“The American general asked, but as he did not have the authority—”
“What? How could you be so idiotic?” Here was a specific failure he could reprimand, and he laid into the major with relish. “Number one, we have surrendered. The American generals are now in your chain of command. Number two, being ready for this kind of trouble is your fundamental responsibility. Number three, we will not be caught in any way doing a less competent job than our American captors. Is that fully understood, Major?”
The hapless major quailed at Rommel’s tongue-lashing, undoubtedly realizing that any additional protest or argument would be the end of his career. “I apologize, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. I will get things moving immediately.”
Rommel’s glower followed the major as he ran to do his duty. The Desert Fox hated stupidity and lack of imagination and vision above all else. He had been trying to beat those skills into his officers for years, with marginal success.
He looked up, saw the Americans occupying the citadel targeting the enemy and returning fire. Now, those, he thought, were professional troops. He was furious that any force under his command could be any less competent. This was an embarrassment he could not stand.
At last some panzers moved forward, though still far too slowly to suit him. He waved furiously, shouting, trying to move his force into position by sheer act of will. “Do you want the Americans to think you’re soldiers, or just civilians in uniform?” he screamed. Finally, he was pleased to see his own troops firing back. The first of his panzer shells were blasting the advancing enemy. “Schnell machen!” he roared. “Move quickly!”
PONTOON BRIDGE, RIVER MEUSE, DINANT, 1341 HOURS GMT
Shells splattered into the river uncomfortably close to the bridge. Spumes of water shot up, drenching the engineers in frigid wetness. Two men had slipped and fallen into the water; now one was shivering of hypothermia and the other was slowly slipping into shock. No one was available to remove him to an aid station.
Everyone on the bridge knew that one lucky hit would spell the end for them. They continued working quickly, laying long metal sheets over the strung-together floats.
A German officer in a flapping greatcoat appeared at the west end of the bridge. He waved his hands to direct a force of German engineers who began bridging from the west, moving toward the sections the Americans had completed.
One of the American engineers looked up. “You know who that is?” he said to the soldier working next to him.
“Naw. Who is he?”
“That’s the goddamn Desert Fox himself! Field Marshal Rommel.”
The soldier looked up with mild interest. “No shit?” he said with a complete lack of emotion, then returned to his work.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Yeah? Is he planning to do some work on this bridge? If not, who gives a fuck?”
The first engineer was about to answer when an artillery shell crashed down on their section. The explosion tore a huge hole in the bridge, and sent shards of shrapnel to rip smaller, but even more lethal, holes through his body.
TASK FORCE PEIPER, DINANT, 1344 HOURS GMT
Jochen Peiper was very satisfied with the progress of the battle, but realized that resistance was substantially heavier than he had initially thought as enemy shells began slamming into his advancing panzers. Diefenthal’s battery had been smothered by fast and accurate counterbattery fire. He had no idea whether his mission to kill the Desert Fox had been successful, but he knew he had inflicted additional damage on the Americans and successfully delayed their ability to pursue. That looked to be the best he was likely to achieve, and it seemed a reasonable success. It was time to withdraw.
“Potschke, Diefenthal—all task forces begin withdrawal, passing to the west of the agreed-upon position.” The acknowledgments came in from Potschke, who had farthest to go. But he reported progress along the road to Saint-Vith. There was no reply at all from Task Force Diefenthal, and Peiper assumed the worst. He would have to provide cover, to allow a successful withdrawal from the field.
A calculated risk had been taken and been achieved, he thought with pride. Kampfgruppe Peiper and the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler continued to serve the führer and the Reich with distinction.
As Peiper gave the order to fall back, an enemy shell burst in front of his command tank. A shard from the shell tore across the left side of his face, shredding his cheek, removing his ear, and sending gouts of blood spurting into his eye. He screamed with pain and shock, and a member of his tank crew, a feldwebel, quickly pulled him down and began applying dressings to the wound. It looked horrific but not fatal.
“Hang on, mein Obersturmbannführer. You’re all right. We’ll get medical treatment shortly.” The feldwebel turned to the driver. “Get us out of here, like the obersturmbannführer said.”
Peiper was able to whisper one more command. “For the time being Potschke is in command. Radio him.”
“Jawohl, mein Obersturmbannführer,” said the feldwebel.
Peiper closed his one good eye and tried to conquer the pain.
OUTSIDE ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, 1351 HOURS GMT
“General, they’re withdrawing,” came Bob Jackson’s voice over the walkie-talkie.
“Hell, they did most of what they came for,” growled Wakefield in response. “But good riddance anyway. Kick them in the ass as they’re going, will you?”
“You got it, General. CCB continues to fire on retreating forces. Jackson out.”
The fire into the headquarters compound was diminishing but had not yet stopped. It became more scattered and more random as it came from moving enemy units firing backward to cover their retreat.
Wakefield looked around. The road down from the citadel was demolished, the pontoon bridge had buckled near the far shore, and parts of Armeegruppe B headquarters had been shelled into rubble. The German equivalent of “Medic!” could be heard from wounded soldiers in the compound. Infantry moved forward, and the panzers were finally turning into a fighting force. But Rommel and Patton were alive, his forces were slapped around a bit but largely intact, and it looked as if they were going to be able to put together a pursuit. “I guess that about does it for right now,” he said.
Patton, who had been watching Wakefield run the battle, interjected. “Henry, when did you first figure out what was going to happen?”
“I didn’t, General. I figured I was paid to think about trouble before it found me, and so I moved some stuff around just in case.”
“Well, hell, Henry—you’ve only done one thing wrong that I can see,” growled Patton.
“What’s that?” asked Wakefield, his eyes narrowing slightly. He and Patton went way back before the war, and their relationship had been characterized mostly by a series of fights. Patton’s enmity had kept Wakefield in a training command and out of the real war until after D-Day.
Patton grinned. “You didn’t leave me anything to do. I feel like tits on a bull right now.”
Wakefield grinned back. That was okay. “The rest of Third Army should keep you busy enough.”
“All right. I think I’ll get back to the office and start moving some tanks around. And Henry, this is the damndest order I’ve ever given, but I’m going to attach you to Rommel for a while. Technically he’s still surrendered, but it looks like he’s going to do some fighting on our side. I’ll straighten everything out with Ike … as soon as I can get in touch with him.” He smiled at that, and Wakefield knew that he intended to delay telling Eisenhower as long as possible.
“You need anything from me, you holler. Got it?”
“Got it, General.”
“Hell, call me George. See you later, Henry. Good hunting.” He turned to leave.
“Hey, George,” Wakefield called. Patton turned around.
Wakefield held out one of his stogies, “Have a cigar.”
Patton took the cigar and sniffed it. “Jeezus, Henry, what the hell do you pay for these things? Fifty cents a dozen?”
> Wakefield snorted. “Hell, no. Too rich for my blood.” He let out a cloud of blue smoke.
Patton laughed and lit the cigar. “I oughta put you on report for trying to assassinate a superior officer, Henry.” He punched Wakefield on the arm, got into his jeep with the three-star flag, and waved at his sergeant to move out.
Chuck Porter, who had discreetly moved back but stayed within eavesdropping distance, thought about writing the exchange down, but realized he’d never get anybody to believe it.
Patton waved for his driver, and his jeep with the three stars began to move out.
ARMEEGRUPPE B FIELD HOSPITAL, NEAR DINANT, 1623 HOURS GMT
“Make way! Make way! Wounded man coming through!” The panzer crew carried the officer into the makeshift field hospital. Quickly, hospital orderlies provided a stretcher onto which the wounded man was placed, and he was wheeled into the triage area. Because the fighting had died down, there were few other injuries waiting for medical attention.
“And what do we have here,” said the doctor in charge, who appeared at the stretcher side almost at once. He wore Wehrmacht major insignia alongside his caduceus. “Hmm.” Carefully, he peeled away the bandages to look at the raw and seeping flesh beneath. “Painful, but not life-threatening. Looks like the shell fragment missed the eye, but bleeding and surrounding damage to the muscle are not so good. We should be able to restore sight, however. For the rest—I’m sorry to inform you, Herr Obersturmbannführer, that our field hospital is virtually out of anesthetics. Only the most serious cases get any at all, and those not enough. We have had to revert to more barbaric practices here. I apologize to you in advance. This is likely to be rather painful.”
He turned to the panzer crewmen. “I am Major Doktor Hans Schlüter. I will be working on your officer personally. This will not be an easy experience. He must be strapped to the operating table, because otherwise he will jerk free and harm himself. I will have a nurse clean the wound area, and then I will suture the damage. You have all seen blood before, no doubt.”
The soldiers nodded their agreement. “We have all been on the Russian front.”
“Then you have seen such things before. You may find the atmosphere of an operating room somewhat different. I will not have fainting or vomiting. If you cannot refrain from these behaviors, you are to leave at once and get me a replacement. Do you understand?”
“Jawohl, Herr Major Doktor,” the soldiers said in unison.
“Very well. We will begin shortly.”
The shrieks of human agony echoed down the hospital corridors and into the wards. Feldwebel Carl-Heinz Clausen looked up. “It looks as though someone else is enjoying the finest medical care available,” he said mildly.
The soldiers around him laughed meaningfully. Most of them had enjoyed the same experience within the last few days. The fact that they were here in the open ward meant they had come through the operation in good shape, or that they had not been severely wounded.
Carl-Heinz looked at the long, skinny man in the next bed. He had a leg wound and had evidently also taken a piece of flak between his eyes. He’d worn an American jacket when he was brought in, but now he wore only a hospital robe, like the other patients. Most of the American wounded had been transferred to American field hospitals earlier in the day; because this patient was a downed aviator, he’d simply been overlooked, because he was no one’s direct responsibility. Probably the Americans would come for him in the morning. Another night made little difference, especially now with the war nearly over.
“American—yes, you. How are you doing?” he asked.
The American pointed to himself. “Staff Sergeant Franklin O’Dell, Three Hundred and Ninety-second Bomb Group. Serial number T-zero-zero-one-nine-two-one-six-five.”
Clausen knew he was receiving the obligatory “name, rank, serial number.” He knew that “sergeant” meant Feldwebel. He pointed to himself. “Feldwebel—‘Saarjint.’ Carl-Heinz Clausen. Verstehen Sie?”
The American replied, “Carl-Heinz,” and pointed at the German. Then “Digger. American. Feldwaybul,” and pointed back at himself.
“Dig-ger,” replied Clausen. “Sehr gut. Willkommen in Deutschland.”
The American thought about it for a second, then replied, “Danke shone.” His accent was terrible, but at least he was trying.
Another scream. The wounded in the ward took up other activities or started loud conversations to drown out the noise. It was about all they could do. Anything beat sitting still and listening to the sounds of agony.
Clausen kept up his conversation with the American aviator, in part to keep himself distracted, in part because he was genuinely curious. This was the first American he’d actually met in person. And even though he was a terrorflieger, he seemed like a nice enough fellow.
Finally the screaming ceased. The poor bastard in the operating room was done. Slowly the room returned to normal. Conversations that had been started only to drown out the sound ceased.
But suddenly there was a new type of noise: the noise of marching boots.
“Danke schön, Herr Major Doktor,” Obersturmbannführer Peiper said. His face was now stitched together, and although the agony was still intense, nothing would ever equal the sensation of being held still while a needle and thread was stuck through the skin of his face over and over again. With fresh hospital bandages covering the wounds, he could only imagine what his ruined face now looked like. Peiper had been a handsome man, but would be considered handsome no more.
“Bitte schön, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” replied Schlüter. “I recommend you rest here a day or two, but technically, you’re all right. Have your bandages changed regularly and keep clean. Within a few weeks those stitches will be able to come out. I’m pretty sure I saved your eye, though you may have some difficulties with it. Too early to tell.”
“I would take you up on your kind hospitality,” said Peiper, “but as this field hospital is about to move, I don’t think there will be much rest for anyone.”
“Move? I’ve heard nothing about a move. In fact, with Armeegruppe B’s surrender, I can’t see us doing anything other than remaining here.”
At the word “surrender,” Peiper’s eyes narrowed. “There has not been a surrender. I spoke to the führer personally early this morning. It is true that some traitors have ceased their struggle for the Third Reich, but I am under direct orders of the führer to bring all units of Armeegruppe B back to the safety of the Westwall and the Fatherland. Please prepare your hospital for immediate movement. You will be escorted east by Kampfgruppe Peiper of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.”
The doctor was obviously shocked, and equally obviously had embraced Rommel’s surrender. “But Obersturmbannführer—that’s impossible! We are a simple medical facility and we have wounded, both German and American.” Peiper’s cold glare shut him up.
“Americans? You will point out all American patients to me. The Third Reich does not have any medical supplies to spare. Horst!” he called to one of his soldiers. “Take one of the nurses to each ward. If there are any American patients, kill them. All patients who are able to move will get ready to move. Those who can be transported will be moved onto trucks and ambulances. We will leave only those who would die if moved. And Doctor—” His glare was piercing. “—I expect your best medical judgment in these matters.”
Peiper was pleased that Dr. Schlüter was too cowed to do anything but stammer his obedience. That was as it should be. More of Peiper’s troops moved into the building and began ordering medical staff around.
The tramping footsteps of soldiers was not lost on Clausen, and when shots rang out in another ward, his suspicions were confirmed. The ward’s male nurse entered with an armed Waffen-SS Sturmmann. “Are there any American patients here?”
The nurse looked around. “N-No, no, Sturmmann,” he stuttered, pointedly not looking at Digger.
“You will ready yourselves for immediate departure,” ordered the sturmmann in a
harsh voice. “If you can walk, get dressed. The rest of you will be transported. Any shirkers will be disciplined.”
All hope ripped away, the patients sullenly began to slide out of bed if they were able. Digger looked questioningly at Clausen. The feldwebel put a finger to his lips and pointed meaningfully at the door where the SS soldier had gone. Digger nodded his head as if he understood. Clausen hoped he was getting the message across. His own clothes were under the bed. When he moved, the agony in his stomach made him stop. He could not walk. He pulled his jacket out and wrapped it around his shoulders, then threw his uniform shirt over to Digger and motioned that he should put it on.
Within about twenty minutes, he, Digger, and other non-ambulatory patients were being loaded onto a truck, one of many vehicles waiting with idling engines outside the hospital. When the truck was full, a Waffen-SS trooper banged hard on its side twice, the signal to pull away into the dark, cold night.
The unwilling passengers huddled in miserable silence, knowing only that they were being carried toward the Westwall, Germany, and the east.
EXCERPT FROM WAR’S FINAL FURY, BY PROFESSOR JARED GRUENWALD (ZURICH: UNIVERSITY OF ZURICH PRESS, 1955)
[NOTE: War’s Final Fury is well known to scholars as the definitive analysis of the final chapters of the Second World War following the assassination of Adolph Hitler. Dr. Jared Gruenwald is Distinguished Professor of History at the University of Zurich, Switzerland. His other books include Rommel: A Study in Leadership and Transformation, Himmler’s Reich, and Stalin’s Time. We are grateful to Professor Gruenwald and the University of Zurich Press for permission to reprint these excerpts concerning the overall strategic situation in Europe during this critical time. The Authors.]
The days following Rommel’s dramatic surrender of Army Group B to the Americans set the stage for following events. While the final defeat of Nazism was certain, there was a question as to who would deliver the coup de grâce: the Western Allies or the Soviet Union. Stalin’s essential perfidy in accepting a separate peace with Germany is well understood, and certainly his motives were no more dishonest than those of the Nazis in turn. Stalin had to stop his advances until January 1945 in any event because of supply difficulties, and the “separate peace” gave him control of two additional nations, Norway and Greece.
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 9
