Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  The blaze had started within the turbine, an incendiary cancer devouring metal and air. From there, flames had sucked through the fuel lines, engulfing the fuselage in a hellish grip. Hydraulic lines had melted away, and the aluminum skin of the aircraft flaked into vapor.

  The pilot’s world spun in disequilibrium. The Liberator, Ford’s Folly, was upside down... no, it was he himself who was inverted. The fighter tumbled closer, but Krueger’s guns were forgotten as he wrestled with the stick, fought for some semblance of control over the dying aircraft. Pieces of his beautiful plane broke away, and the controls flopped loosely in his clutching hands.

  Pain seared his skin, cruelly melting his flight suit, consuming his flesh. Heat and agony and stinking fumes threatened to overwhelm him. Struggling for mastery of his senses, of his tortured body, Krueger kicked at the floorboards, pushed at the unyielding glass of his canopy, and screamed.

  Now the massive American plane was huge before him, and he saw the bombs tumbling from the swollen belly. A great sheet of metal stretched before him like a wall, rising beyond the fires that framed his field of view.

  Fully out of control, the dying Me-262 tore through the twin rudders of the Liberator, but now Krueger was only aware that tongues of fire were groping for his face. He kicked his legs, but those limbs were charred into blackened coal, and it seemed as though his life had dissolved into sound, shrieks of unspeakable pain.

  And then the fire reached his eyes, and glowed there for a long, satisfied moment.

  From Mission Narratives, 392nd Bomb Group, December 26, 1944 (Dinant Raid)

  Mission Narrative Summary

  On the morning of 26 December 1944, we were alerted for an attack on the bridges of Dinant, Belgium. Twenty-four squadron aircraft took off. Nearing the Meuse River, the formation was attacked by twenty or more Me-262 jet fighters for about five minutes. Several of the enemy aircraft were camouflaged with white stripes to simulate P-51s. One aircraft had a flame pattern painted on its nose. The enemy aircraft attack was pressed home vigorously, coming in singly...most of the attacking planes were firing 20-mm time-fused shells, some of which were noticed to explode before hitting our planes ... The enemy fighters were themselves heavily engaged by many P-51s, and after several minutes the German aircraft were destroyed or driven off, but not before they inflicted damage on the bomber group. As a result of this attack, four of our ships are missing, including Aircraft 466 (Ford’s Folly), which was last seen at 11:58 A.M. near Dinant when hit by enemy aircraft. Fire broke out in nos. three and four engines, and one of the Me-262 crashed into the tail structure; both airplanes burst into flames, peeled over, spun in, and crashed. No chutes were seen.

  Additional Narrative Report

  Takeoffs began at 0730 hours and were accomplished without incident. We went through the usual assembly and headed toward the target. Just as we neared the Meuse River, a flak barrage began to come up from the town below. We were caught by surprise, and the gunners immediately began shoving chaff out the chutes. It was nearly noon.

  I was concentrating on keeping my element in position when my copilot said, “Look at the funny-looking flak.” I glanced out and saw numerous small white explosions just below us. I saw Ford’s Folly (Aircraft 466) in tight formation and all engines running, blazing fiercely from the top of the wing in the number three and number four engine area. The flames were so intense that they were trailing far behind the tail assembly. I realized then that the “funny flak” was exploding 20-mm cannon shells, being fired by an Me-262 with flames painted on the cowling. I turned my attention to pulling up closer to the lead box. When I looked again, Ford’s Folly was gone.

  Army Group B Field Headquarters, Dinant, Belgium, 1020 hours GMT

  For long minutes the violent onslaught of bombs rocked Dinant, crushing buildings, shaking the ground, churning the river water into mud and terrifying the German soldiers and Belgian civilians who sought shelter wherever it could be found.

  The thunderous bomber assault had driven the headquarters staff into the chateau’s wine cellar. Though several of the German officers undoubtedly would have soothed their fears with one of the many vintages lining the walls of the chamber, the presence of their stern field marshal made teetotalers out of them all. The noise overwhelmed any attempts at conversation, so the men sat in stoic silence. Rommel watched them exchange sidelong glances, eyeing each other for some outward sign of fear.

  Waves of explosions rocked the city, and though all of these men had experienced Allied bombardment, the field marshal suspected that for most it was the severest pounding of their lives. Certainly he had never felt such a massive, crushing blanket of explosions. Rommel took care to keep his expression aloof, though he flinched and then chuckled when a near strike brought several bottles crashing down from their racks. Dust trickled down from the rafters, so that by the time the violence began to fade every officer was coated in a fine layer of grime.

  “It seems to be ending,” Rommel declared finally, as the explosions thudded into the distance. He looked at his pocket watch. “About thirty-seven minutes’ worth. Quite a few bombs in one little place. Well, it’s time for us to get back to work and to see how much damage our enemies have inflicted.”

  They climbed the rickety stairs toward the kitchen, Carl-Heinz insisting on going first, checking beyond the door for danger. “It’s safe,” he reported after a moment, and the rest of the officers followed Rommel back into the realm of daylight.

  The droning of aircraft engines was still thunderous, albeit fading, as the field marshal led his staff through the inn to the balcony overlooking the river valley. He saw immediately that one wing of the chateau had suffered some serious damage, and the gate house had been smashed to pieces, but the bulk of the building was intact, including this broad vantage that gave them a clear view to the west and south. At the same time, he recognized that Allied fighters and dive bombers were swooping, unimpeded by the Luftwaffe, over the entire area--apparently the enemy had regained control of the skies.

  Smoke billowed throughout the city, concealing the bridges and much of the near bank. The steeple of the Church of Notre Dame still jutted from the murk, while overhead the citadel was a scene of ruin and rubble. Even so, many AA guns still barked from the edifice, hurling their shells after the departing stream of bombers.

  Again Rommel looked below, but thick smoke seethed everywhere. Here and there a black oily plume arose, marking the place where an aircraft had gone down. The murk was complete, masking the entire course of the river.

  The whine of a motorcycle engine rose above the fading aircraft noise, and a courier emerged into view, climbing the hill from the waterfront, racing his two-wheeled machine toward the chateau. Rommel, barely limping, hurried across the courtyard to meet the rider at the gate.

  “How are the bridges?”

  “One of them is ruptured, Herr Feldmarschall. I was told that it will require at least a day for repairs.”

  “And the other?”

  ‘The engineers are completing their inspection. It still spans the river... it was wrenched around a bit but took no direct hits. They said to report that it should be ready for transport in less than an hour.”

  Nodding his thanks, Rommel returned with his staff to the map tables in the conference room. “Are the telephones working?” he called to his operator.

  “The lines to the bridges are out, Herr Feldmarschall. However, I have a wire to the citadel, and to our emplacement on the roads leading into the city.”

  “What word from the Americans to our south? And from Panzer Lehr?” The Desert Fox impatiently studied the map while the man relayed the questions. He could sense the cusp of battle. They were so close to victory, to a victory that would far outshadow anything he had done in Africa or Normandy, a triumph that would outshine even the great Blitzkrieg of 1940. With one bridge, the supplies to the leading elements of his army would be restricted, but he knew they could still advance. Antwerp--and with it the A
llied army in Europe--was still vulnerable.

  As long as they held Dinant.

  “The Panzer Lehr division is three kilometers from the city, field marshal,” reported the lieutenant at the switchboard. “As to the Americans, we lost contact with them after they moved through the initial defensive outposts south of the city. I am trying to contact our forward positions now.”

  “I want the Ninth SS Panzer Division to send a Kampfgruppe back to this side of the river.” Rommel gave the order with confident certainty. “They should have full priority as soon as the bridge is cleared for traffic.”

  “Bring them back?” Speidel asked.

  “Yes... I think we might need them in the city. This is where the battle will be won or lost.”

  Rommel acutely felt the vulnerability of his bridge, and he wanted more tanks in place to protect it. Panzer Lehr would be here soon, but they were coming from the east. The Ninth SS

  Panzer had crossed the river yesterday but was still near, just on the other bank as a matter of fact. He could bring them back, and with Panzer Lehr coming out of the Ardennes the Americans could be caught in a deadly vise.

  The next words from the switchboard confirmed his fears, even as they warned him that he might be too late.

  “Herr Feldmarschall!” The radio operator blurted out the interruption. “The Americans are in the city attacking from the south! And they are advancing toward the bridge!”

  Dinant, Belgium, 1045 hours GMT

  The men of CCA of the Nineteenth Armored found shelter in their tanks and in the cellars and basements of Dinant as hundreds of heavy aircraft rumbled overhead, pounding the city with a lethal bombardment. It turned out to be fortunate that Pulaski’s attack had been held up at the southern fringe of the place, for most of the bombs fell to the north and west. Obviously the Air Forces were targeting the bridges across the Meuse, though there was no way for Pulaski or his men to judge the success or failure of the mission.

  From the narrow mouth of a cellar door the colonel did see the barrage of antiaircraft raised by guns arrayed around the lofty citadel that was the city’s dominant feature. Conversely, that castle received a great deal of the bombers’ attention, until the fortress and its surrounding knoll were completely masked by the smoke and dust raised by countless explosions.

  The cessation of the bombing was sudden, a brief dwindling of noise and then only the sounds of droning engines as the stream of aircraft turned back toward England. That sound was still a resonant thunder as the tanks and infantry of Combat Command A rolled forward. The men of the Nineteenth quickly found that the upper city had not been too badly shattered by the aerial onslaught. At least the major streets were more or less open, passable to tanks, half-tracks, and jeeps.

  Pulaski gathered with Ballard, Diaz, Miller, and White, and Captains Zimmerman of the tank destroyer company and Holland of the recon unit, in a square overlooking the river valley. There he spread out a map of the city on the hood of a jeep. The stuttering chatter of small arms fire echoed from nearby streets, occasionally punctuated by the blast of a tank gun or grenade.

  He pointed to a tall steeple rising from the rubble of the riverfront. “The bridges are down there, past the church. Whitey, Miller, take everything you can get--bring the bridges under direct fire, and then get some men down there with demolitions.”

  Dennis White nodded. “How many of the tanks do I get?”

  “Most of our Shermans.” Pulaski turned to Ballard. “Frank, you’ve still got a company of seventy-sixes, right?”

  The armored commander nodded, and the colonel pointed along the street leading into the square from the east. “That’s the road to Bastogne... Kraut reinforcements might be coming that way. I want your company in position to enfilade any move along that route. Diaz, get the range, and be ready to give him supporting fire. Until then, put some fire onto the bridges and the riverfront--but be listening for Frank’s word.”

  The lieutenant colonel of artillery nodded, and Pulaski took another moment to stare at the map.

  “Holland, get some outposts along that road, ready to give us advance word of any threat. You can move out now.”

  In moments the Greyhounds and jeeps of the recon company were roaring out of town, while Pulaski tried to think, to plan. His mind flashed with the vivid memory of Rommel’s tanks hitting CCA in the flank at Abbeville, breaking up the combat command just when victory seemed within reach. He remembered Lorimar and Jack King, Frank Ballard shot to hell in his tank. He vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let that happen again, and then he looked at Zimmerman.

  “Captain--you’ll be our reserve. Park your tank destroyers around this square, and be ready to move where we need you.”

  “Yessir, Colonel!” Zimmerman’s dark eyes blazed with determination. Pulaski almost felt sorry for any hapless Germans that came under the guns of the M10s and M36s.

  “All right, men--our objective is right there, less than a mile away. We all know how important this is, so I’m not going to explain it to you. But I know you’ll do your jobs.” He pointed overhead, to a turreted attic that rose high above the square, with windows opening onto three directions. “That’ll be my CP... Frank, I want to string a wire to your tanks, and Diaz too, so we’ve got secure communications. I’ll talk to you as soon as you’re in place. Now, move out!”

  More engines roared into life as the colonel, accompanied by Sergeant Dawson, entered the nearby house and quickly found the stairs leading up. The colonel and the sergeant--with the NCO carrying the radio as always--found a good vantage in the turreted attic to establish his command post. He looked out the window across the city and tried to make sure he was doing the right thing.

  The combat command was spread out below, advancing through the war-torn city. Pulaski took a look at the citadel, saw that it was now under attack by tactical aircraft. Colonel Diaz and the self-propelled guns of his artillery battery took up position in the park on the south side of the city, the 105s in easy support range of the entire combat command. The rest of Combat Command A, the tanks and supporting infantry, moved against moderate resistance. Only Zimmerman’s tank destroyers remained undeployed--this small company was now parked in the plaza just below the colonel’s vantage.

  From here Pulaski could see the street leading east, including the tall trees and square houses, most of them gaunt and battle scarred, on the hillside beyond. Ballard’s tanks, concealed by low walls, rubble, and buildings, were invisible even from this lofty attic. Through the lingering dust of the bombing, however, the colonel could see just far enough to make out the road to the Ardennes and Bastogne. Sooner or later Germans would be coming from that direction.

  As if in response to his observation, the phone buzzed.

  “German armor--Tigers in the lead!--coming into the city on the highway. Moving fast, considerable numbers. More than I can count right now.”

  Frank Ballard’s voice on the field telephone betrayed his tension in his clipped, sharp enunciation. Still he was precise and careful, and if he sounded excited he avoided any suggestion of fear.

  Pulaski clutched the receiver to his ear, trying to mask the trembling that wanted to jar his hands. It was happening again... panzers coming out of the murk of battle, eager to smash his combat command. He drew a deep breath and turned away from Sergeant Dawson, hoping that his apprehension hadn’t shown on his face. After all, he had expected this attack, had planned for it. He was as ready as he could possibly be.

  Binoculars to his eyes, he studied the road. Massive Tigers, clearly identifiable even from three kilometers away, led the procession, and he could see that in a few minutes they would come under the guns of Ballard’s Shermans.

  Pulaski took up the phone again. “What’s your position?” he asked Frank, managing to keep his voice steady.

  “We’re hull down, on some high ground south of the street. Holding my fire now... I gotta tell you, Ski--this looks like it could be a whole division.”

  “Y
ou have contact with Diaz, right?”

  “Yes--he was getting his coordinates squared away a few minutes ago.”

  Pulaski tried to keep the tension out of his voice when he answered. “He has the range on the road, but he’ll wait for your signal to open fire. Make your move when the time seems right. Don’t forget you can fall back to the south--even if the Krauts pursue, Jackson and CCB are coming up fast in support. And Diaz is back there to give you direct fire support.”

  Pulaski and Ballard had already discussed an added benefit of a southerly withdrawal: if the Germans took the bait, a pursuit would pull them away from CCA’s advance to the bridge.

  Closer to home, Pulaski had a clear view down several streets where most of his Shermans, flanked by hustling squads of infantry, fought their way down the steep incline toward the lower city and the riverbank. One tank shot point-blank into a stone house, blasting a German strongpoint into rubble, while American infantry fired into doors and windows of a nearby inn. Grenades flew in, and seconds after the resulting explosions GIs piled in, attacking through every opening. At the same time the tanks moved on, still firing, gaining position for the assault on the next block.

  Beyond that descending slope, past a tantalizingly narrow section of riverfront warehouses and docks, a single span of engineering barges stretched across the chill waters of the Meuse. This was the only place that mattered, the jugular for Rommel’s advancing panzers. Now the surface of that bridge was smooth and free of debris. Pulaski could see a convoy of trucks parked in a waterfront lot on the near side of the river, and wondered why they didn’t start across. Then, with his binoculars pressed to his eyes, he saw the reason: on the far bank a column of vehicles was moving onto the crossing, rolling toward the embattled city. He focused his glasses tightly and cursed; here, too, massive Tigers were in the lead.

  Just below, parked in the intersection dominated by this house, Pulaski looked into the open-topped turrets of his battle reserve. The ten tank destroyers parked there included seven M10s and three of the M36s with their lethal 90-mm guns. He had gathered these as a last-ditch defense against the attack from the east, but now there was a new need.