Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  Lager-Lechfeld Luftwaffe Base, Bavaria, Germany, 19 November 1944,1008 hours GMT

  He snatched up the jangling telephone before it had finished the first ring.

  “Oberst Krueger here,” he said.

  “This is the one, Kommodore!”

  The tinny soundpiece could not mask the taut excitement in Galland’s voice. Krueger knew that the Luftwaffe head was calling from Berlin, the center where the rudimentary German radar system was tracking the incursion of enemy bombers. Receiving input from air division headquarters located all over the country, the central command station gave Galland the unprecedented ability to control the launch and deployment of all the fighter forces in the Fatherland. It was a technique first employed by the RAF during the Battle of Britain. Now it would send a force of fighters against an armada of bombers that would make the air battles of 1940 look like mere skirmishes.

  “We’ve tracked a huge stream of bombers over Belgium, making for northern Bavaria or perhaps Czechoslovakia. I’m sending up every Geschwader in Germany and your boys will be leading the way.”

  “Jawohl, mein General!” snapped Krueger, unconsciously sitting up straight as he listened to the disembodied voice. He barely heard the click as the connection was broken.

  In another second he had shouted the orders sending the great airbase into a controlled frenzy of activity. He knew his jets were ready, and that the pilots, as they had been through weeks of training, remained taut with barely contained tension. And there was fuel, blessed fuel, for once enough to do the job the way it should be done.

  The Klaxon brayed, and pilots raced from their barracks and briefing rooms. Krueger ran too, but even as he moved he took in the fierce grins on the faces of his pilots, sensed the elation buzzing in the air. For weeks they had trained, learning the new aircraft, all the time sitting on their hands when the Allied bombers came over. But, with the sounding of the battle horn, that frustrating interval came to an end. These fighters would finally take to the air, winging after real targets, and the pilots of Geschwader 51 would at last have the chance to avenge themselves against the bombers that were raining such misery onto their homeland.

  The kommodore stopped at the door of his office, for just a moment watching the pilots racing across the flight line. Not one of these young men thought he would die today, and each was eager to take his magnificent aircraft into action. Krueger, of course, knew that this sense of invulnerability was misguided, that some of these soldiers would in fact lose their lives. He didn’t much care, as long as they took enough Amis with them. He knew that these young pilots, none of whom had a background including the hours, the kills, that he himself had amassed, would certainly make mistakes. Sometimes those errors would be fatal, but at the same time they had the chance to make the enemy pay an even higher price.

  Outside, massive hangar doors were trundling open, while tractors chugged with basso force. One after another the sleek jets were rolled forward, with Krueger’s Schwalbe marked with the distinctive pattern of red flames, leading the way.

  The three Gruppen of his Geschwader, all based at this massive airfield, totaled sixty of the jets, the largest concentration of Me-262s in Germany. At many other bases, there were individual Gruppen, or in some places even a single nine-plane Staffel, of jets attached to formations of piston-powered aircraft. And, like his men, the pilots of the 109s and the Fw-190s were also eager to make this flight of vengeance.

  Before him, the jets rolled forward, lining up in takeoff position, but for the time being the powerful engines remained silent. Due to their massive rate of fuel consumption, the high-performance aircraft had a very limited range. Kommodore Krueger had given strict orders that they not fire the engines until the last possible minute. But this didn’t hold back the pilots. Exultant and jaunty, even flippant, they scrambled into the cockpits. With bubble canopies raised, they waved cheerfully to the ground crewmen who raced back and forth below.

  Feldwebel Willi Schmidt, the crew chief and mechanic who had been with Krueger since Poland, helped him to strap in and pull the canopy closed. Schmidt then went to the starboard engine and stood, the pull cord for the two-cycle starter motor in his hand. He was ready to activate on the pilot’s command.

  In the meantime the kommodore of Geschwader 51 listened to his helmet radio, as a low power transmission from the field tower kept him appraised of the course of the bomber stream. He knew that, though the enemy aircraft might be on course to several different targets, the Americans would maintain their concentration of force for as long as possible. He also understood that Galland’s tactic called for a huge force of fighters to intercept this bomber stream. It occurred to him that if they succeeded they would trigger an air battle unprecedented in the history of the world.

  “Enemy bombers advancing toward Regensburg/Prague axis. Range to target, one hundred twenty kilometers.”

  The words crackled in his earphones, and he decided it was time to act. With a chop of his hand, he signaled the ground crews, and immediately the gasoline starter engines rattled from his starboard, and moments later his port, wing. All across the flight line, the similar high-pitched snarls indicated the little motors being started. Soon the jet engines began to catch, and the now-familiar howl grew to a commanding whine as the mechanics hustled away from the planes.

  He looked across the Geschwader, saw that at least a dozen of the jets were still being worked on by their crews. Unfortunate, but not surprising--these high-powered engines were still temperamental and touchy, and of his sixty brand-new aircraft Krueger would today be happy to get a mere fifty into the air.

  But there was no longer time to wait. He released the brakes, his flame-painted fighter leading the procession of jets onto the runway. Two wingmen lined up at his flanks, for on this wide runway the fighters would take off in threes. Opening the throttle, he let the acceleration press him into the seat, and angled his powerful aircraft toward the enemy in the sky. The jets to the right and left kept pace, and the trio of deadly planes lifted smoothly, banking in unison to angle away from the field.

  Behind him the young men who were the hope of Germany took to the air, a formation propelled by fire, roaring upward on a mission of death.

  Army Group B HQ, Trier, Germany, 1305 hours GMT

  It was after his latest expedition, a jaunt that had carried him as far north as Holland and back in a week, that Rommel returned to his headquarters in Trier. After driving all night, his staff car pulled into the city during the midmorning. Rommel--with, it must be added, Mutti’s advice--had selected a small combat car, protected with a little bit of armor but capable of high speed travel, as his new command vehicle.

  Mutti drove the car along muddy tracks, even fording streams and rivulets that were now frequently swollen by the increasingly heavy autumn rains. When an early snowstorm had caught them in the Ardennes Forest, the driver once more proved his skill, negotiating narrow and winding roads without an appreciable loss of speed. Now Carl-Heinz stopped the car in front of the hotel, and immediately the field marshal went to the situation room where his staff, alerted by reports of his return, had gathered.

  Gunter von Reinhardt, now chief of intelligence for Army Group B, was responsible for conducting the briefing. He hadn’t quite gotten over his unaccustomed embarrassment when confronted with the field marshal, but he was determined to win the man’s unvarnished respect. The brief smile on Rommel’s face as he sank into his chair at the head of the table and the slight nod that told him to begin was enormously reassuring. He had not yet disgraced himself, only not proved himself. He didn’t reflect how seldom he found any need to prove himself to anyone else.

  “What is the latest news?” asked the Desert Fox.

  “We have an American movement, spearheaded by armor, coming around the north of Metz,” reported Reinhardt, indicating troop movements and positions on the large map. “You will need to decide whether to try and reinforce.”

  Reinhardt had already made up his
mind about the proper course of action. He knew that the dynamic in the room was fairly balanced, with General Speidel, his chief of staff, and others holding out for reinforcement, himself on the other side. There was also a Himmler directive--a “stand and die” order--to take into account. But this was not a democracy, after all. Only one vote counted.

  Normally, Reinhardt would use this as a test of the intelligence of the commander, but this time he found himself holding his breath, waiting to see if his own judgment would be validated by one of the few men he’d ever met whom he judged his true superior.

  Rommel looked at the map, unaware of the mental challenge he was posing to his subordinate. It was an interesting strategic puzzle. The massive network of fortifications, including twenty ancient castles and strong points, had held up Patton’s army for a month and a half, but he could see that the end was at hand. Already the U.S. infantry had pushed south of the city, crossing the Moselle River and swinging northward to cut Metz off from the Rhine. Now, with an armored spearhead racing to meet them, the time had come, he decided, to cut his losses.

  There was a complication. Führer Himmler had commanded him to hold Metz at all costs, but in his mind that was only another datum, not at all conclusive. As far as he was concerned, the days when German generals followed militarily foolish directives merely because they came from a higher-ranking source were over. He was the commander and would make decisions up until the moment someone chose to remove him.

  “No... no more troops to Metz.” This kind of decision, no matter how necessary, no matter how justified, was always painful to make.

  “Is it your order, then, that they will hold with what they have?” Bücher asked. The room was looking expectantly at the Desert Fox, waiting for him to cut the Gordian knot, for they were fully aware of Himmler’s order, and too aware of the fate of past generals who ignored the commands of Adolf Hitler.

  Rommel shook his head. ‘Too impractical. The Americans will just have the chance to put the whole garrison in POW camps. Instead, send orders to General Schmidt they are to withdraw as soon as they can, under the cover of darkness tonight, if possible. Tell him that he is to bring out all the men and materiel that he can.”

  “Mein Feldmarschall!” Bücher’s scarred cheeks flamed red with protest. “This is in direct contradiction to the orders of the führer. I must protest!”

  Careful, thought Rommel. He had no intention of changing his mind, but there was no need to cause unnecessary strife. “I can understand how you might see it that way, General, but the key order I received from Führer Himmler is to win the war in the west. I think he would agree that is my highest responsibility, and I’m sure you would agree with that yourself.”

  Rommel’s mildness took the edge off Bücher’s rage. “Of course, mein Feldmarschall, that would be the führer’s highest command. But--”

  Smoothly, Rommel took the first point and moved on. “And therefore, I must make certain tactical decisions that, while they may go against the führer’s first preference--and my own, I might add--are necessary given the situation. Did not our late führer himself say, ‘Strength lies not in defense but in attack’?

  Very well, let us follow the words of our late leader and prepare for an attack. In the meantime, we should not waste resources on defense. Colonel, would you see to the orders?”

  “Yes, Field Marshal,” saluted Reinhardt. He was obviously having a hard time concealing his grin.

  He had not convinced Bücher, but he had brought the room to his side. So be it, the Desert Fox reflected. The days of German soldiers dying in pointless lost causes were over, so far as he was concerned.

  Not all of Himmler’s orders, fortunately, had been foolish or wrong. Just yesterday, he’d received a Himmler directive that was quite unlike the “stand and die” orders for Metz. In fact, this latest directive followed very closely Rommel’s own feeling on the conduct of the campaign. It was time, as he’d suggested to Bücher, to think about going on the offensive. Trains were rolling, finally, bringing reinforcements into the Westwall. His armored divisions were rested, well-equipped with new tanks and personnel. The weather, too, was getting worse every day, and this greatly limited the Allies’ ability to dominate the front through air power. Today’s clear skies notwithstanding, the field marshal knew that it was time to think about an attack.

  Even as he was internally ticking off these reasons, a dull rumble began to penetrate the walls, the foundation of the Continental Hotel. A chandelier rattled slightly, and Rommel felt an unmistakable sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  “Bombers.” Speidel, the chief of staff, was the first to speak.

  “Coming here?” asked the supply officer, Müller, his voice squeaking comically. At first, Rommel had wondered about the fat little supply officer but had discovered that the man was competent and detail driven in his work, which was the most important element of the job.

  “Let’s go have a look,” Rommel said coolly. The droning of thousands of engines, in any event, would bring a postponement to the rest of the meeting.

  Indeed, the thunder of Allied aircraft all but drowned out further attempts at conversation. The officers looked grimly around the room, each of them knowing they heard another great bomber raid, a veritable river of bombers moving on the Reich. Rommel led his staff out onto the hotel’s highest balcony to witness the event.

  Tiny specks in the distance, the American bombers formed a swath that stretched from the right to the left horizon. The massive formation of four-engined aircraft was passing north of the city, obviously destined for a target farther to the east. The leading elements had already crossed into Germany, but there was no sign of antiaircraft fire, or harassment from the Luftwaffe. The aircraft rumbled on, toward whatever targets the enemy, with utter impunity, elected to bomb. The great airplanes formed an implacable testimony to the might of Allied air power.

  “How many of them are there?” Bayerlein asked softly.

  No one answered. There was no obvious response, except that they could all see thousands of individual specks.

  “Like stars in the night sky,” Rommel finally mused.

  “If we could only strike at them, hurt them the way they hurt the Fatherland,” growled Speidel, “then we might just have a chance.”

  “Maybe we do have a chance,” Rommel suggested. He recalled those marvelous fighters and wondered if this was the raid that would draw them into action. “It will be interesting to see what develops.”

  For once he was without fear, contemplating the aerial might of his enemies. Without further explanation he led the group back to the conference room.

  After the meeting, Rommel assumed that Bücher would call Berlin; what surprised him is that he asked permission first. “Mein Feldmarschall, because of your decision to abandon Metz in contradiction to der Führer’s orders, I’m afraid that I am required to contact Berlin in this matter. I regret the necessity, but I must follow my orders.” Bücher stood at rigid attention in Rommel’s office, his scarred cheeks still blazing red, as if he was afraid to be reprimanded.

  Rommel nodded. “Of course, General Bücher. You must follow your orders, and I took for granted that you would. You’re a good soldier. And as for me, I do not lightly disregard these directives, but you see, my superiors are the General Staff. Führer Himmler can make suggestions, but ultimately his only power is to remove me from this position. As the field commander, I must make tactical decisions as I see them.” He spoke mildly, his eyes fixed on Bücher all the while.

  Bücher kept at attention. “Mein Feldmarschall, I believe you are correct in theory about the chain of command, but in practice that is not the way it is. Please take my advice, sir, and reconsider your orders regarding Metz. You cannot go against our führer. You simply cannot.”

  “I know you mean well, General, and I understand your concerns. But I am a soldier, like you. And I am a German as well. I cannot and will not abandon my fellow Germans to needless destruction, n
or will I sacrifice unnecessarily soldiers who can be used more productively from a military perspective. If there is personal risk to me in my decisions, so be it. I make others risk their lives each and every day; it is only fair that I assume the same risks for myself. Call Berlin, General Bücher, and say what you must. We are all soldiers, and we must all do our duty as we see it.”

  The SS general paused for a long moment before saluting Nazi-style. “Yes, sir,” he said, clicking his heels before pivoting to march out of Rommel’s office. The Desert Fox watched him go and wondered whether he had just signed his own death warrant. He hoped that it would not have to be Bücher’s duty to kill him. He respected the man and knew that following those orders would hurt Bücher deeply.

  Skies Over Augsburg, Germany, 1300 hours GMT

  Colonel Krueger scanned the skies before him, seeing a virtual landscape of enemy bombers. He had never in his life seen so many aircraft gathered in one place. As the forty-three airworthy jets of his Geschwader raced closer to the leading heavies, he could not help yielding to a momentary doubt. Could they possibly have any impact on this huge force? But then the fiery rage leaped up into his heart and he howled with glee. For they were sheep and he led the wolves, and before the day was over everyone would know who was who.

  He knew that other Gruppen, more jets and hundreds of Me-109s and Fw-190s, were sweeping against this massive force from all directions. In the distance he saw dogfights between Luftwaffe fighters and the P-51 Mustangs of the bombers’ escorts, angry specks wheeling through the skies, snarling into combat, here and there trailing plumes of smoke or bright fingers of flame.