Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “No, Herr Oberst, nothing at all. They’re taking wonderful care of me and granting my every whim,” Carl-Heinz said with a grin, his expression seeming more robust. But the fatigue and pain were also still clear.

  The doctor lightly touched Müller’s arm. “I must leave you alone now, I think,” the pudgy supply officer said. “If there’s anything I can do, send word immediately.” He moved on.

  The intensive-care ward was only dimly lit, and smelled of carbolic acid and other odors he didn’t want to dwell upon. Numerous tubes dripped into one patient; a nurse sat beside him, monitoring his vital signs as the pudgy colonel hesitantly approached. The patient’s face reflected in the highly polished metal surfaces of the equipment.

  “Günter? It’s me—Wolfgang,” he said in a voice only slightly above a whisper.

  The eyes of the patient remained closed, but his lips moved slightly. “Did you do it?” Oberst Günter von Reinhardt, Rommel’s senior intelligence officer, had been the first to try to stop Bücher and was shot in the process. Müller had found him near to death, and had taken over the mission simply because no one else was there.

  “Yes, Günter. Bücher is dead. It’s over.”

  “And our field marshal lives?”

  “Yes, he lives. I’m glad you live, too. I thought you were dead.”

  “So did I. The surrender—did it go all right?”

  “Yes, yes, Günter. It’s all over now.”

  “Not quite, I think,” said the gravely wounded intelligence officer. “But this is good news. Wolfgang, you did well.” He seemed to drift into unconsciousness at that point, surrounded by reflections of his own face. Müller reached down and touched his hand lightly, then followed the doctor out of the room.

  “He’s in bad shape, isn’t he, Doctor?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. He’s young and strong and there’s a good chance he’ll escape death, but he’ll never be quite the same. The bullet punctured one of his lungs, which collapsed. We were lucky that he didn’t die before we got him here.”

  “When will he be out of here?”

  “Within a few weeks, assuming no serious complications. But that means out of the hospital, not a return to duty. For that—well, it’s too early to tell.”

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor,” Müller said, shaking his hand with both of his own. “Thank you very much.”

  “It’s mostly God’s work,” the doctor said, waving off the compliment with a smile, “but I’m happy to take the credit.”

  28 DECEMBER 1944

  NEARING NAMUR, BELGIUM, NORTH SIDE OF THE MEUSE RIVER, 0946 HOURS GMT

  Private Billy Cooper was marching along with his fellow infantrymen. The day was cold and somewhat dreary, but spirits were high. Rommel had surrendered and it looked as if the war would soon be over.

  The infantrymen sang as they marched.

  “There’s the highland Dutch

  And the lowland Dutch

  The Rotterdam Dutch

  And the goddamn Dutch

  Singing glorious

  Glorious

  There’s one keg of beer

  For the four of us

  Praise be to God

  That there are no more of us

  For the four of us

  Can drink it all alone

  Damn near!”

  Billy stayed quiet on the “goddamn” and “damn.” He had first tried to substitute of “gosh darn” and “darn” but he was tired of being kidded about his reluctance to use bad language. He knew he was one of the more innocent and naïve members of his company, but he still was not convinced that it was a failing on his part. His Iowa upbringing had stuck with him, at least mostly. Once or twice he’d caught himself using some words he didn’t even know before he went into the army.

  Billy hadn’t ever had a particular desire to see the world, though he always liked reading copies of National Geographic, which his parents received in the mail each month. Some of his friends liked to look at National Geographic because you could occasionally see some woman from Africa or Asia or one of those places where girls didn’t wear anything on their tops, but the pictures mostly just embarrassed Billy. His fellow soldiers seemed real interested in that stuff. Sometimes it seemed that they weren’t interested in anything else, except maybe getting that “million-dollar wound” that would let them go home.

  Billy wanted to go home, too. And it was looking like a good day for it. They were marching to accept the surrender of a German general, a pretty famous one too, except for the fact that Billy had never heard of him before. The scuttlebutt was that this surrender pretty much meant the end of it all, like there was nothing else remaining between here and Berlin. Billy hoped that was true, but if there was one thing he’d learned from all this, it was not to get your hopes too far up and to keep your head way down.

  He looked up at the gray, cloud-filled sky above for a minute. No airplanes flying in this soup. That was a shame. He liked airplanes and wished he’d gotten to fly them in the war. Especially because pretty much every plane he saw was on his side. The Krauts, when they looked up, never wanted to see an airplane, because it was almost always bad news as far as they were concerned.

  An engineer battalion, working feverishly for a few hours during the cease-fire, had thrown together a pontoon bridge across a small stream just ahead, and Cooper’s company began their march across the bobbing platform.

  “You know, there’s enough dynamite wired underneath this thing to blow the battalion all to hell,” joked Private Sam Wood, a city boy with a particular fondness for kidding the yokels, as he called anyone not from New York. “Better watch where you step … . Hey, look out!”

  Billy jumped in surprise, breaking the rhythm of the march for a moment. “Hey, Wood, cut it out, okay?” Wood merely snickered.

  Sergeant Wykowski swiveled his head around without breaking step for an instant. “Knock it off, you guys. The goddamn bridge isn’t going to blow up.”

  Embarrassed, Billy shut up. Wood continued to snicker.

  Once across the bridge, the troops continued their march as the day brightened a little. Although the air was still frigid and Billy’s face and lips were chapped, body heat warmed his torso while his face and hands were still chilled. His toes were cold, too, which always concerned him because of the ever-present danger of trench foot. Getting trench foot was considered a “self-inflicted wound” and was a court-martial offense. Billy religiously changed and dried his socks to the best of his ability, even though it was difficult to do out in the field, with no laundry or anything. Everything he wore was dirty, and his body itched.

  The troops continued their march for another half hour or so, and then the order came to halt. Billy saw a German waving a white flag, just ahead. The captain went forward to talk with the man, who obviously spoke little English. The captain spoke no German, but after lots of hand-waving and gesturing it slowly became clear that the Kraut would lead the captain and the rest of the company to the German headquarters to accept the surrender. At least that’s what Billy thought was going on.

  Wood had much the same opinion. “We’re either finding out where the German general’s HQ is, or the captain is getting directions to the nearest toilet.”

  Billy couldn’t help thinking that was kind of funny, so he stifled a little laugh, which drew a quick withering gaze from the sergeant. He straightened up to attention. Wood didn’t move from his slouch.

  Finally the order came to march. The file of infantry turned down the side road indicated by the German, a narrow lane with pine trees pressing close to either side. As they neared the German HQ, they began to see more and more enemy soldiers standing around on both sides of the road. There were panzers and staff cars and trucks, all the hardware and transport required by a large military organization. Most of the Germans were armed, and Billy had a queasy feeling marching right into an enemy headquarters.

  As they neared a large redbrick building with French writing on a white-marb
le slab forming an arch over the door, Billy knew they had reached their destination. There was an unmistakable look to any military command post, regardless of nationality. The staff cars, the jury-rigged telephone wires, the bustling traffic, all gave a sense of improvised organization, of confusion and control. A higher-ranking German officer came out of the building and saluted the captain with a normal salute rather than the Nazi “Heil Hitler.” The captain returned the salute.

  In heavily accented but understandable English, the German officer said, “General Guderian is waiting inside. If you will come with me, the general is ready to make a formal surrender.”

  “Very well,” replied the captain. “First platoon, follow me.”

  Sergeant Wykowski snapped to attention. “Yes, sir! Platoon, right shoulder arms. Forward, march!”

  Billy did as he was told, falling in behind the captain just like it was a parade drill back in basic training. This was about the first time since then he’d been ordered to do a formal parade march, but he still remembered how. Up four white marble stairs, then single-file through the open wooden doors, the platoon marched into a narrow hallway. There was a staircase in front of them, and a hall going to the stair’s right. Doors on either side were open, and Billy could see numerous German soldiers standing, armed, as they marched forward. The hall ended in a door with a frosted glass window with some French lettering on it; Billy had no idea what it meant. The German officer opened the door and the men started after the captain into the room.

  Billy’s eyes widened. The room was large, a conference table dominating the space. At the head of the table, dangling on a noose from the ceiling, was a German general in Wehrmacht gray. There was extensive bleeding on his uniform front from a chest wound; his face was blue-black and swollen, tongue protruding, eyes open and lifeless.

  “God damn it, it’s a trap!” shouted the captain, but Billy had already figured that out. He aimed his rifle at the German officer, who dodged around a corner toward another door. He got off one shot, missed, and then he was scrambling for cover in the conference room. There was a scream behind him—somebody was hit, but he couldn’t tell who.

  An overturned chair was hardly any cover, but it was all he had. He aimed over the chair and fired again, then he felt a sudden stab in his abdomen—a bullet had passed right through the chair and into him. He was surprised at first that it didn’t hurt very much. Then he looked down. For a minor wound, it was bleeding pretty heavily.

  He was scared, more scared than he’d ever been, but in a way it didn’t matter, because he just had to keep firing, keep crouching, move to get away, to get out of the trap. He fired again and this time he thought he might have hit something or someone, because a flash of gray pulled back around a door.

  He looked wildly around. Several of his platoon were already down. Next to him was Wood, eyes wide open in panic, blood bubbling out of his mouth and spreading quickly over his chest.

  Sergeant Wykowski had smashed open a window and was shouting, “Out! Out! Everybody out!”

  A few members of the platoon were able to dive through the window. The captain fired his pistol and picked off another German as he covered the retreat. Billy, grabbing his wounded side, struggled toward the window, which suddenly seemed a million miles away. “Move! Move!” Wykowski was still shouting. The sergeant was bleeding from his leg. As Billy started through the window, the sergeant gave him a big push and he went flying through the window to land with a thud on the ground below. He still held his rifle in his hand.

  Outside there was a lot more fighting, as the rest of the company came under fire from the German ambush. There were more screams, both German and American. As Billy crouched and ran for the cover of a German half-track, still cupping his abdomen, he could see lots of soldiers down and others fighting back. There seemed to be a lot more Germans now.

  Then he felt another pain and he toppled forward clutching his leg. The bullet had smashed the bone; he could see the jagged white edges along with the spurting blood.

  “Jesus, oh Jesus!” Now it was Billy who was screaming. “Oh, Jesus!” He crawled forward, pulling himself by his arms and his remaining good leg, trying to prop himself up behind the half-track to continue firing. “Oh, Jesus, I don’t want to die!” he screamed again, and he propped his weapon up and fired wildly, no longer aiming at anything in particular, but just firing.

  A shadow fell across his position, and he swiveled his head around and upward to see a German soldier, odd-shaped helmet and all, a big man, strong and grinning with cruel anticipation as he jabbed his bayonet through Billy’s throat.

  Billy continued to scream, this time for his mother, but there was no longer any sound. He felt himself choking on the taste of his own blood, as he gasped for a breath of air that would never reach his lungs.

  NEUE REICHSKANZLEI, BERLIN, 1000 HOURS GMT

  The new, monumental Reichs Chancellery was an expression of Albert Speer’s architectural genius. It symbolized the majesty and power of the Thousand-Year Reich. Now it stood in a bombed city, a city in the grips of winter, the frigid destruction symbolizing what the Reich had become.

  The führer’s office complex was now occupied by Adolf Hitler’s successor: Heinrich Himmler, formerly Reichsführer of the SS. He had not been Hitler’s personal choice to take over the reins of the state, but the others were either dead or outmaneuvered. Himmler had been elected to his role by the only voters who mattered: the massed troops of the Waffen-SS and the Gestapo.

  The führer sat in his darkened office, blackout curtains draped over the large windows. A single desk lamp illuminated his round, nearly chinless face, a face more suited to a bookkeeper than the absolute ruler of Germany. His eyes watered behind his round, wire-frame glasses.

  Verdammte Amerikaner! he thought. He had planned so well, first by buying a temporary peace from Stalin, and second by conceiving of a massive, jet-supported breakthrough in the West. Had the second plan succeeded, he would have had time—precious time—to rebuild Fortress Europa and secure a Germanic empire that could, in time, become a pivotal world power once again. But his time was getting short. Stalin would hold off only until he was ready to resume his offensive, and with that traitor Rommel’s surrender, the Americans and British were preparing to roll right through the Westwall into the industrial heart of Germany itself.

  Well, he was not devoid of options quite yet, and if nothing else, he could inflict extra damage. It would take a lot more than the Americans had to defang the führer! he thought. He smiled as he regarded the next document that had been prepared for his signature—a new law branding those guilty of terror attacks against civilians as ordinary criminals, exempt from the Geneva Convention. The Americans prated on about their exemplary moral standards, so superior to the rest of the world. Yet they had unleashed the Terrorfliegers, the strategic bombers, against the civilian population. They claimed they sought only military and industrial targets, but in practice they incinerated cities full of civilians, then had the audacity to claim protection as ordinary prisoners of war. From now on, that would change. Now they would be treated as the criminals they were, sent to concentration camps, not POW camps. Himmler initialed a note that the Buchenwald camp should prepare a barracks for these new criminals. Let them work in factories and cities to repair what they had destroyed. Let them work until they died. He smiled. At least one good thing would happen this day, he thought.

  The large, ornately inscribed double doors opened, letting a slice of light from the anteroom into his office. “Mein Führer, SS-Obergruppenführer Dietrich ist hier” his secretary announced.

  “Send him in,” the führer responded. He stood up to greet his visitor. “Sepp—it’s good to see you. What do you make of this situation?”

  Sepp Dietrich gave the German military salute, then accepted Himmler’s outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you too, mein Führer. This is a bad situation. Very bad.” Dietrich had a pleasant, open face with the look of a boxer who�
�d taken one too many punches.

  Himmler pursed his lips slightly, but did not respond. Much of this disaster, he thought, had been brought on by that idiot Dietrich’s own stupidity, in allowing himself to be maneuvered out of command of Sixth Panzer Army right before the launch of the Fuchs am Rhein offensive. Rommel had promised Dietrich the role of military governor of Antwerp at the successful conclusion of the operation, and sent him back to Berlin to provide liaison for the operation. Since it would be Himmler, not Rommel, who would have made any such appointment, it was doubly stupid of Dietrich to believe him.

  Of course, Rommel’s real goal was to remove a potential SS thorn in Rommel’s side, for he and Dietrich had locked horns more than once in northern Italy. It was also done to put the panzer genius Heinz Guderian in command, a maneuver Himmler couldn’t fault.

  Sepp Dietrich was generally regarded by his peers and superiors as decent, loyal, and stupid. Barely literate, unable even to read a map, he owed his high rank to having been one of Hitler’s intimates in the Beer Hall days. A World War I sergeant-major who worked after the war as a gas-pump attendant and butcher, he’d been a Party member from the beginning, and had organized Hitler’s first bodyguard, a group of bullyboys and toughs that formed the origin of Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. He’d played an active role in the Night of the Long Knives, and had been willing to take on any challenge for his führer. He and Himmler had been at odds frequently over the years, but now he was one of the dwindling number of senior officers Himmler could trust.

  “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” Dietrich had continued talking, an endless chain of the same remarks. “This is very bad. Very bad.”