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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (12 page)

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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Carl-Heinz Clausen felt every jolt of the truck as it drove through the night. He was not normally one to feel a lot of pain, but then he’d never been shot in the belly before. The truck was filled with the moans of other wounded. The American aviator, Digger O’Dell, lay next to him, wearing the German’s uniform jacket. Digger had a large bandage on his forehead covering one eye, and one leg stretched out straight in a cast. Clausen wanted to help; if he could just get around and get at his tools, he would be able to put together some decent slings and cushions to protect the men. It was the sort of thing he did, the reason for the nickname “Mutti.” He didn’t mind the nickname, really. It gave him joy to help others. It was frustrating when he couldn’t.
“Strange, being taken prisoner by our own side,” he said aloud.
“It’s that fucking Rommel’s fault,” one of the patients said angrily. “First he abandons the Afrika Korps, then he sells us down the river.”
The returns came quickly.
“Arschloch!”
“This isn’t Rommel’s doing, it’s those Waffen-SS
arschlöcher.”
“All those goddamn generals are alike. Not a one of them gives a shit whether we live or die, as long as they get their Iron Crosses.”
“Shut up. Let’s get some sleep while we can.”
“You shut up!” “No, you!”
“Leckmich am Arsch!”
“
Du Kanst
mich
am Arsch lecken!”
“When I can walk again, I’ll take my crutch and beat your head in!”
The noise level in the truck rose until pounding on the rear of the driver’s cab warned everyone into quiet.
Clausen looked over at the American, who gave him a thumbs-up gesture. He grinned in return, then lay back on his stretcher and tried to go to sleep.
The American jeep followed the German staff car into the hospital driveway. Several squads of German infantry were on the scene, at full alert, rifles ready and aimed in all directions. A number of American trucks sporting the red
cross of the medical corps were parked in the compound; a steady parade of soldiers marched supplies into the building with antlike precision.
Rommel’s batman opened the door of the staff car to let the field marshal out; Henry Wakefield opened his own door. Bob Jackson and Frank Ballard climbed over the sides of the backseat. Chuck Porter, who had been uncomfortably wedged in between the two, took somewhat longer to clamber out in an awkward fashion. Their driver sat in the car and waited.
Guards snapped to attention as the brass trooped into the nearly empty field hospital. The emergency room sported a growing pile of boxes, some being unloaded by enlisted men under the supervision of officers wearing the caduceus. Except for a few damaged stretchers and broken bottles the wards were stripped of almost everything German, from tables to bedding to stretchers. It was well known that the German medical corps was in a state of perpetual shortage; the raiders from Kampfgruppe Peiper had not only taken the patients, but as much of the supplies and equipment as could be loaded onto trucks quickly.
Only one ward still had patients—the intensive care wing filled with men for whom movement meant certain death. Two enlisted orderlies had been left behind to care for those patients, and they now had been pushed aside by Allied doctors busily
tsk
ing at the perceived deficiencies of their German counterparts. All the drugs and IV units except for those actually hooked up to patients had been taken from that room as well. Doctors called to their assistants to get the goddamn boxes unpacked.
There was a German supply officer hard at work, clipboard in hand, compiling a list of what was needed most urgently, making a list of what had been taken, stumbling through translators who themselves struggled with the technical terms of the medical trade. He saluted as the commanders entered.
“Ah, Müller,” said Rommel as he spotted the officer. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve taken charge of the supply situation?”
“In a way—I mean—well, yes, sir,” replied Müller. “There wasn’t anybody else, and I thought—”
Rommel smiled at the pudgy colonel who had saved his life. He knew Müller was frequently tongue-tied around senior officers. “Good work. Carry on. Tell me, did they take von Reinhardt?” Rommel’s intelligence chief, who was Müller’s best friend, had been shot in the chest in the same incident.
“No, sir,” replied Müller. “I think—well, he couldn’t be moved safely. He’s all right, though. Well, sort of—I mean, he’s still wounded and …”
“Good. I will speak to him. Are the Americans providing the help you need?”
Müller glanced over at the Americans and nodded in their direction. “Yes, yes, sir. They’ve been most helpful and courteous. As soon as I contacted the American headquarters, General Wakefield himself made sure I got everything
I requested … and then some! Field Marshal …” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial register. “They don’t seem to have any supply shortages at all! Everything I asked for, they delivered, and more besides!”
Rommel smiled. “That’s very good to hear,” he said, bowing slightly in the Americans’ direction. He dropped his own voice to match his supply officer’s. “And yes, they do seem to have nearly inexhaustible supplies. I’m glad for once their supplies are working in our favor, rather than against us.” Raising his voice once again, he turned to the American general.
“Danke schön, Herr Generalmajor,”
he said with a deeper bow and heel click.
Gravely, Wakefield returned with his own bow, a halfhearted head-duck. “Bitty shine, Herr Field Marshal,” he said, his gruff voice mangling his attempt at the German language.
Rommel turned back to Müller. “I’d like to talk to Oberst von Reinhardt if he’s well enough.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right this way, sir.” Müller tucked his clipboard under his arm and led the field marshal toward the intensive-care unit.
 
Chuck Porter wondered if he’d died and gone to reporter heaven. Not only did he have a ringside seat at Rommel’s surrender, but this hospital-capture story had all the earmarks of front-page news around the world. And he, once again, was the only reporter on the spot. Of course, he was here as a backup translator more than as a reporter, but nothing stopped him from doing both jobs at once.
In a day or two at most, correspondents from every major news gatherer would be accredited here, and the days of exclusives would be over. He’d be sitting in press briefings along with everybody else, asking questions, filing stories, serving as a conduit between his editor’s questions and the information the armed services felt it appropriate to share. Of course, as soon as that happened he’d be heading back to the office anyway and delegating that kind of work to his staff. He wasn’t in any great hurry for that to happen.
“So, General Wakefield—what do you think about wounded American prisoners being murdered by the Nazi SS?” he asked. For now, his notebook was safely buttoned in his pocket. He’d use it later to gather all the details; right now he just needed to get up to date on this story.
Wakefield looked at him like a not-too-pleasant bug under a microscope. “What do you mean what do I think? I think it stinks.” He grunted with disgust.
Porter realized he’d put his foot in it. “No, I didn’t mean that—I mean, what did you think could or should be done about it?”
“Sanger woke me up around oh-dark-thirty with some cockamamie rescue plan. I didn’t have any better ideas, so I told him to go ahead.”
“And then—?”
“I went back to sleep.”
It’s a good thing I’m not looking for a way to ruin you,
Porter thought to himself.
I could even hang Eisenhower with a statement like that. Went back to sleep? Christ!
He was amazed that officers who knew so much about heavy weapons knew so little about the weapons of the press. He understood what Wakefield meant, that it wasn’t the evidence of dereliction of duty and lack of caring that the blunt words suggested, but what Wakefield really meant wouldn’t count once the words were in black-and-white on the newspaper page. If he kept on working with Wakefield, he’d have to try to educate him about the press—but he suspected an education wouldn’t take. Wakefield just didn’t care about such things.
“So, what’s Sanger’s plan?” he asked, moving along to the next subject.
“Take some armored half-tracks and jeeps, chase after the enemy, and try to recapture the hospital.”
“Pardon me for saying so, General, but that really doesn’t sound like a really well-thought-out plan.”
Wakefield took a puff on his cigar. “It ain’t.”
“Sir?” Porter responded, somewhat confused.
“Sometimes all the options are shit, but you still gotta do something,” Wakefield replied. “Sanger was willing to try. Said he had a German captain, Schmidt, who was cooperating, also wanted to catch these Nazi pricks. So I turned them loose, and hope for the best. Can’t let some bastard hit you without hitting back. Shows him there’s a price to pay.”
“I see,” mused Porter, finally pulling out his notebook and scribbling down a few thoughts. He pictured the heavy German tanks growling through the night, with a few jeeps racing after them, and he was awed by the courage of the would-be rescuers.
 
Oberst Günter von Reinhardt was normally a thin man, but he looked much thinner in his hospital bed. His sharp-featured face seemed stretched so thin that it was nearly translucent. An IV tube protruded from his arm, and his sheet was flecked with blood where it lay over his chest. Two doctors stood over him, examining the wound and shaking their heads sadly as they commented on the primitive medical work of their German colleagues.
“Forgive me for failing to salute, Herr Generalfeldmarschall,” he said in a weak voice.
Rommel sat down beside the bed. “How are you doing, von Reinhardt?”
“Surprisingly well, all considered. As Marcus Aurelius observes, ‘A little flesh, a little breath, and a Reason to rule all—that is myself.’ I have time to contemplate, and that is good, for it seems I am not a man of action.” He smiled. “I would not have thought my friend Müller was, either, but it seems there I am incorrect.”
The pudgy supply officer reddened slightly at the compliment. “You stood up to him too, Günter. That’s why you got shot.”
“That’s right, you know,” added Rommel. “If we only considered manliness to accompany victory or immediate success, I would hardly qualify myself, especially at the moment.” He smiled ruefully. “I am grateful to you both.”
“Thank you, sir,” Reinhardt replied. “Mein Generalfeldmarschall, I was given a private message for you during the capture of the hospital.”
“A message? From whom? From Peiper?” asked Rommel.
“No, sir. From the führer.”
“Himmler?” Rommel was confused. “How can that be?”
“It is private, sir,” hinted von Reinhardt.
“Ah, yes,” acknowledged the field marshal. He turned to the doctors.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
he asked.
One of the doctors held up two fingers with about an inch between them.
“Sehr wenig,”
he said. A very little.
Rommel nodded in acknowledgment. “Please leave us alone for a minute,” he said in German. With the aid of hand gestures, the doctors agreed to leave—but only for a minute; the patient needed them. When the doctors had left, he turned back to von Reinhardt. “And the message?”
“Yes, sir. It seems that our beloved führer, learning of the surrender of Armeegruppe B, telephoned our friend the obersturmbannführer and asked him to take action where Brigadeführer Bücher had failed. Peiper personally killed Generaloberst Guderian at the staff meeting when Guderian announced he was supporting the surrender. He told me that with some pleasure.”
Rommel shook his head. “Poor Heinz. An ignominious way to go. But why give me this as a message from the führer?”
“That was only background. Himmler wishes to offer you the opportunity to return to the honorable service of the Third Reich, he says. Although he believes you to be terribly misguided in your current path, he knows you love the Fatherland as much as he does, and so he suggests that it would be beneficial to all concerned for you and he to have a channel of private communication and negotiation.”
Rommel was quiet as he considered this. “And your judgment, intelligence officer?”
Reinhardt thought for a moment. “‘Learning carries within itself certain dangers because out of necessity one has to learn from one’s enemies,’” he stated.
“And who said this?” Rommel had learned to recognize when von Reinhardt was quoting someone.
“Leon Trotsky.”
“The communist?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.” Rommel considered the phrase. “So you recommend that we open this diplomatic channel privately, and use it as an opportunity to learn?”
“Yes, sir. I think that’s only prudent.”
Rommel laughed. “You see, I am starting to figure you out! Ah, what an education I receive from you every time we speak.”
Reinhardt grinned weakly in return. “Thank you. As do I from you, mein Generalfeldmarschall. I will be out of this bed soon, and I will manage this channel for you, if the field marshal wishes.”
“Yes, by all means. There’s no one I would trust more, and I also look forward to your return to duty. But that will not be for a little bit yet. Now it’s time to rest. You’ll be under the care of your American doctors shortly. Try to let that brain of yours relax for a while. The war will keep until you are with us again.” Rommel patted his shoulder and then stood up. “I’ll see you soon.”
“I look forward to it, mein Generalfeldmarschall.”
 
Commotion arose outside the hospital, and both the American and German officers went to investigate. They witnessed the return of Task Force Sanger, accompanied by one truck liberated from Kampfgruppe Peiper.
Hauptmann Schmidt climbed out of his armored half-track, followed by Reid Sanger, who had chosen to ride in enclosed comfort rather than share Captain Smiggs’ open-to-the-air reconnaissance jeep. Smiggy pulled in right next to the half-track and jumped out. Doctors and orderlies swarmed out of the hospital to start the process of bringing the wounded back into the hospital.
Rommel pushed his way through the growing crowd to shake the hands of all the victors. “That was a brave attempt,” he repeated, moving from officers through all the enlisted. Wakefield reached Sanger first, while Frank Ballard went first to congratulate his reconnaissance officer and the men of his own command.
“I only got one out of ten trucks,” Sanger said before Wakefield could open his mouth. “And that one broke down. The Krauts—I mean, the Nazis—were all ready to abandon it when we came up to them. But the rest of the column was screened by a couple of big tanks. We couldn’t even get close.”
BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
13.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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