Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  Speidel, Müller, and von Esebeck were still obviously puzzled by the direction of the conversation. Rommel held up his hand.

  “This is now a military decision, and as the field commander I am the only person in a position to make it. I understand there are political consequences, but the decision necessarily still rests with me. Gentlemen--” he paused, took a deep breath, “I plan to surrender Army Group B to the Allies.”

  If an Allied bomb had crashed through the window at that very moment, it could hardly have set off a greater explosion. “What?!” “No!” “Field Marshal, what are you saying?” “Surrender? Never!”

  Rommel stood under the buffeting of competing opinions, remembering his view of the scarred, broken oak tree from his hospital window as the winds of debate and opposition swirled around him. Like that tree he would stand in the tempest, hold firm until the fury stormed past.

  Finally he held up his hand to still the room. “I see no other alternative. I believe General Patton sees the Soviet threat as clearly as I do; I can only hope our surrender will be in time to save the Fatherland from a worse fate and a worse tyranny than it has suffered these past years.”

  “You can’t do this--you can’t!” shrieked Bücher, his scars glowing redly as his passion rushed to his face. “Field Marshal--” he was pleading now, nearly in tears, “think about this! You’re betraying the Fatherland to its enemies! You’ll go down in history as the worst sort of traitor! Look--there’s still hope! Where there are Germans, there is still hope. We are the Aryan people; we will succeed--we have to succeed! Fall back, let us regroup. We will attack again and again and again... and if we have to go down, let us go down like men, not like cowards! Sir, you’re a wounded man; you’ve been under enormous pressure. Today is a grim day, but there’s no call, no justification for such an enormity of a response! Surrender? How can you even think of it? You’re the Desert Fox! You’re an inspiration to your men! Tell them to fight and they will fight! One of us is better than any ten, any twenty of the enemy! Don’t you see?”

  Rommel walked toward Bücher, tried to place his hand on the man’s shoulder, but the SS general tore himself away. “Field Marshal, you cannot do this. Tell us now that you have changed your mind, that this was simply a momentary lapse....”

  The Desert Fox slowly shook his head. “Horst, I must do this thing, although you must believe me that it is truly the most painful and difficult choice I have faced in my life. I would do almost anything else... but the truth is, I see no other hope for the Fatherland. Look--you have been a good soldier torn between two masters. I know you must now call Berlin, and Berlin will take what action it can. Like all soldiers, you must do what you must. As must I.”

  He turned back toward the others. Speidel was unable to conceal his elation and remained utterly obedient to Rommel. Reinhardt was on his side. Müller would follow Reinhardt. Von Esebeck and the reporter would play their roles. He wondered briefly about Guderian and Manteuffel. No, they were good military men, they would understand the situation the same way as he did. There were some subordinate SS commanders to deal with, but with care, that could be managed. This was a campaign once again, and Rommel could manage it well.

  “Gentlemen, I have listened carefully, but my decision is firm. Surrender is our only viable option. Baron, you and Herr Porter will make contact with the Allied general whose division was opposing us in Dinant. Use the radio and speak in the clear. Explain that I want to negotiate the terms of a surrender. Hans--” he looked at Speidel, “I want you to contact the Fifth and Sixth Panzerarmee headquarters and explain the situation to Manteuffel and Guderian.” Speidel bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Colonel von Reinhardt, you’ll provide tactical support to this process. I need a list of units and commanders, current positions, and other information necessary to support the stand-down. Colonel Müller, assist him, please.”

  He was pleased to see his officers snap to and attack this new problem with the professionalism they had shown in planning the overall campaign. It was then he noticed that General Bücher had silently left the room.

  Nineteenth Division Mobile Headquarters, Givet, France, 1644 hours GMT

  “General Wakefield... we’re getting a radio call.” Sergeant Johnson was unusually hesitant. “It’s... well, it’s someone named Chuck Porter--an AP correspondent captured by the Krauts. He says he’s got a message for us--a message from someone who claims he’s Field Marshal Rommel of the German army.”

  “Hello?” Wakefield snatched up the microphone, in no mood for word games. “Who the hell is this?”

  “General Wakefield ... of the Nineteenth? My name is Porter. I’m here, in Dinant... in the German HQ, as a matter of fact. With Rommel and a couple of his staff officers. The field marshal wants to talk to you about the terms of a surrender.”

  “Surrender? There’s no way in hell I’m going to surrender!” the American general growled.

  “No--no, General. It’s Rommel. He wants to surrender... to you.”

  Wakefield froze, unable to believe his ears. His teeth clamped down on the unlit cigar. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

  Another voice came on. “General,” it said in German-accented British English, “I am Baron von Esebeck. I can assure you this is not a joke at all. Feldmarschall Rommel wishes to discuss the terms of a surrender of the German forces.” Wakefield cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Johnson. “Put me through to General Patton--pronto!”

  “I... er, I was just about to tell you, sir. He’s here.”

  And there he was, Old Blood and Guts himself, all three stars gleaming on his shiny helmet. “Hello, Hank,” Patton said with unaccustomed mildness.

  Wakefield put up his hand. “Quiet!” he barked.

  Patton’s face showed he was unused to being given orders by his subordinates. Johnson quietly spoke up, “General Patton, sir--”

  “What is it, sergeant?”

  “That’s Rommel’s headquarters on the phone--they’re calling to surrender.”

  The look on Patton’s face would be remembered forever by everyone in the room.

  Army Group B Field Headquarters, Dinant, Belgium, 1732 hours GMT

  Horst Bücher pulled the Luger automatic from his holster, checked the gun to make sure that the action was smooth, and rose from his desk. He had done his duty to the Fatherland; he had explained the situation to the führer, who had--not surprisingly--exploded at the news. “Stop it!” hissed the voice through the telephone. “Stop the surrender at all costs! I feared something like this; that’s why you were given the earlier orders concerning the fate of the Desert Fox. It is a serious mistake that those orders were not carried out earlier. Do it now. It is no longer important whether it looks like Allied action or not.”

  Bücher put down the telephone. He felt his world crumble around him. Erwin Rommel was a traitor, and yet Bücher admired him as he had admired no other man.

  Was it only a day or two ago that the SS general had resolved to disobey his orders to kill Rommel? After everything that had happened to him in his life, he should have known better than to put his trust in any man. The Party was his real father, his only father. Hadn’t that been proved to him, time and time again? Humans were weak; the Party was strong. And the party leaders were always right.

  Perhaps, Bücher thought, some good might come out of this, after all. For Rommel would have to arrange an in-person meeting with someone very senior on the American side, perhaps Patton or Bradley... or even Eisenhower. And wouldn’t it redeem everything if at the same time the Desert Fox died, Patton died as well... at the hand of the SS? His scarred face broke into a bitter and twisted smile.

  His first stop was the SS communications feldwebel. That man would be loyal to Germany, to the Party. “Where has the field marshal gone?” he demanded.

  “There is a truce in Dinant” the feldwebel replied, nearly stuttering in his fear. “The field marshal’s staff car is flying a white flag; they will meet Allied gen
erals in the Church of Notre Dame in the center of the city.”

  “Very good,” he said, and strode away, eyes blazing, scars furiously red. It was late afternoon and already dark. There were wide stone steps in front of the headquarters chateau. At the bottom were several staff cars, one of which he commandeered.

  “Horst,” called a calm, clear voice behind him. He looked up. There was Colonel Gunter von Reinhardt standing on the top of the steps. “Stand where you are. I can’t let you leave the headquarters.”

  Bücher’s eyes narrowed. His smile was cold. “I am your superior officer, Gunter. Don’t give me orders.”

  “I know where you are planning to go, Horst. Give it up. He’s right, you know. Himmler is wrong. Only Rommel’s move has a chance of saving Germany.”

  “No, Gunter. If we surrender, Germany is not saved. Some men live, but Germany--the glorious Fatherland--is lost. As Hitler said, ‘The world is not intended for cowardly nations.’ Or cowardly field marshals, either.”

  “It’s not cowardice. Our Desert Fox is brave and calculating. This surrender defends us against a far worse evil from the east. Watch and see--Germany will be stronger for this.”

  Bücher shook his head. “No. I’m going now.”

  “No,” Reinhardt said, lifting his own pistol, a Walther. “I can’t let you.”

  “I’d just as soon not kill you, Gunter, but I will. Count on it.”

  “Aut tuam mortem aut meam. Your life or mine.”

  Another quote, Bücher thought How like the man. “Tuam, then,” replied Bücher, whipping out his concealed Luger and firing. The more experienced warrior’s bullet slammed into the intelligence officer’s chest. Reinhardt fell backward, red welling up over the gray of his uniform.

  “Good-bye, Gunter,” Bücher said, sliding into the driver’s seat of his commandeered staff car and turning on the engine.

  Wolfgang Müller stepped out into the cold, dark air and shivered. “Gunter,” he called, “where are you? The field telephone lines have been cut! One of the communications officers is dead--they need you inside!” There was no answer. Again he called, “Gunter? Where are you?”

  In the weak light of an exposed bulb next to the main chateau door, he saw a horrifying sight: his friend sprawled, bleeding blackly from a chest wound, blood leaking from the side of his mouth as well. “Gunter! Gunter! I’ll get some help! What happened?” he gasped, babbling in near panic.

  Reinhardt’s weak voice gasped back, “Wolfgang--wait! There’s something more important...

  Müller knelt beside his friend, “I can’t hear you, Gunter. Let me get some help. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Horst Bücher... he’s gone to kill the Field Marshal... to stop the surrender. You’ve got to stop him.”

  “I can’t stop him--the phones are dead!”

  “You’ve got to drive... stop Bücher... Wolfgang, Germany depends on this.”

  The thought of Germany’s fate resting on Müller’s round and pudgy shoulders was ludicrous, but Reinhardt’s weak hand reached up to grab Müller by the arm. “I’m serious, Wolfgang. It all depends on you now. You must stop Bücher. I believe in you. You can.” The effort was too much; the wounded colonel sank back, coughed up more blood, and closed his eyes.

  “Gunter! Gunter! Speak to me!” Wolfgang Müller was near tears, but his friend and protector had sunk into unconsciousness. “Help! Help!” he cried out to the darkness. As other officers boiled out of the building, Müller straightened up. Slowly, carefully, he made his way toward the line of staff cars.

  Givet, France, 2200 hours GMT

  The enclosed jeep sped along the road to Dinant, three-star flag whipping in the wind. It was part of a small, fast convoy, including several armored cars and a half dozen of the reliable Willies, traveling with dimmed headlights along a winding riverside thoroughfare. The winter night was cold and dark, and a startling array of stars winked across the heavens.

  In the command jeep the two generals sat in silence, knowing the size of the gamble they took. Patton was right, Wakefield knew. There was no time to wait for orders from higher headquarters, but they understood this could be a trap.

  “It’s my opinion that Rommel’s honorable,” growled Patton. “At least as honorable as any Nazi son of a bitch can be. But he’s got some SS divisions under him. I don’t know if he can make them surrender.”

  “If he gets most of his divisions to stand down, we can handle the rest,” replied Wakefield. “Hell, we’ve got him beat whether he surrenders or not. The question is how long and how much.”

  “And how fast the goddamn Russians are going to move while they wait for Ike and the politicians to make up their minds.”

  Wakefield knew that his army general had sent a message to SHAEF detailing Rommel’s proposed surrender. However, Patton had also made sure that he was out of his HQ before the communication was sent. By the time he got a reply and instructions, events would have moved far forward.

  “Faster, man!” Patton snapped to the driver. That sergeant, who was already racing along as fast as safety allowed, nodded tersely but Wakefield noticed that he made no move to accelerate further.

  The three-star general paid no attention. “Could be an SS trap, though.”

  Wakefield grunted. He’d thought of that, too. “Jackson’s boys are still attacking. They hit Panzer Lehr in the flank and busted the Krauts up pretty good. Together with CCA they’re keeping the pressure on. At least half of Dinant is in our hands, and the Krauts have no way to cross the river.”

  “Any word yet about the boy?” Patton asked gruffly.

  Wakefield could only grunt a negative, thinking about Pulaski. “Frank Ballard turned up... his tank got hit again, but he’s going to make it.”

  “He, Pulaski... all those men. They’re heroes,” Patton said, his voice thick with emotion. “By God, they deserve every medal this man’s army can award!”

  Wakefield nodded, but his thoughts were cold. Again, as the Belgian countryside sprawled dark in all directions, the night seemed to close in--except for those sparkling stars. It was a view haunting and dangerous yet, at the same time, strangely peaceful.

  Church of Notre Dame, Dinant, Belgium, 27 December 1944, 0111 hours GMT

  The cathedral was the dominant feature of Dinant. It had suffered battle damage, but was still standing. Carl-Heinz had maneuvered Rommel’s staff car through the wreckage in the dark, the headlights turning the battle scene into a shadowy nightmare.

  A crew of enlisted men set up a quick conference room, moved additional lights into position, set up white flags for the surrender conference. Rommel got out of the staff car, feeling suddenly vulnerable because he could not see into the darkness past the narrow ring of lights.

  “Let me know when the Americans arrive,” he said to his driver. He strode into the chancel to stand in the pews, looking up at the altar. Carl-Heinz stood quietly in the back after crossing himself. It had been far too long since he’d been in a church, Rommel thought. He had a lot to pray about, to atone for. He had led his armies to defeat, and now he was about to surrender, always a difficult act for a military man, regardless of the circumstances.

  He was suddenly very tired, drained of all emotion and feeling, ready to collapse into one of the pews. He studied the Jesus on the cross, saw glimpses of the Passion in the stained glass windows as they flashed into sudden brilliance when they were hit by a headlight. His own cross was heavy on his shoulders, he thought, though perhaps not as heavy as the one borne by the man at the front of that church.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned slowly around. “I had asked not to be disturbed--” he began, then stopped. “General Bücher,” he said. “Somehow I am not surprised.” Carl-Heinz noticed the gun in the SS general’s hand and reached for his own pistol, but without taking his attention away from the Desert Fox, Bücher fired. The shot echoed in the empty church, but Rommel realized that the noise elsewhere was so loud it was unlikely that anyone had hear
d. The driver grabbed his stomach, moaned in pain.

  Rommel stared at Bücher coldly. “He was a good man... better than either of us, I’d warrant. You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “Isn’t there a different life you would do well to concern yourself with?”

  “You’re going to have your way with me... but whether I live or die, the war is lost.”

  “We will win!”

  “The Russians will win, you fool. I was merely trying to prevent that.”

  “You’re wrong, Field Marshal, and you’re a traitor. I finally saw your weakness, though the führer saw it first and better. The Reich will win, the Party will win. I know this to be true.” Bücher stood straight and tall. “In the meantime, it is the duty of every good German to execute traitors. But don’t worry; you won’t die just yet. With any luck, you’ll die alongside an American general or two; perhaps Patton himself!”

  Rommel’s tiredness was overwhelming, his loss was now total. He sat down in one of the pews.

  “Stand up!” growled Bücher. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “No, Horst. Go ahead and shoot. I’m tired; it will be a relief.”

  “You’re a coward as well as a traitor,” said Bücher as he lifted his Luger to point it directly at Rommel’s head.

  Squinting through his glasses, Müller was afraid he would become lost or stuck navigating the narrow and rubble-filled streets of Dinant. His only saving fortune was that the church was so large he could not miss it, and there were headlights and vehicles all around.

  His heart pounded in his chest, his stomach growled, he was afraid he was going to be sick. Him against an SS commando general? It was ludicrous. This was not his skill. And Gunter dead... no, he wasn’t ready to face that. Germany rode on his shoulders, his weak and pitiful shoulders. That’s what Gunter’s dying words had said. No matter. In a little while I’ll be dead, too, he thought, knowing there was only one possible outcome for a gun battle between himself and Bücher.