Fox On The Rhine (65 page)

“Gunter! Gunter! Speak to me!” Wolfgang Müller was near tears, but his friend and protector had sunk into unconsciousness. “Help! Help!” he cried out to the darkness. As other officers boiled out of the building, Müller straightened up. Slowly, carefully, he made his way toward the line of staff cars.

Givet, France, 2200 hours GMT

The enclosed jeep sped along the road to Dinant, three-star flag whipping in the wind. It was part of a small, fast convoy, including several armored cars and a half dozen of the reliable Willies, traveling with dimmed headlights along a winding riverside thoroughfare. The winter night was cold and dark, and a startling array of stars winked across the heavens.

In the command jeep the two generals sat in silence, knowing the size of the gamble they took. Patton was right, Wakefield knew. There was no time to wait for orders from higher headquarters, but they understood this could be a trap.

“It’s my opinion that Rommel’s honorable,” growled Patton. “At least as honorable as any Nazi son of a bitch can be. But he’s got some SS divisions under him. I don’t know if he can make them surrender.”

“If he gets most of his divisions to stand down, we can handle the rest,” replied Wakefield. “Hell, we’ve got him beat whether he surrenders or not. The question is how long and how much.”

“And how fast the goddamn Russians are going to move while they wait for Ike and the politicians to make up their minds.”

Wakefield knew that his army general had sent a message to SHAEF detailing Rommel’s proposed surrender. However, Patton had also made sure that he was out of his HQ before the communication was sent. By the time he got a reply and instructions, events would have moved far forward.

“Faster, man!” Patton snapped to the driver. That sergeant, who was already racing along as fast as safety allowed, nodded tersely but Wakefield noticed that he made no move to accelerate further.

The three-star general paid no attention. “Could be an SS trap, though.”

Wakefield grunted. He’d thought of that, too. “Jackson’s boys are still attacking. They hit Panzer Lehr in the flank and busted the Krauts up pretty good. Together with CCA they’re keeping the pressure on. At least half of Dinant is in our hands, and the Krauts have no way to cross the river.”

“Any word yet about the boy?” Patton asked gruffly.

Wakefield could only grunt a negative, thinking about Pulaski. “Frank Ballard turned up... his tank got hit again, but he’s going to make it.”

“He, Pulaski... all those men. They’re heroes,” Patton said, his voice thick with emotion. “By God, they deserve every medal this man’s army can award!”

Wakefield nodded, but his thoughts were cold. Again, as the Belgian countryside sprawled dark in all directions, the night seemed to close in--except for those sparkling stars. It was a view haunting and dangerous yet, at the same time, strangely peaceful.

Church of Notre Dame, Dinant, Belgium, 27 December 1944, 0111 hours GMT

The cathedral was the dominant feature of Dinant. It had suffered battle damage, but was still standing. Carl-Heinz had maneuvered Rommel’s staff car through the wreckage in the dark, the headlights turning the battle scene into a shadowy nightmare.

A crew of enlisted men set up a quick conference room, moved additional lights into position, set up white flags for the surrender conference. Rommel got out of the staff car, feeling suddenly vulnerable because he could not see into the darkness past the narrow ring of lights.

“Let me know when the Americans arrive,” he said to his driver. He strode into the chancel to stand in the pews, looking up at the altar. Carl-Heinz stood quietly in the back after crossing himself. It had been far too long since he’d been in a church, Rommel thought. He had a lot to pray about, to atone for. He had led his armies to defeat, and now he was about to surrender, always a difficult act for a military man, regardless of the circumstances.

He was suddenly very tired, drained of all emotion and feeling, ready to collapse into one of the pews. He studied the Jesus on the cross, saw glimpses of the Passion in the stained glass windows as they flashed into sudden brilliance when they were hit by a headlight. His own cross was heavy on his shoulders, he thought, though perhaps not as heavy as the one borne by the man at the front of that church.

He heard a noise behind him and turned slowly around. “I had asked not to be disturbed--” he began, then stopped. “General Bücher,” he said. “Somehow I am not surprised.” Carl-Heinz noticed the gun in the SS general’s hand and reached for his own pistol, but without taking his attention away from the Desert Fox, Bücher fired. The shot echoed in the empty church, but Rommel realized that the noise elsewhere was so loud it was unlikely that anyone had heard. The driver grabbed his stomach, moaned in pain.

Rommel stared at Bücher coldly. “He was a good man... better than either of us, I’d warrant. You didn’t have to kill him.”

“Isn’t there a different life you would do well to concern yourself with?”

“You’re going to have your way with me... but whether I live or die, the war is lost.”

“We will win!”

“The Russians will win, you fool. I was merely trying to prevent that.”

“You’re wrong, Field Marshal, and you’re a traitor. I finally saw your weakness, though the führer saw it first and better. The Reich will win, the Party will win. I know this to be true.” Bücher stood straight and tall. “In the meantime, it is the duty of every good German to execute traitors. But don’t worry; you won’t die just yet. With any luck, you’ll die alongside an American general or two; perhaps Patton himself!”

Rommel’s tiredness was overwhelming, his loss was now total. He sat down in one of the pews.

“Stand up!” growled Bücher. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“No, Horst. Go ahead and shoot. I’m tired; it will be a relief.”

“You’re a coward as well as a traitor,” said Bücher as he lifted his Luger to point it directly at Rommel’s head.

Squinting through his glasses, Müller was afraid he would become lost or stuck navigating the narrow and rubble-filled streets of Dinant. His only saving fortune was that the church was so large he could not miss it, and there were headlights and vehicles all around.

His heart pounded in his chest, his stomach growled, he was afraid he was going to be sick. Him against an SS commando general? It was ludicrous. This was not his skill. And Gunter dead... no, he wasn’t ready to face that. Germany rode on his shoulders, his weak and pitiful shoulders. That’s what Gunter’s dying words had said. No matter. In a little while I’ll be dead, too, he thought, knowing there was only one possible outcome for a gun battle between himself and Bücher.

There--there was the church! “Where’s the field marshal?” he gasped as he piled out of the car.

“In the church,” said a feldwebel. “He’s not to be disturbed.” Müller looked at him wild-eyed. “Message from Berlin,” he gasped. “Urgent!”

“Oh, all right. You may pass. But if the message isn’t urgent enough, let the field marshal’s wrath fall on you!”

Müller opened the outer wooden door gingerly and slipped into the small anteroom. Another set of wooden doors opened into the cathedral itself. Heart pounding so loud he knew it could be heard even through the thick wood, he slowly pulled open the door, praying that it would not squeak. There--the sound of voices--Rommel and... yes, Bücher. A good marksman could easily have stopped the SS general from here, but Müller was not a good marksman. He slipped into the church as quietly as he could, fearful that at any second Bücher would turn around.

His foot slipped; he nearly fell. He dropped to his knees into something warm and sticky. It was Mutti--Carl-Heinz--bleeding from a stomach wound, unconscious, possibly dying. Müller nearly vomited. He crawled forward, sliding from pew to pew, hoping that he was quiet enough in the echoing vault of the church. He was closer, close enough to hear the conversation. Bücher was arguing, explaining himself. It wasn’t enough to kill the Desert Fox, he had to make the Desert Fox understand first.

Müller’s holster had a snap closure on it; he pried it loose as quietly as he could, pulled the gun out. He had never fired it in anger; he suddenly worried that the gun would not work. He raised it, pointed squarely at Bücher’s back. There must have been some noise, some clue, because he suddenly saw Bücher begin to turn toward him, his gun coming up, and the supply officer closed his eyes tightly and fired. The recoil knocked him backward as the noise echoed on and on.

Then he did vomit, then looked up to see the Desert Fox place his hand on Müller’s shoulder. “Thank you, colonel. That was a brave thing you did.” Müller could see only the legs of the SS general; the rest of the body was hidden by the pews.

Müller was tongue-tied in the presence of Rommel. He could only mumble, “He killed Gunter,” his eyes watering more than usual behind the wire-rimmed spectacles.

“I’m sorry,” whispered the field marshal.

Rommel stood, opened the church door, and called to the guards waiting outside. As soon as one of the guards got a look at the carnage inside, he blew his whistle loudly, and within seconds the church was full of guards. A lieutenant, nearly incoherent with panic, managed to stutter out, “Are you all right, Field Marshal?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said. “Get a medic for Carl-Heinz--now!” His driver was still alive, but in need of immediate attention.

Dinant, Belgium, 0442 hours GMT

Three jeeps rolled forward into the square before the lofty steeple. The flag with three stars marked the second jeep as the transport of an army general. Four armored cars had taken up positions in the surrounding intersections, and GIs still darted from building to building, insuring that each was clear of Germans.

Wakefield looked up at the lofty church and wondered how the spire had survived the battles that had raged in this city during the last five years...and then it occurred to him that it had probably also survived wars predating his life by many centuries.

Around the church were several German command cars flying white flags. From the church doors came a stocky man, limping slightly. He wore the peaked cap and leather jacket of a German officer, and as the Americans got closer Wakefield recognized the man from the multitude of pictures that had reached the Allied lines during the war.

This was Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox.

Behind him was a balding, pudgy colonel and an equally balding but nondescript man in army fatigues.

The plain-looking man startled the general by holding out his hand instead of saluting. After a moment’s hesitation Wakefield shook, then turned his eyes to Rommel as the other fellow spoke. “General... I’m Chuck Porter. Originally with the Associated Press, lately a prisoner of the Germans. This is Baron von Esebeck; he’s a German reporter. We’re the semiofficial translators, I guess.”

Patton, in the meantime, was looking the German field marshal up and down with a look of bemused curiosity. Rommel saluted crisply, a gesture that Patton returned. Then, with Porter and a German staff officer translating, they began to discuss the surrender.

Berlin, Germany, 0631 hours GMT

The führer sat in the dark room, chin propped on folded hands, and thought. Then he spoke. “We must assume that General Bücher has failed in his mission. Send word to all SS units that they are to ignore any orders from Rommel or anyone at Army Group B--anyone on the General Staff, for that matter. From this moment on, all military matters are under my personal jurisdiction. Second, send word--supported by troops--to the General Staff to that effect, and make sure you tell them why. They harbored a traitor and elevated him to supreme command; there is no reason they should complain about their loss of independence now.

“Third, send notification to all Wehrmacht units that any commander moving toward surrender is an enemy of the Reich, and the penalty is immediate execution. Send it on open channels, no codes. Fourth, place a reward for one hundred thousand Reichsmarks for the capture or death of Rommel.” Heinrich Himmler paused for a long time.

“Now to long-range plans. Russian front troops and equipment can be shifted into the Westwall to stiffen those defenses. Trains will run at night to limit casualties; the jet fighter gruppen will make protecting train movements top priority. Remaining Russian front troops will fortify as much as possible where they are; our erstwhile friend and ally to the east will certainly attack us the moment he is able. Were the V-1 documents altered as I asked?”

“Yes, führer,” said one of the three aides busily taking notes. “Dr. von Braun’s staff assure me that the adjustments are subtle enough that there is no way to tell that their V-1 will not work until they reach the test stage. While they eventually will be able to fix the problems, it should take between four and six extra months of development before they will have a working version. By then, Dr. von Braun assures us, the V-3 will be operational.”

“Good. At least someone has behaved competently. Dr. von Braun certainly has earned his SS commission. If his prediction proves correct, we will see about an additional reward.”

He leaned back, the darkness shadowing his face. He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. “If the Allies believe they will simply stroll into Berlin now, they will have a major surprise in store for them.”

The aides stood, saluted, and left. In the darkness, the Führer smiled. It was not over yet.

The Kremlin, Moscow, Soviet Union, 0935 hours GMT

When the intelligence report came in, Colonel Sergei Aschev looked at it for a long moment. The chairman would have to be notified, but people who brought bad news were often never heard from again. He looked around at the bustling staff in the Kremlin communications room and picked out his victim. “Lieutenant Stamovitch! Come here, please,” he barked.

“Yes, sir?”

“This report must be taken to Comrade Stalin at once!” Stamovitch paused. He knew the rules of the game, and he knew that messengers who brought back bad news were sometimes never heard from again. “But comrade, I have already been assigned … “