Thankfully, no planes were overhead this day. Volkmar had seen enough of burned trucks and charred pieces of bodies to last a lifetime. A lifetime, he giggled nearly hysterically. His own lifetime could end any second now.
The German army was a mob. Not only had so many been killed by the Americans before even reaching the front, but large numbers of older men had simply collapsed and refused to move on. At first he’d been inclined to call them cowards, but many were older than his father and they were simply too exhausted to move. When they found them, SS soldiers shot them in the back of the head and called them traitors.
No, Volkmar thought, they were not traitors. They were simply old men who were poorly fed, inadequately clothed, and so tired they were incapable of moving. Was this the Reich he’d been supporting? Something was wrong. Worse, in his opinion, so many soldiers in the so-called German army weren’t German at all. Instead, they were conscripts from various nations and whose loyalty was dubious at best.
Any unit coherence had also disappeared. Instead of a platoon, Volkmar was now followed by more than a hundred dispirited Volkssturm who had no idea who he was, only that he was an officer and he was taking them in some direction.
In the distance to his front, Volkmar could hear the sounds of cannon firing. He shivered. In a while he and the others around him would close up on the tanks and attack the Americans. Volkmar was sure he would piss himself again. This time, he didn’t care.
***
Joachim Pieper was a veteran of the war against the Soviets and, at thirty, commanded an ad hoc mixed corps of infantry and armor. His force was supposed to penetrate the American defenses, reach the Rhine, and then turn north, cutting off the enemy defenders. Other units had similar assignments. With luck and skill they would defeat the Amis and take many prisoners.
He initially commanded two hundred and fifty tanks and an infantry brigade. He now had only maybe half that many tanks thanks to the American planes. God only knew how many infantry still followed him. They were a mixed bag of SS, regular army, and Volkssturm, and he didn’t think the Volkssturm were capable of fighting. His armor was first rate, but many of the crews were inexperienced and had never worked together. It was a recipe for disaster, but he was hell bent on avoiding that. While he preferred to maneuver and attack simultaneously from several sides, his men’s lack of experience would not permit him that luxury. No, he had chosen the simplest way and would attack straight on and smash his way to the river. They would endure heavy casualties for victory, but that was a blood price that had to be paid if the Americans were to be driven to the negotiating table.
In an attempt to reach his goal as soon as possible, Pieper’s tanks had outpaced his infantry. It was unorthodox, but he had to hit his target before the sky cleared and the bombs began to fall anew. He particularly dreaded napalm. Fire from the sky had turned so many of his Panthers and T34’s into burning pyres. If the weather turned and cleared, he might quickly find himself without any tanks at all.
Pieper opened the turret hatch of his Panther. He’d been offered a repainted T34 but had rejected it contemptuously. He would command a German tank, not a fucking piece of Russian shit. He had named the tank Sigurd after his wife, who’d tersely informed him in a letter that she didn’t necessarily consider it a compliment. Pieper thought it was funny.
His driver looked up from his own hatch. “Any idea where we are, General?”
Pieper grinned. The driver was a good man who had served with him before. “Heading right towards the enemy and that’s all that matters.”
“Wonderful,” his driver muttered and Pieper laughed. Was there anything better than fighting a war?
Muffled by the rain, he heard the sound of heavy weapons followed by the chatter of machine guns. Somebody had already made contact. He closed the hatch. No sense being a fool and getting killed by a sniper or a piece of shrapnel. They would find the Americans soon enough, maybe in minutes.
***
Carter’s twelve heavy Pershing tanks were lined up along the dirt road a couple of hundred yards inside the forest. They would have been invisible even on a sunny day. He’d sent out scouts with walkie-talkies but had heard nothing from them. In the distance, he could hear the rumblings of explosions. The fighting had begun.
“Damn it,” he muttered. Finally, the scouts came running back with the info that the German army was passing them and that there was a very large number of tanks. How many, they couldn’t be sure because of the crappy visibility.
“Time to earn our pay,” Carter muttered. He gave the order to move out, and the column slowly snaked its way out of the woods along paths he and Morgan had marked out with white tape on stakes the day before.
In short order they were in an open field. Carter arrayed his tanks in a line and they rumbled forward very slowly. He did not want to rear end the German army.
Shapes began to appear in front of him. Men, and they were hunched over and moving in the same direction as his tanks. Jeb keyed his radio. “We’re gonna hit the kraut infantry. Use machine guns if you have to, but not our main guns. We save those for their tanks.”
The sound of the approaching American tanks awoke the German infantry to their peril and they turned to confront the apparitions emerging from the mist. Some were puzzled. Were these more German tanks? Others saw the strange shapes and the American markings and reacted by either running or shooting. An old man leveled a panzerfaust, but a burst from a machine gun killed him. Other Pershings cut loose with their machine guns and German infantry began to drop by the score. “Kill them and keep moving,” Jeb ordered. “Don’t take chances.”
He thought he could hear screams from the outside and over the sound of his engines but wasn’t sure. He felt his tank run over something. Christ, was that a person?
Large shapes were dimly visible. German tanks. But so damn many of them, Carter thought. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Hit them in the rear. Kill them quickly.”
***
Pieper was confused. What the devil was the source of the automatic weapons fire from his rear? What Volkssturm asshole had begun shooting his own men? Ah well, it was inevitable in such crummy fighting conditions.
At the same time his mind registered the sound of cannon fire also coming from his rear, the Panther to his left exploded. A second burst into flames, and then a third.
“Turn, turn,” he ordered into his radio. “The goddamned Americans have tanks in our rear.”
He spun his tank on its own axis to face the new threat. There, he saw one. It was bigger than any American tank he’d seen before and quickly identified it as a Pershing. There’d been rumors that the Amis had some in the area and they’d just been confirmed.
Several more Panthers and T34’s exploded or started belching smoke before his men could find targets and respond. The American main gun was a killer. The attack on the American defenses would have to wait until this new threat was taken care of.
***
Carter was appalled. What kind of hornet’s nest had he disturbed? The weather seemed to be lifting slightly and he could see maybe a quarter of a mile. More than a dozen German tanks were burning, but what looked like every tank in the whole damned German army was turning and driving in his direction. They were already within almost point blank range and this was going to turn into a street fight.
Reports came in that several of his Pershings were destroyed and there seemed to be at least fifty Panthers or T34’s headed in his direction.
“Fall back,” he ordered. They had done their bit to hurt the Germans. Now they had to get the hell out of danger. Suicide was not on his agenda. If they got back into the woods, maybe they could hide out.
His tank lurched hard, slamming him against the turret. “Won’t move, sir,” said his driver. “I think something hit a tread.”
“Everybody out,” Jeb yelled just as a half dozen shells from German guns hit his tank and turned it and everyone inside into cinders.
***
They could hear the fighting but not see it. Morgan leaned on the wall of the trench and tried to will himself to see. Something was indeed coming, but it wasn’t tanks. Infantry, and thanks to the mist, they were only about a hundred yards away.
“Open fire,” he yelled redundantly as everyone in the line was already shooting. Morgan put his submachine gun on the dirt wall and fired into the crowd. It was difficult to miss and men fell, but still more came in behind them.
The few strands of barb wire did little to stop the German horde and they swarmed over it and towards the American trenches.
“Bayonets,” someone yelled. Shit, thought Morgan, I don’t even have a bayonet. A screaming German was right in front of him. Jack fired a burst and the man fell back only to be replaced by another kraut. This one too went down and another ran at him. Jack pulled the trigger. Empty. He fumbled frantically to change the clip. Something slammed into his shoulder and spun him around. He checked and found that he wasn’t shot, but his bad shoulder had been hurt again. A German jumped into the trench and started clawing at him with his bare hands. Jack tried to fight him off but his left arm wouldn’t respond.
Sergeant Major Rolfe pushed Jack aside and shot the German in the head only to be gunned down himself by another. Jack took Rolfe’s rifle and tried to fire with one hand. He hit nothing and screamed as the pain overwhelmed him.
Feeney and Snyder appeared beside him, shooting and killing. Jack pulled his pistol and shot another German in the face. He pointed the . 45 at another who threw down his rifle and raised his hands. “Kamerad,” he screamed. Others began to scream the same thing and they too dropped their weapons and held up their arms.
All around them, German soldiers were surrendering. Not only that, the sun was coming out. He paled. There were scores of German tanks approaching his position.
***
Overhead, Phips dropped through the clouds in his Piper and saw the German tanks heading west. He radioed in his position and gave a rough estimate of their numbers, admitting that there were so many that a proper count was impossible. Finally, he exulted, he was doing something useful.
All the American planes in the world, or so it seemed, had earlier been arrayed on landing strips for this very moment. In anticipation of the clearing weather pushing in from the west, they’d taken off and had been circling overhead, hoping to God that they’d find targets before they ran out of gas.
Even as he watched, the clouds began to part. It was like a curtain lifting on the set of an epic play with him as a front row audience of one.
Time to get out of the way, he thought, and climbed to ten thousand feet. He laughed as he saw literally hundreds of American fighter-bombers converging on his position. He whooped with glee as they began their drops through the fading curtain of fog.
***
Joachim Pieper could also see his shadow. More precisely he could see the shadow of his tank, Sigurd, on the ground. Overhead they could hear the growl and whine of vast numbers of American planes. In a moment they would be through the rising cloud level and rain hell on what was left of his Panzers.
While he was annihilating the American tanks in his rear, his infantry had gone ahead and tried to storm the American lines. He could see the ground covered with their dead. At least they’d died more bravely than he’d suspected they could. It appeared that they’d made some penetration in the American defenses, but he could hear enemy automatic weapons firing. No, the Volkssturm and the few SS troops would not carry the day. They needed his armor.
He opened his hatch and looked around. Fewer than a score of tanks remained in his command. He looked ahead and squinted at something reflecting in the distance. Was that the Rhine? Was he that close to success?
A plane screamed low overhead and dropped a bomb. Two of his remaining tanks were engulfed in a sea of napalm. He paled as reality sank in. His tanks could not go forward. He had too few of them, but still, he could not stand still or retreat. The American planes would kill them all.
Another tank burst into flames. “Goodbye Sigurd,” he said, hoping he was saying farewell to his tank and not to his wife.
Pieper gave the order and his men climbed out of their remaining tanks and began to run to the rear. Maybe, just maybe, the American planes would pleasure themselves by shooting up abandoned German armor.
He’d gone only a few yards when a napalm bomb detonated nearby and consumed him in a billowing cloud of flame.
CHAPTER 26
The men outside Himmler’s closed office door stared in shock and horror at the thing coming toward them. The man’s hair was white and stood out in clumps on his head. His cheeks were gaunt and his eyes wide like a lunatic’s.
Otto Skorzeny had returned from hell.
When a female secretary tried to halt him, Skorzeny pushed her aside with surprising strength and entered Himmler’s inner sanctum. The Reichsfuhrer looked up. His face registered the same shock and horror. “Good God, you look awful.”
Two OKW generals were in the office and Skorzeny waved them out. They scuttled away like frightened insects. Skorzeny closed the door behind them. “And so do you, my dear Reichsfuhrer.”
Himmler had lost weight and his hands were twitching. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and stress. Skorzeny laughed. “You bet and you lost didn’t you, Himmler?”
Himmler was annoyed at the familiarity, but endured it. Word was arriving that the great and final assault against the Amis had failed disastrously. While a few units had indeed pushed through to the Rhine, they’d been small and few in number and the Americans had quickly annihilated them. Dietrich’s Reserve Army had been destroyed. The carefully husbanded armored force had been smashed by American artillery, armor, and waves of planes from the skies. Dietrich himself was nowhere to be found and there rumors he’d committed suicide. Von Rundstedt had also left Berlin, possibly before Himmler could have him shot. It was over.
“Where are you going to run to?” Skorzeny asked. “I hear Argentina’s a good place. Me, I’d prefer Spain. We have a good friend in Franco.” Francisco Franco was the fascist dictator of Spain and, although officially neutral, was deeply sympathetic to the Nazi cause.
Himmler blinked. Of course it would be Argentina. Perhaps a small-fry like Skorzeny could hide in Spain, but not him. He and the rest of the Nazi hierarchy would be welcome in Argentina where they could begin planning anew.
“Where’s Heisenberg?”
“Dead of the same radiation poison that nearly killed me. I’m getting better, or haven’t you noticed?”
Himmler sniffed. “Frankly, Otto, I’ve seen better looking corpses. A shame. I was hoping he would make us another bomb or two to use against the Americans.”
“Before he died, Heisenberg said it would take a large team several years to construct another one, assuming we had the resources, which we don’t.”
“You’re right, we don’t. But there’s always a chance to succeed in another manner. We will use what resources we do have to at least make a radiation bomb. Explosives wrapped in what uranium we have will make a deadly concoction.”
Skorzeny listened in disbelief. “But you would have to detonate it in Germany. And if you did, the Americans would drop some of their own atomic bombs on our heads, or had you forgotten what they are up to in New Mexico?”
Himmler snarled. “I forget nothing. Regardless, I have a task for you. Our beloved generals are planning a coup. They are going to try to overthrow me and place Rommel in my stead. Apparently that was von Rundstedt’s plan all along, which is why Rommel didn’t have a field command. Von Rundstedt and the other generals seem to think that Rommel is saintly enough to make him acceptable to the Allies. My intelligence says Rommel is on his way to Berlin with several thousand soldiers loyal to him. They are to arrest me, and doubtless you as well.”
Himmler’s hands shook as he lit a cigarette. “Your orders are simple, Skorzeny, you are to intercept Rommel and kill him. That wi
ll buy all of us time. My staff estimates we have two to three months before the Allies arrive here.”
Skorzeny laughed. It came out as a cackle. “You have maybe three weeks, Reichsfuhrer. Yes, Dietrich did maul the American First Army before he and his men ceased to exist, but Patton’s Third is beginning to run loose to the First’s south. And, in case you’ve forgotten, Montgomery’s entire army group is also starting to cross the Rhine to the north. Not even he will take two to three months to drive to Berlin. The English want your head on a platter as much as the Americans do.”
“We’ll stop them at the Elbe,” Himmler said.
Skorzeny scoffed. “Compared with the Rhine, the Elbe is a stream a man can piss across. The Elbe won’t even slow down the Amis. They will ride up in their little ducks and simply drive across. Himmler, half the army is dead, wounded, or captured, while the other half is looking for a way to surrender or is burying their uniforms and trying to pretend they are civilians. Maybe a few of your fanatics will delay the Allies for a short while, but that is all.”
“We must have time,” Himmler said stubbornly, his voice breaking.
Skorzeny stood and paced, winding up beside Himmler. “Perhaps you have an eternity,” he said.
In one fluid motion, he removed the knife he’d hidden in his sleeve, slipped it into his hand and drew it across Himmler’s throat. The Reichsfuhrer’s eyes widened in shock and he tried to speak. Copious amounts of blood poured out of the wide gash and onto his desk. A few seconds later he slumped forward, dead.
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