“Ah, my good friend, you confuse military success with strategic success, as so many do. Victory in the air is not victory; at most it sets the conditions for victory. This undoubted triumph, however glorious, only changes our situation from utterly hopeless to merely bleak. Our opponents outnumber us and we have our backs to the Westwall.”
“But our soldiers are better than theirs, and so are our generals!” Müller replied, unwilling for once to surrender to the sardonic and cynical jibes of his friend.
“Regardless, Lanchester’s Law is against us.”
“Who?”
“Frederick Lanchester. The strength of one’s forces is measured by the square of the number of units. Therefore, the relative strength of one force against another is measured by the differences in the squares. Outnumbering one’s opponent is the only strategic advantage that matters. And we are outnumbered.”
“But Gunter--that just doesn’t make sense! If so, all we ever have to do is count up the forces in a battle and then we know who will win! History is full of examples where generalship or good soldiering or weapons or position made all the difference! You should know that better than anyone.” He took another swig of beer.
Gunter smiled. “You know, tonight I’m wondering if everyone isn’t smarter than I am. You’re right, of course, but Lanchester’s Law still applies.”
“But--but,” Müller stuttered. The alcohol was starting to befuddle him.
“Clausewitz again. It’s the schwerpunkt. You don’t have to count all the forces on either side, just those at the decision point. If the Allies outnumber us overall, but we outnumber them at the critical point of the battle, then Lanchester’s Law operates in our favor. Weapons and position and other military tools can leverage one’s forces, start the squaring at a higher number--that’s why they are sometimes called ‘force multipliers’--but soldiers, generals, and politicians alike tend to value those elements at a far higher value than they’re worth. Ego, mostly, and an unwillingness to accept that one is in a disadvantageous position.”
“So you’re saying we aren’t doomed after all?”
“No, of course not. The key question for our Desert Fox is how to find a critical decision point where Lanchester’s Law can operate for us, rather than against us, then work out the strategy to get us there. If anyone can do it, Rommel can.”
“Now there I agree with you,” said Müller definitely, taking a deep swallow, then stuffing a bite of a thick würst sandwich into his mouth. Arguing was thirsty work.
“So,” he said around a mouthful, “tell me--what’s with you and our field marshal?”
Gunter was silent for a moment. He regarded his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “He’s a very smart man.” Müller nodded. “I know. But hearing you say so--well, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say something like that.”
“You’re right. I don’t often have occasion to say so. But perhaps that shows a lack of wisdom on my part.”
Müller looked at him, puzzled.
Lager-Lechfeld Luftwaffe Base, Bavaria, Germany, 25 November 1944, 0817 hours GMT
Adolf Galland personally flew to the airbase to congratulate and commend the kommodore of Geschwader 51.
“We hurt them, and badly... I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see any more daylight raids, at least for a while,” declared the Luftwaffe commander, chewing on his cigar and looking out the window of Krueger’s office.
The kommodore shook his head, irritated and restless as he gestured at the steady rain. “Maybe it’s just the damned weather,” he snapped. “Nobody can fly in this shit!”
Galland laughed, exhaling a big cloud of smoke. “Trust me, it will be a long time before they send their whole air force over the Vaterland again. That’s why I want to order you out of here.”
“What?” Krueger looked at his commander in astonishment.
“Relax...I’m bringing your Geschwader forward, closer to the front.”
The pilot felt his pulse quickening, subject to memories of battles four and five years earlier. “You mean in the west, of course?”
The general nodded. “We’re moving hundreds of fighters to bases on the border, close to the Westwall. You’ll be flying close support for our ground operations again. Think of it, Paul! With a chance to compete again for air superiority over the battle!”
“No Stukas, this time,” Krueger replied grimly. Like all fighter pilots, he had regarded the lumbering dive bombers as little more than deathtraps.
“This time the bombing will be done by Messerschmidts... 109s, and the 110s we have left. The jets and the Focke-Wulfs will be flying cover, going toe to toe with the Allied fighters “
The fighter pilot smiled. “We’ll send the bastards down in flames.”
“How many of your Stormbirds are operational?”
Krueger shrugged, scowling at the reminder of the Me-262’s biggest problem: reliability. “I have fifty-five machines on the base. On any given day, I can put somewhere between forty and fifty of them into the air. My ground crews are replacing engines as soon as we can get them in. Of course, fuel is becoming a problem once again....”
“That will have to do.” Galland shrugged with remarkable nonchalance. It wasn’t nearly good enough, but he knew better than to push the point. “I’ve marked you for three fields near Bitburg, not far from Rommel’s headquarters, as a matter of fact. How long will it take you to get ready for the transfer?”
“We can move as soon as the weather clears,” Krueger replied.
“Good. I’ve arranged for ground transport for your equipment and crews. Get them started right away, so that your bases can be up and running as soon as you fly in.”
With that, Galland was gone, leaving a lingering memory of his casual salute and the wafting cloud of his cigar smoke.
Before that odor dissipated, Krueger had gone to work. He sent clerks after maps, informed his unit commanders, and sent the base into a frenzy of activity. It seemed as if the gods of war were smiling upon him, for the very next day dawned clear and windless. Before noon, his fighters were taking to the air. Forty-nine of them proved airworthy, though several limped along on single engines for the westward flight.
But the distance was not far, and barely ninety minutes later the first jets were touching down on the landing strips at their new bases. These were smaller facilities, of course, so the Geschwader would be dispersed into its three Gruppen.
More importantly, Krueger knew that they were now based almost in the shadows of the Westwall.
East of Metz, France, 26 November 1944, 1351 hours GMT
“There they are, Colonel--a full retreat back to the Westwall.” Frank Ballard handed Pulaski his binoculars, and the commander of CCA looked into the valley, watched the file of German vehicles and men heading eastward with visible speed. The clouds had broken during the early morning today, but by now the low overcast had rolled back in. A chilly mist was falling, though it frequently parted enough to offer visibility of two or three miles.
The highway twisted through a broad, forested valley, and in most places it was concealed by trees from direct observation. But where they could see it, the road was packed with men. Metz was being evacuated, and these were the defenders, now heading toward the safety of Germany with all possible speed.
“Should we get down there... break that column right in two?” Ballard asked. “Recon has found a few tracks down this bluff. With luck, we should be able to get the Shermans down one or two of them.”
Pulaski considered the opportunity. The terrain was bad, but his armored battalion commander was right...the doughty M4s could undoubtedly pick and choose a few routes down into that narrow valley.
But what would happen then?
There were thousands of Germans, and hundreds of enemy vehicles, within view of just this one vantage. How many more of them were down there? And were they anticipating just such a flank attack?
On the other hand, if Combat Command A
stayed up here, on the safety of the high ridge, they could make the lives of those retreating Krauts very uncomfortable indeed. Diaz could bring his guns up, and artillery fire could hammer the road. Though the range was long, even the tanks’ main guns could provide a threat to the enemy vehicles on that tiny ribbon of roadway, the retreating troops’ only link to their homeland.
The memory of his last incorrect guess haunted him. This was Rommel he was up against. “No, Frank... we’ll stay up here. Get your tanks deployed for some long-distance shooting. I want to call in every piece of artillery we have, get those shells smashing down onto the road.”
“That’s all?” Ballard asked. His tone was bland, but Pulaski felt his tank commander’s eyes boring into him. The colonel blinked, then continued.
“Also, we’ll let the air corps know if this weather clears, a couple dozen fighter-bombers will make a real mess out of that.”
“Yes, sir,” Ballard replied, his tone quiet and unemotional. Pulaski couldn’t tell if he was disappointed--or relieved.
“Are you saying you want to charge down there?” the colonel snapped.
“Not at all,” Frank replied. “Not at all.” When Ballard turned to look into the valley, Pulaski tried once more to read the emotion on his subordinate’s face.
And once more he failed.
Approaching Westwall, Saarbrucken, Germany, 2200 hours GMT
In the moonless night, SS General Erich Hoffner recalled the comments by Heinrich Himmler, führer of the Third Reich, about the retreat from Metz. “If German troops get the idea that retreat is an option, their will to fight will be shattered. If they believe that the Allies will accept ordinary surrenders and not insist on the ‘unconditional surrender’ terms, they will be inclined to surrender. And above all, if Wehrmacht field marshals believe that their tactical issues outweigh the larger strategic concerns of the Reich, then the Reich is doomed. It is necessary, therefore, to provide a clear and incontrovertible lesson to all concerned, while at the same time striking a particularly powerful blow at the West.”
“But what about the field marshal?” Hoffner had asked.
“All in good time, all in good time,” the führer had replied. “Our Desert Fox has one more hunt before he is ridden down. For now, this lesson should be sufficient to keep him focused for his remaining task.”
And now it was up to Erich Hoffner to carry out his own task. He had completed many such tasks for Adolf Hitler. As a protégé of the famed commando leader Otto Skorzeny, Hoffner had carried out a variety of special missions, all of extreme danger and extreme importance. Although his target this night would be Germans, even this was not unusual for the SS commando. Enemies of the Reich could be anywhere, and sometimes examples must be made for the cause.
His handpicked commandos were dressed in American military uniforms, insignia forged by SS specialists--they were Combat Command A of the Nineteenth Division besieging Metz. Intelligence sources revealed that the colonel in charge of that command was reputed to be unstable and revenge seeking--or could be portrayed that way by the German propaganda apparatus.
Who better to take the blame?
The commandos slid through the dark night. General Weitz, commander of the retreating Metz garrison, was retreating by the book, leaving appropriate covering fire, withdrawing in stages, slowing up the enemy advance to allow his forces to escape and move to the new positions Rommel had chosen for them. Behind, the Allies were advancing inexorably. The dark night was punctuated with flashes of light and the dull crunch of munitions. The earth shook slightly underneath him, the sure sign that combat was near.
He moved into position. There, below, was the column of retreating infantry, edgy and on guard and yet oh so relieved to be pulling back. Weitz was not covering his flanks sufficiently, but then he had every reason to be sure that the Americans had not broken through his lines. This was a bugout, and the only thing he had to worry about--he assumed--was a too-rapid American advance into his rear.
But, my general, you are now going to enter the history books, the tragic victim of an American maniac, he thought. Erich Hoffner knew how to follow orders and understood fully how the greater good sometimes required sacrifices.
He gave the signal for attack.
The massed firepower of multiple machine guns illuminated the night as it cut a swath through the retreating Germans. For a long moment, the soldiers were paralyzed, unable to determine from what direction the fire was coming. Then came hurtling grenades--the Allied style, which Hoffner found awkward to handle--and then came panic. Soldiers ran in all directions at once, colliding with one another, crouching behind tanks and trucks, diving into the ground in a futile attempt to hide.
In English came the cry, “Surrender! Throw down your weapons!” repeated in German. Slowly, the remaining soldiers dropped their guns and stood, shaking with fear, as the German commandos came down from the hill in their American uniforms. The remaining Germans were marched into a nearby farmyard, disarmed, their weapons piled neatly outside the fence. The scene was carefully staged to show that a surrender had taken place.
When they were all lined up, hands tied behind them, Hoffner gave the order. Lifting their captured American machine guns, the commandos sprayed bullets at the disarmed and helpless captives. And the captives died screaming, horrible bullet wounds gushing blood. They died with arms and legs ripped from their bodies by the explosion of grenades. They died suddenly as bullets or shrapnel penetrated brains and hearts. They died of other bloody wounds as well, some quickly, others slowly.
In moments there was silence once again, punctuated by the crackling of fires set by explosions and by gasoline, by a few remaining screams from the nearly dead, and incongruously by the ordinary sounds of the winter night.
“Quickly!” ordered Hoffner, and the commandos planted the killing field with evidence, dog tags and insignia, stripped a few of the more mutilated and unidentifiable corpses from the initial attack and placed them in soiled and bloody American uniforms marked with the Nineteenth Division’s insignia. A white star in crimson uniform patch shone dully in the reflected light from a truck headlight not yet dead. The scene would not fool a criminal investigative team, but any such team would be made of the SS, and they would not be distracted by irrelevant details. This looked like a callous massacre of helpless prisoners--which it had been--but one committed by American troops--which it had not.
Hoffner could hear motors. The troops ahead were returning. He and his commandos could easily kill them as well, but the goal of the evening’s work was achieved. Rommel was correct, there was no need to waste any more German lives than necessary. This lesson would travel rapidly among the troops. Surrender and retreat were truly no option. The barbarian Allies would massacre them. Only victory or death on the front.
The SS commandos slid back into the darkness to hear the first cries of horror as the comrades of the dead discovered the bloody hell that had consumed their fellows.
Army Group B HQ, Trier, Germany, 27 November 1944, 1121 hours GMT
“It’s General Weitz, Herr Feldmarschall,” said Rommel’s secretary, and he went into his office to take the call.
“Yes, General. How goes the retreat?” Rommel asked. ‘They’ve been massacred! Shot after they were captured, helpless, tied up! My God, Field Marshal, it’s unbelievable!”
“Massacred? Shot after being captured? Slowly, slowly. Exactly what happened?”
As the general spoke, Rommel’s face grew steadily more pale. An entire company of men captured and then horribly massacred in what should have been a relatively safe retreat. Losses were to be expected, but not this. With a sudden and sickening feeling, Rommel realized that this massacre was ultimately his fault.
“And the evidence, you say, points to the American Nineteenth Division?” he asked, his fingers numb as they held the telephone.
“Yes, yes! Our men shot at least a few of the attackers; we have uniforms, dog tags, other evidence. The investigati
ve teams from the SS have been ransacking the site, although they haven’t been able to do much because of the advancing Allies. Shall I bring you the evidence?”
“Never mind, General,” Rommel said, stunned but thoughtful. “I think that your call is all the evidence I need.” He tried to be as reassuring as he could, and finally hung up. His mind raced furiously. He knew that soldiers could be guilty of atrocities in the heat of battle, soldiers of any side. All commanders knew that. It was possible that it was an American atrocity, but it was too convenient, too targeted. No, far more likely this was an SS operation. A message, primarily aimed at him. I told you not to retreat, was Himmler’s message. Follow my orders or suffer the consequences.
“Very well,” Rommel said, answering aloud. He opened the door to his office. To his secretary, he barked. “Staff meeting. At once. There are developments.” Then he strode down the hall, barely using his cane, to Bücher’s office.
“Yes, mein Feldmarschall?” said Bücher, curiously.
“Retreating German forces were attacked, captured, and then massacred, ostensibly by the Nineteenth American Division last night.” His words and tone were blunt, harsh. He waited and watched as Bücher processed the information, and immediately--Rommel could see it on his face--found himself reaching the same conclusion that he had.
“Mein Feldmarschall--I want you to know that I know absolutely nothing of this. I cannot believe--”
That was what Rommel wanted to know. This was not Bücher, at least not personally. If it had been ... Rommel could still feel his temper boiling up. But instead he held up his hand. “We are all soldiers. We do our duty. What others do is frequently not up to us.” Bücher’s reaction pleased him. SS or no, the man had something salvageable in him. Let him study this issue on his own and reach the conclusions that seemed right to him.
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