Even better, he had been able to secure a very special passenger for this dramatic view. Paulina Koninin had been working with the documentary crew attached to front headquarters, and when an influential colonel of intelligence—himself—had requested that she personally accompany him on this reconnaissance flight, her director had been only too thrilled to let her come along. He’d given Krigoff a knowing look, of course, but Krigoff didn’t mind. She sat in the second observer’s seat, behind Krigoff, and when he looked back he saw that she was busily snapping pictures of the vast sweep of destruction.
“Glorious, is it not?” he asked, grinning over his shoulder.
She heard him and lowered the camera long enough to favor him with a smile. “Yes, Comrade Colonel!” she replied with a nod.
The only failure, thus far, had been the rockets that had been designed from the German specifications. They had been used shortly after dawn, and Krigoff had watched in dismay as the strange, birdlike missiles had roared out of the eastern sky. He had spotted five of them, each trailing a plume of smoke. They had soared past at high speed, and he had seen the fire spewing from their tails. But then one, and soon after a second, had flamed out, tumbling down before they even reached the target. The first had fallen with a fiery explosion right into the midst of a Soviet tank column, while the second had vanished with a pathetic splash into the Vistula.
He had watched the other three breathlessly, knowing they had been targeted against a large fortress near the southern edge of the city. Two had overshot the area completely, vanishing into the distance, while the third had plummeted to the ground at least a mile from the intended destination. The resulting explosion had been spectacular, but Krigoff could already see that the weapons lacked the accuracy to have much use on the battlefield.
Nevertheless, he was awed, and thrilled, to think of the destructive power that was now being brought to bear against the Nazi war machine. There could be no greater manifestation of might on the planet than the great tide now advancing westward. Tanks, hundreds of them within his own line of sight right now, rolled onward as armored testament to the might of Soviet industry. Vast flights of aircraft dove against the German positions, dropping bombs and strafing relentlessly, emblematic of the Soviet ruthlessness and resolve. And the men, more than a million of them fueling this great offensive, were the ultimate proof of communism’s manifest destiny. How could any force, any group of nations, stand against such a wave of historical inevitability?
In truth, they could not. With a tight, almost wolfish grin, Krigoff pressed his binoculars to his eyes and studied the city—or, more properly, the battlefield, he thought with a wry laugh. It was a city once, and might be a city again, but now it was only a killing ground.
He spotted a factory, the shell of a building standing as a makeshift fortress at the junction of the Vistula and a smaller tributary stream. Soviet tanks lined the perimeter of the location, firing at point-blank range with their guns. Krigoff knew the place could be plastered by artillery, and for a moment he longed for the authority to call in such a barrage. But his observations were in the service of a higher calling: He would report only to the chairman. Somewhere else, however, an artillery liaison officer did his job, and batteries arrayed on the east side of the river opened up a devastating barrage. He saw the muzzle flashes, knew instinctively that their target was below.
“Would you like a better look?” he asked Paulina.
She nodded, her one eye alive with the fire of battle; clearly she was enjoying this as much as Krigoff. Ah, she was a rare treasure, a Soviet gem! Paulina reached for the movie camera that she had brought along, and started winding the spring while Krigoff tapped the pilot on his shoulder. The colonel gestured when the man turned to look.
“Down there—fly closer,” Krigoff ordered.
If the flier had any reservations, he understood his role well enough to conceal them. He merely nodded and put the plane, a small Piper provided by American Lend Lease, into a steep dive.
Krigoff couldn’t suppress a giggle of sheer delight as they swept toward the factory and saw the place dissolve in a hail of high explosives. Fire ballooned upward, a great mushroom cloud, as some store of fuel or arms was ignited. The aircraft lurched to the side, the pilot cursing as he veered around the fireball, while Krigoff pressed his face to the glass window and stared in wonder and delight. His binoculars dangled from his neck, forgotten—at last he was close to the action, where he belonged. Once more he looked at Paulina, saw that her hands were steady, her attention rapt as she recorded a reel of movie film.
In another minute they were past the front and over the enemy positions. He saw a few gray vehicles, German panzers, moving away from the river, and watched with satisfaction as a pair of Sturmoviks, red stars bright on their wings, swept downward, releasing bombs that fell to earth like tiny eggs. Flame blossomed again, and he relished the sight of a tank upended, tossed like a child’s toy on a demolished street.
“Back,” he declared, sneering at the pilot’s expression of relief. “I will be speaking to the chairman personally, to let him know that the attack is progressing very well indeed.”
He watched, with no attempt to conceal his satisfaction, as the flier’s face drained of blood, leaving his expression as wan and pale as any sheet.
11 JANUARY 1945
KAMPFGRUPPE PEIPER, EIFEL (NORTH OF MOSELLE VALLEY), GERMANY, 1023 HOURS GMT
“We’ve located five tanks, Panzer IVs, hull down on the next ridge,” reported the scout. “They’re backed up by an eighty-eight, and have the whole road covered.”
“Panzer Lehr?” Peiper asked, his scarred face flaming red hot at the thought of these traitorous bastards standing between him and the river that had become his Holy Grail.
“It would seem so. The prisoners we took yesterday were all from the Lehr,” reported the young lieutenant, who still straddled his idling motorcycle. His goggles were raised above the bill of his peaked SS officer’s cap, the circular outlines clear in the white flesh surrounding his eyes. The rest of his face was red and raw, the marks of windburn and frostbite.
Peiper nodded in acknowledgment, satisfied that those prisoners, at least, had paid the price for treachery. He only wished that the rest of the Wehrmacht could have witnessed the example of ten men, their throats constricted by coiled wire, slowly strangling to death in the snow.
“Rommel has sent them here to stop us,” he muttered. “And if you’ve found five, there are at least ten, and a few more guns, that have yet to show themselves,”
The untersturmführer, sensing that Peiper was talking to himself, made no reply as the panzer commander pulled himself out of the hatch and perched on the edge of the turret for a moment, thinking. Then Peiper stepped to the deck of the Panther’s hull and hopped to the ground in a leap that should have been easy, but still sent a stab of pain searing through his wounded face.
As always, he used that pain to focus, to help him gather his thoughts and his resolve. Striding fast, he passed a dozen panzers idling along the shoulder of the bluff-side road, until he reached the bend. Here he could see that the road dipped through a broad ravine and then climbed toward a ridge on the far side. All of the terrain was thickly forested, except for a clearing of farmland down in the ravine.
“The … enemy tanks are over there,” said the scout, who had followed the colonel up to this vantage. He indicated the crest of the next ridge.
“You are right to call them ‘enemy,’” Peiper said, sensing the man’s hesitation. “They have betrayed everything that our führer has made right and holy. There is no death too painful for them.”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer, of course.”
Peiper’s communications officer was nearby, and he gestured the fellow forward. “Have you had contact with the Hitlerjugend division?”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer. They have made good time—they are approaching Koblenz from the north. It seems they have moved too fast for the P
anzer Lehr to get in their way.”
“Good. Then we shall take our time, and see that this roadblock is destroyed.” The decision was easy, knowing that their SS compatriots were close to the key city. Peiper’s job would be to remove this threat from their flank and rear, and he knew just how to go about that. “Dismount the panzergrenadiere and start an enveloping attack, sweeping around to the left,” he ordered. “Set up our own antitank guns on this crest, and if one of those bastards so much as twitches, I want him blasted to hell!”
Quickly officers and men hurried to obey his bidding. He went back to his command tank, anticipating the coming carnage with satisfaction.
12 JANUARY 1945
ARMEEGRUPPE FIELD HOSPITAL, DINANT, BELGIUM, 1317 HOURS GMT
“You can’t get out of bed. Doctor’s orders,” the officious nurse said. She folded her arms and glared at her disobedient patient.
Günter von Reinhardt put his right leg gingerly on the floor. This was the first time since his wounding he’d sat upright, and the new perspective made him dizzy. He looked at the nurse and smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m afraid that I have orders that supersede them,” he replied. He placed his left leg on the floor, generating another wave of dizziness. His punctured lung had trouble sucking in enough air, and he felt a need to cough, which he dreaded. Coughing hurt.
The patient’s body language was perfectly clear to the nurse. “You see?” she said in triumph. “You’re not ready to get up.” Sensing victory, she switched her tone from peremptory to soothing. “Now, why don’t you just lie down quietly and get some rest. You’ll be fit for duty soon enough.” She pulled down the bedcovers to make it easy for him, but as she approached, he used her shoulder to pull him to a standing position.
Immediately, the cough he was trying to suppress hit him fully. He grabbed the headboard to keep himself from collapsing as a sharp edge of pain cut through his lungs. The nurse tut-tutted as she held his shoulders. “See? You’re not healed yet. Let’s get back into bed now and let medicine and nature take its course.”
As the painful spasm ran its course, von Reinhardt looked at the hand he’d used to cup his mouth. There were flecks of red in it. He wiped his palm with a tissue. “I’m sorry,” he said firmly, “but I must return to my duty. The field marshal has requested that I do so immediately.”
A mere field marshal wasn’t enough to intimidate this nurse. She was so strong, von Reinhardt had seen her lift patients from bed to rolling cart single-handedly. If it came to hand-to-hand combat between this woman and the Desert Fox, von Reinhardt suspected the nurse would win. The thought amused him and he cracked a small smile.
The smile annoyed the nurse. “Stay here,” she ordered peremptorily. “I will get the doctor, and then you will see that you must return to bed immediately.” She wheeled around and left.
Von Reinhardt inspected himself in the small mirror above the tiny washbasin across from his bed. His long, angular face seemed unusually drawn, revealing the skull shape underneath. His jet black hair had grown longer during his hospital stay, one lock falling over his forehead in a manner reminiscent of his late führer’s. The nurses who bathed him had shaved him as well, and the skin of his cheeks was still smooth.
The gauntness of his face, however, startled him. It made him look as if he’d aged decades in the last month. In a way, he had. He felt ancient.
He splashed a little cold water on his face, patted it dry, and looked at himself once again. Better. He straightened up to attention, but that triggered another round of agonizing coughing and some blood to spit into the sink.
A voice behind him said, “What’s this I hear about you wanting to leave our lovely hotel to return to the battlefield?” Dr. Caroselli, a short, plump Italian who had remained—not entirely of his own free will—in the service of the Germans after his country’s surrender, was the replacement for the kidnapped Dr. Schlüter. Caroselli’s Mediterranean cheerfulness seemed out of place in the very German atmosphere of the field hospital.
“Why, this is a battlefield, nor am I out of it,” murmured von Reinhardt in response, splashing more water on his face.
Caroselli threw up his hands in mock outrage. “Are you comparing my fine hospital to Hell, Herr Oberst? Yes, yes, I know the reference. Ah, the man thinks he is the only one with a classical education! Doctor Faustus—pah, too easy! Your mind is clearly not up to the challenge of the outside world. There is the proof you belong back in bed. Rest! That’s what you need! Take the time to think up a real stumper for me—you haven’t succeeded yet!”
Von Reinhardt could not help but smile at the excitable physician. “Herr Doktor Major, you’re clearly right. If I fail to stump a man like you, it’s a sign that my mind is truly in a weakened condition.” The two men had traded friendly insults over the last weeks. It was one of von Reinhardt’s few pleasures during the long, enforced rest. “Nevertheless, this weak mind is required in the service of our great field marshal, and regardless of the state of my health, I must go.”
Caroselli threw up his hands again. “Another sick person flees the hospital! What about the damage to my reputation? Did you ever think about that? Has it occurred to you that if people leave my care before they are well, and then get worse, I will get the blame? Here, lie down again. Rest. Get better for another week. I’ll talk to Rommel myself. He seems like a reasonable man.”
“It might be a good idea. He’s quite used to working for Italians,” replied von Reinhardt. During the majority of the North African campaign, in which Rommel acquired his “Desert Fox” nickname, his nominal superior as theater commander was Italian. Rommel retained the right of appeal directly to Berlin, however, and tended only to follow those orders or directives with which he agreed in the first place.
Caroselli laughed. “See? When he was under Italian command, he was able to accomplish great things! Perhaps you should take that to heart, and return to bed so you can get better.”
Von Reinhardt could recognize the seriousness under the doctor’s joking manner. “At this moment, my services are required elsewhere. Otherwise, I would without hesitation stay safely in the hospital.” He cracked a grin. “After all, where else will I find a physician who so beautifully embodies Voltaire’s thoughts about medicine?”
There was a pause, and then Caroselli shook his head. “All right, Herr Oberst. It looks like you stumped me. I’ll probably regret asking, but what thoughts are those?”
With an innocent expression on his face, von Reinhardt replied, “‘The art of medicine consists of amusing the patient while nature cures the disease.’”
Caroselli roared with laughter. “Too true, too true! All right, you ungrateful wretch. But take it easy, okay? I don’t want to see you back here any time soon.”
“No more than I want to be here, I can assure you of that,” von Reinhardt replied. He paused. “With all sincerity, I thank you for your excellent care.”
“Go! Go!” Caroselli said, arms waving wildly. “I could hope for a better advertisement of the quality of my medical care, but a soldier takes what a soldier can get.” He grabbed von Reinhardt’s hands in both of his own, shook them violently, then patted him on the back. The physically reticent von Reinhardt returned a pat to Caroselli’s upper arm, then went to find his uniform.
“Oberst Günter von Reinhardt to see the field marshal,” he told the headquarters feldwebel.
“He’s expecting you, sir. Go right in,” replied the feldwebel.
To von Reinhardt’s surprise, Rommel had company—important company. Dr. Carl Goerdeler had once been mayor of Leipzig, had been an anti-Nazi activist since the beginning, and was now newly established as the acting chancellor of the provisional German government. Von Reinhardt saluted, and Rommel motioned for him to sit.
“How are you feeling?” the Desert Fox asked.
“Quite well, thank you,” lied von Reinhardt, hoping that the pain he was feeling wasn’t reflected on his face. The walk across the compound had left him
dizzy and gasping for breath; his collapsed lung felt as if it were on fire.
Evidently the lie was not obvious, or alternately the Desert Fox was choosing not to see it, because Rommel merely nodded in response.
Chancellor Goerdeler was looking at him with an expression of contempt. “So, this is the man who took over negotiations with the Soviets after von Ribbentrop’s collapse?” he asked Rommel. From the redness in Goerdeler’s face and the tense body language, von Reinhardt got the idea that these two men had been arguing before he arrived.
“That’s right,” replied Rommel. The field marshal’s hands were folded neatly on his desk. The cold look in his eye and the unusually calm timbre of his voice were storm signals well known to the officers who served under the Desert Fox. It was time to run for cover, von Reinhardt noted, but he couldn’t run and the chancellor couldn’t see the approaching hurricane. He turned toward Goerdeler to hear his response.
Goerdeler turned toward von Reinhardt for the first time and spoke with a voice heavy with sarcasm and dislike. “So you are the man who preserved Himmler’s option to continue the war while giving away German rocket technology to our worst enemy?”
The attack stung. Von Reinhardt had considered this point several times on his own. He had understood the Faustian bargain he was making; the true character of the Nazi leadership had by then become fully evident to him. Yet it was his nation, his uniform, and his duty. Should that have been enough to overcome his moral sensibilities, or was it only that few options were available to him? Or—and this was a thought he dared not dwell on too deeply—was his appetite for cleverness and the game so strong that he had played to win for no better reason than that it amused him?
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 25