“So you’ve been telling us,” replied Eisenhower. “Actually, I’m looking forward to it.”
He looked over at Bradley, who had leaned back against the seat and gone to sleep. Eisenhower hadn’t had a lot of sleep himself, and wished he could join the Twelfth Army Group CO in a quick forty winks. Patton, on the other hand, was as alert and energetic as if he’d slept for a week—even though Ike knew he’d had no more rest than anybody else.
The car began to decelerate. “Here’s the escort,” observed Summersby. She followed her own lead vehicles into the line. The entire column slowed somewhat as they accommodated the new vehicles. Ike peered out the window, rubbing the condensation off the inside so he could get a look. Dinant probably used to be an attractive town, he guessed, but it had the same look as most other towns after they’d hosted a war—heaps of rubble, dust everywhere else, an unrelieved absence of color.
It took only a few more minutes before the convoy arrived at Rommel’s Army Group B headquarters. Military police, both German and American, waved vehicles around. The VIP cars got directed right in front, and Ike saw an honor guard drawn up to meet him, all proper and official. It was time for him to put on his “company face” and go to work. First, however, he had to punch his seatmate. “Brad! Wake up.”
“I’m awake,” yawned Bradley. He twisted his neck around in a stretch and then shook his head. “Ready when you are.”
The ritual of one commander paying a call on another was carefully prescribed; for the hosting general it was a source of great embarrassment if anything happened to be less than absolutely perfect. Eisenhower was appropriately impressed at Rommel’s attention to detail, but then he expected nothing less. He had seen Rommel’s work before in the long North African campaign, and knew that if it were not for the unquestioned Allied superiority in resources, that campaign might have had a different outcome.
The only problem with the ritual was that it extended the time until Ike could get a cup of coffee, and this morning it took all his self-discipline to keep smiling and keep looking as the ceremony dragged on. Kay had slipped away almost immediately, and was almost certainly in the canteen or mess tent by now enjoying her own cup.
Rommel looked older and more worn than Eisenhower had anticipated. He walked carefully, like an old man whose bones were brittle. Of course, he had been severely wounded the previous summer—Ike had read all the intelligence reports as they had come in. It was clear to Ike that Rommel’s healing was not yet complete. Rommel’s left eyelid drooped next to where the scar tissue had formed and his eye watered constantly. Eisenhower made a mental note to himself to have his own doctors check out the Desert Fox. His health right now was a prime Allied consideration.
Finally the ritual drew to a close, and the senior generals retired to Rommel’s conference room. On the American side, there were the three senior generals, Eisenhower, Bradley, and Patton. On the German side there were Rommel, Speidel, and his two remaining army commanders—von Manteuffel of Fifth Panzer Army and Brandenberg of Seventh Army. And at long last there was a big pot of perking hot coffee and uniformed aides to pour.
There was small talk, difficult when passed through translators. Introductions were made and expressions of mutual admiration were exchanged. The whole “after you, Alphonse” diplomatic dance was one of Eisenhower’s talents—he knew that it was—but still, part of him itched to get down to real business. Patton was also at home in this environment. For all his vulgarity and outrageousness, he was upper-class born and bred, and did well when with senior officers. He had everyone laughing with an off-color joke, even the somewhat prim Rommel.
And it was time. “Field Marshal, I would also like to convey to you the respects of the President of the United States,” Eisenhower said, as the other generals fell silent.
“I’m delighted,” replied Rommel, bowing slightly while still sitting down. “But what does your president want with a simple prisoner of war?”
“You’re anything but a simple prisoner,” replied Eisenhower. “In fact, what to do with you has commanded the attention of the very highest levels of my government.”
“Has there been a decision?” inquired Rommel in a deceptively light tone of voice.
“Perhaps the word ‘proposal’ would be more appropriate,” returned Eisenhower.
“Interesting. I would very much like to hear what your president has in mind.”
“How does Chancellor of Germany sound to you?”
SAINT-VITH, BELGIUM, 0807 HOURS GMT
There was noise and near chaos everywhere as the remaining units of Sixth Panzer Army moved back along the wide front on which they had originally advanced. Saint-Vith, a town far too small to accommodate the forces passing through it, rumbled and seethed with the sounds of engines and marching men. It was there that Kampfgruppe Peiper reunited with the rest of its division to re-form the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. The orders were urgent: Keep moving east, into the Westwall positions north of the ancient German city of Trier.
Jochen Peiper still felt as if half his face were still on fire. The pain was excruciating, yet in a way it was a clean pain, a transforming pain. Bandages still covered the flesh that had been so terribly shredded only two days before. He was uncertain whether his injured eye would be able to see again, but his unbandaged eye remained a clear, penetrating blue. He could stand and give orders and conduct a battle, and that was all an SS officer was expected to do. Peiper did not like retreating and regrouping, but the treason of the Desert Fox made it necessary, at least for now. As the convoy pulled into the center of town on the narrow old streets, Peiper got some good news as Sepp Dietrich came out to welcome him. Dietrich shook his hand and congratulated him on his amazing victories, his lightning raid on Rommel, his skill in extracting himself and his men from a dangerous situation. He said nothing about how Peiper had removed Guderian from command, though Dietrich’s friendly face, his obvious solicitous reaction to Peiper’s wounds, spoke volumes to the SS-Obersturmbannführer.
“The führer has restored me to command,” said the old general. “Sixth Panzer Army is now Sixth SS Panzer Army.”
“A welcome development, General! Kampfgruppe Peiper stands ready to avenge the treason to the Fatherland!” Peiper announced, saluting proudly.
Dietrich returned the salute. “You’re injured, Jochen. Badly?”
“Mostly cosmetic, and it should heal,” Peiper replied. “It won’t slow me down.”
“Well, just remember, women love a good scar. They know a man with a scar is a real man, proven in battle. And the way the fräuleins flock over a little dueling scar, how much better to have a real mark of battle. Jochen, you’ve always been too pretty. Now you’re much more manly looking.” Dietrich, whose own homely face was battered like a boxer’s, grinned as he punched his subordinate lightly on the arm.
Peiper could not help but smile in return, even though the smile pulled at his stitches and turned it into somewhat of a grimace. “I brought the doctor and those among the patients who could expect to return to duty along with us.”
Dietrich nodded. “Good thinking, good thinking. Absolutely. We need all the doctors we can get. And the wounded? Yes, well, most of them will recover quickly and return to the fight. The severely wounded?”
“I left them behind with two orderlies. They will be an extra burden on the Allies, and they could not return to the battle quickly, if ever in some cases.”
“Good, good, good,” nodded Dietrich, rubbing his hands together. “Yes, yes. And we have a good, strong army left, and reinforcements coming in. Field Marshal Mödel has told us that we must close off the portion of the Westwall and the Rhine approaches that are left exposed by the … by the unfortunate situation.” Dietrich could hardly bring himself to say the name “Rommel” or the word “surrender” in an actual sentence. It was obvious that he felt Rommel’s treason as a personal blow. After all, the men had once been friends, of a sort.
“We are ready, mein Obergrup
penführer!” said Peiper. “We can turn around and attack as soon as you give the order.”
“Good, good. Good man. Knew I could depend on you. Always can depend on the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, right?” As the founder of the division, Dietrich glowed with patriotic pride whenever his unit went into action. The Leibstandarte had originally been a personal bodyguard for Hitler, way back in the early days of the Nazi party when Sepp Dietrich was still a member of the Freikorps.
“Yes, sir,” replied Peiper with enthusiasm.
“Well, we’ll get to it very shortly, I’m sure. My job right now is to get us all back safely into the Westwall, with as much haste as possible—after all, we cannot afford to allow our enemies, German or American, to take those fortifications, or they will have a free road into the Rhineland. You will need to move out at once. Once we have taken that line, our new Commander-in-Chief West will outline the strategy for blocking the hole. So take care of yourself and your men, and I’m certain we’ll see some action very soon. Very soon. All right? Good man. Good man.”
ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, BELGIUM, 0922 HOURS GMT
Generaloberst Doktor Hans Speidel, Rommel’s chief of staff, had been leading a double life for more than a year now. He understood that assassinating Adolf Hitler was all well and good, a necessary starting point but just that: a beginning. There needed to be a military plan in place, a charismatic and popular figure ready to become head of state, something positive rather than solely the elimination of something negative. Now it seemed as though all his planning and all his striving reached an apex as General Eisenhower himself offered Rommel the chancellorship of Germany.
Rommel’s outright refusal, however, shocked Speidel to his core.
“Chancellor? I’m afraid I could never accept such a role. No, I will do whatever I can to free Germany from its Nazi yoke, but I cannot possibly consider being its head,” the field marshal had replied, after a moment’s surprised reflection.
Speidel could tell that Eisenhower was surprised as well. “May I ask why, Field Marshal?” the American inquired.
“I have surrendered, General Eisenhower. I fought and I lost. Worse, I have violated my soldier’s oath, even to the point of consorting with the enemies of my nation—no offense intended, of course.”
Eisenhower nodded. “I guess I can understand that. I suppose it wouldn’t help to remind you that you truly are acting in the best interests of your nation and your people—because you are, I know.”
“Would that make you think differently if our positions were reversed?” replied Rommel.
The American general thought for a moment. “I’d like to say it would, but I suspect it wouldn’t. The problem is that your nation needs you in this role, whether you want it or not.”
It was Rommel’s turn to think for a moment. Speidel wanted to interject, to say, “Eisenhower’s right. You must take it for the good of Germany,” but he knew that a direct approach was not always good strategy where Rommel was concerned. Months and years of trying to influence the man had taught him that, if nothing else.
Rommel spoke slowly and carefully. “If it were for the good of my countrymen, I could refuse nothing. But you assume that I am the only viable leader fit for such a role, and I do not agree. There are any number of people free of the Nazi taint—freer than I am, in fact—who have the credentials and the ability to serve as the leader of a government-in-exile. That is what you are proposing, is it not? After all, none of us are actually in Germany at the moment.”
Eisenhower was not so easily dissuaded from his mission. “Yes, there are others. But not with your fame, your military record, and your stature.”
Rommel looked at his folded hands on the conference table. “All three, I submit, are of questionable value right now. In any event, if President Roosevelt is planning to build a new German government, there must be others he considers worthy of leadership. There cannot very well be a government of a single person, after all. As you know, this kind of discussion has taken place among many members of the Wehrmacht officer corps over the past years. The brave men who assassinated Adolf Hitler were Wehrmacht officers. Others in the political establishment, the foreign ministry, and elsewhere supported them in their efforts from the earliest time onward. I am somewhat of a latecomer to this effort. Those whose roles are of longer duration are the right men to create a provisional and transitional government. As for me, I am willing to remain in my role as a soldier, and to put my armies—such as are willing—in the service of such a government. But I can do no more.”
Speidel watched Eisenhower’s face carefully as the American translator Sanger rendered Rommel’s words into English. He was disappointed but not surprised at Rommel’s refusal to lead the government. Rommel was right; there were others, but without his stature in the eyes of the ordinary people of Germany. But what were Eisenhower’s orders from Roosevelt? Would Rommel’s rejection of the chancellorship cause the Americans to react the wrong way? He discovered that he was holding his breath.
Eisenhower looked as if he was choosing his own next words with care. “Field Marshal, I actually understand quite well what you’re saying and what you must be feeling. Moving from the military sphere to civilian leadership is not easy, and I suppose there’s even a question whether it’s really an increase or a decrease in rank.” He grinned boyishly at his own joke, then his expression turned more serious again. “Maybe we could compromise. Maybe we could say that because of the military exigencies, you think it’s best to remain as field marshal and maybe war minister for right now, but that you may be willing to stand for the chancellorship in an election after Germany is liberated.” Eisenhower’s voice got lower, as if he were passing along a secret. “Personally, I think you shouldn’t just outright refuse—keep your options open and keep the politicians guessing. It helps when you’re trying to make sure important decisions go your way.”
Rommel could not help but smile at Eisenhower’s friendly advice. He turned his hands palms upward as if in surrender. “Very well, General Eisenhower. I agree exactly as you suggest; I will ‘keep my options open.’ Except perhaps for one small suggestion: the position of war minister. I think my chief of staff would be an excellent choice for that role. Nicht wahr, Hans?” With that aside, Rommel’s smile turned into an actual grin.
Speidel was stunned. He could only stammer, “Y-Yes, mein Generalfeldmarschall. I am always at your service.”
SAINT-VITH, BELGIUM, 1037 HOURS GMT
Shifting into low as he entered the city limits of Saint-Vith, Lukas Vogel once again produced a terrible racket of grinding gears as the truck lurched. Hans Braun, sitting in the next seat, grabbed the dashboard to keep from slamming into it.
“Damn it,” Lukas groaned with frustration.
“Don’t sweat it,” replied Braun. “Hell, if it wasn’t for you, we’d be walking right now.”
The transmission finally engaged, and Lukas twisted the heavy, awkward steering wheel to the right. Driving the truck down unfamiliar and twisty Belgian roads through the long night had taken all the rest of his strength. Braun had catnapped a little bit, but his sleep had been interrupted numerous times by Lukas needing him to jump out and decipher a road sign or check around for other vehicles. At least the boys in the back of the truck were able to get a little sleep around the jostling, the noise, and the pervasive cold. The truck heater worked well, but the warmth kept making him dangerously sleepy, so he’d ended up driving most of the night with the window open. He thought about stopping someplace for some rest, but it seemed too dangerous.
With the first gray hints of dawn, he felt himself getting his second wind, and he was finally able to risk rolling up his window most of the way and letting a little heat thaw his numb fingers and toes.
“What now, boss?” asked Braun.
Lukas thought about it a minute. Although he liked being boss, he was increasingly getting a sense of its challenges. “I guess the best course is to find an officer and see
about getting assigned to a unit still fighting.”
“Yeah, but there are officers and then there are officers, if you know what I mean,” replied Braun.
Lukas nodded. “That’s all we need, one more blödes Arschloch of a Wehrmacht coward too chickenshit to lead us to victory.”
“Well, how do we know which officer?”
Lukas braked hard at an intersection. A Panzer Mark IV rumbled by on the cross street. “Looks like we’ve reached a place with a lot of officers. Let’s look around until we find someone who looks like he doesn’t have his head up his ass.”
Braun snorted a laugh in response, then turned around to pound on the back of the truck. “You back there! Time to rise and shine! We’re in Saint-Vith, so we’ll be stopping soon,” he shouted.
When he rolled down the window, he could hear the replies through the canvas covering the truck body. “Hey, how about finding us something to eat and drink? We’re dying back here!” came one voice, followed by another yelling, “How about some place to take a piss?”
Lukas shook his head. “Not a very soldierly bunch, these boys.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Braun. “Even the old farts spend most of their days pissing and moaning about something. That must be what soldiers do.”
“Not German soldiers,” replied Lukas with utter confidence. “At least not real German soldiers.” Absently, he ran his hand over his still-smooth chin. “Hey—look over there! There’s a skeleton key painted on that panzer. That must be part of Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler!” Lukas could name every SS division and recognize their insignia instantly. “Damn! Wouldn’t it be great if we could join up with the LSSAH?” He pounded the steering wheel with the flat of his hand in his excitement.
“Yeah? Don’t get your hopes up.”
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 17