Fox On The Rhine (16 page)

The one-eyed count, assassin of Adolf Hitler, looked up and grinned with a confidence that struck Haeften as nearly unfathomable. “Not the way I see it. We may not have succeeded, but we did not fail. Hitler is dead, the Nazi high command is in turmoil, and the fate of the Third Reich is sealed. May the Fourth Reich yet to come be something that Germany can be proud of.”

Haeften shook his head. “But Himmler as the new führer--isn’t that worse? Haven’t we simply made things worse by our actions?”

“No. Not at all.” Stauffenberg spoke with calm assurance. “If we have done nothing else, we have demonstrated that there is some honor left in Germany, some courage, some revulsion at what Hitler and his bully boys have wrought. That will be part of the history, part of what is recorded. Werner, remember this, for as long as you have left: when you do the right thing, you win.”

The lieutenant nodded. Surprisingly, the thought gave him some comfort in the face of his death. He was otherwise completely numb.

It was only afternoon, but with the blinds drawn and the room closed in, it could have been any time. The remnants of the conspirators, those who hadn’t scurried for cover like mice into their holes, had been meeting around the clock. Telephone calls and surreptitious communications, coded phrases meant to activate this group and that--while many who subscribed to the conspiracy with their lips had failed to follow through with the rest of their bodies, especially when it became clear the momentum had moved to Himmler’s SS, it was gratifying how many had stood up and struck their blows for a free Germany, free of Nazi tyranny and ready to rejoin the brotherhood of nations.

In spite of Himmler’s preemptive takeover of Broadcast House in Berlin, made possible at least in part by Stauffenberg’s fateful decision to send the notifications in code, the conspirators had not simply given up. The coup had been more successful in Paris and elsewhere, and the core plotters had moved more quickly after their initial slow start. But two problems bedeviled their effort: first, that Nazi loyalists were present everywhere, and second, that many fence-sitters were unwilling to commit themselves in the absence of clear victory.

There were moments. A room-to-room shootout in Wehrmacht headquarters in Paris between pro-Nazi and pro-coup forces left thirty dead and the coup forces officially in control of the military apparatus for a period of twelve hours. Then came a counterattack by an SS division--brave men armed with pistols were helpless against tanks and infantry. They had been brutally gunned down.

The last meeting of the core coup plotters had ended hours ago, with the only remaining issue concerning what would happen to the ringleaders. “I will not run,” Stauffenberg had said. “Let them martyr me if they wish. A thousand more revolutionaries will grow from the soil.” Haeften could see the conflicted, even scared, expressions on the faces of the other coup leaders: Beck, Olbricht, von Quimheim. They looked back and forth at each other; none could move.

Wolf Heinrich von Helldorf, the Berlin police president, and Dr. Hans Gisevius, the German vice consul for Switzerland, were the only two nonmilitary officers present. Gisevius, a member of the inner circle since the very beginning, had resolved to stay and face his fate with the generals, but von Helldorf was contemptuous. “Don’t kid yourself, Gisevius,” he had said. “For years the generals--yes, and the colonels, too--,” he added, looking straight at Stauffenberg, “have shit all over us. They promised us everything; they haven’t kept a single promise. What happened in this coup was right in line with the rest of what they’ve said--more of their shit.”

Olbricht began to argue, but Stauffenberg interrupted. “Excuse me, my general, but the police president is correct. We are military officers, and there is no excuse for failing to meet one’s objective. In fact, I highly recommend that you all follow Herr von Helldorf’s suggestions. If you have not been officially implicated, return to cover. Hide. Flee to the west. Return to your duties if you can. Save your lives, and more importantly, prepare yourselves for another opportunity. It’s not over. It will never be over while a single Nazi remains in power.”

Von Helldorf looked triumphantly around. He leaned forward, hands on the conference table spread wide. Few of the military officers met his eyes. “See? Stauffenberg is right. We can hide, we can rebuild, we can try again. Gisevius, you understand, right? This isn’t about some empty idea of military honor, this is about results, about winning the war even though we’ve lost this battle. Only a few of us are so exposed we can’t just return to our duties, and those can flee to Switzerland or try to reach the Allies or the Resistance in France.”

Gisevius shook his head. “Honor demands--”

Helldorf interrupted explosively. “Germany demands that we try to live to fight another day! Maybe you don’t think your life means anything. Maybe it doesn’t, but mine does, and while I’ll lose it in the right cause I’ll be goddamned if I plan to throw it away for ‘honor.’” He spat the term. “You see where ‘honor’ got all those brave officers who spoke privately against Hitler but decided that it wasn’t the right time to move their troops. I, for one, am not yet compromised, and I plan to stay that way. Who’s with me?”

Reluctantly, Gisevius nodded. “I’ll return to Switzerland and talk to the Allies.” Haeften could see the shame on his face, even though he knew it was the right thing to do.

Beck said, “It matters not to me. I can’t go back to my job. I’m known.” Olbrich nodded in agreement. He was too visible as well.

“Then for God’s sake, flee! Get out of Berlin; go to Switzerland. Go anywhere! But go! Stauffenberg, tell them. You’re the most important of all.”

The faces of the generals turned one by one in the direction of the one-eyed colonel. Suddenly Haeften was reminded of a nightmare image of his youth, a famous painting--the
Crucifixion
, by Matthias Grünewald. German crucifixion paintings were reputed to have therapeutic properties; the detailed and highly realistic wounds on the Christ figure were living evidence of Christ’s promise to take all the sins of the world upon him, and miraculous cures resulted for those who beheld it.

Grünewald’s
Crucifixion
had made a terrifying impression on Haeften at the age of ten. A majestic ten-foot representation of Golgotha, set in the dark of the night, with Jesus dead on the cross, the Romans and onlookers long since departed, four mourners--two Marys, the Blessed Mother and Mary Magdalene, and two Johns, the Evangelist and the Baptist--below. Each of the nail wounds and scourge marks suffered by the Savior was carefully placed, but then Grünewald had added many more wounds and open sores: all the sins of the world. Haeften had tried to run away at the horrfying sight, he had shrieked and cried and had nightmares for weeks.

But now, looking at Stauffenberg, he understood the painting at last. He was not surprised at Stauffenberg’s next words.

“No. My position is somewhat different from that of the rest of you. I have one more role to play in this drama; you--as many as can survive--have another saga ahead of you.”

They understood as well, and slowly, silently, they rose to leave, one by one, until they came to Lieutenant Haeften. “I’m afraid I must stay as well,” he said.

Normandy, France, South of St-Lo-Periers Road, 1627 hours GMT

The bleak landscape looked like hell on earth.

Carl-Heinz squeezed another drop of oil onto the rotor of his periscope sight, which was in danger of fouling from the grit and debris spattered about during the bombing. Meanwhile, the lieutenant had ascertained that their panzer was alone for at least two hundred meters to either side. The three other tanks that had remained of their original company were gone, the position battered so badly that they had been able to find the wreckage of only one of them. The nearby company of panzer-grenadiers, infantrymen who worked in close concert with the German tanks, had also apparently been annihilated--even their slit trenches were gone, indistinguishable amid the barren moonscape of the cratered ground.

The lieutenant had found them a place of some shelter between two massive mounds of earth thrown up by the bombs. The crew spent a few minutes covering the tank with dirt and tree limbs, a hasty attempt at camouflage that did a remarkable job of blending the large machine into the landscape. After these minimal preparations they had settled down to wait, knowing that it wouldn’t be for long.

Pfeiffer and Peltz were looking out from behind a low mound of earth, seeking signs of enemy activity, and now they came sliding down the dirt pile and hastened back to the tank.

“Time now for the really big guns to try and kill us,” Ulrich said, with a sad shake of his head.

The whistling shells and subsequent explosions of the artillery barrage quickly drove Carl-Heinz and his crewmates into the shelter of the Panther. Hatches closed, teeth clenched, knuckles white around nearby handholds, the German tankers sat tight to wait out this next onslaught on their machine, their sanity, and their lives.

Ulrich was sure everyone was about to die, but then he glanced over at Carl-Heinz--the man was humming! How could any man remain as cheerful and self-possessed as Carl-Heinz under such terrible conditions? On the other hand, he was glad of Carl-Heinz’s comforting presence. Lieutenant Schroeder might command the tank, but Carl-Heinz was the center of the crew, the stalwart rock from which everyone else drew comfort and protection.

For some reason, the tank acted like a pet dog under Carl-Heinz’s hands. It did everything but sit up and beg. And Carl-Heinz was constantly tinkering with it, repairing it, tweaking it, modifying it. By now, Ulrich thought, it wasn’t a panzer any more, it was a strange new beast of Carl-Heinz’s own making. Carl-Heinz was simply the most capable and intuitive mechanic he’d ever met, and the work was all around him, even in the horrific noise.

Sometimes weeks had gone by without a single shot being fired. During that time Carl-Heinz was always busy. Their tent had a solar water collector for fresh water all the time. A carefully planned moat swept rain water away without ever touching a sleeping bag or duffel. An elegant stone cooking platform gave them fresh hot food far better than the normal campfire, with a windmill-powered spit for roasting. The creative use of netting landscaped their bivouac. Everything he touched turned into a work of mechanical art.

Not at all like Ulrich himself. Ulrich knew himself to be dour and pessimistic, but under the circumstances of this horrible war, he felt he was only realistic. Yet he envied Carl-Heinz in his fantasy, if that’s what it was. He suspected that it wasn’t fantasy, but rather that Carl-Heinz carved his own reality, his own elegantly crafted surroundings, wherever he went.

If only his luck rubs off on the rest of us
, he half prayed as he hunched tighter under the thunder of guns.

578 Squadron Base, Wendling, Norfolk, England

Staff Sgt. Frank “Digger” O’Dell
Wendling, Norfolk, England
July 26, 1944

Mrs. Lucy O’Dell
Roxboro, North Carolina

Dear Mama,

Up until now, it was looking like all I was going to do in the war was go to school. I thought once we’d reached our airbase, we’d be going into combat, but instead we went to all sorts of briefings over about a week and a half. Most of the briefings were about how to escape and evade capture in case we got shot down. We now have escape kits with about five thousand dollars in different kinds of money, which we were told is some of the best counterfeit that was ever made.

Well, we’ve got our final crew together now, and our very own B-24. It doesn’t have a name yet, like a lot of the planes such as
Memphis Belle
, which you’ve heard of, but there’s a great big letter “P” in a circle on the tail with a bar over it, so we’re calling it “P-Bar” for now.

Lieutenant Russ is our commander, and we did decide to call ourselves “Russ’s Ruffians.” Booker, our navigator is from California. The co-pilot is Lieutenant Webb. He’s only a second lieutenant and Russ is a first lieutenant. Harry Glass and I are the waist gunners; he’s got the left and I’ve got the right. Wagner is the flight engineer and upper turret gunner. There’s a guy named Fry (he’s from Georgia) in the nose turret, Kirby’s the tail gunner. The bombardier is another lieutenant named Sollars. He’s kind of fat. And there’s Tony Hutt, who’s the radio operator. He’s my best friend in the crew so far. Part of the reason is that I am the backup radio operator. Tony’s a short guy, real energetic, looks like he’s spoiling for a fight. He’s from North Philadelphia, which he says is a pretty tough neighborhood, so he’s not worried about some Germans after growing up in North Philly, as he calls it.

Every night about five o’clock they post the battle order for the next day, if there’s going to be a mission, and last week on July 24 we were on it for the first time. We got up real early for the mission briefing. Our target was a place called St.-Lô (those funny hooks over the ‘o’ is how the French write it). That’s where the Americans were stuck.

The St.-Lô raid was going to be a two thousand plane raid. In our particular airplane, we carried twenty-pound frag bombs, which are really twenty-pound hand grenades in huge clusters held together with wire rope and wooden slats. As the bomb falls out, it has a propeller that spins counterclockwise so it will spin off and unloose all of the baling material holding the clusters together. Then, these hundreds of twenty-pound frag bombs would go raining down. Each of the airplanes in our squadron had hundreds and hundreds of these. And those frag bombs would then go right into the holes in all the apple orchards down there and rout out the Germans. That was the mission.

We went out to P-Bar in a jeep, opened the bomb hatch (the airplane doesn’t have a real door; we go in where the bombs come out) and started the pre-flight procedures. We’d done it in training often enough, but it felt quite a lot different to do it for real for the first time. We all tried to do it by the book. A lot of the crews that had been there for a long time and flown lots of missions used a lot of shortcuts, but this was our first time and we didn’t want to try any shortcuts, at least for now.