Fox On The Rhine (26 page)

A line of shambling Germans on foot, with a fortunate few weaving among them on bicycles, still moved across the bridge, but there was no semblance of unit cohesion. These men were slumped with defeat and weariness, though on the exposed span they moved with some urgency, knowing that the great river at least placed a barrier between themselves and the relentless Americans.

‘There--a general’s car,” remarked Ulrich dispassionately, pulling on a vile ersatz cigarette.

Carl-Heinz saw the trudging infantry move to the side as the big Mercedes rumbled onto the bridge and slowly made its way across, steering back and forth around the partially patched craters left by Allied bombs.

“Jabo,” Ulrich murmured, flicking down his butt and squinting into the high, white overcast.

The droning of a single-engine plane was audible to them all in a few moments. Even though the tank was as well-screened as possible, Carl-Heinz felt his heart quicken, his stomach chum with the familiar fear.

The aircraft--an RAF Tempest or Typhoon, distinguished by the big air scoop beneath the cowling--screamed out of the clouds, approaching the river on a course directly above the road. With urgency borne of long experience, Germans sprang off the highway, scrambling into the ditches and trying to make their way into the hedges and woods to either side. Machine guns chattered, stitching a line of dusty strikes along the highway, blasting among the men who had thrown themselves flat in the undergrowth. Many soldiers tried to claw their way into the ground, while others twitched in the unmistakable pattern of men whose flesh was being torn by lethal bullets. Several, caught near the middle of the bridge, leaped into the water as the bullets raced onto the narrow span.

There was no such escape for the big staff car. Instead, the driver gunned the engine, jouncing across the rough pavement in a desperate bid to reach the far bank. He careened around the burning truck, scraping the fender along the bridge railing with a force that sent sparks flashing in the dull daylight. Before the car had covered even half of the distance, bullets slashed into the trunk and top of the vehicle. It veered crazily, smashing into the railing at the other side of the bridge. A blossom of fire boiled upward as the fuel tank ignited, and no one escaped from the battered vehicle.

A bomb fell away from the fighter’s belly, and Carl-Heinz watched the missile fall. It tumbled just past the bridge to explode in the river, showering water over the smoking staff car while the concussion killed a dozen men who were floundering in the water.

Another plane roared in, shooting up the road--though by now the only soldiers who remained in range were well beyond sensation, much less further injury. All the surviving Germans had made their way off the road, huddling in impotent fury among whatever cover they could find. The second Jabo, however, proved more accurate in the bomb run, dropping the missile right in the middle of the span. It exploded with a shower of debris and pavement, though as the smoke cleared it was obvious that the structure of the bridge still stood.

As soon as the planes were gone, the soldiers on foot started shuffling across the bridge again, giving wide berth to the still-burning car. Peltz came back, boasting that he had recovered more than ten liters of precious gasoline.

When some of the shambling men had come up the hill far enough to pass the Panther’s hiding place, Fritzi hailed them, “Hey--who was that down there in the car? Did you see?”

“Ja,” replied a weary, limping Feldwebel. “That was Field Marshal von Kluge, our front commander.” He paused a moment to let that news sink in, then smiled crookedly, more like the leering grin of a skeleton than any real expression of humor.

Reichstag, Berlin, Germany, 2200 hours GMT

“You say von Kluge was killed in an air attack?” Himmler pursed his lips and frowned delicately at the SS hauptmann who held the radio report in his hand.

“Ja, mein Führer. Strafed by an American just after he had brought his HQ across the Seine.”

“That is disappointing... he was performing rather well, I must say.”

General Bücher, who stood on the other side of his leader’s broad desk, cleared his throat gently.

“Yes, General?” Himmler’s narrow eyebrows were raised in inquiry. He nodded in dismissal to the radioman, who left before Bücher began to speak.

“You may recall, mein Führer, that I spoke with Field Marshal Rommel a week ago. His convalescence seemed to be proceeding remarkably well. It may be that he will be able to assume his old command.”

“Yes... that is indeed something to consider. But tell me, has there not been evidence against him regarding the plot against our late führer?”

Bücher kept his own scarred face expressionless but couldn’t help noticing a touch of irony in the tone of Himmler’s voice when he spoke about their former dictator. The SS general shrugged in response to the question. “One word, apparently spoken by a man in the depths of torture, that indicated our esteemed field marshal’s name... I suggest that it need not preclude him from taking command in the field again.”

“On its surface, no,” Himmler agreed. He thought for several moments of profound silence. “Very well, send the message... Field Marshal Rommel is reappointed to Wehrmacht command in the west, as soon as his health allows. But Bücher...”

“Yes, mein Führer?”

“I think I shall assign you to his staff. As admirably fitted as our bold Desert Fox may be for military command, it seems that his politics demand that he will bear watching.”

“As you wish, mein Führer.” Bücher saluted crisply, maintaining his eyes on a spot above his leader’s head. With a precise pivot, he turned and marched from the office. He was pleased. Rommel was a fine man, a good German, even if his political reliability was questionable. He would enjoy working with such a fine man... though that would not preclude him from taking other actions if necessary.

U.S. First Army HQ, Normandy, France, 11 August 1944, 0945 hours GMT

“Goddamn! Look at this!” Eades was nearly out of breath. “Von Kluge is dead! We got him!”

Sanger looked up eagerly. “No shit? Really? What happened?”

“Just a little north of Paris, evidently. His staff car was hit by a Typhoon, blown to bits.”

“How do you know it’s von Kluge?”

“Intercepted German transmissions. It was radioed in the clear by the field soldiers who found him. After that, there was a lot of code churning the air. Can’t read it, but it’s pretty easy to figure out what it says.”

“Yeah,” noted Sanger. ‘“Get us a confirmation. Are you sure? Details needed urgently. Are you really sure?”’

Eades laughed. For all his certainty about a quick German collapse, and his conviction that Sanger was far too pessimistic, he was a good guy and an able analyst. “Yep. Just like what our commanders would send. So, now what? It went from Rommel to Runstead to von Kluge, so who’s next?”

“Rommel to Runstead to Kluge. Sounds like Tinker to Evans to Chase,” observed Eades, referring to the famous Chicago Cubs baseball double play trio. Both men laughed.

“Then who’s up next?” asked Sanger.

“Hell, I dunno. Does it make a difference?”

“It might. Guderian is available, I think.” The noted panzer general had angered Hitler, and as a result had been placed in a more or less ceremonial position as inspector of panzers. “Could be,” said Eades. “Or maybe Himmler will put in some SS flunky who’ll spend all his time trying to enforce ‘stand and die’ orders.”

“That’s possible too,” said Sanger.

There was one name that did not come up in that discussion, or in the intelligence meetings that followed, because he was a man everyone knew to be too wounded for the job.

Rommel House, Herrlingen, Germany, 12 August 1944, 0900 hours GMT

“Herr Feldmarschall! You are there!” The voice on the telephone, tinny and distant as usual, was nevertheless filled with unaccountable relief. “It has been quite difficult to find you after you left the hospital.”

“Yes, I’ve been here for the last few days. If I had stayed in Vesinet, I would be a guest of the Americans by now. And who is this?”

“Forgive me... this is Major Paulus, calling for Oberkommando der Wehrmacht. Here is Field Marshal Keitel.”

For several minutes Rommel listened. His heart started to pound with a beat that he hadn’t felt for weeks--for months, if he told the truth. Despite the fact that the situation in the west was terrible, that the Allies were advancing like an irresistible tide, he could not deny the allure that called him back to war.

“Of course,” Keitel said in conclusion. “The führer was most clear that this appointment is contingent upon your health. But he wants you to know that, when you are feeling fit, the command in the west is yours once again.”

“Thank you, Field Marshal,” Rommel said, before carefully setting the telephone back into its cradle.

He took a few minutes to sit quietly and reflect upon this change of fortune. It was tragic, the fate that had met von Kluge--indeed, it was eerily similar to the death that had almost claimed the Desert Fox himself.
They don’t understand--so long as the Allies control the skies, there is so very, very little that we can do on the ground!

His head throbbed with the surging ache that was a constant part of his life, now. He felt the moistness under his eye patch, momentarily wondering if his left eye would ever see again, or if for the rest of his days his vision would consist of this curiously flat impression of the world. But then he remembered the tree that had been his inspiration outside of his hospital room... shortly before he had departed Vesinet, he had noticed sprigs of greenery sprouting from the blasted trunk.

And finally he shook his head, dismissing such concerns as unimportant. There was a battle raging to the west, and German soldiers were dying in great numbers. Now he had a chance to again play a role in that fighting. He couldn’t win--no general could, given the constraints of Allied air superiority. Still, perhaps he could save some of those brave men. He remained too badly wounded to ride about in a car, to inspect and be seen by the troops as a proper general should. Yet perhaps there were some things he could do.

Finally he reached for the phone. “Get me General Weise, Nineteenth Army Headquarters.”

It took just a few sentences to inform the man that he had a new commanding general.

“You are to commence a withdrawal north up the Rhone valley at the earliest possible moment,” he began. “My intentions are to have you set up a line in the Vosges Mountains, west of Strasbourg and the Rhine. The Americans won’t be there for several weeks, and when they arrive I want you to be ready for them.”

“Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschall!” Weise hesitated for only a second. “That is, am I to understand that we are evacuating France?”

“Indeed, my General... the time has come to make our stand at the borders of the Fatherland.”

Rommel didn’t even put down the phone after breaking the connection. He spoke sternly to the operator, curtly informing her that he would accept no excuses for failure. He knew he asked her to perform a difficult task, to find a specific person amid the chaos of the disintegrating front in France. By the same token, it was something that had to be done.

While he waited, he pulled out some of the maps that he had had delivered to his rooms. Lacking proper desk space, he spread them across his bed. What he saw confirmed his memories, and his impressions.

Though his ear got sore from the waiting, he finally heard Speidel’s voice.

“Hello, my General,” he said to the man who had performed so well for him in Normandy. “I am glad they found you!”

“I don’t know how... we have a temporary Army Command Post in a chateau overlooking the Seine, but we barely installed the phone lines an hour ago.”

“I was lucky enough to get a good operator,” Rommel observed.

“And no doubt you put the fear of the devil into the poor thing,” Speidel added wryly. “But, to business: Surely you have heard about von Kluge?”

“Indeed... in fact, I am his replacement.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had all summer. But your health...?”

“Is of no matter. Tell me, how much of the army has reached the east bank of the Seine?”

“Many men, though no one knows the exact number. Of course, we have left most of our guns and tanks behind... in a way it is like Dunkirk was for our British foes four years ago.”

“An apt comparison,” the Desert Fox agreed. “Does it look as though you will be able to hold at the river?”

“I am afraid we are already in full flight at least to the Somme,” Speidel said. “And there are still American spearheads, Patton’s men, who stand a chance of cutting off a good portion of our remaining strength.”

“There must be an important crossing of the Somme,” Rommel said, returning to his map. “Here, at Abbeville?”

‘Two good bridges, yes, Field Marshal. It is perhaps the last bottleneck before we get into Belgium.”

“And surely such panzers as remain to us are crossing there?”

“
Naturlich
--though nothing like an intact division made it out of Normandy.”

“Tell me, is Bayerlein there?”

“Yes, right beside me.”

“Put him on another line.”

In moments, the former panzer leader of the Afrika Korps was speaking to his past, and now current, commander.

“Fritz, I want you to go to Abbeville... gather all the tanks you can, put together as much of a force as possible.”

“It will be difficult, Herr Feldmarschall, but perhaps not impossible. I assume that I should assemble them west of the river, the Somme?”

“As always you understand me, Fritz. Jawohl, perhaps five miles west of the river. And a mile or two south of the main highway.”

“I will assemble the panzers immediately. And I will be ready to move in twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent, my General. And listen to me, for just another moment. I think it is again time for us to attack.”

Beauvais, France, 18 August 1944, 1855 hours GMT