Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  General Bermel, with a furtive yet defiant look at the door behind which armed SS guards still lurked, interrupted again. “Yes, yes, yes. But what is now the reality of our situation? We have lost the war. We are being eaten up on two fronts. We are losing our allies, including the source of our oil reserves.”

  The general drew a breath, the only visible sign of his obviously profound emotion as he forged ahead. “The National Socialist ideal is kaput, finished. We must expunge the remainder of National Socialism from our government so that we can sue for an honorable peace. Herr Reichsführer, your day is done. You have brought us here under armed guard, you can kill us, you can struggle against fate all you like. Whether it is today or a year from today, you are defeated and the Reich lies in ruins. The only question is how many more German lives are you willing to throw away before you face the inevitable.”

  Even those who secretly agreed found the outburst shocking. Müller could see fear on the faces of several of the generals, fear that Bermel’s outburst would lead to a mass execution. Himmler only smiled. There was no anger this time.

  “General Bermel, I appreciate your desire for a frank and open debate on the issues. I welcome and encourage that. I would merely disagree on two points. First, there is no threat, no sinister force holding you here. You are free: free to stay, or free to go. My SS forces are simply acting as support for the national security. My goals are to prevent panic, despair, and sabotage, nothing more. The SS forces are here to protect you, not to hinder you, and above all not to harm you.

  “Second, I pray we take proper consideration before we concede that doom is upon us. Certainly the war goes badly... mistakes, grave mistakes, have been made. But we have a chance now to make some corrections, significant improvements. I agree that our situation is serious, but I shall not yield the point that our struggle is doomed. If there is no objection, General Bermel, I would like to hear status reports on the military situation. From that, we can engage in a frank and free debate as to how we can all give our best to the German people we serve.”

  Even Bermel had to yield to such reasonableness. Himmler was being so polite, so conscientious, that Müller was suddenly, absolutely convinced that he was hiding something. Or was it that Himmler feared for his own power, and that the Wehrmacht had far more leverage than anyone suspected? For once, Müller wished he could hear Reinhardt’s clear, logical historical perspective.

  “Let us then begin with a brief status report. Field Marshal Model, what is the military situation that now faces us in the east?”

  Model opened his leather-covered briefing book and proceeded like a man who had made up his mind to tell the unvarnished truth, a tactic that had been unwelcome in recent months at Wolfschanze. “We are facing utter disaster, Herr Reichsführer. Much of Army Group Center is destroyed, and our surviving units are forbidden to retreat. Thus they fall prey one after the other to Zhukov’s tank armies. Where possible, they extricate themselves and fall back--against the standing orders of our late führer, I admit. Even so, they will barely reach the Vistula before the Mongol hordes.”

  The other Wehrmacht officers nodded; this was their shared opinion.

  Himmler merely nodded gravely. “I think we are all agreed that the ‘stand and die’ order must be hereby rescinded,” he announced.

  Several of the Wehrmacht officers stared at each other. Himmler’s right to give that order was not yet established, but it fit perfectly the decision they had known for months needed to be made. Now was not the time, nor was this the issue, on which to make a challenge.

  “I concur, Herr Reichsführer,” Model said curtly, choosing to take it as a suggestion rather than as an order. ‘That is an improvement, but it is not sufficient. We cannot halt the tide of the Soviet advance, but at least we will save a few of our divisions from the coming inundation.”

  “Thank you for your report, Field Marshal. Now, what is the situation in the west?” Himmler turned to Field Marshal von Kluge, appointed only a few days earlier as commander in chief--west, assuming operational control from the grievously wounded Rommel.

  “I am afraid that the situation in France is nearly as bad as it is in Poland,” von Kluge replied grimly. “For the time being, we hold the Western Allies within the Normandy peninsula, but the pressure is inexorable. Within a fortnight--a month at the most--they will have sufficient forces to break out. After that, I doubt we can stop them short of the Rhine.”

  “But for the present, you can hold in place?” Himmler inquired.

  Von Kluge considered the question. “Yes, Herr Reichsführer--though I can give no assurances as to how long that will remain the case.”

  “And as to the state of the Reich’s air forces,” Himmler noted casually. “You have no doubt all heard that our esteemed Reichsminister Göring has fallen victim to the conspirators. I have taken the liberty of inviting the commander of fighters, General Galland, to speak of matters pertaining to the Luftwaffe.” General Adolf Galland, looking very much as though he would have liked nothing so much as to light up one of his trademark cigars, stood and looked at the Wehrmacht and SS officers with a frank expression on his lumpy, battered face--features that were not unhandsome but had been formed over a series of airplane crashes during the fighter pilot’s adventurous career.

  “You all know that the Allied air forces are pounding our country at an intolerable rate,” he began. “Contrary to popular belief, the Luftwaffe is not devoid of fighters. And our finest weapon, a fighter that will revolutionize air combat, has been languishing under our late führer’s decree that it be developed as a bomber.”

  “Is the situation hopeless?” asked Himmler.

  “I would say not, Herr Reichsführer. However, there is little time to reverse the trend.”

  “Then perhaps we have been confronted with a historic opportunity.” Himmler looked around the table with a confident smile. “I think we have heard enough about the tactical situation, at least for now. It seems that the basic problem we face is quite simple--we are waging a two-front war against powerful enemies and cannot bring sufficient force to bear against either of them. And our fighter forces have been hampered by... shall we say ‘unrealistic’ constraints. Is that a correct understanding of the information that has been presented to us?”

  A few reluctant nods stirred the heads of the generals, as this was obvious even to Müller. What was Himmler’s point? Did he fail to understand the magnitude of the disaster that loomed?

  “That is all very true,” began Keitel. “But it remains beyond our control.”

  “Perhaps,” smiled Himmler, “but then perhaps not. Admittedly, the two fronts push us beyond the limits of our strength. But if one of them could be neutralized--held in check, as it were--would not the situation assume a very different light?”

  Bermel shook his head angrily. “I defy you to make any plausible argument that victory could be seized from the jaws of our defeat. Hitler’s directives have eviscerated the German forces, and led us to the edge of disaster. Nothing--nothing you can possibly say will change the reality of the bankruptcy of Nazism.”

  “Ah, General Bermel,” Himmler said in a soothing, friendly voice, his narrowing eyes regarding his tormentor in a way that suddenly reminded Müller of a cat contemplating a mouse, “a dare. You wish a plausible argument of how Germany can yet win this war, to make the National Socialist dream a reality on the continent of Europe? Yes? Is this the challenge you wish met?”

  Bermel glared at Himmler, then looked around at his fellows. Clearly they were happy for him to confront Himmler on their behalf, for no voice spoke in support of him. “All right, Reichsführer,” Bermel said calmly. “That is my dare. I do not believe you can show us a credible plan.”

  “And if I succeed?”

  “Then we must consider it.” That was not too much of a concession, after all.

  “Very well,” Himmler said, giving a curt military nod. He signaled a steward, who opened the door to an adjoining pa
rlor.

  An SS uniformed aide came in carrying a black leather attaché case. He gave a heel-clicking bow to the assembled officers, put the briefcase on the table and opened it with a crisp metallic snap. He removed a thick binder and presented it to Himmler, then began distributing a thin sheaf of mimeographed pages to each of the general officers. The colonels at the edge of the room, of course, received nothing.

  “Gentlemen,” declared the reichsführer, “Let me present Operation Carousel....”

  Normandy, France, U.S. First Army HQ, 1007 hours GMT

  “Gentlemen, this is Operation Cobra: the attack that’s going to get us out of these damned hedgerows for once and for all. First, we’re going to plaster them with more bombs than have ever been dropped in one place before. Then we’re hitting them with infantry, three divisions along a narrow front. This is gonna be the big one, men. Monty’s had his chance--now we’ll show him how it’s done!”

  General Omar Bradley was worked up, pacing with visible excitement as he spoke to the generals gathered in his HQ, a battered chateau situated in a grove of trees among the hedgerows of Normandy. The First Army commander was a small, scholarly looking man, almost bookish behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. But his voice barked with confidence and decision, and the four stars on his jacket confirmed the authority that was visible in his bearing, presence, and manner.

  Listening to his commanding general, Henry Wakefield couldn’t help but share his excitement. The Nineteenth Armored Division was ready to go, and now he--and the other division COs and XOs--were finding out where, and how, they would get into this war.

  Bradley turned to Leland Hobbs, commanding general of the Thirtieth Infantry division, the Virginia and Carolina Old Hickories of Andrew Jackson fame. “Think football: you footsloggers are my blockers. I expect you to hit them fast and hard, to open up the holes for the running backs.”

  Now Bradley turned his attention to Jack King, and to the commanders of his other two armored divisions. “When you get that ball, I want you to run with it--and run hard! Your objective is right here--”

  With a snap, the general’s pointer cracked against the map of Normandy that covered one wall of the room. Wakefield’s heart beat a little faster as he and the other men identified Avranches, the historic city that lay far in the enemy’s rear. All of them could see the potential, for beyond Avranches the roadways spread out to lead westward into Brittany, southward toward the heartland of France, and east, toward Paris and the Seine. He was going to war, at long last.

  “Your S3s will have the details. I’ll expect you want to talk to your men, tend to last minute details. But hear me on this: We have a chance here to bust this war wide open. Some of you are new to Normandy, others have been fighting and dying here for seven weeks. But if we give this attack all we’ve got, the days of fighting in the hedgerows are over. From here on we’ll be looking to take Paris, cross the Seine... maybe move all the way to Germany!”

  “One last thing,” Bradley said. “There’s been a lot of discussion about Hitler’s death and what that means for the war. Right now, the answer is absolutely nothing. President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill have both made speeches saying that the Allied aim is unchanged: unconditional surrender. Right now, the German political situation is in flux. Our intelligence reports are saying that with Göring dead, the most likely new führer is going to be Himmler. If anything, that means the Nazis will fight a little bit smarter now. Make sure this message gets out. The last thing we need is anybody slacking off figuring we’ve got this thing won already. Got it?” With a ragged chorus of “yes, sirs,” the meeting broke up.

  “Hank, I’d like to see you for a minute, if you don’t mind,” Omar Bradley said.

  Once in his office, Bradley said, “Sit down, Hank. Coffee?”

  “Thanks, General. Damn, it’s good to be here at last.”

  “I know. It’s good for all of us. I know you’ve been chafing at the bit for a long time. Let’s see, the last time I saw you was ... ”

  “Two years ago. At Fort Hood.”

  “Right. That was a wonderful show you put on for us that day.”

  “I had a good bunch of trainees.”

  “And they’ve been a damn fine crop of officers. You’ve been a real asset, even if you were stuck Stateside.” Bradley paused and took a puff of his cigarette. “Hank--how are you and Jack King getting along?”

  “Fine, General. He’s a sharp man.”

  “Younger than you.”

  Wakefield nodded. ‘That’s the way it goes sometimes. This is the army, after all.”

  Bradley smiled in return. “Hank, I know you want a combat command; and instead you’ve got the XO slot. More desk work.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it, and I guess I’ve got more experience than most,” Wakefield replied. He did want a combat command; he wanted it so bad he could taste it.

  “Hank, you and Jack King go out and do your job, and it may not be over yet. Combat makes things change a lot faster than in the peacetime army.”

  “Yes, sir, I know that,” replied Wakefield, the comer of his mouth turning up.

  There was a pause, then Bradley said, “Hank--”

  Wakefield waited. He suspected what was coming next.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Georgie.”

  Wakefield continued to sit quietly. It was always good practice to let the other person do most of the talking.

  “Hank, I’ve put the Nineteenth under First Army for now, but there’s a good chance you’ll get moved to Third Army. And for once the scuttlebutt’s true. George Patton is going to command Third Army. He’s been in the doghouse, but he’s the best there is, and lack of diplomacy or no, he deserves the command and we need him to be in command.”

  “I’ve never disputed his competency, General,” Wakefield said quietly. “In fact, I probably think of him as highly as you do--as a commander.”

  “I think a lot of you, too, Hank. Your style is about as different from Georgie’s as night and day, but you get the job done. But there’s nobody quite like him, and once Cobra gives us the breakout, Third Army’s going to be racing like no other force on earth. Patton is going to be chewing up men, machines, and officers like gum, and I don’t want to see you pushed out of the war just because you don’t do things his way.”

  Wakefield nodded thoughtfully. He knew Patton thought of him as a World War I-era throwback and has-been, though that wasn’t quite accurate, in Wakefield’s judgment. Trouble was, Wakefield believed that you shouldn’t throw out the baby with the bathwater and that a more deliberate style was better and safer in the long run. In the run-up to the Second World War, this had led to more than one head-butting contest between the two men.

  Finally, he spoke up. “General, if I had my druthers, I’d druther stay part of First Army. But this is war. I’ll do whatever you say or whatever my commander says, and if I work for Patton, I’ll do my damnedest to do it his way. Hell, Jack King worships the ground he walks on, and he’s my direct boss. I’ll do my job and do it right.”

  Bradley nodded. “Hank, I know you will. I’d like to keep you in First Army myself, if it works out that way. Georgie thinks like a quarterback for one of those new-fangled passing teams. You’re more of a fullback, ready to smash up the middle. But the team needs both. So, what did you think of Cobra?”

  “I’ll be ready when the center snaps the ball,” he replied with confidence.

  The sense of potential lingered in Wakefield’s awareness as he and King left the conference and made their way by jeep to the forward outpost of the division. Everywhere the First Army tensed with an undercurrent of impending action. The MPs were extra vigilant at the numerous crossroads, and Wakefield saw men tinkering with weapons and communication equipment, striking encampments, and putting last minute fine-tunings onto the engines of tanks, trucks, and jeeps.

  In the command group forward of the Nineteenth Armored, he found Jimmy Pulaski in the middle of one of the
four fields where his Combat Command A had gathered. The colonel himself was supervising welders from the maintenance platoon who were blazing away at the fronts of several of Company I’s Sherman tanks. Wakefield went over, put his hand on Pulaski’s shoulder, and steered him away from the enlisted men. The sergeant moved forward, glad to do his job without an officer over his shoulder.

  “Look at these things, General Wakefield!” Pulaski enthused. The metal glowed cherry red, and the general saw that a series of prongs were being fixed to the Sherman’s transmission housings. “They call ’em Rhinos--and they’re the best thing to happen to this army since we got bogged down in the hedgerows.”

  “I’ve heard about them--some sergeant worked them out. And the metal is coming from Rommel’s Asparagus, right?” Wakefield recognized the iron girders as the same posts that had made such deadly beach obstacles along the Normandy shores on D-Day.

  Pulaski nodded delightedly. “And we’ve already tried them--behind the lines, of course; we want the Germans to be surprised. You’ve heard about how many Shermans have been picked off going through the hedges, right?”

  Wakefield nodded. Like all tanks, the M4 had only a thin plate of armor protecting its belly. When the stubby vehicles had tried to force their way through the mounds of the hedgerows, the tanks had been forced upward, and this vulnerable underside was inevitably exposed to the Germans who were always waiting just on the other side of the dense barrier. The defenders had destroyed far too many American tanks this way, which was one reason why the fighting in Normandy had dragged on so much longer than anyone had imagined. The hedgerows rendered each small field into a miniature fortress, and each position had to be reduced before the attackers could move on to the next.

  “Well, with these Rhino tanks, the prongs dig into the hedgerow, and the tank can push right on through. We come out the other side with guns blazing, and only the frontal armor--the strongest plate on the whole tank--exposed to enemy fire.”