When he got back to Rommel’s office, he found that there was another translator—this one only a major—allowing Rommel and Eisenhower to converse. That was all he needed; he was too low in rank to be in charge of intelligence or liaison, and too high to be a mere translator. He was going to be shoved right out of the action, and the thought was killing him. There was nobody around in whom he could confide, either. He resolved to be stoic, to continue to do his job. After all, everyone was aimed at the same goal. What did it matter who led? In his heart, he knew it mattered very, very much.
Eisenhower interrupted his reverie. “Sanger, I want you to know that Rommel has been telling me what an outstanding job you’ve done under tough circumstances over these last few days.”
Dully, Sanger replied, “Thank you very much, sir.” He stole a brief glance at Rommel, who was sitting back comfortably in his office chair.
“You’ve been filling in as SHAEF liaison, and I want you to know I appreciate that as well. You’ve done fine work.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Unfortunately,” and here Eisenhower paused, “the role of military liaison at this level requires an officer of appropriate rank. I’m afraid that there’s no possible way I can permit the role to be filled by a lieutenant colonel. You understand, of course.”
Sanger nodded. This was even faster than he expected. “I understand perfectly, sir. I expected that to be the case. It’s been an honor to serve in that capacity, even on a temporary basis.”
Eisenhower nodded. “It’s good you feel that way, because Rommel has asked for you to continue in the role. And since I can’t put a lieutenant colonel in that slot, you’re a colonel, effective today.”
Sanger took a moment to process the words. “Sir? I mean—thank you very much, sir—it is a great honor and I will do my very best—” He realized he was beginning to babble a little bit, and decided that shutting up was the best course of action.
“Congratulations, Oberst Sanger,” Rommel said in German. “I hope you will be willing to remain in this assignment.”
“It is a very great honor, Generalfeldmarschall,” said Sanger, getting himself back under control. He switched to English and said, “Thank you very much, General Eisenhower.” He saluted.
Eisenhower leaned forward and said, “Now you get to earn your pay. Back to work.”
“Yes, sir!” replied Sanger.
ARMEEGRUPPE B FIELD HOSPITAL, NEAR DINANT, 1323 HOURS GMT
The hospital door opened on the other side of the patient cot, but the patient saw his visitor reflected in a mirror.
“Ah, Müller! How nice of you to visit,” von Reinhardt said to Müller’s image. His voice was louder and fuller than the previous day, and he was smiling, even while an American military nurse, a lieutenant, administered a shot. His chest was uncovered and Müller could see the bandages strapping him together like packing material. There was a brownish red stain near the wound site; some oozing was still taking place.
Müller smiled. “You seem to be a lot better today,” he said, sitting down on a wooden folding chair beside the metal-framed hospital cot. “I brought a little something to eat.” He produced a box containing nearly half a cake he’d purloined from the American mess.
The American nurse interrupted. “No—nein. No food.” Müller looked imploringly at her and she repeated the order. With a regretful look, he put it back in the box. The nurse finished the shot, adjusted the IV that hung on what looked like a hat rack on wheels, and made notes on the clipboard that hung at the foot of the bed. Her expression was serious, more serious than Müller liked, but who could interpret what such an expression meant? It could mean something truly terrible, or merely that a temperature was elevated a single degree above normal. The nurse said in English, “I’ll check back in two hours. Two—” She held up two fingers. “—hours.” She pointed to a clock on the wall.
“Zwei Stunden,” repeated von Reinhardt in German, holding up two fingers and pointing to the clock in response. The nurse patted his hand and left; von Reinhardt turned his attention to Müller and said, “Yes, I am a lot better. The incident is over, the outcome was favorable, even if not by my personal doing, and I am alive. Now it is history, and as the English author of Tristram Shandy would have it, ‘The history of a soldier’s wound beguiles the pain of it.’ It is, to be sure, only a partial palliative, but as the alternative is still more pain, I am happy to take comfort in history.”
Müller shook his head. “Günter, I don’t know how you keep all those quotes in your head, I really don’t.”
“It’s a mental quirk, nothing more. I can remember entire pages from books I read as a child, but can hardly keep three practical items together in my mind long enough for a trip to the bakery without writing them down.”
Müller wanted more. “But do you plan for them in advance, all ready for delivery, or do they just come to you?”
Von Reinhardt laughed. “A fine and insightful question! Of course, the desired answer is that each quote springs naturally from the font of my intellect as did Athena from Zeus’ brow, but between you and me—” His voice dropped to a lower tone. “—some quotes I prepare in advance, when I believe certain matters are likely to arise in conversation.”
“I thought so!” said Müller triumphantly. “You have a talent for le mot juste—” He paused in pride at his own cleverness in injecting a French phrase into the conversation. “—but sometimes your quotes are just too perfect.”
Von Reinhardt laughed, but his laugh turned into a choking cough. Alarmed, Müller reached over for a tissue and handed it to his friend. It took nearly a full minute for the cough to get under control, and when Müller took back the tissue it had flecks of blood on it. “Shall I get the nurse?” Müller asked in concern.
Weakly, von Reinhardt waved the hand not tied down with an IV. “No, no,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. His face was drawn tight with pain. “The cough comes and goes, but it tears at the wound, you know. I’m all right.” He coughed again, and with his hand indicated a glass on his bed stand. Müller handed over the glass and von Reinhardt took a sip of water, which seemed to calm the cough somewhat. He smiled wanly, and whispered. “You talk for a while, Wolfgang. Bring me up to date on the proceedings at headquarters. For as Cicero says, ‘The gods attend to great matters, they neglect small ones.’ Tell me what the general-gods are up to, Wolfgang.” He leaned back against his pillow weakly.
“I’ve half a mind to call the nurse anyway, Günter,” Müller said. “That cough doesn’t sound at all good to me. But if you’ll lie quiet and sip your water, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Von Reinhardt nodded, smiled, and took a sip of water, which seemed to relax him somewhat. Müller watched him carefully, then decided it was safe to bring him up to date on the situation at headquarters.
“Well, everybody seems to be getting along fine as nearly as I can tell,” he said. “General Eisenhower offered Rommel the chancellorship of Germany under a new government.”
“And our good Desert Fox turned him down, I presume?” whispered von Reinhardt, leaning his head back on his pillow and closing his eyes.
“How did you know?” said Müller. “It came as a surprise to everyone else. Has somebody been here before me to tell you what happened.”
“No, no,” von Reinhardt replied. “It was logical. As our new führer says, ‘My honor is my loyalty.’ Even though it’s just an SS motto, it’s something that weighs all too heavily on Rommel. His feelings of personal disgrace are running very deep right now. He could not possibly accept such an honor unless he felt worthy, and how can a traitor and surrendering coward possibly feel worthy?”
Müller was shocked. “He isn’t either of those things!”
“I know that, and you know that, but right now he doesn’t know that. There is war in his soul, because every choice leads to betrayal of at least one of the ideals he has held throughout his life. It’s difficult. As Mon
taigne says, ‘Any person of honor chooses rather to lose his honor than to lose his conscience. ’ But that does not make such a choice easy.” Von Reinhardt’s voice began to crack, and he took another sip of water.
Müller thought for a minute. “I guess that’s right, but it’s unfair.”
“So it is,” replied von Reinhardt. “What else?”
As Müller began to provide a rundown of the morning’s other events, a voice interrupted in American-accented German. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” It was Porter, the American newspaperman.
Müller stood up. “He’s not very well; he can hardly talk.”
Porter nodded. “I came by mostly because I had never thanked him properly for capturing me a few days ago. This has been the most important few days of my life, and if Oberst von Reinhardt hadn’t thought I’d be of some use as a translator, I would have missed the whole thing and be stuck in a cage with a bunch of American soldiers waiting for release.”
“You’re welcome,” whispered von Reinhardt. “If you wish to repay me, I feel cut off from the world here in my hospital bed. My friend Wolfgang has been filling me in on the various discussions and meetings in headquarters. If your reporter sources have provided you with additional information, I would love to hear it.”
Müller shook his head. “He can’t stop being an intelligence officer, you know. He really should be resting.”
“I think I understand him, though,” replied Porter. “I feel the same way about being a newspaperman. In fact, your friend would make a great reporter if he chose. When the war is over, if you’d like to join the Associated Press, look me up in Berlin, okay?”
“Thank you,” whispered von Reinhardt. “When the war is over, I’ll have to think about earning an honest living.”
“I didn’t say anything about an honest living,” laughed Porter. “I’m talking about the news game. So, friend Wolfgang, what news have you heard? They’re starting to bar the doors against me in case I snoop in areas they aren’t yet ready to make public.”
“Watch yourself carefully, Wolfgang,” added von Reinhardt. “You don’t want to inadvertently tell top-secret information to the enemy.”
Müller was startled—for a moment he found himself looking at Porter suspiciously—and then he realized his leg was being pulled and he laughed. “I was going to say that we were all now on the same side, but then I realized that what you meant was that the press itself was the enemy.”
“That’s not fair,” replied Porter, half in jest. “We of the press only report the facts!”
“Beware of facts,” von Reinhardt interjected. “As Nietzsche says, ‘There are no facts, only interpretations.’ Right now, it’s hard to say what exactly the facts happen to be.”
“You’re in the hospital with a wound,” retorted Porter. “That’s a fact. Rommel surrendered. That’s a fact.”
“Interpretations. Did Rommel actually surrender? Certainly not in a traditional sense. And I am in a hospital and I have a wound, but it was not a hospital but a battle zone just a short while ago. That’s the trouble with newspapers. They deal only with now. ‘Now’ has no permanence and no meaning other than that which history gives it—and history is even more about interpretation than is ‘now.’”
“Forget what I said about a job after the war, von Reinhardt,” snorted Porter. “I can just see sending you on a story and getting back a philosophy dissertation instead. And I bet you’re hell on deadlines.”
“Perspective, my dear Porter, perspective is everything. And now, my friends, I think I hear the rustle of the nurse, and that tells me I must rest.”
“Good-bye, Günter. I’ll come back tomorrow,” said Müller solicitously.
“Hey, I was only kidding, von Reinhardt,” added Porter. “You’re a good guy, and I’m grateful.”
But von Reinhardt’s eyes were closed, and neither visitor could tell whether he had fallen asleep or was merely feigning.
3 JANUARY 1945
NINETEENTH ARMORED DIVISION FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, BELGIUM, 0530 HOURS GMT
A night’s sleep and a bath were precious commodities. Civilians didn’t really appreciate them, thought Frank Ballard as he finished shaving. He rinsed the remaining soap off his chin and felt the smooth skin with a pleasure that completed what two cups of coffee had begun. In short, he felt as if he were becoming human again.
He stepped outside, into the cold, crisp morning air that seemed unreal, impossibly peaceful. The din of combat had ceased at last, and the cries of the injured and dying had faded into silence. The rubble-filled streets and the occasional growl of a tank engine were the only reminders that he was still in the middle of a war—some kind of war, anyway, even if the major details, such as who they were fighting against, had yet to be clearly defined.
It was odd to be alive, he thought. He’d nearly died in the Somme last summer—by rights he was already living on borrowed time. In Dinant he’d lived when his tank was hit, though all his crew except for his sergeant had perished. And yet Frank Ballard was alive, a few scratches the extent of his wounds. What was it that had enabled him to survive? Was he just lucky, “dumb lucky” as he thought of it? Or was there some special protection granted to him by fate, or by Almighty God? He shrugged away the silent questions, accepting, for now, the reality that let him walk into this cold, quiet morning.
He stopped, lit a cigarette, looked around him. Standing in the window of a destroyed shop was his girlfriend, the mannequin who’d kept him company during the twenty-four hours of battle. She had survived along with him. That made her special.
Ballard took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled. It was good to be alive, true, but it was hard to feel that he deserved to feel this way. His CO had died in the battle, died to stop the German advance in its tracks. So many of his subordinates, good and brave men, had given their lives in the same cause. But not him, not Frank Ballard.
He began walking, passing a Sherman that had burned up in the battle, the smell of gasoline and burned flesh mixing with his smoke. He was getting to a point where he hardly noticed the smell.
Stamping his boots on the cobblestones outside the temporary Nineteenth Armored HQ to knock mud and slush off, he opened the door. Stale heat and different smells greeted him as he entered the building.
General Wakefield looked up as he entered. “Siddown,” he growled around his cigar. “Get some sleep?”
“Yes, sir,” Ballard replied. “And you?”
Wakefield grunted a yes. Silently, he indicated a percolator, and Ballard helped himself to a cup, his third, black and bitter.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” a cheery Bob Jackson said as he entered the headquarters. “And how are you on this fine spring morning?” Jackson had the annoying habit of looking freshly pressed, clean, and comfortable regardless of the circumstances.
Wakefield’s grunt sounded about as cheerful as Ballard felt. “Morning, Bob,” he said. He indicated the coffee pot and Jackson nodded. Ballard turned the spigot to dispense a second cup and passed it over.
“Ahh, nectar of the gods,” said Jackson, taking the cup and inhaling the steam with relish. “A day like this makes me long for summer days in Richmond. This strange white stuff you get around here—I guess you Yankees are used to it, but those of us from God’s country find we can live without it. Brrr!” he shivered.
“Siddown, Bob,” said Wakefield. “We’re moving out in half an hour. But before we go, I’ve got a few changes to make.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jackson, utterly at ease. “Will we single-handedly be fighting all of Sixth Panzer Army today?” he asked with an innocent expression.
Ballard’s stifled laugh turned into a snort. “Then what would we do for an encore?” he asked.
Jackson was just about to launch into an extended joke, but Wakefield stepped in. “I’ve got to rebuild CCA. SHAEF says because of all the press, you get to be Rommel’s personal escort, Frank.”
Jackson’s eyebrows went up at
that remark. “And where precisely shall we get the necessary replacements?” he asked, a slight edge in his voice. There was only one obvious place for Wakefield to get replacements to quickly beef up CCA.
Wakefield took a puff on his cigar, let it out. “CCB. We’ll fill CCB out from reserves and the repple-depple. Frank, Georgie Patton and Rommel are both pretty impressed with you. I’ve recommended you for a Silver Star. While you’re waiting, you get an eagle, effective today.” Ballard would trade in the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant colonel for the eagle of a full colonel.
“Congratulations, Frank! Well deserved and long overdue,” said Jackson in a hearty voice, reaching over to shake Ballard’s hand. “And I guess this means you’ll be buying drinks at the officers’ club tonight.” This was a traditional ritual upon promotion—though where, in battered Dinant, they’d find an officers’ club was a moot point.
Wakefield shook Frank’s hand as well, a grin forming around his ever-present cigar. “And, while we’re at it, you get confirmed as CO of CCA permanently.”
“Thank you, General,” Ballard said, stunned. He’d half expected to get command of CCA at least temporarily, but to get a promotion, a medal, and a command all at once was a little breathtaking.
“Figure out what you need to get to full strength and take it from CCB,” Wakefield said. He was still grinning.
Bob Jackson’s grin, however, was getting a little stretched. “Now, General,” he said in his smoothest voice. “I think Frank Ballard well deserves his command, but I seem to recall that Combat Command B has been keeping pretty busy on its own.”
“Yeah?” growled Wakefield. “You want a medal, too?”
Jackson was taken aback at the implied insult. “Now, General, I don’t rightly think that’s a fair …”
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 20
