Fox On The Rhine (5 page)

The glow of sunset still brightened the western sky mere hours after Pulaski’s landing on the beach at Normandy. As the tank engines died they were replaced by an equally persistent growl, a thunder that rumbled from beyond the horizon to the south. He knew immediately the true import of the sound. It was an artillery barrage--batteries of heavy 155-mm guns steadily pounding the Germans at their front.

“Well, Ski,” the general commented, “it sounds like we found the war.”

Wehrmacht Hospital, Vesinet, France, 1500 hours GMT

A fly... no, two flies... they buzzed past his ear to thunk repeatedly, loudly against something hollow and close beside him... a lampshade, perhaps. The injured man seized on that sound, clung to it for the proof that he had not yet died, that the darkness might be parting before him.

Rising through that small opening was pain, a pure agony that was utterly marvelous for the fact that it confirmed his vitality. The left side of his face was a mass of broken, burning flesh, and he vaguely recalled that he had been thrown from the car. And before the crash there had been the bullets from the sky, tearing into his body. He remembered that a tree beside the road had exploded, ripped apart by cannon shells. Wounds throbbed in his torso and his leg, his head was racked by a monstrous aching, and through all the sensations the most important thing was that his body was whole, would have at least a chance to heal.

And he would live.

Then the darkness crept upward again. Physical suffering waned, but now his mind was torn by nightmare... roaring, whining, lethal aircraft... deadly Hurricanes and Typhoons, murderous Spitfires and Thunderbolts flying everywhere, bringing flames and death to his brave men and his magnificent panzers.

The darkness was a river, and he slipped backward... back to 1914, to the first time he’d come under fire. His guts ached from remembered food poisoning and still he led a patrol, so tired and so sick he could barely remain in the saddle. Shots rang out of the fog... he halted the platoon and went on with three men. The new lieutenant followed a path through a hedge, heard voices, and saw the enemy. Fifteen--no, twenty of them.

His training urged him to bring up the platoon, but instead he attacked, firing rapidly as the enemy survivors scrambled for cover in nearby farmhouses, from where they returned fire. His platoon moved up and he had them ignite bundles of straw, half his men providing covering fire as the others kicked in doors and threw the flaming bundles into the farm buildings. He led them on foot, house by house, until the village was cleared. And he could see the flames, hear the screams, remembered his own pain, and struggled to awake.

Still he lived... they could not kill him... but like all those who survived he was helpless, frozen in concealment under the glare of daylight. At night he might scuttle across the landscape like a crab, but he would have to seek another hiding hole before dawn brought the lethal aircraft swarming back into the skies. Even now he could hear them droning, fighters and bombers diving from all sides, roaring around his head...

The sounds formed the rhythm of his darkness, the dull hum of skyborne doom. For a time it was North Africa... and then it was France... and then ultimately it made no difference, for everywhere was the same beneath the naked sky... the enemy would find him, kill him, kill his men, his tanks, his Fatherland. Always there was the sound, the nagging buzz...

But again the thick curtain parted, and it was not the sound of aircraft. They were merely flies... insects, a minor irritant, but they were nearby and they were real... as he was real. He almost wished he weren’t, for if he was real, he would be forced again to preside over defeat. Defeat for the Fatherland, defeat for his soldiers, defeat for himself. For there was no longer any hope as long as the enemy held the skies.

Voices of men in the room, coming from the space beside his bed.

He held the curtain of consciousness apart with a pure effort of will, embracing the pain through his entire body... he could not see, nor gesture, nor even make a sound, but through a great cloud he understood words.

“... other man would have died--Dr. Schennig says it is so.”

“Any man but the Desert Fox... you watch, he will be up biting the surgeons by the end of the month!”

“Surely not--he lost so much blood!”

“Bah--it matters not. I tell you he will make it! You should have seen him in Africa, standing tall in his car, racing right along with his tanks while the bombardment fell all around! No, they shan’t get him this easily!”

“But the head wound--the bullet went into his temple!”

“And I repeat--he will live...”

More words, then, but it was too much to make them out.
A head wound
, he thought.
My brain--my mind
... Was that the reason he was having so much trouble organizing his thoughts? A depressing chill settled into him. He would sooner lose an arm, or a leg, or an eye--anything other than accept damage to his intellect.
It’s my best weapon
, he thought.

Worry was futile. If he could worry, his mind could not be completely gone. Instead, he yielded to his fatigue; but now when the darkness came there was peace, and he slept.

Ministry of Propaganda, Berlin, Germany, 1915 hours GMT

The Reich minister of propaganda limped across his huge office to surreptitiously pull the curtain aside once more. Outside, in the streets of Berlin, the summer evening was still well lit, long shadows and an enlarging sun the only evidence that night was falling. He could see them: at least a full battalion of Wehrmacht infantry, outfitted with grenades and small arms. They had marched into place a few hours before, coming south from the Brandenburg Gate. At each comer surrounding the huge house a machine gun rested on its squat tripod, dark barrels pointed all too obviously at the doors of the structure.

Irritably he stalked away from the window. In his agitation his crippled leg nearly collapsed beneath him, and he lunged forward to catch himself on the edge of the desk. Furiously he picked up the phone.

“This is Dr. Goebbels! Have you connected me to the Wolfschanze? Idiot--keep on trying! It’s imperative that I speak with the führer!”

Slamming down the phone, the Nazi minister stared at the wood-paneled walls of the elegant office. He ignored the lush Persian carpet covering the floor, the gold and silvered plaques adorning the walls. His gaze rested upon a man, the only occupant of the room.

“What does it mean--‘The bridge has been burned’?” demanded the chief of propaganda. “Why do they fill the airwaves with such drivel?”

The other man remained silent--it was not a question he could have answered in any event.

“Leave me!” spat Goebbels. “Go find out why those troops are there!”

The other man, taller and younger, stiffened at the tone in the minister of propaganda’s voice. “Come, Herr Speer,” Goebbels added, his tone modulating to the persuasive purr he reserved for such moments. “I must make some private telephone calls. And we have to communicate with the officer outside the building--find out whose orders he follows!”

“Very well,” replied Minister of Armaments Albert Speer, turning and leaving abruptly.

Goebbels spent another fifteen minutes rebuking the telephone operator for his failure to reach the Wolf’s Lair when the door to the office opened and a Wehrmacht major entered the room. He halted at rigid attention, fixing the minister with an impassive stare. “I am Major Remer--you wished to see me, Herr Reichsminister?”

“Why have you encircled my residence?”

“I act under the orders of my commander, Major General von Haase. I am to seal off these blocks of the government quarter--no one is allowed to enter or leave.”

“But why? You are an officer--you’ve taken an oath to your Reich!”

“An oath to my führer, Herr Reichsminister. And now he is slain. I can only obey my commander. This quadrant is rife with conspirators!”

The news hit Goebbels like a thunderclap, and he had to clasp the desk for support. “You lie!” he gasped. “The führer is alive--I spoke to him at Wolfschanze this morning!”

The young major was obviously uncomfortable with the subject. His own face showed the strain of grief mingled with disbelief. “He was killed this afternoon--a bomb planted in his headquarters!”

“In that case, you must know that I cannot possibly be implicated!” pleaded Goebbels, whining. “You must release me--allow me to draw in the reins of government!”

At that instant a burst of small arms fire stuttered through the air, coming from the yard beyond the huge house. The minister of propaganda blanched, his eyes going to the Walther in the holster at the major’s side. “No...” He whispered the word, his eyes darting from the officer to his desk and back again. He would not be captured, tortured, killed by the enemies of the Reich. Better he controlled his own fate, no matter how cruel.

Abruptly Goebbels lunged at the desk, pulling open a drawer with astonishing quickness. Major Remer watched miserably, obviously reluctant to draw his weapon against this man who had been such an icon of the state. “Don’t!” he groaned, eyes wide.

Frantically the minister reached inside the desk, scrambling for something with groping fingers. His eyes glowed and his lips were twisted into a crazed sneer--a taut grin of triumph, it must have seemed to the hapless Remer.

“Stop it!” cried the officer, finally drawing his sidearm and leveling the cold steel barrel. He watched Goebbel’s hand emerge from the desk drawer, and relaxed slightly when he saw no gun there. “Come with me, Herr Reichsminister...

Major Remer’s words were cut short by the cackle of glee emanating from the quivering Nazi. Goebbels raised a hand and Remer saw that it wasn’t empty--the minister held a tiny white object between his fingers. Again the major raised his gun, ineffectually waving it as the man popped the capsule into his mouth.

“No--wait!” cried the soldier, dropping his gun and lunging forward. But Goebbels bit down hard, cracking the capsule. Immediately potassium cyanide filled his mouth, passing almost as quickly into his system through the salivary glands.

Three seconds later he was dead.

SS Command, East Prussia, 2200 hours GMT

Another headquarters lay concealed in the East Prussian woods, though it was not so large or so active a compound as Wolfschanze. Here, too, the swastika hung listlessly, and black-shirted SS guards patrolled with pacing Alsatians. Besides the smaller size, there was another, more subtle difference to this compound--here all the guards wore black. Nowhere could be seen the feldgrau tunics of the Wehrmacht, for this was the headquarters of Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler.

During the course of the hot afternoon and muggy evening, no sign of undue excitement had stirred around the gray concrete blocks or amid the wide walkways bordered with bright flower beds. Yet within these bombproof shelters, a controlled frenzy drove the officers who manned the radio and telephone centers. Desperately they tried to establish contact with the Wolf’s Lair--with Hitler, or at least with some member of his staff. Meanwhile, the reichsführer had brooded in the darkness of his office, consulting star charts and then pacing in agitation, waiting for news as darkness settled over Poland and inched westward to blanket the rest of the continent.

For most of these hours the officers had been able to establish precious few facts--until shortly before midnight a frantic telephone call arrived from the Wolf’s Lair. Within minutes, General Gerhardt Fuller entered the reichsführer’s office and snapped to attention. His black eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his high, peaked cap--the only sign of the general’s rising state of excitement.

“The führer is dead!” he began, without preamble. “Conspirators have moved in Berlin, Munich, and other districts--but there is a lack of coordination in their efforts.”

Himmler turned to look at the general. His hands were clasped behind his back. In the dark room, his black uniform made him virtually invisible, except for the metallic glistening of the SS death’s-head insignia. As usual, the general’s skin crawled as he felt the penetrating eyes of the reichsführer on him. Although Himmler was not a physically prepossessing figure in his wire-rimmed spectacles, there was something about his gaze that put Fuller in mind of a snake facing a rabbit. Fuller could swear that Himmler was not surprised by the earthshaking news.

“Are you certain?” said Himmler in a mild voice.

“Yes, Herr Reichsführer. Hauptmann Braun, a loyal officer of the SS, reached us by ordering a technician to splice into the telephone line at the Wolf’s Lair--the switchboard and radios there were destroyed shortly after the assassination. In fact, the man underwent no little risk to get his message out.”

“I see,” observed Himmler. “Please continue.”

“A bomb was planted, apparently by Count von Stauffenberg, Fromm’s chief of staff. No one knows who’s in command, and everyone is accusing everyone else.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s to be expected. And the rest of the army?” inquired Himmler, his voice almost prim.

“They are paralyzed. There is no doubt that high-ranking officers stand behind the revolt, but the bulk of the rank and file--and the generals as well--await guidance, orders.”

“Of course,” murmured the leader of the SS. For a few moments Himmler was silent, and Fuller remained rigid.

The leadership of the state stood vacant, but it would not remain so for long. Of course, with the Reich threatened by looming defeat on all sides, even the prize of the government might seem a hollow trophy. Still, the murderous act meant that right now Himmler was the most powerful man in Nazi Germany. As personal commander of the SS, the reichsführer had the fanatical loyalty of those vast legions--a private army that existed alongside, and even within, the conventionally structured Wehrmacht. Could he use that power to seize control, to arrest this chaos in the early stages?

It was Fuller’s job to see that he didn’t get that opportunity. The import had been clear to Fuller since those five words had been whispered over the telephone, long before Braun had leaked the news to SS command. The bridge has been burned--the phrase still echoed in his mind. Neutralizing the SS was crucial to a successful coup, and that meant Himmler needed to die. Fuller knew that his own death would follow quickly thereafter.
It is too bad that Stauffenberg couldn’t have gotten them both together
, he thought regretfully.