Fox On The Rhine (36 page)

“I am yours to command, of course.”

“One of the problems is Fromm, commander of the Replacement Army. We know that he was one of the original conspirators. He’s a doddering old fool, but he still has influence with some of the defeatists.”

“I will make arrangements immediately... the problem will be solved.”

“And old Rowekamp, as well. It seems that he has begun to fancy himself a leader, merely because he was able to form some sort of consensus among the General Staff following the murder of our führer. He is another one that will serve as a good example.”

“And there are more?”

“I have a list... a thoughtful list. There are those such as Guderian, even Keitel, who would make tempting targets, but they still have uses. So for now, alas, they will be allowed to live.” Bücher listened for several minutes, nodding in agreement with everything his leader said.

“It shall be as you wish, Führer. I can begin the task immediately. I presume that some are to be examples and others should appear more as accidents?”

“Correct. I shall want you to return to Army Group B as soon as possible, which you must do immediately when this delicate task is done. Now tell me, are there any other matters that require my attention in the west?”

Bücher briefed Himmler on the situation on the western front, feeling none of the reluctance to tell the truth that would have accompanied a similar order from Hitler. “Field Marshal Rommel expressed some concern over the availability of the trains... he feels that greater efforts must be made to carry the reinforcements from the eastern front into the Siegfried Line.”

Himmler shook his head. “All available locomotives and rolling stock are required for the Special Transports. With our attendant withdrawal from Poland, several key areas--Auschwitz, Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen--are undergoing full evacuation. You must tell Rommel that the trains will be available to him only when the Reich’s first priority has been sufficiently addressed.”

“Of course, Führer.”

“Now you must see to your accommodations, and your work,” said Himmler, at last rising from his desk. His black SS jacket was impeccably tailored, Bücher noticed, and showed not a single wrinkle from his leader’s chair.

Nineteenth Division Headquarters, Reims, France, 16 September 1944, 1720 hours GMT

Wakefield’s face broke into a rare smile as he stood to greet his visitor. “Brad--good to see you,” he said, sticking out his hand.

His commander, General Omar Bradley, shook the proffered hand warmly. “Good to see you, too, Henry. How’s it going?” Wakefield indicated the stacks of paperwork on his desk. “It’s going, that’s about it. Thank God for resupply. We’re getting what we need, but it’s like building a division from scratch once again. Same number, different team.” He indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” replied Bradley. Wakefield motioned at an orderly. The coffee was bitter and strong, the way Wakefield liked it, but Bradley winced slightly as he took a sip. “That stuff will put hair on your chest,” he said.

“If we run out of gas, I pour it into the tanks,” Wakefield joked. “What can I do for you?”

“Wanted to see you, see how things were going, when you are ready to get back into the war.”

“I could start rolling now if you needed us,” Wakefield replied. “Ideally, about four more weeks.”

“Let’s split the difference, call it two weeks. Okay with you?”

“Okay. Where to?”

“Luxembourg. You’re still part of First Army, and you’ll be on the right flank, starting the push into the German Westwall fortifications. In between Aachen and Metz.”

These two cities, Wakefield well knew, were the most contested part of the war right now, and both were offering stiff resistance. General Hodges’s First Army, which Bradley had given up when he took overall command, was engaged in the battle for Aachen. Wakefield also realized that the right flank of First Army was next to the left flank of Patton’s Third Army, which was fighting to reduce Metz.

“That’s good,” Wakefield mused. “We’ll be back in the line, but we’ll still have some time to finish getting completely back up to speed.”

“That’s what I had in mind,” Bradley said. “We’ll move you back into the war, but right now we’ve got the time to move more slowly, so let’s take advantage of it.”

“Thanks,” Wakefield nodded. “And Brad--”

“Yes?”

‘Thanks for the command.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bradley said. “You deserve it. By the way, how’s the boy doing?”

“Pulaski?” Only officers of Bradley and Wakefield’s generation would refer to a thirty-three year old as a “boy.” “Hard to tell. He fell off a horse. Best thing to do is get right back on, but there hasn’t been a horse for him to ride, if you know what I’m saying. The longer until the next time he gets some combat, the more time he has to fret about it. He’s a good boy, but I’m worried a little bit.”

“Should he be relieved?”

Wakefield shook his head slowly. He’d considered it a number of times and still wasn’t completely sure he’d made the right decision. “No, I don’t think so. I think he needs another shot. He may need a little coaching to get through it, but once he does, I think he’ll put himself back together.”

“Maybe it’s not a bad thing to get your men up into the line quickly,” observed Bradley.

Wakefield nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right. The veterans need to get back into action, and the new ones need to see what it’s like, not just hear horror stories.”

“I know what you mean. By the way, Henry--”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got you under First right now, but it can go either way. Aachen or Metz. And Metz means working for George again.” Wakefield grimaced slightly. “Either way,” he said, “we’ll handle it.” With some surprise, he realized that part of him wanted to rejoin Third Army, to be part of the action again.
Hell, Old Blood and Guts may be a son of a bitch, but he's a fighting son of a bitch
, he thought, though in front of Bradley, he kept his mouth shut.

“I knew I could count on you, Henry,” Bradley replied.

Trier, Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany, 18 September 1944, 1045 hours GMT

“Mines--I need all the mines you can send me! When? Yesterday, of course! The Americans are bashing into Aachen, and brave Germans are dying because we can’t lay a decent minefield! I’m not interested in excuses.”

Rommel drew breath, listened to the agitated colonel on the other end of the line.

‘That’s better... I will expect the delivery by the day after tomorrow!”

He put down the telephone and called out the door of his office. “Loella?”

“Ja, Herr Feldmarschall?”

“Get me the figures on the concrete deliveries. I want to make sure those people in Berlin are doing all they can.”

“Of course--and, sir, General Speidel is waiting to see you.”

“Send him in, right away.”

Rommel rose from his desk and limped to the window, fighting back the urge to wince against the constant pain. When would he be whole again? When would his body be able to match the speed and agility of his mind?

He shook off the thoughts, knowing that its attendant worry--when would his
mind
be restored to its earlier certainty and decisiveness?--was a pointless exercise in futile self-examination. He could not afford to waste time with self-pity and doubt. So much was riding on his shoulders, now, and he would have to do the best that he could.

But would it be enough?

His eyes wandered across the vista from his office window. The hotel was located high on a hill, and from here he could see the Porta Nigra, the ancient Roman gate that was a classic landmark of this city. Nearby was the ancient amphitheater, and not too far away rose the towers of the grand cathedral. Everywhere there were trees, mostly green and vibrant still, though a few showed the bright orange or brittle brown of approaching autumn. It was good to see a tree with signs of life. He missed the battle-scarred oak at the hospital at Vesinet. He hoped it was recovering as well as he was.

He was spared further maudlin dissembling by the arrival of Speidel.

Rommel gestured out the window. “We’re fighting for our own homeland, our national treasures now. I wonder if that makes a difference.”

“I think it does, Field Marshal--to officers and men alike,” replied the chief of staff. “I know it does to me.”

“And to me, as well,” Rommel admitted. He wanted to sigh, to collapse into his chair and rest, but instead he turned to business. “What is the news about the manpower reserves? Has the transportation bottleneck eased?”

“Unfortunately, no, mein Feldmarschall. We have sent repeated messages to Berlin, but the word is always the same: the SS have the authority over all rail operations.”

A more profane man might have made some harsh remark, but the Desert Fox merely shook his head and moved on. One consequence of his wounds seemed to have been a diminishing of his once-renowned temper. In a few minutes he and Speidel had finished the staff business, and by that time General Bayerlein was waiting to see him. The armored commander entered accompanied by another recent addition to the staff, Colonel von Reinhardt.

“Come in, Fritz. I hope you have some good news for me.”

“I think so, Field Marshal. We have outfitted three panzer divisions with new Panthers... and each has an additional battalion of Tigers. They are currently being refitted north of here, in the area of the Ardennes.”

“Good.” Rommel turned to Reinhardt. “And what are your intelligence summaries of the enemies’ intentions?”

The colonel stood at attention with that easy grace that marked so many of the aristocratic Prussians. Yet even so, Rommel found himself liking the man, gauging his comfort level as a mark of competence, not arrogance.

“We believe that the Americans will redouble their efforts at Aachen, Field Marshal. Patton remains tied up at Metz, not even adjacent to our border yet, and we suspect that the enemy has political reasons to conclude the early capture of a German city.”

“Indeed. An interesting theory,” the Desert Fox replied.

He found the young man to be thoughtful and intelligent, careful to distinguish between information he actually knew and his own suppositions and theories, a characteristic that had not been true of every intelligence officer he’d met. He enjoyed the strategic give-and-take, the discussion of options. He still felt his own mind was weaker, slower than usual, but he managed to keep up, though not without some effort.

An hour after the two men had left, Rommel remained busy at his desk. These days he found himself working as hard as he ever had, tending to a myriad of details in his headquarters, bringing order to the chaos that had resulted from the long withdrawal. Bayerlein and Speidel had proved themselves as able as ever, the former taking over the organization of panzer forces while the latter addressed matters of supply and reinforcement. Even the SS officers, Meyer and Dietrich, had submitted to the field marshal’s commands with a minimum of resistance. Now, a week after establishing his headquarters, Rommel was feeling that things were beginning to come together. Many times during these long days the Desert Fox was afflicted by physical weakness brought on by his wounds, but his able lieutenants covered for him, and he felt fairly certain that his condition was not widely known among the troops. Though he had wanted to tour the front, he had remained in the headquarters since his arrival, finding that there were too many things here that required his direct attention.

Late in the day he was pleased to greet Baron von Esebeck, who as usual had been touring among the troops of the Wehrmacht, taking pictures and gathering news stories for dissemination throughout the Fatherland.

“I have to find a driver,” Rommel mentioned. “It is time for me to get out and tour the front.”

“I know just the man,” von Esebeck informed him. “And I just learned that he is here, in Trier, and currently waiting for a new assignment.”

Rommel liked Carl-Heinz Clausen at first glance. The tank driver was a square, blocky rock of a man. Although he’d taken time to put on a fresh tunic, his fingernails still betrayed a hint of the grease that the field marshal suspected was a permanent feature of his appearance. Clausen was smiling, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. Rommel remembered that this feature was supposed to be linked to sensuality. But then the man did have five children.

“You wanted to see me, Field Marshal?” the man said, saluting.

“Yes, yes. Tell me--you are the man who was photographed by von Esebeck just before Abbeville?”

“Jawohl, mein Feldmarschall!” Carl-Heinz Clausen replied. “At least, I was inside driving the tank--the other men were in the picture “

“Ah, you have an ear for detail. I like that,” said the Desert Fox. “I also understand that you served under General Bayerlein, and distinguished yourself in the battle at Abbeville.”

‘Thank you, sir. I was fortunate enough to find a vulnerable flank. It was good to see the Americans turn about and run for a change.” His wide-open, guileless smile was a treat for Rommel, who far preferred the company of enlisted soldiers to many of the officers and politicians who made up his daily lot.

“I am sorry to hear about the loss of your crewmates... though they tell me that the radioman--Pfeiffer, is it?--stands a good chance of making a recovery.”

“That’s what they tell me, Herr Feldmarschall.” Carl-Heinz said. “We took a direct hit from a field artillery piece... destroyed the turret of our Panther. But by then, the battle was won.”

“Good work. Now, to the reason I have called you here. I have need of a driver, and your reputation is very sound. I would like to attach you to my headquarters in that role. It will carry a promotion to feldwebel.”

“I’d be honored,” Carl-Heinz replied. “I’ll take good care of the vehicle, sir--and the passengers, too, of course.”

The Desert Fox laughed. “I need a good man, one who can offer me some help.” He grimaced, touched the cheekbone that was still sore--though, thankfully, at last free of the eye patch that he once thought he’d have to wear for the rest of his life. “In truth, I do not move so well, but I believe it is important for a commander to see things--and to be seen by his troops. Therefore, your assignment will involve many hours on the road, as well as a high level of discretion regarding my infirmities.”