Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  For two hours the officers briefed him, and despite his weariness the Desert Fox found that his attention was focused, his energy high. He learned that the British had been halted in Holland, short of the Rhine River at the barrier of the Waal. Knowing that Montgomery was in command there, Rommel felt certain that there would be no precipitous Allied actions on that section of the front.

  The American First Army was drawing up to the border from Aachen south through the Ardennes, and though Courtney Hodges’s men were making some aggressive probes--especially around the environs of that ancient city--the bulk of German reinforcements were being rushed into that sector of the line. With luck and determination, Aachen would hold.

  “And Patton?” Rommel’s eyes ranged south along the map.

  “He is becoming embroiled at Metz, Field Marshal,” Speidel explained. “Furthermore, Third Army seems to be plagued by serious supply shortages and has not yet drawn up to the West-wall.”

  “And to the south, in the Vosges?” Next, he turned his attention to the range of low mountains that stood between the bulk of France and the Rhine.

  “The Americans, heavily supported by French troops, have attacked continuously, both from the Normandy front and aided by a new army that has come up from Southern France following the landings at Marseilles. But your orders to General Weise were prescient, if I may say so, Herr Feldmarschall. The Nineteenth Army made a successful withdrawal, and now our troops are holding in the mountains, and the enemy has not yet reached the river.”

  “What kind of train access do we have?” Rommel asked. “There are many troops that have been freed up from duties in the east--it is imperative that they be brought into line as soon as possible.”

  “The priorities of the Special Ministry have barred us from most of the Reich’s rolling stock,” Speidel explained.

  Rommel turned to Bücher. “That is Himmler’s province, is it not? We must convince him that the needs of the Westwall have priority.”

  “I must warn you that such an argument will be difficult to win, Herr Feldmarschall,” Bücher answered frankly. “However, I have been ordered to return to Berlin as soon as you are established in your headquarters. I shall take the matter up with the führer personally and see what I can accomplish.”

  The Desert Fox nodded, his mind already moving on to other things. “Now let us analyze the enemy situation along the front?” he asked. “Where is he strong, where weak?”

  It was Speidel who answered again. “We have little access to air reconnaissance, as you know. However, it seems obvious that the Americans of the First Army are the greatest threat to cross the border into the Reich, from the vicinity of Trier northward. The British are held up in the marshes downstream of Antwerp.”

  “And in the south?”

  “Patton seems stymied by the fortifications of Metz... the Seventh Korps is defending heroically.”

  “Very good. Gentlemen, we will work with what we have... and we will work hard. I will be touring the front as soon as the headquarters is fully established. The rest of you all have jobs to do. General Bücher, I hope that your mission to Berlin is successful--and I will expect your return at the earliest opportunity.” He was surprised to realize that he did, in fact, want the SS general back. Next he turned to one of the staff officers. “Make a note--I will need a good driver, someone of proven courage and skill. Though not for another week or so... I think there will be plenty to keep me busy around headquarters until then.

  “That is all,” he noted in conclusion. “We have work to do.”

  Reichstag, Berlin, Germany, 15 September 1944, 0900 hours GMT

  Of course, Ribbentrop received adulatory press coverage for his “brilliant negotiations with the Soviet Union,” while Reinhardt’s name went completely unmentioned. This disturbed Müller far more than it apparently disturbed Reinhardt.

  “I prefer to avoid excessive recognition. As Horace reminds us, ‘Whoever cultivates the golden mean avoids both the poverty of a hovel and the envy of a palace.’ The work is the important thing, and we have managed to deliver results.”

  Müller was unpersuaded. “Do you think we’ll get a medal?” he whispered to Reinhardt, as they waited in the marble-floored anteroom outside Himmler’s suite of offices--the “Throne Room,” as the Wehrmacht officers had come to call it.

  Reinhardt only laughed. He glanced in the mirror, made a slight tug on his jacket so that the fit was perfect. Müller quickly checked his imperfectly fitting tunic for food stains or crumbs. Then they were ushered into the Presence. Reinhardt clicked to attention, arm rigid and precise. “Heil Himmler!” he barked. Müller followed suit, though his salute was less perfect. Either way, Himmler didn’t seem to notice.

  “Please have a seat,” the new führer said.

  Behind Himmler, great banners draped the wall, black and red swastikas dropping all the way from the high ceiling. The window between the twin pennants allowed the brightness of the autumn day to illuminate the room, but the effect left the führer himself silhouetted in deep shadow. He seemed like a religious figure in his new majesty, even in the dim light.

  Müller’s stomach rumbled nervously. Even though he imagined that this would be a session of praise and recognition, he still wished he were anyplace else.

  “I’ve read the reports on your mission. Excellent staff work. You are to be commended for your performance.”

  “Thank you,” Reinhardt said calmly. He even sat at attention.

  “Because of your exemplary performance, I have a new assignment for you.”

  This worried Müller. Normally, staff assignments would come through the normal chain of command. Any assignment the führer would give personally was likely to have serious drawbacks.

  “Field Marshal Rommel, as you know, is once again in command of our western front. With Stalin neutralized, at least for the time being, nothing must stop his victory. I want him to have the finest possible staff. Colonel von Reinhardt, you are to be the field marshal’s aide for plans and intelligence. You will have access to all Reich intelligence resources to assist in this role. Colonel Müller, you will be responsible for supply and logistics, because of your excellent work with the Peenemünde program.”

  “And we will provide additional reports to you from time to time?” asked Reinhardt.

  Himmler smiled slightly. “It is always appropriate for the führer to be aware of the actions of his senior officers,” he said in his calm, quiet voice. “Field marshals, by the nature of their assignments, do not always have the time to provide a full accounting to the leaders of the State. You will take some of that burden off the field marshal’s shoulders, and thereby be of service to the State.”

  “That is very clear, Führer,” Reinhardt said.

  It was about as clear as mud to Müller, but even he could tell that there was a big hidden agenda going on right in front of him. Fortunately, Reinhardt would explain it all later, hopefully over coffee and cakes. It was a good thing that Müller was not here by himself, he thought, for he would end up failing to understand what Himmler wanted and be shot for it or worse.

  He watched Reinhardt for his cues, stood when he stood, clicked his heels and saluted, and left the room with all the military bearing his stout form could manage.

  Müller was about to start asking questions as they emerged back into the light of the anteroom when he noticed Reinhardt stiffen slightly. One jet-black eyebrow raised slightly as a tall, scarred SS general entered the room. The general paused as well.

  “Gunter!” he said, his mouth spreading into a tight-lipped smile. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Hello, Horst,” Reinhardt said, his own mouth smiling as the rest of his face remained still. “And I see it’s General now. Horst, this is Wolfgang Müller. Wolfgang, this is General Horst Bücher.”

  Müller gingerly shook hands with the SS officer. His grip was hard and wiry, his scarred face vulpine. “Glad to meet you, General.”

  “Horst and I
went to Heidelberg together,” Reinhardt said.

  Bücher nodded. “Gunter gave me one of these scars.” He touched his cheek, traced the thin line.

  “Though as I recall, you were generally a better fencer than I,” Reinhardt noted.

  “Indeed I was,” Bücher said. Müller got the impression he was ready for a rematch at any time. The two men were superficially friendly, but cautious, aware of each other like two snakes poised to strike. “But that was then. I heard about your contributions to the Ribbentrop mission. Congratulations. Where to now?”

  “Field Marshal Rommel’s staff.”

  “Indeed?” Bücher replied with an ironic smile. “I’m attached to Rommel myself. I suppose then we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the months to come.”

  Reinhardt nodded. “I suppose we will. That will give us a chance to catch up on chess, perhaps.”

  “At which you do better than fencing,” riposted Bücher. Reinhardt merely glanced at the scar he’d placed on Bücher’s cheek. “For the most part. And you’ve won a few games from time to time.”

  “Chess isn’t a game of the real world,” Bücher said. “It’s an abstract of war, not war.”

  “‘The chessboard is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature.’ Thomas Huxley.”

  “Ever the academician,” Bücher laughed. It was not a friendly sound. “Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity to get your hands dirty at the front.”

  Reinhardt nodded. “Perhaps.”

  Bücher entered the throne room and saluted. His heart filled with an honest thrill at the sight of Himmler’s delicate features now creasing into a welcoming smile. This man has true greatness ... he may allow us to win, where our führer’s weakness would have doomed us.

  “Ah, my dear general ... please relax. And tell me, did you see our Desert Fox established in his new headquarters?” Himmler didn’t rise, but gestured with a well-manicured hand.

  The SS officer nodded, and allowed himself to sink into a chair. “He has some difficulty moving around--more than he would like anyone to know, and I suspect that he still suffers a great deal of pain. But his air of authority is real, and it was clear that the morale at headquarters improved merely from his presence. And he has a way with the men in the field... after talking with him, they truly want to fight.”

  Himmler nodded primly at the closed door. ‘Those two will be going west as soon as possible. They have demonstrated some capabilities, and I have assigned them to Rommel’s staff.” “Indeed, Führer. I know one of them--Colonel von Reinhardt. We attended university together. In fact, he gave me one of my badges of honor.” He touched his cheek lightly. “A smart man, and able, but an academician, not a warrior. In his proper place, he will be of use.”

  “And a staff officer role is his proper place?” Himmler asked.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bücher.

  “Before you return to the field marshal’s staff, I have a more immediate assignment for you. I am afraid that I have intelligence from this city that indicates that trouble spots remain. That, in fact, is why I recalled you to Berlin.”

  “I am yours to command, of course.”

  “One of the problems is Fromm, commander of the Replacement Army. We know that he was one of the original conspirators. He’s a doddering old fool, but he still has influence with some of the defeatists.”

  “I will make arrangements immediately... the problem will be solved.”

  “And old Rowekamp, as well. It seems that he has begun to fancy himself a leader, merely because he was able to form some sort of consensus among the General Staff following the murder of our führer. He is another one that will serve as a good example.”

  “And there are more?”

  “I have a list... a thoughtful list. There are those such as Guderian, even Keitel, who would make tempting targets, but they still have uses. So for now, alas, they will be allowed to live.” Bücher listened for several minutes, nodding in agreement with everything his leader said.

  “It shall be as you wish, Führer. I can begin the task immediately. I presume that some are to be examples and others should appear more as accidents?”

  “Correct. I shall want you to return to Army Group B as soon as possible, which you must do immediately when this delicate task is done. Now tell me, are there any other matters that require my attention in the west?”

  Bücher briefed Himmler on the situation on the western front, feeling none of the reluctance to tell the truth that would have accompanied a similar order from Hitler. “Field Marshal Rommel expressed some concern over the availability of the trains... he feels that greater efforts must be made to carry the reinforcements from the eastern front into the Siegfried Line.”

  Himmler shook his head. “All available locomotives and rolling stock are required for the Special Transports. With our attendant withdrawal from Poland, several key areas--Auschwitz, Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen--are undergoing full evacuation. You must tell Rommel that the trains will be available to him only when the Reich’s first priority has been sufficiently addressed.”

  “Of course, Führer.”

  “Now you must see to your accommodations, and your work,” said Himmler, at last rising from his desk. His black SS jacket was impeccably tailored, Bücher noticed, and showed not a single wrinkle from his leader’s chair.

  Nineteenth Division Headquarters, Reims, France, 16 September 1944, 1720 hours GMT

  Wakefield’s face broke into a rare smile as he stood to greet his visitor. “Brad--good to see you,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  His commander, General Omar Bradley, shook the proffered hand warmly. “Good to see you, too, Henry. How’s it going?” Wakefield indicated the stacks of paperwork on his desk. “It’s going, that’s about it. Thank God for resupply. We’re getting what we need, but it’s like building a division from scratch once again. Same number, different team.” He indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” replied Bradley. Wakefield motioned at an orderly. The coffee was bitter and strong, the way Wakefield liked it, but Bradley winced slightly as he took a sip. “That stuff will put hair on your chest,” he said.

  “If we run out of gas, I pour it into the tanks,” Wakefield joked. “What can I do for you?”

  “Wanted to see you, see how things were going, when you are ready to get back into the war.”

  “I could start rolling now if you needed us,” Wakefield replied. “Ideally, about four more weeks.”

  “Let’s split the difference, call it two weeks. Okay with you?”

  “Okay. Where to?”

  “Luxembourg. You’re still part of First Army, and you’ll be on the right flank, starting the push into the German Westwall fortifications. In between Aachen and Metz.”

  These two cities, Wakefield well knew, were the most contested part of the war right now, and both were offering stiff resistance. General Hodges’s First Army, which Bradley had given up when he took overall command, was engaged in the battle for Aachen. Wakefield also realized that the right flank of First Army was next to the left flank of Patton’s Third Army, which was fighting to reduce Metz.

  “That’s good,” Wakefield mused. “We’ll be back in the line, but we’ll still have some time to finish getting completely back up to speed.”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” Bradley said. “We’ll move you back into the war, but right now we’ve got the time to move more slowly, so let’s take advantage of it.”

  “Thanks,” Wakefield nodded. “And Brad--”

  “Yes?”

  ‘Thanks for the command.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Bradley said. “You deserve it. By the way, how’s the boy doing?”

  “Pulaski?” Only officers of Bradley and Wakefield’s generation would refer to a thirty-three year old as a “boy.” “Hard to tell. He fell off a horse. Best thing to do is get right back on, but there hasn’t been
a horse for him to ride, if you know what I’m saying. The longer until the next time he gets some combat, the more time he has to fret about it. He’s a good boy, but I’m worried a little bit.”

  “Should he be relieved?”

  Wakefield shook his head slowly. He’d considered it a number of times and still wasn’t completely sure he’d made the right decision. “No, I don’t think so. I think he needs another shot. He may need a little coaching to get through it, but once he does, I think he’ll put himself back together.”

  “Maybe it’s not a bad thing to get your men up into the line quickly,” observed Bradley.

  Wakefield nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right. The veterans need to get back into action, and the new ones need to see what it’s like, not just hear horror stories.”

  “I know what you mean. By the way, Henry--”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got you under First right now, but it can go either way. Aachen or Metz. And Metz means working for George again.” Wakefield grimaced slightly. “Either way,” he said, “we’ll handle it.” With some surprise, he realized that part of him wanted to rejoin Third Army, to be part of the action again. Hell, Old Blood and Guts may be a son of a bitch, but he's a fighting son of a bitch, he thought, though in front of Bradley, he kept his mouth shut.

  “I knew I could count on you, Henry,” Bradley replied.

  Trier, Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany, 18 September 1944, 1045 hours GMT

  “Mines--I need all the mines you can send me! When? Yesterday, of course! The Americans are bashing into Aachen, and brave Germans are dying because we can’t lay a decent minefield! I’m not interested in excuses.”

  Rommel drew breath, listened to the agitated colonel on the other end of the line.

  ‘That’s better... I will expect the delivery by the day after tomorrow!”

  He put down the telephone and called out the door of his office. “Loella?”

  “Ja, Herr Feldmarschall?”

  “Get me the figures on the concrete deliveries. I want to make sure those people in Berlin are doing all they can.”