Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “Yes, that’s right, that’s right,” said Himmler, moving behind his desk but not sitting, walking back and forth. “What do you propose?”

  Von Reinhardt sat down, relieved to have the initial gambit over. He would have to take care that his sense of relief and the accompanying euphoria did not weaken his discipline and judgment. One danger in this kind of negotiation was that by identifying with the interests and goals of the other party, one could get swept away in the eagerness to reach agreement. That’s why it was wise to make someone other than the front-line negotiator responsible for the final decision. The final decision would be Rommel’s. Still, he wanted to return with a workable deal.

  “Let’s start with both of our goals. Field Marshal Rommel’s goal is simple: Berlin, so he can defend Germany against the Slavic hordes. You want to preserve the promise of National Socialism, which requires you and other important members of the government to have privacy, wealth, and an opportunity to rebuild. This cannot be achieved in Berlin, where the options are Rommel and the Western Allies or Marshal Zhukov and his Communist thugs. You cannot leave Berlin safely without cooperation from at least one of those parties. You must carry real liquid wealth, mostly gold, of an amount that will fill several trucks. You need safe conducts and a place to go, one that does not expose you to an easy double-cross. Do I understand correctly?”

  The hook had been fully set, von Reinhardt could see. This gave him quite a lot of satisfaction, but now he would have to reel this big fish in slowly and carefully. He kept his face carefully neutral, his eyes continually studying his opponent’s expressions and body language.

  Himmler continued to pace. “I know where to go; there is a safe haven. There is wealth already stockpiled, but it’s not enough. I will need more. And there are people—people I’ll need. I can choose them. Yes, yes, I understand I am struggling against difficult odds, but I’ve known that even before the führer died. But there is still a chance, still a chance …”

  Von Reinhardt was surprised to notice that Himmler was essentially talking to himself. But that was a very good sign, because it meant that “I want what you are offering” had now trumped “Prove to me I can trust you.” The desire created its own proof, and the mechanism was von Reinhardt’s understanding of Himmler’s goals. Von Reinhardt had to struggle to keep a smile off his face. Instead: empathy, eye contact, head nodding up and down in the same rhythm as the führer paced behind his desk.

  “There is still a chance, Reichsführer. What you want is quite possible, and in everyone’s best interest. Let’s see if we can work out the details together.”

  “Very well,” replied Himmler, a slight absentmindedness in his voice revealing that he was still looking inward at his own vision. Suddenly, though, Himmler looked up, looked sharply at von Reinhardt, and von Reinhardt could feel the probing stare. “You were the right man for the Soviet mission, weren’t you? You’re very skilled. I wish you were still on my side.”

  In the compliment was a warning: Don’t take me for granted or assume I’m too dumb to understand what you’re doing. Von Reinhardt could hear it clearly. “When the interests of the different parties are aligned, we’re all on the same side,” he replied, and that seemed to be the right thing to say, because Himmler sat down in the high-backed chair behind his desk and leaned forward. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  Von Reinhardt leaned forward as well and began to talk.

  THIRD ARMY MOBILE HQ, CROSSROADS IN THE THÜRINGER WALD, GERMANY, 1110 HOURS GMT

  The jeeps roared up the steep road, following the twisting switchbacks between frowning bluffs lined with dark firs. Snow lay heavy across the ground, drifts mounded especially deep in the sunless depths of the primordial woods. One by one, the drivers backed off the gas as they neared the crest of the ridge. The middle jeep turned out of the narrow road to park in a natural overlook next to a large Mercedes staff car while the other two jeeps continued on. Maintaining an army on the move had something in common with cowboys moving a herd across the plains; the jeeps were the outriders, rounding up stragglers and strays and keeping the dogies rollin’.

  A flag with three white stars fluttered from the fender of the jeep that stopped. General George S. Patton pushed himself from the front seat of that vehicle, nodding as he took in the vista of rolling hills and dark pine forests. He raised his binoculars and scrutinized the road before them, for the several kilometers it remained visible before the next ridge. A Sherman tank was visible before him, though it quickly disappeared around a gentle bend. On the far horizon he saw a string of half-tracks cresting the elevation and rapidly vanishing from sight on the other side.

  Pronouncing himself satisfied, the general strode to the shoulder of the road, unzipped his trousers, and relieved himself. When he had finished, he planted his fists on his hips and looked around. Ahead of him, at the very edge of the ridge, stood a man in a leather trench coat holding a pad of paper, watching the moving line of vehicles and sketching. Patton walked toward him. It was Rommel.

  “Nice spot for a couple of tourists,” Patton joked. “This is a fine view!”

  “Indeed,” replied the Desert Fox. “There is good hunting in these woods—for deer and boar, during better times.”

  “Right now, it’s open season on Nazis,” the American general replied. “But the bastards seem to be pretty scarce. That’s the tail end of Fourth Armored up there, and I can barely keep up with them. Maybe all of Himmler’s boys have gone to ground for good.”

  Rommel nodded hopefully. “We haven’t encountered any resistance stronger than a platoon since crossing the river. I am beginning to think we’ll have an open road for as far as General Eisenhower wants us to go.”

  “The real prize is out there,” Patton said, pointing unerringly on a line east by northeast. “I’ve been hammering at Ike to turn us loose, send us all the way to Berlin, but he keeps hemming and hawing.”

  “We will go to Berlin, General Patton. One way or another. You have my word on it,” said Rommel with certainty in his voice.

  “Yeah? I hope you’re right. But listen, Rommel—Do you mind if I call you Rommel?”

  “Not at all. I will call you Patton. Unless you prefer George … or is it ‘Georgie’?”

  Patton laughed. “Patton suits me fine. Thanks. But listen, Rommel—Berlin is only the first stop. You know where I want to go?”

  “Where?”

  “I want to kick the commie bastards all the way back to Moscow.”

  Rommel continued to sketch. “It’s a nice thought, but personally, I would be satisfied merely keeping them out of Germany.”

  “Why? Don’t you know that they’ll be back? They won’t rest until every inch of Europe is red.”

  “Perhaps. But Europe has seen so much war, so much destruction, that I’m afraid it cannot take very much more. If you’re dead, it makes little difference whose flag flies over your grave. Another major war on top of everything else the twentieth century has given us, and there would be no victor.”

  “That’s pretty defeatist, Rommel. I’m surprised at you.”

  Rommel chuckled. “Remember, Patton, my friend, I have been defeated. Of course, when it comes to war, I have been the most fortunate of men. I went through the First World War without experiencing trench warfare and the Second World War without experiencing the Russian Front.” He finished his sketch and turned over the page.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” Patton said.

  “I’m not,” Rommel replied. “I do a little sketching, it’s true, but it’s mostly to fix the picture in my mind.” The pencil sketch was rough, with quick outlines for vehicles and men. The men were articulated stick figures, but quite animated. The scene was surprisingly vivid, showing a military operation in progress.

  “That’s pretty good,” Patton observed.

  “Thank you,” Rommel replied. “I make the drawings and write a daily summary that forms the raw material for the books I plan to write when this i
s over. I will return to the war academy, I expect, and spend my remaining years writing and teaching the operational arts of war. I look forward to it. I seem to have an aptitude for the craft of making war, but had that not been my calling, I think I would have made a fine engineer and been quite satisfied with that life.”

  Patton looked out over the ridge. “I suppose I’ll write a book and teach as well, but I’m not looking forward to it at all.”

  “No?”

  “No. Ever seen a greyhound dog?”

  “A racing hound, right?”

  “Yep. Bred for one purpose, not good for anything else. That’s me. My entire life is about this. When it’s over, I’m just marking time till I die. If I’m lucky, I get killed by the last bullet.”

  “It’s a great shame, my friend, that you were not born German. You Americans have come over here late in the war with the aim of finishing it. With huge armies and immense power, you move through any obstacle, and you don’t have the opportunities for creativity that come only to those who are short of resources. You would have gotten your appetite better satisfied as a German.”

  “You’re damn right, Rommel. I admire you people, I really do. You planned and fought a war against the rest of the world put together and damn near won. A hell of an accomplishment. A hell of an accomplishment.”

  “In the area of military strategy and tactics, I thank you for your compliment. I’m afraid, though, that Germany has much to answer for in other spheres—aggression against its neighbors, inhumanity against its own citizens and civilians among its neighbors …”

  Patton waved his hand. “Liberal bullshit, if you ask me. But, hell, let’s not talk politics. That’s not what they hire generals to do, anyway, right?”

  “Exactly. Taking Berlin, on the other hand, is exactly what generals are here to do.”

  Patton laughed. “You got that right, Rommel. Shit, the Brits are still taking their sweet time crossing the river up north, while we’ve ripped the belly of the country open.” Patton knew that the British offensive was facing much heavier opposition than his own advance; still, that knowledge did not to diminish the delight he took in the comparison. “We should take Berlin, then come back and help Dempsey mop up around the Ruhr.” General Sir Miles Dempsey, who had been commanding the British Second Army, had been promoted to field marshal and taken command of the Twenty-first Army Group after the death of Montgomery during the Fuchs am Rhein offensive. “Last time I talked to Ike, he sounded like he was coming around to that idea. Now that the fucking communists are back in this game, I think he’s starting to see that we could have some real problems if we don’t get to Berlin first.”

  Rommel smiled at that, but tactfully made no reply.

  “Well, another day or two of this, and then we’ll get to some open country, right?” Patton remarked. “Then we can really let these hounds loose to run.”

  “Ah, the hunt, again,” replied the German. He gestured to the vehicles waiting with idling engines. “Then perhaps we should get back to our saddles?”

  “I like the way you think—and the way you make war,” General Patton agreed, shaking Rommel’s hand before turning back to his jeep. “Let’s do this again in a few days! Maybe by then the Big Boss will have come to his senses—and we can plan a parade in front of the Reichstag!”

  “It would be my pleasure,” the field marshal replied, with a little bow and a click of his heels. The two commanders returned to their vehicles. Rommel stood at the door of his staff car as Patton climbed into his jeep. The Desert Fox saluted again as the three jeeps roared into motion, one after the other starting down the next descending slope.

  EXCERPT FROM WAR’S FINAL FURY, BY PROFESSOR JARED GRUENWALD

  Field Marshal Walther Mödel had taken every precaution to keep his commanders from switching sides, recognizing the temptation posed by Rommel’s German Republican Army. Senior staff were shuffled to keep any general from having a completely trustworthy team; the Gestapo routinely bugged all headquarters offices; random transfers of key personnel were routine. Even at troop levels, SS troops were mixed in with regular Wehrmacht troops and even Volksgrenadier units, serving the classic medieval function of shooting those who would either retreat or surrender.

  Mödel fully recognized the extent to which this would hamper military operations, but the alternative—as shown in the defection of Army Group H—was catastrophic.

  Mödel, who committed suicide shortly after the Army Group H defection in order to avoid capture—“A field marshal worthy of his oath never becomes a captive or a pawn of his enemy,” read his suicide note in a thinly veiled stab at Rommel—was a brilliant military officer, but had been dealt a losing hand.

  In spite of all his precautions, there was a slow but steady hemorrhage of individuals and small units moving to the other side. To complicate Rommel’s life, Mödel even arranged decoy defections—spies and saboteurs. This forced the German Republican Army to be more cautious in accepting surrenders. With the inevitable misunderstandings, it became understood that there were dangers involved in trying to change sides.

  The full story of the surrender of Army Group H did not come out until well after the war. The officer/diplomat Günter von Reinhardt, who had been instrumental in the Soviet pact of the previous year, passed through Army Group H headquarters several times while on secret visits to Berlin on behalf of Rommel. Although both Army Group H commander Colonel-General Karl Student and von Reinhardt denied any collusion at the time, the two men had literally passed notes to one another under the very nose of the Gestapo. Student had identified those officers who might resist the surrender, and these officers were taken prisoner before the surrender was announced.

  Although Mödel went to his death thinking of himself as a failure, the odds against his success were so high that it is unreasonable to judge this failure harshly. He tried to hold together an unstable front made of disaffected troops who saw a clear opportunity to join the winning team and still regard themselves as patriots. That initiative was surely doomed from the outset.

  With Army Group H gone, only Army Group G (Upper Rhine) remained to give battle in the west, resisting the British and American armies who were battling toward the industrial heartland of the Ruhr. Because of the large number of SS divisions in Army Group G, it continued to resist, giving ground only slowly, but even its motivation was substantially diminished by the realization that Rommel now had a completely open road to Berlin.

  OPERATION WOLKENBRAND

  18 FEBRUARY–26 FEBRUARY 1945

  On Wednesday, March 22, 1933, the first Concentration Camp will be opened in the vicinity of Dachau. It can accommodate 5,000 people. We have adopted this measure, undeterred by paltry scruples, in the conviction that our action will help restore calm in our country, and is in the best interests of our people.

  —Heinrich Himmler

  Commissioner of Police for the City of Munich

  Munchner Neusten Nachrichten

  March 21, 1933

  18 FEBRUARY 1945

  APPROACHING RAMSIA, THÜRINGEN, GERMANY, 0246 HOURS GMT

  The jeep’s headlights stabbed at the blanketing fog but failed to penetrate far. Snow patches on the road reflected and diffused what little light did penetrate, giving the illusion of driving through a ghostly tunnel. The jeep careered around a curve, going much too fast for weather conditions. Smiggy could barely keep his map spread out on his lap, and the beam of his flashlight danced up and down with the motion of the jeep.

  “Hey—there’s a sign. Slow down,” the recon captain ordered.

  “Gotcha, Cap’n,” replied the driver, a corporal named McConnell. As he began to brake, he waved his hand high in the air, signaling the other jeeps in the patrol to brake as well.

  As the jeep slowed down, Smiggy checked his compass and then played his flashlight over the sign. “All right. Looks like the sign’s in the right place.” Altering road signs was a traditional way to confuse invaders. “We’ll turn right
and head past Ettersburg and on into Weimar.” He picked up his walkie-talkie. “Hodad One to Big Kahuna.”

  “Big Kahuna, go ahead,” came the crackling reply from his headquarters unit. Lieutenant Bucklin was holding down the fort coordinating reports. Smiggy liked being out at the edge of the recon area. He sometimes felt he had a sixth sense about the terrain, but it was only active when he was out there. When he briefed Major Keegan, the new G-2, he always enjoyed the “I was there” part best, because he could see the embarrassment on Keegan’s face—the man was a chair warmer of the worst sort. Smiggy had originally thought the same of Sanger, Keegan’s predecessor, but he’d finally decided the man had balls. Keegan had none. Smiggy was sure.

  He toggled the walkie-talkie again. “Clear approach as far as Ramsia. Ettersburg next check in about fifteen minutes. Nothing going on here. What do you have?”

  “Reports clear to Ottstedt and south, Hodad One. God knows how many kids with rifles, but no force concentration.”

  “Copy on the kids with rifles, Big Kahuna. They won’t come out till the day shift. Thanks for the update. Hodad One out.” Kids—Hitler Youth—were the biggest resistance the advancing Allies were facing. In the towns and cities, the Germans were waving American and prewar German flags as the Allied forces rumbled through. They loved all the Allies, but they loved Rommel the best. Smiggy had started thinking of Rommel as Ike’s pet Nazi, a turncoat glory hound, and the way people made a big deal over him made Smiggy ill.

  It was a running joke that there weren’t any German Nazis other than the kids. The adults fawned over the troops like liberated Frenchmen. You’d think they’d been the oppressed victims of the war. But the kids were bad enough. Some of them were good shots, and none of them would surrender. Soldiers had to go in and kill them, and killing kids—even kids who were trying to kill you—was not the kind of war story you planned to tell your grandchildren.