Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “The capitalists will want to discredit anything that we bring forward that does not suit their own purposes,” Beria observed.

  “True,” Molotov replied. “But this is a technical problem in the organization and dissemination of propaganda. It is not so much how to be objective, for in this case being objective serves our purpose, but how to appear objective. We must appear to be cooperative in this sphere even if we conflict with the capitalists in other spheres. I have people who can work on this and put together a good strategy.”

  “Very well,” said Stalin. “Do so. Topic two. Berlin.”

  Silence.

  Stalin laughed. “My comrades, it’s hardly the end of the world. It’s not even the end of the week. It’s only pawn to king four, and we can capture en passant if we choose.”

  He saw a nodding head among his generals and pointed to him. The general spoke. “Yes, Comrade Chairman, it’s true. Even with the bridges across the Oder destroyed, there is no longer any effective resistance. Our armies are bridging even as we speak, and soon we’ll have forces sufficient to envelop the relatively small Western force—a mere pawn, as you say—in its Berlin outpost. Our only real concern has been avoiding direct conflict with the capitalists, per our standing orders. That can change at a moment’s notice.”

  “Good! Very good! Now, I did hear you say that the bridges across the Oder were all destroyed? I think I recall hearing that one might have been captured?”

  “Yes, sir. Second Guards Tank Army, under the command of Colonel General Petrovsky, failed to take a bridge in time. The general took his own life right before he was to be taken into custody.”

  “Ah, I see. A man who understood his own failure. Alas, he should have remembered that his life did not belong to him, but rather to the state. Now, if it should be necessary to make the lesson more official, someone else will have to suffer in his place. Wasteful of him. So, you are confident that we have the military force to take Berlin. Can we hold it against the capitalists?”

  “Without a doubt, Comrade Chairman,” replied the general. “The ratio of forces is substantially in our favor, even neglecting the dictum that the defensive form of warfare is stronger than the offensive.”

  “But the capitalists outweigh us in air power, do they not?” interjected Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, head of NKVD.

  “They do, Lavrenty Pavlovich, but …” The general shrugged.

  “We are already aware that the capitalists have large numbers of bombers and large numbers of bombs, and this has been taken into account,” said Stalin. “On the ground, our armed forces outnumber theirs by a substantial margin, enough so that we could push on to the Atlantic Ocean if we chose. In the air, we do not enjoy the same strength. Very well; we will not push our borders to the Atlantic quite yet. But how can superior air power keep us from taking Berlin, or holding it once we take it? Enough bombs to dislodge us from Berlin would have the effect of destroying Berlin, in which case the capitalists would take possession of a crater—a crater without Germans in it, mind you. Our forces would still be so spread out across eastern Germany that even very many bombs could not kill them. Perhaps I am growing old and stupid, comrades, but for the life of me, I cannot see much threat here. Can any of you enlighten me? Is there some danger here I do not see? In all sincerity, comrades, if you can find a flaw in this, let me know at once.”

  Stalin looked around. One of his ministers had raised a finger. “Yes, Viacheslav Mikhailovich? Please, let me have the benefit of your analysis.”

  Viacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, foreign minister of the Soviet Union, was old enough and senior enough that he could speak with relative freedom on these matters. “I do not think there is a flaw in your military analysis, Josef Vissarionovich. I am thinking only of the right steps to follow in the process. We can take Berlin; we can hold Berlin. The capitalists can drop many smaller bombs on our troops.” He shrugged fatalistically.

  “But following the Great Patriotic War immediately with another war with the capitalists of the West would not be my first choice,” Molotov continued. “When the cannons cease fire in this war, there will be much to do. We must rebuild here in the Soviet Union. We have missile technology from Germany, and I am certain that Lavrenty Pavlovich will bring us any new military secrets that turn out to be worth having. At the same time, we have accomplished two of the greatest foreign-policy objectives of our land, dating even back to the tsars. We have Greece, a warm-water port on the Mediterranean. We have Norway, for access to the Atlantic Ocean. In addition, we have most of eastern Europe, regardless of whether Berlin falls ultimately to us or not. We need a time of peace in order to take advantage of the opportunities these new lands provide us.”

  “Your recommendation?”

  “Encircle Berlin, fortify positions in eastern Germany, and make talk-talk. Make Berlin the objective you will not compromise, and eventually yield on Berlin in exchange for a fully demilitarized Germany, recognition of the People’s Republics of Norway and Greece, occupation of large portions of eastern Germany, et cetera, et cetera. Let the Americans and the British play the endgame of the last war. We shall play the opening moves of the next war, so that our pieces are in the most advantageous of positions.”

  “Comments?” Stalin asked.

  A senior general, a holder of the Order of the Soviet Union, spoke up. “Comrade Chairman, I want to go back to Allied air power again. Assuming for the moment that it is as superior as claimed, what if it were to be used not on our forces, not on Berlin, but on, say, Moscow?”

  “I will speak to that,” replied Molotov. Stalin nodded.

  “That is certainly a military option, Comrade General. From a diplomatic perspective, it would be a declaration of full-scale war between the capitalist West and the Soviet Union. A struggle for Berlin, even if it should turn into a battle, could be localized at a level short of a full-scale war. For the reasons I just outlined, that is not only in the current best interests of the Soviet Union, but for similar reasons is in the current best interests of the capitalists as well. They will want to sell us tools and machinery for our rebuilding, for we are that most precious thing, a market.”

  Molotov took a sip of water and continued. “The capitalists can bomb Moscow when they choose, as we are at liberty to send our bombers against Paris or London at a whim. However, such an act would be a declaration of total war, of the sort that could not be contained once it had been unleashed. I do not believe they wish this, at least at the present time.”

  The old general looked at the foreign minister. “I do not mean to give offense, but did you not have the same opinion about Germany?”

  Everyone at the table watched the two men. This was turning into a serious duel. Men had lost their lives for less. Molotov’s face had gone expressionless. “Comrade General, in the matter of Adolf Hitler, I made a mistake. I was aware that he was a treacherous snake. I was not aware, unfortunately, that he was a stupid svoloch.” The untranslatable Russian insult had a meaning somewhere on the spectrum between “jerk” and “asshole,” and was not the sort of word normally heard in meetings of the State Defense Committee. “I thought he would have attacked us earlier in the year, or failing that, I thought we would be safe until the next year. I could not imagine him stupid enough to forget our fine ally General Winter. Perhaps I am wrong this time, but I do not see our capitalist opponents having the same level of stupidity as our late unlamented führer.” He looked around the table. “It is my opinion that they fight for Berlin or they do not fight for Berlin, but they do not start a wholesale war with the Soviet Union without substantial provocation or clearly logical gains to be had.”

  “Thank you, Foreign Minister,” the old general said. “Cogently argued.”

  Molotov inclined his head graciously.

  “Very good,” said Stalin. “This is a constructive and forward-looking approach. I am to see the American ambassador tomorrow, but I think I shall cancel that and put him off until the encirclement of
Berlin is complete. Then we will start talking. I am not yet happy with the idea of giving up Berlin under any circumstances, but I will consider the foreign minister’s arguments and let the situation move forward. Since the foreign minister’s recommendation is to begin by making Berlin a nonnegotiable demand, this fits the strategy so far.”

  Stalin’s eyes covered the faces of his attendees, reading in their carefully controlled expressions a sense of their real ideas. “In the meantime, the two fronts in Germany are to move forward with the encirclement of Berlin. Avoid direct combat with Western Allied troops to the extent possible, but move forward even if opposed. NKVD will step up production of diplomatic intelligence, where possible influencing negotiation positions of our capitalist partners. Physical takeover of Norway and Greece continues as highest priorities. Comments? No? This meeting is adjourned.”

  KÖNIGSPLATZ, BERLIN, GERMANY, 1229 HOURS GMT

  “Nothing like a good military parade, eh, Field Marshal?” asked General George Patton, grinning in boyish glee as he saw the column of Sherman tanks rumbling past the reviewing stand. The M4s were battered and war-weary, many of them showing the dents and scuffs that were proof of a long and bitter campaign, but these only made him more proud than ever. Following the tanks came a column of marching infantry, who began to sing loudly to the tune of the “Colonel Bogey March,” whistling the chorus between each verse,

  “Hitler, he only had one ball,

  Göring, he had two but very small,

  Himmler had something simm’ler,

  But poor old Goebbels had no balls at all.

  Frankfurt has only one beer hall,

  Stuttgart, die Mädchen all on call,

  Munich, vee lift our tunich,

  To show vee Nazis have no balls at all.”

  Rommel, who was long familiar with the bawdy songs of both Axis and Allied forces, pretended not to understand the lyrics. He looked at Patton, who could hardly contain his grin at getting away with the joke, then looked meaningfully at General Bayerlein, who was on the reviewing stand with him. Bayerlein nodded and spoke to his own ADC, who slipped quickly away. Bayerlein had once served as Rommel’s chief of staff, and knew well enough that Rommel would not stand for being shown up by the American general. That was well and good, for Bayerlein himself felt the same way. Following the example of his commander, Bayerlein had removed most of his own medals and insignia, all those containing a swastika—which,

  under the Third Reich, had included the vast majority—so that the German officers looked plain next to the bedecked Americans and other Allied officers present.

  “Indeed, General,” Rommel replied, looking innocently at Patton. “This is your Fourth Armored Division, I believe?”

  “Yes … yes it is. One of my best units, been with me since Normandy, you know.” Patton was slightly nonplussed that Rommel seemed unaware how Patton had pulled a fast one on him.

  “I know,” said the Desert Fox. “I remember them well. Ah, and here comes the Panzer Lehr.” The rumbling of German panzers followed behind the marching American infantry. He smiled, certain that a few seconds was all Bayerlein would need.

  Patton gestured expansively. “You know, those Panthers are nice tanks. I wouldn’t mind a company or two of them for Third Army.”

  “Perhaps you will have a chance to command them,” Rommel said. “It is hard to say what the future will hold. If you had told me two months ago that you and I would be standing here, side by side, I would have had you locked in a ward for the mentally unbalanced.”

  Patton laughed loud and long at that, and naturally all of the other staff officers in the bleachers joined in the gaiety, though they couldn’t have heard the field marshal’s remark.

  A company of panzergrenadiere followed the rumbling Panther tanks. As they passed the reviewing stand, they, too, began to sing. Rommel smiled in satisfaction. Bayerlein had picked up his cue properly. His soldiers would not take second place to Patton’s men, no, sir! He watched Patton’s face as his men sang the “Panzerlied,” the theme song of the panzer forces. He had a translator provide Patton with a running English translation of the lyrics.

  “Whether it storms or snows, whether the sun smiles on us,

  The day blazing hot or icy-cold the night,

  Dusty are our faces, but cheerful are our minds,

  Our Panzer roars in the stormy wind.

  With thundering engine, as fast as the lightning,

  Toward the enemy protected in the Panzer,

  Ahead of the comrades in combat all alone,

  So we thrust deeply into the enemy lines.

  With roadblocks and tanks the enemy slows us down,

  We laugh at the roadblocks and drive around them,

  And if he shakes his hand furiously, enraged,

  We search for paths that nobody found before.

  And if faithless luck abandons us one day,

  And we don’t return to the homeland,

  The deadly bullet hits us, we meet the fate,

  Then the Panzer is our honorable grave.”

  Patton looked suitably impressed at the marching men and the singing, and Rommel was satisfied that the honor of his forces had been maintained. Flags and bands came past next. Across the street, through the vast park of the Tiergarten, citizens of Berlin watched warily, relieved but not exactly joyous. Only when Rommel came forward and gave them a wave did they break into loud, persistent cheers.

  Slowly, still limping on his leg that would never quite heal, the Desert Fox followed the other generals from the reviewing stand. Berlin was theirs.

  ASSOCIATED PRESS NEWSWIRE, 1600 HOURS GMT

  FLASH/BULLETIN

  PARIS BUREAU, 15 MARCH, 1500 GMT

  COPY 01 VICTORY OVER NAZI GERMANY!

  DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS

  PARIS, 15 MARCH (AP) BY CHUCK PORTER

  WITH A TRIUMPHANT PARADE OF ALLIED TROOPS THROUGH THE STREETS OF BERLIN, THE WAR WITH NAZI GERMANY HAS FINALLY ENDED.

  AT 0800 HOURS BERLIN TIME, COLONEL-GENERAL SEPP DIETRICH, NAZI MILITARY COMMANDER FOR THE CITY OF BERLIN, FORMALLY SURRENDERED THE CITY TO THE WESTERN ALLIES, REPRESENTED BY LIEUTENANT GENERAL GEORGE PATTON OF THE UNITED STATES AND FIELD MARSHAL ERWIN ROMMEL OF THE GERMAN REPUBLIC.

  SIMULTANEOUSLY, COMMANDERS OF THE NAZI ARMY GROUP G, THE LAST MAJOR OPERATING NAZI MILITARY FORCE IN THE WEST, SURRENDERED TODAY TO THE 21ST ARMY GROUP UNDER THE COMMAND OF BRITISH FIELD MARSHAL SIR MILES DEMPSEY, ENDING FORMAL NAZI RESISTANCE IN THE WEST.

  SOME NAZI FORCES CONTINUE TO FIGHT DEFENSIVE ACTIONS AGAINST ADVANCING SOVIET FORCES IN THE EAST, BUT HAVE YIELDED TO WESTERN ALLIED FORCES TAKING OVER THEIR POSITIONS.

  CIVILIAN OFFICIALS OF THE NAZI REGIME, INCLUDING FUERHER HEINRICH HIMMLER, HAD ALREADY FLED THE CITY BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF ALLIED TROOPS. UNCONFIRMED REPORTS SAY THAT HIMMLER HAS BEEN CAPTURED SOUTH OF THE CITY NEAR THE CZECHOSLOVAKIAN BORDER. WHEREABOUTS OF OTHER TOP NAZI OFFICIALS ARE NOT YET KNOWN, BUT SHAEF OFFICIALS EXPRESSED CONFIDENCE THAT MOST WILL BE CAPTURED WITHIN A FEW DAYS.

  CONTINUED PEACE TALKS WITH SOVIET OFFICIALS IN MOSCOW AND WITH FRONT LINE COMMANDERS ARE TAKING PLACE AROUND THE CLOCK. SOVIET, BRITISH AND U.S. OFFICIALS HAVE ALL EXPRESSED THEIR DESIRE FOR PEACE IN THE REGION …

  MORE

  AP PAR 334639 RZ/021445

  16 MARCH 1945

  POW COMPOUND, HQ SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, KÜSTRIN, GERMANY, 1018 HOURS GMT

  The makeshift compound for captured enemy soldiers stank of blood and shit and piss and fear. Medical attention was not always available even for Soviet troops, so much less was available for captured Nazis, who were left to rot and fester in their own waste. The POW area was a commandeered farm. The holding pen was a barnyard, its fence reinforced with barbed wire and patrolled by guards. Some barrels filled with scraps of wood and leftover oil served as sources of heat; scraps and leftovers from the mess tent were taken over and given to the prisoners for their meals. The barn was used as an interrogation center, the milking stalls pre
ssed into offices where German-speaking interrogators took down information and made dispositions. Transport to more formal POW camps, reeducation centers, gulags, or other destinations would take place over periods ranging from days to weeks after the battle; there were numerous activities that took higher priority. However, as trains returned empty, loading them with prisoners took advantage of otherwise wasted space.

  Colonel Alexis Krigoff did not normally like going to the prisoner compound, because it was smelly and dirty, but it was one of the areas under his command, and proper military procedure demanded that he make the rounds periodically. He wore older boots and clothing that could get dirty, for there was no way to ensure that he could remain clean. Paulina had expressed some interest in photographing the prisoners, but Krigoff had done his best to discourage her. Although this process was fully in accordance with Marxist-Leninist doctrine, it was not something for the squeamish. We all eat meat and the butcher is a comrade, but that does not mean we would all enjoy seeing him at his work. Frankly, some of the necessary activities even turned Krigoff’s stomach from time to time.

  Lieutenant Jerozlaus Kraichin was just stepping out of one of the stalls. Krigoff could just see the shadowy figure of a Nazi prisoner slumped against a wall. He had been rather badly wounded, Krigoff could see, with damage to right arm and leg. Kraichin saluted when he saw Krigoff. “Comrade Colonel!”

  “As you were, Lieutenant. That man—an officer?”

  “Yes, very interesting, too. He’s a Nazi celebrity.”