Franks said nothing as he buttoned up his trousers. Bluent went over to a cabinet and returned with a tube of cream.
“Apply this twice a day,” ordered Bluent. “Good luck in the coming battles.”
“Dankeschon, Herr Major,” said Franks. “Did the Stuka pilot serve in the Condor Legion?”
Bluent nodded.
“Please tell me it wasn’t Hans Oswald.”
It was Bluent’s turn to display shock. He looked at Franks, “I am unable to discuss the cases of other patients.”
Franks did not hear Bluent’s advisory. He knew from Bluent’s reaction. Franks left the tent silently vowing to even the score with Oswald.
10
October 19, 1939
“We are here Colonel Blumentritt.” The Schutzenpanzerwagen’s driver stood and looked back at his valuable cargo. “General Manstein’s headquarters.”
Colonel Gunther Blumentritt, gripping the edge of the Schutzenpanzerwagen, raised to his feet. The machine was an oddity, a half track with tires in the front axle, responsible for carrying troops or pulling machinery. The machine’s low walls provided little cover from a strafing plane or a dedicated Polish soldier seeking revenge by gunning down a German officer.
The colonel had not chosen the halftrack. He preferred to fly from Zossen where he was a member of the OKH, army general staff responsible for planning. His plane had been grounded by bad weather some thirty kilometers from his destination. A staff car had been provided but only a few kilometers into the drive an axle had broken, leaving him to walk the final thirteen kilometers. Fortunately, a Schutzenpanzerwagen had lumbered by after pulling several Panzerkampfwagens from the mud and offered the colonel slow but certain transportation east. Blumentritt accepted even as ride lasted two hours before arriving at Eighteenth Corps headquarters. With every bump and jostle the driver glanced back, fearful his OKH colonel passenger would take an embarrassing or deadly fall into the Polish dirt.
Blumentritt saluted the driver, who offered a friendly salute in return, and trundled off; a belch of smoke and the clanking of gears marking his progress. The colonel eyed the copse of trees that was the background to the first of four Panzerkampfwagens, their guns marking the line of German control. A few random artillery pieces and mortars sat behind them; their horses grazing as they were washed by the men so dependent on their stamina to win a war.
In the foreground was a mixture of soldiers; field gray darkened by the Polish soil which clung to them more tenaciously than the Polish Army. The colonel squinted in the dimmed sunlight, overhead clouds brightening and darkening the ground as they slid past the sun. Blumentritt was searching for Erich von Manstein with whom he worked side by side in devising General Gerd Rundstedt’s southern drive into Poland. Just as the final details were being arranged an opportunity opened in the army general staff or OKH. An unexpected death produced a vacancy that needed filling. Rundstedt suggested Manstein or Blumentritt to General Brauchitsch. the head of OKH.
A desk bound position did not appeal to Manstein, who sought a field command, while Blumentritt saw it as an opportunity. Less enamored by the taste of Polish dirt on his tongue, the colonel moved to Zossen and began plans for the next German assault to the east. As he worked on the next campaign, Blumentritt watched the Polish invasion from headquarters, startled by the speed of the assault which he had helped engineer.
Manstein had joined the Fourteenth Army and its XVIII Corps which sported a mountain division, a panzer division and a motorized division, all offering the perfect experimental conditions to test Blitzkrieg tactics. As the rest of the German Army encircled the rump Polish forces around Warsaw, Manstein rode the southern wing east, placing German boots in eastern Poland as a barrier against some aggressive Red Army general who might seize advantage of the Polish collapse. The Eighteenth Corps had traveled further and faster than any other German command and Blumentritt wanted to see how it was accomplished.
The disappearance of the Eighteenth Corps from German army maps produced panic at OKH headquarters in Zossen, but Blumentritt had calmed nerves, explaining what his former commander was doing by ignoring the carefully laid plans of the desk generals. Blumentritt, though, could not answer the question of what Manstein would do if the Poles attacked eastward while the Red Army crossed the border and attacked westward. The colonel imagined Manstein splitting his forces and attacking in both directions, but never offered the scenario, fearful the desk generals would have suffered heart palpitations at the unorthodox strategy.
Blumentritt stood in the mud, enjoying the bustle that surrounded a corps commander’s headquarters. The Eighteenth Corps was in repose, as its commander moved about his divisions and regiments while Manstein remained behind and reported to General Rundstedt. The Eighteenth was in position to face down the Red Army if needed, safely behind the Bug River but within striking distance if the Russians made a move into eastern Poland. Blumentritt used that possibility as an excuse to escape OKH headquarters to mount a fact finding mission; yet he intended to provide rather than collect facts. He needed Manstein’s aid in constructing the next campaign.
The Eighteenth’s headquarters were a collection of tables surrounded by tents. Manstein preferred to work outside when possible. Blumentritt sucked in the heavy air that surrounded machinery, diesel fuel and exhaust mixed with sweat and the faint odor of death. He missed that atmosphere in the sterile surroundings of Zossen and the military bunkers forty kilometers south of Berlin. He had expected to be in the midst of the action at OKH, planning attacks and receiving reports, but found the bustle in the bunker could not compare with the wide open hustle of a corps.
Trudging across the ruts of tanks, he made his way toward the collection of gray suited men leaning over a heavy folding table, maps held down by rocks, edges rising with each whiff of the wind. He immediately recognized the hawk nosed Manstein, intense and brilliant, the newest generation of commanders who understood speed and daring won wars. Manstein had witnessed the futility of places like Verdun with its trenches, forts and artillery duels, and did not want to see the flower of Germany destroyed in churned mud.
The general was leaning over the maps, poking locations with his pencil. Blumentritt remained a discreet distance, not wanting to interfere with his conference; Manstein’s focus so intense he could ignore any distraction, including his old chief of staff, until he finished his orders. It did not take long; the younger, smaller men dashing for the tents where radio calls would be sent to the lead panzers in each group. Manstein straightened up and spotted Blumentritt, waved him forward. His former subordinate had radioed ahead about his visit and the general seemed pleased to see him.
“Colonel Blumentritt,” he grasped his hand. He nodded at another gray clad figure, a man in his fifties. The colonel recognized his replacement on the Eighteenth Corps’ staff. “You remember Blumentritt, don’t you Colonel Schubert?”
Colonel Schubert, a man of little imagination or humor but great efficiency, nodded and headed off, sensing his commander and Blumentritt needed to talk. Manstein waved the colonel to his side and pointed to the map. “This is where we trapped them,” he said, poking at it. “We drove them into the Pripyat Marshes where they could turn east surrender to the Russians or face us and die.”
“If they surrendered to the Russians they might as well be dead.”
Manstein straightened, eying his former chief of staff. “That is why you are here,” he said. “You want to talk to me about the Russians.”
The colonel was jolted. His cable to Manstein had been deliberately vague, speaking of the eastern border situation. He could hardly transmit that the OKH was in the finishing stages of a plan to attack and defeat Stalinist Russia, but Manstein was not so isolated as not to know Poland was only the first phase of the war.
“Yes,” Blumentritt said.
“They are planning an attack?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“And it will take us east?”
; A quick nod.
“How far east?”
“The Urals.”
Manstein leaned over the table, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
“That’s what the Fuhrer wants.” Blumentritt said.
Manstein eyed the map of the Bug River area, his panzers circling the remains of the Polish Army. “You are involved with the planning.”
“General Marcks is responsible.”
Manstein nodded and squinted at the map, while his mouth twitched at one side, Blumentritt recognizing the sign that the general had identified a potential problem in his plans. “Marcks is a capable general, he aided us in Poland.
The colonel stood hands at his side. It was not the prerogative of a colonel to criticize a general much less his immediate superior. Manstein remained focused on his map, breaking away after a few minutes to bark an order at an adjutant lounging under a tree. Problem solved he turned back to Blumentritt.
“Are you enjoying Zossen?”
The colonel bit his lip. “There are a lot of politics there.”
Manstein laughed. “I prefer the battle front to the desk in the rear.”
“It is good to breathe the free air and witness one’s plans succeed.”
“There are many differences between a paper plan and one drawn in blood and steel.”
The colonel recalled Manstein’s warning that the OKH staff in Zossen did not always understand what was happening on the ground
Manstein looked over his glasses at Blumentritt. “And what has General Marcks developed?”
Blumentritt breathed. “He proposed a two pronged attack, through Belorussia toward Moscow and through Ukraine toward Kiev.”
“And you are dissatisfied?”
“No, Herr General, the Marcks’ Plan had many good features, but it has been changed by the OKH and OKW.”
Manstein frowned. Brauchitsch and Halder, the two men at the top of the army high command, were not his favorites. They had battled over the Polish strategy and were unlikely to forget Manstein outmaneuvering them in pushing his strategy.
“They now have a three pronged attack,” Blumentritt said. “One from the Baltics, another through Belorussia and a third through Ukraine.”
Manstein’s forehead crinkled, eyes narrowing as he imagined the Russian front, which was not much different than the lands of Eastern Poland. “What is the main thrust?”
“They are equal in size, but Halder says the Fuhrer wants to focus on the Ukraine for its economic importance and Leningrad for its political importance. He wants to ensure the Finns and the Rumanians support our drive.”
Manstein waved at his map. He knew how political and military objectives became intertwined in Zossen. “This plan has been approved?”
“Next month.”
Manstein swept off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “You don’t approve.”
It was the question Blumentritt had traveled six hundred kilometers to answer. Yet he hesitated; the general staff a close knit group that did not like subordinates talking out of turn. The OKH plans were not be discussed out of OKH, even with a fellow officer. The colonel swallowed hard because his next words could mean the end of his career. “The plan does not follow what we practiced in Poland. Here we had a concentration of force and density of attack, while using our panzers as the tip of the assault. They have spread them into four groups, using them to envelope the Soviet forces instead of slashing through them and into the rear.
Manstein returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “You have a better plan?”
Blumentritt shook his head.
Manstein was not so easily fooled. The colonel had many plans and was never afraid to bring them to his general. “You offered a plan but Brauchitsch rejected it?”
The colonel nodded, head sinking.
“I cannot fight your battles for you in Zossen.”
“I realize that, General.”
“You wanted to go there and mix with the field marshals and the desk generals.”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“And now after losing your first battle you come here to me for what?”
Blumentritt wet his lips, unable to ignore the hawk nosed general, who stared, as though able to read the colonel’s mind.
“All of the plans are overly optimistic,” Manstein said. He glanced over at the collection of generals and colonels who were part of the XVIII corps. Manstein motioned to an adjutant and waited for him to retrieve a slow walking, slightly slumped figure who approached, brow creased with uncertainty.
“Herr General,” he saluted Manstein who returned it quickly.
“General Veiel commands the Second Panzer division which marched from Slovakia. You may have read dispatches of his division halting the Poles when they sought refuge in Rumania.”
Blumentritt smiled lightly, recalling no such news. Veiel, noting his lack of interest said nothing.
“Colonel Blumentritt has been locked up in the OKH asylum in Zossen,” Manstein murmured. Veiel smiled at the imagery. “He is unaware of the difficulties our panzer forces faced against the Poles.”
The mention of the Polish campaign seemed to electrify the panzer commander. His shoulders rose, eyes glistened, hands clenched, and tongue wetted his lips, Veiel prepared to speak his mind and Blumentritt braced for the onslaught.
Manstein prodded him. “The Panzerkampfwagen’s I and II.”
Veiel shook his head, peaked cap knocked askew. “The I’s are of little use except against infantry in the open. The II’s were outmatched by Polish guns and their tanks.”
Blumentritt blinked. “The Poles had better equipment?” The possibility would have produced laughter at Zossen.
“We were blocked for several days in the mountains. We were forced to divert forces around and attack the Poles from the rear.”
“What of the Pzkpfw III’s?”
“Fine machines,” Veiel said. “But we had a mere six.”
“Five at the moment,” Manstein murmured.
Veiel looked glum, lip sagging.
“Is there a problem General Veiel?”
The panzer commander could not answer, forcing Manstein to complain. “One of the general’s Pzkpfw III’s has disappeared.”
“Wie ein furz im wind,” Veiel grumbled.
Blumentritt could not contain a smile. “Like a fart in the wind” was not a phrase heard in Zossen’s sterile environs. “It was captured?”
“Stolen,” Veiel said. “Disappeared, days after our final contact with the Poles. We have searched for days. Someone will pay for this mistake.”
Blumentritt noted the determination in Veiel’s eyes and was relieved he was not serving in the offending regiment.
Manstein redirected the colonel. “What would you require for a further offensive?”
“Many more Panzerkampfwagen III’s and the newest IV model,” Veiel said.
“And your current contingent of machines?”
Veiel shook his head. “We would require another one hundred fifty of the Pzkpfw III’s to consider moving.” He gestured to the east.
Blumentritt nodded, suddenly grim from the news. The sparkle of the Polish campaign was dimming, while the lure of an eastern campaign suddenly felt like an abyss. Manstein dismissed the panzer commander and turned back to the colonel. “You want my help?”
The colonel had traveled too far to surrender so quickly. “General Veiel’s concerns are real and must be answered, but an effective strategy and the will of the German soldier can overcome our mechanical deficiencies. I believe we can develop that strategy.”
Manstein sputtered, rolling up the map and handing it to one of the adjutants who hurried off. “I am not a member of the general staff. I lack time and information to plan an invasion of Russia.”
“Not a plan, an alternative.”
Manstein rubbed at his eyes. “An alternative?”
“A drive to Moscow, much like the drive to Warsaw.”
Manstein waved him of
f. “The OKW staff would never listen to me, it would be a waste of time and effort.”
Blumentritt felt his body go limp. Manstein was his only hope. “You must Herr General, for the good of Germany.”
Manstein was not a man moved by emotion, but the expression on his adjutant’s face swayed him.
“You have a plan?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
Manstein peered over his glasses. “What is it?”
“Two panzer groups, and the mass of our armored forces drive to Minsk, Smolensk, and Moscow.”
“Through the Soviet Army?”
“Their strongest forces appear to be in the Ukraine.”
“You know our forces?”
“Generally. Once the Polish campaign is completed they will be reorganized.”
Manstein turned away, distracted by a major who approached, holding a crumpled paper. The general and the major conferred; Manstein sent him away with orders before he returned to Blumentritt. “Halder and Brauchitsch would not appreciate my interference.”
“The Fuhrer will listen to you.”
Manstein laughed. “You are running in high circles, colonel.”
“He has spoken of you on many occasions.”
Manstein looked doubtful. “I cannot go to the Fuhrer with such a plan; it is not the way the German army functions.”
“There are others who do not like the Halder plan?”
Manstein raised an eyebrow. “Others?”
“Guderian.”
Another chuckle from the general. “Hustling Heinz” was not one who enjoyed others making plans for him.
“Hoepner.”
Another general who would raise his middle finger to the desk generals in Zossen.
“They agree with me,” Blumentritt said.
“They want a concentrated drive toward Moscow?”
“With each of them leading one of the panzer groups.”
“They will not appreciate a plan that includes anyone else leading the Schwerpunkt.”
Blumentritt understood army politics. Leading a panzer group that drove into Moscow would place a general among the greats in German military history. Such a general would be mentioned in the same breath with Frederick the Great, Moltke the Elder and Hindenburg. The Prussian officer corps was built on daring, success, taking risks and defeating the enemy while glorifying the German state.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 12