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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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27 JULY 1945
BRANDENBURG GATE, BERLIN, GERMANY, 1302 HOURS GMT
General Dwight D. Eisenhower would of course be hosted at a formal gala in the Reichstag Building in the evening, a fête suitable for his five-star rank. But first there would be a display of marching and drill that would give Third Army and the German Republican Army each the chance to strut before the Supreme Commander. Patton and Rommel had suggested the Charlotten-berger Chaussée as the route of the parade, and had posted themselves and Ike on a reviewing stand in the shadow of the historic gate.
Henry Wakefield was here with them. Though Patton had asked him to have the Nineteenth Armored join the parade, Wakefield had refused outright, declaring that his men had been through too much real war to get spruced up for any damned parade. He had glared at his army CO, ready to make a fight of it, and had been surprised to the point of astonishment when Patton had simply nodded, and moved on to order a different division to take part in the festivities.
Which meant that Hank Wakefield got a front-row seat—actually second-row, since he was behind Patton and Ike, with Rommel just off to the side—and a perfect chance to eavesdrop on the great men.
“What do you make of our new boss?” Patton leaned over to ask the Supreme Commander.
“President Truman? I’ve talked to him a number of times, of course. We haven’t met yet. But he seems like a straight-shooting, no-nonsense type. I think he’ll do okay facing off with Uncle Joe. Of course, he’s pretty focused on getting ready for the big Japan invasion, now that we’ve got things settled over here.”
“Invasion, eh?” Patton said. “Any chance you could get me a command over there?”
Ike shook his head. “Those jobs are taken. And besides, we need you here, Georgie. Who else has such a great relationship with the man who’s going to be the next chancellor of Germany?”
Rommel held up his hand. “None of that has been decided. I am a soldier, not a politician.”
“Who knows?” Ike said with a wink. “Soldiers can go on to become great politicians. Why, there are those who say that I should think about politics as a new career.”
“And are you?” asked the field marshal.
The Supreme Commander waved away the question. “I have a lot of work to do as it is. I haven’t even started to think about that.”
Wakefield smiled to himself; Ike was
already
sounding like a politician.
“I should think that this new bomb might go a long way toward convincing the Japanese to lay down their arms,” noted the field marshal. “Indeed, it is hard to even imagine waging war against a country that possesses such destructive capabilities.”
“I’m sure that’s getting consideration,” Ike agreed. “I know we’ve sent pictures right into Tokyo, showing them what happened to Potsdam.”
“Let’s hope they see reason, then,” Rommel declared.
“Say,” Eisenhower said, turning back to Patton with a serious expression. “We’re getting a lot of flak about this Himmler business. First of all, you’re sure he’s dead?”
“Beyond a doubt,” Patton said. “Colonel Sanger identified the body—at least, what was left of it. Seems to have been a snafu in the orders. Just one of those things.”
Eisenhower looked sharply at Patton and then at Rommel. Rommel’s face was stoic and calm; Patton’s had such an exaggerated innocence that it was clear what had really happened. “Yeah. One of those things. There are reporters clamoring for the story. And I’ve had two senators call me in the last few days, demanding investigations, explanations, you know.”
“Hell, Ike.” Patton shrugged. “It’s just like the report says: We were transferring him from our control to the control of the Occupation Forces. Only some of his former guests got hold of him as we were making the transfer. They had a grudge against ol’ Heinrich, and I can’t say I blame them. They roughed him up to the point where he wasn’t breathing anymore.”
“Nobody can blame them. But rogue soldiers, officers who take the law into their own hands … people can blame
them
. And I’m afraid they’ll want to string somebody up.”
“Well, we’re having a little trouble establishing who was careless,” the Third Army commander said. “But I will keep you posted on the investigation.”
“You do that, Georgie. You do that. But … Georgie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t look too hard.”
17 APRIL 1946
INTERNATIONAL TRIBUNAL, NUREMBERG, GERMANY, 1500 HOURS GMT
The judge’s gavel came down, ending this session of the International Tribunal. Sepp Dietrich got laboriously to his feet, shook the hand of his lawyer, and shuffled through the crowd toward the back of the courtroom. It was, as usual, packed with a wide assortment of international journalists, military officials, lawyers representing other defendants, people with an interest in one or more cases. Rommel, whose trial had ended in acquittal several weeks earlier, was sitting a few rows back. He stood as Dietrich approached.
“How did I do?” Dietrich asked.
“You’re telling the truth. That’s all that matters,” Rommel said.
“Well, I’m an old man. There’s not much for me to be afraid of anymore. Though I don’t remember everything, you know. I’ve never been much for the past, and a lot of the older stuff I just never think about—bad and good alike. And it all seemed different then.” He shook his head. “Were we really all so evil? It didn’t feel like it at the time.”
“I suspect that how one feels is not such a reliable guide to whether one is committing evil,” Rommel said. “I remember overriding twinges of my own conscience more than once. That’s all it takes.”
Dietrich blew his nose into a handkerchief. “I never had much of a conscience in the first place. It slowed down my drinking.” He laughed. “Speaking of drinking, I need a beer right about now. Let’s find a bar and I’ll treat. All right?”
Rommel chuckled. “All right. Just one, though. Then I have to go back to work.”
“Do you ever stop?” Dietrich asked.
“The work never stops, so I can’t either,” Rommel replied. He held the outer door for Dietrich as both men went out onto the portico. A long flight of stone steps led down to the street. As usual, there was a crowd. Photographers and reporters crowded around, there were some demonstrators with signs, and some military policemen trying to keep order. Rommel noticed a blond-haired youth coming up the steps.
 
Lukas Vogel had refused to surrender when the Second SS Panzer Division’s remnants pulled back from Küstrin, and he refused to surrender now. He had
been walking for so long, living off scraps and seeking shelter where he could, that this seemed like normal life now. He could hardly remember what it was like to live in a house, to stay in the same place and eat regular meals and sleep in a bed. It had all gone wrong, and Lukas had figured out when and how it had all gone wrong. Everything had been all right until Rommel changed sides. It was Rommel’s treason that had destroyed Germany. It was Rommel’s treason that had destroyed Lukas Vogel’s life and mission. It was Rommel’s treason that had led to Jochen Peiper’s death. Well, Lukas knew what to do about that.
He had been moving south, slowly, day by day. From time to time he got some news, heard a bit of a radio broadcast, saw a newspaper headline. There was an International Tribunal in Nuremberg, and they were putting Nazis on trial.
Rommel would be there.
So would Lukas Vogel.
He saw the first of the crowd exiting the courthouse. Today’s session had ended. It was time to get ready. He was wearing a uniform coat several sizes too big for him. There was plenty of room in its pocket for a Luger he’d taken from a dead soldier some time back. He slipped his hand into the pocket and grabbed the pistol, and began moving up the steps. There—he saw Field Marshal Rommel leaving the courthouse, starting down the steps. He maneuvered closer, jockeying through the crowd. As he neared his target, he pulled out his Luger. He was at point-blank range. There would be no way he could miss.
 
Sepp Dietrich also noticed the blond-haired boy approaching them, and then looked closer. There was something familiar about him. Ah—it was the young man from Saint-Vith, the one he thought had died in Küstrin! He had something in his hand … a pistol! “Lukas, don’t do it,” the old general said, as he moved in front of the boy, his hand grabbing for the boy’s wrist, but it was too late. The Luger fired. Dietrich felt the impact like a punch in his stomach, felt himself bending over. His hand gripped Lukas’ wrist, pulling the Luger down with him.
There was a scream, and a military policeman began running toward him. Guns were coming out of their holsters. “Don’t shoot him!” Dietrich cried, but although he mouthed the words, no sound seemed to issue from his lips. Lukas was pulling on the Luger, trying to get it away from Dietrich, but the old man’s grip was too strong.
There were more shots now, and Dietrich saw blood spurting from a hole in the boy’s side, then more blood from his chest. “No … don’t kill him …” Dietrich pleaded, but he knew it was too late. He fell onto the steps and the boy fell next to him. He was looking directly into Lukas’ eyes, and could see that the boy recognized him. “General Dietrich,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean it … I wanted Rommel … I’m sorry …”
A shadow crossed over Dietrich’s face and he glanced up. Rommel was bent over him, his face grim. “Sepp—hang on, man. Help is coming.”
“Not for me, Rommel. The boy. Save the boy,” Dietrich whispered. “We knew better. He didn’t.”
 
When it was all over, the one-eyed field marshal stood up. Blood spattered his plain uniform. He watched as the bodies of the dead general and the dead youth were loaded into an ambulance and driven away. In spite of the crowd around him, he felt very much alone, as if he stood at a great distance from everyone else.
There were men arriving now, men who had just heard the news. Speidel and Bayerlein got out of a car and headed up the steps toward him. Carl-Heinz had gone to fetch Müller, and Sanger was coming out of an office nearby, where he had been assisting the prosecutors. And there were many more. Von Manteuffel. Patton. Goerdeler. Eisenhower. His wife, Lucie, and his son, Manfred.
He was not alone. There was an immense amount, possibly even an impossible amount, of work to do. But there were people, good and strong people, to help him do it. Step by step, he walked toward them.
25 DECEMBER 1944
BATTLE FOR THE BRIDGES OF DINANT
NARRATOR
With the Sixth Panzer Army trapped along the banks of the Meuse River, Rommel’s Fifth Panzer Army is the major remaining threat to Antwerp and Allied supplies in Europe. Using the remaining bridges at the Belgian city of Dinant, Nazi troops continue to advance. Patton’s Third Army continues its northward move, and the U.S. Nineteenth Armored Division is poised for an attack into Dinant to try to cut the German supply line. Until the weather clears, Allied air superiority can’t be brought to bear on the city.
…
As Nazi troops shelled the historic battlefield of Waterloo in Belgium, on their way to Antwerp, British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery is reported dead. Montgomery, who led the Twenty-first Army Group, was a noted military strategist whose role in North Africa …
26 DECEMBER 1944
DINANT, BELGIUM, 1202 HOURS GMT
Lieutenant Colonel Frank Ballard’s command Sherman rumbled out of the narrow alley, long barrel extended toward the cross street. He shouted the order over his intercom. “There’s a Tiger right in front of us! Fire!”
The tank lurched as the M4 spat its armor-piercing load at point-blank range. As the round slammed home, the Tiger’s ammunition cooked off in a chaotic eruption of smoke and fire. That tank was gone, but there seemed no limit to the numbers of the advancing German armor.
Ballard’s role—the role of the Thirty-eighth Tank Battalion, Combat Command A, Nineteenth Armored Division, United States Third Army—was to delay the advance enough to allow Combat Command A’s engineers to destroy the bridges across the Meuse, and sever the German spearheads from their bases in the Westwall. He would either succeed or die in the attempt.
The latter option looked increasingly likely. Ballard stuck his head up. The street was thick with smoke and rubble, and the sky grew darker by the minute. Filtered by clouds and the fires smoldering throughout the small Belgian city, every bit of color had been drained from the landscape. Only a pervasive gray remained.
More gray: German soldiers—infantry—moving from another narrow alley. Ballard saw one man kneel down, looking in his direction.
Panzerfaust!
The reaction registered in his mind in an instant. He shouted a warning down into the tank, the sound moving terribly slowly in contrast to the fire that flashed from the weapon’s mouth, the missile that sputtered toward him like a meteor.
The impact came with a deafening explosion. Ears ringing, he felt a blast of heat below him. By reflex action he scrambled up, rolling over and down into the street as an ugly blossom of black smoke shot through with hungry yellow fangs surrounded him. Time seemed to slow as he rose to his feet, struggling to comprehend the effect of the tank-killing missile.
Shards of turret sprayed the air where his body had been only moments before. In the smoke, he could not tell whether any of his crew had escaped. Vaguely, he tried to take inventory of his own injuries. His body had thudded against the hard, jagged concrete fragments that covered the narrow streets and sidewalks. His left arm had taken the brunt of the fall, the skin tearing as fragments tore through his jacket. It was painful, but the limb didn’t seem to be broken.
Ballard’s right hand unsnapped the leather holster containing his .45 sidearm, and he moved forward in a crouch. Briefly sticking his head around the front of the tank, he saw the other soldiers of the panzerfaust squad readying potato-masher grenades, studying his crippled Sherman. They looked like menacing shadows, dark black silhouettes against the flames still coming up from the Tiger he’d destroyed seconds before. Ballard fired his automatic once, twice, again, and a German fell.
The first grenade splattered against the tank’s front armor, but its explosion merely darkened the metal plates. The driver, Sergeant Tim Brown, his face black and dripping blood, pushed open the forward hatch and began to crawl up from the body of the ruined tank. Ballard spared him a brief look, eyes questioning if anyone else had survived, and Brown shook his head.
Ballard fired again and the large German carrying the panzerfaust toppled forward. Two more shots from his pistol forced the remaining Germans to drop and take cover. He reached out with his good arm to help Brown scramble down the tank’s hull. The sergeant was a mass of small cuts and soot, stunned but able to walk.
“No one else, Colonel,” he mumbled, confirming what Ballard already knew. With his good arm, he patted the sergeant’s shoulder and the two men backtracked into the alley, using the burning Sherman to screen them from the German panzergrenadiere.
There was a flash of pink in the corner of his eye and he whirled, his automatic at the ready, only to see a female mannequin, armless like the Venus de Milo but headless as well, standing in the rubble of what once had probably been a clothing store. This was the first sight of a female form Ballard had seen in weeks, and he found the image jarring.
There were more of his tanks nearby, and as he moved steadily in their direction he waved his right arm at them.
“You okay, Colonel?” came a shout from the nearest M4 as Ballard and Brown approached. Lieutenant McCullough’s head poked up through the turret hatch.
“Just ducky,” Ballard snarled. “There was a bastard with a panzerfaust in the next block. Brown and I are it from the command tank.”
“Shit.” McCullough shook his head. “Colonel, we’re holding, but those fucking Tigers keep coming.”
“We’ve just got to keep hitting ’em until the sappers blow the goddamn bridges,” replied the colonel.
McCullough nodded in response. They all understood that the opportunity to bug out would probably come too late for most of Combat Command A.
“I need communication, and I need it now,” ordered Ballard.
The tactical situation was grim. Ballard’s Thirty-eighth Battalion consisted of a hundred tanks when at full strength—eighty medium and twenty light, all
the tanks of Combat Command A organized into three companies. Ballard’s flank attack against the advancing German armor of the Panzer Lehr division had used A and B companies, a bit more than half his strength, including all the upgunned Shermans, those with the 76mm guns. These were the only American tanks that had a decent chance to take out the German armor. The third element, C Company, was in the lower city with Colonel Jimmy Pulaski, the commander of CCA, shooting up the wharf and opening the way for CCA’s other assets to do their job.
Those other assets included an armored infantry battalion of an authorized strength of about a thousand men, and the engineers and sappers whose job it would be to wire the remaining bridges with satchel charges and blow them to pieces. The artillery battalion, under Major Diaz, had set up in a park on the south side of Dinant where it was in easy support range of the entire combat command.
The problem was that Combat Command A had injected itself right into the path of the entire German Fifth Panzer Army. Ballard had no idea how his boss Pulaski was faring in the lower city, and he needed to know now. His flank attack had slammed into a substantially stronger force. His forces were suffering steady attrition; how much longer was it necessary for him to hold out? Did he need to husband his steadily decreasing force, or advance with cannons blazing for a final blow? There were two unknown variables: whether or when the bridge would be destroyed and when Colonel Bob Jackson’s Combat Command B would reach Dinant. Last he’d heard, they were a couple of hours away.
Mindful of his torn-up arm, Ballard scrambled up onto the tank. McCullough handed him the radio handset. “Popcorn Ten—this is Popcorn Eight,” he announced, giving the code for Colonel Pulaski. There was a pause. “Popcorn Ten, this is Popcorn Eight. Come in.” Still nothing. “Popcorn Eight to all Popcorns.”
That led to some replies. Two of his three company commanders responded—the third was with Pulaski in the lower city, and no reply. The infantry commanders also checked in, and then came real news. “Ducky Six to Popcorn Eight.” It was Diaz with the artillery battalion.
“Go ahead, Ducky Six,” responded Ballard.
“Okra Ten has met up with our position,” crackled the radio.
That was very good news indeed. Okra Ten was Bob Jackson of Combat Command B, the other armored fist in Nineteenth Armored’s one-two punch. Jackson, an unregenerate Southerner, actually claimed to like the slimy vegetable. “Put him on, Ducky Six.”
“Hold on” was the response, and about a minute later, “Popcorn Eight, this is Okra Ten. What’s the situation?”
Quickly, Ballard briefed Pulaski’s CCB counterpart, concluding with “No
word from Popcorn Ten or anyone in the lower city. And no sign that the bridge has blown yet.”
“Roger,” came the reply.
Ballard pushed down the Send button again. “Okra Ten, if you can reinforce into my position, I can move in the direction of the bridges to handle any unfinished business.”
“Roger that, too,” came back the drawling reply from Jackson. “Start your move; we’ll come in behind you and keep those Tigers in their cage where they belong.”
“Thanks, Okra Ten, will comply,” replied Ballard. “Popcorn Eight and remaining Popcorns heading downhill.”
“Say hello to Popcorn Ten when you see him, and tell him to get his radio fixed,” came the reply.
“Roger. Popcorn Eight out.” Ballard knew it was more likely that his commander was a casualty, but the reassurance and calm confidence of the lanky Southerner was just what he needed to hear.
“Good hunting, Popcorn Eight. Okra Ten out.”
Changing frequencies from the command channel, Ballard began issuing orders to his remaining forces, starting the slow move down from the upper city toward the riverbanks, the lower city and harbor still occupied by German troops.
Then Ballard heard a new noise, a thunderous boom that overwhelmed the normal cacophony of battle, the explosions and whines of bullets and shrapnel, the rumblings of powerful tank engines, the crashes of falling masonry from ancient and historic structures collapsing under the rude violation of modern weapons of warfare. The new explosion shook the entire valley, even rocked the massive iron vehicles themselves. It was the sound of powerful demolition, which meant that the engineers had finished their dangerous job on the bridges. A huge smoke bloom billowed above the town—but what Ballard couldn’t tell for sure was whether the explosion had done its job.
Lieutenant McCullough’s Sherman, now serving as Ballard’s mobile command post, rumbled down narrow medieval streets. Parts of heavily damaged buildings collapsed as the leading tank passed; as the long 76mm gun swept around street corners it barely missed obstructions ranging from window boxes to streetlamps. Lumbering over wreckage and other obstacles, the tank growled through the narrow pathways that moved it down the bluff and into the lower city.
It was getting too dark to see, even though it was not yet 1600 hours local time. The tank’s headlights and the fires that raged unchecked through the swaths of military destruction were the only illumination, and it was difficult for Ballard to pick out the correct route through the destroyed town.
In the irregular illumination, he was surprised to see a square open up, an
unusually wide space for this narrow city. He saw burned-out Shermans and soldiers sprawled in the rubble, recognized the grotesque postures of death. And then he saw a half-track, its armored door shredded like confetti. It was the command half-track of Colonel Pulaski, almost certainly his tomb. Frank Ballard was the remaining senior commander near the bridge. If that span was not already destroyed, it was his job to eliminate it once and for all. He decided to make his command post in the square, and issued orders for his tanks to take up positions blocking all the routes converging here.
As his tanks moved into position, a growing trickle of CCA troops from the lower city began to arrive. He stopped one young man, who looked hypnotized by the bright headlights of the tank, wearing the poleaxed look so common among the men—the boys—who had stared death in the face for hours. “Corporal! Report!”
“The bridge is blown, sir.”
“Thank God. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal’s voice was thin, distracted, numb. “Saw it collapse. About four panzers went down with it. One had been spraying us pretty good.”
“How many of you are left?” Ballard asked. There was an increase in small-arms fire off to his left. One tank responded.
“Just me, sir,” said the corporal.
Ballard pointed in the direction of what seemed to be a tavern except that its front wall had mostly disintegrated. “Get checked out by the medics over there.”
“I’m not wounded, sir,” replied the corporal.
“Go,” Ballard ordered. The corporal moved off.
Ballard regretted that he couldn’t send the corporal into the tavern for a beer or two. He didn’t even know if his highly improvisational hospital had water for patients to drink. The aid station had been put together by several of the company-level medics as the remaining lower-city CCA soldiers began to center around the new field headquarters. Realizing those men, all of them, were now his responsibility, Ballard felt the full weight of command come to rest upon his shoulders.
Over the next hour, as ragged fire continued in isolated parts of the dark and freezing town, Ballard improvised a headquarters. The medics shortly had a growing collection of wounded awaiting safe transport out. Many could wait, even though in pain. Many could not, but had to anyway.
Making contact with General Henry Wakefield, commanding general of Nineteenth Armored, was luckily straightforward, and he was able to coordinate more closely with Bob Jackson of CCB. The situation was defend and wait, wait to discover what the enemy would choose to do, and only then to know the final fate and disposition of his dwindling force. Ballard listened as
the occasional bursts of firefight steadied, became regular, and then … faded away to silence.
“King Popcorn to Popcorn Eight!” barked the radio peremptorily. It was General Wakefield.
“Popcorn Eight,” acknowledged Ballard.

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