Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  15 JANUARY 1945

  EN ROUTE TO BERLIN, GERMANY, 0941 HOURS GMT

  The checkpoint guard did not have three heads, but Günter von Reinhardt recognized echoes of the mythical dog Cerberus, guardian of the river Styx—in this incarnation, the Rhine—in the feldgrau Waffen-SS uniform. He passed over his papers, had a predictable argument with the officer in charge about his status as an emissary, and was finally waved through into what passed for Hades—the bombed landscape of his fatherland.

  He started to take a deep breath, but caught himself before he triggered yet another bout of painful, bloody coughing, and satisfied himself by waving the driver onward toward Berlin.

  It was odd thinking of Berlin as the enemy capital; it hadn’t been that many months earlier when he stood in Führer Himmler’s office to receive his orders assigning him to Armeegruppe B and Operation Fuchs am Rhein. Now he was returning as the secret emissary of Erwin Rommel to negotiate for the surrender of the government of the Third Reich. Even for a man with von Reinhardt’s appreciation of irony, that was rich.

  This was a back-channel operation, complete with mutual deniability, which meant that von Reinhardt was running significant risks without the protection normally accorded to diplomats. From the first opening of communication all the way through, he would be on his own.

  One would imagine that reaching an opposing enemy commander in a war zone in order to arrange secret talks would be quite difficult. It had amused Günter von Reinhardt that all he had had to do was to pick up a telephone and make the call. After all, the complete telecommunications apparatus of the German Republican Army, formerly Armeegruppe B, was built around communicating with other German forces.

  The private office used for all top-secret transmissions had long been his preserve as an intelligence officer. There was even an Enigma coding machine available for his use. Of course, the armies of the Third Reich now knew that the Enigma machine was available for enemy use, so the valuable code machine was no longer used. Von Reinhardt had imagined that his Allied counterparts would have wanted the code machine as their first order of business. Their calm in the face of that temptation told him what he had suspected: the Allies already had the secret of Enigma. Well, no matter.

  He shifted his position in the back seat of the staff car. It was hard for him to get comfortable; he knew the doctor was right and that it was premature for him to leave the hospital. The legendary German autobahns still were bumpy enough for him to feel each minuscule irregularity in his chest. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to cough again.

  It had taken him a few hours of working his way through the telephone screens surrounding Führer Himmler to reach the man himself, ensconced in his black-draped Chancellery office like a snake deep in his den. And then came a bout of verbal fencing—also predictable—in which two people who clearly loathed one another pretended to a civility pregnant with hostility. Then to the mechanics of arranging a passage through the lines, with von Reinhardt, as the lower-ranking negotiator, responsible for the transit.

  His first way station was the headquarters of Armeegruppe H, one of the reinforcement army groups originally intended to exploit the Fuchs am Rhein gains. Fortunately, von Reinhardt had a slight personal acquaintance with the commanding officer, Generaloberst Karl Student.

  “Good to see you, Günter! Sit down!” said the general as von Reinhardt was escorted in.

  “Good to see you, too, Herr Generaloberst,” he replied.

  “So you’re now an Allied diplomat, I understand,” said the general, gesturing to an aide to fetch coffee.

  Von Reinhardt watched as the aide left the room. “Safe to talk?” he asked.

  “God only knows,” shrugged Student. “Our Gestapo friends are everywhere. So I assume they hear everything I say and go about my business as usual. Why worry? Are you planning to ask me to join Rommel’s new … what are you calling it? Oh, yes. The German Republican Army. Has a sort of Weimar ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  Von Reinhardt smiled. “I’d never dream of asking a fine German officer of your stature to switch sides.” Raising a finger to his lips, he pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it across to Student, who took it, a quizzical smile on his face, and slipped it into his own pocket.

  “A good thing, too,” replied Student. “I take my soldier’s oath quite seriously, you know. I don’t change out of pique or because one of my plans fell through. You know, Walther Mödel had some fairly harsh words to say about your baby field marshal. He thought if Rommel had any courage, he would have shot himself, rather than put Himmler to the trouble of having it done for him. But that’s Rommel, isn’t it? Quite a complainer, that one. Knew how to suck up, though. That’s how he got all his promotions so young.”

  The aide returned with coffee, and von Reinhardt sipped quietly from his cup. “I won’t argue with you about Rommel,” he said. “Frankly, he’d probably agree with most of what you said—he’s pretty harsh on himself. But I think what he’s doing is best for Germany. Remember our late führer’s dictum, that Germany will either be a world power or will not be at all. It’s to prevent the latter outcome that Rommel acted.”

  “Fighting for your own side is what’s best for Germany,” Student replied firmly, but he patted his breast pocket, where he had placed von Reinhardt’s letter. “But here I’m keeping you and the führer expects you in Berlin. May I furnish you with escorts?”

  “I’d be grateful, Herr Generaloberst. Thanks.”

  Student walked him out of the headquarters personally and saw him into his staff car. “Thanks for dropping by, von Reinhardt. Look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  “I, too,” he replied, and nodded to his driver.

  As they sped away, now escorted by Wehrmacht motorcycles, von Reinhardt wondered if the seed he had just planted would bear fruit. There was another quotation from Adolf Hitler that fit, also from Mein Kampf: “As soon as by one’s own propaganda even a glimpse of right on the other side is admitted, the cause for doubting one’s own right is laid.” If he had shown Student a “glimpse of right” on his side, perhaps that would grow into doubt.

  16 JANUARY 1945

  CCA, APPROACHING KOBLENZ, GERMANY, 1739 HOURS GMT

  It was sunset on Frank Ballard’s tenth day in Germany, and he was aware that the terrain was changing around him more rapidly with every mile. They were approaching the mouth of the Moselle Valley, where that dark river flowed into the Rhine. For days they had rolled along between forested ridges, bypassing small, almost medieval towns, but they were now entering a region where factories were as common as farms. The land was flat, and the vast landscapes of forest had been reduced to clumps of isolated woods between roads, hamlets, farms, and industry.

  The headquarters company of CCA pulled into the yard of one such factory, where the fuel trucks had formed an impromptu depot. As the vehicles took on gas, Ballard climbed out and spread his well-worn map on the hood of a jeep. They were close, now—damned close—to Koblenz and that great prize, the only river crossing that really mattered.

  He was taking a drink from his canteen when a jeep came racing up the road and turned into the depot yard. Ballard recognized one of Smiggy’s corporals, and waved a salute as the man jumped out of his vehicle and raced up to the combat command CO.

  “What do you see up there?” asked the colonel.

  “We caught sight of one tank down in the city,” the man reported breathlessly. “But we’ve moved in past the first downhill run, and haven’t taken any fire. We’re going in as fast as we can, Colonel, with the first company of tanks right behind us. It looks like if we get any trouble it won’t be until we’re closer to the river.”

  “Well, be careful and keep your eyes open,” Ballard suggested—unnecessarily, he knew, though it made him feel better to give the advice. “We want to get across those bridges as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, aye, Colonel!” replied the corporal, quickly heading back to his vehicle.

&n
bsp; As he was leaving, another group of jeeps and trucks pulled up, these coming along the road Ballard had been following from the west. He recognized the headquarters company of his artillery battalion, and ambled over to greet Major Diaz as he scrambled out of a half track.

  “How long has it been since you’ve been shot at?” Ballard asked Diaz.

  “A few snipers here and there,” the major acknowledged with a shrug. “They get their heads down pretty fast when we give ’em direct fire from a couple of one-oh-fives.”

  Ballard nodded. “I can’t help feeling like we’re missing something—like it shouldn’t be this easy.”

  “Maybe it won’t be,” Diaz suggested. “But it’s not far to the river, is it?”

  “Not far at all.” Ballard folded up the map, saw that the fueling hoses were being rolled away from the last of his tanks. “Headquarters—mount up!” he called.

  “Well, I’ll keep my guns ready,” Diaz pledged. “You go get ’em, Colonel!”

  Ballard reviewed the advance, tried to plan for any obstacles. Sure, the tanks and infantry of the combat command were already penetrating the outskirts of the city, with little resistance reported so far. But Diaz was right—surely it wouldn’t be this easy? With these thoughts weighing on his mind, Ballard’s command tank rumbled off, following a road leading into the heart of Koblenz. He sat atop the turret, looking around and listening for sounds of combat.

  He had seen a lot of damaged cities in the course of this war, but he was surprised at the extent of the destruction here. This was the work of heavy bombers, he knew—mountains of brick and concrete and dust rising as high as two-story buildings flanked the sides of this street, marking places where tall structures must have stood.

  A half hour later he heard a screeching call over his radio.

  “Eyes One, calling Barnyard Ten. Spot me, ten o’clock, up the hill.”

  He recognized Smiggy’s voice and, looking to his left, caught sight of his recon officer waving from beside a blasted wall on a side street. Ballard instructed his driver to head that way, and the Sherman nimbly skirted several piles of bricks, lurching through a bomb crater as it climbed the road.

  The tank halted a dozen paces away and Ballard pulled himself out of the turret, then hopped down to the street. The reconnaissance captain’s face was split by a wide grin, and Ballard felt a flash of hope. “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  “Take a look at that, Colonel,” Smiggy said, turning to peer over the wall, which at this point dipped down to chin height. Ballard leaned into the gap and looked, saw the glorious sight of sunlight reflecting from a wide band of water.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  Captain Smiggs nodded proudly. “Yup, Colonel. You can call all those generals and field marshals, and tell ’em that we’ve got a bead on the Rhine.”

  Ballard was still looking, eyes ranging to right and left. “I count two bridges still standing!” he declared.

  “And there’s one more, just out of sight around the bend,” Smiggy replied. “If we can keep moving, we can be across that river by the end of the day!”

  It seemed too easy, too tempting a thought … but once again Ballard allowed himself to hope that, very soon now, this goddamned war would be over. No sooner had he let the hope creep into his thoughts than it was dashed by the sounds of guns—lots of guns—coming from the city, near the waterfront. It was small-arms fire, but it denoted a pretty tough level of resistance.

  “Shit,” Smiggy grunted. “Sounds like trouble, Colonel.”

  Ballard could hear that for himself, as machine guns and several tank cannon added their notes to the chorus of battle. He cursed silently as he saw one of his Shermans go up in a plume of orange fire and black smoke. Other tanks hastily reversed, rolling back to the cover of a railroad embankment. He heard the distinctive crack of an 88 and saw another M4 explode. The CCA armor was shooting back now, machine guns and infantry rifles coming into play, but it took only a moment’s study to see that the headlong advance had been brought, at least temporarily, to a halt.

  “HQ—move out!” Ballard called, sprinting back to his own tank. He had been right, dammit, and he hated to be right about stuff like this.

  But the speedy race against no opposition had, in fact, been too good to last.

  17 JANUARY 1945

  THIRD ARMY FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, TRIER, GERMANY, 0745 HOURS GMT

  “Well, Field Marshal, I’ve got word that Nineteenth Armored reached the outskirts of Koblenz last night,” General Patton declared, his face split by a wide grin. “They’re having to fight their way into town, but they report progress. Fourth Armored is on their south flank, only a day away from the Rhine, and the Twelfth Infantry is making damned good time to the north. By God, I’m proud of these men!”

  “You have good cause to be, General.” Rommel was surprised by the wave of relief he felt. “I am glad that my loyal troops were able to provide passage along the Moselle. Any word of the SS elements?”

  Patton scowled, as he always did when reminded that not all of the enemy troops had perceived reality the same way Rommel did. It was almost as though the American general took the thought as a personal insult.

  And it is personal, at least to me, he realized in the same breath. He, Rommel, was the man who had issued the orders to surrender. Those officers of the SS were his subordinates, and yet they had disobeyed the order, even acted criminally to kill those loyal soldiers who had simply tried to do their duty. Even now the memories infuriated him, clenching his jaw and tightening his hands into fists. He looked down at the map, trying to conceal his anger from his American counterpart.

  “Well, you know about Panzer Lehr holding up those columns,” Patton said.

  “Yes,” Rommel replied tightly. Another bitter blow: He had sent those brave men to do their duty, and one battalion had managed to race ahead of several SS-kampfgruppe. The outnumbered Wehrmacht panzers had taken a blocking position across the high road to Koblenz, holding up the Nazis for hours. In the end, however, SS troops under Jochen Peiper had encircled the Panzer Lehr formation, wiping it out nearly to the last man. “Their sacrifice bought us most of a day.”

  “And the SS tanks are still north of the city—at least the ones we know about. There’s been no word about the Twelfth SS Panzers yet. Can’t say I’m wild about fighting children.”

  “Neither am I, General Patton,” Rommel replied. “I’m afraid, though, that young boys often feel themselves to be invulnerable, and they see the world entirely in black and white, with no shades of gray.”

  “Well, they’ll be like a newspaper soon,” chuckled Patton. “Black and white and red all over.” Rommel looked puzzled at the joke. “We haven’t heard about any direct resistance in the city, either,” Patton continued. “Best of all, they’ve got at least three bridges in sight—‘advancing on waterfront’ was Frank Ballard’s exact phrase.”

  “Good,” Rommel replied. “If you can get your tanks across the river, I think we will prevent anything Sixth Panzer Army can do to stop us.”

  “It’s still a long way to Berlin,” Patton warned, though the glint in his eye suggested that he viewed that distance more as an opportunity than an obstacle.

  “As long as we can beat the Soviets there,” commented Rommel.

  “You got that right, Field Marshal,” replied the American general. “Damned if you don’t have that right.”

  A signals officer, a colonel, approached with a sheet of paper and an apprehensive frown. “What is it, Budge?” asked Patton.

  “Word from Nineteenth Armored, just in,” the colonel reported. “Seems they’ve run into some opposition—they’re only a mile from the river, but they have SS tanks and panzergrenadiere dug in before them.”

  “Frank is hitting the bastards hard, isn’t he?” the American general snapped.

  “Yessir. Sounds like he’s using artillery, some of it direct fire. And he’s sending his tanks right at them, trying to break thro
ugh.”

  “Well, that’s what he should be doing. I like our chances,” declared Patton.

  “Any word on what formation is blocking the path.”

  “Yes, Field Marshal …” The colonel called Budge squinted, scanned farther down his sheet of paper. “Looks like it’s the Twelfth SS Panzer Division.”

  “Well, we know where they went, the sons of bitches,” growled Patton.

  “Ach du lieber Gott,” Rommel said, shaking his head. “The children. Sepp Dietrich wasted no time in getting the Hitler Youth Division out of Luxembourg.”

  “Well, they’ll be the Hitler Dead Division inside of an hour,” Patton remarked with certainty. “At least, they will if Frankie Ballard has anything to say about it.”

  UNITED STATES EMBASSY, MOSCOW, USSR, 0800 HOURS GMT

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning Moscow time, but to Hartnell Stone’s travel-weary body, it was still the middle of the previous night Washington time. Even with the highest level of wartime priority, traveling nearly halfway around the world was hugely punishing.

  He had landed in Moscow seven hours previously and checked in at the Hotel Nationale, next door to the embassy on Mochovaya, just across Red Square from the Kremlin itself. The bed was hard and lumpy, though that hadn’t posed much of a problem after having tried to sleep sitting up in an airplane seat for hour after hour. The constant droning of the engine was still with him; when he lay down, it still felt as though the room were vibrating and moving underneath him. Although he was exhausted, it was difficult for him to drop off to sleep, since his body kept telling him that it was too early. Once it got to sleep, he had found it difficult to wake up, and had barely made it next door in time for his early meeting.

  Marine guards outside the embassy checked his identification before admitting him; he signed in again at the front desk, and waited patiently for the escort who led him to the ambassador’s office. Ambassador Harriman had a great view of the Kremlin, but Hartnell had a more immediate interest in the hot coffee the secretary brought on a silver tray. “Welcome to Moscow, Stone,” the ambassador said, shaking his hand. “Have a seat.”