Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (18 page)

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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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Shifting into low as he entered the city limits of Saint-Vith, Lukas Vogel once again produced a terrible racket of grinding gears as the truck lurched. Hans Braun, sitting in the next seat, grabbed the dashboard to keep from slamming into it.
“Damn it,” Lukas groaned with frustration.
“Don’t sweat it,” replied Braun. “Hell, if it wasn’t for you, we’d be walking right now.”
The transmission finally engaged, and Lukas twisted the heavy, awkward steering wheel to the right. Driving the truck down unfamiliar and twisty Belgian roads through the long night had taken all the rest of his strength. Braun had catnapped a little bit, but his sleep had been interrupted numerous times by Lukas needing him to jump out and decipher a road sign or check around for other vehicles. At least the boys in the back of the truck were able to get a little sleep around the jostling, the noise, and the pervasive cold. The truck heater worked well, but the warmth kept making him dangerously sleepy, so he’d ended up driving most of the night with the window open. He thought about stopping someplace for some rest, but it seemed too dangerous.
With the first gray hints of dawn, he felt himself getting his second wind, and he was finally able to risk rolling up his window most of the way and letting a little heat thaw his numb fingers and toes.
“What now, boss?” asked Braun.
Lukas thought about it a minute. Although he liked being boss, he was increasingly getting a sense of its challenges. “I guess the best course is to find an officer and see about getting assigned to a unit still fighting.”
“Yeah, but there are officers and then there are officers, if you know what I mean,” replied Braun.
Lukas nodded. “That’s all we need, one more
blödes Arschloch
of a Wehrmacht coward too chickenshit to lead us to victory.”
“Well, how do we know which officer?”
Lukas braked hard at an intersection. A Panzer Mark IV rumbled by on the cross street. “Looks like we’ve reached a place with a lot of officers. Let’s look around until we find someone who looks like he doesn’t have his head up his ass.”
Braun snorted a laugh in response, then turned around to pound on the back of the truck. “You back there! Time to rise and shine! We’re in Saint-Vith, so we’ll be stopping soon,” he shouted.
When he rolled down the window, he could hear the replies through the canvas covering the truck body. “Hey, how about finding us something to eat and drink? We’re dying back here!” came one voice, followed by another yelling, “How about some place to take a piss?”
Lukas shook his head. “Not a very soldierly bunch, these boys.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Braun. “Even the old farts spend most of their days pissing and moaning about something. That must be what soldiers do.”
“Not German soldiers,” replied Lukas with utter confidence. “At least not
real
German soldiers.” Absently, he ran his hand over his still-smooth chin. “Hey—look over there! There’s a skeleton key painted on that panzer. That must be part of Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler!” Lukas could name every SS division and recognize their insignia instantly. “Damn! Wouldn’t it be great if we could join up with the LSSAH?” He pounded the steering wheel with the flat of his hand in his excitement.
“Yeah? Don’t get your hopes up.”
Lukas looked at Braun. “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask them.”
“Ask them what? If we can join the most elite panzer division? Fat chance.”
“Hey—you wanted an officer who wasn’t a chickenshit with his head up his ass. You think that guy qualifies?” He pointed to the sidewalk, where a tall SS officer with his face swathed in bandages and the skeleton key insignia on his unit patch stood, apparently waiting for somebody. There was a panzer nearby with command markings. Lukas braked the truck to a stop.
“Wait—Lukas, are you sure this is a good idea?”
Lukas turned, the door half open. “Braun, what’s the worst that can happen? He tells me to go fuck myself, then we look for someone else.”
Braun shook his head. “You’re braver than I am.”
Lukas smiled. “That’s why I’m the boss.” He opened the door the rest of the way and jumped lightly to the ground. His legs were a little wobbly from the long ride. He looked down at his sadly wrinkled and dirty uniform coat and brushed at it futilely for a minute, then walked up to the officer. His nervousness increased as he got closer. He looked back at Braun in the truck, then kept going. He couldn’t turn back with Braun watching. The officer turned to look his way, and Lukas snapped to attention, his arm shooting out in the proper salute.
“Sieg heil!”
he said, and then “Excuse me please, sir—”
The officer looked at him with ill-concealed amusement, and returned the salute in a more casual manner. “Yeah, kid, what is it?”
“Excuse me please, sir, we come from the Eighteenth Volksgrenadier Division in Fifth Panzer Army—”
“Yeah? And what are you, their advance guard?”
“No, sir. You see, the Eighteenth surrendered, and we decided not to surrender with it.”
“Oh,” said the officer, this time with a bit more interest. “You deserted, then?”
Lukas was indignant. “No, sir! The first duty of any prisoner of war is to escape and return to his own side!” he snapped out in a formal parade-ground voice.
The officer laughed. “At ease, son. You said ‘we.’ Those your buddies in the truck?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Lukas, still carefully formal. “About twenty of us.”
“And you’re the leader?” inquired the officer.
“Yes, sir,” replied Lukas. “Oberschütze Lukas Vogel, at your service, sir!” He heil-Hitlered again, to which the officer replied with a wave of his hand.
“Well, Oberschütze Lukas Vogel, I’m SS-Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper.”
Lukas’ eyes grew wide. “Th-This is a great honor, sir! To-to meet the hero of the Mscha, I-I mean, sir.” He couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he heil-Hitlered yet again.
Peiper’s response was a wave even more casual, but the officer was smiling. “Relax, son. I don’t bite—fellow Germans, anyway.”
Lukas was still tongue-tied. Trying to work up the nerve to ask if he could join the LSSAH, he was even more discomfited to see a man in a gray SS uniform sporting the insignia of an SS-Obergruppenführer, accompanied by another officer who appeared to be his aide-de-camp. He’d never even seen a general officer in the flesh, much less had one standing next to him.
Peiper smiled as he said, “Obergruppenführer Dietrich, may I present Oberschütze … Vogel, was it?”
Lukas nodded dumbly. He put out his hand once again in a Hitlerian salute, but no words issued from his mouth. He was in the presence of Sepp Dietrich, a personal friend of the führer’s himself, a hero with roots in the earliest days of the Nazi movement. He felt woozy, as if he were going to faint.
Amused by Lukas’ obvious discomfort, Peiper went on. “He was with the Eighteenth Volksgrenadiers when they decided to join Rommel’s treason. He recruited some other soldiers and led them here.”
“Well, good work, good work,” said Dietrich heartily. “Glad you made it out safely. Bring some men with you, did you?”
Finally Lukas managed to squeak out a reply. “Y-Yes, sir. They’re in the truck, sir.”
“He—ah—liberated the truck as well. Kept it out of the enemy’s hands.”
“Not exactly, sir—some other men stole the truck, but they were using it to sneak stolen goods and money back into Germany.”
Dietrich looked at Peiper. “Stolen goods and money?” he asked.
“First I’ve heard of it,” replied Peiper. “This boy gets more interesting by the minute.”
Dietrich’s rank was more intimidating than Peiper’s, but Dietrich was a friendlier and more approachable man. He obviously liked talking to enlisted ranks. Lukas remembered vaguely that Dietrich had been a feldwebel in the First World War. Under Dietrich’s gentle prodding, Lukas told the story of how he and his men had taken the truck.
“You pulled a knife on him, eh? Instead of using your gun?”
“I wanted to frighten him, sir. It seemed to work—at least, he got right out of the truck.”
“Very resourceful young lad,” Dietrich said to Peiper.
“Evidently so,” Peiper replied, his amusement growing with every new revelation.
“All right, son, let’s see about all this and get it put right,” said Dietrich.
Lukas could scarcely believe his problems were drawing the personal attention of a senior general, but at Dietrich’s order he called his men out of the truck, lined them up in a rough approximation of a formation, and got them to attention. Dietrich inspected the line with the same gravity and formality as if it were a real command; Peiper went along with it but in a more joking manner. Dietrich kept mumbling, “Good, good, very good. Good boys, good boys,” as he looked over each of Lukas’ charges.
Then Lukas had his soldiers bring out what was left in the truck. There were typewriters and other office items, several field telephones, an adding machine—all items easily sold into the black market, he could see—and a satchel filled with deutsche marks.
“Hmm, Peiper, look at this,” Dietrich said.
Peiper looked at the money with a bit more than casual interest, and then at Lukas. “You could have easily kept this,” he said.
Lukas was indignant at the implication. “Sir!” he snapped back. “This money is the property of the German government!”
Again, Peiper laughed. “At ease. I wasn’t questioning your ethics—after all, you told us you had the money. I was just observing that other men might not have been so honest.” This mollified the young soldier somewhat, but his ears were burning red.
Dietrich hefted the satchel. “I guess they stole the contents of the paymaster’s safe,” he mused.
“That’s very probable,” replied Peiper. “I’d feel sorry for the soldiers, but they’re all POWs now, so paying them is someone else’s problem. Besides, if the Allies had gotten hold of this, the soldiers wouldn’t have seen a pfennig of it anyway.”
“Well, what are we going to do, Jochen?” Dietrich asked.
“Office equipment is always in short supply; it’ll be easy to put it back in service. As a matter of fact, we could probably use it ourselves.”
“Okay. You’ve got it. Have your men carry it away,” Dietrich said.
“Then there’s the truck. Anybody can use the truck, but why not let the boys take it wherever they end up going, and then they can give it up.”
“Good idea. Much too cold for these boys to walk. Much too cold.”
Peiper nodded, then turned to Lukas. “Any ideas about what you want to do? It’s almost as if you’re reenlisting, in a way.”
Lukas’ hopes and dreams burst out of him before he could stop himself. “It would be the greatest of honors to serve in the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler under your leadership, sir!” he said, and his face burned red as he said it.
Peiper thought for a long minute, then shook his head sadly. “Sorry, Oberschütze Vogel. I can use men, but you’re not even … what, fifteen years old yet?”
“I will be sixteen next month, sir!” he responded with passion.
“Went through panzer training?”
“Er—no, sir …”
“I can’t. But you could check back in a few years.”
Dietrich shook his head sadly. “Peiper, I’m disappointed in you. These boys are the cream of German youth, and our nation’s hope for tomorrow.”
Taken aback at his general’s criticism, Peiper quickly backpedaled. “Well, if it would please you, I would—“
“No, no. Can’t make a man take someone he doesn’t want. It’s not right. Doesn’t work. No, no. But there’s the Hitlerjugend division, if he wants panzers.”
“That’s a wonderful suggestion, sir,” said Peiper obsequiously. “The Twelfth SS Panzer Division would be a great place for these boys. They’re obviously the sort of people who belong in the Waffen-SS rather than the Wehrmacht.” Peiper’s one good eye ran lazily down the line of unwashed, sleepy, rumpled teenage boys.
“How about it, Vogel?” Dietrich asked. “How would you like to be part of the Hitlerjugend division?”
Lukas didn’t need to think about it. It wasn’t the LSSAH, but it was a Waffen-SS panzer division and a home. “My men and I would be honored, sir!” He saluted again. Dietrich returned the salute with grave solemnity.
“All right, then. All right. Good, good. I think that’s a fine decision.” He motioned to his ADC. “Write up an order of transfer and sign my name to it. All these boys are joining the Waffen-SS and going into the Hitlerjugend division. And this fine young man here—” Dietrich clapped his hand on Lukas’ shoulder. “He’s a natural leader. I’m making him an SS-Untersturmführer as of this date.”
Lukas was stunned—a move from private first class to second lieutenant in one jump!—and could barely stammer out his thanks. Dietrich dismissed his stammers with a friendly wave, and asked, “Which of these boys is your second-in-command?” Lukas indicated Hans Braun. “And make this boy a
sturmscharführer while you’re at it,” he said to his ADC. Braun, as astonished at making sergeant as Lukas was in making second lieutenant, stammered out his thanks as well.

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