Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “What do you propose?” asked Mödel. Suspicion and resistance were clearly written on his face. These Wehrmacht generals didn’t understand state security, didn’t understand politics, didn’t understand the messiness of this business. Their problems were clean and straightforward, not like Himmler’s. All the big problems rested on his shoulders.

  The Führer of the Third Reich looked at his most senior generals. “A conspiracy to surrender a large military command needs a number of people. No single officer can do it alone. Rommel had a staff who largely hero-worshipped him. This, and of course the element of surprise, allowed him to succeed. Even then, he could not achieve the surrender of Sixth Panzer Army, and that was because loyal officers in that army were able to take action. Therefore, no commanding officer can be allowed to surround himself with sycophants, yes-men, and personal loyalists. I order, therefore, that the senior staff of all officers at the grade of colonel and above be switched randomly. All senior officers will have to work with a staff of strangers. This will prevent the kind of trust necessary for a conspiracy to surrender.” Himmler looked at Mödel, waiting for the argument he knew would come.

  “But mein Führer,” Mödel protested, right on cue. “This move will dramatically hamper military effectiveness. Commanders need staff on whom they can rely utterly, and that kind of relationship is built over time. If staff is transferred, operations will be hampered.”

  Himmler smiled. “If we were going on the offensive in the West, I might agree. As it happens, you yourself have stated that your plan is one of delay and defense. That requires far less communication. In any event, the danger to our cause of losing another army or even a division is far greater than the theoretical disadvantages of hampered communication within the senior command staff.”

  Mödel looked back down at his map as he gathered his thoughts. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you, mein Führer,” he said, shaking his head, “even though this goes against virtually everything I was ever taught about leadership. However, one fundamental characteristic of war is that the unexpected happens and must be integrated into plans, and this situation is nothing if not unexpected.”

  Himmler smiled. It was unusual for a Wehrmacht general to be actually convinced that Himmler was correct in something. Normally, they grumbled, protested, and sometimes grudgingly gave in, but Mödel actually saw the wisdom in Himmler’s decision. Well, Mödel was a smart man, and as führer, Himmler was prepared to recognize the man. “Very good. I thank you. Your plan is a masterful response to a difficult situation, and I appreciate the creativity with which you responded to the facts. So often I am confronted with premature hopelessness in my generals. You at least know the difference between difficult and hopeless.”

  Mödel straightened slightly, showing Himmler that everyone responded well to praise. “An auspicious start to the morning. May the rest of the day continue to provide the same. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Himmler jotted notes in a thin, spidery hand. Mödel could not be expected to handle the security issues himself; that was not in his area of expertise. Gestapo would oversee the reassignment of staff officers in Army Groups G and H, the two main forces Mödel would use to hold the Westwall. He could not prevent treachery and cowardice, but he could certainly make the price high, he thought.

  “Obergruppenführer Dietrich, sir,” his secretary announced. Himmler removed his eyeglasses and polished them on his handkerchief. He was still annoyed at Dietrich’s stupidity at being maneuvered out of command of Sixth Panzer Army, and it was important that he not show it too clearly. Dietrich was too ignorant to be an ideologue—Party philosophy was too deep for him. He had simply fallen under the charismatic spell of Adolf Hitler and devoted himself to Hitler’s service. Now that Himmler was the führer, it suited him to bind the man’s loyalty to himself, for Dietrich was useful. But lieber Gott! the man was stupid. “Sepp, how are you,” Himmler said, his mouth curving in a thin smile.

  “Good morning, Führer,” Dietrich replied, saluting in proper sieg-heil fashion and taking off his hat.

  Himmler returned the salute and gestured toward a chair. “Sit down. Bring me up to date. How many of our brave troops have you extracted from the traitor’s clutches?”

  “Most of them, yes, most of them,” replied Dietrich, his battered face nodding up and down. He sat with his legs apart, both hands holding his hat in his lap. “Most of them that didn’t surrender, you know.”

  Yes, I know, you bleeding idiot, Himmler thought, and jotted another note. “I’ve appointed Mödel as Commander in Chief West. He has overall responsibility for stabilizing the Western Front.”

  “Mödel? Good man, Mödel. Good choice. The Führer’s Fireman, you know,” said Dietrich. “If anybody can do it, he can. Difficult job, though. Difficult.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s a bad time.”

  Himmler took his glasses off again so he wouldn’t have to look at Dietrich’s slack-jawed expression. The old soldier had always annoyed him, and yet he was good with the troops. As long as he could be surrounded with competent staff, he was useful. And right now, the Reich couldn’t afford to spare any talent, no matter how modest. “Yes, Sepp, I understand. Now, we need to talk about what comes next, after the remnants of Sixth Panzer Army and any other Army Group B forces have successfully been returned to our control.”

  “Next?” Dietrich stopped to think. “They’ll go into the Westwall, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” replied Himmler with exaggerated patience. “They’ll go into the Westwall. Most of them, anyway. And there they will continue to hold against the Western Allies. Meanwhile, our Eastern Front will be commanded by Generaloberst Jodl as he defends against the renewed Soviet advance.”

  “Jodl’s a good man, too,” Dietrich added helpfully.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Himmler replied acidly. “In any event, Sixth Panzer Army’s role will be to set up a defensive posture along the Elbe to form an additional layer to continue to slow the US and British advance.”

  “The Elbe?” Dietrich thought for a moment. “The Soviets are the bigger danger. We both know that. Shouldn’t we deploy along the Oder to fight them?”

  “No,” Himmler said slowly. “I want you on the Elbe. Jodl is responsible for defense in the east. He has a good plan.”

  Dietrich could not be shaken from his path quite so easily. “He still needs more troops. And the Soviets are the biggest danger to Germany. We should be along the Oder.”

  “No. And that’s an order. You will coordinate with Generalfeldmarschall Mödel on this, but the basic strategy is that as he stabilizes the front, your forces will withdraw through German lines, cross the Rhine, then cross the Elbe and form a new defensive line there. You’ll receive detailed orders on this point. The forces you have to work with will be those you’re able to extract from Army Group B, so the more you get, the more you’ll have. Understand?”

  “Jawohl, mein Führer,” Dietrich replied, “but I still believe …”

  “And I still believe that you will defend the Elbe. Thank you, Sepp. That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Dietrich, but the stubborn look on his face told Himmler that he was not convinced. Well, no matter, as long as the man followed orders—and he knew how to follow orders.

  CCA, DASBURG, GERMANY, 0711 GMT

  Frank Ballard jolted awake with a sense of panic, then realized he had just dozed off, again, in the command seat of his rumbling Sherman. It had been three days since he had actually slept in a bed or even caught more than a few minutes of uninterrupted slumber. When he ran his hand across the rough stubble on his chin he knew that his shave and shower on the morning of his promotion were but dim memories, lost in the haze of war.

  But CCA, which now comprised virtually all of the fighting strength of the Nineteenth Armored division, was making great time. By late afternoon of the fourth they had roared into newly recaptured Bastogne, where he had learned that Americans of the Fourth Armored Division, aided by some
friendly Germans of the Volksgrenadierie, had opened the road all the way to the German border.

  The next stop for Nineteenth Armored was Dasburg, where they would slip through the Westwall and enter Germany proper. After an all-night run through the winding and hilly roads of the Ardennes, they rolled down the road into this border city, entering from the west. The picturesque town was located on the narrow river in a deep valley, and as they approached Ballard could see smoke lingering to his left. Obviously, there had been fighting here yesterday—but just as obviously there was an American flag flying over the city’s main hall, and emplacements of Sherman tanks and GIs guarding the approaches.

  A helpful MP guided him toward the HQ compound, and while he sent the reconnaissance company and a detachment of Shermans through the city to take up positions on the far side of the river Ballard directed his driver toward the compound. Here they stopped to refuel, and he dismounted to learn what he could.

  “You there, Major!” he called, to the first ranking officer he saw.

  “Major Weber, Colonel. What can I do for our pals from the Nineteenth Armored?”

  “Colonel Ballard, CCA. If you can tell me the situation in a hundred words or less, I’ll buy you a case of champagne when we get to Berlin.”

  “My pleasure, Colonel. Can I interest you in some eggs and bacon while we’re at it? They were expecting you, and I think the kitchen has put out a few extra helpings.”

  This was the best news Ballard had heard since getting his eagle. He sent the men of his HQ company toward the outdoor mess “hall” set up at the edge of the HQ compound, and gladly took a plate of hot food himself while he listened to Weber speak.

  “We came from Bastogne, the day before yesterday. Things changed pretty fast for us in the last week of ’44. The bastards were entrenched in the hills south of there,” Weber explained. “Even with Georgie himself cracking the whip, we were having a helluva time trying to fight our way into Bastogne. Then we get word over the radio—the Krauts surrendered, and we were supposed to march right in! Heard you boys in Dinant had a little to do with that development—nice work.”

  “Thanks,” Ballard mumbled around a mouthful of eggs.

  “Well, let me tell you, we came into Bastogne with our heads down and our guns loaded. But the Kraut general—he was acting CO of the Twenty-sixth Volksgrenadiers; I guess their chief got killed in some fracas with his own men—handed over the whole town without a shot. Said he was acting on orders of Rommel himself. To hear the old guy talk, that was the next best thing to God.”

  “I’ve met the man,” Ballard replied. “Impressive, even when he’s supposed to be a POW.”

  “But he isn’t really, is he?” the major had asked. “Seems like he’s actually got some Krauts working on our side.” He frowned and Ballard felt again the strangeness of the current arrangement.

  “That’s supposed to be the way it’s working,” Ballard allowed.

  “Well, they got us into Dasburg without any trouble,” Weber continued. “Now, we have our CCA across the river, holding a five-mile stretch of the Westwall. Don’t know what’s happening north or south of here, but if you want a road into Germany, we’ve got it.”

  “Then Rommel was as good as his word, again. He said he’d try to get us through the Westwall, and it sounds like he came through,” Frank noted. “Though I’m still wanting to keep a close eye on my flanks.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” Weber said cheerfully. “But, we’ve got scouts as far east as Bitburg—that’s halfway to Trier. The road is good, and it’s open.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” Ballard had noted, wolfing the last bite of his breakfast. His driver waved, signaling that the Sherman had been refueled. “The Old Man will probably want us across the Rhine by tomorrow.”

  Weber’s eyes widened at that, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. “You guys in the Nineteenth did some nice running in France—see if you can’t set a new record here in Kraut country.”

  “Wish us luck,” Frank Ballard replied. “And thanks for the chow.”

  The dawn had broken clear and cold around them, and a whole new country awaited as the tank engine roared to life. Ballard’s stomach felt full for the first time in days, and he wished he could take a minute to enjoy the feeling. He saw a pretty young girl—a German girl, no doubt—looking out the window of a nearby house, and he grinned at her and waved. Not surprisingly, she darted back behind the sill, though he had the sense she was still watching from within the shadowed room. Who was she? He wondered about that, wanted to meet her, just to hear the pleasant sound of a female voice.

  But Smiggy’s reconnaissance company was somewhere up ahead. Beyond was Trier, the Moselle Valley, and the road to the Rhine.

  He knew that he had better get going.

  7 JANUARY 1945

  HEADQUARTERS, FIRST BELORUSSIAN FRONT, NEAR WARSAW, POLAND, 1148 HOURS GMT

  Marshal Georgi Konstantinovich Zhukov, commander of the First Belorussian Front of the Army of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, flipped through the last few pages of the mammoth supply report and slammed the cover shut. “Good,” he said. His voice was deep and gruff. Zhukov was a short, square-built man with a high forehead. His rough demeanor and powerful stature gave him a bearlike appearance, appropriate to the Rodina he served. “Supplies and reinforcements are at their fullest levels. Unfortunately, the damned Germans are probably saying the same thing right now.”

  “Those that aren’t being pounded into the dirt by American bombers,” Marshal Ivan Stepanovich Konev, commander of the First Ukranian Front, replied. The two Soviet marshals were meeting here, on the estate of a former Polish nobleman, to coordinate their planning work. Colonel Alyosha Krigoff stood among two score officers, including generals in command of entire armies, staff officers charged with coordination between fronts of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, and intelligence staffers who were responsible for assessing and reporting on the enemy’s capabilities. He was one of only a few colonels here, attending because General Yeremko was ill. General Petrovsky had grudgingly brought Krigoff in the veteran intelligence officer’s stead. Now the two of them, like all the others except the two esteemed front commanders, remained silent, listening attentively.

  Soon, the mighty juggernaut of the Soviet Union would once again roll forward, crushing everything in its path. Neither marshal wanted to wait any longer, but the order from Moscow had not yet been received. Krigoff was surprised by how eager he himself was to see this great army hurl itself, once more, against the fascist foe.

  Zhukov laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “You’re right. The Nazi bastards still have a war going on, and one of their own just turned chicken on them. That must be a kick in the pants for Himmler, don’t you think?”

  Konev stood up and walked over to the samovar to draw himself another cup of tea. He took a heaping spoonful of strawberry preserves and stirred it in, then took a sip, taking a deep breath of the hot steam at the same time. “I’m surprised Rommel is the only one. The rest can’t be so stupid as to think they still have any sort of chance. Going over to the Americans and British is the only way for most of them to save their own lives. Now that Hitler is dead and rotting in his grave, what else makes them hold on?”

  Zhukov scratched his chest. “They’re soldiers, I guess. That makes them blind and stupid. They can’t imagine any alternatives except win or lose.”

  Konev laughed. “I guess that makes us blind and stupid as well. We couldn’t imagine any alternatives, and our situation was nearly as bleak not that long ago.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. We’re all blind and stupid. Sometimes that makes us stronger.” Zhukov’s gaze roamed across the faces of the assembled staff officers, came to rest on Krigoff’s—at least, that’s how it seemed to the colonel. “Perhaps not all of us,” amended the general. “Some of us see more than others.”

  “I despise that stubbornness in an enemy. It will make the Germans stronger wh
en we push forward,” Konev remarked.

  “I’m afraid it will,” Zhukov replied. “It won’t change the outcome, but it will affect how much more blood we shed for Mother Russia. Look at the maps our intelligence people have drawn up. The Germans have dug in all along the Oder. This will be a difficult river crossing to make.”

  “I never thought I’d say this,” said Konev, “but there are days I miss Adolf Hitler.”

  Krigoff’s eyes almost widened in surprise before he exerted his self-control to mask the reaction. Now that was a remark to remember; he went over it in his mind, so that he could jot it down verbatim after the meeting.

  Zhukov chuckled in response. “I know what you mean. He’d give orders to keep his overwhelmed units from retreating and send orders to his generals to defend ‘fortresses’ that had no protection. There were times he was as much an ally as our good friend General Winter.” The cruel Russian winter, and the muddy season that preceded and followed it every year, had done a great deal to hamper the German war effort ever since Operation Barbarossa had bogged down on the approach to Moscow in late 1941.

  The two generals looked up as a signals officer, himself a colonel, knocked on the door and hesitantly entered the room. “Comrade General?” he addressed Zhukov. “There is a communiqué from the Kremlin.”

  The general snatched the missive without formality and eagerly read the page of text.

  “Well, one more dead fascist is a good fascist,” replied Konev, taking his turn to look at the staff officers while his superior perused the missive. “Sometimes killing can make the world a better place.”

  Did his attention linger on me? Was he speaking to me? Krigoff couldn’t help wondering, and tried to suppress a stab of paranoid fear. “When all the fascists are dead, the world will be much improved,” concluded the front commander, as Zhukov put down the message, his face breaking into a broad grin.