Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “We have decided to send you to the front, in the role of political commissar. You will be assigned to the Second Guards Tank Army, one of Konev’s units. The chairman and I would like you to observe the activities of the army commander, one General … ?” Bulganin’s voice trailed off, as if he was searching his memory for a name, though Krigoff instantly recognized the test for what it was.

  “General Petrovsky, I believe, is in command of that army, Comrade Marshal,” he said quickly.

  “Indeed, Petrovsky,” Bulganin acknowledged quietly. “An effective, veteran commander. His division was triumphant at Moscow and Stalingrad. He led a corps against the Nazis at Kursk, and his army contributed much to the annihilation of Army Group Center last summer.”

  “A great victory,” Krigoff noted sincerely.

  “One of the greatest in all the history of war,” Bulganin declared, as if correcting the younger man’s lack of hyperbole.

  Alyosha flushed in embarrassment. “Of course, Comrade Marshal. We broke the back of the Nazi war machine—now it is a matter merely to dispose of the broken corpse.”

  “I hope you still think so, Comrade, after you have observed our crossing of the Vistula. We have reports of a half-million Nazis standing against us, and they have been fortifying their position since the end of summer. I daresay, the Wehrmacht and the SS are more than a broken corpse.”

  Krigoff clenched his teeth. He did not want to wage a no-win war of words with his new superior, so he simply nodded and waited for Bulganin to continue.

  “Your orders will be delivered within a day. I assume you can be packed and ready to leave for the West quickly?”

  “I would go at this minute, if so ordered, Comrade Marshal.”

  “You will have your opportunity soon enough, Comrade Krigoff. For now, I bring a personal message from the chairman: He would like to see you again, today. He expects you before noon.”

  Krigoff was thrilled. “I shall go to the Kremlin at once, Comrade Marshal!” he declared, snapping off a salute.

  “Good.” Bulganin seemed pleased by the direction the conversation was going, and the freshly minted colonel allowed his own delight to grow, though he tried his best to keep his expression serious as his new superior continued. “My expectation is that you will be sent westward very soon; things are beginning to move, now. I advise you to take a day, make your farewells in Moscow. Your orders will include a train ticket, and instructions on when to report to Kiev Station.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Marshal. I am ready!”

  Bulganin scrutinized him again, and Krigoff felt like a bug under a microscope. “Our chairman has taken a special interest in you, Comrade Krigoff. That can be good for you, and good for the commissar service. Do you understand?”

  Krigoff understood that if he did not make it good, then these developments would prove to be very, very bad, at least for him, personally. He enthusiastically proclaimed his understanding, and his gratitude.

  A moment later, he watched Bulganin walk off into the night, which remained bitter cold. How odd, Krigoff thought, that he himself was sweating profusely.

  NINETEENTH ARMORED DIVISION FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, BELGIUM, 0227 HOURS GMT

  “General? General Wakefield?”

  “Harrr?” came a querulous growl in return.

  “General Wakefield, wake up, please sir.”

  “This had goddamn better be important, son,” Wakefield muttered, still mostly asleep.

  “The Nazis who attacked last night have taken a field hospital prisoner and massacred all American patients there.”

  Eyes opened. “Oh, it’s you, Sanger. All the bad news in one lump, eh? Like to give an old man a heart attack before you give him a cup of goddamned coffee, do you? What time is it?”

  “About oh-two-thirty, sir,” replied Lieutenant Colonel Reid Sanger.

  “All right, I’m up, I’m up.” Wakefield did not move. “Hospital gone, American POWs killed. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sanger, I want you to know I’m as goddamn sympathetic as any man in this fucking army.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve just got one question. What in the Sam Hill do you expect me to do about it?”

  “General, I’ve coordinated with Panzer Lehr’s recce battalion commander and we’ve assembled a fast task force to scout out Kampfgruppe Peiper. I’ve talked to Captain Smiggs and arranged to take him and half his jeeps and add them to the Panzer Lehr recce group. The Germans will supply a captain in command of their forces but they’ll listen to us. If the opportunity presents itself, we’ll snip off the trailing edge where the hospital staff and patients are most likely to be. If not, we’ll have them spotted and maybe be able to call in airstrikes, or if we get up into First Army’s area of operations, maybe they can run an attack. And if none of these options pan out, we’ll at least know where they are and we can pay the bastards back some other time.”

  Wakefield paused so long that Sanger wondered if he’d gone back to sleep. “So whaddya need me for?”

  “I figured if I ran off with the Germans and half of CCA’s recce company without telling you about it first, it’d look like hell on my efficiency report.”

  Wakefield snorted. “Fine. You want permission? You got it. Now let an old man get back to sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sanger turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” came the general’s growl.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Good hunting.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Hitting a hidden moving target in the dark without revealing your own position and strength had too many similarities to finding needles in haystacks to suit Reid Sanger. There was no direct road route to Saint-Vith; as he approached Pessoux, Peiper would have to decide whether to turn southeast toward Bastogne or northeast toward Liège. The woods were heavy here; it was about the only potential place for an ambush.

  Captain Smiggs, the recon commander, drove like a maniac in the dark; Sanger thought for sure they were going to crack up five or six times, but somehow, miraculously, the nimble little jeep seemed to avoid all obstacles—except for potholes. He bounced around like a rubber ball. At least that took his mind off his other major discomfort. He brushed old snow off his coat front. His fingers were numb in the gloves. “Christ, it’s cold out here.”

  Smiggy laughed. “Yep. You G-2 types tend to hang out in heated headquarters. This is what it’s like out here in the real war.”

  “Come summer, I’ll swap with you,” retorted Sanger. “You can be in a stuffy building and I’ll be outside under the stars.”

  “Come summer, this will be all over, and we’ll both be heading home.” Smiggy had a quick comeback for most occasions.

  “Don’t we wish. You probably will, but I’ll be part of the occupation force. I won’t see home for a long time,” said Sanger over the sound of the engine.

  “Yeah? Where’s home, Colonel?”

  “New Jersey. You?”

  “Sunny California, where we don’t have any of this white shit except on mountaintops where we ski. Paradise on earth. You ever surfed, sir?” The jeep hit a mudhole and lurched, then continued on at breakneck speed through the darkness, headlights off. Sanger had no idea how Smiggy could drive like that without getting instantly killed.

  “Surfed? What’s that?”

  “Surfing. Just the greatest sport ever invented. You go where the ocean waves are really big, and you take this board, paddle out, and when the wave comes in, you stand on the board and ride the wave toward shore. If you’re good, you can ride the crest right as it comes over and end up shooting right through the curl.”

  “Sorry, can’t visualize it. But anything that you can do in a place where they wear bathing suits sounds like a good idea.”

  “Come to California after the war and I’ll show you. Of course, first time on a California beach, most guys can’t keep their eyes off the California girls.”

  “Now, th
at I can visualize,” grinned Sanger. “As I said, anything in a place where they wear bathing suits sounds like a good idea.”

  The jeep continued its bumpy ride for another couple of minutes; then Smiggy braked suddenly. “Here we are. That’ll be two bucks for the cab ride, not including tip.”

  “Catch me on payday,” retorted Sanger as he jumped out of the jeep. The Panzer Lehr forces were nearly in position on the hilltop. Sanger peered through his binoculars again, “Well, Hauptmann Schmidt, it looks like it’s showtime,” he said, switching gears effortlessly from English into German.

  Now that battle was imminent, Sanger suddenly felt slightly queasy. In every other battle, his position had been in headquarters, processing raw data into some sort of picture, describing the picture to others, and retranslating the big picture into operational details. Now he was one of the operational details, and it occurred to him that he didn’t have the slightest idea of how it worked at this level. As the ranking officer present, he was technically in overall command, but he had less of this sort of experience than anyone else.

  Up until now, the excitement of the chase had kept him going, but now he suddenly felt his stomach lurch. He had time only for a brief “Excuse me” before he had to turn his head, drop to his knees, and vomit several times. There wasn’t much in his stomach except some acid that burned his esophagus on the way up. He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and looked up.

  The German captain looked down at him with concern. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Sorry—just a bad case of nerves,” he replied, embarrassed.

  Hauptmann Schmidt took his hand and pulled him up. “I feel the same way myself sometimes,” he said quietly. “I usually throw up afterward, that’s the only difference.”

  ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, BELGIUM, 0421 HOURS GMT

  “Entschuldigen Sie mich bitte, mein Generalfeldmarschall,” came the soft voice of Rommel’s batman, Lance Corporal Herbert Günther. Rommel stirred, but did not wake. The aide paused, then repeated his request. “Excuse me please, Field Marshal. There is an important situation.”

  Again, no answer. Rommel rolled over on his side. This was unusual behavior; Rommel normally woke up quickly and completely when called, and this was especially late for him to remain in bed. A third time Günther called out, and reached over to touch the field marshal gently on his shoulder.

  At the first touch, the field marshal’s eyes flew open and his hand grabbed his batman’s wrist. Günther responded in a quiet but firm voice, “I’m sorry, Field Marshal. I am afraid this is very important.”

  Rommel closed his eyes again for a moment, then opened them, fully awake. He released Günther’s hand. “Yes, very well.” He sat up, and shook his head very slowly side to side. “Hand me my coat, please, Günther.” The batman noticed that Rommel still moved stiffly, evidently still suffering from his terrible wounds. He was well familiar with the numerous scars over the field marshal’s body. Rommel had seen hard action for years, and Günther had taken care of him for many of those years, including throughout the Afrika Korps days.

  Rommel grabbed his pants and drew them on, then pulled on the coat. Günther noticed that Rommel’s injured eye was tearing. “What is the important news—or did they tell you?”

  He knew, but did not want to be the one to tell. “General Speidel is waiting for you in your office. I think you’d better speak to him.”

  Rommel looked at him. “Mmm,” he replied. “That bad, eh?” As usual, Günther felt as if the field marshal had looked right through him, knew exactly what he was thinking, but had the courtesy not to pressure him about it. Rommel slipped on his shoes, gave a quick glance in the mirror as he ran a comb through his hair, and daubed at the corner of his damaged eye with a handkerchief. The batman opened the door for him as Rommel strode from his sleeping chamber.

  Speidel stood as Rommel entered his office. “What is it, Hans?” Rommel asked in a firm voice.

  The chief of staff looked stricken. “The hospital—it was raided last night by men of the First SS Panzers. They have taken the staff and all the wounded who could be moved—including your driver.”

  “Carl-Heinz?” asked Rommel, in shock. He was quite fond of his personal driver, who had been shot during the attempted killing of Rommel.

  “American prisoners in the hospital were all shot. A few of the seriously wounded were left behind, those for whom being moved would have meant death. Two hospital orderlies were left behind to tend to those patients. All the rest are gone.” Speidel’s expression was dark as he quickly briefed his commander.

  Rommel sat down heavily in his chair. “My god, it’s all my fault, isn’t it,” he said, the burden of the last few days rushing back into his mind.

  “No, I don’t see how—”

  “I should have thought of the hospital as a potential target. But guarding Germans against Germans—”

  “You can’t blame yourself for this, Erwin,” interrupted Speidel quietly, talking man-to-man instead of officer-to-superior. “This is unprecedented territory for all of us. It would never even have occurred to me—”

  “But they were Waffen-SS. I know them; I know how they behave,” said Rommel with finality. When he was commander in chief for Italy, he had ordered SS troops out of his area because of their brutality; he had protested to Hitler personally when the Das Reich SS division had massacred civilians in Oradour-sur-Glade the previous summer.

  Speidel did not pursue the argument. Rommel would always construe events in such a way as to load the primary responsibility onto his own shoulders. “Some of the officers volunteered to lead a rescue mission—they went tearing off in armored cars and some American jeeps—to follow the trail and see if recovery of the hospital staff and patients is possible. The Americans were notified, and Lieutanant Colonel Sanger, the translator, has gone with them. Since the movement is into the Sixth Panzer Army area of operations, and the SS raiders had nearly an hour’s head start, I don’t hold out a lot of hope for recovery.”

  “No, it doesn’t seem likely to me, either,” said Rommel with sadness. “But I’m glad they tried. Sanger, you say? Interesting. I must talk with General Wakefield as soon as possible. He will be concerned particularly about the American dead, but he should be aware of any military operations we undertake, since we are all technically American prisoners of war right now.”

  “There is a meeting set up on the hour; we’ll provide a briefing then,” said Speidel, looking over his glasses onto a clipboard.

  Leaning back in his chair, Rommel laced his fingers together in front of him. “Hans, I’m tired.”

  “So are we all,” replied Speidel. “This has been an exhausting few days.”

  “No, I mean a different tired. Tired in my soul. Tired of work. Tired of problems. Funny, I thought surrendering would relieve me of some of these responsibilities, but so far that does not seem to be the case. Right now, for example, I can think of a hundred things that must be done, but for once in my life I don’t seem to have the drive to accomplish any of them. Thank you for organizing the task force, Hans. I apologize for leaning on you so heavily.”

  “You’re not leaning heavily, not at all,” replied Speidel. “For a man with no drive, you’re accomplishing quite a lot.” He smiled. “It’s not really a surrender in the classic sense, after all. It’s a way to save our homeland. I think General Patton understood that about you, and that’s critical to the plan.”

  Rommel nodded acknowledgment. “Patton, of course, is not the final decision maker. I look forward to meeting General Eisenhower in person sometime soon. It’s very interesting to meet these people after studying them for so long. Eisenhower is more politically aware than Patton, which poses both opportunities and risks for us.”

  Speidel nodded. Left unstated was Speidel’s well-justified sense that Rommel’s own political awareness was not terribly well developed. Speidel had been the one with connections to the conspirators, the one who had persuade
d Rommel to lend his name and reputation to the cause, the one who had carefully steered a course through a minefield of political obstacles. “Yes, by all means, we must meet Eisenhower soon. The endgame is upon us, and every move must be precisely calculated and arranged to achieve the results we need.”

  “How is the surrender going for our remaining forces? While Sixth Panzer Army is lost to us for the most part, has there been more trouble?” asked Rommel. He reached his hand up to massage his temple, the place where his headache was worst. His sight in his wounded eye was continuing to deteriorate as well. He supposed he should see a doctor, but later.

  “There seems to be some desertion going in both ways. Hard to quantify, but in balance I think it favors us. Not only those who agree that this is best for the Fatherland, but also those who are looking simply for a way out. A few reports of gunfire within units; nothing serious of note yet, but I have no information at all from some of the commands.” Abruptly, Speidel changed the subject. “There is good news this morning as well.”

  “Yes? I could use some good news,” replied the Desert Fox. “Has someone managed to smuggle a bomb into Himmler’s conference room?”

  Speidel laughed. “Alas, not yet. His time is coming soon, though. No, much better news. We’ve received word from Lucie and Manfred.”

  “Thank god,” breathed Rommel. The safety of his wife and son had preyed upon his mind ever since the surrender. “Have they reached Bitburg?”

  “Yes, and are safely hidden by people in whom I have the utmost trust. You’ll see them within a few days, I am sure.”

  “As long as we’re certain that the roads are free from leftover remnants of units joining Sixth Panzer Army,” Rommel said with a firm voice. “I can wait longer, if necessary. Safety is paramount.”