Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  For a moment, the Gestapo second in command contemplated shooting the wife as well, but decided not to. She would spread the story, and hopefully in the process flush out still more traitors.

  “Shortly, I will report to you on the final fate of all those who fail our Fatherland in its moment of greatest need. In the meantime, let me assure you that the Reich remains strong, our soldiers valiant, our will unbreakable, and our destiny certain. With our enemy to the east having sued for peace, our enemy in the west will shortly be destroyed under the brilliant leadership of the German military, the finest the world has ever known. And our place in the sun will be forever secure.

  “Thank you and good night.”

  Army Group B Headquarters, Trier, Germany, 23 September 1944, 0500 hours GMT

  Carl-Heinz Clausen ignored politics, for the most part. People, in his opinion, made things unnecessarily complex, and he had trouble understanding why people would behave so badly when it was obviously unnecessary. Machinery he understood, systems he understood, so he confined himself to his job while all about him people buzzed about the Himmler speech and its aftermath. He couldn’t avoid hearing all the rumors--Wehrmacht officers shot by the SS, another Nazi purge like the infamous “Night of the Long Knives.” This person had been arrested, that person had been killed, this person was in the conspiracy, that person was not a conspirator, the British were behind it, the Americans were behind it, high party officials were behind it--how could anyone keep it straight?

  There were rumors that Field Marshal Rommel himself had been incriminated, but that made no sense whatsoever. Still, Carl-Heinz had learned that many things involving politics made no sense whatsoever, so he kept a special eye out for his new commander.

  He’d quickly grown into his role of driver, batman, protector, and even--Rommel joked--mother hen. It was obvious that the Desert Fox still hurt from his injuries, and that he was determined to overcome his pain and his limitations. That part Carl-Heinz understood, and he quickly assumed the role of valet and personal trainer in addition to official driver. He was the only person present when Rommel woke in the morning from a fitful night of pained sleep, having once again refused the pain medication the doctors had prescribed. Rommel would then get down on the floor for a rigorous set of push-ups and sit-ups that sent his body into spasms of agony, the sweat pouring down his face and chest, forcing himself to grow strong again, pushing himself past any human limits. Carl-Heinz was the only person other than the doctors who saw the still-red scars, the terrible evidence of his injuries. His rough, thick fingered hands, stained with grease, clenched in sympathetic pain, but Carl-Heinz understood the process of mending machinery, and knelt beside the field marshal to provide support.

  Carl-Heinz spent his off-time scrounging materials to help his commander become more comfortable. He built a special chair to take the pressure off sensitive points, allowing Rommel to work more hours with greater comfort, he built a harness for the field telephone to keep the pressure off the field marshal’s face, and constructed a sculpted and specially supported mattress to ease the pressures of sleeping. He did the same sorts of things for Pfeiffer in the hospital; he made no important distinction between the two men. He could help, therefore he did help.

  The official duties of his job were few at the beginning. Rommel was primarily involved in affairs of headquarters, and needed little driving. But Carl-Heinz showed up early each morning before the Desert Fox awoke, got him ready for his day, then went to see Pfeiffer in the hospital, then spent the afternoon building his latest inspirations. A few hours off late in the day, then another visit to Pfeiffer and then to help the Desert Fox into bed for the few hours of sleep the man permitted himself.

  About a week into his new duties, a staff captain greeted him as he entered Rommel’s quarters. Everyone on Rommel’s staff recognized the role Carl-Heinz had assumed, and was grateful for it. “Good morning, Feldwebel!”

  “Morning, Captain,” Clausen replied with a big smile.

  “Better go back and pack a bag. You and the field marshal are going to Berlin today!”

  Berlin. That was interesting. He’d never been to the capital, but then he had little use for cities under the best of circumstances. Still, it would be a long drive, and he’d made a few modifications to Rommel’s seat in the back of the long Mercedes staff car, and he was eager to see how the field marshal would react.

  He got back in less than fifteen minutes and went in to help the field marshal exercise and dress.

  “We’re going to visit the führer today,” Rommel grunted as he struggled with his final push-up of the morning.

  “Forty-nine ... that’s fifty! Up ten this week, Herr Feldmarschall,” he said. “Good work!” If there was anything odd about a feldwebel praising a field marshal’s performance, neither man noticed it. Clausen handed Rommel a towel to mop up the sweat. “By the way, sir, let me know what you think of your new seat today.”

  “Clausen, my man, you are a true miracle,” laughed the field marshal through the pain of his sorely stretched muscles. “You’re worth at least three divisions all by yourself.”

  Clausen waited just outside the open door of Rommel’s office as the field marshal talked to two men Carl-Heinz recognized as Generals Speidel and Bayerlein.

  “Do you think visiting Berlin is wise right now?” Speidel was asking

  Rommel shrugged. “No, I don’t. But it’s necessary. Without the full use of those trains, the Allies are increasing their strength along the front faster than we are. Once again, it’s a question of numbers--and the odds are already slanted because we have lost control of the skies.”

  “But you said last night that Aachen was holding out better than could be expected,” the chief of staff noted.

  “It can’t last forever, and you know we’ve put every reinforcement there. What will happen when Patton gets through--or around--Metz? Or when Montgomery decides to act? You know as well as I do that we need men, and tanks, all along the line.”

  “Do you think you can do any better with Himmler than Bücher did?” Speidel continued. Carl-Heinz knew that the SS man had arrived back at the front HQ the night before.

  “I have to try, and this is the best chance for me to get away, now that things have stabilized here for a short time.”

  “Here, perhaps. But in Berlin things seem far from stable,” countered the chief of staff.

  Rommel shook his head, a stubborn expression that reminded Carl-Heinz of a bulldog. “If I’m in danger, I’m in danger. Himmler knows where I am, after all, as do, I’m sure, the British and Americans. I can be arrested or shot almost anywhere. It’s not as if I’m in shape to run very fast,” he said ruefully.

  “Do you plan to drive?” Bayerlein asked, inclining his head toward Carl-Heinz.

  “Only as far as Koln--I want to inspect some of the positions in the Ardennes and around Aachen. From the Rhine, Clausen will accompany me on the train. The rest of you continue preparations for the Allied attack. It cannot be far away.”

  An hour later, Carl-Heinz was guiding the staff car along the highway north out of Trier. The field marshal had already drifted off to sleep in the newly engineered back seat, after praising Clausen’s ingenuity lavishly. Clausen took care to accelerate gradually, even so.

  Daylight came beneath a cloak of gray, and to Clausen--as to every other German soldier on the western front--this was just fine. He drove easily, allowing the big car to rumble over the bridge spanning a lofty gorge, then gently pressing down the accelerator as he began to climb into the steep hills of the Ardennes. He listened to the hum of the powerful engine, focusing his attention on a subtle squeak in the right front end. The bearings needed grease... he would take care of that in the motor pool at whichever unit they stopped, for what was sure to be a brief overnight rest.

  They began descending the farside of the ridge when the driver’s eyes, long attuned to roaming the skies, caught sight of a metallic flash sweeping underneath the cloud co
ver. At the same time, the Jabo banked, and Carl-Heinz knew that the car had been noticed. He stepped on the gas, felt the powerful vehicle lurch forward, careening down the narrow mountain road. A series of switchbacks lay just ahead, and he entered the first sharp curve with as much speed as he dared, skidding in a cloud of gravel and dust, careening perilously close to the edge.

  But the wheels held, and he accelerated again, racing along a straight descent toward the next curve. He glanced in the mirror to see the plane diving closer, also that Rommel was awake and staring out the back window.

  Carl-Heinz put the car into the next curve with reckless abandon, feeling the vehicle lurch sickeningly on the loose pavement--though at least this time they were skidding toward the uphill edge of the slope, not the precipitous drop beyond an outer curve. With a light step on the brakes, then a vigorous stomp on the accelerator, he pulled the machine through the turn without a loss of control. The stutter of machine gun fire sent a burst of adrenaline through his system, and he saw the dusty marks of the bullets striking the road a dozen meters behind them.

  But now the curve worked to his advantage, for the aircraft had to pull up and wheel about before it could fire again. Clausen raced down the road, seeking some avenue of escape to either side. He saw it as they raced past--a tiny lane cut into the uphill side of the road, winding in between a thick growth of evergreens. Braking hard, he brought the car to a halt, then backed up in a spray of gravel and whirling tires.

  In seconds he was adjacent to the lane, and he turned the car off the road, ignoring the branches that scraped along both sides of the big vehicle. They lurched over the rough surface and he winced at the thought of Rommel, undoubtedly still hampered by lingering pain, thrown so roughly about. But he didn’t slow down, not even when the fender crashed into a tree trunk and crumpled back.

  He finally came to a stop under a dense canopy of evergreens, and more bullets tore through the woods as the plane snarled past. But now the shots were random--clearly the pilot had seen where he had disappeared, but couldn’t spot where exactly he had gone. Shutting the engine off, he listened, and a few minutes later the sounds of the aircraft engine droned away.

  “I’m sorry about the rough ride, Herr Feldmarschall,” he said apologetically, turning to see that Rommel was dusting himself off and leaning to look out the window.

  “Well done, Carl-Heinz. This is much better than the last encounter I had with an airplane while in a car,” said the great man with a laugh. “I heartily approve of your tactics. Once again, the Allies have failed to get me.”

  His expression turned wry. “Now let’s see if we have the same kind of luck in Berlin....”

  Rockefeller Center, New York, United States, 0500 hours GMT

  “Goddamn! At last!” Chuck Porter swiveled his chair around to look at the cavernous newsroom. In the middle of the night shift, most of the desks were deserted; a few cigarette-smoking reporters typed in a desultory fashion, three or four gossiped in the comer by the water cooler, one leaned across a desk reading a story as the other typed it. Heads looked toward him as his shout echoed on the floor.

  Porter stood up, waving a memo over his head like a boxer self-congratulating his victory. “I’m outta here!” he shouted gleefully. “Next stop, jolly ol’ England! My transfer was accepted!” He’d put in for the transfer four times in the past year and had been turned down each time. ‘Too valuable at the national desk” he heard over and over again.

  “Son of a bitch,” growled one of the night shift editors, half pleased, half in disgust. “Well, at least you’ll be there for the last three or four weeks of the war.”

  “Yeah, and then I’ll be heading into Berlin to cover the surrender,” he replied smugly. “While you guys still play with blue pencils.”

  “We’ll need them when your stuff comes in over the wire, Chuck,” jibed Harry, the international desk editor, to the cynical laughter of the other reporters.

  “Yeah--we’ll keep up our proud motto: ‘No reporter’s word goes unchanged!”’ Everyone laughed.

  “So, Chuck, when are you leaving?” another editor asked.

  “In a couple of weeks. Just as soon as they can arrange transport.” He glanced over toward the switchboard, where Tricia’s head was furiously turned away. Hell, he thought, but that was the way it went sometimes.

  It was another quiet Thursday, and the newsroom had turned to gossip and some political chat. Nothing much was happening--until the four bell “Flash” signal began to ring. Porter beat everyone to the chattering Teletype.

  FLASH/BULLETIN

  LONDON, 25 SEPTEMBER, 0530 GMT

  COPY 01 HIMMLER REPEATS NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES

  DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS

  LONDON. 25 SEPTEMBER (AP) BY EDWARD REED

  INTELLIGENCE SOURCES CONFIRM THAT A SERIES OF BRUTAL KILLINGS OF GERMAN MILITARY AND POLITICAL LEADERS BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN INVOLVED IN THE COUP ATTEMPT THAT RESULTED IN THE DEATH OF ADOLF HITLER IS TAKING PLACE IN AND AROUND BERLIN. ALLIED INTELLIGENCE BELIEVES THAT THESE KILLINGS HAVE BEEN DIRECTLY ORDERED BY NAZI CHIEF HIMMLER. ALTHOUGH BERLIN IS PUTTING OUT THE PROPAGANDA STORY THAT THERE HAVE BEEN A FEW ARRESTS ONLY.

  IT IS UNCLEAR WHETHER ANY ALLIED DOUBLE AGENTS OR SPIES HAVE BEEN ARRESTED OR KILLED IN THIS ATTEMPT.

  IN A RADIO SPEECH TODAY, HIMMLER CLAIMED TO HAVE JUST SURVIVED AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT BY COUP PLOTTERS, WHOM HE DESCRIBED AS “A SMALL GANG OF CRIMINAL ELEMENTS.” HIMMLER ACCUSED “ENEMY SPIES” AND “BRITISH COMMANDOS” OF HAVING SUPPORTED THE ATTEMPT. THE KNOWN DEAD INCLUDE THE HEAD OF THE GERMAN REPLACEMENT ARMY, GENERAL FROMM, WHO WAS THE COMMANDER OF COLONEL STAUFFENBERG, THE ASSASSIN OF ADOLF HITLER, AS WELL AS THE BERLIN CHIEF OF POLICE.

  GENERAL EISENHOWER HAS DENIED ANY ALLIED ROLE IN ANY CURRENT PLOT AGAINST HIMMLER, STATING, “THIS STRIKES US AS THE EVIL POSTURING OF THE LATEST NAZI MADMAN TRYING TO CONSOLIDATE HIS POLITICAL POWER IN A DYING GERMANY.” HE STATED THAT NO CHANGE IN ALLIED WAR PLANS WAS LIKELY TO RESULT FROM THIS SITUATION.

  CHURCHILL STATED, “WE ARE ALWAYS PLEASED TO SEE NAZIS KILLING NAZIS, WHATEVER THE REASON.” AND DENIED THAT BRITISH COMMANDOS OR ANY OTHER BRITISH UNITS CARRIED OUT ANY ASSASSINATIONS IN OR NEAR BERLIN.

  MORE

  AP-LON-333548-JF/092544

  “I’ll bet Ike and Churchill are lying on this one,” Porter said, tipping a long ash into the metal ashtray perched precariously on the edge of the Teletype machine.

  “Oh, yeah?” challenged Harry. “What makes you so damn sure?”

  “The Himmler government is probably holding on by the skin of its teeth,” explained Porter, taking a swallow of old coffee that had gone cold. “Churchill and Ike know it, see, and so they’re going to give it a little push here and a little push there, and bang!”--he hit the table with his hand for emphasis--”no more Nazi government and the war’s over by Christmas. I bet they’re deep in negotiations with a shadow German government right now, ready to roll in and replace the Nazis as soon as the Himmler government collapses.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Harry flatly. “I think Himmler’s got solid control of the government and the military. The SS is loyal to him personally, and this deal with Stalin made him look pretty good to the military as well. I think he’s going to try to win one big battle with the Allies, then sue for peace on the grounds that Uncle Joe is worse than he is, and he might be right.”

  “Wrong!” replied Porter with complete conviction, using his index finger to punctuate his points. “One, there would never be a surrender deal. Churchill and Roosevelt won’t permit it. Two, they aren’t going to win a big battle. Three, Uncle Joe will be back in the war in a few months; he just needed a rest and now the German eastern front is empty. He owes them a double-cross, and he picks up a couple of extra countries on the way. Which, by the way, he’ll have to give up. He needs our Lend Lease too much.”

  “Hey, that ‘unconditional surrender’ stuff was mostly designed to keep Joe happy. Now that he’s out--and he’s burne
d that bridge behind him once and for all--it’s a new ball game. Himmler’s an S.O.B., but he’s not dumb, and I’ve gotta tell you, this one may surprise you.”

  “That’s a load of baloney,” Porter replied, “and when I get to London, I’ll do a little digging around and I’ll show you I’m right, and it’ll come right over this Teletype. Count on it.”

  Reichstag, Berlin, Germany, 24 September 1944, 1030 hours GMT

  “My dear field marshal!” Himmler got up from his chair and came around the desk to pump Rommel’s hand. He moved with precision, his black uniform like a shadow on the man’s pale skin. His teeth flashed, weird brightness above the shade. “It is splendid to see you moving around so well. All Germany must rejoice at the news that your health is so quickly restored!”

  “Thank you, mein Führer. My doctors have been excellent, and I was fortunate that the wounds were not more serious.”

  “Nonsense! From what I hear, any other man would have been killed. You owe it to your own strength--as do we all. But again, I believe I speak for all our countrymen when I state that I am grateful you are making such as a successful recovery.”

  Rommel sized up the man who was the new dictator of Germany. He had no stomach for this small talk--and in fact, he felt considerably less hale than he looked. His head throbbed, and though he no longer had the patch on his eye, he was acutely sensitive to bright light. He walked without limping and stood straight, but the effort invariably made him tired and irritated.

  Upon his arrival in Berlin he had confirmed the rumors that had reached the front headquarters. This man had just ordered the murder of at least a dozen senior Wehrmacht officers. Some had apparently been part of the von Stauffenberg conspiracy, while others--who could worry about poor old Rowekamp?--must have been merely slain as examples to the rest of the army. The Desert Fox couldn’t help wondering if his own name would soon find its way onto that list.