Fox On The Rhine (48 page)

Pulaski scrambled into the back of the command half-track and took his place beside Sergeant Dawson at the machine gun. Keefer eased in the clutch, and the big vehicle rumbled away from the river, following the road that twisted up the face of these looming highlands. Joining the middle of the armored file, the half-track rolled along at a satisfactory speed.

To the colonel’s right was a sprawling expanse of concrete, turrets, and balustrades, the entire surface pocked by explosions, with a smell of death lingering in the air. The burial details hadn’t had a chance to clean out the bodies, and the men of Combat Command B had only paused here long enough to catch their breath.

Next they passed a series of burned-out Shermans, and Pulaski touched his crucifix in honor of the new dead. Finally they found Bob Jackson. The usually dapper colonel was dirty and plenty discouraged.

“They’re dug in deep, Ski,” he reported. “Y’all might want to wait until we can get some air support.”

Pulaski shook his head. “I’ve got orders to go in.”

“Then good luck to you,” offered Jackson.

“Say, Bob?” Pulaski suddenly had an idea. He indicated the rising ground before them. “Is your artillery sighted onto those heights?”

“Yes--Colonel Zimpel has the ranges down pat by now.”

“Can you have him give me some cover until Diaz gets sighted in?”

“Sure thing.”

Pulaski radioed back to his artillery commander, ordering him to bring up the guns and get situated. In the meantime, the colonel, as well as Ballard, White, and Captain Miller, were briefed by CCB’s weary officers. An hour later the combat command once again started forward. Minutes later a chatter of machine guns drew the colonel’s attention up the road. He heard the thump of artillery, the whistling of passing shells. He didn’t flinch as explosions rocked the ravine, a quarter mile behind him. He could see the outlines of another pillbox farther up the slope, and knew that his GIs were already closing in on the obstacle. Several Shermans, concealed as much as possible amid the rocks of the rising slope, fired high-explosive shells at the concrete fortifications, shots that sent dust, rock, and debris crashing outward from the mountainous facade.

Scrutiny through binoculars revealed one antitank gun, firmly emplaced in a fold of rocky ground, screened by an overhang of the upper cliff as it fired down the road. Fortunately, the ruggedness of the terrain helped the Americans as well since the Shermans pulled close to the upper slope and were able to partially mask themselves from the deadly eighty-eight.

For several minutes the stalemate held, high-explosive rounds from the tanks blasting against the cliff while the German gun spat its lethal shots along the road, several shells just skimming over the tops of the American formation. One ricocheted off the top of a turret, and Pulaski watched as the tank hastily reversed, tracks crunching over gravel and rock until it skidded around the shoulder of an embankment. Immediately the antitank gun found another target, spitting shells into the rocks before another Sherman, sending showers of fragments exploding in smoke and flame.

Pulaski snatched the radio, barked into the mike.

“This is Polish Eight to Willie One and Willie Two! Damn it, move up there! Get some dismounted infantry after the son of a bitch!”

Before the dogfaces could move out, however, one of the tanks got lucky. A shell careened into the hollow sheltering the ATT gun, and a blossom of flame erupted, meteoric blasts of shrapnel coursing outward, tumbling down the slope, marking the grave of the eighty-eight with a fiery pyre.

The column rolled forward again, pushing upward, making good time. Shells tumbled downward from the heights, plumes of smoke marking the concrete and stone face of a strong fortification. The tanks rolled forward as fast as they could, all but careening around the tight comers of the twisting roads.

More shots whistled into the column, and another Sherman, the lead tank, went up in a blossom of flame. The column skidded to a halt again, tanks returning fire while infantry raced forward, helping the driver and hull gunner from the burning M4. They couldn’t do anything for the rest of the crew, as the turret was already charred black, spuming a cloud of thick smoke.

American infantry crept up the defile, seeking to take out the gun with small arms fire, but they were quickly pinned down by a machine gun that chattered from the heights.

“Polish Eight to Decker?” Pulaski made the radio connection, using the day’s code name for his artillery commander. He studied the map, then reported the coordinates of the stubborn emplacement. In another minute the mobile artillery found the range and the facade of the fortress disappeared behind a cloud of smoke, fire, and debris. A tremendous volume of shells--no doubt CCB’s guns were joining in--pummeled the position, and when the dust settled there was only wreckage and rubble to be seen. Meanwhile, ignoring the shrapnel and machine guns, troops hooked chains to the disabled tank, and soon the wreck was pulled out of the way by the following M4.

Inching forward following the artillery barrage, squads of infantry overwhelmed some German positions, swarming over one machine gun nest after another in a burst of small arms and hand grenades. Other emplacements were plastered by direct tank fire and artillery. The gray clouds parted for a moment and tactical fighters swept in, guns winking from their wings, and at last a whole series of strongpoints was reduced to shattered stone and broken, bleeding bodies.

Again the column rolled forward. Sergeant Dawson, beside Pulaski in the turret, kept up a steady volume of suppressing fire from the heavy fifty-caliber machine gun. From before and behind, the guns of CCA pounded the enemy positions, raking the heights and giving cover to their own advance. More fighters droned overhead, but already the skies had clouded over again. Under the screen of thickening mist Ballard sent his tanks hell-bent for leather between two pillboxes. They ran the gauntlet without loss, then turned to plaster the emplacements from behind.

The road began to level out as it reached the upper level of the bluff that had dominated its lower course. The tank drivers kicked in their clutches, moving into second and third gear, rolling forward at a speed that started to feel exhilarating. More pillboxes came into view, and these were deluged with fire while the column stayed on the move. Mobile artillery, now rolling quickly at the tail of the column, paused to deploy long enough to smash one or two of the strongest obstacles. Pulaski was pleased to see that Diaz’s battalion performed like veterans, firing with speed and accuracy, then quickly advancing to set up in a new battery position. In other places, the infantry spilled out of their half-tracks, ducking through ditches, crawling in the fields, blasting with small arms fire and satchel charges to knock out machine gun nests and more antitank guns.

And then the tanks rushed forward again, finally able to disperse off the narrow road. They rolled through fields of dried wheat, following the curve of a small stream. Some of the Shermans plunged recklessly through a small grove of saplings, and the radio burst into exultant cries as the crew of one M4, a tank armed with the lethal 76-mm gun, put killing shots into a Panther tank and two Panzer IVs.

“There’ll be a medal for those boys,” Pulaski promised, clapping Dawson on the shoulder.

“Yes sir!” agreed the sergeant, white teeth standing out against the smoke-smudged stain of his face.

“Do I look as bad as you?” the colonel asked with a laugh, the first laugh he’d had in weeks.

“Worse, colonel,” replied Dawson, without missing a beat. “But not as bad as them.”

The sergeant pointed, and Pulaski saw a file of ragged, unshaven Germans emerging from the woods with their hands held high over their heads. Immediately a squad of infantry converged to take charge of the prisoners, while the rest of CCA moved on.

The tanks were advancing faster now, rolling at top speed through good country, driving an armored wedge into the German lines. All of Pulaski’s frustrations, his memories of death and defeat, the lingering nightmares of Abbeville fell away, at least for now, as his men pressed the attack in a storm of cordite, gasoline, smoke, and fire. The misty rain did nothing to slow them down, and the colonel reflected--not without some pride--that for once they had carried a major attack forward without air support.

Finally they were through, and the road to the Rhine beckoned them beyond.

Rumania, 22 November 1944, 1820 hours GMT

Rudolph Zeitzman was furious. “What do you mean by this new demand? We had an agreement, and I insist you honor it!”

His Russian counterpart sat stolidly as the thin-faced German diplomat raged. “This is the new agreement,” he said in a thick Russian accent, utterly unmoved.

Zeitzman took a deep breath, willed himself to calm down. These Soviet negotiators had no honor, no sense of proportion. First, they’d negotiate for hour after hour over something essentially irrelevant, then adjourn and postpone the key issues, and whenever he thought he had a deal, the next day there would be “minor” changes that upset everything.

The Russian bastards knew the German peace offering had been a sign of their weakness, and clearly intended to wring every last advantage from it. And for all he knew, then they would invade again, unless Germany was so successful in the west that it could negotiate once again from a position of strength. Right now, the issue was oil. Germany would have never surrendered the rich oil fields of Rumania in any peace agreement, except the Soviets were going to take them anyway. Now Zeitzman’s mission was to negotiate for a supply of oil for the German military, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether he would be successful, or whether these Slavic scum would just make him dance like a puppet and then go home empty-handed. The latter option was unacceptable; the führer’s representatives had made it clear that failure was unacceptable. The German tanks needed fuel, enough fuel to defend the Fatherland.

He looked at the agreement again. “This is twice the agreed-upon price for only three-fourths of the oil we requested.”

The Russian held his hands wide. Zeitzman noticed with distaste that his thick, calloused fingers had their nails bitten to the quick. “The oil fields and refineries are heavily damaged, as you know. We did not receive them in good shape. We are only now learning the extent of the damage.”

“Comrade Stalin ordered you to cooperate fully with us!” Zeitzman argued, trying a new tack. Führer Himmler, knowing that oil resupply was the critical military issue, had personally called Stalin, who had agreed that the Soviet Union would sell oil to the beleaguered Germans. Himmler had advised Zeitzman that the Russians would dodge and weave and change their minds a hundred times, but added, “We
need
the oil. Make sure you get it.” Zeitzman shuddered at the definiteness of the order. He fully understood the consequences of failure.

The Russians were still sitting at the narrow conference table like fat potatoes with no necks. He hated them. They didn’t respond to the Stalin sally, they just sat silently.
We can wait you out
, their body language said. Zeitzman knew they were right.

He caved in. “Very well. We accept the revised terms. But these are the final set of changes.”

“Of course,” the smug commisar said, and Zeitzman knew he was lying through his decaying teeth.

Berlin, Germany, 24 November 1944, 1200 hours GMT

“You tried to convince him otherwise?” said the führer of the Third Reich to his agent on the other end of the telephone.

“Yes, mein Führer,” replied Horst Bücher. “I went to him privately after the meeting to discuss the political ramifications of retreating from Metz, but he has decided that the military issues are the only ones with which he is concerned. I informed him that I would have to report this situation to you.”

That was interesting. Bücher had informed Rommel of his intent to report his disobedience to the führer. How unlike the SS General. Heinrich Himmler wondered whether Bücher was going soft. Rommel had that effect on people sometimes, though Himmler would have thought Bücher was immune.

“You did correctly,” purred Himmler in a soothing tone. No need to provoke the man, at least not now. He was confident he could win Bücher back, and for now perhaps Bücher’s attitude could be useful.

“Thank you, mein Führer. But for now, what should I do?” “For now, you’ve done enough,” Himmler replied. The German Führer already had a response in mind, one he would otherwise have assigned to Bücher. Now he would have to find someone else to carry out a very special mission.

Army Group B HQ, Trier, Germany, 2020 hours GMT

“A very pretty puzzle, indeed,” observed Gunter von Reinhardt.

“What do you mean, a puzzle?” argued Müller. “We beat them! We swept them from the air!” He was as excited about the air battle as if he’d personally fought in it. His arms spread wide and swooped over the bar stool. Gunter laughed. The two men were enjoying a late repast at a local pub that had become the unofficial officer’s club for Army Group B headquarters.

The two had adapted well as members of Rommel’s staff. Reinhardt’s intelligence responsibilities continued to expand as Rommel learned that Reinhardt would not shade the truth, even when it involved admitting that he did not know a particular answer. Müller’s supply skills were stretched to the limit with the immense logistics planning of troop movements from east to west. Yet he had thrown himself into the work with enthusiasm, and been rewarded with notable success.

“Ah, my good friend, you confuse military success with strategic success, as so many do. Victory in the air is not victory; at most it sets the conditions for victory. This undoubted triumph, however glorious, only changes our situation from utterly hopeless to merely bleak. Our opponents outnumber us and we have our backs to the Westwall.”

“But our soldiers are better than theirs, and so are our generals!” Müller replied, unwilling for once to surrender to the sardonic and cynical jibes of his friend.