Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (32 page)

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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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It wasn’t until the huge, arched gate rose before him that Lukas Vogel finally realized where he was. He had been walking for years, it seemed, and for the last few days he hadn’t had anything to eat. His boots were worn through, his feet wrapped in shreds of leather that he had scrounged from a bombed tailor shop, and frostbite had chapped the skin of his face and numbed his fingers so that he could hardly clench his hand into a fist.
He had still been able to hold his knife, though. Two nights earlier, when Hauptsturmführer Friedrich had finished his beer and repeatedly tried to crawl into the bedroll with the young soldier, it had been the knife that greeted the older officer. Lukas hadn’t waited to see if Friedrich had lived or died; he had simply rolled up his kit and started trudging east through the midnight frost.
Now he was here. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed when he had first entered the city. He had simply kept walking, until his footsteps had carried him onto the Charlottenburger Chaussée and the great arch, symbol of German might, rose before him.
Only then did it occur to him that he really didn’t know where to go. General Dietrich had assigned him to the Hitlerjugend, the Twelfth SS Panzer Division, but for all Lukas knew he was the only surviving member of that unit—at least, the only one who hadn’t fallen into American hands. And of those prisoners, he assumed that most of them had been butchered, just like poor Hans, who had only wanted to surrender. Every time he thought of that boy, shot down in cold blood, he felt a burst of rising hatred. At first he had wanted to cry, but that feeling was gone … now he just wanted revenge.
He saw several SS soldiers standing casually around one of the pillars of the gate; if they were on guard duty, they didn’t seem to be taking their job very seriously. Still, their uniforms were a welcome sign of familiarity, and Lukas forced himself to an erect, military posture as he walked over to them.
The men watched as he approached. They looked like real veterans, unkempt but businesslike, Schmeissers slung casually from their shoulders, eyes hooded and wary. One of them who was seated on a bench took note of the officer’s insignia on Lukas’ shoulder, and smirked slightly. He pushed himself to his feet with almost contemptuous ease, and raised a hand in the Nazi salute.
“Heil Himmler, Herr Untersturmführer!” he said, as the rest of the
detachment—a half-dozen strong—mirrored the salute and came to some semblance of attention.
“Heil Himmler—at ease,” said the youth, embarrassed. Looking at the sunken eyes, seeing several fingers blackened by frostbite, he felt like an imposter. Surely these men had been enduring the brutal Russian winter, probably as far back as ’41, while Lukas was still scheming for ways to get out of school. He had no right to command soldiers such as these.
But one of the others was taking note of the unit insignia on Lukas Vogel’s collar, and nodded in a manner of respect. “You’re with the Hitlerjugend division?” he said. “We hear you gave the Americans a hell of a fight.”
Lukas shook his head, again feeling that sense of shame. “We couldn’t stop them,” he admitted. “Tell me, are there any others of the division that have reached Berlin?”
The men looked at each other, shrugging shoulders and shaking heads before the original speaker—a corporal, who no longer looked contemptuous—replied. “We thought the whole unit had been wiped out on the Rhine. How did you get to Berlin?”
“I walked here,” Lukas admitted, ashamed that he couldn’t at least have come away with an armored car or a motorcycle. “I had to take a rowboat across the river,” he said apologetically.
“Well, you fought like men,” the corporal said.
“Are replacements gathering somewhere in the city?” asked the young officer. “I would like to report.”
Now it was the guards who looked sheepish. “There’s not much going on,” the corporal said.
One of the others spoke up. “Word is that General Dietrich is trying to muster a defensive force just across the river,” he said. “He has a couple of companies of SS panzers, a battalion of troops.”
“We’d be over there ourselves,” said the corporal, eager to explain. “Except we have orders to keep an eye on the gate.”
“General Sepp Dietrich?” Lukas brightened immediately as the men nodded in affirmation. “Thanks—he’ll know what to do. Tell me, how do I find him?”
“Pardon me, O mighty Untersturmführer, but what makes you think a man of General Dietrich’s rank and status will find the time to let you kiss his hairy ass?” The corporal laughed raucously, and the guards joined in.
Lukas started to get angry, but he was too tired and cold. “He gave me these in the first place,” he said, pointing to his insignia of rank. “For leading men out of a unit that was going over to Rommel.”
The corporal’s eyebrows raised, and the laughter stopped. “No shit? You actually know General Dietrich?”
Lukas nodded. “He was in Saint-Vith when we got there. He was standing on a corner talking to Obersturmbannführer Peiper.”
“
Peiper?
Come on, boy, don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”
“No, he was there. Lots of units were coming in through Saint-Vith. It was very confusing. They were trying to sort everyone out. That’s why he talked to me.”
The guard shook his head. “If that ain’t the damndest story—meaning no disrespect, sir. Well, perhaps the general will find time for you after all. And—hey, we really didn’t mean to give you a hard time or anything, but if the general has room for a few more men, remember us, okay?”
Lukas got the directions—it was another two kilometers of walking, but that meant next to nothing to him. When he started toward the bridge over the River Spree, his step was lighter than it had been in a hundred miles.
“You are Colonel Alexis Petrovich Krigoff?”
Krigoff examined the speaker, one of four men in black trench coats and clean, dark fedoras. They were from the NKVD, he knew at once, and—like any sensible Russian—he felt a tremor of nervousness in his belly as he made the identification. But he forced himself to remain outwardly calm, reassuring himself that they couldn’t possibly be after him.
“I am Krigoff,” he replied. He gestured with the sheaf of communiqués in his hand, the parcel that he had been carrying over to the army headquarters truck. “I am busy with important matters of army intelligence—what do you want?”
He was pleased to see the man’s look of apology; the colonel had guessed right, and in fact these secret policemen obviously did not want to antagonize him.
“Forgive the interruption, Comrade Colonel. I was told to seek you out, to have you accompany us on our mission. We were hoping that you could take us to General Yeremko.”
“Of course. I understand that the work of the state is more important than all other functions. It so happens that we may find the general at my intended destination in any event.”
He led the four agents of across the muddy field. All of the headquarters encampments were like this, these days—the army was moving forward so fast that even the generals often slept in the backs of the trucks. Having fractured the initial German defensive line, they were rushing through Poland, drawing near to the prewar border with Germany. Only one more geographic obstacle, the Oder River, lay between the Red Army and Berlin.
The spokesman for the NKVD officers fell into stride beside Krigoff. Like all such, he looked dour and humorless, and Alyosha forced his own face to match that expression. Inside, however, he wanted to do handsprings. His note to the chairman had apparently provoked a very quick response, and he was delighted
that he would be able to see this matter carried through to its conclusion.
“General Yeremko?” he called, knocking at the door of the large trailer that served as the office of the intelligence chief.
“Ah, Alexis Petrovich—come in,” said Yeremko cheerfully. The old man had some color in his cheeks again, and in fact looked better than he had in days. “That was a nice bit of analysis you did … .” His voice trailed off when he saw the agents follow his subordinate through the door.
“These men are here to see you,” Krigoff said, dispassionately. In point of fact, it occurred to him that he might have actually liked Yeremko, under other circumstances. Now, in wartime, with the responsibilities of national welfare on his shoulders, this was a luxury he could not allow himself to indulge.
“General Yeremko,” said the NKVD spokesman, stepping forward. “We have instructions to escort you back to Moscow. Your hard work is being rewarded, and you shall have the chance to get some much-needed rest.”
Yeremko was looking not at the speaker, but at Alyosha. The old man’s eyes had the same expression Krigoff, when he had been a boy, had seen in the eyes of a puppy. The mongrel had come to him, once too often, to beg for food. Alyosha had kicked the dog away, and had gotten this same look in return. He winced; it was not a pleasant memory, and it angered him that this pathetic and incompetent old fool would bring it up at a time like this—a time that would be celebrated as Krigoff’s own, personal triumph.
“Can I have a moment to collect my things?” asked the general sadly.
The NKVD agent shook his head. “I am sure that your replacement will have them sent along in good order,” he said stiffly. “If that should prove necessary.”
Yeremko’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded in understanding and reached for his jacket and fur hat. As he pulled them on the bulky garments somehow made him seem even smaller.
“May I ask—who is to replace me as head of the intelligence section?”
“Yes,” echoed Krigoff. “Who is the new chief?”
The agent pulled a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Alyosha. “Comrade Colonel, these are the instructions of no less than the chairman himself. You are to assume your new post, at once.”
Only when Yeremko was led away, flanked on both sides by the four agents, did Krigoff allow himself that thin smile. This was a great victory, he knew, even though it meant much more work for him, greater responsibilities. He could get to those tasks in short order.
Then he would find Paulina, and tell her. He was already planning a small celebration.
The Douglas C-47 Dakota transport had been hastily painted with the new colors and insignia of the German Republican Army; for the sake of convenience, these had temporarily been established as the prewar Weimar standards. On a night mission like this, insignia hardly mattered. The plane was flying without lights in an overcast sky—the classic case of the black cat in the coal cellar at midnight.
Not much was left of the Luftwaffe in the old Armeegruppe B area of operation (minus Sixth Panzer Army, of course), and the Americans had eagerly “borrowed” most of the surviving Me-262 jet fighters to start the process of reverse engineering. In exchange, however, Rommel was able to count on American air support—a luxury that only those who had been on the receiving end of air superiority could appreciate fully—and even had a few American planes transferred into his army.
The transport pilot was an American captain seconded to the Germans, and the German operational commander rode in the copilot’s seat. He could fly, but hadn’t received more than a quick checkout in the C-47. He could spot, however.
“There!” The German commander pointed. Although the German spoke only a few words of English and vice versa, that was enough for this mission. Two parallel lines of lights pointed the way to their temporary runway.
The C-47 landed bumpily on the grassy field between lines of burning flares, cutting its twin engines as soon as it touched down, and rolled to a stop. Shadowy figures ran toward the plane, local partisans drafted for this special operation. The rear door swung open, and a line of black-clad commandos exited. Their faces were painted black; black knit hats were pulled over their hair.
The ground leader, a German man in civilian clothes, spoke rapidly. “We have two trucks waiting for you.”
“Good,” replied the erstwile copilot and team leader, also in German. “Drivers?”
“Wehrmacht uniforms, also ready.”
“Good. We have less than half an hour to reach the headquarters compound.”
“That should not be a problem. The traffic is virtually nonexistent.”
“Let’s go.”
The commandos and several of the escorts moved off into the nearby woods separating the field from the road where the trucks were waiting. Their engines cranked as the men approached. The remaining partisans stayed behind. On a signal that the trucks had pulled away safely, the C-47 pilot started his engines again, swiveled the plane around, and started his takeoff taxi. Much lighter with the load delivered, the Dakota lifted quickly off the ground and started its return flight.
There was little need for conversation as the trucks rumbled toward the Armeegruppe H headquarters, an older military compound that dated back to World War I. The mission commander reviewed his maps as much to deal with pre-mission jitters as with any actual uncertainty about his plan. Large sections of the compound had been softened up by bomber raids over the past year, and it was relatively easy to sneak into broken sections of the fence in spite of guard patrols.
The mission commander divided his team into pairs. Each had a name and a location. Silently, they moved off. The commander and his partner had two names on their list. The first, an SS-Brigadeführer, had a house on Generals’ Row. There was only a single sentry so far behind the lines, and he was removed easily. Then into the house, up stairs that creaked—not loudly enough to wake a sound sleeper, but agonizingly loud for the people climbing the stairs—and to the master bedroom. And then came an end to subtlety: one hard kick and the door flew open. A sleepy brigadeführer and his mistress woke, startled and disoriented.
The commandos had orders to capture, not kill, if possible, and so while the commander held his Schmeisser at the ready, his partner took cuffs from a black satchel and locked the brigadeführer to the bed stanchion. A rough gag shoved into his mouth stopped the sputtering, confused protests.
The terrified mistress, however, had not been anticipated. “We’re not going to hurt you,” the mission commander said, but who would believe an armed man in black bursting into one’s bedroom? He stifled her scream with his gloved hand, but she bit him, hard, and struggled to escape. It took both commandos to subdue her, to tie her to the other side of the bed and gag her. She glared at them with murder in her eyes.
“Maybe she should be the SS officer,
hein
?” the mission commander said to the immobilized brigadeführer, who had just now woken up enough to sputter helplessly through his gag. “Good fighter, that one.” He saluted the imprisoned woman. “Someone will be along in a few hours,” he said, and the two men headed for their next destination, further along Generals’ Row.
The second sentry posed no more problems than the first, but instead of quietly opening the door, the mission commander knocked once, paused, then
three more times. With that, the door opened, and a Wehrmacht officer wearing colonel-general insignia came out.
“Herr Generaloberst!” said the mission commander, coming to attention and saluting.
“Welcome to Armeegruppe H headquarters. Have all my troublesome officers been immobilized?”
“In progress now. We’re here to protect you.”
“Damn straight. I don’t fancy ending up like Heinz Guderian.” Generaloberst Karl Student grinned in the darkness. “I guess this means it’s official—Armeegruppe H has just joined the German Republican Army.” He reached out his hand.
“Welcome to the winning team, General,” said the mission commander, shaking it.

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