Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  Anyway, back to the Karlsruhe raid. Bombardiers are nicknamed “commissioned gunners” or “toggle-deers,” because they have commission rank but all they really do is push the button. There’s this big fancy Norden bombsight that’s supposed to make bombing super-accurate, but in my experience it’s really overrated. Now, Lieutenant Sollars, our bombardier, is pretty fat and the navigator, Booker, is taller than I am, and both of them together didn’t fit too well in the nose of the airplane and even though we were flying deputy lead, my bombardier was not synchronized on the target. There is a tunnel under the flightdeck to go back to the rest of the airplane, and Sollars was just lying in the tunnel with a flak suit wrapped around him. The flak was heavy over the target and we had lost three airplanes already from the flak.

  Now, just before it was time for the bombs to be dropped, the lead airplane called on the radio and told Lieutenant Russ that it was time for him to drop, because the bombsight on the lead aircraft was frosted up. Lieutenant Sollars heard that and he called Russ and said, “I don’t have time to synchronize! We’ll have to go around again!”

  Well, after losing three airplanes from flak, Lieutenant Russ just said, “Synchronize, hell! Salvo!”

  So we dropped the bombs and as the other airplanes pulled up, they dropped their bombs on our smoke. Well, we missed the bridge, of course, but we also missed the marshaling yard, but at least two or three squadrons hit right in the middle of town and one squadron hit the north side of the town.

  We have this German propaganda radio station in Calais that we can pick up and also one in Berlin that we listen to sometimes. Now, we know it’s all propaganda and no matter what happens, the Nazis always exaggerate the numbers. But they called out airplane numbers, which they could tell from observing the fuselage markings on the airplane, and they could tell what group it was. And they said that day that the 392nd Bomb Group--which is us--had “indiscriminately bombed the town of Karlsruhe, killing or wounding 7,000 people.” Well, I’m sure those numbers are awfully high, but if they say it was 7,000, it was probably at least 700.

  Everybody’s still talking about the fact that there are hardly any enemy fighters up against us any more. I can’t imagine the Germans are fresh out of them just yet, so I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a Nazi surprise coming up soon. We’ll handle it, because I sure do want to go on a war bond tour. I’m sure we’d visit Charlotte, at least.

  I’ll miss you for Thanksgiving this year, but the base claims we’ll be having turkey and cranberry sauce. Did you know the English don’t celebrate Thanksgiving? It was an American holiday the Pilgrims started. Maura has never eaten turkey, if you can imagine! Well, this year she will.

  Sorry it took so long between letters. The word is that we’ll be flying a big mission next week, a very long penetration raid, so I’ll be busy, but I’ll write just as soon as I can.

  Love,

  Your Son Digger

  North of Metz, France, 10 November 1944, 1620 hours GMT

  Rommel’s staff car had been running well, but out of habit Carl-Heinz opened the hood and checked the dipstick to gauge the level and clarity of the engine oil. It was dark, dirtier than he liked to see, but supplies were scarce enough that even the field marshal’s car had to make do with longer than usual intervals between oil changes. Well, they’d be back in Trier in a few days, and the driver made a mental note to be sure and change it then even if he had to get up at 0200 to have the car ready for his vigorous commander’s next early morning start.

  Slamming the engine compartment closed, Carl-Heinz leaned against the fender and looked around. Lush pines rose on all sides, climbing the steep slopes that bordered this narrow cut between a couple of high ridges. The sky was clear, but even as the hour approached midday the light of the sun was filtered down in this ravine. He could see the brightness on the branches of trees up the hillside, but here beside the splashing brook he was surrounded by murk and cool mist.

  “Hey, sergeant? Want a cup of tea?” Carl-Heinz Clausen looked up to see another feldwebel gesturing to him from the mouth of a nearby bunker.

  “Jawohl! Thanks!” Carl-Heinz left the staff car and sauntered over, ducking low to enter the dark, concrete-walled compartment. He knew Rommel would be a long time yet, meeting with staff officers, reviewing plans, and being seen by the soldiers, and after all, he could see the car clearly. A little light seeped in through the door and the narrowed slits of machine-gun ports, but a small stove glowed with a friendly red light, and the smell of fresh-brewed tea cut through the underlying scents of sweat, grease, and gunpowder. The feldwebel handed him a tin cup and Carl-Heinz wrapped his hands thankfully around the warm surface. “Danke schon,” he said, his large, toothy grin flashing in the dim light. “November is getting a little chilly, don’t you know.”

  “Ah, bitte schon” the feldwebel replied. “Don’t mention it. It certainly has gotten nippy in the past few weeks. Much cooler than the last place I visited courtesy of the Desert Fox.” Carl-Heinz noticed that his companion looked much older than he. His face was haggard, outlined with a bristle of gray whiskers, and his eyes were sunk into dark wells on his face.

  Looking closer, at the sallow skin and thin, bony hands of the other sergeant, Carl-Heinz made a guess. “You were in Africa with him, then?”

  “Ah, yes,” the grizzled sergeant replied, taking a sip of tea. “The Ninetieth Light Division, from Tripoli to Alamein... and all the way back to Tunisia. It would have ended for me there,” the sergeant’s tone was wry, “but I was lucky enough to come down with a two-month case of the runs, so they sent me back to the hospital.”

  “Luck,” Carl-Heinz observed. “It’s odd what one considers lucky after some time in the army.”

  The two men laughed; the grizzled sergeant’s laugh turned into a cough, and he took another sip of tea. Carl-Heinz let his own tea warm his hands and let a comfortable pause develop. He looked at the man’s hands and realized that they looked young. The sergeant was probably no older than he.

  “Alamein... that must have been a bitch,” Carl-Heinz said.

  “Ach, ja. Monty had eight hundred tanks... we had about a hundred. And even so we held that bastard up for damn near a month.” He coughed again. “And you--been Rommel’s chauffeur for long?” He grinned, showing an absence of malice as well as a few missing teeth.

  “Only since the retreat from Normandy.”

  “Hey--I recognize you! You’re the tank driver from that picture!”

  “Yep,” Carl-Heinz said. ‘That’s me, speaking of luck. Odd to be recognized just for bugging out.”

  “Hell of a drive, I read.”

  “It had a few moments of excitement,” he replied, grinning widely so the gap between his front teeth shone in the dimness.

  “So that’s why you get to drive the Desert Fox. Good choice.”

  “I’ve got a reputation for dodging well,” Carl-Heinz said, laughing. He took his own first sip from the teacup. There was no sugar, of course, and the leaves had been steeped more than once, but the heat was welcome.

  “You’re a lucky man, Sergeant,” said the sergeant. Carl-Heinz dimly saw other men, a pair beside each of the guns, but they watched through the vision slits and let the two noncoms enjoy their tea in relative privacy. “That’s a great man you’re driving around... I hope you’re careful with him.”

  Carl-Heinz nodded. “I take care of him like he was my own mother.” And it was true. The Desert Fox was a strong man and recovering at a speed that amazed the doctors. Ever since his trip to Augsburg and seeing the jet fighters--Carl-Heinz wished he’d had a chance to open one up and get a look at its innards--he seemed a changed man, a reborn man, a man with hope. But Carl-Heinz still saw him each morning, sweating painfully through push-ups, sometimes needing to be helped from his staff car (unless, of course, someone else was around who might see him), showing the effects of his terrible wounds.

  Carl-Heinz was still the main one who took care of him, made sure h
e took time to eat and to sleep, modified his car seat and office to reduce his pain. He was forceful enough that Rommel had jokingly taken to calling him Mutti, or mother.

  The infantry commander had been extremely nervous at first, but Rommel’s sure touch with people had put him at his ease. General Bücher never ceased to be amazed at how people fell under the spell of the Desert Fox.

  If the man chose to be political, he would be formidable. Yet he doesn’t know, or perhaps just doesn’t care, he thought. And a good thing, too. Otherwise he would be a threat to the Party and then I would be forced to act.

  Bücher suspected he would inevitably be forced to act anyway and arrange an “accident” for the field marshal, but he pushed that thought back deep in his mind.

  Look at me, he thought wryly. I'm falling under the Desert Fox’s spell myself. If he could convince Himmler that the Desert Fox was completely content in the military sphere, then that would be the best thing for all concerned. That was a big if, unfortunately.

  Bücher brought his attention back to the conference table, where Rommel was patiently reviewing lists of material and supplies, marking maps with contingency plans, and gently building up the morale and self-confidence of the commander for the battle to come.

  “You won’t be expected to hold forever, just for a while longer. I know it seems that we’ve been pushed into a slow and inevitable retreat, but in fact there will be a counterattack such as the Allies have never seen. Remember, there are the Russian front troops arriving daily, the reassigned veterans of the Normandy campaign, and many others. And there’s more--some things I can’t speak about yet.” Rommel patted the commander on the shoulder. “Be of good hope, mein Oberst, for we shall yet prevail.”

  Bücher followed the two men as the Desert Fox set out on his inspection, more to be seen than to actually see. Smiling, confident, strong, his scars receding, the Desert Fox was the model military officer. Soldiers clustered around--to touch the hem of his garment, thought Bücher, in a flashback to catechism class back in second grade in the kinderschule. He hadn’t thought about religion for a very long time, but there was something about Rommel, something special indeed ...

  The tour of fortifications and men ended, they headed back toward the car. Bücher noticed that Mutti, for once, was not bent over the engine, but instead was scurrying out of one of the bunkers, snapping off a salute as he opened the door. Rommel settled down into his seat, carefully modified for maximum support, while Bücher opened his own door and sat in an ordinary seat. He didn’t begrudge his superior officer any comforts, especially after the wounds he’d suffered, but he was amused. What is it about this man that calls forth such loyalty? he thought again. Rommel and the führer were such different people, yet they both had this special effect on others. Himmler was a good leader, but he was missing that quality. Bücher realized that he was missing it too.

  The finely tuned engine roared and the staff car pulled away, heading for the next fortification.

  The trees around him moved from blazing color to the stark bare limbs of winter, but they were healthy trees, not sick, not damaged. And the evergreens were as majestic as ever. Rommel was tired, but satisfied with his visit. In the past month, he’d spent more and more time on his expeditions to the front lines, inspecting the fortifications of the Westwall and here in France, lending the authority of his presence to the units who were preparing to face what everyone assumed as an inevitable onrush of American and British arms. He talked to officers and men, saw to preparations, issued orders, heard complaints, even listened to suggestions. He knew the importance of an effective response, encouragement, a promise of support, or merely a presence to let the troops know that they were important, that their problems mattered.

  He at last began to feel like his old self again, rising early, eating simply, maintaining long hours and a schedule that often left his staff and assistants gasping for breath as they tried to keep up. Carl-Heinz--”Mutti”--was as fresh as ever, in fact, he was humming to himself as he drove the staff car. The scarred SS general beside him was obviously worn from the day’s travel. But he is a man of combat, of action. These meetings and inspections aren’t what he’s used to, Rommel thought. He is a good soldier, even if he is SS.

  Rommel’s troops were not beaten. He now saw grit and determination where before he had observed only fear and hopelessness. The fortifications of the Westwall were strong, but more and more the men spoke of coming out from their defensive positions, of taking the war to the Americans. They took pride in knowing that they were frustrating Patton’s advance, disrupting the pace of the entire Allied offensive. There was even some cheerfulness. Rommel was far too modest to realize all the contribution he himself was making to the change in attitude.

  As important as the improving morale, he was at last beginning to assemble a strategic reserve. Fresh tanks were continually arriving, swelling the ranks of the dozen panzer divisions under his command. Operation Carousel, the rotating of forces from east to west, was nearing completion, and many veterans--and equipment--of the Russian front were finding their way into the army of the west.

  Nineteenth Division Mobile Headquarters, Luxembourg, 14 November 1944,1221 hours GMT

  Lieutenant Colonel Reid Sanger. He rolled the new title around in his mind yet again. Lieutenant Colonel Reid Sanger. It sounded good--hell, it sounded great.

  “Congratulations, Reid,” said General Flynn, shaking his hand.

  “Thanks, sir,” he replied. He was still a little dizzy; he hadn’t expected a promotion.

  “There’s a note from your old boss, Colonel Cook. Says this is your payoff for predicting the German-Soviet deal. Did you really do that?”

  “I’m afraid it was just a lucky guess, sir,” Sanger replied. “Hell of a guess,” said Flynn. “You’ve got a good gift for this sort of work--you know how to put yourself in the other guy’s place. The biggest problem in this work is the temptation to think the other side is stupid or ill informed. It’s always best to figure they’re smarter than you are; if you turn out to be wrong, at least you’re wrong on the right side.”

  Sanger nodded. “That’s how I feel, sir,” he said. “I know I’m wrong more than I’m right, but overestimating the enemy is better than the reverse.”

  “You kill fewer of our guys that way,” Flynn said. “I’m going to be sorry to see you go.”

  “Thanks; me, too,” said Sanger. “It’ll be interesting to be closer to the front, though.”

  “Yeah, but look out for the Nineteenth. They’ve had a bad time of it. Got their ass caught in a crack when Rommel came out of nowhere. Their previous S-2 was killed, and they’ve been rebuilding for the past few months. Right now, things are pretty quiet for them, but I expect they’ll heat up pretty soon. They need good eyes and ears to keep them out of trouble. That’ll be you.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “I’ve met Henry Wakefield, the CO. Smart guy. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but he likes people who stand up to him. My advice is don’t mince words with him. Tell it straight and stick to your guns.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up, General.”

  “Sanger, we’ll miss you around the zoo. Good luck.”

  Wakefield was as gruff as General Flynn said he was. “So you’re my new S-2,” he growled. “Says you’ve never worked at the division level, all army level and above. Right?”

  “Yes, sir, but--”

  “Used to being part of a staff, reaching consensus by majority vote, right?”

  “Sir, I--”

  “You’ll find out pretty quickly things don’t work like that at the division level. You’re in charge, you make the call, and if you’re wrong, men die--understand?”

  “Yes, s--”

  Wakefield continued like an unstoppable tank, rolling over everything Sanger tried to say. “Says here that you’ve made some good calls on the grand strategic situation.”

  “Well, I--”

  “I don’t give a d
amn. That’s not division-level intelligence, understand? I need tactical information and I need it on time to the best of your ability, which had damn well better be good enough. You take the grand strategic crap that comes from higher headquarters and break it down into something useful to the Nineteenth. You’ll send information back up the chain, too, but you do that after you’ve supplied my intelligence needs. Got it?”

  “Got it, sir.” He was pleased to get a complete sentence, even a short one, complete before Wakefield was able to continue.

  “You speak fluent German, it says.”

  “Native, sir,” he interjected.

  Wakefield’s eyebrows lifted. Sanger hurried on. “Parents taught me; I spent a summer in Germany with family before the war.”

  That stopped Wakefield. “So, this is like the Civil War for you. Choosing sides, fighting your own relatives?”

  Sanger hadn’t thought of it that way before, but he nodded. “Guess so, sir, in a way, but I’m an American. Always was. And I hate Hitler and the Nazis even more than most, because I know what he’s done.”

  “Killed your relatives?”

  “Indirectly, sir. Turned them into Nazis themselves.”

  Wakefield chewed on that for a few minutes. “We’re going to do our goddamnedest to kill as many of them as we can here.”

  “I’ll help, sir. I can think like them.”

  Wakefield stuck out his hand. “You’ll do, son,” he said, more warmly than he’d said anything else. “Welcome to the Nineteenth.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sanger replied. “Happy to be here.”

  Clark, the S-3 operations officer, got him settled in. “We’ve just been reassigned to Third Army,” he said. “Our target is Metz.” Sanger got busy with the intelligence data, then got on the horn to corps and army group headquarters to start getting more. He was determined that the Nineteenth would have the right information on the right schedule on his watch.