Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  31 MARCH 1945

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, USSR, 1200 HOURS GMT

  There was no samovar in evidence this time, Hartnell Stone noted. There was no gift for the president, no exchange of jokes or inquiries about health. This was purely business. Josef Stalin sat behind his desk and waited, silent as a stone, for the American ambassador and the Presidential envoy to sit down.

  “Good afternoon, Chairman Stalin,” Averrell Harriman finally said.

  Stalin did not respond.

  After a pause, Harriman handed over an envelope. “I bring you a formal protest from the government of the United States of America. Your troops have surrounded units of the United States Army and are interfering with our legitimate operations. We ask and require that these troops be removed immediately.”

  Stalin looked at the envelope on his desk, then back at the ambassador. Finally, he spoke. “The People’s Army of the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics has moved into territory of the criminal Nazi regime, a mutual declared enemy of both the Soviet Union and the United States of America, in accordance with the laws and customs of war, and in accordance with international agreements and treaties made with the United States in Casablanca and in Teheran. We have every right to be where we are. Your protest is noted, and it is rejected.”

  Hartnell studied the Soviet dictator’s face. It was quite a contrast from their previous meeting. Stalin had previously appeared open and friendly, though with an inner core of steel. The man before him now was as stolid and unemotional as any cliché Russian—even if he was Georgian, not that Stone had ever met another Georgian to know what they were like.

  He looked at Harriman. Interestingly enough, Harriman, who could also be friendly and open in his manner, was just as stoic and rigid in his own demeanor—two mechanical men repeating tape-recorded comments to one another.

  Stalin continued to speak. “The State Defense Council of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics now has a message for the United States of America. In light of previous agreements with the United States, and in light of recent discoveries in Poland, we have recognized a new German government as the legitimate postwar representatives of the German people. This provisional structure, the German People’s Republic, has selected as its premier Walter Ulbricht, and as its capital, the city of Berlin. This new government has dedicated itself to the goal of rooting out German criminality and aggression at all levels.”

  Stalin looked severely at Harriman and Stone. “We are aware that another provisional government has been declared, but it has no inherent legitimacy. Until full and free elections can be held, the German People’s Republic will be the legitimate government in the portion of Germany now occupied by the Soviet Army. Accordingly, all foreign troops must vacate the city at once. The Soviet Army will provide guarantees of safe conduct for the withdrawal of forces.”

  Harriman stood up. “The United States of America has received your message, and I am confident that I can speak for the president when I say that this message is rejected utterly and in its entirety. Before I can speak further on this matter, I will have to withdraw for consultations with my government.”

  Stalin remained seated. “You may consult with your government, Ambassador Harriman. In the meantime, the status quo in Berlin and eastern Germany shall remain, in the absence of hostile or aggressive moves by your forces.”

  “Or yours, Chairman Stalin.”

  “That goes without saying. The Soviet Army will not commit provocative behavior. We do not wish war, Ambassador Harriman, but we will not allow our rights and interests to be trampled upon.”

  “Nor will we. Thank you for your time today, Chairman Stalin.”

  “Good day, Ambassador Harriman.”

  EXCERPT FROM WAR’S FINAL FURY, BY PROFESSOR JARED GRUENWALD

  The Siege of Berlin, as it came to be known, was a strange evolution in international relations, following as it did the five and a half years of near-total war that had torn apart the continent of Europe. The initial attack, a crushing blow delivered only to the German elements of the coalition force, was a deft stroke. To be sure, there were other casualties as the Soviet jaws closed around the city—several hundred American soldiers lost their lives in the short-lived defense of Berlin’s lifelines, and the Red Army suffered at least comparable losses. But none of the clashes resulted in the kind of pitched and bloody battle that begins a war.

  Once the ring had been closed, Marshal Zhukov—and Chairman Stalin, of course—was content to play a waiting game. He reinforced his encircling troops with tanks and infantry, and an almost incomprehensible massing of artillery. To the west of Berlin his troops established a line some thirty or forty kilometers wide, with entrenchments facing inward, toward the city, and outward, challenging the combined forces of American, British, and even a few French divisions, all drawn up to face the encircled city.

  But for nearly thirteen weeks, nobody moved, nobody attacked. Sometimes it seemed as if nobody even dared to breathe.

  There is little doubt that the Soviet juggernaut could have battled their way through the defenses established by Patton and his subordinate forces, should they have been commanded to proceed. After all, the numbers alone would have indicated such an outcome.

  The defending forces included the combat elements of some fifteen divisions of Third Army (four of them armored divisions), as well as three airborne divisions (two American and one British), and the remains of the three divisions of the DDR army (one, Panzer Lehr, an armored division). Patton had overall command of the encircled forces, all of whom were veteran troops with good skills and plenty of equipment. Circumstances on the ground dictating administrative matters, the entire force was called the Army of Berlin, and numbered some 200,000 combat troops.

  A brief note about command: Although Rommel held the superior rank, Patton was the actual commander. Most of the available forces were from Third Army, the supplies and reinforcements were all American, and Patton was an American rather than a defeated former foe. Nevertheless, face-saving had to be preserved. Patton was officially named SHAEF Commander in Berlin, and Rommel was Commander of the Army of Berlin, a shadow force. This role gave him the right to be consulted and the right to make suggestions. In a way, he was in the position of the Italian Commando Supremo who had been the titular head of the Afrika Korps. The difference was that while Rommel had little official power, he had the power that came from his knowledge and experience. When he spoke, others listened.

  Facing this embattled force, however, were no less than two Red Army fronts—each the equivalent of a Western army group including some three armies in its order of battle. More than a million Soviet soldiers, with nearly three thousand tanks and a similar number of artillery pieces, were poised to commence the attack at a word from Moscow. More Soviet units—two additional fronts in Germany alone—were arrayed to face the major presence of Eisenhower’s army groups. Here too, the Russians possessed clear superiority in tanks, guns, and men.

  As every passing day seemed to bring additional reinforcements into the line, Stalin for these months of the siege remained content to allow his advantage to grow. In the meantime, diplomacy and brinksmanship came into play on a grand scale. And the Chairman of the Soviet Union became increasingly frustrated, and puzzled, as President Roosevelt seemed utterly unwilling to back down—even in the face of such obvious Russian superiority.

  There was one area of military might in which the Soviets could not match the Western Allies, however, and that was in the air. The numbers of aircraft available to each side were approximately equal, with a small advantage going to Stalin. Qualitatively, however, the clear advantage fell to the Americans and their allies. The Soviets had no fighter capable of matching the P-51 Mustang in speed, maneuverability, or range; and by now the Mustang was the predominant fighter in the air forces of the Western Allies. The British continued to rely on their legendary, albeit updated, Spitfires, of course, and these, too, were superior to any of the Russian fig
hters.

  There were even a few units of the reconstituted Luftwaffe available for the defense of Berlin. By the beginning of summer there were some one hundred Me-262 jet fighters in service, with more coming on line—including full squadrons turned over to the US Army Air Force and the RAF—as the months progressed. (None of these non-German units, however, had entered combat by July.)

  Undoubtedly, it was this superiority in tactical air forces that allowed Eisenhower, with the blessings of Roosevelt and Churchill, to maintain the audacious program of supply and civilian evacuation that became known as the Berlin Airlift.

  The first supply runs, escorted by some four fighters for every individual transport aircraft, were made within forty-eight hours of the surrounding of the city. As the Red Air Force allowed these missions to proceed, they were expanded until a veritable bridge of Dakota transports, enhanced by British and American heavy bombers pressed into emergency service, maintained a connection between the city and the democratic powers to the west.

  The focal point for the airlift was the great hub of Tempelhof airport, of course, but there were many small fields around the periphery of the city, and none of them was overlooked in the vigorous efforts to resupply. For the first ten days, all efforts were directed toward bringing food and ammunition into the surrounded city. When it became clear that the Soviets would allow the planes to fly with only minimal interference, Patton—at Rommel’s suggestion, it is reported—began to use the return flights to ferry noncombatants out of the city. In this manner, nearly a quarter of a million people were carried westward, out of the danger zone, during those three months of 1945.

  It was a strange kind of stasis, unlike anything the world had ever seen before. Each of the great armies massed in central Europe possessed firepower and mobility far exceeding anything ever attained in the history of military endeavor. They were not active enemies, but the trust of their earlier alliance had been shattered by the Soviet betrayal of Summer 1944.

  Indeed, even as matters in Germany were held at a stalemate, Soviet troops were securing their hold in a host of countries, including Norway, Poland, Bulgaria, Greece, Hungary, and Rumania. Governments of Communist sympathizers were established, often with the dubious validation of rigged, single-candidate “elections.” And as Stalin tightened his hold on these formerly independent nations, it followed with perfect logic that he would expect to gain control of Germany—or at least the eastern portion of the country, including Berlin—before much more time could pass.

  On this point, and with commendable firmness, both President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill stood adamant. Emboldened, undoubtedly, by the knowledge—or the hope, at least—that the top-secret Manhattan Project was nearing fruition, the American president found the fortitude to stand up to Stalin’s bluster, and for a long time the future of the siege seemed to be very much a matter of conjecture and doubt.

  OPERATION FAT MAN

  30 JUNE–12 JULY 1945

  In recent years a new possibility—nuclear energy—has been discovered. Theoretical calculations show that, if a contemporary bomb can for example destroy a whole city block, an atomic bomb, even of small dimensions, if it can be realized, can easily annihilate a great capital city having a few million inhabitants.

  —Russian physicist Peter Kapitza

  October 1940

  30 JUNE 1945

  BERLIN, GERMANY, 0659 HOURS GMT

  Carl-Heinz Clausen pressed his face to the window of the Dakota aircraft, shifted awkwardly in his seat—his feet were jammed into a tiny space between crates of canned hams—and grinned like a delighted schoolboy as the panorama of the great capital came into view. It was his first airplane flight, and one of the most thrilling experiences of his life.

  He didn’t know if the field marshal had pulled strings to get him one of the precious seats on this transport. After all, a hundred kilos of Carl-Heinz Clausen on the plane meant a hundred kilos of ham, or dried eggs, or flour, or any of dozens of other precious commodities that were not coming in to the besieged city on this flight. And that meant, of course, that he would have to work hard to make his presence in Berlin worthwhile.

  But then, hard work was neither new nor unpleasant to him. Indeed, he relished the wholeness of his flesh again, the return of his strength, the capacity to make himself useful. He suspected that many of the prisoners who had been alive when the Americans had liberated Buchenwald would never again return to health—either physically, or mentally. He counted himself among the lucky ones, probably because he had been in there only a short time. Already the memories were starting to fade; instead, he could happily picture his daughters bouncing on his knees at home, or the walks he had taken through the orchard with Yetta during his convalescence. He could have stayed there, at home, for the rest of his life, and been a happy man—except for one thing:

  He knew that the Desert Fox was still at war. So, as soon as he had felt whole again, he had fussed and complained, written letters, even made expensive phone calls to the new provisional government that was taking shape in Frankfurt. Who or what had taken those queries he didn’t know, but three days ago the package had come in the mail: orders, and a plane ticket. He had taken off from Frankfurt before dawn, and now, in this dazzling summer morning, he was coming down in Berlin.

  Already the tarmac at Tempelhof was rising to meet him. He studied the soldiers on the ground. They had looked like ants a few minutes ago; now they were recognizable as men, mostly in American uniforms, though he spotted several Wehrmacht tunics among them. There were US Army trucks, hundreds of them, all over the place, and at least two dozen transports like this big C-47 parked around the edges of the runways.

  The Dakota touched down with a startling bump, then rolled for a long time before inching to a halt. Carl-Heinz followed a few other passengers, all American military, but there was a hold-up at the door of the plane. He heard some of the Yanks talking—“Do you know who that is?” “Really?” “No shit?”—before they moved on and cleared the steps. He had started to learn a little English while in the camp and in the hospital.

  When he saw who had come to meet him, Carl-Heinz Clausen suddenly found himself too choked up to speak.

  “You look good, my friend,” said Rommel, clasping his former driver in a bear hug as the man tried awkwardly to salute. “And I am glad to see you!”

  “B-But sir! Surely you have more important things to do than to meet a mere sergeant coming in on an early flight?”

  The field marshal chuckled at the man’s discomfiture. “Ach, we are in a siege here, Carl-Heinz. That doesn’t keep a general busy the way a mobile battle does. Plus the enemy is not now, nor has he been for three months, attacking. And in any event, there are other important things to do at Tempelhof airport. Give me a few minutes, and I will think of some. Here, can I help you with that?” The field marshal indicated the small duffel that Carl-Heinz had slung over his shoulder—all the luggage he had dared to bring on the precious flight.

  “No, sir! Thank you sir, but I can manage.”

  “How’s the gut?”

  “Seems to be good as new, sir. I can put away a plate of sauerkraut and schnitzel and ask for seconds. Don’t have all my old weight back, but for this flight maybe that is a good thing.”

  Rommel grew serious, looking back at the C-47, which was already being unloaded by American soldiers—black men, Carl-Heinz observed with some interest. He had never seen a negro in the flesh before the Americans had come, and they were still unusual enough that he noticed. He had become particular friends with a hospital orderly, a black man from Alabama, who shared his talent and enthusiasm for creating mechanical devices. Between them, they had gone through the ward making self-adjusting trays for soldiers in traction, wheelchair seat lifts to allow patients to get themselves in and out of their own chairs, and adjustable crutches to ease arm strain.

  Nearby, a file of passengers—German women and children, for the most part—formed a queue prepara
tory to boarding for the return flight. In the time since the plane had landed, at least five more aircraft had come in, including a big four-engine transport that was taxiing up nearby. More planes were circling the airport, with several lined up in the sky, approaching the runway in an aerial queue.

  “We don’t refuel them in Berlin, of course, because all the petrol would have to be airlifted in,” the field marshal continued, speaking with pride. “Instead, they carry enough for both legs. We get the cargo unloaded, the passengers on, and the plane takes off again. On a nice, clear day like this, we have them landing more than one a minute.”

  “It is a remarkable feat,” the sergeant agreed. He had already thought of at least three technical improvements, but decided they would wait—at least a day or so. The field marshal’s area had to be inspected first. Goodness knows what sort of mess he would find there.

  “But come,” Rommel said. “I have a car waiting. And believe it or not, we do have some work to do.”

  Wolfgang Müller looked up from his desk as the field marshal walked into the cluttered office. The supply officer was about to voice his vexation—the food shipments were still barely adequate, and he couldn’t even think about the medical supplies—when he recognized the man behind the Desert Fox.

  “Carl-Heinz!” The colonel bounced up immediately, coming around the desk. He pumped the blushing sergeant’s hand. “Now things will start getting done around here!”

  “Thank you, Oberst Müller. It is good to see you! I understand, sir, that you were the one who found me in that … place?” He remembered nothing after the fever began.