The Valkyrie Option

by Markus Reichardt

  Having taken Dietrich along the route of their previous conversation once more, Rommel felt comfortable that the Waffen-SS Colonel-General would support any order withdrawing his forces to fight another day on military grounds. But this move would not be possible as long as Hitler's orders stood. And the Führer would not change his mind. Caught between his devotion to his leader and his duty to his nation, Rommel had made a choice. Now he needed to make Sepp Dietrich, the first soldier of the Waffen-SS, make that same choice. There was no subtle way to breach this to the down-to-earth Bavarian.

  'What would you say if I chose to withdraw the frontline despite the Führer's orders. We would have the depth of field to manoeuvre. Better still if we could make a deal with the Allies we could concentrate on the real enemy of Germany - Soviet Bolshevism.' Rommel had spoken softly but insistently. "There is only a small window of opportunity left. We can only do this while the front still holds. If we try and do this once the allies have punched through, history and our people will judge us harshly. Our own people will talk of a stab in the back; a repeat of the legend of 1918.' Dietrich still stood there looking at his commander, his hard dark eyes hiding the torrent of emotions that swept through his mind. As always when he was nervous his left hand rubbed the wrist of his right behind his back.

  He remembered the days of 1918 when the Imperial German Army undefeated in the field had been forced to cede the field of battle due to the sudden collapse of the country's food and energy supply under the Allied blockade. The angry soldiers had talked about a stab in the back that had deprived them of victory. In 1918 he, like so many others had blamed the 'gutless civilian politicians' and joined the ranks of the right-wing militia and later the Nazi Party whose leader Adolf Hitler had promised to restore the nation's honour. Rommel was talking about a move against the man who had restored Germany's honour - the Führer. He had sworn a blood oath to lay down his life for the leader of the Third Reich. Was Hitler still upholding Germany's honour; was he looking after her long-term interests? If a move against him went wrong and the country plunged into civil war, the nation would be destroyed and it would forever blame those who tried and failed. His answer could prevent that civil war. At that moment Dietrich felt that allegiance to Hitler was depriving him of asking God for guidance. There was no one; he had to make a choice.

  Rommel was so fixated on Dietrich that he had not noticed Lang and Panzer Meyer approach to within earshot. Neither could help overhearing the Field Marshal's next urgent words.

  'Something has to happen, Dietrich! The war in the West has to be ended!

  Both Meyer and Lang stopped in their tracks. Lang, aware of Meyer’s fanatical devotion to Hitler cast an anxious glance at the lanky SS-Panzer Commander who had just heard an officer proposing treason to his Commander. Instinctively Meyers hand swept to his sidearm. For some silly reason Lang suddenly found the death head on the collar of ‘Panzer’ Meyers black tunic very intimidating.

  For Dietrich, time briefly stood still. His thoughts returned to the image of his young men lying bleeding on the makeshift operating tables. These were men, many still boys whose loyalty he commanded because they knew that he would never let them down if he could help it. Most of them were not even 19 years old. Thousands like them had been killed, maimed or wounded in pursuit of the Führer's dream. A dream he had always shared. Recently however he had wondered about that dream, its viability. Was Hitler's dream still Germany's dream? His soldiers still unquestioningly did their duty, but did they believe in duty or in the Führer's dream? They were certainly dying for it in their droves. Sepp Dietrich was above all a realist. He knew exactly what Rommel was asking. The Field Marshal had just joined the ranks of Sepp's soldiers by placing himself into Dietrich's hands by asking such a question. Sepp's mind was made up.

  Ending the slaughter would mean ending the war. And in the present situation that would mean removing the Führer from office so that a peace could be brokered. If a peace would be brokered! The SS motto - Meine Ehre heißt Treue -My Honour is Loyalty - shot through his mind, only to be replaced instantly by visions of his men dying in the freezing wastes of Russian snow during the hard retreats in 1943 when Hitler’s stubborn orders to hold every piece of ground had cost the dearly every day they had stuck to indefensible posts in the name of loyalty. His men, now being cut to pieces by Allied bombs and artillery shells, and shredded by the tracks of Soviet tanks that had crushed the last German offensive in Russia. The image of Hitler demanding the stubborn inflexible defence which deprived him and his loyal men of their greatest advantage - the flexibility to utilize their superior equipment, tactics and courage. His oath, ...His men ...Germany ... they were his responsibility as a German officer. The soldier Sepp Dietrich straightened to attention.

  'You're the boss, Herr Feldmarschall. I obey only you - whatever it is you are planning. I am with you! He held out his hand which Rommel shook without a word, but with a brief nod. A reassuring glance from Dietrich to Meyer made the Waffen-SS Panzer Commander relax. Helmuth Lang let out an audible sigh of relief.[7]

  Fifteen minutes later, just after 4 pm, Sepp Dietrich watched the open Mercedes-Benz staff car carrying Rommel depart. The Field Marshall had given away nothing, no details, no plan, no timeframe, and yet he had extracted from the Waffen SS Commander a commitment to support what would be treason.

  Dietrich stood for a few moments, hands folded behind his back. He should have been worried but in truth he felt relieved. His instincts told him that he had made the right choice and Sepp Dietrich had never been one to fret over past decisions. He and the Field Marshal were in agreement on what needed to be done. 'Go for it ... and make it fast and painless.' he whispered more to himself than anyone in particular. With a last thoughtful nod in the direction of the departing Mercedes, Dietrich turned and went back to the immediate business of conducting a war.

  An hour later, 5 pm, Rommel’s car stopped briefly at the HQ of Panzergruppe West where Panzer General Heinrich Eberach provided an equally depressing report on the situation. He saw no alternative to withdrawal. The two men had met only twice before so Rommel proceeded slowly but soon the euphoria of the meeting with Dietrich took over. “General could you imagine that the enemy would negotiate with us as long as Hitler remains our leader?” Eberach was surprised but merely shook his head.

  “Things cannot go on like this, Hitler will have to go.” Eberach cast a cautious look to the door of his office fearful that Rommel’s last words might have been overheard. But he did not object.

  A few minutes later, Rommel, elated that he had won over the last of his major commanders headed to his car. “Eberach we will discuss details soon. I am relying on you. We must stick together for the sake of our people who have fought and suffered so much.”[8]

  As the staff car sped back towards La Roche Guyon, Rommel leaned over and smiled mischievously at Lang.

  'I've won Bittrich, Dietrich and Eberach over.' The young captain, whom Speidel had recruited for the resistance long before Rommel, was still too tense to do anything but nod. Not so his commander who leaned forward and patted Daniel, the driver, in the shoulder, 'Step on it. We need to get off this road and back to headquarters as soon as possible.' All he got was a laconic nod. But the car did accelerate. Corporal Daniel was a professional. Corporal Holke, the forth passenger, riding in the back of the car to keep an eye out for Allied planes held on for dear life. But neither he nor Major Neuhaus, Rommel's other aide in the car said anything. Rommel was not a chatty person by nature and appreciated similar people around him. For the next ten minutes no-one said a word. Rommel seemed lost in thought but Lang knew better. The Desert Fox had gambled again, gambled big and won. The young captain thought he could see the hint of a smile on the Field Marshal's face.

  Had he been able to read his bosses thoughts Lang would have been a very worried man indeed. Rommel had indeed secured Dietrich's support but in his own mind the Field Marshal was himself not clear to what end. Through his own Chief
of Staff, Colonel Speidel, Rommel knew of the preparations for a coup but opposed an assassination attempt on Hitler. He knew no further details, specifically not the vital question of when this was to take place. In his own mind such an attempt was plain 'stupid' [9]. The revolt in his mind should not start in blood in Berlin but in the west. The only hope lay in a deal with the western Allies. He would have to find a way to pull this, his greatest challenge, off.

  An hour later they reached the small town of Livarot where a military policeman signalled them to slow down.

  'Sorry Herr Feldmarschall', the tired, dust-covered MP shrugged 'The damn Jabos –the fighterbombers -have wrecked havoc with a truck column here. It will take a bit to clear the road.' Lang stood up in the car to survey the scene ahead. Among the charred buildings lay the remains of more that a dozen burnt-out Wehrmacht trucks, two still burning furiously. Allied fighter bombers had caught them as they had sought shelter in Livarot's narrow side roads. There appeared to be few survivors. The truck closest to the staff car seemed to have carried ammunition for it had been ripped apart by an explosion from within. It was lying on its side, one burnt wheel hanging loosely from the axle. The house behind it had taken the full brunt of the explosion. For a moment the young German thought he saw a pale, bloodied arm sticking out of the collapsed rubble. Possibly a civilian who had died in his own home, at the hands of men he or she would have welcomed as his liberators. War spared no-one. For those watching, ironies appeared daily. He sagged back into his seat and turned to the driver.

  'It might be better if we took another route.'

  'Wait' Rommel leaned forward 'Sergeant, is there anyone that needs transport to a medical facility?'

  'Sorry Herr Feldmarschall' a shadow passed over the MP's face. He was an old man who had most probably seen action in the First World War. 'There is nothing we can do. But thank you for asking.' He straightened to attention. His hand came up in a military salute whose crispness would have made an angry drill sergeant overlook the bedraggled state of his uniform. The blood on it showed that he was among those who had checked for survivors. Rommel returned it with equal precision.

  'Have you considered those guys?' Corporal Holke was pointing upwards towards the sky where eight Allied fighter bombers were circling at high altitude.

  'It does not look like they have seen us. We need to press on. Just keep an eye on them.' Major Neuhaus pointed to a map he was holding.

  'If we take this road on the left and follow it for four kilometres we will be able to rejoin the road to La Roche Guyon. It will take us via Vimoutiers.' Lang's mind was more on the Allied planes than on the road but after a quick glance at the map he nodded. 'Lets do it'

  Everyone kept a watchful eye on the Allied planes as they cruised overhead while the staff car dashed along the heavily wooded road. None of the planes seemed to spot them for they were left unmolested until they turned back onto the main road about seven minutes later.

  'So far so good' Neuhaus grinned to Lang.

  At that moment Holke' s voice rang out 'Jabos! Two of them right behind us.'

  Neuhaus who was sitting behind the driver leaned forward and pointed ahead. 'There 300 meters ahead is a road that forks off to the left. We'll be safe there! Go! GO!'

  Lang turned to look at the two approaching planes. They were British Typhoons - single-engine fighter bombers equipped with rockets and four heavy calibre machine guns. Flying along the road barely above tree-top level they looked to the Captain like angry insects. He gauged their speed and the distance to shelter. In a split second he made his decision.

  'Stop the car, Daniel. Everyone out! NOW!

  The driver needed no second warning. He stood on the brakes so hard that the passengers were all thrown forward. The heavy engine roared in protest but in Daniels masterful hands the car remained steady. Holke's lightning reflexes saved him from going through the windscreen. But Lang went crashing into the glass which gratefully did not shatter.

  For a split-second everything went black for the Captain. But then the sound of the approaching Typhoon brought him straight back to reality. He looked up. There was the first plane no more than 800 meters away barely thirty meters off the ground. Fire erupted from its wings. Fifty meters in front of the car the Captain saw the shells kicking up dirt. Everything was all instinct now. As if in slow motion Lang twisted around and saw Daniel already leaping from the vehicle into the safety of the trees and bushes lining the road. Rommel, his leather jacket flapping, cap flying, was doing the same.

  With a conscious effort Lang propelled himself over the side after his Field Marshal. Unbalanced, he hit the tar with a hard thud and rolled across the road. The roar of the airplane engine was now deafening. Through it he heard the hectic staccato of the airplanes guns and saw the fountains of dirt reach the staff car and punch right through it. Major Neuhaus had been the last one out of the vehicle and was barely a meter from it when the first shell struck home. One of the projectiles ripped through the staff car’s bonnet sending shrapnel in all directions. A piece no longer than a cigarette sliced into Neuhaus shoulder and neck. He stumbled before collapsing next to Lang, blood pouring from the severed cartoroid artery, eyes wide open in disbelief and pain.

  Before anyone could move the second plane was upon them guns blazing. Lang felt something sharp graze the base of his skulls as tar and gravel erupted in a line of deadly fountains no more than a meter away from the roadside ditch in which he cowered. He screamed.

  Then it was over. The Typhoons sped away leaving behind a burning staff car and an eerie silence. A panic seized Lang:

  'Herr Feldmarschall are you all right !'

  'Ja, Ja, relax Helmuth! I live.' Rommel's voice as always was soft. 'Neuhaus, Holke, Daniel, everything all right?'

  Lang rolled over to look at the Major. A large pool of blood had formed around his head and was soaking his uniform. He was dead. Everyone else had suffered only bruises and cuts.

  With blood seeping from a badly grazed eyebrow and deep cuts along the cheek, Erwin Rommel knelt next to his fallen aide, his knee sinking into the widening pool forming around the Major's head. For a few moments everyone stood in silence. Then Rommel reached out to shut Neuhaus eyes. Very softly Lang heard him say, 'I am sorry, Gerhard. Go in peace and be with God. I have some unfinished business here. We will meet again.' He reached into the dead man's tunic to take his dog tag. A last look at his dead aide, a sigh, and he straightened,

  'Gentlemen, it seems that we face a long walk. Let's Go.'

  Deficiencies in infantry officers now such as to seriously

  prejudice future operations.

  Note from 21st Army Group to British Adjutant-General late August1944

  Noon July 18, 1944.

  Blay, Normandy, Monty's HQ

  It was shaping up to be another, miserable, wet soggy day with insufficient sunshine. Even though the sides of the staff tent were folded back, you still needed lamps to read the papers strewn across the big operations table of British Second Army Field HQ. It was at moments like this when he felt the sandy soil of Normandy below his boots, that Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery missed the Desert and its sunshine. The changing seasons of the Normandy autumn were much less to his liking, and he had taken to permanently wearing a woollen sweater to guard his frail health. But the weather was the least of worries. That morning he had launched Operation GOODWOOD, a plan for all three British armoured divisions in the English sector of the Normandy bridgehead and placed under the command of General O'Connor's VIII Corps, to attack east of Caen along a corridor blasted open by massed bomber forces. The aim was to blast through the German defensive line, reach the high ground south of Caen and from there spill out into the great open countryside beyond. From 5:30 till 8:30 am that morning Allied bombers had unloaded thousands of tons of bombs on the German defences as more than 700 British tanks pushed forward. Montgomery had widely expressed his belief that GOODWOOD would bring the 'real showdown' to all his superiors and they i
n turn had responded positively to his demands for men and material to mount this operation. Following the debacles at Villers-Bocage and the failure of Operation EPSOM to take Caen, Monty, for political and moral reasons, needed GOODWOOD to result in victory more seriously than at any time since D-Day.

  Montgomery's Tactical Headquarters - TAC HQ for short - looked everything but the nerve centre for the British forces in Normandy that it in fact was: A group of eight caravans and jeeps closely grouped together around a large tent and superbly camouflaged as haystacks or trees and well removed from any major structure. To those in the know or with a need to know this group of oddly-shaped trees and haystacks were marked - incongruously - with a small portable flagpole flying the Union Jack. While American officer tended to select the most ostentatious billets available, Montgomery with his simple tastes found the surroundings perfectly adequate. Many in his entourage though felt uncomfortable being less than five miles away from on of the most powerful concentrations of German Panzer forces he had ever faced. [10]

  Sitting in the large camouflaged tent calmly observing the bustling of the staff in what served as his operations room, he patiently waited for reports on the progress of the advance. Monty silently fretted over the implications of another setback. During the planning for D-Day he had repeatedly harped on about the need to take the strategic town of Caen within twenty-four hours of landing. The town's airfields and role as a node of the Normandy's transportation system were vital if the bridgehead was develop any form of depth. Now here they were, nearly six weeks after the landings and still half of the town and the high ground to the south of it remained in German hands.