Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  Carl-Heinz guided the tank by turning the big three-quarter round steering wheel. He brought them around another embankment, and they surprised dozens of American infantrymen who had taken shelter in the trenchlike depression of a lane. Ulrich pressed the trigger on the hull machine gun as the main cannon belched high explosive shells. Driving at full speed, Carl-Heinz raced the tank down the road as those of the enemy lucky enough to survive scrambled out of the lane.

  A loud clang rocked the hull with deafening force, and the driver looked to the side to see an American infantryman scrambling backward, carrying the long tube of a bazooka. The turret machine gun chattered before the fellow could get to shelter, and the infantryman tumbled backward, torn by a fusillade of lead. Fortunately for the tankers, the rocket shell of the man’s gun had caught the Panther near its thick frontal armor--weeks ago the Germans had learned of the lethal effectiveness of the bazooka against the side and rear armor of a tank.

  Swiveling the periscope--once again operating smoothly, because of his quick grease job--Carl-Heinz saw American soldiers advancing past both sides of the tank. The troops were quick to throw themselves into craters as the turret wheeled in their direction. A look to the right showed that the panzer-grenadier machine gun nest was overrun--or else the German infantry had retreated. In any event, the driver was glad to get the order to pull the Panther back to a position of greater security. Though he drove forward, Schroeder and Fritzi kept the turret turned toward the rear, using the machine gun and cannon to keep the enemy infantry from offering aggressive pursuit.

  Soon they had found a new position, and were heartened by the sound of Schmeisser fire off to the side, since that meant that at least some of the German infantry still survived. The tankers added their gun and their armor to the defense, and the GIs--though through no lack of courage--were unable to close in on the defenders.

  By late afternoon, it was clear that the American attack had bogged down. Lieutenant Schroeder had brought the Panther to another sheltered firing position near the barely recognizable rubble of a stone farmhouse. The small arms fire had become desultory, and the weary tankers didn’t have the energy to congratulate themselves. It was just another day for the German army in Normandy.

  Nineteenth Armored Division Field Headquarters, Normandy, France, 27 July 1944,0735 hours GMT

  Lieutenant Colonel Frank Ballard looked at the long line of Sherman tanks with joy. He loved tanks, loved the way they sounded, loved the way they smelled, loved the way they felt as they rumbled over the ground. As commander of the Thirty-eighth Tank Battalion, Combat Command A, Nineteenth Division, VIII Corps, First Army--God, how he loved to recite the litany of command--he commanded his HQ platoon, a mortar platoon, a jeep recon platoon, and an M4 mortar half-track platoon, an assault gun platoon, and three powerful armor companies and a light armor company.

  It was a full battalion, an armored fist that formed half of the one-two punch of an American armored division. Ballard loved the boxing analogy, and he was confident that the Thirty-eighth was a match for any tank force in the world. Naturally, he had heard the reports: the German Panthers and Tigers had better guns, thicker armor. He supposed that that in part was true, but at the same time he had faith in his Shermans. They were fast, reliable, excellent at cross-country maneuver. And now each of his three M4 companies had four tanks with the 76-mm gun, with its long barrel and wicked-looking blast suppressor around the muzzle. And with his command tank, that made for a lucky thirteen, he realized with a chuckle. He would love to have a chance to put those up against anything a panzer division could throw at him.

  All in all, it was a good day to be alive.

  He strode down the long line of tanks--his tanks--returning salutes as he passed the enlisted men and noncoms who were not permitted to leave their tanks in a combat area. He had no immediate mission, just a desire to see his battalion arrayed in fighting trim, ready for action. A kind of eagerness possessed him, the same anticipation he had carried going into a boxing match. He had earned his boxing trophies at West Point by making it a point of refusing to accept that the other guy even had a chance.

  “They’re looking good, Frank,” said a voice over his shoulder. He nearly jumped with surprise; he hadn’t expected company.

  He looked around to see his commander, Colonel Pulaski. “Yes, they do,” he agreed. Both men looked at the line of vehicles.

  “Ready to roll out soon?” Pulaski asked.

  “You know it,” Ballard replied. He looked at several of the tanks, those equipped with the ungainly prongs on the forehull, and laughed. “With the Rhino on the front, the damn things are even uglier than usual.”

  “Battalion in good shape?” probed Pulaski.

  Ballard looked at his colonel. “As good as I can make it,” he said. “Truthfully, I think we’ll be fine, maybe a little shake-down stuff, but nothing we can’t keep under control. This is a good bunch of men, and I know they’ll do fine.”

  “I’d hate to disappoint General King,” said Pulaski. “You wouldn’t like it much, either.”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t,” he replied. They stood for a moment.

  “You served in North Africa, didn’t you, Ski?” asked Ballard.

  “Yep. I was a captain. Different place, Africa. And the Lees were antiques compared to these Shermans--the ones you say are so ugly.”

  Ballard only knew scuttlebutt about Pulaski; he knew about his Silver Star, of course, and he’d heard the rumor that there had been a lot of good luck involved. Still, he tended to think that might be sour grapes on the part of the gossipers. Pulaski was young, but then many of the officers were--including himself. Newness was the hallmark of the American army; it didn’t take a lot of months for a man to be a veteran soldier.

  “I was in Italy before the Nineteenth. Desk jockey, S4.” S4, Administration, was responsible for supply, transport, maintenance, and personnel administration sections.

  Ballard considered himself a good judge of people, and he decided he liked Pulaski. The man might need a little more seasoning, but so did a lot of people. Ballard liked General King, and respected General Wakefield. He was still getting to know the other officers.

  “We just got the briefing on Operation Cobra,” Pulaski said quietly.

  Ballard grinned. It would be time for combat soon, time to see what his babies could do against the Wehrmacht. “So, what’s the scoop?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” said Pulaski. “And we’re leading the way. I want to see you and the other senior officers in two hours for a briefing.”

  Ballard looked at his colonel, eyes bright, smile wide. “Hell, what am I doing standing around talking to you, sir?” he said jokingly. “I’ve got to get things moving!”

  Pulaski grinned at his eager tank leader. He hoped his other officers would turn out to be as good--and as pugnacious when it came to seeking out the enemy. They seemed to be, but he knew that until CCA faced action, there was no way to be certain.

  His next call was on his armored infantry commander, Lieutenant Colonel Dennis White. White was one of the “temporarily misassigned civilians” in this war, a professor of philosophy at a small liberal arts college in western Massachusetts, and looked the part, from horn-rimmed glasses to his ever-present pipe. Yet White’s combat record was longer than Pulaski’s own, and he had a reputation as a ferocious fighter.

  White was in his tent, smoking his pipe while completing paperwork. “Good afternoon, colonel,” he said in his mild voice. “I hear we’re about to start moving.”

  “That’s right,” Pulaski replied. “Operation Cobra should get us off this peninsula and on into France.”

  “I spent a semester at the Sorbonne during my graduate years,” White smiled. “Haven’t been to Paris since. Don’t suppose we’ll get a chance to see the sights this trip.”

  Pulaski laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Maybe when it’s all over.”

  “Of course, by then the tourists will be back,” White replied
. “On the other hand, maybe the war damage will be repaired.”

  “That’s a point,” said White. “Perhaps it isn’t all bad news after all.”

  “So, Whitey--ready to roll?”

  “Indeed I am, Colonel,” replied White.

  The tent flap moved aside suddenly. “There you are, Colonel!” It was Captain Smiggs, a short, energetic cavalry officer who commanded the CCA recon company. “I hear we’re moving out tomorrow and I wanted to tell you that we’re ready and eager to roll!”

  “Good for you, Smiggy,” replied Pulaski, grinning at his eagerness.

  The captain was followed immediately by another lieutenant colonel, a friendly young man named Lorimar who commanded the combat command’s artillery battalion. He greeted his colonel with a salute, a firm handshake, and an open and winning smile.

  “Got your guns cleaned out?” Pulaski asked.

  “My Priests are ready to hear some Kraut confessions,” declared Lorimar, drawing a laugh from the other officers. The M7 self-propelled guns bore 105-mm howitzers in an open hull on the same chassis as a Sherman tank. These guns were called “Priests” because the antiaircraft machine gun mount on the front hull looked like a pulpit. Lorimar never missed a chance to make a joke on the name.

  “I just hope you can get those things up to speed, Colonel,” Smiggs interjected. “It’d be a shame to have to leave those big guns behind when we’re racin’ for the German border.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head about that, Smiggy. ‘Big guns make fast tracks,’ as my Cherokee grandpappy used to say,” Lorimar retorted. “You just keep your head down when we start shootin’, less you want a cheap haircut. Parted right down the middle, perhaps?”

  Pulaski joined the rest of his staff in a hearty laugh, and in truth the colonel couldn’t have been more pleased. His officers all had the right attitude; they had all done their work. Now only time and battle remained to prove the worth of Combat Command A.

  Foreign Ministry Building, Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin, Germany, 28 July 1944, 0915 hours GMT

  “Why do you think he wants to see me?” Müller asked the question as he and Reinhardt waited in the sumptuous anteroom outside of Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop’s private office.

  “Perhaps he’ll ask you to ride one of those rockets of yours right into the Kremlin so you can personally ask for Stalin’s forgiveness,” Gunter said with that thin, stoic face that left Müller unsure whether it was a joke or not.

  Müller gulped nervously and pulled at the collar of his dress tunic, the uniform having suddenly grown too tight. He could feel his stomach begin to rumble with nervousness, as well as with appetite. The memory of those cakes at the meeting of the generals was still strong. Perhaps the foreign minister would offer them cakes made with real eggs. Or real coffee. Next to him, he noticed Reinhardt looking at himself in a mirror, making minor adjustments in his crisply tailored Wehrmacht uniform. Why does he care? thought Müller. Doesn't he already know he looks perfect?

  He was spared any further fretting as the office door opened and a secretary ushered them into the famed diplomat’s presence.

  Müller was shocked. Von Ribbentrop was always reputed to be well dressed, elegant--even foppish. Secretly derided as “the champagne salesman” by Nazi insiders, von Ribbentrop was the class-conscious aristocrat that so many Nazis despised, and yet wanted to emulate. But what Müller saw was a broken man. His gray hair was unwashed, stringy, his eyes filled with shock and emptiness. His once-handsome face was saggy and slack on one side, his skin hanging limply on his cheekbones. His eyelids drooped. His famous toothy, radiant smile, part of so many photographs, was completely absent.

  Müller and von Reinhardt stood at attention in front of Ribbentrop’s large desk, waiting for the foreign minister to notice them. Finally, Ribbentrop waved limply at the chairs in front of his huge desk. “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “You already know why you’re here, of course?” The quaver in his uplifted voice showed it was a question, not the confident and commanding statement the minister originally had intended.

  “Yes, in general, Herr Reichsaußenminister,” said von Reinhardt in a careful voice, “We’ve been briefed on the outline of Operation Carousel, of course, but not on the specific roles we are to play, nor on how we may serve you.” Müller could see Reinhardt’s reflection in the glass that covered the desktop.

  “What? What? No--well, perhaps. I don’t know why you weren’t informed... Nobody does his job any more. Well--you’ll be accompanying me into the mouth of hell. Orders of our führer... our führer ...His voice trailed off.

  Müller risked a sideways glance at Reinhardt, who sat at attention, calm and apparently relaxed as always. Even the buttons on his uniform gleamed with mirrored brightness. Ribbentrop was referring to Himmler, of course, not Hitler. Even though the succession was still not formalized, it was clear that Himmler would shortly become führer in name as well as fact. But Ribbentrop kept stumbling over the name.

  Müller was aware of some of the background of the foreign minister, the sort of gossip and rumor that most officers or politically aware Germans knew. Ribbentrop and Himmler had once been close. On his desk he was known for having kept only two “party” portraits--one of Adolf Hitler, and one of Heinrich Himmler. But Ribbentrop had long been falling out of the courts of power, desperately clinging to his relationship with Hitler as the last threads of his authority and prestige steadily evaporated. And with Hitler dead, von Ribbentrop was obviously a shattered man.

  Reinhardt waited patiently, and Müller steeled himself to do the same. Slowly, the Nazi foreign minister collected his thoughts, and the details of the mission came out.

  Operation Carousel--an amazing plan to achieve peace with the Soviets, turning the course of the war from a two-front disaster to one in which the German forces would have only one opponent. There were many components to the plan--evidently Himmler had thought about this for a long time. Müller had raised the question with Reinhardt whether in fact Himmler had been behind the Stauffenberg conspiracy, but Reinhardt had dismissed it--Himmler was too loyal, too risk-averse. “An interesting hypothesis, however,” Reinhardt had observed, smiling. “We’ll make a historian out of you yet!” Reinhardt’s opinion was that Himmler’s plans were merely a contingency, because Carousel, for all its rich detail, was still a high-risk venture, suitable for a Germany in desperate condition, where few other options remained.

  “Where was I?” the foreign minister asked. “Oh, yes--Moscow. You will be accompanying me to the Soviet Union for the secret talks. We will need military details, troops, numbers, that sort of thing. Effective diplomacy is about building personal relationships, trust, and grand strategies, but the treaties often come down to petty details. Petty details. That’s you... what did you say your name was?”

  “Von Reinhardt. Colonel Gunter von Reinhardt.”

  “Von Reinhardt. Good name. Good family. Good to see fine young Germans of good family. Good. And you...”

  “Müller, sir. Colonel Wolfgang Müller.”

  “Yes--Müller. Of course. Müller. And why did they send you to me, Müller?”

  Müller didn’t know what to say. In fact, he didn’t know why he’d been sent. Fortunately, Reinhardt spoke up.

  “Colonel Müller has been involved with the Peenemünde work, Herr Reichsaußenminister, and is knowledgeable about the Vengeance Weapons, but not so knowledgeable that his capture or torture would compromise Reich security.”

  Müller jerked in his chair. Capture? Torture? He stared at his friend.

  “Yes, capture... torture... death...” Ribbentrop’s mind was wandering again. Damn you, Günter! Müller thought. Don’t get him thinking like that! “We must be prepared, of course. Dangerous mission. Very dangerous. Unsure of success. But what heroes we shall be--what fame we shall have--if we succeed.” Müller had no idea what he was talking about. He was in a room with an insane man talking about capture, torture, and death, and all he knew was tha
t he wanted out--immediately.

  “Then let me see if I understand you correctly,” said Reinhardt, gently leading the foreign minister back to the objective. “As the Reich Foreign Minister, you, of course, are the sole person who can lead a diplomatic mission to the Soviet Union to negotiate the necessary treaty, which is a critical part--perhaps the critical part--of Operation Carousel.”

  Von Ribbentrop straightened a little bit at the flattery. The “champagne salesman” was a notorious fame seeker. “Yes... the only person... of course.”

  “If I understand the plan correctly, we are seeking to negotiate a peace in the east, so that we will only need to fight a one-front war. The military reality, unfortunately, is that the Soviet Union currently possesses the initiative on the front, so there is the obvious question of what Herr Stalin would have to gain from peace at this time. Am I understanding correctly so far, Herr Reichsaußenminister?”

  Reinhardt’s gentle prodding was having the desired effect.

  Ribbentrop was visibly calmer, more focused. Müller was deeply relieved. A dangerous mission with the possibility of torture or death was bad enough, but one led by a crazy man--well, of such stuff were nightmares made. His stomach growled loudly, embarrassingly. He hoped no one noticed, and it seemed that no one did.

  Reinhardt had won over the foreign minister, and slowly, they laid out a strategy for the negotiations--what they had to offer Stalin that he could not win for himself on the field of battle, what they could not give up, how they would structure the negotiation process. Müller observed that Reinhardt seemed to be doing most of the work, inserting ideas into Ribbentrop’s mouth so easily that Ribbentrop assumed the ideas were his own. So that’s the secret of being a successful staff officer, he thought ruefully. It was a skill he found enormously difficult to master. Not that he was unwilling to butter up his betters; it was simply the skill itself he lacked.

  “And our trump card,” Reinhardt was saying, “is the one in Müller’s possession.”