They spent a leisurely hour talking about tank warfare. Then they retired early, hoping for a good night's sleep before they were awakened at 5 a.m. by the artillery barrage and aerial bombardment. The attacking force even had help from the single monstrous turret of the ancient HMS Roberts. It was a symbol of how little progress had been made in the six grueling weeks since D-Day, that the enemy was still within range of naval guns.
As the air attack ended and the British tanks began to roll forward, Kaz noticed that they were clustered in three narrow columns. He was puzzled; this made them vulnerable to enemy artillery. Deafened by the British guns, he mouthed his question to Swann, who fumbled for a piece of paper and scribbled the answer. Only three corridors had been cleared through the minefield laid by the British as protection against a German attack.
Somebody had, however, slipped up; not every mine had been cleared. Kaz was appalled to see explosions under the treads of several tanks. By the time the procession was beginning to form up abreast on the other side of the minefield, they had left four of their tanks behind, victims of the mines.
As the tanks were proceeding through the minefield, the artillery bombardment had slackened. Now, as the tanks began their advance, the artillery recommenced with full fury, this time firing much shorter. The gunners were laying down a rolling barrage that crept forward several hundred yards in front of the advancing tanks. The tactic was successful. As far as Kaz could tell, there was little or no incoming fire from the Germans. Survivors were too busy keeping their heads down.
As the attack moved off into the distance, it began to disappear into the haze, smoke, and dust of battle. The show was over. Swann nudged Kaz gently on the shoulder, signaling him to follow. Soon they were in the communications hut, where they could hear sounds of battle over the radios.
Unfortunately, the reception was full of static, and eight or ten channels were being received at the same time, in a language still unfamiliar to Kaz. He couldn't tell what was going on. But soon, from the grim faces, he realized that the attackers were running into trouble. He gradually figured out the problem. As tanks proceeded beyond their supporting artillery, they began to meet stiff resistance. The rolling, apparently tank-friendly countryside was dotted with villages, which the Germans were defending tenaciously. Then, as a group of British tanks moved through a large grove of fruit trees—without infantry protection—they were attacked in their vulnerable flank by surviving 88s.
So ended Operation Goodwood, at best a partial victory. The British had moved their lines forward, and accomplished one of their goals: to keep the pressure on, and thus encourage the Germans to transfer reserves away from the western end of the front where they were blocking an American breakout. But they had not achieved a breakout themselves. And they could ill afford a war of attrition. British manpower was being stretched to its limits. Montgomery could no longer count on reinforcements, or even full replacements for his casualties. He would now command a dwindling number of troops.
Nor was it clear that Canadians were in much better shape. To Kaz's astonishment, Swann explained the inflamed debate within Canada: whether “zombies”—draftees who had been training for years for home defense—would be sent to Europe against their wishes. If not, the Canadian Army would have to depend on raw, half-trained new volunteers to replace their casualties.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that the Poles would have a much greater role than he had anticipated.
He looked forward to the prospect with mixed emotions.
It was only later that, courtesy of German prisoners, Kaz learned details of British tank losses in the orchard. The tanks had been passing a hidden group of antiaircraft 88s when an aggressive German Colonel, Hans von Luck, arrived from furlough in Paris. As befitting his name, he had the good fortune to miss the bombing, and appeared on the scene at a critical moment. The Colonel ordered the crews to lower their barrels, which were still pointed skyward, and to fire at the tanks. Not my department, replied the battery commander; my job is to shoot down enemy planes. Von Luck thereupon drew his Luger and suggested that the commander might prefer to be a live hero rather than a dead coward. The 88s were soon in action.
Once again, over beers, Kaz, Jan, and Swann tackled the tough problems of breaking through, particularly those posed by Tiger tanks. They could be destroyed and even turned over by bombing, in spite of their 60-ton mass. They were also vulnerable to a direct hit from artillery. But if the allied tanks couldn't deal with them face-to-face, it was going to be a grim business. How, they wondered, could they beat the Tigers on the ground?
Jan: “They must be vulnerable somewhere. What about trying to hit them in the joint, where the turret meets the rest of the tank?”
Swann: “Not very practical. It's an awfully small target. When they're shooting back, it will seem even smaller—minuscule.”
Kaz: “Treads are a bigger target. The best way to attack them may be from the side.”
Jan: “Or better yet, get around behind, where the armor is thinner.”
Swann: “Easier said than done. While we're sneaking around the back, Jerry will presumably be turning his tank, or at least his turret. That means that, unless we get lucky and come upon a Tiger from the side or behind, it won't work.”
Kaz: “In other words, if you come upon a Tiger, watch out for its claws. The best thing to do is run. Sounds like the jungle.” He paused. “Doesn't seem like a very promising way to keep an offensive going.”
Jan: “You need at least two Shermans—coming from different directions—to even dream of attacking a single Tiger. But how would you coordinate them?
Swann: They wouldn't have to approach from completely different directions. If they were spread out—proceeding in a line....
Jan: “But what would stop the Tiger, with its much longer range, from picking off the whole line, one by one?”
Swann: “We might do it if we have something to hide behind.”
Kaz: “In other words, what we really want is something like an orchard, to help you maneuver and sneak up on a Tiger.”
Jan: “So we should send the word to Jerry: Keep all your tanks in the woods. Not near the edge of the woods, where they can fire at us. In the center, where we can sneak up on them. I suppose we should say, 'please.'”
Swann: “That may not be so impossible. The bombing encourages the Germans to keep their Tigers hidden in the woods.”
Kaz: “So how many Shermans do we need? Are two enough?”
Swann: “Five would be ideal. You want the Tiger surrounded. But not so many that we start knocking one another off. Circular firing squads aren't such a great idea.”
Kaz: “So what we want is five tanks—say, in the 1 o'clock, 4, 6, 8 and 11 positions—with six o'clock representing the position directly in front of the Tiger.”
Swann: “Sounds promising. Spread out like that, in a starburst formation, we might kill a Tiger. The real trouble is, how do you get into position without the Tiger knocking off our tanks as they try to circle around to the back? Let's sleep on it, and decide tomorrow whether it's worth trying.”
20 July 1944. Headquarters, Army Group West.
Kurt Dietrich—now Oberst (Colonel) Dietrich—still felt nagging pain from his many injuries, particularly his stomach, arm, and hip wounds from the Russian campaign. His facial wound, received in Poland on that first day of the war, had long since ceased to hurt, but he was still self-conscious, occasionally rubbing the nasty, slashing scar across his left cheek.
With the demands of battle, he could no longer be spared. Pressed back into active duty, he reported for his new assignment as chief of staff to Field Marshal Günther von Kluge, commander of all the German armies in France. Von Kluge had specifically asked for him; he had served with distinction under von Kluge in Russia. In spite of the grim military situation, Dietrich was looking forward to being in the middle of things.
When he reported for service, about noon, his new boss was out at the front
. The scene in the headquarters was tense; generals were debating whether to move two armored divisions eastward, to face the new British threat near Caen. Rommel had recently ordered these two Panzer divisions into reserve in the west, fearing a major American attack. But now, Rommel was gone from the scene. Just three days earlier, a low-flying Typhoon had strafed his staff car, wounding him in the head so severely that he was not expected to live through the night.
In the absence of von Kluge, Dietrich decided to remain in the background as a relatively junior officer. The scene quickly reminded him of his last days in Russia—generals desperately trying to patch together a defense in the face of overwhelming enemy power. Under the pressures, they began to snap at one another. Dietrich wondered why they could not put off the decision, leaving it to their commander, von Kluge. But Dietrich soon sensed that his new boss inspired little confidence in his generals; they considered him a conniver who would go whichever way the wind blew strongest. The two sides were competing to see who could create the stronger wind.
“Der kluge Hans,” observed one of the generals sourly—“the clever Hans.” Dietrich winced at the play on von Kluge's name; der kluge Hans was a bumbler in German folklore. But, after an exhausting debate, the generals could not reach agreement. The decision would in fact have to be left up to von Kluge.
At 16:30, the generals broke for air. Gen. Kurt Student, commander of the First Airborne Army, motioned to Dietrich to join him in an adjacent room. Dietrich suspected that, in the light of his close position with von Kluge, Student would try to enlist him as an ally in the debate over the two armored divisions. But Student was just trying to be helpful; he wanted to fill Dietrich in on the battles that had been grinding down the German army.
“We know our duty as soldiers: to fight to the best of our ability. But the situation has been getting worse by the day. Our men are exhausted and we're running out of tanks. The British didn't break through with their recent offensive, but it was a mighty close thing. It may only be a matter of time.”
“But,” replied Dietrich, trying to be optimistic, “we have the two reserve Panzer divisions. Give me a few of our tanks and I'll pulverize some of those Shermans.”
“I admire your spirit, particularly after what you've been through. But let me give you a bit of unsolicited advice, my boy.” As a colonel, Dietrich was not used to being called a boy, but he realized how young, at 28, he must seem to the generals. Student continued.
“It's not good to be too enthusiastic. Your boss came here with great optimism, but his reports to the Führer have become much more guarded. Even pessimistic.”
Deitrich's expression conveyed some skepticism. Student became more blunt. Perhaps the pressures of the campaign had made all the generals less cautious.
“Yes, my boy”—there it was, again—“when your boss assumed command several weeks ago, he, uh....” Student paused for the right words. “Hitler believed that gutless generals were responsible for the problems in Normandy. Or, perhaps I should say, irresolute field marshals. Your boss was determined to put some spine into us.”
Deitrich decided the time had come to keep his mouth shut. Student went on:
“Ja. When he first met Rommel, there was quite a scene. He started right off by suggesting that Rommel had not shown sufficient enthusiasm in following the Führer's orders. To drive home the point, he added: 'Now you, too, Field Marshal, will have to get used to taking orders.'
“Well, of course, Rommel wouldn't take that insult, not even from his new commander. He bluntly suggested that von Kluge might wish to visit the front before making snap judgments. When von Kluge did, he was shaken. Every time he comes back, he looks more grim. I shudder to think of what will happen when he gets back in a few hours.”
At that point, there was a knock on the door. A corporal in the signals corps entered, saluted smartly, and handed Student a message. Student turned pale, rose abruptly, and left the room without saying a word.
Dietrich waited five minutes or so, thinking that Student might return, and then went back to the main room. Officers were huddled in small groups of four or five, talking intensely. Enlisted men were scurrying to and fro in great agitation. Deitrich picked a group that included several middle-level officers—majors and colonels—and wandered over.
Their faces were ashen. At once, Dietrich found out why. Hitler was dead.
Soon, rumors began to circulate: Hitler had been assassinated by a group of generals. Abruptly, officers began to say very little. In his mind, Dietrich went back over conversations among generals that he had heard in recent months. Was any of them, he wondered, involved in the assassination? And who would be in charge now?
A teen-aged corporal tapped Dietrich on the shoulder and saluted, somewhat casually. He was wearing combat fatigues, and, to judge from his grimy appearance, had just returned from the front. “The Field Marshal has returned and wants to see you. Please follow me.”
He was taken to von Kluge's quarters, where the Field Marshal was getting into a clean uniform. He greeted Dietrich warmly; they had not seen one another for over a year. Then von Kluge began a rambling report of his day at the front, and the difficulties he and his driver had faced moving from one command to another. The constant threat of attack from the air had clearly been a strain. As von Kluge rambled on, Dietrich was astonished: was it possible that von Kluge had not yet heard about Hitler? Finally, his curiosity got the better of him:
“Have you heard the news from Germany, sir?”
“What news?”
Dietrich was even more surprised. “Hitler is dead.”
“It's not quite so clear. There was a message, in code, about an hour ago, saying that he is dead. But just a few minutes ago, German radio announced that the Führer is very much alive, and will address the nation tonight. I have a call in to Keitel to confirm this. I want to be sure before we have dinner tonight with von Stülpnagel.”
Dietrich's thoughts came in a jumble: Why does he need to know before dinner? Is General Heinrich von Stülpnagel—the Military Governor of France—in on the plot? And how about von Kluge? If he knows that Stülpnagel is involved, doesn't that mean he's in it, too? Dietrich had never thought of von Kluge as someone to take unnecessary risks, but he had gotten some idea of the desperate military situation during the afternoon's debate over the depleted Panzer reserves. The time has come, thought Dietrich, to be very careful. His caution was heightened when von Kluge added:
“Let's not forget our time in Russia. I'm counting on your loyalty, my boy.”
Ach, thought Dietrich, this “boy” business is a disease. Maybe it's because these guys have been away from their sons and grandsons for so long. A deeper thought nagged his subconscious: loyalty could be a dangerous virtue.
The phone rang. Keitel was on the line. The radio report had been correct. Hitler was alive and only slightly wounded. He had met that afternoon with Mussolini, as planned. In Hitler's mind, his escape was one more confirmation that he had a destiny to fulfill.
There was a knock on the door. Stülpnagel and his chief of staff, Lt. Col. Hofacker, were downstairs, and urgently wanted to see von Kluge before the other guests arrived.
Von Kluge and Dietrich went quickly down to a drawing room where Stülpnagel and Hofacker were nervously waiting. After quick introductions, Stülpnagel got down to business:
“Now we've gotten rid of that old bastard, it's important that we move quickly to consolidate our position.”
“I should inform you, general, that the Führer survived the assassination attempt,” von Kluge replied in even tones.
Stülpnagel was thunderstruck. “Then we're all in mortal danger. We must act at once.”
Von Kluge said nothing.
“It's absolutely essential,” Stülpnagel's agitation was visibly increasing, “that we arrest the SS generals and anyone else who can block the coup.”
The pause was painful. Then von Kluge calmly responded:
“What do you mea
n, we? This was your plot, not mine.”
Hofacker was now turning red and was apparently about to explode, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. The other guests had arrived. Before Hofacker could say anything, von Kluge had already left for the dining room.
When the guests were seated, von Kluge expressed a few lukewarm words of welcome, and the diners fell into a stony silence. It was a macabre scene—lit by candlelight, with only the sound of knives and forks occasionally clicking on the fine bone china settings. It seemed that the house had been visited by the Angel of Death. Perhaps it had. As Dietrich would find out later, several of the other conspirators were also present.
After dinner, Stülpnagel and Hofacker tarried as the other guests left. When they were gone, Stülpnagel, in an agitated tone, insisted that they must talk. Von Kluge glanced uneasily at the servants, then led the other three back into the drawing room, closing the door.
“I'm not sure that we have anything more to add. As I said before, it was not my plot.” Von Kluge's tone was flat, expressionless.
“What do you mean, not your plot?” Hofacker was obviously having trouble controlling himself. “As the Field Marshal might be so good as to remember, he met with us last year in Russia. He committed himself to being a part of the conspiracy.”
“Ah,” said von Kluge, maintaining his unperturbed air, “but that was on the condition that the pig was already dead.”
“You bastard,” retorted Stülpnagel. “You can't slip out of it that easily. You're already committed. I've issued orders to have all the Gestapo and SS men in Paris arrested.”
It was now von Kluge's turn to explode. “You've done what? Well you had bloody well better unarrest them. And, as soon as you reverse your order, I'm relieving you of your command.” At that point, von Kluge's tone abruptly softened. “In light of our old friendship, Heinrich, I would advise you to disappear. You might not have to hide so very long before you're safe.”
THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 29
