Fox On The Rhine (10 page)

The arrogance of a mere colonel irritated several of the generals. Nobility or not, rank still mattered--though all ignored the bitter irony that they had been taking orders from a mere corporal--Hitler’s World War I military rank--for years. Still, Stauffenberg represented power. Perhaps he even represented members of this table.

Rowekamp once more passed his calm gaze over the assembled officers, then concluded. “Perhaps it would be well to accept Himmler’s offer of a meeting, a discussion of the future of the Reich. Then we can meet again and determine the appropriate course of action for our nation and our peoples.”

There were nods from the other participants. Find out Himmler’s plan. Gain more information. Postpone final decisions. Still shocked by the death of a man who, however mad, had represented the spirit of the German people and embodied their destiny, they struggled with a long-ingrained habit of subordinating their wills to a higher command.

The consensus was clear. ‘Then we agree. We will meet with Reichsführer Himmler and resume this discussion.”

General Rowekamp pushed his chair back, rasping across the wooden floor, and stood up, his ancient body aching after sitting for so long. The other officers rose as well. It was a proud moment for the old man. I may have saved my country, he thought. Civil war was at least postponed, possibly foiled. He stood as the officers silently filed out the single wooden door, leaving him alone in the harshly lit room. Wisps of smoke visibly floated in the rays of light.

Suddenly he had a powerful need to piss.

Excerpt from
War’s Final Fury
, by Professor Jared Gruenwald
(Zurich: University of Zurich Press, 1955)

The assassination of Adolf Hitler had profound effects on the farther conduct of the Second World War. It is ironic in the extreme that virtually none of them were among the objectives of the assassins.

While certainly one cannot fault the boldness of von Stauffenberg and his cohorts in terms of their military action, they were surprisingly timid in the follow through. A rational examination of the assassination plot reveals crucial weaknesses in organization and planning of the subsequent coup attempt--flaws that almost inevitably doomed the operation to failure. Also, the secrecy necessary to their survival in a totalitarian state was enough to ensure crucial delays in the activation of key elements of the coup attempt. The decision to announce the coup in coded messages broadcast to conspirators throughout Europe was a final, fatal blow--for by the time these messages were translated, the forces of the SS had already acted to fill in the vacuum of power.

And finally, the critical injuries to Rommel all but doomed the overthrow of the government to failure. Although the erstwhile field marshal was not an active participant in the plot, we now know that he wholeheartedly supported the conspirators’ objectives. He had even consented to serve as the president of the new German government, intended for installation as soon as the conspirators had removed the Nazis from positions of control. Rommel’s reputation as a capable field commander, and the respect he had earned from military and civilian quarters alike, had given him a status lacking in virtually any other potential leader. Furthermore, his powers of command and organization could have proven crucial in the key hours after Hitler’s death.

There is also considerable doubt as to whether, during that summer of violence, the leaders of the Western Allies would have softened their announced position: that nothing less than the “unconditional surrender” of Germany could bring about an end to the war in Europe. Of course, if Rommel had offered an immediate armistice on the French front, he would have dangled tempting bait ... But such questions are mere grist for historians’ debates, and we can never know the certain answer.

In any event, Heinrich Himmler inherited a situation that was dire in all respects. The enemies of the Reich were closing in from all directions (see Map), and nothing short of radical new policies could offer any hope whatsoever of triggering a reversal in history’s grim tide.

Nineteenth Armored Division Mobile Headquarters, Normandy, France, 23 July 1944, 0618 hours GMT

There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance--real thunder, not an artillery barrage this time--as Colonel James Pulaski pulled open the flap of the headquarters tent and stepped inside. He blinked at the sudden darkness, and then his eyes adjusted to the dim light. For a moment he was reminded of the confessional booth, but then the connection vanished as he focused on the military tasks before him.

There was a long table spread with maps and papers, the staff officers and their aides clustered around, working on the immense business of siting and moving an armored division.

None of the officers--or many of the men, for that matter--had slept much over the past three weeks. While it was tough enough to move an armored division under any circumstances, bringing that division to a combat zone brought a myriad of unfamiliar problems.

“Jimmy!” General King motioned him to a conference area. The division CO was an exception to the staff’s shared experience--King had been given command of the Nineteenth only three months earlier.

There were a few chairs for the senior officers. Henry Wakefield, the exec, was chewing on a cigar. Wakefield had been the acting CO until King had taken over, and he and Pulaski had always had an edgy relationship. The colonel wasn’t sure what Wakefield thought of the new command structure. Wakefield’s gruff manner didn’t invite easy familiarity, though Bob Jackson, the CCB commander, didn’t seem to have much trouble. But then Bob Jackson got along with everybody (his southern drawl and easy, almost aristocratic, manners were hard to dislike, though Pulaski admitted to himself that he was learning to do just that).

Pulaski sat down in the folding metal chair. “Afternoon,” he said.

“How’s CCA standing?” General King asked.

“Fine, sir,” replied Pulaski. “We’re ready to roll whenever you give the order.”

King’s wide smile gleamed in the dimly lit tent. “Great, great!” he said. He looked up as Colonel Jackson came into the tent. “And Bob? You ready to go?”

“At a moment’s notice, Gener’l,” replied Jackson, with an easy smile and a nod to Pulaski.

“Good. And Henry, you’ve got the support battalions and logistics arranged?”

“They’re shaking down pretty well, all things considered,” Wakefield answered deliberately and precisely, speaking too slowly for the impatient Pulaski’s taste.

King nodded in agreement as he lit his pipe. Puffing it slowly into flame, he looked around at the other officers, then nodded at his S2, the staff intelligence officer. “Colonel Grant will give us the best information we’ve got on the Kraut positions in front of us. Afterward we’ll get the last word on the division battle plan. Colonel Clark will have your positions marked. Combat Command A will be leading the way. I want CCB no more than a mile behind CCA’s tail.”

The officers nodded. The entire division would create a road column more than ten miles long. The close proximity of the combat commands meant that their strength would be concentrated--but at the same time they would have to maintain discipline and organization in order to avoid a massive traffic jam.

“Now, Henry and I will be attending a meeting at First Army headquarters tomorrow at 0900. This is the big one, and when we get back I want the Nineteenth to jump on the ops orders and be ready to roll as soon as we hear the starting gun. We may be the new kids on the block, but I sure as hell don’t want us to look like new kids. Once we get the word to attack, I want us to take off like sprinters--and keep moving until we get the word to stop. No excuses. Got it?”

A chorus of “yes sirs” responded. Pulaski was determined that his CCA would run like a well-oiled machine, though he was more than a little nervous. There were a thousand problems to solve and a thousand more too well hidden to discover until it was too late.

Still, he would be the best, or he would die trying.

SS Headquarters, Berlin, Germany, 0635 hours GMT

“You have come to report on the progress of Operation Reichsturm?” Himmler’s quiet voice came out of the shadows as the new acting führer of the Third Reich--a role the reichsführer had taken on “with the greatest reluctance”--sat down at his desk, blinking up at the tall, handsome form of Horst Bücher as the general clicked his heels and saluted.

“Indeed, Herr Reichsführer,” the SS general reported with pride. Himmler was--at least so far--refusing the honorific that had been so identified with Adolf Hitler. There would be time enough for titles after the power itself was firmly in his hands. “The plan proceeds with remarkable success. Most significantly, the radio network and all broadcasting stations have all been seized. Your announcement this morning seems to have answered the needs of the public--the people mourn, quietly for now.”

“As they should,” Himmler agreed, with a tiny nod.

“The representatives of the General Staff will arrive within minutes--they’ve expressed a willingness to listen.” He chuckled.

“Go on.” Himmler’s voice betrayed no amusement, no emotion.

Bücher focused his mind back to the present. “The conspirators have, for the most part, been identified. In accordance with your instructions, they have not been arrested--though, naturally, we keep them under careful observation.

“In the meantime the call-up of the Volkssturm has begun. Designated recruiting sergeants are summoning the remaining manpower reserves of the Reich--all men physically able to serve. The age eligibility bracket, for now, is fifteen to fifty years. The operation is careful and precise--for example, men who suffer from stomach ulcers will be gathered into special companies to simplify the dietary concerns of the field kitchens.”

“Splendid. What is the anticipated increase in our strength?”

“We will create more than two dozen new divisions in the first month, Herr Reichsführer. However, I must caution that these formations will have little equipment or mobility. They’ll be suited for barely more than static defense.”

“Don’t underestimate these men, my dear general--after all, they’re Germans!” Himmler’s tone carried a gentle hint of rebuke. “They will do as they are told, whether that be defend, attack, or die. Indeed, they can be replaced more easily than tanks. When the time comes to resume the offensive, they will doubtless serve as useful fodder for the enemy guns.”

If Bücher felt any surprise at the notion of battered Germany going on the attack, his careful expression gave no clue. “All SS divisions have been placed on full alert,” he continued. “We have no indications that any troops of the Wehrmacht intend to offer violent resistance.”

“Is there any adverse reaction from the Gauleiters?” Both men understood that the approval of these key politicians, Nazi leaders for the various geographic regions of Germany, formed a crucial pillar of their ultimate success.

“It seems that Kramer, in Dusseldorf--also, I believe, Fitzmunde in Essen--refused to cooperate with the local SS authorities. Their replacements have proven more... reasonable.”

“And the railroads?”

“The Gestapo has taken full control of all lines. Even should some aristocrat of a general take it into mind to move a division toward Berlin, he would find it quite impossible.”

“The Special Transports continue?” Himmler asked the question nonchalantly.

Bücher allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Yes, Herr Reichsführer! The number of trains has actually been increased--naturally, our Gestapo units are providing full cooperation. Your orders have been followed exactly, urgency added to the transports in light of the ominous developments on the military fronts.”

“Yes, the war...” The new leader of Germany lowered his wire-rimmed spectacles onto his nose and looked up at Bücher in determination. “The war with the Allies we will consider soon--but first we must deal with the battle of Berlin. After all, ‘Your objective, before all else, is to bring maximum concentration of force at the decisive point.’ “

“Clausewitz, of course, sir,” Bücher murmured. “The principle of the Schwerpunkt, and remarkably appropriate to our own circumstances. After all, we control the center of power--and this shall prove the point of our first victory!”

Himmler smiled his thin, tight smile. Now the generals were coming to him. The situation was dangerous--very dangerous. But, conversely, his position was strong indeed.

SHAEF, London, England, 0917 hours GMT

The situation in Germany had unraveled completely. Stauffenberg and the other conspirators had been outmaneuvered by Heinrich Himmler. Hitler was dead, but it was looking as if Germany had simply swapped one sociopathic tyrant for another. Or worse: had they swapped a dictator sinking into dementia for one who was still somewhat dangerously sane? The situation might now be worse than it had been before July 20.

Captain Reid Sanger felt his mind treading around in circles, like a hamster, revisiting each detail over and over again, not finding anything new but unable to stop. Along with several other members of the intelligence staff, they had spent hours in a small office that doubled as a conference room. The smell of stale tobacco had long since driven out any oxygen, and Sanger could feel a migraine coming on. He rubbed his temples.