Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  “You’ve got to remember, the British have been here before,” Eisenhower countered, in his ever-rational, patient delivery. “In 1940, to be precise. The Krauts came through the Ardennes, and the next thing you know the British Expeditionary Force was scrambling into fishing boats on the beaches at Dunkirk.”

  “But the U.S. Army is here now!” Patton roared. “And damn it, Ike, I’m not about to let some goddamn goose-stepping Nazis push me back from the Siegfried Line.”

  Eisenhower nodded. “I know, George...and I agree with you. But that doesn’t change basic facts. And one fact is this: Rommel cannot be allowed to cross the Meuse.”

  “We can stop him!” Bradley interjected.

  “I hope so--but I’ve made a decision that will help. I’m transferring First Army to Monty until this mess is over. He’ll take charge of the northern flank of this bulge in our lines.

  You, Brad, with Third Army, are to shut them down on the south.”

  Eisenhower held up his hand as both generals started to protest. “We’ll argue about it later. For now, Monty’s got the word. He’s drawing his Tommies down to the river, and will hold a line from Namur eastward. If the Germans get that far, they’ll be stopped.”

  “And what about us?” demanded the red-faced Patton. “You’ll have to get yourself into the attack as soon as possible. Drive north, try to reach this road junction here--Bastogne, the name is. It’s almost surrounded, and it’s a key to travel through the Ardennes. I’m trying to get the 101st Airborne--truck-mounted for now--into there to try and hold the line, but it seems like the Krauts are moving too fast.”

  “I already have plans drawn up for a turn north,” said Patton confidently. “Fourth Armored will be on the way by this evening.”

  “This evening?” the supreme commander replied, startled. Patton grinned.

  “And just to be on the safe side,” Eisenhower continued, “I want you to send somebody as far west as the Meuse. Tanks, a whole armored division if possible. Someone that can drive northward, in case Rommel reaches Dinant, here in Belgium.” Eisenhower indicated a little dot on the map. “Do you have anybody in position?”

  “It’s pretty goddamn unlikely Rommel will make it to Dinant. If so, though, I can get someone in position,” Patton answered. “It’s the Nineteenth Armored--that’s Henry Wakefield’s boys. They’re refitting after Metz, farthest west of any of my units.”

  “Well, George, think they can handle it?” asked the Supreme Commander.

  “They’re Third Army now,” growled Patton. “And they did okay in Metz.”

  “Then give them the job.”

  Near Stavelot, Belgium, 18 December 1944, 1718 hours GMT

  Chuck Porter stopped, put his hands on his knees, and took several great, heaving breaths. In spite of the snow and cold, he was sweating. Behind him, he could hear the crackling of breaking twigs and the crumping sound of boots against snow. In the dim gray light nothing much was visible past about three feet. Porter had no idea where he was--except that he was trapped, cut off, and probably about to die.

  The end had come upon him suddenly. Out of the trees came a line of panzers; noises of screams mixed with gunfire and the booming of great cannon, flashes of blinding light mixed with swirling smoke, the sensation of his jeep swerving suddenly, leaving the road, upending in a ditch. He had been thrown out onto a snowbank, bruised and cut but not seriously injured.

  Scrambling up and into the trees, heart pounding, he had virtually no memory of the brief battle; it was a blur, a mental block. When he caught his breath and looked back from the shelter of the trees, he saw the surviving American soldiers with hands up, surrendering to rifle-wielding Germans wearing gray uniforms.

  He turned to run, rustling the bushes, making too much noise. He heard “Dort! In den Büschen! Erhalten Sie ihn!” His college German, rusty at best, helped him decipher the shouts; “There! In the bushes! Get him!” He did not stop to think whether surrender would be the best choice; he simply ran, hearing the growing sounds of footsteps behind him. He was out of shape, terribly out of shape. Tree branches slashed at his face, he was tangled, trapped.

  He stopped, gasped, pushed through, ran again. Then his foot twisted in a gnarled tree root and he went face down in the snow. And they were upon him. “Kamerad! Bitte schiefien Sie nicht! Ich übergebe!” he called out, begging them not to shoot; he surrendered. “Ich bin ein amerikanischer Zeitungsreporter” He had no idea if it would help by telling him he was an American newspaperman, but he would say anything, anything to avoid the sound he feared would be next, the point-blank sound of a rifle firing, ending his life.

  He could barely understand the soldier’s barked command. “Stehen Sie oben! Setzen Sie Ihr überreicht Ihren Kopf!” Awkwardly, he stood up and put his hands over his head, trying to keep his hands in plain view. He hoped he was translating properly. This was not the sort of German phrase he had studied in his long-ago classes. They never teach you anything practical, he thought.

  The soldier yelled out new commands: “Bewegung! Schneller! Erhalten Sie zurück mit den anderen Soldaten!” He couldn’t move any faster, not with his hands over his head, but he struggled through the snow at his best possible speed, crossing through the ditch and up into the knot of shivering American prisoners. He noticed the wrecked jeep; the sergeant who had been driving was dead, crushed in the wreckage, one arm hanging into the snow. He shivered in fear and guilt The soldier who had captured him was talking to an officer, a tall, thin-faced colonel, if his reading of Wehrmacht insignia was correct. “Er sagt, daß er ein amerikanischer Zeitungsre-porter ist,” he was saying.

  “Ein amerikanischer Zeitungsreporter? Sehr interessant. Trug er eine Waffe?” replied the colonel. Porter strained to hear, to make out the language. They were clearly talking about him. “He says he’s an American reporter.” “An American newspaper reporter? Very interesting. Was he carrying a weapon?”

  “Nicht daß ich beachtete. Er trdgt eine Karte irgendeiner Sortie rung, aber ich kann nicht lesen, was es sagt,” replied the soldier. Porter listened intently, pointing eagerly to the press card the soldier mentioned.

  “Lassen Sie mich mit ihm sprechen” The colonel came over to him, gestured to one of the guards, who grabbed the reporter by the shoulder and shoved him forward. The guard escorted him to a command half-track to talk privately.

  “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” asked the officer.

  His reply was halting as he grasped for the words. “Ein wenig. Ich studierte es in der Hochschule.” He spoke only college-level German, just a little bit at that.

  The German officer smiled, then switched to a formal English, somewhat accented. “I speak a little English; I studied your language in the college as well. I am Colonel Gunter von Reinhardt, intelligence officer for Army Group B. And you would be?”

  “Porter. Chuck Porter. Associated Press, Paris bureau chief.” He gave a deep sigh of relief. His heart was still pounding with fear, but he realized he had just drawn a royal flush.

  “Bureau chief?” He looked skeptically at the press pass Porter wore around his neck. “And you would normally find an Associated Press bureau chief in the front edge of a combat zone, rather than in an office many kilometers away?”

  “When the bureau chief can get away with it, yes,” Porter said with a tentative smile. “The same way you might find an intelligence officer in combat rather than in headquarters.” He held his breath, wondering if a smart remark like that could get him shot.

  Reinhardt laughed. “When he can get away with it. Indeed. And you are seeing somewhat more of combat than you had wagered, correct?”

  “I am, colonel. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” Irony and humor seemed to be the right tone to take with this particular Wehrmacht officer. Porter knew he’d be spending the rest of the war in a POW camp. Well, maybe I can turn this into a book when it’s all over, he thought.

  “And as a reporter, you are always looking for interesting news stories, a unique
angle?”

  “Of course I am,” Porter laughed. “Got any good leads?” Reinhardt looked at the newspaper reporter with calculating eyes. “I understand that while you are an American, and presumably patriotic, you are also a reporter and believe in accurate news. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, on both counts.”

  The German officer reached a decision. “Very well. I am thinking that you might prove useful as a communications channel as well as a neutral reporting source on the events of today and the next few days.”

  “Colonel, I’d like to do my job as a reporter even under these circumstances. But I want you to know that I’m neither a propagandist nor a traitor,” Porter said.

  “Of course not,” said the colonel seriously. “That is not my purpose. I will ask you only to be an honest channel of information. If you are interested, there will be only one requirement, and that is your parole. No attempts to escape, no attempts to go into areas we set as off-limits. Do you agree?” Porter thought for a moment, inspecting the offer for hidden traps. “If I decide I can’t go along with what you want, I can elect to become a regular prisoner of war. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Reinhardt turned to the guard. “Dieser Mann kann vom Gebrauch zum Feldmarschall sein. Ich werde ihn mit mir nehmen. Er hat sein Wort, um gegeben nicht zu versuchen zu entgehen.” Porter translated in his head. “This man may be of use to the field marshal. I am going to take him with me. He has given his word not to try to escape.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” the soldier said, saluting. He took a long, mean look at his prisoner, as if to send the message that Porter had better not try anything.

  Porter had no intention whatsoever of doing so.

  Mobile Command Post, Army Group B, St Vith, Belgium, 19 December 1944,1757 hours GMT

  “Pull in here,” Rommel said, and Carl-Heinz obediently turned off the road to park between a pair of half-tracks. The whitewashed vehicles clustered like suckling piglets around the shambling ruin of what had once been a sprawling inn. A small banner beside the doorway identified the building as the forward army headquarters.

  “Get a cup of tea and a bite of bread,” the field marshal suggested. “I’m going to get an update on the situation, but be ready to move again within the hour.”

  Before Carl-Heinz could acknowledge the order, Rommel was out the door, striding purposefully into the makeshift headquarters. Only as he returned the salutes of the guards at the door did he realize that he had left his cane behind in the car. He should be exhausted, he told himself. He’d been on the road for more than seventy-two hours, never napping for more than a few minutes in the lurching car. Yet instead, he was more energized than he had been since getting wounded. In fact, he realized in surprise, he hadn’t felt this much vigor since the heyday of his campaign in Africa!

  He found Speidel and Reinhardt poring over a map in the gas-lamp brightness of the inn’s great room. Without ceremony the Desert Fox made his way to the table for an impromptu briefing.

  “Great news, Herr Feldmarschall! We’ve captured a major Allied fuel dump, here, at Stavelot. Well over a million gallons, possibly even two, of fuel. We’ve sent word that all synthetic fuel stocks can be diverted to the Luftwaffe; we won’t need them any more. We’re loading up front line units with all they can hold and shipping the rest back to bring up reinforcements.” One of Rommel’s biggest concerns had been whether he would have the ability to bring up the forces in the rear. He had the troops, and now he had the fuel. This changed everything.

  “Overall, the first three days of the rest of the campaign have gone as well as we could have hoped,” Speidel continued. “The Americans have shown some resistance here, and here....” he slapped the map, highlighting a rugged elevation known as the Elsenborn Ridge, “but we’ve isolated these pockets. Guderian’s spearheads are closing on Spa from the north. They’ve already captured St. Vith and are moving on the Meuse.”

  “And Manteuffel?”

  “He’s almost surrounded Bastogne. You remember, the town that controls the road network for the whole region. It’s being held by a few Americans, but they’re trying to get more reinforcements in. Our infantry have attacked for more than a day, but haven’t made any progress.”

  Aside from Bastogne, it was success everywhere, Rommel noted. The initial spearheads of the attack cut through the stunned Americans with more speed than the Desert Fox could have possibly hoped. The field marshal had driven along in the wake of the lead panzer divisions. Several times he had passed hastily constructed POW compounds, where stunned Americans looked out from behind fences of barbed wire.

  He had stopped at various unit headquarters, and everywhere learned that the attack was proceeding at a good clip. On the northern shoulder, the enemy had shown some initial resistance, but Guderian had hastily committed an extra panzer division, and finally the Tiger tanks had rumbled over the American trenches.

  More prisoners... more headlong advances. Everywhere it seemed that the Americans were falling back where they weren’t surrendering. The Ardennes had in fact been held only by a thin screen of units, and once the German armor had punctured that screen, they had found great opportunities for advance.

  Best of all, the weather stayed bad. When it wasn’t snowing, there were heavy clouds pressing close to the ground, shrouding these already dark hills in a gloom that prevented even the most rudimentary air activity.

  Rommel hardly noticed when a thick piece of bread found its way into his hand--Mutti taking care of him again. He was surprised how good it felt to take a big bite; he was hungrier than he thought.

  “Get a message to Guderian,” Rommel said, ready to head back to his car. “I want him to get his spearheads to the Meuse with all speed, then to throw a bridgehead across. And remind Manteuffel to watch the southern flank. Patton’s down there, and he’s sure to take an interest in what’s going on.” The field marshal took one more look at the map. “I am going to Bastogne myself. We need those roads--that’s where the battle will be decided!”

  “Yes, field marshal!” Speidel promised.

  As Rommel turned to leave, he paused. “Colonel von Reinhardt--will you walk me to my car?”

  “Of course, sir,” said the young colonel.

  As they walked back into the cold, Rommel asked, “And how does the battlefield look from a speeding half-track?”

  “Very big, sir, and more than a bit confusing,” replied Reinhardt a bit ruefully.

  Rommel laughed, and patted him on the back. “That was my first impression, too. And you know, it hasn’t changed much over the years.”

  Reinhardt nodded. “Field Marshal, I kept one of the prisoners that we captured.”

  “Oh?” said Rommel, quizzically.

  “Yes, sir. It seems that the Paris bureau chief of the American Associated Press decided to get his own personal look at the front lines, and got a somewhat closer look than he expected. I asked him for his parole, because I thought that an American reporter’s perspective on this campaign might have a good impact on their public sentiment, making it more likely to achieve decent terms.”

  “Interesting idea,” mused Rommel. “Colonel, you have a good grasp of the relationship of military operations to politics, and now you demonstrate an understanding of propaganda as well.”

  “And,” continued Reinhardt, nodding an acknowledgment of the compliment, “I thought it might prove useful to have a German-speaking American who was not of the military.”

  “It might, indeed,” said Rommel. “Do keep a close eye on this man,” he added. “Even supposed noncombatants have been known to give surprises.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Reinhardt. “I plan to take that very seriously.”

  Carl-Heinz had the car door open. “I’ll see you at headquarters,” Rommel said, and then he was gone.

  Bastogne, Belgium, 20 December 1944, 1017 hours GMT

  “They can’t get through--the verdammt Americans have blown up six Tigers!”

  The col
onel of the panzer battalion could not keep the tremor out of his voice--perhaps because he accurately anticipated General Horst Bücher’s displeasure with his report.

  “Then you will send in twelve, twenty, a hundred more--do you understand? You must keep attacking! And if you cannot follow these orders, you will be replaced with someone who can!” declared the general, fighting to hold his voice steady. All his nerves jangled, and frustration threatened to explode out of his every pore.

  “Jawohl, Herr General!” declared the colonel, snapping his arm upward. “Heil Himmler!”

  The officer spun on his heel and stalked out of the farmhouse where Bücher had set up his temporary command post. Climbing into his armored car, the colonel roared off through the slush and the thickening night.

  The SS general found that he was still trembling. These idiots--can’t they see? Bastogne must fall!

  He stared at the map, wishing that his task was as easy as he had made it sound to the battalion colonel. In truth, however, this Belgian city was proving to be a remarkably stubborn nut to crack. Thus far the city had been attacked by elements of First and Second SS Panzer Divisions, as well as Panzer Lehr, and all these offensives had been repulsed in the wooded hills that bordered Bastogne on all sides. Too, the Americans had managed to hold open the road from the west, and German intelligence had confirmed that several reinforcements--including the crack 101st Airborne Division--were now fighting their way to Bastogne. Panzer Lehr had moved to bypass the city, but was finding tough going in the rugged terrain. The two SS panzer divisions, meanwhile, were regrouping to the north and south of the key crossroads, preparatory to commencing another series of attacks.

  “We need that city--that road!” Bücher declared. At the same time, a voice of reason in the back of his mind suggested that he would never get it merely by bashing his tanks into a brick wall of defenses.

  But he didn’t know what else to do, so he waited through the hours of the night, listening to the reports about the next offensive ... more losses, tanks destroyed, men--including the colonel he had sent back into the fray--killed. Each fresh piece of information confirmed that the Americans were holding the city’s perimeter with determination and courage, while the reinforcements were drawing ever closer to the western edge of Bastogne.