Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (6 page)

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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

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Wakefield returned the salute. “Tell him I need this area cleared. My engineers are going to be setting up a pontoon bridge across the Meuse. While he’s at it, I want to get some scouts out. My people will take the other side of the river, but we’ll need Germans to cover this side. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Porter replied, and immediately began to translate.
The German major looked puzzled, then embarrassed. He shrugged, then began speaking rapidly.
“He’s very sorry, General,” Porter translated. “He says he understands that his forces have surrendered to you, but that he cannot take the actions you request without permission from his own superior officers.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured that,” Wakefield growled. He chewed his cigar for a minute.
“Tell him I’ll get an okay from his superiors. But I don’t want to waste any time. Tell him to get a work detail here and ready to coordinate with my engineers, and tell him that if the German army has got the sense God gave green apples, he’s already got scouts out.”
Porter tried to translate both the words and the forcefulness of the delivery. Something of Wakefield’s intent must have gotten across, because suddenly the major was stammering his agreement. “Yes, yes, of course we have scouts out. And a work detail can be arranged—but you must get approval from my superior as soon as possible!”
When the agreement was translated, Wakefield nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Have the scouts report as they normally do, but I want a runner to inform me about anything out of the ordinary. And tell the major he has half an hour or so before the work detail needs to be here. It’ll take my engineers a few hours to get their work done.” He looked at the major. “Dismissed,” he said firmly. Some orders seemed to be the same in any language, because the major immediately saluted. First he started with the Nazi salute; then he changed course to give an imitation of an American salute. Wakefield returned the salute with gravity. The major clicked his heels, said,
“Herr Generalmajor!,”
and left.
“I understand the bridging, but not the scouts. Why, General?” Porter asked.
“Rommel has surrendered two armies that have God knows how many SS divisions in them. He’s already said he can’t guarantee that everyone will stand down. I want scouts out on both sides just in case. I’ve already radioed to my combat commands and their scouts are out already. Maybe nothing is going to happen, but I’d hate like hell to be caught with my pants down.”
Wakefield stood silently at the water’s edge for a minute or so. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he growled. Striding back to his jeep, Wakefield picked up a large walkie-talkie. Giving his radio call sign, he made contact with Colonel Bob Jackson, commanding CCB. “Bob? This is General Wakefield. I’ve got the wind up my shorts, and it’s probably nothing, but I want a line of field artillery covering the river valley. Set it around the fortress I see on the cliff. Make sure you’ve got scouts out in all directions. Armor covering the roads into town, good cover. Dig in like you were preparing for a siege. Got it?”
The crackling voice over the radio responded, “Got it, General. No specific threat indication, this is a just-in-case. Artillery at the citadel and along the cliff, scouts out and active, roads into town fortified. Call you if anything happens.”
“Right, Bob. That’s exactly what I want. Thanks for humoring an old man.”
“Any time, General. Jackson out.”
“Good man,” growled Wakefield. Then he was on the phone to Frank Ballard, commanding what was left of Combat Command A in the lower city.
“Good evening, General. My scouts can see you down there by the river,” came the voice over the walkie-talkie.
“Got a damage assessment put together yet?”
“Yes, sir, and it’s not real pretty. In a nutshell, we’re running about half strength with damn little ammunition left. We’ve gotten some ambulances in and the worst of the wounded are out. The first company of engineers has arrived, and they’ll be bridging the river pretty soon.”
The general shook his head in concern. “Frank, get some scouts out around your perimeter and get someone into the highest building that’s still standing. I guess it’ll be that big church. Try to shape what you’ve got into a defensive line.”
“Yes, sir. Any specific threat indication?”
“No, Frank,” replied Wakefield. “Just an old man’s rheumatism acting up.”
“Well, better safe than sorry.”
“You’ve got it, Frank. Listen, I’ll get this typed up as an order of the day, but in the meantime, you should pass this along. Met with the Desert Fox himself, and he sends his ‘personal respects’ to you and your men for fighting ‘courageously and well.’ I concur.”
“Thanks, General. I’ll pass the word. And you can give him my ‘personal respects’ as well. Those were some tough Krauts.”
Wakefield cracked a small smile at the remark. “I’ll tell him. And Frank—”
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s a hot meal on the way.”
“That beats a compliment any old day, General. Ballard out.”
Porter was scribbling rapidly in his reporter’s notebook when Wakefield put down the walkie-talkie. When Wakefield looked up, he stopped writing. “What now, General?” he asked.
“I’m going to get that formal okay I promised the major, and see what else I can do.”
“Do you really expect trouble?” Porter asked.
“I always expect trouble,” growled Wakefield. “Only sometimes it doesn’t happen.”
It was still early morning in Washington, DC, and the day was surprisingly bright for late December, the golden sunlight glinting along the reflecting pool that lay between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Hartnell Stone had chosen to walk the relatively short distance from his apartment in Foggy Bottom to the White House to get a little bit of that sun. Working a regular day, not to mention a long day, in the Washington winter could mean not getting a glimpse of sun for days on end. It had been nice to get out of the White House for a bit; sometimes several days would pass between visits to his apartment. He was freshly showered, freshly dressed, with two cups of coffee in his stomach and his third cigarette of the day in his mouth. The world was his.
It was cold, but not too cold. Stone wore a long navy wool coat over his gray suit. Although he held military rank as an Army major, his regular duties let him wear civilian dress for the most part. His fedora was tilted just slightly to keep the glare out of his eyes; his jet black hair underneath was slicked back in the best style. Freshly polished wing tips clicked along the pavement as he walked briskly along Constitution Avenue.
He turned left toward 17th Street beside the Ellipse. A line of government cars, mostly dull green Fords and Chevrolets with the occasional Studebaker for contrast, filled every available parking space—another reason for him to walk. Although he was a White House staffer, that wasn’t enough to always rate a parking space in Washington, DC. The ability to park wherever and whenever you wanted was the mark of real power in the nation’s capital.
He showed his pass to the Marine guards at the entrance to the Executive Office Building, a huge and ornate building in the French Second Empire style, with columns everywhere. Stone privately thought it was the ugliest building in Washington, especially when set next door to the classically elegant White House. He knew his way around the building, so once past the guards he made his way to the lower level and the passageway that connected to the White House itself.
The morning meeting was to be held in the Cabinet Room on the ground floor. Stone hung his coat and hat on a peg outside the room, quickly checked his hair in the mirror, straightened the knot in his tie just so, and opened the door.
He was neither the first nor the last to arrive at the meeting. The president was already there, of course, sitting in a cushioned chair with a blanket spread over his legs. His famous cigarette holder was in his mouth. “Good morning, Hartnell,” FDR boomed in his cheerfully mellifluous voice. He still looked old and tired, but being surrounded by company brought him to life again. Those who had not seen him late at night, or at the end of a long working day, couldn’t tell how sick the great man was.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” replied Stone. He would be one of the lowest-ranking people at the meeting, it seemed clear. General George C. Marshall, army chief of staff, was already in the room, along with Cordell Hull, secretary of state. He nodded a good-morning to each; they acknowledged him only in passing. Henry Stimson, secretary of war, accompanied by an aide, was the next to enter. Several other Cabinet-rank officials and senior war advisers were also present, each with aides appropriate to their status.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Stimson intoned in a formal voice.
“Good morning, Henry,” FDR replied. “Glad you could make it this morning. Gentlemen, it seems to have been an interesting few days. It looks as if we have an opportunity to cut short the war in Europe by a matter of months, if everything goes according to plan. You’ve all received a briefing by now, I’m sure?” Nods came from all the participants. “Good. Here is the question I’ve been pondering: Is it time for us to plan for a postwar German government?”
“Mr. President …” Marshall was the first one to comment.
“Yes, General?” Marshall was one of the only people that FDR, a habitual first-namer, always addressed by title.
“Even with the surrender of Rommel’s army, the Germans have substantial strength, especially with all the forces that had been fighting in Russia. We don’t yet occupy a single inch of the German homeland. While it’s never too early to plan, of course, I wonder if a thorough discussion at this point might be somewhat premature.”
“Thank you, General Marshall. Cordell, how about you? Premature, or worth discussing?”
Hull paused to think for a moment. “We do have the doctrine of unconditional surrender to deal with, although at least part of the heritage of that declaration was our supposed friendship with the Soviets. And, of course, there’s the reality that the Berlin government hasn’t attempted to open up any diplomatic channels recently. We were ready last summer in case Stauffenberg and his friends had been able to take over the government, but we all know how that turned out.” Most of the figures in the Bomb Plot to assassinate Hitler were themselves dead following Heinrich Himmler’s successful countercoup.
“So, if there happened to be a German government more amenable to negotiation, you might feel differently?” asked the president. He smiled in a slightly annoying way, one that signified he had an ace up his sleeve and was
just about ready to play it. Roosevelt was well known for having his own mind made up and then asking others for their advice.
“Well, of course, Mr. President. But unless Bill Donovan has brought you evidence of a new Bomb Plot, there is only one German government around right now.” “Wild Bill” Donovan was head of the Office of Strategic Services, the major American intelligence agency.
“No new bomb plot that I know about right now,” injected Donovan, a large, muscular man who looked the part of the star college football player he’d been. “But who knows? We could always get lucky.”
“Or,” added FDR, “we could make our own.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Hull.
“We could make our own,” repeated the president.
The president’s idea was breathtaking in its simplicity. The Allies included several “governments in exile.” Some, such as the French, Belgians, and Polish, were able to field a fighting unit or two, normally incorporated into the larger army groups commanded by the Americans or the British. Others simply maintained an office in London and worked toward the day their homelands would be finally liberated. Why not, proposed Roosevelt, use this opportunity to create a German “government in exile” with Rommel’s forces as their military arm? It could simplify many elements of postwar German administration.
Hartnell Stone was quite impressed with Uncle Franklin. This was creative politics at its best. Some of the other attendees weren’t so sure.
General Marshall spoke up: “Pardon me, Mr. President.”
“Yes, General?” FDR’s full attention focused on the army chief of staff.
“Sir, this assumes that Rommel has not merely surrendered, but has had such a total change of heart that he will be willing not only to serve the Allied cause, but actually to fight Germans in that cause. And not merely fight the Nazi leadership, but also fight against German soldiers on the field of battle. I can tell you, sir, that regardless of one’s feelings for the leadership of one’s country, this would be an extremely difficult undertaking for any honorable soldier, and Rommel is nothing if not an honorable soldier.”
Wild Bill Donovan was the one who replied to that. “We have reason to believe that Rommel’s change of heart is actually that strong. For one thing, his chief of staff, General Speidel, was deeply involved in the Stauffenberg group, and tells us that Rommel actually agreed last summer to accept the position of Chancellor of Germany in a military coup. It’s a crying shame that one of our planes managed to shoot Rommel up just before the assassination—if we’d missed, he might have already taken over the German government.”
“I’m sorry our airmen did such a good job,” said Marshall with heavy irony.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. We didn’t know it in time, and these things just happen. I’m just saying that Rommel was sick and tired of Hitler and felt it was time for him to go. In fact, Rommel was evidently opposed to the assassination—felt it was dishonorable, that a military takeover was more appropriate.” He shook his head at the strange idea.
“Really?” interjected Hull. “He was ready to overthrow his own government?”
Donovan nodded. “That’s what we’re told. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a German and a patriot and all. Frankly, I think his objection to Hitler was not so much that he was a tyrant than that he was losing. And one thing is perfectly clear to any German who thinks about it—if they are going to lose, they’re a sight better off losing to us than to Stalin’s gang. Because one thing I’m certain of is that the Russians are going to double-cross Himmler the way the Nazis double-crossed them.”
Hull nodded. “Well, that’s clear enough. I agree. I figured that the Soviet-German deal was a temporary convenience, and now it’s in Stalin’s interest to attack again. Rommel must see that as clearly as we do. So his real motive is to stave off a Soviet takeover of Germany. All right. That ought to be one of our motives, too. All we need is a government of Reds replacing the Nazis. We’d be back where we started. Maybe even worse.”
“If we create our own German government and recognize it,” the president said, “especially if it’s got people in it that the Germans themselves recognize as legitimate, I think there’s a decent chance that the German resistance will pretty much collapse and we can just waltz into Berlin and take it over. Once we’ve got it, the Soviets will have to stand down or go to war with us, and I’m pretty sure that Stalin doesn’t have the stomach for
that
fight.” Stone noticed that the president didn’t mention “terrible weapons” or his certainty that Stalin would in fact back down.
Henry Stimson nodded. “You’re right about that, Mr. President. Stalin is nothing but an opportunist. He did the separate peace because he got Norway and Greece out of it. I can just see Stalin and Himmler shaking hands, each with fingers crossed behind his back. Himmler bought himself a few extra months, and Rommel decided to give it the old college try one last time. When we stopped his Hail Mary pass, he figured the clock had run out and so he blew the whistle. Interesting man, this Rommel. I think we can probably trust him, because his interests lie with us.”
“Exactly,” interrupted Donovan again. He leaned forward, his excitement at the complex intrigue obvious. “I know he’ll hate fighting his fellow Germans, but I’d bet my shirt that a lot of Germans will hate fighting him even more. Every division the Nazis throw at him will have about half of them desert to the other side. Basically, he’ll parade across Germany and straight
into Berlin with his army growing bigger every day, especially when it’s clear who’s going to be the winner.”
“So, do we make Rommel the chancellor?” asked Hull.
“I imagine so,” said Roosevelt. “But we need to surround him with the right people. Bill, you’ve pulled together a list of German dissidents and exiled politicians for me, right?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” replied Donovan.
“So, we pick out a cabinet for him and write his constitution for him. As soon as he declares the new government, they execute an unconditional surrender, and then we implement the plan,” said Roosevelt with satisfaction.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” came a chorus of the senior staff. Pens took rapid notes. This would take some time to implement.
“Of course, we’ll need a new ambassador to the government,” interjected the president. “And he’ll need a staff.”
“I’ll have recommendations for you shortly,” replied Cordell Hull.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the President of the United States in dismissal.
High in the turret of his command tank, Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper scanned the area around him with his binoculars. The skies were still gray, which kept enemy aircraft, the hated jabos, away from his forces: nearly one hundred panzers, currently roaring along the snow-shrouded forest roads.
Once again, Kampfgruppe Peiper had the role of greatest glory to play, and the honor of Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler was preserved. While Sixth Panzer Army began its pullback to the Westwall, he would launch a surprise attack on Armeegruppe B headquarters. With luck, he would kill the traitor Erwin Rommel and rescue some of the units of Fifth Panzer Army from their ignominious surrender to the Allies.
The hilly and forested terrain limited the kampfgruppe to a narrow front, but if Peiper moved fast enough, he could gain the element of surprise. This area was a backwater of the earlier battle, known to be free of Americans or British. The German targets would sit, unsuspecting in their sublime treachery.
The air was damp and cold; it cut through his uniform coat and penetrated his bones. His lips were chapped and his face began to burn with the continual wind whipping at it. Still he did not go inside the turret. He needed his eyes and ears, wanted them unencumbered by the metal shell.
He heard shots, the rapid firing of a .50-caliber machine gun from one of
the armored cars at the head of his column. Peiper strained to see through the binoculars in the gray light, to get a sense of what was going on. The machine gun uttered several short bursts, then silence. Moments later, a motorcycle approached, engine whining high-pitched over the rumbling tank. “Herr Obersturmbannführer!”
“What is it?”
“Our forward scout contacted a Wehrmacht picket, dispatched him with such speed it is virtually impossible that he got off a radio message.”
“Virtually impossible, you say?” said Peiper with a hard edge in his voice. “I appreciate the speed of the action, but I don’t wish to gamble any lives in support of that proposition.”
The scout motorcyclist immediately responded, “Sorry, Herr Obersturmbannführer. In any event, the scout is terminated.”
“German or Allied?”
“German, sir.”
Peiper thought about this for a minute. Were the scouts in response to an actual perceived threat, or were they simply there as part of normal military discipline? Did they know of his planned attack, or did he still possess the element of surprise? There was no way to be sure, but a single scout was not sufficient evidence of an active defense.
“I want you to go to the scout car and get the
Soldbuch
for each soldier. Perform radio check-in using standard codes for Armeegruppe B. Those shouldn’t have changed yet. Break off part of the antenna so you will have poor reception. If you get a question you can’t answer, the static will mean you didn’t hear it or they didn’t hear your answer. If they get too suspicious, let me know. Otherwise, check in with them every half hour. Got it?”
“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer,”
replied the motorcycle scout. He snapped off a salute, swung his motorcycle around, and headed off.
Peiper decided to continue the advance. He waved his arm and the long column started up again. A regular automobile could travel the thirty kilometers between Namur and Dinant in half an hour or so. Moving at full speed, the kampfgruppe took nearly three hours to come within a few kilometers. The river was on the right of the advance. On the other side of the river, cliffs began to rise. At this point, Peiper called a halt.
Calling together his senior commanders, he issued his orders. “We will attack toward the center of the city, along two axes. Task Force Potschke takes position on the waterfront,” He pointed to a relatively unpopulated area a kilometer or so north of the main city, then continued. “With Seventh Panzer Company supported by Eleventh and Twelfth Panzergrenadiere, Potschke makes his way south along Chaussée D’Yvior to attack the American and German forces around this cathedral, Rommel’s headquarters.”
Sturmbannführer Werner Potschke nodded.
“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer,”
he acknowledged.
“In the meantime, Hauptsturmführer Diefenthal will concentrate the artillery in support of our advance. I will take the panzer column into the city along the Rue Leopold.” Task Force Peiper would consist of three companies of Panzer IV and Vs, along with three companies of motorized infantry; it would pack the kampfgruppe’s hardest punch.
“When we break off combat, we will also move toward the east. The rest of the Leibstandarte is currently moving to occupy Saint-Vith and ensure that it does not fall into the hands of the traitors; this is critical to move all of Sixth Panzer Armies and whatever other units we can rescue back to the Westwall and the Fatherland.
“Good luck. In the tradition of Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, we advance to defend the purity of the Fatherland.” Peiper looked at his subordinates one after another. “Heil Himmler,” he said, and all saluted.
Peiper climbed back onto his tank. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

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