“That’s about what I thought,” nodded Mödel. “We need an excellent defense, with enough teeth to make the hungry dogs to the West think twice about a push forward. Then the dogs of the East, nicht wahr?” Both generals laughed. “But I must bring up a very delicate point. In this room, being realistic about the enemy’s relative supply situation is not to be construed as pessimism, and we must be realistic to make the right decisions for the Fatherland. Correct?”
Keitel once again began to put on his disapproving face, but Jodl interjected. “It’s not pessimism if there’s a constructive and positive answer following.”
“Depending on Stalin’s speed, there must be a secondary plan in place. If you must take away too much of my force, what next?”
Jodl thought seriously for a moment. “I suppose then it will become time for Operation Werewolf.”
“I agree,” replied Mödel. Keitel also nodded after a moment.
“And while we’re on the subject of Werewolf, I think an excellent lesson would be learned by all if our old friend the baby field marshal received an appropriate punishment for his treason,” said Jodl, his face turning ugly. “The führer sent Gestapo to arrest his wife and son, but it seems they have already fled.”
“I’m sure the long arm of the Gestapo can reach even outside the borders of the Fatherland,” replied Mödel. “I agree. Rommel must be made an example to all. One surrender of this sort is one too many. There must not be a repeat. And this is disgraceful, completely disgraceful behavior on his part. Doesn’t he know that a field marshal above all else must never be captured alive?”
On that point all three men agreed.
GORKY PARK, MOSCOW, USSR, 2044 HOURS GMT
Alyosha Krigoff came to the park in the evening, climbed to the overlook over the River Moskva, and admired the domed towers of the Kremlin rising from the city on the opposite side of the valley, three or four kilometers downstream. This was the place he came for reflection, for privacy, for contemplation. He would miss it, more than any other location, or person, in this great city.
His train ticket was in his pocket, and he would cross the bridge shortly, making the short walk so that he arrived at Kiev Station in the early hours of the morning. The train would depart for the west before dawn. But for now, he was happy to take Marshal Bulganin’s advice, and relish one last look around the capital of his mighty nation.
Even in the darkness, with but a sliver of a moon, the view was spectacular. Though the city was still under a war-induced blackout, the Kremlin stood out in clear relief, and the white band of the river was a smooth, winding S through the heart of the city. He wondered about the illumination—how could it be so bright?
He was startled to hear a hushed sound nearby, a mechanical click emerging from beyond a nearby pine. His feet crunched on the snow as he stepped around the tree, drawing a startled gasp from a photographer who was bent over a tripod, camera pointed not at the city but at the northern skies.
“Comrade Officer! You startled me!” said the photographer, in a woman’s voice surprisingly devoid of fear. She lifted her head and he saw the patch over her eye. Immediately he felt a surge of unnatural delight.
“Comrade Koninin? Paulina Arkadyevna? It is I, Colonel Krigoff.”
“Comrade Major—er, Colonel?,” Paulina said, coming forward to shake his outstretched hand, noting the new insignia on his high-brimmed cap. “It would seem that your meeting with the chairman went well.”
He loved that slight smile that once again tightened across her full lips, and he shrugged modestly in reply, letting his new rank speak for itself. His masculine ego was quite gratified that she had come to this place, to seek him out again. “I see that you found this place. The view is splendid, is it not?”
“Indeed,” she replied. “Though I was not expecting such a treat.”
Her words seemed a bit too forward, and he must have looked puzzled, for she pointed past his shoulder, upward to the north. “The aurora is spectacular tonight.”
He spun about to see what she meant, and saw the green curtain of the northern lights sprawling and pulsing in the night sky. How could he have missed it? The brilliance faded and then surged back, tendrils of sparkling illumination spreading like a spiderweb from the far horizon into the cosmos directly overhead. That was why the city had been so brightly visible on this winter night, he realized. For a moment he stared in wonder, rapt at the fluorescent display of nature’s majesty. It was an omen, a splendid omen, as if Father Winter were displaying his pride over Mother Russia. Ah, he thought, it was the photographer’s eye that brought her here. She was not here for him. At least, he thought, not yet. He was a patient man where the chase was concerned; he felt no need to rush.
“A rare treat, indeed,” he agreed. “You are capturing it on pictures?”
“I have a roll of color film,” she said. “Only my second since the war began. It seemed like a good opportunity. And I remembered what you told me of the view from this place, and thought that I would come here. I have some pictures that should show the Kremlin, as well as the brightness of the aurora borealis. Furthermore, the park is close to the train station, and I must be there in a few hours.”
“You, too?” Krigoff asked, delighted. “That is, I am departing from there, traveling to the west, before dawn.” This is quite convenient, he thought.
“Congratulations, Comrade Colonel,” she said with apparent sincerity. “I am going west, as well. Perhaps both of us will get to witness the end of this war.”
Krigoff smiled in the glow from the northern lights.
2 JANUARY 1945
ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, BELGIUM, 0903 HOURS GMT
Omar Bradley came into the small anteroom, shaking his head. Rommel couldn’t tell if it was a reaction of amazement or pleasure—perhaps a little of both. The Desert Fox had been waiting here with General Patton and the translator, Sanger. Bradley had been in the private office beyond the anteroom, to take a phone call from the Supreme Commander; through the other door was the large conference room, where the top staff officers of the American Third Army and the German Armeegruppe B were gathered, waiting expectantly,
“Well, Brad?” asked Patton, bouncing out of his chair, his full height looming over the other men in the room. “What’s the good word?”
“I can’t quite believe it,” Omar Bradley said. This time, Rommel could sense the scowl behind that benign visage. “But it’s a go. Ike says to run for the Rhine and try to get across!”
“Goddamn! I knew it!” Patton crowed, his voice all but squeaking in his excitement. “I’ve gotta give Ike credit—now that he doesn’t have Monty whispering in his ear every step of the way, he’s showing some real balls!”
“George,” snapped Bradley, clearly appalled. “That’s enough!”
Patton settled back onto the edge of his chair, his grin a mile wide. He looked at Rommel, and the German field marshal couldn’t help but share in his former adversary’s delight—though he was far too circumspect to make a reference to the gonads of the Supreme Allied Commander.
General Bradley drew a deep breath, looking from Patton to Rommel and back again. “It’s the plan as you outlined it—Third Army runs for the river, cutting through the Westwall at the gap held open by Fifth Panzer Army. For the time being, Field Marshal Rommel’s men will be responsible for holding open that gap against SS pressure, which seems mostly to have developed in the north, in the Sixth Panzer Army area; First Army will move into that role over the course of the next week. Mobile German formations, notably Panzer Lehr, will commence the pursuit of the withdrawing forces of the Sixth Panzer Army, with Hodges’ First Army advancing behind them as quickly as they can get over to the offensive.”
“And the Brits?” Rommel could tell that Patton was trying hard not to grin.
“They’ll keep the pressure on in the north, together with our Ninth Army. But for now, it looks like the broad front strategy is out the window—we’re authorized
to make a single, strong punch. It’ll be called Operation Can Opener: We pry up the lid, and the rest of the Allied Expeditionary Forces let the beans spill out.”
Bradley fixed a glare upon Patton, his eyes icy behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “That was a cheap shot about Monty, George. Surely you know that, if Ike hadn’t insisted on the broad front advance, it would have been Monty, not you, who would have gotten the resources, the chance to make the single punch that you’ve wanted to do for so long. After all, his forces were approaching the plains in the north, the fastest route to Berlin—at least, until the gate swung open for us down here in the south.”
“Aw, Brad, I know. Truth is, Monty was a good soldier, in a McClellan sort of way. He built up a hell of an army, just hated to see it dirtied in the field. We both know he never could have moved fast enough to make that dash.”
“Be that as it may—” Rommel noted with interest that Bradley didn’t exactly disagree with his underling’s assessment, which in fact echoed the Desert Fox’s own opinion of his old British adversary. “—this has more to do with the Russians than the Brits. They stabbed us in the back with this armistice last summer, and we’re not inclined to forget about that. Any thinking man has to see that they’re ready to start attacking again, and who’s to say they’ll stop with Berlin? The president seems to think Stalin will make a grab for all of Germany, and wants us to do what we can, as fast as we can, to see that doesn’t happen.
“And Georgie, you are the man with the right tool, in the right place, for the job.”
“Brad—a chance to keep attacking. That’s all I’ve ever wanted!” Patton replied. Rommel could tell that the American general was speaking the utter and complete truth.
ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS CAFETERIA, DINANT, BELGIUM, 1231 HOURS GMT
Reid Sanger felt a little schizophrenic when he translated. It was as if he put part of his brain in neutral and put it in the service of someone else, taking in words in one language and delivering them in another, without any conscious sense of the process. The rest of his mind, aloof from the process, operated as a free-floating observer, commenting on people and reactions. He took an odd pride in being able to disconnect himself in that way.
By now, he was almost used to having all the senior brass around him. Eisenhower, Rommel, Patton—these were figures destined for the history books, people who were real in one sense and unreal in another. When he thought about being in the presence of living history too much he became nervous and tongue-tied, but he was slowly developing an immunity, learning to see these men as mortal while still being aware of their special roles and impact.
Fortunately, there were other translators from SHAEF who could shoulder some of the load. After the initial meeting, the group fissioned into smaller breakout units of specialists. There was an enormous amount of coordination and planning to be accomplished in a very short period of time, and it would take everyone’s focus to get it done.
The staff meeting had lasted past the noon hour, as the dazzling plan code-named Operation Can Opener was revealed to the officers of two armies. They understood the unspoken potential of this operation: the crossing of the Rhine had gone from a goal to a preliminary step, and the true objective was nothing less than the liberation of Germany. Roles were outlined, assignments made, and preparations were already under way. Finally Patton had given a truly inspiring speech centering on the historic opportunity awaiting them.
This led to a break, and Sanger was able to slip away for a quick cup of coffee—Rommel’s headquarters had some of the worst ersatz coffee he’d ever tasted—and a cigarette.
Sanger thought about the major groups and their assignments. Eisenhower, Bradley, Rommel, and Speidel—with Sanger as translator—would work on the high-level issues involved in turning Rommel’s force into an Allied army. Policy, rank, status, chain of command, all of these highly sticky and political matters required extreme delicacy even in the approach.
Patton, von Manteuffel, Bayerlein, and Wakefield, along with their senior aides, would develop the revised military plans. Since Rommel’s army group was located in what had been the Third Army area of operation, this involved modifying large amounts of previously settled strategy. Sanger wondered if Patton was frustrated that his military target had now become his ally, but then realized that Patton had already claimed credit for the entire situation—Old Blood and Guts would be fine as long as there was at least one more battle to be fought.
Other working groups included intelligence coordination—Sanger would normally have killed to be part of that group, but he was otherwise occupied—supply and logistics, and even finance. Those maintenance issues were incredibly tricky. Army Group B had drawn its supplies from Germany, and that was obviously no longer possible. The Allies could resupply them, but there were differences in ammunition, spare parts, even standard ration issues. The Germans would certainly appreciate getting American cigarettes, though, Sanger thought, taking a puff on his Lucky Strike.
And finance: that was going to be what the British called a sticky wicket indeed. Soldiers needed to be paid, and obviously Army Group B could no longer draw on the Reichsbank to meet its payroll. The new government was not in a position to issue money, and there was not even a legal structure that would allow the provisional government to borrow money! They would be able to finesse their way around this situation, no doubt, but only at the cost of breaking regulation after regulation. Some senior officer would have to sign a lot of incriminating documents, but there was little choice in the matter. Situations got ahead of themselves sometimes, and one simply had to cope.
Sanger’s train of thought was interrupted by a familiar voice barking, “Sanger?”
Sanger looked up to see his old boss at SHAEF intelligence in London. “Colonel Cook!” he said, standing up. Cook stood out in any crowd, since he weighed over three hundred pounds. He was nearly bald, a thin ribbon of hair surrounding his crown somewhat like a monk’s tonsure. There was one thing different about Cook since Sanger had seen him last: a star on each shoulder replacing the eagles that had lived there previously. “I mean, General Cook,” he amended quickly. “Congratulations, sir. How are you doing?”
“Fine, Sanger, fine. See you made light bird. Congratulations to you, too. Still prefer the front lines to the home office?” The general reached out a beefy hand and Sanger shook it.
“Yes, sir. Nothing like it. Thanks for giving me a shot at it.”
“You’re welcome, Sanger. You remember Keegan, don’t you?”
Of course Sanger did. The two men had worked together as captains in SHAEF headquarters in London. Keegan, now a newly minted major, had been the bane of Sanger’s life back in London. He was a product of the American upper class, complete with an aristocratic nasal drawl through teeth that did not move. He had attended the right prep school followed by Yale, and jumped into a career liberally lubricated with Daddy’s money. When the war was over he would slip right back into a Wall Street life. He stood elegant in a crisply tailored uniform, and everything from his expression to his sneering tone showed that he was completely convinced of the inferiority of the working classes—of, in short, Sanger himself. “So, Sanger,” came his annoying nasal drawl. Keegan looked around the busy, somewhat dirty headquarters. “Slumming again?”
Sanger as usual wanted to reply with a fist sunk into his fine aristocratic features, but he restrained himself. “Hi, Keegan,” he replied, then couldn’t resist a slight dig. “I see it’s Major Keegan now. ongratulations.” It was petty of him to call attention to his own superior rank that way, but he couldn’t help it. He could see by the brief flash of anger across Keegan’s face that the dig had worked.
“Congratulations on your own promotion. I hear you’ve swapped intelligence work for the translation business. More opportunities in that department?” drawled Keegan in return, with the edge of a smile flashing across his lips.
Sanger felt his own anger rising in return. He could never score a clea
n hit on Keegan; the man always had a comeback. He decided not to go another round. “Yep. Lots more opportunities,” he said neutralizing the attack. Then he turned back to Cook. “You’ll be working with Rommel’s G-2 people on intelligence sharing?”
“Yep, that’s what we’re here for. This is an absolute gold mine of information. Of course, it’s nearly cheating when you sit down with the enemy commanders and they hand you their top-secret documents.”
Sanger laughed. “I had much the same feeling last night. I kept thinking someone was going to shoot me as a spy. So, what’s the plan?”
“Since Rommel’s army is going to be part of SHAEF, we’re setting up the intel liaison office. We’ll be running the G-2 coordination function,” said Cook in his gruff voice.
Sanger felt a real pang at this news. He had thought of himself as the sole person in charge of intelligence coordination between SHAEF and Army Group B. Of course, on reflection he knew that there was no way anyone would permit a mere lieutenant colonel to be in charge of something like that. Wakefield had given him the assignment, but it had been with the warning that it would only be true until some SHAEF chair-warmer shoved him out of the way. And here was the shove. Keegan’s dig about him merely being a translator now rankled even more because it was turning out to be true. That was about the only role left for him—if he wasn’t shoved out of that as well.
He fought to keep his feelings off his face; the thought that Keegan would witness his despondency was the only thing that could make his humiliation worse. The only good news was that it was time to get back to work. “Good luck, General. You too, Keegan,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you around the campus.” He stood up to make his leave.
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 19
