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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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30 DECEMBER 1944–20 JANUARY 1945
There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after this war is over and you are home once again. You may be thankful that twenty years from now, when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson on your knee, and he asks you what you did in the great World War II, you won’t have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say, “Well, your granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana.” No, sir! You can look him straight in the eye and say, “Son, your granddaddy rode with the great Third Army and a son-of-a-goddamned- bitch named Georgie Patton!”
—George Patton’s speech to the Third Army, 5 June 1944
The name Volksgrenadier was a poor joke, one that was not lost on the men of the 218th Volksgrenadier Division. Although grenadiers were historically elite soldiers, modern Volksgrenadier units were a mix of boys, ancients, walking wounded, and those previously unfit for military service.
“I say we thank God Almighty for this surrender and consider ourselves the luckiest men alive. We’re alive, and that makes us lucky. Why screw it up?” Obergefreiter Felix Durr, corporal of his platoon, was old enough to wear his cynicism proudly. His previous experience had been in World War I, and he had thought himself too old for any sort of service in the new war. But he’d turned out to be wrong.
The soldiers around him listened avidly. One of the few in their unit to have seen actual military service, he was the unofficial man to whom everyone turned, including the twenty-two-year-old feldwebel who officially was in charge.
Lukas Vogel was only fifteen, but he disagreed violently. “Defeatism is evil! We owe our lives to the Party and the Fatherland. Our führer has ordered us to go on fighting, and we must obey!
“Ah, so young to be so certain,” the obergefreiter said in a patronizing tone that put Vogel’s teeth on edge. Vogel was a newly promoted oberschütze, or PFC.
“Nah, that’s the KLV talking,” laughed another soldier. All German youth had been shipped to KLV camps wherever there was little bombing going on. With a shortage of adults to supervise, the camps quickly turned into a hierarchy of children preying on children. What official activities there were involved Nazi indoctrination and military training. Vogel had been in a KLV camp since 1941. He could scarcely remember living at home, or visualize his mother’s face if he tried.
He jumped to his feet, fists clenched. “Piss on you, Manfred. I bet you never amounted to shit in Hitler Youth.” He was thin and wiry, with a shock of blond hair falling across his forehead into his eyes. His eyes were hard.
Manfred Bauer was on his feet as well. Bauer was nearly twice the size of the small, wiry youth. “Yeah, tough guy? What were you, some big-shit stabsführer?”
Vogel had only made it as high as bannführer, but that was good for his
age. Damned if he was going to admit it, though. “I ranked a lot higher than you did, I bet. And I’m the same rank as you in the army even though you’re a lot older. I guess they didn’t draft you earlier because they don’t take pansies, right?”
“You goddamn little shit!” roared Bauer as he came for the young boy, his fists raised and ready for action.
But Vogel had been dealing with bullies for years. At KLV camp, if you didn’t learn to take care of yourself, you were in deep shit. He had his knife out so quickly that none of the other soldiers spotted him, and as Bauer closed, Vogel slashed him across the face.
Bauer screamed and his hands flew up to his nose, and Vogel kicked him in the balls with all his might. The huge soldier folded up and lay groaning on the ground. “My face, my face, that little bastard cut my face,” he moaned. “I’ll kill him!”
Vogel wiped his knife on his pants leg. “It’s just a little cheek cut. If I’d wanted to do damage, you’d be missing an eye now.” He turned around quickly. “Anybody else want to try me?” He made no directly threatening move, but his cold eyes fastened on each soldier in the tent. “No? Smart of you.”
Obergefreiter Durr felt that as senior enlisted man in the tent, it was his duty to negotiate peace. “Now, now,” he said in his most soothing voice. “Vogel, put your knife away. Bauer, you started it. Let me look at your face. Hmm. Just a long scratch. You could go see the medic, or you could just wash up and put some gauze over it. Tomorrow, you’ll barely know you have a cut. Let’s everybody calm down. Remember, the war is over for us. Let’s try to get along like civilized Germans.”
“The war is
not
over and I will
not
stand here and listen to some old fart without the backbone to stand up for the führer and the Reich. I tell you that we can take over this unit from any cowardly officers who don’t have the stomach for a fight anymore and get back in the war. Who’s with me?”
There was silence. A few soldiers were actively uninterested, and a few looked away with sheepish expressions. Even considering his youth, Vogel’s fanaticism and passion made him a force to reckon with. “So.” He looked at his fellow Volksgrenadiers with disgust. “No one. Not a single real German. Very well. Then I will tell each one of you: This war is not over. It will not be over while I have a single breath to draw. It will not be over until every true German is dead. And we will prevail.”
“Vogel, wait a minute,” Durr interjected. “Calm down. Wait until morning. Ask around camp. Decide what you’re going to do.”
“There is no decision to make. I am a German soldier, and I am going to fight. Good-bye.” Vogel turned to leave.
“Wait—that’s desertion! You can be shot!” pleaded Durr, “Come on,
Lukas—I’ve got grandchildren your age. Listen to me. Calm down. Wait. You’ll see things differently. You’re young. You have a life to lead, children to sire.” His persuasion fell on deaf ears.
“It’s not desertion to leave a nest of traitors, and make no mistake, this surrender is treason. I’m going. Your grandchildren will stand with me, Herr Obergefreiter. You’re old, and perhaps yon don’t have what it takes anymore. But I do. Good-bye.”
And this time he did leave, grabbing his coat and his duffel and slipping out of the tent into darkness. There was silence in the tent, except for the groaning of the man on the floor.
The air was cold enough to freeze the tiny hairs in Krigoff’s nostrils with each harsh, dry inhalation. He loved the challenge and discomfort inherent in this wintry bite, for it was proof of the primacy of his people, the anointed leaders of World Communism. How foolish the foe who felt that he could defeat not just Mother Russia, but Father Winter as well!
It was fitting that the major had been invited to meet Nikolai Bulganin here, outside, under the pure, cold sky that had been such anathema to his country’s enemies. The invitation had been waiting for him when he had returned to his barracks the previous night, following his meeting with Stalin. Krigoff had been impressed—and a little frightened—at how quickly the Soviet bureaucracy seemed to be noting his presence, and giving him attention. Bulganin was a powerful man in his own right, and it was no doubt significant that he had ordered Alyosha to meet him here in the chilly pre-dawn hour, away from the eyes and the ears of the Kremlin’s staff.
Krigoff stopped at the low stone wall above the river and looked out at the River Moskva, now a ribbon of ice that curled its way through this great city. A great statue of Chairman Stalin, the landmark for this meeting, towered behind him. He was early, he knew, but that was only appropriate as he awaited yet another great man in the Soviet hierarchy.
There were few people about, and, like Krigoff, they were muffled into anonymous shapes of fur and wool against the cold. The major relished a few minutes of silence and solitude as he breathed the frigid early-morning air—the day at its very coldest!—and wondered about the purpose of this newest summons.
Political Marshal Bulganin was one of the most powerful men in the country, a member of an elite handful ranking just below the chairman himself. An esteemed member of the state defense committee, Bulganin had been established by reputation as one of the few political appointees with the power to keep even the highest-ranking military officers under observation, and control. His agents were seeded throughout the Red Army, charged with supervising
even the army commanders in the state’s relentless search for any act of sedition or disloyalty.
“Comrade Colonel Krigoff?”
The question startled him and he spun about to salute the marshal, who strode around the statue to soundlessly approach Alyosha from the rear.
“Comrade Marshal! It is an honor—though I beg to explain that I am but a humble major.”
The political officer, a short man with dark hair and thick glasses, chuckled at a private joke. He wore a heavy woolen overcoat, but that did not conceal the wiry, athletic nature of his compact frame. “I must remind you not to correct your superiors, Alexis Petrovich, on matters about which you lack the necessary knowledge. I have your promotion orders in my pocket.”
Krigoff was very startled by the news—he had been a mere lieutenant only three days ago—but he recovered quickly. He bowed with sincere respect and gratitude. “Thank you, Comrade Marshal. I will strive to prove myself worthy of this great honor.”
“I assume you will. More to the point, the chairman believes that you will do so; this promotion is a direct order from him. I trust that you will not disappoint him.”
Again Krigoff felt those butterflies, the mingled senses of danger and opportunity. Of course, no man in his right mind would want to disappoint Josef Stalin, but in this case the opportunity side of the equation seemed to beckon with clear advantage.
“Your trust is not misplaced, Comrade Marshal,” he replied. He was desperately curious to know why they were here—a political marshal did not take strolls in frigid winter mornings merely to dispense promotions to young officers—but he forced himself to bide his time while Bulganin lit a cigarette and drew deeply, exhaling a cloud of aromatic smoke.
“Smells good, eh?” said the older man, looking sideways at Krigoff. “American ‘Camels.’ Lend Lease was a wonderful thing, while it lasted.”
Krigoff smiled narrowly, longing for a cigarette himself. “The capitalists are useful for making such luxuries,” he allowed. “Though it is Soviet tanks, and Soviet blood, that will win this war.”
Now it was the marshal’s turn to smile. “Comrade Stalin told me that you were an astute officer, and I see that his judgment—as always, of course—is correct. You know, then, that we will be attacking the Nazi devils once more?”
“It is a guess, Comrade,” Krigoff allowed. He decided to be daring. “I can only hope that I will have a role to play in this great campaign.”
“You will, Comrade Krigoff, you will,” said Bulganin. He scrutinized the young colonel, making Krigoff very nervous as the inspection dragged on for the better part of a minute. There was only the puffy fog of their breathing,
vapors wafting through the night air between them, as he waited for the marshal to speak.
“We have decided to send you to the front, in the role of political commissar. You will be assigned to the Second Guards Tank Army, one of Konev’s units. The chairman and I would like you to observe the activities of the army commander, one General … ?” Bulganin’s voice trailed off, as if he was searching his memory for a name, though Krigoff instantly recognized the test for what it was.
“General Petrovsky, I believe, is in command of that army, Comrade Marshal,” he said quickly.
“Indeed, Petrovsky,” Bulganin acknowledged quietly. “An effective, veteran commander. His division was triumphant at Moscow and Stalingrad. He led a corps against the Nazis at Kursk, and his army contributed much to the annihilation of Army Group Center last summer.”
“A great victory,” Krigoff noted sincerely.
“One of the greatest in all the history of war,” Bulganin declared, as if correcting the younger man’s lack of hyperbole.
Alyosha flushed in embarrassment. “Of course, Comrade Marshal. We broke the back of the Nazi war machine—now it is a matter merely to dispose of the broken corpse.”
“I hope you still think so, Comrade, after you have observed our crossing of the Vistula. We have reports of a half-million Nazis standing against us, and they have been fortifying their position since the end of summer. I daresay, the Wehrmacht and the SS are more than a broken corpse.”
Krigoff clenched his teeth. He did not want to wage a no-win war of words with his new superior, so he simply nodded and waited for Bulganin to continue.
“Your orders will be delivered within a day. I assume you can be packed and ready to leave for the West quickly?”
“I would go at this minute, if so ordered, Comrade Marshal.”
“You will have your opportunity soon enough, Comrade Krigoff. For now, I bring a personal message from the chairman: He would like to see you again, today. He expects you before noon.”
Krigoff was thrilled. “I shall go to the Kremlin at once, Comrade Marshal!” he declared, snapping off a salute.
“Good.” Bulganin seemed pleased by the direction the conversation was going, and the freshly minted colonel allowed his own delight to grow, though he tried his best to keep his expression serious as his new superior continued. “My expectation is that you will be sent westward very soon; things are beginning to move, now. I advise you to take a day, make your farewells in Moscow. Your orders will include a train ticket, and instructions on when to report to Kiev Station.”
“Thank you, Comrade Marshal. I am ready!”
Bulganin scrutinized him again, and Krigoff felt like a bug under a microscope. “Our chairman has taken a special interest in you, Comrade Krigoff. That can be good for you, and good for the commissar service. Do you understand?”
Krigoff understood that if he did
not
make it good, then these developments would prove to be very, very bad, at least for him, personally. He enthusiastically proclaimed his understanding, and his gratitude.
A moment later, he watched Bulganin walk off into the night, which remained bitter cold. How odd, Krigoff thought, that he himself was sweating profusely.

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