THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (41 page)

“The bomb plot, perhaps,” thought Dietrich. “But this sort of treachery? Unthinkable for a Prussian officer. But then,” he caught himself as he wondered: “capitulation in France might not be such a bad idea. We can't win this war. Further bloodshed is senseless. Wouldn't it be better to let the Western allies occupy Germany, rather than leave ourselves to the tender mercies of the Russians?” He reflected briefly on the three-year slaughter on the Eastern Front, and on the white rage with which Stalin would deal with postwar Germany.

About midnight, von Kluge appeared in a battered kübelwagen. He had spent most of the day skulking in ditches, dodging American planes. He didn't want to talk about it, but he did want a report from Dietrich. No hope from his uncle, was all the younger Dietrich had to say.

Von Kluge was about to retire in exhaustion when a message was delivered. He had been relieved of command and was to fly back to Germany.

“The time has come,” he whispered as he reached into his desk and drew out a bottle and two glasses.

The two men sat glumly sipping cognac. The older man reminisced about his early days in the army, when he was being promoted rapidly and was so full of hope. Dietrich wondered, should he tell the Field Marshal of Hitler's fury? What was the point? The point was obvious: von Kluge should have no illusions about his reception back in Berlin. To his horror, Dietrich had learned that a number of the July 20 plotters had been strangled, hanged by piano wire from meat hooks. The Gestapo made a motion picture of the grisly scene for the Führer's entertainment.

“My backdoor source from the
Wolfsschanze
.” Dietrich was throwing out a hint that he had information of interest to his boss.

The Field Marshal said nothing. Dietrich had lost track of how much they both had had to drink. He continued.

“Hitler's in a panic. He had all sorts of hallucinations about what you might be doing today. He couldn't contact you.”

“Of course not. My communications van was blown up.”

Dietrich decided to skip the bit about surrendering the army. Instead, he took a deep breath and got to the main point:

“According to Little Sir Echo, Himmler told the Führer that you were in on the bomb plot.”

So now he had done it. Von Kluge could be under no illusions. The Gestapo would likely constitute his welcoming party in Berlin.

They sat in silence for perhaps 45 minutes. The Field Marshal then sighed and indicated he would like to retire. As they walked unsteadily toward the door, von Kluge made a most unmilitary gesture: he put his arm around the younger man and squeezed him.

“Try to survive, my boy. Try to survive. The war won't last forever.”

First thing the next day, von Kluge issued new orders: All forces were to escape the Falaise Pocket without delay. The Führer be damned. Ironically, Hitler gave the same order later in the day, after von Kluge left for Germany; a withdrawal was finally permitted.

As von Kluge's plane approached the military airport near Berlin, his batman shook the Field Marshal to stir him from a deep sleep. He felt a chill on the Field Marshal's face. Von Kluge was dead. He had slipped a vial of poison into his mouth during the flight.

In the previous few days, Dietrich had given up any hope of surviving. In spite of what von Kluge said, death was simply a matter of time. As there was an acute shortage of officers, he volunteered (truly, this time) to fill in as a tank commander. Somewhat to his distaste, he was asked to fill a spot in an SS division, the fanatic Hitlerjungend. His task would be simple, but perhaps hopeless: to lead a group of tanks through the tightening noose.

16 August 1944. Patton's 3rd Army Headquarters near Alençon.

A
lmost, but not quite, thought Patton. We must close the trap before the Huns slip out. His men were still pushing forward, but they needed more help from the north. He put in a call to Bradley, the overall commander of American ground forces. After a few pleasantries, he got down to business:

“We need help from the Brits, and we need it now. If we don't get it, we'll miss a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

Patton was silent for a moment, listening to Bradley's response. He then continued, his voice rising into the squeaky range in his agitation:

“But Montgomery may dilly-dally, Brad. He doesn't like to attack unless he has overwhelming odds. He already has odds; the Germans are beaten. We've got to trap them now, not let them slip away to fight another day.”

Another silence, then Patton exploded:

“Well you can tell Montgomery that if he doesn't get off his ass, I'll push forward. When I cut off the Germans, I'll keep right on going. I'll drive him back into the sea. It'll be another Dunkirk.”

Patton hung up.

Montgomery didn't need prodding. He had already ordered the Canadian army—with the Polish Armored Division attached—to attack toward Falaise.

17 August 1944. With Canadian and Polish forces northwest of Falaise.

B
y the time they received the order from Montgomery, the Canadians and Poles had regrouped and were ready. But they still faced the same problem: how to close on the deadly 88s before the Germans could see them coming. This time, they would not wait for dark. Their initial cover would be a smokescreen laid by B-25s; it would be supplemented by the dust thrown up by the vehicles, and by additional smoke if needed. They had now advanced to the relatively open countryside, and their attack would be along a much broader front of several miles. In order to avoid the straggling and chaos of the earlier attack, when one wrong turn led a whole group of tanks astray, they were given very simple instructions: proceed through the smoke, toward the sun, until they met the enemy.

This time, the tactic worked. They pushed through the weakened German defenses and were soon in Falaise.

The Poles were now ordered to move southeastward from Falaise, along the Dives River, to block the German escape. They were an obvious choice, even though they had arrived in France only recently and were the least experienced of all the divisions under Montgomery's command. They longed for an opportunity to smash the Nazi legions in their moment of peril, to avenge the humiliations of 1939. They met their order to attack with cheers.

Because of the length of his experience in Normandy—a whole month with the Canadian armored division!—Kaz was chosen to lead the column that would aim for the further of the two bridges that the Germans were using as escape routes. His task was to reach this bridge, at Chambois, as soon as possible; to take the high ground above the bridge; and to use this position to deny the bridge to the enemy. “As soon as possible” meant exactly what it said; he was to avoid unnecessary contact with the enemy until he reached his objective. Because they would be confronting enemy tanks at Chambois, they were provided with six of the new “Fireflies”—Sherman tanks equipped with high-velocity, armor-piercing guns.

The initial advance was much less eventful than Kaz had expected. There was only sporadic contact with the enemy, who faded away when they were fired upon by his powerful column. The Poles encountered fierce action just once, and then only as spectators. As they rounded a curve on a hill, they observed a column of a dozen German tanks interspersed with a large number of trucks, horse-drawn artillery, and lighter vehicles on the narrow road below. It was an inviting target, but his orders permitted no delay. Perhaps the orders could be stretched? Fortunately, the temptation was suddenly removed. Three Typhoons came sweeping in, firing rockets at the lead tank, setting it ablaze and blocking the road. Several more Typhoons quickly followed, attacking the rear vehicle and trapping the hapless column. The Typhoons, now accompanied by Spitfires, began to proceed methodically down the line, setting one vehicle after another ablaze with rocket, cannon, and machine-gun fire.

Kaz had already instructed his radio operator to get on the air—quickly—to inform the British pilots of their location, to avoid a terrible mistake. He wished he had time to watch the aircraft complete their deadly task, but he ordered his column to press on, to reach his target as soon as possible.

After several more hours, the French guide announced that they had reached their goal; Chambois lay immediately ahead. Kaz was puzzled. He thought that the bridge was on the near side of Chambois, yet a bridge was nowhere to be seen. Nor could he see the commanding heights that he was to occupy. He sent out several runners, on foot, to find out where they were. The runners were back in a few minutes. They were not at Chambois, but Champeaux; apparently the French guide had misunderstood the heavily accented words of the Poles. There was nothing for it but to patiently—and this time carefully—communicate their objective to the guide.

Soon they were on their way, this time towards the real Chambois. On either side were rolling hills of what apparently was wheat, but was now beaten down by the weather, never having been harvested. Much of it was chewed up by the tracks of tanks and other heavy vehicles. They then moved into more hilly country, mostly covered with trees. The trees, too, showed the effects of war; many had been knocked over, and the forest was pockmarked with shells.

Going over a rise in the road, Kaz, in the lead tank, saw a German column directly ahead, passing through an intersection in the center of a small village. He was about to give the order to fire when the traffic controller halted the German column and waved for Kaz's tanks to pass through. Kaz was astonished; didn't the soldier recognize the Shermans? He quickly gave the order: hold your fire. Commanders, keep your heads up out of the hatches, as usual. Do not rotate your guns in a threatening way. But be ready to fire, aiming at the armored vehicles first, if anyone starts shooting.

As they got to the intersection, Kaz looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the German controller. He crossed his fingers as his trucks began to pass through the intersection. But soon the whole column—thirty tanks plus fifteen trucks and other miscellaneous vehicles—was through without event.

Now Kaz could think back to his earlier question: is it possible that the traffic controller didn't recognize the Sherman tanks? Or the American-made trucks? No, very unlikely. He had to admire the German's quick thinking. One cool corporal. He didn't relish a pointblank encounter with Shermans. Perhaps others in the German column also recognized the Poles, but decided they wanted to live. Kaz found himself thinking: I hope he survives the next few hours, to become our prisoner. Some day, I'd like to talk to him.

Later, that evening, one of his officers raised a question with Kaz: why hadn't he attacked the Germans, who were no match for the Polish tanks? Kaz's answer was brief: True, but they would have created a shambles in the village, and been delayed at least an hour. If the Germans had gotten off a couple of lucky shots and knocked out one or two Shermans, the Polish advance would have been blocked; the delay would have been much longer. Their job was to get to Chambois, and quickly. Their mission was to trap Germans, not kill them. At least, not this time.

Nevertheless, their trip was not entirely uneventful. About three miles further along, beside the road, Kaz saw an old castle. He stopped briefly: it was an ideal spot for a German ambush. To attack the castle made no sense: they would expend valuable ammunition, and they couldn't really demolish it, anyhow. Should he play it safe, and make a detour, or chance it, passing close to the castle? Once more, the decision was made for him. A white flag began to wave from the castle's tower, and soon a group of forty German soldiers began to file out, their hands in the air. Kaz decided he didn't want to be encumbered with prisoners. He left eight infantrymen, who herded their prisoners back into the castle.

Once again he was puzzled: Why hadn't the Germans used their fortified position to fire on his tanks? One of his men, who spoke German, came back with the answer:

“They heard the Poles were coming. They didn't want to start a fight. If they made us mad, they weren't sure we'd take prisoners.”

Only a few miles further, they took more prisoners. As they reached the top of a hill, they found their progress blocked by a group of vehicles, apparently the remnants of a Panzer regiment: ten or eleven tanks, two with their treads off, and the others looking decidedly shopworn. They were surrounded by a scattering of other vehicles and men, many of whom were lying down, either exhausted, wounded, or both. Kaz gave a hand signal for five other Shermans to come up alongside him.

He noticed that none of the German tanks had its gun pointed in his direction. He sent a message to the other tanks: Regardless of what I do, hold you fire unless the Germans swing their turrets in our direction, or unless we get other incoming fire.

He then took aim at the treads of what, to him, looked like the least damaged of the German tanks. He fired a single shot. The tread clanged as it was blown off the wheels. Kaz waited. Soon, white flags began to appear.

Again, it was up to the infantry to take and guard the prisoners. Kaz now had a difficult decision. He was encumbered with prisoners; if he proceeded, he would have little or no infantry protection. Worse, he was running low on food and fuel; the diversion to Champeaux had been costly. He decided to leave his main force behind and concentrate all his extra fuel for a minimum force of ten tanks.

As the fuel drums were being brought together, an excited lieutenant reported that they had just captured the remnants of the 2nd Panzer division. His men had been looking through the pay books of the prisoners, and found familiar names: Wysoka and Naprawa. These were the sites where, five years earlier, the 2nd Panzers had chewed up the light tanks of the Polish armored brigades.

A young sergeant had found something even more interesting: an undamaged communications truck crammed with radios and other equipment. Kaz jumped up into the back of the truck and slid into the operator's chair, in front of a complicated-looking typewriter. It had an extra set of letters above the keyboard, and at the bottom was a tangle of wires plugged into a board. “Looks like coding equipment,” he thought. “And complex. I wonder how it works?” Just as he was about to start playing with it, Captain Pulaski came up to inform him that the ten Polish tanks were ready to leave.