Fox On The Rhine (4 page)

Stauffenberg smiled. “Finally, after all these years, it seems almost too good to be true. The fuse worked soundlessly, just as our British friends had promised.”

Nearly running through the doors of the huge War Ministry, building in Bendlerstrasse, where Stauffenberg served as chief of staff to General Fromm, the two successful plotters entered Stauffenberg’s office. It was crowded with the gathering conspirators, men sitting and smoking, or pacing anxiously. Stauffenberg was first struck with the lack of action, the lack of initiative among his fellow conspirators. It gave him an immediate pang of concern.

“Claus--thank God you’ve made it back!” Olbricht was the first to speak, rising to his feet and clasping the count’s hand warmly.

“Success!” cried Stauffenberg. “He’s dead! Now, how fares the coup?”

He noticed Beck, then, looking vaguely out of place in his uniform--the uniform he had not worn in six years. The old officer, venerable survivor of the pre-Hitler general staff, who had

resigned in protest against Hitler’s plans to invade Czechoslovakia, clasped Stauffenberg’s hand warmly. Beck’s face was flushed, his eyes watering. He was obviously moved, and more than a little disturbed, by the actions of the men in this room.

Gradually the colonel realized that no one had answered his question. “The telephones?” He gestured to the dozen or so instruments in the room, none of which were in use. “Have you put through the calls to Vienna ... Munich? Has Stulpnagel acted in Paris?”

“We--we wanted to make sure, to hear from you yourself,” General Olbricht explained, somewhat sheepishly. Though he outranked the colonel, his manner clearly indicated who the conspirators valued as leader. “The message came--
Die Brucke ist Verbrennt
--but we wanted to make sure it wasn’t some kind of trick.”

Precious minutes wasted.
Damn it!
Stauffenberg flared with anger.
How can they just sit there like that?
“It’s no trick! He’s dead, I tell you! Quickly, to the phones--spread the word! Where’s Fromm--will he go along with us?”

Again there came that awkward silence. “He--he wouldn’t command the Replacement Army to revolt,” Olbricht explained again. “I’m afraid we’ve shuttled him into a closet.”

“What about Remer? Has the Ninth Regiment surrounded the Ministry of Propaganda?”

“Oh, yes,” Olbricht said, obviously relieved at having good news. “Yes, he is awaiting further orders. And, by the way, I’m ready to initiate command of Operation Valkyrie.”

“But surely that operation has already begun?” the count demanded, increasingly frustrated. One could not select one’s coup partners, he realized, nor simply court-martial or transfer them if they did not work out. Years of subservience to Hitler had made lapdogs out of many of the generals. He supposed he should not be surprised at their lack of initiative now, when it was needed most.

Olbricht nearly stammered in his eagerness to justify himself. “Of course--well, the orders are prepared, in any event. We weren’t sure whether to send them in clear or encode them.”

In other words, you have done nothing
, he thought, but forced aside his frustration to consider the question. A clear message would be received almost immediately by all units of the Wehrmacht--but also by the many listening posts of the Allies. He recalled the ominous words of Roosevelt--unconditional surrender. Would they take advantage of the chaos to launch attacks? Almost assuredly.

“Send the announcement in code!” he declared, deciding that the extra time required for individual copies, for decoding, would be worth the added security.

Only later would he realize the enormity of his mistake.

Normandy, France, 1345 hours GMT

The sight of the D-Day beaches shocked any potential comment right out of Colonel James Pulaski’s vocabulary. As the flat-bottomed tank transport churned toward Utah Beach, he was stunned to silence by the swath of rusting carcasses scattered across the shallows and the flat landscape beyond. Unconsciously he touched the silver crucifix he wore just below his throat, and he wondered at the savagery that had rocked this coast.

Mangled LCTs rested on the shoals, while the burned-out hulks of several tanks settled into the soft sand to form a strange sort of sculpture, as exotic and memorable in its size as Stonehenge, or the heads of Easter Island. Burial details had long since cleared the beaches of the thousands of bodies, but the machinery stood like statuary, or the violent aftermath of giant children’s sandbox battles, marking the battlefield’s violence and horror. It was a strange and moving memorial.

Around and through this rusting sculpture garden the machinery of war progressed at a pace of steady frenzy. Trucks and tanks rolled from the bellies of high, blocky LSTs, the ships having pulled right up to shore before their bow doors lowered to burp out their gasoline-and diesel-powered cargo. Cranes lifted other cargoes clear, while army engineers drove bulldozers back and forth and military policemen kept a wary eye on the chaos of organization.

Pulaski, six feet tall, blond hair and blue eyes, a handsome officer with the solid build of a natural athlete, wore his new colonel’s wings with pride, still not quite able to believe where he was. He put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene. “Jesus Christ, what a fight this must have been,” he whispered, his voice betraying awe at the wreckage of war still scattered everywhere, though the invasion had occurred nearly six weeks earlier.

“They say it was even worse over there,” observed Major General Jack King, pointing east. “At Omaha Beach the First Division almost got pushed back into the channel.” General King, new commanding officer of the Nineteenth Armored Division, also wore fresh insignia, his second star gleaming silver. A thin, angular, man with wavy silver hair, uniform crisp and spotless even in a combat zone, he looked almost as if Central Casting had sent him over for the job.

Pulaski realized that General King was as impressed--even awed--as he was. He knew the general had much more combat experience than he, even though Pulaski himself had served with distinction in North Africa, winning a Silver Star for his heroism. Still, it was hard for either man not to react to the scene in front of him.

“Well, they made it ashore--and now here we are to finish the job,” announced Pulaski with barely contained anticipation. “I sure hope Hitler’s got a few Krauts left!”

“Wouldn’t worry about that,” the general replied as the two men climbed down the landing ramp and headed toward the already debarked tanks.

“They look ready for anything, don’t they?” Pulaski stared with unconcealed pride at the row of M4 Sherman tanks gathered at the base of one of the long causeways that connected this isolated beach to the mainland of Normandy and the rest of France.

These were his tanks, members of the lead company of his combat command. The eighteen humpbacked armored vehicles of Company B, 38th Tank Battalion of the Nineteenth Armored Division had been unloaded from the LST earlier in the day. Their crewmen had been reunited with their tanks, and each had been started and warmed up. Now they simply waited for the command to move off of the beach. The rest of the three battalions in Pulaski’s combat command were still aboard the nearby LSTs but were due for debarkation in the next twelve hours.

“When’s the rest of the division come in?” inquired Pulaski. He was impatient, ready to drive toward the war immediately.

King looked unconsciously across the still waters of the English Channel. “Tomorrow P.M., supposedly,” he replied. “At least, that’s when Bob Jackson and his HQ company land. But we want you up to the bivouac tonight.” He looked at the younger officer affectionately, an elder to a bright youngster who had the potential to turn into something fine. Pulaski was a little annoyed at the implied patronization--
hell, I’m thirty-three years old
--but General King had a fine combat record, and he was entitled to his opinion. Pulaski might be a trifle unseasoned in his new command role, but the experience would happen soon enough, once they encountered Germans. He could hardly wait.

“Fair enough--just tell me when to go,” declared Pulaski. He returned King’s look with an unabashed grin, unable to conceal his nervous energy.

“Believe me, when we jump off you’ll be leading the way,” the general declared. “You know I’m counting on Combat Command A.”

The younger officer reached out to pump the general’s hand.

“And you know how much this command means to me, sir,” he said, his voice thickened by gratitude. “I won’t let you down.”

“Hell, call me Jack--in private, at least. We’re going to be working together a lot, you and I,” replied King with a wide grin, teeth glistening. “You’re going to make a first-rate tank officer. Find the chinks in the German defenses, push through, and open the gaps to crack the enemy into little pieces.”

“I’ve arranged for you to get the first of the division’s 76-mm guns,” King added, as Pulaski again took in the row of his immaculate Shermans. Four of the tanks were armed with cannons that were significantly longer than the guns on the rest of the stubby vehicles. These big barrels were also distinguished by a hollow flash guard at the terminus of the gun.

“You think it’s true what they say about the German tanks--that a 75-mm armor-piercing round will bounce right off the turret?” asked Pulaski skeptically. “We had those same 75s on the Lees in Tunisia, and I’ve seen their AP rounds punch right through enemy armor.”

“That was in ’43, and things change. From what I hear, the Panther is damned tough,” King replied. He and his colonel had seen the same intelligence reports. “And the Tiger is a real monster, but they don’t have too many of them on the front.” The colonel turned to watch as the components of Combat Command A continued to roll off of several ships. He knew a thrill of pride at the thought that he was in charge of a third of the division’s firepower--its lead strike force. The combat command included full battalions of tanks and armored infantry in half-tracks, as well as a recon company, assault-gun company, and the eighteen big guns of a self-propelled artillery battalion. All in all, they would move out with more than five hundred vehicles and ten times that many men.

“Whatever you come up against, Ski, I know Combat Command A of the Nineteenth Armored will make a real name for itself.”

“Thank you, General. I’ll do my best.” He touched his new shoulder patch. The Nineteenth Division’s insignia was a white star on a badge of crimson.

“I know you will,” replied King with a grin.

“Excuse me--General King?” A military policeman approached them through the grassy sand. He saluted casually as he reached the two officers. “I’m to take you up to Carentan tonight. Is your first battalion ready to go?”

King looked at Pulaski, who nodded enthusiastically. “Ready and willing,” the colonel replied. “But what about that traffic jam?”

“We take our places at the back,” said the MP with a shrug. “Don’t worry, sir--we might get up to three or four MPH once we’re off the causeway.”

“What about the rest of the division?” asked King.

“They’ll be met tomorrow, General--you can wait here if you want to or come up to Carentan with the Thirty-eighth.”

“Guess I’ll hitch a ride, Ski,” the general said. “After all, I can’t let my junior commanders get the best rooms in the hotel!”

“Sergeant Dawson!” Pulaski called his headquarters sergeant over. Dawson, a sturdy man with an advanced age somewhere in his mid-thirties, trotted over and saluted. He had the bulk of a radiophone slung over his shoulder. “Have you seen any sign of Captain Miller?”

“Eyeing up the causeway, Colonel. He’ll be back in a flash.” Miller was the captain of B Company, and he did appear a few minutes later. He had planned ahead, so his company was ready to roll.

The vehicles of the headquarters platoon were nearby. Together with Sergeant Dawson and the MP, King and Pulaski climbed into the nearest half-track. Pulaski’s driver--a wiry farm kid from Georgia named Keefer--eased in the clutch. The colonel and Dawson climbed up into the cab while the MP and King chose to ride in the back, seated in the lurching hull. The smells of gasoline exhaust rose around them. It was an honest odor, signifying powerful combustion and capable machinery.

The eighteen tanks and two jeeps of Company B joined, in file, the column of vehicles crawling over the narrow causeway and onto the constricted roads beyond. Broken into small plots by tall, tangled hedgerows, each field was a potential fortress to a defender. This bocage country, as Normandy was often described, had exacted a grim and bloody toll from the American troops who had wrested it from tenacious German defenders. Each hedge was a mound of earth, often six feet or more in height, with a bristling barrier of shrubbery growing from the crest. The bocage was perfect for defensive concealment and hell on maneuver--two grave liabilities for tank operations.

The column passed the shells of houses and barns in the darkness, the ruins looming like ghostly tombs to either side of the road. Often Pulaski had the impression of hedges pressing close to either side of the road, and it seemed in the eerie night that the half-track might have been rumbling down a long, narrow tunnel.

“You’re up in the Eight Corps area, General,” shouted the MP, speaking over the throaty rumble of the engine. “Under General Bradley’s command, First Army.”

‘That’s what I’ve been told--so show me the way,” replied King, shouting in return.

“Say--I hear that before too long Old Blood and Guts hisself might be coming over here to take over a field command!” the MP shouted, trying to make conversation.

“Patton? Goddamn right he is--and then we’re heading straight for Berlin!” The general grinned in a sharp line of gleaming straight white teeth, and Pulaski couldn’t help but believe him.

The MP proved an enthusiastic escort, pointing out the route, talking about some of the firefights that had pocked the buildings and cratered the ground. Occasionally he brandished a written sheet of orders to the other MPs manning the checkpoints that frequently blocked the way. By the time Company B pulled into the trampled field of their bivouac site, they had come a dozen miles and passed a thousand or more individual proofs of war’s fury.