Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  There--there was the church! “Where’s the field marshal?” he gasped as he piled out of the car.

  “In the church,” said a feldwebel. “He’s not to be disturbed.” Müller looked at him wild-eyed. “Message from Berlin,” he gasped. “Urgent!”

  “Oh, all right. You may pass. But if the message isn’t urgent enough, let the field marshal’s wrath fall on you!”

  Müller opened the outer wooden door gingerly and slipped into the small anteroom. Another set of wooden doors opened into the cathedral itself. Heart pounding so loud he knew it could be heard even through the thick wood, he slowly pulled open the door, praying that it would not squeak. There--the sound of voices--Rommel and... yes, Bücher. A good marksman could easily have stopped the SS general from here, but Müller was not a good marksman. He slipped into the church as quietly as he could, fearful that at any second Bücher would turn around.

  His foot slipped; he nearly fell. He dropped to his knees into something warm and sticky. It was Mutti--Carl-Heinz--bleeding from a stomach wound, unconscious, possibly dying. Müller nearly vomited. He crawled forward, sliding from pew to pew, hoping that he was quiet enough in the echoing vault of the church. He was closer, close enough to hear the conversation. Bücher was arguing, explaining himself. It wasn’t enough to kill the Desert Fox, he had to make the Desert Fox understand first.

  Müller’s holster had a snap closure on it; he pried it loose as quietly as he could, pulled the gun out. He had never fired it in anger; he suddenly worried that the gun would not work. He raised it, pointed squarely at Bücher’s back. There must have been some noise, some clue, because he suddenly saw Bücher begin to turn toward him, his gun coming up, and the supply officer closed his eyes tightly and fired. The recoil knocked him backward as the noise echoed on and on.

  Then he did vomit, then looked up to see the Desert Fox place his hand on Müller’s shoulder. “Thank you, colonel. That was a brave thing you did.” Müller could see only the legs of the SS general; the rest of the body was hidden by the pews.

  Müller was tongue-tied in the presence of Rommel. He could only mumble, “He killed Gunter,” his eyes watering more than usual behind the wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “I’m sorry,” whispered the field marshal.

  Rommel stood, opened the church door, and called to the guards waiting outside. As soon as one of the guards got a look at the carnage inside, he blew his whistle loudly, and within seconds the church was full of guards. A lieutenant, nearly incoherent with panic, managed to stutter out, “Are you all right, Field Marshal?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he said. “Get a medic for Carl-Heinz--now!” His driver was still alive, but in need of immediate attention.

  Dinant, Belgium, 0442 hours GMT

  Three jeeps rolled forward into the square before the lofty steeple. The flag with three stars marked the second jeep as the transport of an army general. Four armored cars had taken up positions in the surrounding intersections, and GIs still darted from building to building, insuring that each was clear of Germans.

  Wakefield looked up at the lofty church and wondered how the spire had survived the battles that had raged in this city during the last five years...and then it occurred to him that it had probably also survived wars predating his life by many centuries.

  Around the church were several German command cars flying white flags. From the church doors came a stocky man, limping slightly. He wore the peaked cap and leather jacket of a German officer, and as the Americans got closer Wakefield recognized the man from the multitude of pictures that had reached the Allied lines during the war.

  This was Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox.

  Behind him was a balding, pudgy colonel and an equally balding but nondescript man in army fatigues.

  The plain-looking man startled the general by holding out his hand instead of saluting. After a moment’s hesitation Wakefield shook, then turned his eyes to Rommel as the other fellow spoke. “General... I’m Chuck Porter. Originally with the Associated Press, lately a prisoner of the Germans. This is Baron von Esebeck; he’s a German reporter. We’re the semiofficial translators, I guess.”

  Patton, in the meantime, was looking the German field marshal up and down with a look of bemused curiosity. Rommel saluted crisply, a gesture that Patton returned. Then, with Porter and a German staff officer translating, they began to discuss the surrender.

  Berlin, Germany, 0631 hours GMT

  The führer sat in the dark room, chin propped on folded hands, and thought. Then he spoke. “We must assume that General Bücher has failed in his mission. Send word to all SS units that they are to ignore any orders from Rommel or anyone at Army Group B--anyone on the General Staff, for that matter. From this moment on, all military matters are under my personal jurisdiction. Second, send word--supported by troops--to the General Staff to that effect, and make sure you tell them why. They harbored a traitor and elevated him to supreme command; there is no reason they should complain about their loss of independence now.

  “Third, send notification to all Wehrmacht units that any commander moving toward surrender is an enemy of the Reich, and the penalty is immediate execution. Send it on open channels, no codes. Fourth, place a reward for one hundred thousand Reichsmarks for the capture or death of Rommel.” Heinrich Himmler paused for a long time.

  “Now to long-range plans. Russian front troops and equipment can be shifted into the Westwall to stiffen those defenses. Trains will run at night to limit casualties; the jet fighter gruppen will make protecting train movements top priority. Remaining Russian front troops will fortify as much as possible where they are; our erstwhile friend and ally to the east will certainly attack us the moment he is able. Were the V-1 documents altered as I asked?”

  “Yes, führer,” said one of the three aides busily taking notes. “Dr. von Braun’s staff assure me that the adjustments are subtle enough that there is no way to tell that their V-1 will not work until they reach the test stage. While they eventually will be able to fix the problems, it should take between four and six extra months of development before they will have a working version. By then, Dr. von Braun assures us, the V-3 will be operational.”

  “Good. At least someone has behaved competently. Dr. von Braun certainly has earned his SS commission. If his prediction proves correct, we will see about an additional reward.”

  He leaned back, the darkness shadowing his face. He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. “If the Allies believe they will simply stroll into Berlin now, they will have a major surprise in store for them.”

  The aides stood, saluted, and left. In the darkness, the Führer smiled. It was not over yet.

  The Kremlin, Moscow, Soviet Union, 0935 hours GMT

  When the intelligence report came in, Colonel Sergei Aschev looked at it for a long moment. The chairman would have to be notified, but people who brought bad news were often never heard from again. He looked around at the bustling staff in the Kremlin communications room and picked out his victim. “Lieutenant Stamovitch! Come here, please,” he barked.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This report must be taken to Comrade Stalin at once!” Stamovitch paused. He knew the rules of the game, and he knew that messengers who brought back bad news were sometimes never heard from again. “But comrade, I have already been assigned … “

  “I am countermanding any other orders you have. Take this report to the chairman; it has precedence over everything!” Stamovitch knew there was no way out. “Yes, sir,” he said morosely. He saluted and left, the message almost burning in his hand.

  Feeling like a man on his way to the gallows, he walked slowly, steadily, methodically through the corridors of the Kremlin. Then he brightened, for he saw a victim of his own, Lieutenant Krigoff, junior to him, but handsome and strong and destined for great things. Stamovitch hated him.

  “Ah, Krigoff,” he said with a nasty smile. “Just the man I was looking for. Here. Take
this message to the chairman, at once. It’s top priority from the radio room. Critical intelligence from the front.”

  Krigoff looked at Stamovitch. But instead of the expected reaction as the hot potato was passed, Krigoff smiled back. “At once, sir!” he said, saluted smartly, and swiveled on one foot to march briskly in the direction of the chairman’s office. Stamovitch was left with the feeling that, somehow, he had been outmaneuvered.

  “Yes?” said the chairman. “What is it?”

  “We have just received word that confirms the brilliance of your diplomatic strategies, Comrade Stalin!” the lieutenant said brightly.

  “What is it?”

  “Rommel has surrendered Army Group B to the Americans!”

  “What?” roared Stalin. “Let me see that!” He tore the report from the young lieutenant’s hand, and skimmed it. Then he looked up at Aschev, eyes blazing in anger. “What do you mean, confirms my strategy?”

  “Certainly you foresaw that there would be a collapse of the German initiative in the West, as well as increasing conflict between the German military and Himmler’s SS. Himmler will have little option but to further strip his eastern front troops to shore up the Westwall, and you have the option either to scoop up Germany like the inside of a soft-boiled egg, leaving only the western shell to frustrate the Americans and British, or help Himmler stalemate the west, tying up the forces on either side so that the Soviet Union is free to operate.”

  “Hmm, yes,” replied Stalin thoughtfully. “That is what I had planned. Very astute of you to realize it so clearly. It is, I must admit, somewhat more rapid and more total than I had expected, but with rapid response it will all play out in accordance with our objectives. Historical inevitability is a great thing, is it not, Major Krigoff?”

  “Yes, sir!” he replied. “Although it is not so good for capitalists and facists.”

  The great man laughed. “You’ll make a fine addition to the planning staff, major.”

  Roxboro, North Carolina, United States, 30 December 1944, 1521 hours GMT

  She tore open the telegram with trembling fingers. She already knew what it said.

  THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON, STAFF SERGEANT FRANKLIN O’DELL, HAS BEEN REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION SINCE DECEMBER 26, OVER BELGIUM.

  IF FURTHER DETAILS OR OTHER INFORMATION ARE RECEIVED, YOU WILL BE PROMPTLY NOTIFIED.

  Missing in action. She clung to the small hope remaining, but in her heart, she knew her son was dead.

  Givet, France, 1620 hours GMT

  Chuck Porter pulled the last sheet of paper from his Underwood portable and gave it to the Teletype operator he’d managed to scrounge from the military. This is Pulitzer stuff for sure, he thought. For an over-the-hill editor, he had been given an opportunity to have a front-row seat at the defining moment of the Second World War, and it was an exclusive AP story. It might even mean a raise. He smiled.

  FLASH/BULLETIN

  PARIS BUREAU. 30 DECEMBER, 1030 EST

  COPY 01 ROMMEL SURRENDERS

  DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS

  GIVET. FRANCE. 30 DECEMBER 1944 (AP) BY CHUCK PORTER

  FACED WITH THE FAILURE OF A DESPERATE PLAN TO BREAK THE ALLIED ADVANCE AND COUNTERATTACK, GERMAN FIELD MARSHAL ERWIN ROMMEL, ALSO KNOWN AS THE DESERT FOX, SURRENDERED THE ENTIRE GERMAN ARMY ON THE WESTERN FRONT TODAY.

  THE SURRENDER ATTEMPT NEARLY FAILED ON THE GERMAN SIDE WHEN A DISSIDENT SS GENERAL ATTEMPTED TO ASSASSINATE ROMMEL AS WELL AS GENERAL GEORGE PATTON. WHO HAD COME PERSONALLY TO DISCUSS SURRENDER TERMS.

  THE ROMMEL ATTACK HAD BEEN AIMED AT THE KEY ALLIED SUPPLY DEPOT OF ANTWERP IN BELGIUM. WHERE ROMMEL HAD HOPED TO CUT ALLIED SUPPLIES. PRIMARILY FUEL. THE ATTACK WAS STOPPED IN THE TOWN OF DINANT, BELGIUM, BY FORWARD ELEMENTS OF THE US NINETEENTH ARMORED DIVISION. WHICH WERE NEARLY WIPED OUT IN THE PROCESS.

  THE DIFFICULT AND DANGEROUS LIAISON BETWEEN GERMAN AND ALLIED COMMANDERS WAS HANDLED BY A CAPTURED AP REPORTER, CHUCK PORTER....

  MORE

  AP-PAR-387199-WQ/123044

  Excerpt from War’s Final Fury, by Professor Jared Gruenwald

  The ultimate collapse of Nazi Germany came quickly on the heels of Eisenhower’s great victory at Dinant. Although Rommel’s audacious attack had come close to reversing the tide of war, the bold offensive could not survive the fatal severing of its supply line. Indeed, the gamble had required the use of every available scrap of Nazi power, and the final result was an end to all the Third Reich’s prospects for victory.

  When Dinant was retaken by U.S. troops, Operation Fuchs Am Rhein was over. From there, Rommel’s decisions were pragmatic. He was confronted with a clear choice, though he was rare among high-ranking Germans in that he saw the choice for what it was: In truth, his country had lost the war. Now, should postwar Germany be dominated by the Soviets, or by the Western Allies?

  There were immediate difficulties following Rommel’s surrender. His key generals, seeing the situation as the Desert Fox saw it, followed his surrender. Individual units, however, especially those commanded by the SS, often continued their resistance. A few withdrew into Germany; a small percentage actually fought and died continuing the battle their commander had given up.

  The Americans and British were quick to seize upon the opportunity, accepting the wholesale surrender of German divisions. Led by the fiery Patton, American and British armored columns rushed to the Rhine and crossed with the full assistance of defeated Germany. From there the autobahns to the country’s heartland stretched wide, inviting, and undefended.

  Hailed as a hero and the savior of Germany by some, reviled as an unparalleled traitor by others, Rommel is indisputably the man who redefined the European landscape permanently. The repercussions of his bold decision to surrender are still with us.

  EPILOGUE

  Dinant, Belgium, 1 January 1945, 0930 hours GMT

  A dusting of snow attempted to render the battle-scarred city a uniform white, but the lingering heat of warfare defied the wintry blanket in too many places. Flames licked upward from the hulk of a Tiger tank, the wreck angled sideways in the street between two burned out buildings. The fire consuming the panzer was hot enough to melt a surrounding circle of snow-covered ground. Everywhere sprawled the bodies of men killed violently, though somehow this grotesque proof of war was gentled by the fresh white powder.

  Wakefield walked alone, leaving the division HQ which had been set up in the building that had served as Rommel’s own command post. Patton had taken control there, sending out word of the surrender while that newsman worked on his report. A Big Story, the general admitted, allowing himself a little flush of pleasure. The biggest in... God only knew how long.

  At last, out of breath and sweating in the chill air, the burly general reached the plaza overlooking the Meuse. Less than a kilometer to the west stretched the river, and he could clearly see the broken remains of two bridges.

  He also saw blackened tanks and twisted truck frames, dozens of them--more than he could easily count. This was only part of the cost--the toll in machines--exacted by the severing of Rommel’s lifeline.

  Now the place seemed insignificant, no more than a small, cluttered square in a city that happened to have arisen on a long river. Before him he saw the road into the Ardennes, the route of approach for the Panzer Lehr division’s counterattack. That was the highway leading eastward, to Bastogne and to Germany beyond. And right here was the square, a convergence of that highway, city streets, and the river below that had for a few hours mattered more than anyplace else in the world. Armored monsters, Shermans and Panthers, had roared at each other here. And in the end the Americans had died and the Germans had been stopped.

  On the far side of the square, underneath the shot-scarred turret of a half-ruined house, he found the wreck of a half-track. The body of the truck was canted at an odd angle from the chassis. The death wound was a gaping hole in the port-side door. The vehicle had burned, but the colonel’s eagle and the CCA’s crimson
badge and white star were still visible on the twisted steel plate.

  He turned his back to the half-track, reconstructing Pulaski’s final moments on earth. He saw tracks through the rubble where the Panthers, desperate to reach the bridge, had come around the side of the plaza, driving through a once-walled garden. One of the panzers must have come upon Pulaski’s half-track from the flank, probably unnoticed by the Americans--after all, Pulaski had been intent on the radio message to his division commander. A single well-aimed high-explosive shell had removed this impediment, and the Panther had rolled on.

  Wakefield stayed beside the vehicle long enough to smoke a cigarette, lingering over the butt until the acrid taste stung his lips. He dropped the smoking stub next to the half-track, pausing for a last look at the wreck.

  When he finally started toward his headquarters he noticed that it had once again begun to snow.

  Wehrmacht Field Hospital, Trier, Germany, 1030 hours GMT

  Staff Sgt. Frank “Digger” O’Dell

  Trier, Germany

  January 1, 1945

  Mrs. Lucy O’Dell

  Roxboro, North Carolina

  Dear Mama,

  By the time you get this, you should already have learned that I’m alive. I’m in a German hospital, and I’m going to be okay. I’ll be coming home very soon, they tell me, now that the war is over.

  As they probably told you, Ford’s Folly got shot down over Dinant, and only Tony Hutt and I made it. I got hit again, this time in the leg, so I had to crawl to the camera hatch and bail out.

  I bailed out kind of low, which is generally not a good idea, but this time it meant that I got out below the flak, which may have saved my life. I got captured by farmers pretty much as soon as I landed, and now here I am.