Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “Actually,” Smiggy said, chuckling, “from what this captain is telling me—mind you, my German’s not so good, and his English is worse—it sounds like the whole of Army Group H has just gotten orders to hand over their weapons, and turn themselves in to the first Americans they can find.”

  Ballard whistled, and put down the microphone. He could see whole columns of Germans coming into view, far more than the hundred men of Smiggy’s first estimate. He’d seen plenty of things, good and bad, in this war, but this was one of the most memorable.

  “Move out,” he told his driver, and the Sherman started to rumble forward, as the prisoners were gathering themselves into long, disciplined ranks.

  “I’ll be damned” was all the colonel could think to say.

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC, 1630 HOURS GMT

  General Leslie Groves passed easily through White House security. It was, he noted with dry amusement, much less strict than the security surrounding several of his own facilities. He signed in, showed his military identification card, allowed the uniformed Secret Service guards to inspect his briefcase, pinned on his access badge, and waited for the escort to take him to see the president. He wasn’t patted down; he could think of two or three different ways he could have smuggled a pistol in. He had no intention of doing so; he always looked at any building with an eye to how its security could be compromised. It was part of his job.

  As he was escorted into a working office area, no one covered up papers or folders and file drawers were open. One file cabinet actually had its key sticking in its lock! He would have been giving out demerits, if not courts-martial, right and left if any facility of his had been so careless about security procedures, but then this was the civilian world, for all that the president was his commander in chief.

  The difference in discipline was one way the White House stood apart from Leslie Groves’ world. The other one that struck him most strongly was its age. The Pentagon, where Groves kept his main office, was brand new. All the facilities of the Manhattan Project were new. The White House was old. Not only old, but run-down, worn, even shabby. There were holes in the carpet. Areas of paint were peeling. Much of the furniture was secondhand. The upholstery had tears in it. The first time he’d ever been in the White House it had come as a great shock to him, a shattering of an illusion he hadn’t been aware he held.

  In the secretarial area outside the Oval Office, one of the president’s staff was fitting a stencil onto a mimeograph, an A. B. Dick drum-ink machine that had seen better days. She pressed the ink lever a few times and began to turn the crank. Dissatisfied with the first few copies, she kept pressing the ink lever, until suddenly the ink can burst, and thick black mimeograph ink oozed over the machine, her hands, and onto her dress. “Damn it!” she said, jumping back. “Look at this! My dress is ruined!” She ran out of the room to try to wipe off as much ink as she could.

  Grace Tully, the president’s personal secretary, had gone over to see what could be salvaged from the mimeograph disaster when she saw Groves. “Oh—good afternoon, General Groves. Sorry about this little mess. After you finish the project you’re working on, maybe you can turn your attention to copying technology.”

  Groves laughed. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s far too difficult for me. I’d better stay with simpler challenges. But I do agree there’s got to be a better way.”

  “I don’t blame you. The president’s running a little late today, but the people in there need to be shooed out anyway. Why don’t you just go right on in?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Groves replied.

  The chaos outside was nothing compared with the chaos inside. Groves had figured out that this was President Roosevelt’s preferred style of management, but it still seemed somehow improper as far as he was concerned. There were several conversations going on at cross-purposes, including two telephone conversations, neither currently involving the president himself. A large stack of papers resided in the inbox, and the stack seemed to be growing rather than shrinking. But what alarmed Groves most of all was the way Roosevelt seemed to have shrunk since their last meeting. He was failing fast. The human dynamo that once could thrive in the center of the whirlwind was now unable to control it, and the people surrounding the president could not step past their own individual agendas to serve him properly. Roosevelt had always refused to appoint a chief of staff, but he needed one desperately. This job was going to kill him, and he needed to survive a few more months at least. The way he was going, that seemed unlikely to Groves.

  He stepped forward. “Mr. President. I’m your twelve-thirty appointment,” he said in full parade voice, coming to attention, cap under his arm. Everyone else stopped talking and looked at him.

  He stared at each one in turn, and slowly, one by one, they made their exits. “Gotta go,” said one of the men on the phone, and the other quickly hung up as well. Finally, the room was down to Groves, FDR, and one man who did not budge. The man wore a Navy captain’s uniform.

  “Who are you, Captain, if I may ask?” asked Groves.

  “His doctor, sir,” replied the Navy captain.

  “Are you cleared for Top Secret, Captain?” asked Groves.

  “He’s cleared for anything I’m cleared for,” said FDR in a weak voice. “It’s okay, Leslie. I’ve got his firstborn locked up in a safe place.” He smiled. “Sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Groves.

  “We already know what we’re going to talk about, don’t we?” FDR said. He managed a slight smile. “I’m a little tired today, so I thought we’d cut out the middleman.”

  “All right, Mr. President. You’re going to tell me how much you need me to have the bomb ready more quickly, and I’m going to tell you how we’re already pushing ahead as fast, if not faster than humanly possible. You’re going to ask me to go faster, and I’m going to tell you I’ll do everything I can, but there’s only so much that can be done. Is that about right?”

  “I like the military mind, Leslie. Right to the point, don’t beat around the bush, don’t waste time. I believe you. I believe you’ll do the best any human being can possibly do, and I am as confident today as I have been from the start that this program is in the best of hands. Thank you Leslie. Thank you very much.”

  “No thumbscrews today, Mr. President?” Groves asked.

  FDR laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough. “I’m fresh out of thumbscrews. I’m going to have to order Third Army and the German Republican forces into Berlin, where they’ll be sticking out like a thumb. The Soviets will be able to surround them, and we won’t be able to shore up their position. There’s only one thing that will get them out, if the Soviets decide to get sticky about it. I can slow things down with talk-talk, but only for a while. Then, I hope I’ll have something available to use to pry them out. April, I think it will be.” He reached forward and patted Groves on the hand. “You’ll do your best. I know it.”

  “April.” Groves shook his head. It was an impossible deadline. The old man had twisted his arm again. Somehow, he’d have to find a way to shave even more time out of his project. He had no idea if it would even be physically possible.

  Groves looked at the dying old man in the wheelchair. He fit well with the shabby old White House. Yet this man had, through little else than force of will, shaped the greatest coalition the world had ever seen to fight the biggest war in history. He had, in the process, changed the direction of Leslie Groves’ life and made him responsible for the most complex scientific and engineering project ever undertaken. He started to chuckle.

  “Thought of a good joke, Leslie? I could use a laugh,” FDR said.

  “I just realized, sir, that I was only working on the second-most-powerful weapon in this war.”

  “Oh? What’s the first?”

  “I’m looking at him, sir.”

  LONDON, ENGLAND, 2000 HOURS GMT

  It’s been observed to the point of cliché that government agencies view their internal competitor
s with more dismay than their national enemies. When Kim Philby, officially employed by MI-6, the Secret Intelligence Service, needed to examine matters on British soil—the turf of MI-5, the British Security Service—on behalf of his true employers, the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, he knew that he was crossing into enemy territory, and would need to move with extreme caution.

  As part of that caution, Philby followed the sort of routine that would lull potentially suspicious observers. He left his office at the same time most evenings, unless a major operation was in progress or the work demands were otherwise unusually high. He ate dinner at one of a small number of restaurants in his neighborhood, Indian one night, a chop house another, a pub with two or three acquaintances still another. He had a walk after dinner, weather permitting, did some reading or paperwork back in his flat, turned out the lights at a reasonable hour, and got a good night’s sleep.

  He had enough variety to make a normal life, but not enough to give any hypothetical observer cause to work hard to keep tabs on him. Within his limited universe, he had eight message drops, twelve alert points, and three preset escape routes, should he have to leave in a hurry.

  Dinner and walk complete, Philby turned on the lamp on his desk, drew out a pad of lined paper, and began a methodical ticking off of points.

  He viewed his tasking with some skepticism. In the normal course of his duties, he was privy to a fair amount of daily information about the size and scope of Allied forces. While there was a substantial level of detail available only on a “need to know” basis, he didn’t need to know it for the purposes of his current mission, which was to assess the overall level of the Western Allies’ ability to take and hold Berlin against determined Soviet opposition. As long as the general information was reasonably accurate, it would serve.

  Were there major resources capable of affecting the outcome of a Berlin campaign not part of the generally available information? If so, what kinds of resources would they be? He began to jot notes as he thought. The first and most obvious type of hidden resource would be a secret weapon of some sort. There were always secret weapons of one sort or another under development. Most of them tended to fizzle out, which was the nature of scientific research. Of the ones that entered production and service, the majority tended to prove somewhat less world-shaking than originally advertised. A few, such as radar, were truly revolutionary.

  Another resource would be the shifting of forces from one theater of war to another, either delaying action on another front, or possibly discovering that the other front required far fewer forces than originally thought. The shocking surrender of Army Group H the previous day would allow Rommel’s army group and Bradley’s army group to move forward at a greater rate. Sir Miles Dempsey’s mostly British and Canadian Twenty-first Army Group, in the north—Dempsey had replaced the late Field Marshal Montgomery—still faced the German Army Group G in the north, but would tomorrow bring news that Army Group G had also surrendered? If not, perhaps he could find a way to complicate any such action, slow up any movement on that front. He jotted notes in outline order, checking them in order of action. For many items, he knew the answers already; for a few, he would begin his investigations tomorrow.

  Back to secret weapons. He jotted down a list of projects with which he had some familiarity. He could relatively easily check into the status of those projects; with previous knowledge came a lessening of suspicion when curiosity intruded. If there did turn out to be a secret weapon serious enough to alter the military balance, however, random questioning would be greeted with far less generosity. How, then, to probe for secret weapons without triggering a dangerous response?

  He decided on a strategy by knowledge area. For a potential field such as rocketry, for example, he would identify and call upon a well-known and elderly figure in the field, one unlikely to be personally selected to work on such a project, but one likely instead to be part of the field’s gossip chain. Philby had a well-developed sixth sense; it came with the job. He could listen to general chatter and from what was said (and frequently from what was not said) draw surprising amounts of insight.

  A famous contemporary poster cautioned against chatting with strangers. It read, “Loose Lips Sink Ships.” Most people laughed at it, thinking it a rather silly exercise in wartime paranoia. But Philby knew better. All he needed to do was be at the right party, in the right company, and idle chatter would form itself into patterns, almost as if by magic. And from there would come clues and eventually conclusions.

  By nine-fifteen Philby had finished his lists. It took him approximately ten minutes to memorize them, then he carefully burned his working papers and once again flushed the ashes. He turned his desk light off and his reading lamp on, then lit his pipe. He picked up Gibbon where he had left off the previous night, and exchanged the worries of the twentieth century for the challenges of the second.

  18 FEBRUARY 1945

  NEUE REICHSKANZLEI, BERLIN, 1022 HOURS GMT

  “You lying, double-crossing bastard! I’ll kill you for this! I’ll tear your fucking heart still bleeding from your chest and shove it down your throat!” Heinrich Himmler’s thin voice screeched his rage. His round, chinless face was red and swollen; his eyes bugged out beneath his wire-rim glasses. “You come here and sit in this office after suborning the treason of yet another of my generals!” The Führer of the Third Reich was standing right in front of Günter von Reinhardt as he screamed into his face. Himmler was much shorter than the aristocratic von Reinhardt and had to tilt his head back to look at him. They were close enough for bits of spittle to hit von Reinhardt’s face.

  “General Student’s change of allegience had nothing to do with me,” von Reinhardt lied. He worked to keep his voice calm, but firm, as he argued. “Do you think I’m the only intelligence officer or agent Field Marshal Rommel has? Or do you think I’m stupid enough to put myself in your clutches right after the act? Besides, even if it were me, do you expect our side to implement a truce during these negotiations? I note that Army Group G continues to fight in the north. Should I take that as evidence of your bad faith?”

  “Don’t talk to me about ‘bad faith,’ you contemptible little slug!” screamed Himmler in return. “You’re the traitor here, and so is your master Rommel! You’re an offense in the eyes of Germany! You’re unworthy to call yourself a German officer! You oath-breaking, lying Hurensohn!”

  Von Reinhardt could tell he was centimeters away from being shot. Having already been shot, he was not happy about repeating the prospect; on the other hand, a certain dread of the unknown was now missing. His chest ached terribly, and he felt faint under the physical and emotional strains of his position. In a way, that helped him cope better with his current situation.

  He looked at the screaming führer and was momentarily reminded of seeing Adolf Hitler in a similar rage. Fortunately, he was no longer subordinate to either man. Putting all the forcefulness into his voice that he could, he stated firmly, “This is business. It is not personal. We are resolving the future of Germany as well as the future of Heinrich Himmler.” It was the first time he had ever spoken Himmler’s surname aloud.

  “The future of Germany? National Socialism is the future of Germany! The Third Reich is the future of Germany!” Himmler’s tantrum, if anything, actually increased in volume. Unlike their earlier encounter, this temper was not faked, not calculated. That was dangerous for everyone concerned.

  “That may be so, but the future you are discussing is a long-term future, not a short-term one. If you do not manage the short term correctly, there will not be a long term. Do you want to save your cause and save your life?”

  The discipline of difficult negotiation was to focus on the interest of the other party, not merely on one’s own interest. Only if the other party saw an advantage to be obtained could a negotiated solution possibly work. An angry opponent was a disadvantage to both sides because an angry opponent was often more interested in harming the other party than in helping
himself. The Nazis had always been more interested in hurting their enemies than in helping themselves. That was one of their fatal flaws.

  “I don’t need your help to save National Socialism, you treasonous, scheming bastard! I’ll make you pay for this! You’ll beg me to die before it’s over!”

  “What will Rommel do if he has to kill Germans in order to reach Berlin and take over? What will he do to you if he gets his hands on you? You ordered him killed, remember?” When an adversary crowds your personal space, it may be cultural, it may be deliberate, but either way, one must never back up. Move forward, bring yourself even closer.

  There—he saw a small chink in the führer’s armor with his last gambit, a flicker of doubt in Himmler’s eyes. He sought to exploit his opening. “You need time, you need resources to rebuild, you need to escape the trap of this city. It’s the only way left in which you can still win. Let’s work together to get you safely away. Rommel has an open road until he reaches the outskirts of Berlin. You don’t want to fall into Rommel’s clutches. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? Trust you! Why should I trust a lying traitor?” The screaming was weakening now. The question about trust was no longer rhetorical. “Prove to me that I can trust you” meant “I want what you are offering,” and that meant the game had changed once again.

  “You can only trust what you can guarantee, Reichsführer,” von Reinhardt said in softer, more soothing tones. “I don’t ask for trust, I offer proof.”

  “It’s a good thing,” grumbled Himmler. “I still don’t trust you.”

  “Of course not,” replied von Reinhardt. “This is business. That’s why you were smart to have Peiper open this channel in the first place. You’ve always understood what’s at stake.” Flattery is inexpensive. The smarter the other person feels, the more relaxed he becomes, the more receptive to the process.