Himmler sat and looked at him. “Jochen, the leading edge of the attacking force was farthest from safety. In addition, I tasked you with the additional role of making a raid on Rommel’s headquarters in Dinant. Had you not done so, but concentrated all your efforts on getting the unit back across, could you have done so?”
Peiper thought, not wishing to dodge the responsibility. “It is possible, sir, but …”
“Enough. It was a great sacrifice, but one that was necessary. The one part that we did not plan for was to have two-thirds of our attacking force turn traitor on us. For that, you cannot be faulted as a commanding officer. You did the best you could.” Himmler turned back to his desk, and picked up two boxes.
“For your heroism in confronting the potential mutiny at Sixth Army headquarters, for your daring raid on Army Group B headquarters, and your exceptional work in the near-extrication of the LSSAH from an impossible situation, I award you Swords for your Knights Cross,” Himmler said, snapping open the first box and handing it to Peiper.
Peiper took the box. “Sir, I—I … Thank you, mein Führer!”
“And now for your next assignment, for our war goes on, and brave men are needed many places at once. The Das Reich division has a new commanding officer, Gruppenführer Werner Ostendorff. I am promoting you to standartenführer and assigning you as second-in-command of Das Reich.” The Second SS Panzer Division was known as “Das Reich.” Himmler handed Peiper the second box. In it were new collar insignia for his new rank as SS colonel. “It’s time for us to worry about the Slavs again,” Himmler said.
HEADQUARTERS, SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, WLOCLAWEK, POLAND, 2255 HOURS GMT
Colonel Krigoff walked through the quiet bivouac of the army headquarters. His boots crunched the brittle frost on the ground, and his breath steamed in the air. Tents were pitched all around the wide field, shelters for the enlisted men and lesser officers of the army’s intelligence section, while the large farmhouse occupied by the generals was shuttered tightly, smoke puffing from the chimney.
Krigoff knew that General Yeremko was in there. The commander of the battalion had disappeared through the door hours ago, leaving the real work to his underlings. No doubt he had finished his vodka and gone to sleep. The colonel grimaced in disgust; he knew there was still work to do, and it would fall to him to take care of it.
He entered the communications trailer, and the enlisted radio operator, knowing Krigoff’s routine, made a polite excuse and departed. The colonel sat down and tapped out his message, his daily report about the operations of the tank army.
DESTINATION MOSCOW
KREMLIN, SECTION 34
TO THE ATTENTION OF POLITICAL MARSHAL NIKOLAY BULGANIN
RE: PROGRESS OF SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, 3 FEBRUARY 1945
COMRADE BULGANIN:
OUR FORCES MADE SIGNIFICANT HEADWAY THROUGH THE CRUMBLING DEFENSES OF THE NAZIS. AFTER STRIKING WESTWARD ALONG THE NORTH BANK OF THE VISTULA SINCE WARSAW, GENERAL PETROVSKY HAS AT LAST BEGUN TO SEND SPEARHEADS SOUTH OF THE RIVER, THOUGH THESE CROSSINGS ARE ACCOMPLISHED ONLY WITH GREAT PREPARATION AND VERY DELIBERATE PROCEDURES—PROCEDURES THAT, AS USUAL, SEEM INCLINED TO PRESERVE THE LIVES OF THE MEN AT THE COST OF THE SPEED OF THE ADVANCE.
HOWEVER, IT MUST BE REPORTED THAT THE ENEMY IS YIELDING TO US IN EVERY SECTOR OF THE FRONT. WE MAINTAIN A SPEARHEAD THAT SEEMS TO BE SPLITTING BETWEEN THE FORCES OF NAZI ARMY GROUP A AND ARMY GROUP CENTRE. THERE IS AN EXPECTATION THAT COMRADE GENERAL ROKOSSOVSKY’S NORTHERN THRUST WILL ISOLATE THE LATTER FORMATION IN THE VICINITY OF EAST PRUSSIA BEFORE THE END OF THE MONTH. INDEED, THAT ESTIMABLE GENERAL SEEMS DETERMINED TO ACCOMPLISH THIS ENCIRCLEMENT, THOUGH HE IS REMINDED REGULARLY BY HIS COMMISSAR SECTION THAT THE TRUE OBJECTIVE OF THIS CAMPAIGN IS THE CAPTURE OF BERLIN. AS HAS HAPPENED SO OFTEN IN THIS GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR, THE EFFORTS OF THE MILITARY MEN SEEM TO LIE IN DIRECTIONS THAT ARE NOT NECESSARILY IN FULL COORDINATION WITH THE AIMS OF THE STATE, AND THE CHAIRMAN.
OUR OWN FORCES, UNDER COMRADE MARSHAL ZHUKOV, HAVE MAINTAINED A STRONG AXIS IN THE DIRECTION OF BERLIN. INDEED, IT IS THE FRONT COMMANDER HIMSELF, I BELIEVE, WHO HAS FINALLY PRESSED COMRADE GENERAL PETROVSKY INTO PUSHING ELEMENTS OF HIS ARMY ACROSS THE VISTULA—FOR THAT IS BUT A PRELIMINARY OBSTACLE TO OUR CARRYING THE WAR INTO THE HEART OF THE NAZI HOMELAND.
I KNOW THAT YOU WILL AVAIL YOURSELF OF STATISTICS REGARDING PERSONNEL LOSSES AND TERRITORIAL GAINS AS PROVIDED BY THE COMMISSAR SECTION, SO AS USUAL I WILL NOT BURDEN YOU WITH THOSE DETAILS—EXCEPT AS TO REPORT THAT THE CITY OF WLOCLAWEK (ACROSS THE VISTULA FROM OUR CURRENT POSITION) SEEMS POORLY DEFENDED, AND RIPE FOR LIBERATION. THERE, UNLIKE IN WARSAW, THE ELEMENTS OF POLISH RESISTANCE SEEM TO EXHIBIT A BENT OF PROPER COMMUNIST IDEOLOGY; IT MAY BE THAT WE SHALL BE ABLE TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THAT, AND EMPLOY THESE MEN AS WILLING AND PRESUMPTIVELY LOYAL ALLIES TO OUR OWN OCCUPATION.
FROM HERE, THE LINE OF POZNAN–KUSTRIN-AN-DER-ODER-BERLIN LIES BEFORE US. I SHALL ENDEAVOR TO UPDATE YOU DAILY, INSOFAR AS POSSIBLE, AS SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY FOLLOWS THIS LINE, DRIVING LIKE A SPEAR INTO THE VERY HEART OF THE THIRD REICH.
SIGNED: POLKOVNIK ALEXIS PETROVICH KRIGOFF,
DEPUTY CHIEF OF INTELLIGENCE,
SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY
After he sent the message he sat back, thinking. He went to the door and looked out, studying the house where General Yeremko was sleeping. Krigoff could almost hear the old man snoring, and he spit into the snow in disgust. There was much work to do, and it saddened him that such a tired old fool was nominally in charge of those tasks.
How long would that state of affairs last? Krigoff pondered the question, and slowly a sly smile crept onto his face. The communications sergeant looked at him quizzically, wondering if he should return to his post, but the colonel of intelligence held up a hand: Wait.
Still thinking about Yeremko, Krigoff went back to the radio and took the seat. He reached forward to begin a new transmission:
For the eyes of the Chairman, alone …
5 FEBRUARY 1945
419TH ARMORED INFANTRY BATTALION, FOURTH ARMORED DIVISION, WESER RIVER, GERMANY, 0934 HOURS GMT
“What the hell do you mean, ‘deploying your infantry’?” demanded George Patton, his reed-thin voice grating through the headquarters company of Combat Command B of the Fourth Armored. All the work came to a standstill as officers and enlisted men alike stared in awe and fear at the army commander. “Are all of your tanks out of gas?”
“No, General!” snapped the colonel in charge. To his credit, he glared at the army commander, allowing no hint of hesitation in his voice. “But there is at least one Tiger dug in down there, covering the approach to the river and the bridge. We have a better chance of taking him out with a flanking maneuver than a direct attack. The terrain is no good for tanks, so the only way to get around the son of a bitch is to send men on foot. I’ve ordered the men to deploy with all possible haste—but I’m not taking the risk of throwing lives away when we can smoke the bastard out with a little patience, and a dose of tactics!”
“One Tiger?” Patton waved his hand at the column of Shermans on the road, halted now, with engines idling loudly. “You have twenty-five tanks I can see from here! And that’s probably the only fucking Kraut son of a bitch between you and Berlin! Now get moving!”
Patton felt his eyes bulging out, knew his face was taking on a sheen of redness that did not bode well for the health of his heart. He also knew that this was an effective look for him—it invariably provoked hasty obedience in whatever hapless underling he chose to fix those bulging eyes upon.
Thus, he was surprised almost to the point of speechlessness when the stubborn colonel refused to back down. “With respect, General, I lost ten men and two Shermans—my front units, with me since Normandy! And that fucking Kraut will pick off God knows how many more of them if we charge down the road. It won’t take long to get him from the flanks, to plant a satchel charge right on his turret, for Chrissakes!”
“If they don’t blow the goddamn bridge while you’re di
cking around with this penny-ante bullshit! We have a schedule to meet!” shouted the army general. “If you can’t meet it, then I will find someone else who will! When we get to Berlin, do you want to find the fucking Russians waiting for us? Colonel, I am ordering you to take that bridge—now!”
The colonel glared, trembling for a moment as emotions ranging from outrage to grief raced across his features. Finally he replied, his voice dead level.
“Yes, sir, General Patton!”
“Good! These boys of yours will get the job done. And dammit, you know that the sooner we can finish this war, the more men’s lives we’ll save. Remember, speed—always speed!” Patton barked.
The colonel had already picked up his microphone. He didn’t look at the general as he issued his orders. “This is Dogpatch One to all Abners. Get these tanks moving, on the double! Blow up that fucking Tiger, cross this fucking river, and get some miles behind you before the sun sets!”
Patton nodded, then stalked away from the compound of parked trucks, hopping into his jeep without a backward look.
“Where to, General Patton, sir?” asked his driver, the ever-loyal Sergeant Mims.
“Take me back to HQ, Johnny,” said the army commander wearily. He had a headache, and he felt tired all over. He shook his head. “I tell you, the wheels would fall off this goddamned army if I didn’t personally see that they were bolted on.”
An hour later the jeep pulled into the little village square where Third Army had established a command post for today’s operations. As they had done ever since crossing the Rhine, the men of the army HQ staff were constantly on the move, setting up a new CP every day or two so they could keep up with the fast-moving spearheads of Patton’s armor. More and more of Germany was rolling past beneath their tracks, and each day brought encounters with only a few stubborn Nazis, like the men in the Tiger back at the river crossing. But the roads were bad for the most part, especially with the country still under the grip of winter weather, and the rough terrain proved troublesome as well. All of these factors seemed to combine with almost malicious purpose to keep him from that cherished objective, Berlin.
“General, the reporters have been here for the last couple of days. They’re wondering if you’d have time for a word?” Colonel Wallace, the liaison officer, spoke to Patton tentatively as the Third Army commander hopped out of the jeep.
Patton looked toward the small group of civilians, notebooks and pens at the ready, who were standing outside of the small inn that was serving as the temporary command post of the army. “What the hell,” he snorted. “Now is as good a time as any.”
He stalked over to the group, enjoying the sudden frenzy as they rushed forward, flipping pages in their notebooks, gathering around like a flock of young birds hungry for a tempting morsel of worm. “It’ll have to be quick, fellows—and lady,” he added, nodding and smiling at the female reporter from Life magazine. “I have a war to win.”
“General?” shouted one writer. Patton knew he worked for the New York Times, and eyed him warily. “Do you think the war is almost over?”
“Hell,” barked the general, “this war is over—these Nazis bastards are beat, and they know it. Of course, we have some bigger fish to fry, and I hope we don’t lose track of that.”
“Do you mean the Russians, General?” asked another writer, scribbling madly.
Patton recognized the man, Chuck Porter—a fellow who had been a pretty straight shooter in his stories about Rommel’s surrender. Still, the general snorted contemptuously for effect. “You’re not going to get me to walk into any traps,” he declared. “Let’s just say, those bastards know who they are—and they better know that we’re coming for ’em!”
“Are you going for Berlin, General? Is that a clear objective now?” pressed Porter.
“Hell, yes,” he replied. “Berlin is Germany—any sonuvabitch with a sense of history knows that. And—don’t quote me on this—we’re going to get there before any cocksucking communist faggot even gets a look at the place.”
With that, he stalked toward the headquarters building. Colonel Wallace, looking a little pale, came trotting along behind.
“Lew,” Patton said with a grin, as they entered the command post, “I think that went pretty well.”
11 FEBRUARY 1945
BRANDENBURG GATE, BERLIN, GERMANY, 1104 HOURS GMT
It wasn’t until the huge, arched gate rose before him that Lukas Vogel finally realized where he was. He had been walking for years, it seemed, and for the last few days he hadn’t had anything to eat. His boots were worn through, his feet wrapped in shreds of leather that he had scrounged from a bombed tailor shop, and frostbite had chapped the skin of his face and numbed his fingers so that he could hardly clench his hand into a fist.
He had still been able to hold his knife, though. Two nights earlier, when Hauptsturmführer Friedrich had finished his beer and repeatedly tried to crawl into the bedroll with the young soldier, it had been the knife that greeted the older officer. Lukas hadn’t waited to see if Friedrich had lived or died; he had simply rolled up his kit and started trudging east through the midnight frost.
Now he was here. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed when he had first entered the city. He had simply kept walking, until his footsteps had carried him onto the Charlottenburger Chaussée and the great arch, symbol of German might, rose before him.
Only then did it occur to him that he really didn’t know where to go. General Dietrich had assigned him to the Hitlerjugend, the Twelfth SS Panzer Division, but for all Lukas knew he was the only surviving member of that unit—at least, the only one who hadn’t fallen into American hands. And of those prisoners, he assumed that most of them had been butchered, just like poor Hans, who had only wanted to surrender. Every time he thought of that boy, shot down in cold blood, he felt a burst of rising hatred. At first he had wanted to cry, but that feeling was gone … now he just wanted revenge.
He saw several SS soldiers standing casually around one of the pillars of the gate; if they were on guard duty, they didn’t seem to be taking their job very seriously. Still, their uniforms were a welcome sign of familiarity, and Lukas forced himself to an erect, military posture as he walked over to them.
The men watched as he approached. They looked like real veterans, unkempt but businesslike, Schmeissers slung casually from their shoulders, eyes hooded and wary. One of them who was seated on a bench took note of the officer’s insignia on Lukas’ shoulder, and smirked slightly. He pushed himself to his feet with almost contemptuous ease, and raised a hand in the Nazi salute.
“Heil Himmler, Herr Untersturmführer!” he said, as the rest of the detachment—a half-dozen strong—mirrored the salute and came to some semblance of attention.
“Heil Himmler—at ease,” said the youth, embarrassed. Looking at the sunken eyes, seeing several fingers blackened by frostbite, he felt like an imposter. Surely these men had been enduring the brutal Russian winter, probably as far back as ’41, while Lukas was still scheming for ways to get out of school. He had no right to command soldiers such as these.
But one of the others was taking note of the unit insignia on Lukas Vogel’s collar, and nodded in a manner of respect. “You’re with the Hitlerjugend division?” he said. “We hear you gave the Americans a hell of a fight.”
Lukas shook his head, again feeling that sense of shame. “We couldn’t stop them,” he admitted. “Tell me, are there any others of the division that have reached Berlin?”
The men looked at each other, shrugging shoulders and shaking heads before the original speaker—a corporal, who no longer looked contemptuous—replied. “We thought the whole unit had been wiped out on the Rhine. How did you get to Berlin?”
“I walked here,” Lukas admitted, ashamed that he couldn’t at least have come away with an armored car or a motorcycle. “I had to take a rowboat across the river,” he said apologetically.
“Well, you fought like men,” the corporal said.
“Are replacements gathering somewhere in the city?” asked the young officer. “I would like to report.”
Now it was the guards who looked sheepish. “There’s not much going on,” the corporal said.
One of the others spoke up. “Word is that General Dietrich is trying to muster a defensive force just across the river,” he said. “He has a couple of companies of SS panzers, a battalion of troops.”
“We’d be over there ourselves,” said the corporal, eager to explain. “Except we have orders to keep an eye on the gate.”
“General Sepp Dietrich?” Lukas brightened immediately as the men nodded in affirmation. “Thanks—he’ll know what to do. Tell me, how do I find him?”
“Pardon me, O mighty Untersturmführer, but what makes you think a man of General Dietrich’s rank and status will find the time to let you kiss his hairy ass?” The corporal laughed raucously, and the guards joined in.
Lukas started to get angry, but he was too tired and cold. “He gave me these in the first place,” he said, pointing to his insignia of rank. “For leading men out of a unit that was going over to Rommel.”
The corporal’s eyebrows raised, and the laughter stopped. “No shit? You actually know General Dietrich?”
Lukas nodded. “He was in Saint-Vith when we got there. He was standing on a corner talking to Obersturmbannführer Peiper.”
“Peiper? Come on, boy, don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”
“No, he was there. Lots of units were coming in through Saint-Vith. It was very confusing. They were trying to sort everyone out. That’s why he talked to me.”
The guard shook his head. “If that ain’t the damndest story—meaning no disrespect, sir. Well, perhaps the general will find time for you after all. And—hey, we really didn’t mean to give you a hard time or anything, but if the general has room for a few more men, remember us, okay?”
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 31
