Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  Müller, too agitated to sit, paced nervously back and forth in the confined space, much like a monkey in a cage. He saw his sweaty brow reflected in the small mirror on the wall of Reinhardt’s office and dabbed at it with a wrinkled handkerchief.

  Again he peered out the grimy window at the military stand-off outside. The Wehrmacht troops, so outnumbered, stood at crisp attention in their feldgrau uniforms, true German soldiers. The midnight-black SS troops laughed and gossiped among themselves, occasionally looking over at their Wehrmacht opposition with disparaging sneers. Finally Müller snatched his round glasses off his pudgy face, polished them furiously with a handkerchief, and put them back on, halfheartedly hoping that the surrounding forces had magically disappeared.

  The General Staff office warren was a beehive of activity. In the narrow corridors, illuminated mostly by bare bulbs, officers and clerks moved rapidly, purposefully, carrying sheaves of paper in and out of meetings. The ranking generals were locked behind closed doors, arguing, exploring options, debating, forming and breaking alliances. The military high command of the world’s mightiest fighting force had ground to a halt with the führer’s assassination.

  Müller’s frustration built until he could take no more. “How can you just sit there?” he demanded of his friend, his voice rising uncontrollably at the question mark. “Great decisions are being made! Our lives and the very life of our nation is at stake! Why aren’t you doing something?”

  One thin eyebrow raised slightly, ironically. “What would you have me do, Wolfgang?” Reinhardt said. “We are soldiers. Our superiors make decisions, and we carry them out. Our superiors themselves are in the hands of world-historical forces. Our destiny is shaped by factors beyond our control, and we are merely the playthings of destiny. But I will give you this,” he added, with the hint of his annoyingly superior smile playing at his lips, that smile that made Müller feel ignorant and angry, “As Hegel says, ‘Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.’ Truth be told, I, too, feel somewhat anxious. But, ‘what cannot be cured must be endured.’ Come, my friend. Let me buy you a cup of the wretched stuff that passes for coffee in this place. And perhaps they will still have one of your favorite pastries.”

  Müller was only half placated, but he allowed von Reinhardt to lead him toward the canteen. His stomach was rumbling--it was fear, he knew, but fear made him hungry. Nervously, he wondered about the generals in closed conference, vividly imagining the chaos, the debate. What if the wrong decision was made? Would he go to his death bravely against the ferocity of the SS? His own boss, General Rowekamp, was a decent but ineffectual old fool, certainly no protection at all.

  Reinhardt’s hand on his shoulder was suddenly very reassuring.

  General Franz Rowekamp, white-haired, long devoid of real power, a World War I leftover, had not wielded any meaningful authority among the General Staff since the war began. Supply, reserve affairs, staff support roles were all he’d been good for. Now, as the debate of the generals entered its third hour, he could sense that his peers recognized him as a leader. His moment had finally arrived.

  The senior Wehrmacht officers had gathered quickly upon the news of Hitler’s death, traveling from the various fronts and headquarters to meet here. Keitel, the chief of staff, von Kluge and Model, the front commanders, all outranked Rowekamp, but they did not want the leadership of this meeting. There was too much at stake, too many ways to gain unwelcome visibility. Their silence made their collective will clear: Let Rowekamp have the floor.

  Jodl, Hitler’s lackey, sat by himself in a gloomy comer of the room, ostracized, but still a factor. Of the important officers, only the badly wounded field marshal Erwin Rommel was missing. There were even rumors that he was part of the conspiracy. Of course, there were rumors about nearly everybody right now.

  The Reich’s key generals sat around the long oak conference table. For security reasons, the conference room was below ground where nothing natural could penetrate. Cold artificial light reflected harsh shadows. Everyone looked older, more worn, defeated. Tension in the room was thick. The meeting was secret, but all knew that their respective positions, however they evolved, would inevitably leak. Until the factions resolved themselves, until winners and losers became apparent, any and every opinion might become fatal. Rowekamp was old. Let him take the risk.

  Three hours earlier, long before the table became cluttered with half-drunk cups of vile ersatz coffee, before the stench of stale smoke and sweat made eyes water, before the harsh glare of the lights began to reflect the building madness, Rowekamp had made his key decision. Consensus ...we must avoid civil war, chaos for the Fatherland. I will lead gently, bring out all sides, and find the solution with which all can live.

  It had been a mission far more difficult than any he’d faced in a long, if undistinguished, career. But he had persevered, encouraging, listening, moderating.

  At first only Stauffenberg, a mere colonel but the most visible of the conspirators and known to all present as the assassin of Adolf Hitler, had felt utterly free to proclaim his opinion.

  “We are this close to peace! We cannot surrender all to that Nazi clown in a black costume! Our coup has been a success; Himmler cannot take power without your consent!” Stauffenberg pounded his remaining hand on the long, oaken conference table.

  “Murderer!” Jodl hissed. “Traitor to the Reich! The führer’s mission must be completed. None of you here have any right to gainsay the führer’s orders. With Göring dead--at your hand, no doubt--Himmler is the highest-ranking party official; it is utterly right, legal, and moral that he assume leadership of party and nation.” Left unstated was a likelihood obvious to all: Jodl would then become his chief of staff.

  “We did not kill Göring, you irrelevant lackey,” von Stauffenberg snarled. “It was Himmler himself, don’t you understand? You have sold out your people to kiss Hitler’s rosy red rectum. Now you’re only looking for another ass to kiss.”

  Jodl was on his feet in an instant; there was murder in his eyes. “Traitor!” he hissed. The look on his face made it clear he could not understand why the others at the meeting had not already executed Hitler’s assassin. Stauffenberg looked at him with equal hatred, about to launch into another tirade.

  “That is enough,” Rowekamp interjected curtly. “Jodl, von Stauffenberg, this meeting is to discuss the issues at hand, not trade personal insults. In my day, we settled matters like yours on the field of honor. Colonel Count, do remember that Jodl is still your superior officer. Accord him the respect his rank warrants.”

  Sullenly, the one-armed colonel yielded to military discipline. “Jawohl, mein General.” He saluted and slowly sat back down. Jodl did not salute, but also sat.

  Field Marshal Model straightened up in his high-backed seat. “This matter must be discussed, of course, but it is the very height of insanity for us to consider the transition of power and the future of the State while looking down the barrels of Himmler’s guns. Let us not forget that we command the armies of the Reich. Himmler knows that our deaths will not bring the armies under his control. There is a chain of command, and the other commanders are with their forces. Himmler has not won yet.”

  Murmurs of assent from the assembled generals at Model’s assertion helped lower the combative temperature of the room.

  Field Marshal Keitel put up his hand. His face was blistered and bandaged, and all knew that he had been very near to the bomb that had killed Hitler. Still, the wounding did not seem to have affected his aura of command. “Field Marshal, I utterly agree. We are soldiers. There is a chain of command. Our deaths may not matter to the destiny of the Reich. That is perfectly true. But our deaths do mean something to ourselves; at least that is true in my case. Perhaps today is the day when we must all fall on our swords like true German heroes. Then again, perhaps this is not the moment. I, myself, am not eager that it be thus.”

  Model laughed. “Field Marshal Keitel, I am not eager for it either
.”

  The gallows humor had the desired effect. Keitel stood up to pour himself another cup of the awful brew that even the Reich’s leaders were now forced to drink. No orderlies were allowed in this room; the matter was too important and the identities of all the conspirators still unknown. The fear of another bomb had everyone edgy. Even Keitel had suffered himself to be searched. Standing, clearly welcoming the relief from staying too long seated, the field marshal turned his eyes along the table.

  Rowekamp too looked around, carefully studying the faces of his peers on the General Staff. He had known many of them for years, but he could not read them today. Too much uncertainty, too much at stake for people to reveal their true emotions.

  “Perhaps I may summarize?” he ventured, looking from face to face and getting agreement. “Point one: Reichsführer Himmler’s SS units occupy all of Berlin. It is more than possible that should we refuse to cooperate, we will die here.

  “Point two: Since our deaths do not give command of the armies to Himmler, he has little to gain from killing us, and therefore we have some power to negotiate.

  “Point three: Colonel Count von Stauffenberg’s activities did not command unanimous support among our numbers. His opinions, while part of the discussion here, do not control.

  “Point four: The fact that General Bücher has offered a meeting with Himmler suggests that Himmler also sees room for discussion. Perhaps a power-sharing arrangement, a coordination of goals, might be the best possible outcome. Gentlemen, do you agree with this summary?”

  There was general assent except for Jodl and Stauffenberg. Jodl sat like a church mouse, clearly afraid to push Himmler’s views too hard. For now, he seemed willing to remain quiet, though he would inevitably give a full report to the Reichsführer. His duty, his loyalty, and his self-interest remained together.

  Stauffenberg tried one more protest. Standing, he looked down at his colleagues and superiors, his angular and ravaged form casting a dark shadow on the conference table, and contemptuously pronounced his position. “Very well. You remain Nazi puppy dogs. You will discuss and debate and eventually submit to the jackal’s teeth. Understand this, however. I am not alone, and those who agree with me occupy positions of power. Not all of us are revealed. Himmler will have to contend with far more than he knows, as will you. There are no safe harbors, gentlemen. Everyone must take a stand or be swept away in the flood.” He turned on his heel and stiffly marched from the room.

  The arrogance of a mere colonel irritated several of the generals. Nobility or not, rank still mattered--though all ignored the bitter irony that they had been taking orders from a mere corporal--Hitler’s World War I military rank--for years. Still, Stauffenberg represented power. Perhaps he even represented members of this table.

  Rowekamp once more passed his calm gaze over the assembled officers, then concluded. “Perhaps it would be well to accept Himmler’s offer of a meeting, a discussion of the future of the Reich. Then we can meet again and determine the appropriate course of action for our nation and our peoples.”

  There were nods from the other participants. Find out Himmler’s plan. Gain more information. Postpone final decisions. Still shocked by the death of a man who, however mad, had represented the spirit of the German people and embodied their destiny, they struggled with a long-ingrained habit of subordinating their wills to a higher command.

  The consensus was clear. ‘Then we agree. We will meet with Reichsführer Himmler and resume this discussion.”

  General Rowekamp pushed his chair back, rasping across the wooden floor, and stood up, his ancient body aching after sitting for so long. The other officers rose as well. It was a proud moment for the old man. I may have saved my country, he thought. Civil war was at least postponed, possibly foiled. He stood as the officers silently filed out the single wooden door, leaving him alone in the harshly lit room. Wisps of smoke visibly floated in the rays of light.

  Suddenly he had a powerful need to piss.

  Excerpt from War’s Final Fury, by Professor Jared Gruenwald

  (Zurich: University of Zurich Press, 1955)

  The assassination of Adolf Hitler had profound effects on the farther conduct of the Second World War. It is ironic in the extreme that virtually none of them were among the objectives of the assassins.

  While certainly one cannot fault the boldness of von Stauffenberg and his cohorts in terms of their military action, they were surprisingly timid in the follow through. A rational examination of the assassination plot reveals crucial weaknesses in organization and planning of the subsequent coup attempt--flaws that almost inevitably doomed the operation to failure. Also, the secrecy necessary to their survival in a totalitarian state was enough to ensure crucial delays in the activation of key elements of the coup attempt. The decision to announce the coup in coded messages broadcast to conspirators throughout Europe was a final, fatal blow--for by the time these messages were translated, the forces of the SS had already acted to fill in the vacuum of power.

  And finally, the critical injuries to Rommel all but doomed the overthrow of the government to failure. Although the erstwhile field marshal was not an active participant in the plot, we now know that he wholeheartedly supported the conspirators’ objectives. He had even consented to serve as the president of the new German government, intended for installation as soon as the conspirators had removed the Nazis from positions of control. Rommel’s reputation as a capable field commander, and the respect he had earned from military and civilian quarters alike, had given him a status lacking in virtually any other potential leader. Furthermore, his powers of command and organization could have proven crucial in the key hours after Hitler’s death.

  There is also considerable doubt as to whether, during that summer of violence, the leaders of the Western Allies would have softened their announced position: that nothing less than the “unconditional surrender” of Germany could bring about an end to the war in Europe. Of course, if Rommel had offered an immediate armistice on the French front, he would have dangled tempting bait ... But such questions are mere grist for historians’ debates, and we can never know the certain answer.

  In any event, Heinrich Himmler inherited a situation that was dire in all respects. The enemies of the Reich were closing in from all directions (see Map), and nothing short of radical new policies could offer any hope whatsoever of triggering a reversal in history’s grim tide.

  Nineteenth Armored Division Mobile Headquarters, Normandy, France, 23 July 1944, 0618 hours GMT

  There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance--real thunder, not an artillery barrage this time--as Colonel James Pulaski pulled open the flap of the headquarters tent and stepped inside. He blinked at the sudden darkness, and then his eyes adjusted to the dim light. For a moment he was reminded of the confessional booth, but then the connection vanished as he focused on the military tasks before him.

  There was a long table spread with maps and papers, the staff officers and their aides clustered around, working on the immense business of siting and moving an armored division.

  None of the officers--or many of the men, for that matter--had slept much over the past three weeks. While it was tough enough to move an armored division under any circumstances, bringing that division to a combat zone brought a myriad of unfamiliar problems.

  “Jimmy!” General King motioned him to a conference area. The division CO was an exception to the staff’s shared experience--King had been given command of the Nineteenth only three months earlier.

  There were a few chairs for the senior officers. Henry Wakefield, the exec, was chewing on a cigar. Wakefield had been the acting CO until King had taken over, and he and Pulaski had always had an edgy relationship. The colonel wasn’t sure what Wakefield thought of the new command structure. Wakefield’s gruff manner didn’t invite easy familiarity, though Bob Jackson, the CCB commander, didn’t seem to have much trouble. But then Bob Jackson got along with everybody (his southern drawl and easy, almos
t aristocratic, manners were hard to dislike, though Pulaski admitted to himself that he was learning to do just that).

  Pulaski sat down in the folding metal chair. “Afternoon,” he said.

  “How’s CCA standing?” General King asked.

  “Fine, sir,” replied Pulaski. “We’re ready to roll whenever you give the order.”

  King’s wide smile gleamed in the dimly lit tent. “Great, great!” he said. He looked up as Colonel Jackson came into the tent. “And Bob? You ready to go?”

  “At a moment’s notice, Gener’l,” replied Jackson, with an easy smile and a nod to Pulaski.

  “Good. And Henry, you’ve got the support battalions and logistics arranged?”

  “They’re shaking down pretty well, all things considered,” Wakefield answered deliberately and precisely, speaking too slowly for the impatient Pulaski’s taste.

  King nodded in agreement as he lit his pipe. Puffing it slowly into flame, he looked around at the other officers, then nodded at his S2, the staff intelligence officer. “Colonel Grant will give us the best information we’ve got on the Kraut positions in front of us. Afterward we’ll get the last word on the division battle plan. Colonel Clark will have your positions marked. Combat Command A will be leading the way. I want CCB no more than a mile behind CCA’s tail.”

  The officers nodded. The entire division would create a road column more than ten miles long. The close proximity of the combat commands meant that their strength would be concentrated--but at the same time they would have to maintain discipline and organization in order to avoid a massive traffic jam.

  “Now, Henry and I will be attending a meeting at First Army headquarters tomorrow at 0900. This is the big one, and when we get back I want the Nineteenth to jump on the ops orders and be ready to roll as soon as we hear the starting gun. We may be the new kids on the block, but I sure as hell don’t want us to look like new kids. Once we get the word to attack, I want us to take off like sprinters--and keep moving until we get the word to stop. No excuses. Got it?”