THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel

by Paul Wonnacott

  When Kaz arrived for the briefing, a group of officers clustered around Swann, warmly congratulating him on the action of the previous day. Still feeling like an outsider, Kaz held off to the side, but his discomfort was quickly ended when the briefing officer entered the room and they took their seats.

  “Before I outline tonight's action,” Col. O'Brien began, “I want to congratulate Capt. Swann and his associates, particularly Major Jankowski.” The briefing officer was conspicuously looking down at his notes; he seemed unable to remember Polish names. “In fact, Swann's tactics were brilliant. I will give him the floor to explain what they did. Some of you may have the opportunity to repeat his success in tonight's action. But first, I want to let you in on something even Swann doesn't know yet. Intelligence has just discovered that, in their tank battle, they killed none other than Hauptsturmführer Michael Wittmann—the scourge of the Russian front, who personally destroyed more than 100 Soviet tanks. Also, as some of you may have heard, he inflicted some nastiness on the Scots shortly after D-Day. Col. McGonagle has already called to congratulate us for settling scores with Wittmann.”

  Nastiness, indeed, thought Kaz. Just a week after D-Day, Wittmann had been in his Tiger in a forest alongside a road when he observed a number of Scottish Cromwell tanks approaching. He held fire as they moved closer, then dispatched the lead Cromwell with a single shell, blocking the road. Disdainful of the ability of the Cromwells' guns to pierce his armor, he then emerged from his hiding place and proceeded methodically down the line of Scottish tanks, knocking them out one by one with his 88 shells while his machine guns chewed up the accompanying infantrymen.

  Swann then gave his account of the previous day's action, in an appropriate offhand, low-key way. He was most generous to single out Kaz, both for his development of the tactic and his part in knocking out Wittmann. He then turned the floor back to the briefing officer.

  “The time has come,” said Col. O'Brien, “for a major drive southward from our end of the front. As you know, we have had trouble attacking the German positions, particularly because of their 88s.

  “We propose to use the cover of darkness to close on the enemy. We will proceed in several columns along a narrow front. Each of the tanks and other vehicles will leave their low running lights on at the back. Each vehicle will stay close to the vehicle ahead, following its lights. Your job will be to proceed four or five miles down the road, and spread out as day breaks. The purpose will be to create as much havoc as possible in the enemy rear, to rip the enemy's line open.

  “At this point, those of you who are in the infantry may be alarmed—as you advance, won't you be at risk from hidden dangers in the dark? Quite apart from the Boche, won't you be in danger of being run over by our own tanks? To deal with this problem, we've invented the 'defrocked priest.' We've removed the guns from some of our older self-propelled artillery, to provide armored carriers for the infantry.

  “In addition,” the Col. proceeded, “the German positions will be bombed heavily. If this operation succeeds—and I have every confidence that it will—we will be able to join up with the Americans and trap much of the German army, opening the way for an attack directly eastward to Germany. That's why we're calling our operation Totalize.”

  “Jeez,” thought Kaz. “The Limeys and Canucks don't have much imagination. Goodwood. Totalize.” In contrast, “Cobra” was the American offensive that unleashed tanks from St. Lô towards Avranches two weeks earlier.

  Nevertheless, thought Kaz, it will allow the Polish tanks to get into action.

  As they started to line up at dusk, American bombers began to fly over. Unfortunately, communications were not as good as promised; some of the bombs fell short, inflicting casualties and creating confusion at the front of the columns. Not an auspicious beginning. But Kaz took some consolation as he heard the heavy explosions ahead; bombs were falling much more heavily on the German defenders.

  Kaz and a group of 40 Polish tanks were on the left flank of the attack. In line with their plans, they proceeded forward, following the lights of the vehicle ahead. It was a rough ride, advancing over land so recently torn up by bombs. As dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, Kaz and a dozen other Polish tanks could make out the battlefield, and began to fire at targets of opportunity. It was only then that Kaz realized that only half of his tanks were with him; the rest had apparently lost their way during the night.

  If the purpose was to create confusion, it succeeded brilliantly. Thousands of allied soldiers were milling around, exchanging fire with Germans in an area only two miles by four. Casualties were heavy on both sides, and by the late afternoon the allied advance ground to a halt. Fortunately, the casualties among the infantry were less than might have been expected; the defrocked priests were a notable success.

  The attack did not, however, succeed in breaking through the enemy lines. But for the Germans, it was a mighty close thing. As their lines stabilized, they nervously took inventory. They had just 35 operational tanks left in the sector—only one for every 20 on the allied side. The next stand might be their last.

  14 August. Headquarters, Army Group West.

  With his defenses crumbling, von Kluge now faced the outcome he dreaded—his forces were in danger of being encircled. How to escape? He had to withdraw. But the Führer, standing before the map in his East Prussian fantasyland, was maneuvering divisions that no longer existed; he was insisting on preparations for a new attack toward Avranches and the sea. What the Führer was demanding, in short, was a repeat of Dunkirk four years before, when the Wehrmacht was approaching the peak of its power. Von Kluge came to Dietrich in desperation.

  “I owe it to my men to withdraw, consequences be damned. I no longer put much value in my own life.”

  “I doubt that you can get away with this, sir, even for a brief period. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about our little guest from the General Staff.”

  “Of course not. But perhaps he could have an accident.”

  “If I might, sir, I don't think that will work.”

  Von Kluge's eyes narrowed, piercing his subordinate.

  “You've been running around my back, Dietrich, communicating directly with people around Hitler.... 'Little Sir Echo,' I believe you call him,” von Kluge added, to prove that his accusation was not just a lucky guess. “You have something to tell me?”

  “If I might, sir, I was only trying to find out what was going on, so I could be of more help to you.”

  “And?”

  Dietrich paused, but saw no alternative to an honest, if somewhat stilted, answer. “Your doubts about your position are well founded.”

  It was now von Kluge's turn to pause. Then he asked slowly, “Do they think I was involved in the plot against Hitler?”

  “I have no information on that, sir. But I do know that the Führer has come to doubt your loyalty. After the failure of the attack to the west,” Dietrich saw no point in softening the blow, “he fell into a rage, accusing you of failing because you wanted to fail. You sabotaged his plan by attacking too soon. He wants the new attack to be well prepared.”

  Von Kluge laughed bitterly. “Well prepared? In this chaos? Of course, we'll draw up a complete order of battle. Do dead men count?”

  “If I might, sir, I would like to make a suggestion.”

  “Be my guest. And while we're alone, cut out this 'sir' business.”

  “As you wish, si—” Dietrich caught himself before he finished “sir.” Habits were hard to break—which of course was precisely the point of military training. He then answered. “You might be able to hide behind the SS generals whose loyalty to Hitler is utterly beyond question....

  “As you know,” he continued, “a couple of them have already recommended that the drive westward be aborted, that the forces be used to shore up our crumbling southern flank. You might forward these recommendations to the Führer.”

  Von Kluge did. He also added a postscript: “I associate myself with their recommendation
s.”

  How sad, thought Dietrich. Not even his field marshal's baton gives him the confidence to express his unvarnished views to the Führer. He has to pass them off as the ideas of his Nazi subordinates.

  Hitler appeared to accept these recommendations; he authorized a withdrawal of the most westerly units. But then came a new order. This was only a tactical withdrawal; forces were to be regrouped for a new, powerful thrust to the sea. The attack must not be launched until fully prepared. Hitler himself would give the final order.

  “This is utter madness. Madness. The great corporal is floating off into never-never land.” Von Kluge was again alone with Dietrich. He went on:

  “Have we got down to the end game, where we have no option but to defy the Führer?”

  Dietrich was not going to respond to that one.

  “Dietrich.... Dietrich.... You wouldn't be Sepp's son, by any chance?”

  “No sir,” Kurt replied briskly. SS General Sepp Dietrich, one of Hitler's favorites, was then in charge the Panzer army guarding von Kluge's southern flank. He also was Kurt's uncle. Because of his Nazi enthusiasms, he had been shunned by Kurt's side of the family during the mid 1930s, particularly after Sepp oversaw the Night of the Long Knives, when Röhm and others were executed. Kurt's immediate family considered themselves professional soldiers, not politicians; not Nazis and certainly not cold-blooded killers. They didn't quite know how to react when Sepp Dietrich parlayed a job as Hitler's chauffeur into the command of an SS Division.

  How old von Kluge suddenly looked! Just a few days ago, he had seemed indignant, almost defiant. Now his shoulders were stooped, and a tick twitched at the side of his face. To all appearances, he was a beaten man, almost reconciled to his fate. Perhaps Kurt was motivated by pity. Without knowing quite why, he added:

  “He's not my father. He's my uncle.”

  “Then you may be our last hope.”

  “How?” Dietrich sensed that his single word was hanging, naked. He almost added “sir” out of habit.

  “I want you to go to your uncle. Ask him to make the case directly to Hitler for an orderly withdrawal.”

  “But I'm not close to him. I scarcely know him. After my uncle joined the Nazi Party, my father refused to speak to him. Well, actually, he tried to make up a couple of years ago. He thought it might be good life insurance. But by then it was too late. His overtures went unanswered.”

  “Nevertheless, you're the best chance we've got.”

  Kurt saw absolutely no chance of success. “I'd really rather not.”

  “And I'd really rather you volunteer.”

  Kurt realized that was an order. In good military tradition, he had just been “volunteered.”

  “What should I say to him?”

  “Ask him to tell Hitler the truth. If we don't withdraw at once, we'll be encircled. It will be another Stalingrad.... On second thought, you'd better leave that out. It's bad salesmanship to mention Stalingrad to the Führer. Just keep it simple.... But you might add one thing, in case Hitler is having trouble counting. The Americans and Canadians are less than 30 kilometers apart. Once they link up, we're doomed.”

  24

  Falaise

  Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.

  Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

  The next morning, Dietrich headed off to see his uncle on the southeastern flank. Von Kluge was on his way to view his crumbling defenses in the rapidly shrinking pocket. To keep contact with his command, he was accompanied by a van crammed with radio and coding equipment.

  As Dietrich's staff car approached his uncle's headquarters, Kurt was concerned that he might not even be able to get in to see his uncle. A message had been sent from von Kluge's headquarters, but, in the midst of the chaotic battle, he couldn't be sure it was actually received. Should he emphasize that he was bringing a message from von Kluge? Or should he use the family angle—stress that he was Sepp Dietrich's nephew? He chose a middle course, and instructed his driver. As the driver stopped at the checkpoint, he spoke to the guard.

  “Col. Dietrich, with a message for Gen. Dietrich from Field Marshal von Kluge.” The driver said the name “Dietrich” slowly each time, to make sure the guard got the point.

  Kurt had removed his hat to make the family resemblance more obvious. He raised his finger to cover the scar on his left cheek. The guard glanced into the back of the car and saluted. “The message, please.” He held out his hand.

  “It's an oral message, to be given only to Gen. Dietrich directly,” replied the driver.

  The guard retreated several paces to a field telephone, and after a brief conversation, waved the car on.

  Kurt was kept waiting about 20 minutes, nervously rehearsing several possible opening statements, depending on his uncle's mood. When he was called in, he was astonished by his uncle's warmth. The past slights of the father were not held against the son. In fact, the General seemed to be apologizing for neglecting his nephew for so long. It was Kurt who had to bring the conversation back to the point.

  “My actual message is quite short, sir. Field Marshal von Kluge sends his regards. He asks that you communicate the desperation of our situation directly to the Führer, who holds you in such high regard. Specifically, we must have permission to withdraw or we will be surrounded.”

  “My response is just as short. Of course, I know that we're about to be encircled. You're asking me to tell the painful truth to the Führer, to destroy his illusions. No thanks. If I want to get shot, that's the way to do it.” And the General was gone.

  While Gen. Dietrich was unwilling to put his neck on the block to prevent a catastrophe, he was not about to get caught himself. He detected a loophole in Hitler's earlier order permitting a temporary withdrawal, and his tanks were rushing eastward to escape the closing jaws of the pocket near Falaise.

  While Kurt Dietrich was returning cautiously to headquarters—mindful of Rommel's fate, and continuously scanning the skies for enemy fighters—Field Marshal von Kluge's inspection party was picking its way along the back roads with equal caution. As they were approaching a narrow bridge, they were particularly vulnerable, and all eyes—except those of the drivers, but including those of the Field Marshal—were on the skies. Just as their communications van got to the middle of the bridge, it exploded. A Thunderbolt roared over, only 50 feet above the ground; it had approached out of the sun. Although unhurt, the driver of von Kluge's staff car took to the ditch. Von Kluge was thrown from the car, and the driver rushed towards a clump of woods. Von Kluge was after him, shouting for him to stop—the plane had already disappeared. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a second Thunderbolt. As he dove to the ground, he could see machine-gun bullets kicking up dust and sod, proceeding rapidly towards the staff car. Suddenly, it, too, was in flames.

  When Dietrich got back to von Kluge's headquarters in mid afternoon, the Field Marshal had not yet returned. Dietrich headed for communications, to Lt. Bock. He needed to find out if there were any movement in the Führer's position, if they were being given an opportunity to withdraw.

  The answer was no. In fact, Hitler was in a rage. He couldn't communicate with von Kluge; the Field Marshall had disappeared. But where? The Führer suspected treason. He suspected that von Kluge had contacted the Allies; German intelligence had intercepted an American radio message asking where von Kluge was. The Führer feared that von Kluge was about to lead the whole Western Army into capitulation. Himmler had been whispering in Hitler's ear of von Kluge's treachery; the Field Marshall was involved in the July 20 bomb plot. The Gestapo were collecting evidence. “This,” moaned the Führer, “is the worst day of my life.”

  “The bomb plot, perhaps,” thought Dietrich. “But this sort of treachery? Unthinkable for a Prussian officer. But then,” he caught himself as he wondered: “capitulation in France might not be such a bad idea. We can't win this war. Further bloodshed is senseless. Wouldn't it be better to let the Western allies occupy Germany, rather than leave
ourselves to the tender mercies of the Russians?” He reflected briefly on the three-year slaughter on the Eastern Front, and on the white rage with which Stalin would deal with postwar Germany.

  About midnight, von Kluge appeared in a battered kübelwagen. He had spent most of the day skulking in ditches, dodging American planes. He didn't want to talk about it, but he did want a report from Dietrich. No hope from his uncle, was all the younger Dietrich had to say.

  Von Kluge was about to retire in exhaustion when a message was delivered. He had been relieved of command and was to fly back to Germany.

  “The time has come,” he whispered as he reached into his desk and drew out a bottle and two glasses.

  The two men sat glumly sipping cognac. The older man reminisced about his early days in the army, when he was being promoted rapidly and was so full of hope. Dietrich wondered, should he tell the Field Marshal of Hitler's fury? What was the point? The point was obvious: von Kluge should have no illusions about his reception back in Berlin. To his horror, Dietrich had learned that a number of the July 20 plotters had been strangled, hanged by piano wire from meat hooks. The Gestapo made a motion picture of the grisly scene for the Führer's entertainment.

  “My backdoor source from the Wolfsschanze.” Dietrich was throwing out a hint that he had information of interest to his boss.

  The Field Marshal said nothing. Dietrich had lost track of how much they both had had to drink. He continued.

  “Hitler's in a panic. He had all sorts of hallucinations about what you might be doing today. He couldn't contact you.”

  “Of course not. My communications van was blown up.”

  Dietrich decided to skip the bit about surrendering the army. Instead, he took a deep breath and got to the main point:

  “According to Little Sir Echo, Himmler told the Führer that you were in on the bomb plot.”

  So now he had done it. Von Kluge could be under no illusions. The Gestapo would likely constitute his welcoming party in Berlin.