THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  Pulling himself up to a more military stance, Lange entered the room and dismissed the aide, who without another word closed the door and disappeared. While he moved over to an armchair and removed his overcoat, Lange looked down at the floor. He said nothing to Mondorf and heard nothing from him. Finally, when he was ready, Lange dropped into the armchair and studied Mondorf, who remained in place at attention staring at the door. Lange knew what this officer, one of the senior commanders of the German Army, had done and he knew why. Now, Lange thought, did he himself have the courage to do the same? Was he prepared to follow the example of this officer, who was his junior, and turn his back on his sworn duty to his country and its appointed leaders and do what he as an individual deemed was right? Mondorf could be wrong. The senior commanders of the Luftwaffe who had resigned and the pilots who had flown their aircraft into Holland could be wrong. The individual commanders of the warships of the Kriegsmarine who had sailed out of port north to Norwegian fjords, where they dropped anchor and turned off their radios, could be wrong. And the reservists who had refused to answer their call to the colors could be wrong. They all could be wrong.

  But what if they were not? What if their actions, and not those who still accepted Ruff's orders, were appropriate? And what at this point was right and what was wrong? It was all very confusing. All untidy and beyond explanation. The only thing that was clear to Lange, and he was sure to Mondorf, was that the point of decision had been reached. Each officer, as both he and Mondorf had been taught, had to decide between right and wrong for himself. Staff studies, regulations, orders, and philosophical discussions had no place here. This was, Lange knew, a critical moment in the life of Germany, and he alone should decide how that moment ended.

  When his superior said or did nothing, Mondorf slowly turned his head and looked over to where Lange sat, lost in his own thoughts. He could see by Lange's furrowed brows and glazed, unflinching stare that the concerns and perplexed thoughts that were racing through his mind were weighing heavily upon him. Relaxing his stance slightly, Mondorf turned toward Lange and in a low voice spoke. "When it comes time, the difference between one's duty and one's conscience is hard to separate. I fear that perhaps we have been soldiers for too long, Herr General."

  Lange looked up at Mondorf. He was right, of course. He was absolutely right. As a senior commander, Lange realized that he had allowed his duty and his conscience to merge into one. This, he suddenly realized, was why senior officers, far removed from the heat of battle, were having problems deciding what to do, while many junior officers saw clearly what needed to be done and did it. To them the choice was simple, fight or step aside and let the Americans pass. Finally he knew what he must do.

  "Yes, Horst, you are right. I have forgotten." Then, like a man galvanized into sudden action, Lange jumped to his feet. "But I have not forgotten that before I was a soldier I was a German. You and other men of courage like you, thank God, have not forgotten that." Reaching down for his coat, Lange all but shouted like a man possessed, "Come, Horst, we have much to do and not much time."

  "Where, Herr General, are we going?"

  "We are going to Bremerhaven, now, tonight. We will use my helicopter. Turn your operations here over to your chief of staff."

  Still bewildered, Mondorf hesitated as Lange raced for the door. He was halfway through the door when he noticed that Mondorf was not following. Stopping, he turned to Mondorf. "Come. We must reach our paratroopers before the Americans do."

  Part Five

  TO THE SEA

  CHAPTER 18

  22 JANUARY

  "TEN MINUTES! TEN MINUTES TO THE DROP ZONE." The sudden shouting of the jump master broke the long silence that had settled over both the crew and the paratroops in the ancient C-141 transport. From where he sat, the sight of nervous young men, younger than the airplane that had transported them across the Atlantic to their drop zones west of Bremerhaven, Germany, was not new to Major General Benjamin Matthew. With over thirty years invested in the Army, which had started during the dying days of Viet-Nam, nothing that he saw, heard, or smelled that morning was new.

  Fighting the weight and bulk of the parachute and personal equipment strapped to his body, Matthew pulled himself forward and looked down the length of the aircraft at the young soldiers he was about to lead into battle. They were no different than thousands of other young paratroopers who had on many occasions in the past stepped out into thin air and jumped into hell. The big difference this time was that this would be the last time that Americans would do it. His division was scheduled for deactivation. There was, planners in Washington had determined, no place in the twenty-first century for airborne forces in the new model Army that was being built. "The airborne division," one brilliant young staff officer in the Pentagon had stated, "was like the dinosaur, big, clumsy, and unable to adapt to the changing environment of the modern battlefield of a new century."

  Easing back into the nylon jump seat, Matthew shook his head. Well, he thought, at least I'll be able to go out like my division, in a blaze of glory and doing what I was trained to do. Matthew had already decided that he would retire after this command. In fact, he had requested that his last day of active duty coincide with the day the 17th Airborne was scheduled to deactivate. If the Army was so ready to bury this old dinosaur, Matthew told his wife, they'd have to get someone else to kick the dirt into the grave.

  But that was still in the future. Right now Matthew was preparing to throw the war in Germany into a new phase that would serve notice to Germany that the United States was not prepared to sit idly by and allow the soldiers of the Tenth Corps to be swallowed up, regardless of who was right or wrong. "Without us," he had told his command before leaving Fort Bragg, "the Tenth Corps doesn't even have hope. Only we can make a difference. Though some of us will die, we will die fighting in the only cause that really makes sense, to save our fellow soldiers."

  On command from the pilot, the jump masters prepared for the jump. Opening the door and deploying the large spoilers that would protect the paratroopers from the blast of the jet engines as they exited the aircraft, the jump masters brought the 122 paratroops to life. Everywhere, in Matthew's plane and dozens like it following in formation, the men and women of the 17th Airborne checked their personal equipment, parachutes, and personal effects as they waited for the jump master's next command. Even Matthew was occupied checking his gear out for the fourth time when the jump master tapped him on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw the jump master holding his earphones, connected to the aircraft's intercom system, out to him. Over the roar of the engines and the air rushing in, the jump master yelled, "General, the pilot wants to talk to you." The pilot on this particular aircraft was no ordinary throttle jockey. Taking his cue from Matthew, and seeking to salvage the reputation of the Military Airlift Command after the Sembach debacle, the commander of the air division from which most of the transports in this armada came from, Major General Eddie Bower, flew the lead aircraft, Matthew's aircraft. Before leaving, he had told Matthew that if he didn't put him right on the money, he'd turn in his stars too. It was a show of faith that everyone in the 17th Airborne appreciated.

  As he pulled his helmet off and slipped the earphones on, Matthew hoped that this operation was not being called off for some foolish reason by some weenie in Washington who had suddenly gotten cold feet. Ready, he pulled the microphone up to his lips and clicked the intercom button. "Eddie, this is Ben. What's up?"

  "Ben, I just got the strangest damned message over the radio. A German who claims to be the commander of the German 27th Parachute Brigade is calling for you by name. Says he wants to talk to you. It's coming in over the clear on the commercial airlines channel. You want to talk to him?"

  Matthew shook his head and thought. He had met the colonel who commanded the 27th Brigade twice before but couldn't remember the name. If he had the face right, he wasn't a bad sort of fellow. Friendly, tough, professional, and, according to Matthew's intelligence o
fficer, straight as an arrow when it came to following orders. The 27th Parachute Brigade, charged with preparing the defenses of Bremerhaven, was a crack unit that would be the principal obstacle in the 17th Airborne Division's path into the city. Fact was, the 27th, with three battalions organized and ready on the ground, could be more than a match for the eight battalions the 17th was dropping that morning if the German commander reacted quickly and aggressively. That he knew Matthew and the division were on the way and near enough to communicate told Matthew that the German commander was ready. Seeing that there was nothing to lose, Matthew asked Bower to switch over his headset to the radio and monitor. When Bower passed on that his mike was hot, Matthew keyed the radio. "This is Major General Matthew. Over."

  Ready and waiting, the German commander responded. "This is Colonel Fritz Junger, commander, 27th Parachute Brigade. The pathfinder detachment of my brigade has prepared drop zones for your division. We are ready to assist the drop of your division and will not resist. I repeat. We are ready to assist the drop of your division and will not resist. Acknowledge, please."

  Looking up at the jump master with a dumbfounded look, Matthew was about to ask him if he had heard right but remembered that the jump master couldn't hear. Instead he keyed the radio again. "Eddie, did you hear the same thing I heard?"

  "That's a roger. It seems the German commander has gone over and wants to help us."

  Since Matthew's conversation was still going out over the radio, as he knew, the German commander heard his conversation with Bower. "I have, after conversations with the Chief of the German General Staff, General Otto Lange, ordered my soldiers to stand down and avoid contact with the soldiers of your command. I have declared, in cooperation with the civil authorities, Bremerhaven as an open city. You may jump if you desire or land at the military airfield. If you decide to drop, my operations officer is ready to turn on beacons to guide your aircraft in. All drop zones are marked using standard NATO markings and have smoke pots ready to be lit for wind direction and identification. Over."

  Still unsure what to make of this, Matthew looked about at his men and pondered the most difficult question of his life. To trust this German, a man whom he was until seconds ago prepared to fight, could result in the failure of his mission and the loss of not only his division but the Tenth Corps. On the other hand, Matthew realized that if the German commander really had gone over, so to speak, to the American side, then a peaceful drop, assisted by the German Army, would mean a great deal when it came time to end this conflict. Matthew, as had all commanders, had been alerted that German commanders were starting to break with Berlin and that they were to take advantage of these defections whenever and wherever possible. "Ben, this is Eddie. Drop zone in six minutes. Right now we're committed to a jump. To make radical changes in direction would be difficult, not to mention potentially hazardous. What are we doing?"

  With one more look at the upturned face of a young paratrooper seated across from him, Matthew decided. "Colonel Junger, have your operations turn on the beacons. We will drop using your drop zones. Please meet me on the ground as soon as possible. I will be the first man coining out of the lead aircraft. Over."

  "I acknowledge that you will be dropping at our designated drop zones. Please have your lead pilot switch to frequency 27.05 for meteorological update and frequencies of guidance beacons. General Lange and I will meet you on the ground. Over."

  "This is Matthew. I'll be on the ground in less than six minutes. Out."

  Finished, Matthew took off the jump master's headset, handed it back to the jump master, and began to put his helmet back on. Ready, he looked up to the master sergeant who had as many years and jumps as he and shouted, "Okay, Sergeant, it's all yours now. Let's hit the silk."

  On the ground, Colonel Fritz Junger, Major General Horst Mondorf, and General Otto Lange turned their faces up to the pale blue early-morning sky as the first olive drab parachutes of the 17th Airborne Division began to blossom over the flat, muddy German countryside. For a moment Junger looked around at his men standing idly about the drop zone, rifles harmlessly slung over their shoulders with their muzzles pointed down. He then looked at the two generals. "I am sure, General Lange, that you understand that we might be branded traitors."

  Lange, without turning his face away from the spectacle of a mass airborne drop, sighed. "When von Clausewitz refused to submit to French rule and went over to fight with the Russians against Napoleon, the Prussian King called him a traitor. When the Saxon Corps, with drums beating and flags flying, marched across the fields of Leipzig in 1813, leaving the French and joining the Allies, the French, who had occupied Germany for years, called them traitors. When Count Von Stauffenberg planted the bomb on July 20th, 1944, in an attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler, the Nazis called him a traitor. If I am allowed to join the ranks of men such as they, who put the best interests of Germany over their own, then I will lift my head with pride every time I am called a traitor."

  Junger, still unsure, was about to say something more when he noticed that there was no sign of stress or strain on either Lange's face or Mondorf's. They simply stood there watching the American invaders slowly drift down to earth under their huge parachutes as if this were a peacetime NATO maneuver. These generals, Junger realized, were committed. They had made up their minds and were convinced that what they were doing was right. If that was so and they were right, Junger thought, how can I do otherwise. They were the voice and conscience of the German Army. It was, after all, his sworn duty to follow them. Satisfied, Junger turned to his operations officer standing next to the radio van and ordered him to start looking for the American airborne general after the first wave was on the ground and before the second wave began to exit their aircraft.

  The major, untroubled by concerns of right and wrong, since there were so many senior commanders present to do that for him, carried out his orders as directed.

  Like dozens of others separated from units that had ceased to exist or had moved north long ago, Hilary Cole was alone, frightened, hungry, cold, and lost. Fear and a sense of alienation dominated Cole's reactions. And the manner in which she dealt with her separation could only be termed reaction, for she had no clear idea of where she was, what was happening, or what to do. In fact, it could be said that Cole, like other ragtag survivors of the Battle of Central Germany, no longer was responsible for her actions. Nothing in all her training or even in her wildest dreams had prepared her for being so lost, so isolated, so miserable. She was in every sense hanging on to the lower rung of Maslow's ladder by her fingertips.

  In a dreamlike state Cole wandered about without purpose, without direction. After days of being bombarded with horror after horror, that was the only state in which her mind could function. Even as she walked from tree to tree in the pale light of a new day, images of the dead and dying drifted before her eyes. And it didn't matter whether she was awake or asleep. The images came as they saw fit, confusing her efforts to deal with reality and causing her to swing from the depths of depression to an animated state of terror when she would start running in whichever direction she happened to be facing at the moment. Though she, like other members of her unit, had received rudimentary training in fieldcrafts and survival on the battlefield, no one and nothing had ever prepared her for the carnival of death that she had so recently been a player in.

  In those brief moments when Cole was able to compose herself and think clearly, she was able to piece together some of what was happening. That she was alone, lost, and hungry was clear. All she had was the parka she had taken with her from the truck. She had no water, no food, no emergency medical kit, nothing. Even worse, she had no idea where she was and what was happening. There were only a few things that Cole did know. After watching the annihilation of her field hospital by German tanks, she was convinced that the Germans would kill her. So she never went back, even after the sounds of battle had faded. Nor did she dare approach any place where there might be Germans. They were th
e enemy in every sense of the word.

  So Hilary Cole had spent the entire day after the destruction of her unit wandering about the woods aimlessly in the vain hope that she would somehow find another American unit. She didn't. Most units, once the word was out that there was a rogue unit roaming throughout that area, avoided it. That left Cole to spend another night alone in woods that were beginning to take on the appearance of a prison. With nothing but her parka to keep her warm, Cole threw herself on the ground and, between the shivers and sobs, cried herself to sleep.

  On that morning, when stray beams of the morning sun came dancing through the trees and lit upon Cole's face, it took her several minutes to understand where she was. When she finally realized that her situation that morning was no better than it had been the night before when exhaustion had compelled her to drop to the ground and sleep, Cole began to cry. There was no sense to this. Crying would do nothing to improve her situation. Crying offered no solution. But then nothing made sense anymore.

  In the midst of her own despair she heard a voice. It wasn't a very strong voice, and it had a rather mournful quality to it. But it was a human voice. Though she couldn't be sure if it was real or her imagination, that voice was the only thing she had. Pulling herself up with the aid of the tree she had slept huddled up against, Cole looked about, trying to determine where the voice came from. At first, with her mind still clouded by sleep and despair, Cole was unable to determine from which direction the voice came. It was as if the trees and her mind were playing a cruel trick on her, mocking her.