Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  “Of course--and, sir, General Speidel is waiting to see you.”

  “Send him in, right away.”

  Rommel rose from his desk and limped to the window, fighting back the urge to wince against the constant pain. When would he be whole again? When would his body be able to match the speed and agility of his mind?

  He shook off the thoughts, knowing that its attendant worry--when would his mind be restored to its earlier certainty and decisiveness?--was a pointless exercise in futile self-examination. He could not afford to waste time with self-pity and doubt. So much was riding on his shoulders, now, and he would have to do the best that he could.

  But would it be enough?

  His eyes wandered across the vista from his office window. The hotel was located high on a hill, and from here he could see the Porta Nigra, the ancient Roman gate that was a classic landmark of this city. Nearby was the ancient amphitheater, and not too far away rose the towers of the grand cathedral. Everywhere there were trees, mostly green and vibrant still, though a few showed the bright orange or brittle brown of approaching autumn. It was good to see a tree with signs of life. He missed the battle-scarred oak at the hospital at Vesinet. He hoped it was recovering as well as he was.

  He was spared further maudlin dissembling by the arrival of Speidel.

  Rommel gestured out the window. “We’re fighting for our own homeland, our national treasures now. I wonder if that makes a difference.”

  “I think it does, Field Marshal--to officers and men alike,” replied the chief of staff. “I know it does to me.”

  “And to me, as well,” Rommel admitted. He wanted to sigh, to collapse into his chair and rest, but instead he turned to business. “What is the news about the manpower reserves? Has the transportation bottleneck eased?”

  “Unfortunately, no, mein Feldmarschall. We have sent repeated messages to Berlin, but the word is always the same: the SS have the authority over all rail operations.”

  A more profane man might have made some harsh remark, but the Desert Fox merely shook his head and moved on. One consequence of his wounds seemed to have been a diminishing of his once-renowned temper. In a few minutes he and Speidel had finished the staff business, and by that time General Bayerlein was waiting to see him. The armored commander entered accompanied by another recent addition to the staff, Colonel von Reinhardt.

  “Come in, Fritz. I hope you have some good news for me.”

  “I think so, Field Marshal. We have outfitted three panzer divisions with new Panthers... and each has an additional battalion of Tigers. They are currently being refitted north of here, in the area of the Ardennes.”

  “Good.” Rommel turned to Reinhardt. “And what are your intelligence summaries of the enemies’ intentions?”

  The colonel stood at attention with that easy grace that marked so many of the aristocratic Prussians. Yet even so, Rommel found himself liking the man, gauging his comfort level as a mark of competence, not arrogance.

  “We believe that the Americans will redouble their efforts at Aachen, Field Marshal. Patton remains tied up at Metz, not even adjacent to our border yet, and we suspect that the enemy has political reasons to conclude the early capture of a German city.”

  “Indeed. An interesting theory,” the Desert Fox replied.

  He found the young man to be thoughtful and intelligent, careful to distinguish between information he actually knew and his own suppositions and theories, a characteristic that had not been true of every intelligence officer he’d met. He enjoyed the strategic give-and-take, the discussion of options. He still felt his own mind was weaker, slower than usual, but he managed to keep up, though not without some effort.

  An hour after the two men had left, Rommel remained busy at his desk. These days he found himself working as hard as he ever had, tending to a myriad of details in his headquarters, bringing order to the chaos that had resulted from the long withdrawal. Bayerlein and Speidel had proved themselves as able as ever, the former taking over the organization of panzer forces while the latter addressed matters of supply and reinforcement. Even the SS officers, Meyer and Dietrich, had submitted to the field marshal’s commands with a minimum of resistance. Now, a week after establishing his headquarters, Rommel was feeling that things were beginning to come together. Many times during these long days the Desert Fox was afflicted by physical weakness brought on by his wounds, but his able lieutenants covered for him, and he felt fairly certain that his condition was not widely known among the troops. Though he had wanted to tour the front, he had remained in the headquarters since his arrival, finding that there were too many things here that required his direct attention.

  Late in the day he was pleased to greet Baron von Esebeck, who as usual had been touring among the troops of the Wehrmacht, taking pictures and gathering news stories for dissemination throughout the Fatherland.

  “I have to find a driver,” Rommel mentioned. “It is time for me to get out and tour the front.”

  “I know just the man,” von Esebeck informed him. “And I just learned that he is here, in Trier, and currently waiting for a new assignment.”

  Rommel liked Carl-Heinz Clausen at first glance. The tank driver was a square, blocky rock of a man. Although he’d taken time to put on a fresh tunic, his fingernails still betrayed a hint of the grease that the field marshal suspected was a permanent feature of his appearance. Clausen was smiling, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. Rommel remembered that this feature was supposed to be linked to sensuality. But then the man did have five children.

  “You wanted to see me, Field Marshal?” the man said, saluting.

  “Yes, yes. Tell me--you are the man who was photographed by von Esebeck just before Abbeville?”

  “Jawohl, mein Feldmarschall!” Carl-Heinz Clausen replied. “At least, I was inside driving the tank--the other men were in the picture “

  “Ah, you have an ear for detail. I like that,” said the Desert Fox. “I also understand that you served under General Bayerlein, and distinguished yourself in the battle at Abbeville.”

  ‘Thank you, sir. I was fortunate enough to find a vulnerable flank. It was good to see the Americans turn about and run for a change.” His wide-open, guileless smile was a treat for Rommel, who far preferred the company of enlisted soldiers to many of the officers and politicians who made up his daily lot.

  “I am sorry to hear about the loss of your crewmates... though they tell me that the radioman--Pfeiffer, is it?--stands a good chance of making a recovery.”

  “That’s what they tell me, Herr Feldmarschall.” Carl-Heinz said. “We took a direct hit from a field artillery piece... destroyed the turret of our Panther. But by then, the battle was won.”

  “Good work. Now, to the reason I have called you here. I have need of a driver, and your reputation is very sound. I would like to attach you to my headquarters in that role. It will carry a promotion to feldwebel.”

  “I’d be honored,” Carl-Heinz replied. “I’ll take good care of the vehicle, sir--and the passengers, too, of course.”

  The Desert Fox laughed. “I need a good man, one who can offer me some help.” He grimaced, touched the cheekbone that was still sore--though, thankfully, at last free of the eye patch that he once thought he’d have to wear for the rest of his life. “In truth, I do not move so well, but I believe it is important for a commander to see things--and to be seen by his troops. Therefore, your assignment will involve many hours on the road, as well as a high level of discretion regarding my infirmities.”

  He could see the honest sympathy on the man’s face. “Certainly, Field Marshal. Sir--I’m pretty handy around a tool box, and I think I can whip up a few things that might make your life a little easier, if you’d like, sir.”

  “Well, Feldwebel Clausen, I certainly would like. I’m in your capable hands,” replied Rommel, content with yet another command decision. This one, he thought, might turn out to be one of his best yet.

  That night Car
l-Heinz gathered his kit in the replacement barracks. Personal driver to the Desert Fox--my, wouldn’t Yetta and the kids be proud! Events had started, of course, when he had bumped into the photographer on the street late in the morning of this same day. Von Esebeck had recognized him immediately and had asked him about events in his life since that now-famous photograph. Apparently the baron had been to see Rommel later in the afternoon.

  Carl-Heinz had been idle for the last few weeks, as useless as a piston without an engine block. Of course, here in Trier he had been able to visit Ulrich Pfeiffer in the hospital, and he had written Yetta every day--and, even more miraculous, received her replies in a timely fashion. Waiting for his new assignment, he had watched new tanks arrive, including the massive Tigers--which seemed like clumsy behemoths to Clausen--and more Panthers than he had imagined Germany’s factories could produce.

  They were good tanks. He could remember his Panther rolling through the field full of burning Shermans, each marked with a white star in a crimson field he had later learned denoted them as one of Patton’s spearhead units. Fritzi and Pelz in the turret, loading and firing round after round, watching the surviving American tanks flee in disorder... destroying them one after another as they raced for the shelter of the woods overlooking Abbeville.

  The shell that had struck their Panther had come from nowhere, seemingly--though that wasn’t possible, wasn’t even conceivable for a force that had struck them with such profound and irrevocable power. Concussion had knocked the big panzer across the ground, and somehow, in the thickness of smoke and fire, Carl-Heinz had thrown open the driver’s hatch and scrambled out. He remembered his shock as he looked back, realizing that the turret was completely gone. And with it had gone Fritzi and Pelz, two men who had lived and fought with Carl-Heinz for the last four years. Good men. Their loss saddened him

  And then he had noticed the faint movement, the vibration of the radioman’s hatch. Pfeiffer, his chest torn by a shard of shrapnel, had pushed once, and then his strength had failed. Clausen had scrambled back onto the burning hull and torn the hatch back so hard that he had twisted a hinge. Ulrich was lying there, unconscious and covered in blood, and Carl-Heinz had somehow pulled him out and dragged him away before the Panther had been totally consumed by oily flame.

  That evening he went to see Pfeiffer in the hospital, knowing that his new duties might put an end to these previously daily visits.

  “Never mind about me,” Ulrich had said, his voice firming up despite the bandages that still encircled his chest. “I guess

  I’m going to make it, one way or another. You know, I never thought I’d live through this war. I owe you my life, my friend.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Carl-Heinz replied, “You’d have probably gotten yourself out anyway. If it bothers you, buy me a beer when you get out of this place--before you go back home, you lucky bastard.”

  The wounded man shook his head firmly. “Yeah, lucky, that’s me. But you... be careful, Carl-Heinz. There’s a lot of this war yet to be fought, and you’ve gotten yourself right back into the middle of it.”

  “Don’t worry--I’ll be driving the Desert Fox around. And we all know he leads a charmed life!”

  “I hope you’re right,” Ulrich said, his eyes shining with melancholy. “You’re too good a man to be killed.”

  “You’re right about that,” Carl-Heinz laughed. “Or is it the other way around? Only the good die young, so you and I, we’re both safe as houses. Besides, I promised Yetta I’d come home; and if I don’t, she’ll kill me, you know.”

  “Seriously,” Ulrich said. “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” replied Carl-Heinz with a toothy grin.

  Broadcast House, Berlin, Germany, 22 September 1944, 2100 hours GMT

  “This is Broadcast House, Berlin, interrupting our regularly scheduled program for a message from our führer.”

  The announcer in the booth pointed a finger at Heinrich Himmler, who sat on a stool, his speech displayed before him on a music stand.

  “Men and women of Germany,” he began. ‘Tonight I speak to you with a heavy heart, on a subject I had hoped to avoid. As you know, only a few short months ago, cowardly British spies assassinated our beloved führer, Adolf Hitler. Those responsible were arrested, given a fair trial, and subsequently executed.” He adjusted his glasses over his watery eyes, and continued.

  “I speak to you today so you might hear my voice and know that I am unhurt and well, in spite of the fact that I have only just escaped harm at the hands of the remnants of that small gang of criminal elements.”

  The elderly officer was alone, shuffling along the Wilhelmstrasse with the slight stoop of an old man, making his way on foot from the War Ministry to his apartment in the staff compound. He took no notice of the Mercedes that rumbled quietly along the street, then glided gently to the curb behind him.

  “General!” Bücher stepped out of the car and spoke sharply, knowing that General Rowekamp would spin about indignantly.

  When he did, Bücher shot him in the belly, and then again, in the throat. He stood over the man, watching him choke around his blood, straining for a last breath that would never come.

  “You fancied yourself a leader, did you not?” he questioned the dying man. “Well, now it is your turn to lead many of your precious General Staff into death.”

  Rowekamp was not yet dead when Bücher reentered the car and gestured to his SS driver to pull away from the curb and turn at the next comer. Behind the car, the dying general’s hand clutched at empty air, while in the backseat Bücher was already double-checking the next name on his list. He listened to the radio broadcast as the car drove on.

  “It was clear at the time that the British assassins received aid from a small clique of ambitious, unscrupulous, criminal, and stupid officers, kin to those anonymous cowards who stabbed the German army in the back in 1918. Some of those officers were quickly identified and received the just and appropriate fate such treasonous activities so richly deserved.

  “We knew there were others associated with that small clique, not directly involved in the assassination itself, but rather a few weak-minded, defeatist, envious second raters who were too incompetent to pose any threat to the German people and its leaders. Knowing full well that a thorough investigation would necessarily bring dishonor on the sterling reputation of our brave and gallant officers of the Wehrmacht, who have nothing in common with the black deeds of those small and stupid traitors, we elected to do nothing that might interfere with the war effort. We believed that these little ratlike cowards would scurry back into their holes and their incompetence would render them harmless.

  “Tonight, unfortunately, we have discovered otherwise. Rats and cowards are not themselves dangerous, but when they become the tools and accomplices of enemy spies, they have the power to wreak untold harm. I have escaped, yes. But others have not been so fortunate.”

  General Friedrich Fromm, head of the Replacement Army and von Stauffenberg’s commanding officer, was relieved that he had, so far, escaped any implication in the coup. As soon as he realized that the conspiracy was destined to fail, he had arrested all the plotters under his command and had them shot on his own initiative, then called on Himmler personally to pledge his loyalty. He knew that he could not escape all suspicion, since the assassin had been on his own senior staff, but he hoped by demonstrating his loyalty so aggressively, he could at least save his skin.

  Tonight, he and several of his comrades, including Colonel General Erich Hoepner, were enjoying a rare evening out in a small biergarten located where one of the nastier Weimar cabarets once reigned. Still in a more-patriotic-than-thou move, he hoisted his stein and shouted, “To the führer!” for the fourth time that night. The crowd in the smoky bar cheered and drank with him.

  Then the door suddenly burst open. Fromm looked up--British uniforms? That was his last thought before the commandos aimed their weapons, spraying his table with machine gun fire. He
saw Hoepner go down before the bullets knocked him backward; his beer stein spilled over himself, and as his blood ran red on the sawdust floor the screams of the crowd echoed in his ears.

  “An airdrop of British commandos landed in Berlin only two hours ago. They have all been killed by SS troops, but not before they managed to assassinate several German officers, including General Friedrich Fromm.”

  The use of the British uniforms was a good touch, Bücher thought. Himmler had a good mind for this sort of thing. And with numerous witnesses, the story would spread all over Germany. The time discrepancy could be easily ignored with good media control.

  “Even now, officers of the Gestapo are arresting the remaining collaborators. These criminals and traitors will be punished for their crimes in a manner to which we National Socialists are well accustomed.”

  A knock came at the door of the home of the Berlin police president. Sleepily, the maid opened the door and three Gestapo officers pushed inside. “Wolf Heinrich von Helldorf?” they demanded.

  “Up-upstairs,” stammered the maid, pointing toward the staircase.

  Up the stairs rushed the agents, pushed open the bedroom door, and ran inside.

  “Wh-what is it?” mumbled the sleeping woman. Then she woke, and screamed.

  Her husband opened his eyes. “Yes?” he asked, thinking it was his own police officers.

  “You are under arrest for treason, Police President,” the chief Gestapo officer said.

  Von Helldorf took a deep sigh. His moment was here at last. He had hoped to live to fight another day, but that day would not come. “Just let me get my glasses,” he said, and reached toward the nightstand. Instead of glasses he produced a Luger, and shot one officer through the heart. Three bullets slammed into him a moment later and his wife screamed as she watched his blood pour out onto the carpet.