Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  “Really?”

  “Yes, if you’re interested, Colonel.”

  “Sure. Tell me about him.” Krigoff knew very little about Germans or Nazis as actual individuals.

  “He was only giving name, rank, serial number, but as he’s Waffen-SS, there’s quite a lot of information to be gotten from the uniform, you know.” Krigoff didn’t know, but he nodded anyway. Kraichin continued. “The Nazis we overran were the remnants of the Second SS Panzer Division ‘Das Reich.’ They were originally one of the most elite panzer units, especially in the beginning. But this man had an embroidered cuff from the First SS Panzer Division ‘Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler,’ which means he was in that division. His name is Peiper, and he was a leading Nazi in the Mscha campaign. A very nasty man.”

  “Good we’ve got him, then.” Krigoff didn’t care what the lieutenant was prattling on about; the man might have been a big Nazi fighter, but he was a helpless prisoner now, and the Nazi fangs had all been pulled.

  The lieutenant smiled. “I want to put him in for reeducation, sir.”

  “Why on earth? If he’s such a top Nazi, can he be bent to our ways?”

  “Oh, yes, I think he can. You know that Nazi stands for National Socialism, of course.” Krigoff remembered hearing that, but it had never really occurred to him to think about it, so he nodded once again. “It actually was originally a socialist party, until Hitler and his thugs took it over. They kept the name, even though they purged the socialist elements from within. They did keep a sense of dialectic and a bit of a sense of class struggle—all this nonsense about the Jews was a way to displace class hostility. Originally, it was anti-aristocrat, but the Jews were turned into a symbol of aristocracy, a hidden aristocracy, if you will.”

  “This is all interesting,” said Krigoff in a voice suggesting that it was anything but, “but what has this to do with your pet Nazi celebrity here?”

  “This man is already sensitized to indoctrination. Men like this don’t bend easily, but they do break. With reeducation, he could be turned into a good communist, then sent to work for the greater good of the proletariat, say in Siberia. He can serve his remaining days on earth helping to repair what he fought so hard to destroy. Justice, yes?”

  Krigoff nodded. “A little elaborate, but if it pleases you, go right ahead. Killing the man’s probably easier, but as long as you make sure your plan works, it has my approval.” It didn’t matter to Krigoff, and if that sort of thing improved his lieutenant’s efficiency, all well and good.

  He went into the stall and looked at the man. He had been handsome once, though half his face had been terribly scarred. His uniform was torn and dirty; his arm and leg wounds were open and festering somewhat. He might or might not live long enough to be reeducated; either way, he was due for a lot of pain. His eyes had gone dull, though Krigoff could detect a feral spark of hate underneath. He wouldn’t want to meet this one healthy and armed. No matter; this was one fewer Nazi with which the world needed to contend.

  He moved on to the next stall.

  LONDON, ENGLAND, 1351 HOURS GMT

  “Kim Philby a Soviet double agent? You’ve got to be out of your mind! That’s the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard.”

  “Nevertheless, Minister, the evidence is rather damning. He has passed a list of personnel on the Tube Alloys project to someone who has been identified as a Soviet agent.”

  “Nonsense. First, you must have made a mistake. Second, even if it’s true, I’m certain there is some sound, reasonable explanation for this. He’s probably running some complicated scheme for our side, you know.”

  “That is possible, Minister. In any event, we don’t propose arresting him, or anything like that, certainly not at present.”

  “No? Then what’s all the fuss about?”

  “If we assume for the moment that he is somehow working for the Soviets as a spy, an identified enemy agent is quite useful. It’s the ones we don’t know about who are really troublesome. We don’t mind Stalin learning of the existence of the atomic bomb—in fact, he was informed about the project in Casablanca by the prime minister himself. In fact, we might do well to have him believe we have more of them and that they are far more successful than may be the actual case.”

  “Mmm. Go on, then.”

  “We would be quite concerned if we believed Stalin—or anyone else—was learning how to construct such a bomb for himself, but that’s not at issue here. We’d like to make sure that Philby receives the information he seeks—suitably edited to meet our purposes, of course—and successfully transmits that information to the Soviet Union. We’ll monitor the document flow; now that we know where the drop-offs are located, we’ll slip in, copy and replace the transmissions between Philby and his Soviet contacts. Anything too dangerous can be stopped or edited. We’ll learn through our own intelligence sources there whether the doctored information is getting through, and that, of course, will be the final confirmation of Philby’s true role.”

  “I still say that’s rubbish, but I can’t fault the plan. Go ahead, then. If you find ironclad proof that Philby’s a traitor, then when the time comes, I assume you’ll take appropriate action against him.”

  “Yes, when he ceases to be useful.”

  “Dirty business, this. You’d better be damned sure you’re right before you make any move against Philby. I mean, do you know who his father is?”

  “Yes, Minister. Thank you for your time.”

  18 MARCH 1945

  HQ, FIRST BELORUSSIAN FRONT, FRANKFURT-AN-DER-ODER, GERMANY, 1008 HOURS GMT

  Marshal Zhukov looked grim, and Colonel Alexis Krigoff did his best to shrink into the back row of officers, mostly division and army-level generals of the First Ukrainian and First Belorussian fronts. They had been summoned to learn the details of the great soldier’s new plan.

  “The delay at the Oder has proved to be disadvantageous,” the marshal reported bluntly. “While the Nazis were fighting us tooth and claw, they were also opening the back door to their capital, inviting their new friends in the West to take up housekeeping in Berlin.”

  There was only silence among the gathered officers, all of whom had heard this truth in some level of detail. In addition to General Petrovsky, who had committed suicide as a result of his attack’s failure, two other division leaders and the general commanding the First Shock Army had been relieved, sent back to Moscow in disgrace. Krigoff had been more than happy to go along with the story about Petrovsky’s fate—a story that was remarkably close to the truth, when he got right down to it—and had reasoned that there was no reason to provide to the NKVD additional details on the general’s last confrontation.

  “Our latest information indicates that most of Patton’s Third Army has moved into Berlin; some nine divisions taking positions around the capital. They are accompanied by at least three Wehrmacht divisions under the command of Rommel. There are also numerous airborne troops, parachute and glider units, that have landed in and around the city—perhaps as many as four full divisions of elite soldiers. Marshal Konev—will you continue?”

  “Thank you, Comrade Marshal.” Konev, a square and stocky man with the build of a wrestler, fixed a glare on the gathered officers. “As you have heard, we are facing something like fifteen divisions of fascist and capitalist troops in the city itself. The American general, Eisenhower, has filled Berlin with these troops, and herein we may find the enemy’s weakness.”

  The marshal gestured to a large map that an aide had unrolled for him, the graphic image hanging like a tapestry on the wall. “This is the road from Küstrin to Berlin. It is fully blocked, and guarded by antitank emplacements and heavy fortifications. Here, here, and here”—he snapped his pointer to the north and south of the great city—“are strong defensive positions. Comrade Chairman Stalin has indicated that it is not his wish that we commence attacking the Americans in these positions.”

  Now his pointer trailed, almost sensually, along two threadlike marks on the ma
p, roads connecting Berlin to the regions of western Germany.

  “The enemy is bringing supplies into the city along the A-two autobahn and another road, Reich Highway Twenty-Four.” Neither of them is well protected, and if we can cut them both, the city and its garrison will be cut off from the rest of Eisenhower’s armies.

  “But the Americans are in a state of flux, and we must strike quickly, before the rest of their armies can come up to support Patton. We have two great fronts poised to commence the attack. But there is an additional consideration.” Here Konev paused for effect, and Krigoff—as well as his fellow officers—anxiously waited to hear what that consideration was.

  “The chairman, in his wisdom, has determined that this is not the moment to embark upon a wholesale war against the West. This is not a reflection on his faith in our prowess—Comrade Stalin has told me, personally, that he knows we would prevail in such a contest. Rather, it a question of diplomacy and timing. And besides, why should we go to the effort of annihilating the enemy, when we can attain the same geographic objectives with patience, and maneuver. Comrade Marshal Zhukov, would you care to conclude the session?”

  “Indeed. Well stated, Comrade Marshal.” The great soldier came forward and took the pointer, but he did not face the map. Instead, he looked at his men. “We will test the mettle of these Yankees,” he said, “but not with a direct attack. The key are these two roads, the highway and the autobahn, by which Patton is still connected to his headquarters.” Now he turned, and indicated Reich Highway Twenty-Four.

  “This road, to the south, will be seized by a paratroop attack. Intelligence shows that it is very lightly defended, logically enough since it is forty or fifty miles from our current positions. We have reason to believe that the Allies, despite their own use of the airborne tactic in seizing Berlin, will not be prepared for such a move on our part. We will drop a full division along the road, reinforced with a second of glider-borne troops. They will have to hold their ground until Marshal Konev’s spearheads come up, forty-eight hours after the drop.

  “In the meantime, my own front will attack—aggressively—in the north, and close off the last supply route into Berlin. But we will not trigger the next war—because we will not smash into American troops. Instead, we will hit the Germans, here.” He indicated the region directly north of Berlin, where a swastika marked the position on the map. “Rommel has three divisions in line here, and we will obliterate them.” Zhukov smiled, thinly. “This may be my last chance to kill large numbers of Germans in my lifetime. I intend to make the most of it.”

  Krigoff joined in the round of hearty chuckles that greeted the marshal’s gallows humor.

  “Attacking a day after our own offensive begins, Marshal Konev’s men will jump off without artillery preparation, as soon as the parachutists drop on the highway. There are few American troops that far south—yet—and any that he encounters will be brushed aside. The First Ukrainian Front will sweep around the city to the south, while my own Belorussian Front with take the northern route. In less than three day’s time, we will meet between these two roads.”

  The marshal waited as the officers absorbed the plan, murmurs of approval rumbling quietly from one man to the next. The scheme was elegant, and did not seem to require a great deal of murderous combat. Rather, it required a certain element of finesse that had not been a character of Red Army operations. Still, Krigoff felt certain that it would work. And once those fifteen divisions were trapped in Berlin, he could see that the Soviet Union would have a very strong bargaining position.

  Krigoff returned to the division HQ, which occupied the same tent compound as a week earlier, when Petrovsky had killed himself. The new CO was General Benko, who had been Petrovsky’s XO, and he looked up nervously as the colonel of intelligence came into the room. He had been treating Krigoff with considerable respect, ever since his promotion, and the young officer was pleased with this development.

  “What did Comrade Marshal Zhukov have to say?” asked Benko deferentially.

  Krigoff explained the plan as he remembered it, knowing that the front’s official marching orders would be coming soon. “I expect that we will be in the secondary wave of advance,” he guessed. “Since the main thrust of our attack will come from south of here, near Frankfurt-an-der-Oder. With luck, we will have a key role in closing the trap around the Yankee dogs.”

  “Yes, yes! That would be splendid, indeed,” agreed the general, who then remembered some matters requiring his urgent attention and beat a hasty retreat.

  Krigoff found Paulina in the officers’ mess tent, where, since the incident with Petrovsky, she had been warmly welcomed by the men.

  “Comrade Colonel!” she said, her one eye brightening at Krigoff’s entrance.

  He felt a great happiness at her reaction, an immense outpouring of gratitude for her loyalty, courage … and, to be truthful with himself, with her discretion. She had never rebuked him for his blatant explosion of fear when it looked as though Petrovsky had been ready to shoot the colonel. If she had noticed his shameful wetting of himself—he had tried to mask his stained trousers with the ubiquitous mud—she had never mentioned the fact.

  “Come with me,” he said, gallantly offering her his arm. He led her from the dark, smoky tent and into the cold night. The stars were bright in the cloudless sky, and he gestured toward the river, unseen but felt by both of them from the dense mist that seemed to be rising from the ground.

  “Soon,” he said, relishing the squeeze of her fingers on his arm. “Soon, we will cross that river, and then the war will be won.”

  21 MARCH 1945

  REICHSTAG BUILDING, THIRD ARMY HEADQUARTERS, 1222 HOURS GMT

  The crump of artillery was distant, but deep and resonant enough to indicate a truly massive bombardment. Reports started to filter into Third Army headquarters in the middle of the morning, and by the time, a few hours later, that General Patton came down the wide hall to the great conference room, there were dispatches arriving almost on a minute by minute basis.

  “What’s the word?” asked the army commander, displaying a fierce scowl. His trousers were spattered with mud, from the personal reconnaissance he had performed for half the morning. He had been unable to confirm the full scope of the attack, so had returned to HQ for a full briefing. Most of his division commanders were here, as were Looie Brereton—overall commander of the Airborne Corps—and Max Taylor and Jim Gavin, the division COs of the 101st and Eighty-second Airborne, respectively. Von Manteuffel was here, too, representing the Germans; Patton knew that Rommel would be out in the field, checking firsthand on the situation as it developed.

  “Well?” Patton snapped finally, his voice rising into an irritated squawk. “Who’s going to be first with the bad news—or is there anything good to report?”

  “It’s a concentrated attack against Rommel’s men,” Reid Sanger told him bluntly.

  General Patton looked at the map that had been hastily spread across the broad table. Sanger indicated the area directly north of the city. “Judging by the artillery concentration, they’re coming with at least an army. They have their guns lined up practically wheel to wheel for a twenty-mile front here. They have an aggressive combat air patrol up, and our recon aircraft have been reluctant to fly into that nest of Sturmoviks and MiGs. Not to mention some Curtises and a few other planes that came from the good ol’ USA.”

  “Ah, Lend Lease,” Patton said sarcastically. “Kind of changes the tone of it, when that stuff is shooting at us now. But we have to sleep in the bed we’ve got.” He turned his attention back to the map.

  “We need more protection on that flank,” he said curtly. He directed his remarks at General Brereton, who was in command of the Seventeenth Airborne Corps, including all of the parachute and glider troops that had dropped into the city. “Do you have the Hundred-and-first available, to move up to support Rommel?”

  “Well, we’d leave a gap on the northwest quadrant. I can get them in motion,
but you’ll need to bring someone else up to fill the gap.”

  “Dammit!” snapped Patton. “We don’t have anyone else! Hell, there are a thousand Russian tanks just east of Berlin, and another thousand to the southeast. If we start jockeying our defenses around, we’ll just weaken another sector.”

  The Third Army general gritted his teeth, and tried to swallow his immense frustration. This was not the kind of operation he favored: a relatively static defense against crushing attack. He wanted speed, maneuver, surprise! Yet none of those options was particularly useful in their present fix.

  Brereton spoke up. “I know General Eisenhower was concerned that, if Zhukov attacked, we would have enough strength here to trip him up—at least until the rest of the army group can move up in support. Can we do that?”

  Patton looked at the map again. “Max, if you can move a regiment up here, you can be in position to support if the Russkis break through Rommel and turn south.” The army general’s finger traced the line of the autobahn. “I have a feeling they’re after this road.”

  “At least we still have this Highway Twenty-Four down here,” Sanger pointed out. “Even if they get the autobahn, they’re still forty miles away from each side of our supply line.”

  The general studied that truth, as it was displayed on the map. “Yeah, they’d have to fight through Nineteenth Armored to get to Highway Twenty-Four. And with that distance, we’d have time to react, to give the bastards a real bloody nose. Any sign of trouble down there, to the south?”

  “No sir,” General Wakefield said. “I talked to Ballard and Jackson both within the hour—so quiet you could hear a pin drop down there.”

  “Well then,” Patton concluded, feeling a little better. He turned to von Manteuffel and spoke bluntly. “It’s a local attack, designed apparently to punish our German allies, and perhaps threaten part of our supply line. I think, for the time being, we will hope that Field Marshal Rommel is up to the challenge. Can you convey to him our best wishes for a dramatic victory—and ask him to tell me right away if he’s going to need more help.”