kesselring let out a small laugh. “Never mind, Siegfried. You have suffered under some of this army’s most accomplished grouches. There should be a medal for that.” He looked at von Rundstedt now, said, “My apologies. I do not intend to insult you. My presence here is sufficient insult.”

  Von Rundstedt could see Westphal’s discomfort, but there was nothing for him to say, no energy for polite conversation. Kesselring was stirring in his chair, and von Rundstedt thought, he wants me to be at ease with this, wants to say the right thing. It truly doesn’t matter, but I’m not sure he should hear that.

  After a moment, Kesselring said, “I am fortunate to be in this command, Herr Field Marshal. I know very well that Berlin often has difficulty separating fantasy from fact. The best men in this army are the men who do not accept fantasy at all. Dreams make for wonderful novels, but they do not serve military men well. I have tried to dance my way through minefields of dreams, not always with
success, Field Marshal. In North Africa—”

  “Please, you may call me Gerd. I do not believe the title Field Marshal is appropriate any longer. Berlin will say otherwise, and certainly, someone there is already preparing me some sort of honor, one more medal for my aching chest. But your presence here is a death knell for me. My particular dream has concluded. I am no longer in the service of the Führer.”

  Kesselring seemed to relax, nodded slowly.

  “I have spent several days in Berlin, among men who would rather shoot themselves than admit such an honest thought. You are … refreshing, Field Marshal. Excuse me. Gerd.”

  Von Rundstedt tried to stretch his back, the stiffness holding him uncomfortably in the soft chair.

  “I have been looking forward to this actually. I had feared that the Führer did not believe an old soldier should ever retire. These days, I thought it possible that he would order my final service to this army to come in front of a firing squad. Or perhaps I should be planted on a meat hook, as was done to so many of those assassins. I might not be in the best of health, but still, I have some time. My rosebushes have missed my attention. It is one of those pleasures an old man is equipped to enjoy. Sitting in dirt. Call it … preparation for what is to come.”

  “Please, sir!” Westphal stepped forward, obviously upset at the old man’s analogy. He leaned close to von Rundstedt’s desk, said, “I cannot hear such talk, sir. You have many years. I would rather see this day as a change of administration, and not the end of your life.”

  Von Rundstedt laughed, pointed to a chair in the far corner of the room.

  “Sit down, young man.” He looked at Kesselring, shrugged. “You see? There are still officers among us who dream. Tell me, Siegfried, what did you hear in Berlin? What reasons did someone confide in you, the reasons why I am being replaced by my friend Albert?” Westphal did not sit, seemed uncomfortable with the conversation. “Go on, Siegfried. You have no fears here. I know the kind of mud that flows through the High Command, the sort of fantasies they force themselves to believe. Entertain me, one last time.”