Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  Wakefield interrupted. “Anyway, you’re not in command of CCB anymore.”

  Jackson was on his feet, angry and ready to argue. “What in hell do you mean—” he started, but then noticed that Wakefield’s grin had grown larger and larger. He paused, his intended tirade on hold for a moment.

  Wakefield reached up and unpinned the star from his right shoulder. “You’re now XO of Nineteenth Armored, Bob. How do you like them apples, General Jackson?” He handed the star to Jackson. “How about sharing one of your eagles with Frank?”

  Jackson let out a long, slow breath. “God damn, General. I sure didn’t see this coming. Sure, Frank can have an eagle. And I guess this means I’ll be buying the drinks tonight.” His own grin now matched that of his commanding officer.

  Wakefield pulled a small box out of his pocket. “No, I will,” he grinned, showing his officers the two stars of a major general. “But we’ll have to take a rain check. The Old Man wants us to be up to the Westwall in three days, and into Germany by the day after that. At the latest. That, gentlemen, means that we’ve got some work to do.”

  KAMPFGRUPPE PEIPER, FIRST SS PANZER DIVISION “LEIBSTANDARTE ADOLF HITLER,” SAINT-VITH, BELGIUM, 1321 HOURS GMT

  It was inspection time again. Carl-Heinz gestured at Digger to feign being asleep when the doctor came in. As usual, Dr. Schlüter nodded at each patient, and looked sharply at Carl-Heinz as soon as he saw Digger. The hidden message was clear: How could you put all of us at risk?

  Well, the deed was long since done, and now it was a matter of surviving each day. Schlüter moved efficiently through the trucks of the wounded, prioritizing the cases and treating them as well as limited supplies would allow. The supply of fresh bandages was low; he had a medical orderly boil old bandages to make them sterile again, and then used them, stains, tears, and all, on the wounds of his patients.

  Some of his fellow soldiers had returned to duty, and new patients joined the rolling hospital on a regular basis. This allowed Carl-Heinz to get a little information of how the war was progressing, and to hear the occasional rumor about the location and fate of the Desert Fox.

  Today, however, Obersturmbannführer Peiper had decided to join Schlüter on his rounds. Peiper, one half of his face handsome and unmarked, the other half hideously scarred, was there primarily to visit his own wounded. His attitude toward the Wehrmacht soldiers he had “liberated” from Allied control was different. “This one looks fit enough for duty, nicht wahr?” he said.

  Schlüter, intimidated by Peiper but unwilling to compromise his best medical judgment, demurred. “A few more days to allow the final healing. He could fight, but he would be vulnerable to any strain. Better to wait until he can take his place in the line without that risk.”

  Peiper made a noncommittal “mmm” sound, and continued. “You—what’s the matter with you?” he asked Carl-Heinz.

  “Belly wound, sir,” Carl-Heinz replied. “Coming along well, sir. I’ll be ready to return to duty shortly.”

  The impression of eagerness worked. Peiper again made an “mmm” sound, but this time with less skepticism. “What’s your background?” he asked the feldwebel.

  “Panzers, sir—Panzer Lehr to be specific. I’m also a good mechanic.”

  “Well, feldwebel, you’ll find the Leibstandarte keeps a higher standard than Panzer Lehr, but you might fit in.”

  There was nothing Carl-Heinz wanted less, but he put a big gap-toothed smile on his face. “That would be great, sir,” he said with forced cheerfulness.

  Somewhat mollified, Peiper turned away to leave, then looked back, a puzzled expression on his face. “This one—he’s been here since the hospital. What’s his problem?”

  “Leg wound,” said Schlüter, picking up the chart to conceal the sudden concern on his face. This was the one patient he didn’t want Peiper to notice. “Also eye damage and throat strain.”

  “Throat strain?”

  “Yes, sir.” Schlüter felt the beginnings of sweat breaking out.

  Peiper looked at the silent patient. “Laryngitis?”

  “Basically, sir.”

  “For more than a week?”

  “Well—yes, sir.”

  “Mmm.” He looked more closely at the patient. “How is your voice today?” he asked.

  The silent patient looked up at the Waffen-SS officer, smiled and nodded.

  Peiper darted a suspicious look at the doctor, then back at the patient. “If you are nodding, your voice must be fine. Say something.”

  Again a smile, but no speech.

  “An odd type of laryngitis,” he murmured. Schlüter fought to keep his hands from trembling. Carl-Heinz looked over at the patient warningly.

  “Doctor, it seems as if not only his speech is impaired, but also his hearing. Does your chart indicate this?” Peiper’s voice was silky smooth.

  “Well, yes … yes, I think it might …”

  “Might?” Peiper’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t you know?”

  “I—I have a lot of patients …” Schlüter said weakly.

  Peiper turned back to the patient. “Would you like me to put another bullet in that leg of yours?” he asked, smiling broadly and nodding his head up and down in a friendly manner.

  The patient turned his head toward Carl-Heinz, then back up to Peiper, and smiled again.

  Peiper rounded on the doctor with sudden fury. “Doctor, why do I have the distinct impression that you have been concealing a prisoner of war as a German patient?”

  Schlüter had no idea what to say; he stammered weakly and then fell silent.

  “So! I gave orders that all Allied patients were to be killed. Did you disobey my direct order, or …” Peiper suddenly noticed Carl-Heinz gesturing. “Or did you have help? You—feldwebel! What’s your name?”

  “Clausen, Carl-Heinz, sir.”

  “Clausen … Clausen … where have I heard that name before? Wait a minute! Panzer Lehr, that’s right! You were the driver of the panzer in that picture, weren’t you?” A picture of Carl-Heinz’s tank, numerous soldiers riding on top, was one of the well-known images of the war, as Normandy-based troops escaped the Falaise.

  Slowly, Carl-Heinz nodded.

  “And afterward …” Peiper suddenly pounded his fist into his other palm. “That’s right! You became Rommel’s personal driver!” He laughed, not prettily. “Well, well. Rommel’s personal driver, and a panzer hero. Under other circumstances, the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler would be pleased to use you. But this prisoner here—” Peiper kicked him in his wounded leg, drawing a gasp of pain. “You are accused of sheltering an enemy soldier. That’s a serious offense. Rommel’s driver should have known better … unless you’ve been infected with the same strain of cowardice as your boss!”

  “Wie heissen Sie?” Peiper barked at the prisoner.

  Realizing he was now found out, Digger O’Dell answered the way a prisoner of war was supposed to. “O’Dell, Staff Sergeant Franklin. United States Army Air Force. Serial number T-zero-zero-one-nine-two-one-six-five.”

  “American. And a terrorflieger to boot.” Peiper grinned. “And out of uniform. That makes you a spy, my fine fellow. And we are entitled to shoot spies.” He made a pistol of his thumb and finger, pointed it at Digger, and made a bang sound.

  Carl-Heinz began to protest, but Peiper shut him up with a glare. “I could kill you as well for treason. And as for you, Doctor—” He left the threat uncompleted.

  Schlüter was shaking as Peiper stuck his head out of the back of the truck. “Guard! I need a guard here on the double!” In minutes, several SS soldiers showed up. Peiper turned back to his victims. “It’s your lucky day. I received a directive from Berlin yesterday about terrorfliegers. Because of their atrocities against our civilians, our führer has decided that they are criminals, not prisoners of war. And as particularly odious criminals, they are now being sent to a very special place, and it’s not a comfortable prisoner-of-war camp, either! You, Clausen, fall into the ca
tegory of traitor, and traitors are sent to the same place. You both can learn firsthand how we deal with criminal scum in modern Germany!” Peiper gave instructions to the guards, and both Clausen and O’Dell were pulled roughly from the truck and thrown to the ground. Peiper kicked hard at Digger’s wounded leg, drawing a gasp of pain.

  “And as for you, Doctor,” Peiper said menacingly, “you’ve earned a trip to the same destination, but I need you here. I can’t allow this behavior to go unpunished, however.” He gestured at the burly SS guards. “I’m going to have these men teach all three of you a lesson you’ll never forget.” Peiper turned to the guards. “Work them over, but don’t kill them. And the doctor still has to work, so leave his hands alone.” Schlüter looked with increasing terror at the two huge guards who grabbed him by the arms.

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer!” the guards replied, grinning.

  Peiper hit Schlüter across the face once, twice, then a third time, each with all his strength. “You are a doctor of the Third Reich, and your job is to return combatants to duty. Got it?”

  Blood welling from a split lip, the doctor gasped out a terrified “Yes, sir.” His eyes pleaded with the SS officer, but Peiper only smiled.

  4 JANUARY 1945

  HEADQUARTERS, FIRST BELORUSSIAN FRONT, WARSAW, POLAND, 1034 HOURS GMT

  “So, Colonel Krigoff, you have come to us from Moscow? In order to ensure that the army functions as effectively, militarily and politically, as possible?”

  General-Armii Petrovsky, commander of the Second Guards Tank Army, asked the question with no trace of irony in his voice. But when Alyosha Krigoff considered the words, contemplated the man’s condescending manner, and evaluated the chaotic bustle of the headquarters staff, he felt certain that the army commander was mocking him.

  For now, he would take the honorable route, and ignore the taunt. It would not, however, be forgotten.

  “Yes, Comrade General! But please consider me a mere assistant, one who will do what he can to aid your commendable efforts to obliterate the foes of World Communism!”

  “Ah, yes,” said Petrovksy, with a sigh. He looked tired, Krigoff thought, and his nose was an unnatural, unhealthy red in color. Too much vodka, perhaps? “The foes of World Communism, indeed.”

  Now Krigoff was certain that he was being mocked. He was in no mood to accept this kind of treatment, at least not from an army officer, even the general of a mighty army. Krigoff was tired from three sleepless nights on a crowded train, hungry from a lack of any decent food, and sore from the uncomfortable ride on the hard wooden seat. Furthermore, he had been separated from Paulina at Kiev Station—her westward train had departed two hours later than his—and after arriving at the front had been forced to push his way through a chaos of trucks, horses, shouting sergeants, and marching, heavily laden troops, just to reach this building where he had been ordered to report.

  Though he was assigned to the staff of the tank army, he had been required to come to the front HQ building first. This was a battered hotel, just east of the Vistula River, and it had been overrun with Soviet officers in the last six months. Such damage as the war had failed to inflict seemed to have been delivered by the hands of the new occupants: walls had been knocked down, heavy communications cables draped through windows and across the floors, and the stink of unwashed bodies seemed to have seeped into the very woodwork. He had masked his distaste, and reported with due respect to his army commander, who was working at a small desk in a small room on the second floor, but now his temper was reaching its limit.

  “I refer, of course, to the Nazis, Comrade General,” he said archly. “I came here with the understanding that you were about to commence an attack against them. Or do you not consider them the foes of World Communism—and Mother Russia—after all?”

  Instead of snapping back, as he expected Petrovsky to do, the veteran army commander rubbed his high forehead with a sturdy, short-fingered hand, and sighed heavily.

  “Attack the Nazis. Yes, Colonel, we will attack the Nazis here, just as we attacked them at Moscow and Stalingrad, at Kursk and Kiev and all the rest of the places scarred by this war. We will cross the Vistula and trap them in Warsaw or push them out of Poland. Then we will chase them into their own cursed fatherland, and root them out of their holes like the venomous snakes that they are. Now that you are here, of course, this will all be accomplished with ease.”

  “I will do my duty to the best of my ability, General,” Krigoff retorted stiffly. “If you will give me my orders, I will be out of your way at once.”

  “Orders? Yes, of course. Take your kit and go to my own headquarters—we’re in a manor, ten kilometers down the road from here. Report to General-Leitenant Yeremko, my chief of intelligence, and he will find something for you to do.”

  “Yes, Comrade General!” Krigoff honored the army commander with a salute, even as he viewed the old man with contempt. Perhaps Petrovsky had been a fine soldier in his day, but that day had passed like the fading of the summer. At the same time, he was a little surprised, when he thought about it, that the man wouldn’t have made a little more of an effort to be polite to a subordinate just arrived from Moscow. When he pondered the fact the truth seemed to be obvious: Petrovsky just didn’t care anymore.

  Now, Krigoff had his own problems. Ten kilometers was not a long distance, but it was farther than he intended to walk. He went down to the hotel lobby, which seemed to be a clearinghouse of frenzied activity. Making his way to the kitchen, he was able to acquire a sandwich—a slab of tough sausage and a thick slice of onion between a couple of pieces of brown bread—and that helped a little. Some further checking revealed a truck loaded with radio equipment, already revving up for the drive to the tank army HQ, and he was able to fling his pack over the tailgate and then climb up in the cab to ride with the driver.

  He took a look at the flat and battle-scarred Polish countryside as they lurched along a rutted, frost-hardened road. There were peasants’ cottages scattered about, and each of them was at the very least pocked with bullet holes, if not damaged or destroyed by the impact of high explosives. The few trees he saw were skeletal and leafless, and though this was the winter norm he could tell by the torn bark and ripped or shattered trunks that many of them had suffered from the campaigns that had swept across this country with such brutality over the last six years.

  The manor house of army headquarters proved to be a country home that had once belonged to a wealthy Polish merchant—a Jew, the driver explained to him, spitting. General Yeremko and the intelligence unit occupied a large parlor and a trophy room. Heads of boar and deer, as well as a snarling bear, adorned the walls; now these were draped with the wires connecting to several large radios that had been set up against the walls.

  “Krigoff, eh? From Moscow?” Yeremko was a slender man with a pinched face and narrow, penetrating eyes. His age was apparent in his parchment-yellow skin, and the thin wisps of hair that were plastered across his scalp. He eyed the colonel suspiciously, but he, clearly, had the sense not to immediately alienate this new and potentially well-connected officer.

  “I am at your service, Comrade General!” Krigoff declared in response.

  “Well, you’ll be sleeping in a tent like most of the rest of us. But we’ll have you working so hard that you won’t have to worry about that very much. There are four weeks of work left to do, and—who knows?—perhaps four or five days before this show gets started.”

  Krigoff noted the harried look of the intelligence general, the sallow complexion and the way his eyes darted nervously this way and that. Clearly the man was unstable, perhaps dangerously so.

  “Have you ever been in a plane?” asked Yeremko abruptly.

  “Yes, Comrade General,” Krigoff lied. “I am fond of flying.” The latter part was vaguely true, insofar as he had always hoped for a chance to get up in an airplane.

  “Good. For now, I want you to study reconnaissance photos; we’re trying to pick out the Nazi str
ong points before we attack. With luck, our artillery will knock out one in ten of them, before the infantry has to take out the rest. So every one you find means a few Russian lives saved, when the attack gets under way.”

  “I understand,” Krigoff replied.

  “Of course, all of these photos have been looked over by a hundred good men already. But every new set of eyes is useful. I need you to compare the shots from last week to those taken yesterday—we’re looking for changes, anything different. That will be a sign that the Nazis have been at work, and we’ll have the specialists take a look, try to decide what sort of work that might have been.”

  “Indeed, General. If necessary, I will take to the air myself, of course,” he added.

  Yeremko nodded. “That time will come—when the attack gets under way, I’ll have you and a few other officers flying over the battlefield. That’s the way of war, today—get us the reports at once, and we can keep our men alive for a few days longer.”

  Krigoff nodded, his face impassive though he was troubled by these words. Like Petrovsky, General Yeremko seemed to be placing an undue emphasis on coddling his men, keeping them alive even at the cost of delaying the progress of the offensive. It was a distressing sign of the war-weariness that might prove to be endemic among these veteran officers.

  He was still thinking about this as he made his way to the tent that an aide showed him, a shelter he would share with four other colonels. He was relieved to find a cot there, for he had not looked forward to the thought of sleeping on the ground.

  Before he entered, he took another look around, at the chaos of men and machines that would, in a few days, be unleashed against the Nazi devils. How would these men function? Would they be as aggressive as necessary?

  Yes, thought Krigoff, eventually they would. But it was a good thing that he was here.

  TWELFTH INFANTRY DIVISION HEADQUARTERS, CLERVAUX, LUXEMBOURG, 1357 HOURS GMT