Fox On The Rhine (22 page)

“Yes, sir!” Pulaski snapped off a salute, made sure that no trace of his elation showed on his face.

“You heard the general.” Wakefield’s voice was a growl.

“We’re ready to move out, sir!” Pulaski declared, turning to shout at his men. “Men of CCA--mount up! On the double! Colonel Ballard, get D Company rolling right away, have a look over those hills. The rest of us will be along the road in a minute--give us cover if you see any sign of the Krauts!”

Patton nodded with a smug grin. Wakefield’s face was impassive, but Pulaski noticed his fists were clenched tight. He’d heard rumors that there was bad blood between his division exec and Old Blood and Guts Patton, and now he believed it. And he’d stepped in it, too, implicitly taking Patton’s side against his own XO. He knew he shouldn’t have done that, but it had been impossible to resist. He knew he was right, but he shouldn’t have been so impatient.

Immediately the Stuart tanks that formed D Company, the light armor company, rolled forward. They rattled through the ditch and over stone walls, fanning out as they drove southward from Sainte-la-Salle. Soon the M5s were rolling up the first of the nearby hills, rumbling over the crests, spreading to protect both flanks of the long highway.

In and around the village more engines roared, and tracks clattered as the first Sherman tanks rumbled down the road within a minute of Pulaski’s orders. The infantry, gunners lugging their heavy machine guns, lumbered down from the hilltop to scramble into their half-tracks and chase along behind the tanks. By this time Colonel Pulaski had scrambled into his halftrack, and Keefer had started the command vehicle down the road in the wake of C Company’s fourteen remaining tanks.

When he looked back, the last thing he saw was the two generals standing side by side.

Excerpt from
War’s Final Fury
, by Professor Jared Gruenwald

At the moment of Hitler’s assassination, the situation for Germany was bleak to the point of hopelessness. The Soviet Union’s eventual victory was assured. Why, then, would Stalin consider making peace with his bitter enemy, someone who had double-crossed him scant years ago?

This was the genius of Operation Carousel. How can two sides consumed with mutual distrust, even hatred, negotiate a peace? The answer is in two parts: first, that each party gains through negotiated peace more and better than it could through military action, and second, that the terms of the peace make it difficult or impossible for either party to renege.

Stalin had growing distrust for the Western Allies, as is well known. The alliance between the Communist Soviet Union and the democratic West was one of convenience. As the war moved into its final phase, farsighted people on both sides were looking forward to an inevitable Third World War, involving the West versus International Communism, centered in the Soviet Union. Churchill, Patton, and even Rommel were among those who expressed grave concern about what would come next. Stalin could only assume that with the defeat of Germany, the unwelcome attention of the West would turn toward him.

By conquering as much as possible of Eastern Europe, as well as by supporting indigenous revolutionary movements throughout Western Europe, Stalin hoped to turn the postwar political environment to his favor. While his faith in the “historic inevitability” of Communism sustained his long-range vision, he knew that Marx did not predict instant or easy victory, or victory without some setbacks along the way. Operating on the principle that “Marxism helps those who help themselves,” Stalin needed to look forward to securing his postwar base, for the “good will” of the Western Allies, he knew, would evaporate as soon as Germany fell.

Heinrich Himmler understood the
realpolitik
as well as Stalin. His problem was that Germany, trapped in an unwinnable two-front war, decimated by poor military decisions by the late führer, was hardly in a position to impose a unilateral peace. He couldn’t merely offer what Stalin already had; that would not change Stalin’s behavior. But he could offer Stalin several things of value. First was wider access to territory than Stalin would get from the Western Allies, including that
bête noir
of classic Russian foreign policy: a warm-water port on the Mediterranean. Second was a destabilized political environment that prevented the West from checkmating Stalin’s moves. It is possible he believed that a tripartite rather than bipolar world would give Stalin additional maneuvering room. Finally, there was access to newer technology. Russia’s classic need to modernize was unchanged under Communist rule. And Germany, even in ruins, possessed far more advanced technology than Stalin could get elsewhere.

One element that did not become known until well after the war was that Himmler, through his own back channels and independently of Minister von Ribbentrop, had been feeding Stalin a steady stream of “black propaganda,” forged documents purporting to show a growing Allied intent to make the Soviet Union the next target. This had been done with a high degree of finesse and subtlety, with material having been slipped to Soviet agents through unrevealed German moles, over some time, more evidence that Himmler’s Operation Reichsturm option was one of long planning. This propaganda effort may have played a crucial role in the diplomatic negotiations that were to follow.

It went without saying that the two men would double-cross each other at their earliest opportunity, but neither would double-cross until--or unless--it would redound to his advantage. This was an odd basis on which to build mutual trust, but definite knowledge, however base or distasteful, is a solid foundation on which to build effective diplomacy.

Himmler’s moves, as we shall see, were therefore obvious …

August 1944

Rockefeller Center, New York, United States, 1 August 1944, 0800 hours GMT

Chuck Porter stubbed out his cigarette and reached into his shirt pocket for another as he watched the chattering Teletype machine. Most of the AP Early team was clustered around as well; nobody moved. It was four o’clock in the morning, New York time; people were just starting work in England.

FLASH/BULLETIN
LONDON, 1 AUGUST, 0800 GMT
COPY 01 HIMMLER NEW FÜHRER
DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS

LONDON, 1 AUGUST (AP) BY EDWARD REED

GERMAN RADIO BROADCAST TODAY THAT HEINRICH HIMMLER, HEAD OF THE NAZI SS AND GESTAPO SECURITY FORCES. HAS BEEN NAMED CHANCELLOR AND FUHRER OF THE THIRD REICH BY THE NAZI GOVERNMENT MEETING AT THE REICHSTAG.

IN HIS ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, HIMMLER PRAISED HITLER AND PLEDGED THAT “THE THOUSAND-YEAR REICH SHALL STILL FULFILL ITS DESTINY” AND THAT “THE FORCES ALLIED AGAINST US WILL SHORTLY KNOW TO THEIR SORROW THAT THE GERMAN PEOPLE REMAIN STRONG EVEN WHEN THEIR SUPREME LEADER HAS BEEN MURDERED BY COWARDLY TRAITORS.'

WITHIN AN HOUR OF HIS ELECTION, UNDERGROUND SOURCES REPORT THAT A STRING OF ARRESTS AND EXECUTIONS HAS TAKEN PLACE, INCLUDING THE EXECUTION OF COLONEL STAUFFENBERG, REPUTED TO BE THE ASSASSIN OF HITLER AND FAILED COUP LEADER. THIS IS DENIED BY THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT, WHO STILL BLAME THE ASSASSINATION ON “AMERICAN JEWISH SPIES.”

THE NEW NAZI LEADERSHIP INCLUDES GENERAL ADOLF GALLAND AS HEAD OF THE LUFTWAFFE....

Chuck turned away from the Teletype as it continued to spew out a list of military and cabinet appointments. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like the Nazis have one last gasp in them after all. Still, nobody’s as crazy as Hitler; they’ve got to realize it’s all over but the shouting, and I think you’ll see some peace overtures coming soon.”

“Suppose they do have some new secret weapon?” asked one of the night shift editors, a brown-haired, slightly cynical older reporter named Eaker. “Maybe they’re going to put the war in extra innings.”

“Bullshit,” pronounced Porter with finality. “In fact, I want to alert the London bureau to start digging for early word on peace overtures. I know the phrase is ‘unconditional surrender,’ but with Hitler dead, my bet is we’ll start talking with any halfway decent offer.” He inspected the long line of faces and didn’t see any opposition. “Good. Let’s see if we can’t get a decent scoop out of this.”

Avranches, France, 1 August 1944, 1322 hours GMT

“It’s a hell of an opportunity, Jack, Hank...just look at them go. The whole country’s ours for the taking!” George Patton was in a great mood as he stood with Jack King and Henry Wakefield, looking across the bridges south of the city, gesturing at the columns of Shermans and half-tracks rolling across those spans and roaring into the French countryside.

“You’re right, General. It’s one helluva chance,” King enthused. “I’ve got Pulaski and Jackson in a race to see who can get to the Seine first.”

Patton chuckled. “Good men, there. I’ll tell you, my money’s on Pulaski.” The general gave Wakefield a wink. “You too, Hank?”

The division XO nodded, forced himself to return a smile. “Jimmy’s in a hurry, General, that he is.” He was still stinging about the tongue-lashing Patton had given him at Sainte-la-Salle. It didn’t help his mood to know that Pulaski had been right: CCA had raced all the way to Avranches before Third Armored appeared on the scene.

However, Wakefield was a practical enough man to admit to himself that the Third Army commander was correct about the combat commands’ deployment, and about the situation in general. The U.S. Army, and particularly the armored divisions under Patton’s command, had achieved a breakthrough of historic, even epic, proportions. The Nineteenth Armored, with Third and Fourth Armored Divisions hot on its heels, had rolled right through Avranches. In some places in the large city the enemy had fought hard to defend each block, while elsewhere the Americans had been slowed more by celebrating French than by fighting Germans.

But now they were through the city and had seized the key bridges over the Selune River south of the town. From here Old Blood and Guts was sending his spearheads racing across the countryside. Everywhere American tanks embarked on a surging offensive to liberate France, and to drive the Germans back to their own border and beyond. Patton had charged the Nineteenth with reaching the Seine, and crossing it if they could; King had subsequently informed both his combat commanders that they
would
make such a crossing, and that the only acceptable question was who would reach the east bank first.

The emphasis on speed still seemed vaguely reckless to Wakefield, not a proper way to run an advance. The division--hell, the whole of Third Army!--was attacking without flank protection, relying on the rapidity of movement to protect itself from counterattack. But the XO could not argue with success, so he could only pray that it continued.

“Well, Jack--keep ’em rolling,” Patton said, accepting the salutes of his subordinate generals before climbing into his jeep. “Good luck to you and your boys!”

“Thanks, General! See you in Paris!” shouted King as the army CO roared away. The division commander raised his binoculars and stared at the file of tanks and half-tracks moving across the bridge. “There goes your lead combat command, Hank,” he declared fiercely. “Ski’s got ’em on the move.”

“Yes, sir.”

“General?”

King and Wakefield turned to see that Bob Jackson had joined them. Somehow the CCB commander had managed to keep his uniform neat, his face clean shaven, even in the midst of the campaign.

“Ready to move out, Bobby?”

“Right away, sir... I just wanted to check on the fuel priorities. Can we get the trucks on the Paris highway by tonight?” Wakefield nodded. This was proper planning, an element of an armored campaign that deserved careful attention. Apparently his division CO had a different opinion, because King’s voice was sharp.

“Christ, Bobby, let us worry about that. Get your tanks moving, and get word back to Army HQ when you’ve got a depot space cleared. We’ll see that you get your gasoline.”

“Of course, General! Very good, sir!” If Jackson was stung by the criticism he didn’t show it, saluting smoothly and turning to march back to his jeep.

A second later Jack King turned to Wakefield. “What was that Patton said to you about Pulaski?” he asked.

Wakefield shrugged. “Our young colonel had some good luck at Sainte-la-Salle. He was trying to persuade me to let him advance, against orders, when Georgie rolled up. He chewed me a new asshole for trying to hold Ski back.”

King chuckled wryly. “That’s our boss, Hank. But you’ve got to hand it to him--he knows how to handle armor.”

Wakefield could only agree, albeit reluctantly. He still thought the division could be advancing into terrible danger, and he didn’t like the knowledge that their flanks were exposed, would be stretched by hundreds of miles before this was over. But if there was one lesson he’d learned in this man’s army, it was when to keep his mouth shut.

“Let’s get moving,” King suggested, turning toward the division HQ vehicles. “I have a feeling our HQ is going to be set up wherever we stop for the night, and I’d like to get a few miles behind us by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Wakefield said, mentally preparing himself for an entirely unseemly measure of haste.

Just South of Roncey, Normandy, France, 2 August 1944, 0645 hours GMT

The camouflage-mottled Panther squatted in the farmyard, close against the concealment of a stone wall. The tank’s long gun poked over the top of the barrier, trained down the long, empty road to the north.

In the driver’s seat, Carl-Heinz Clausen switched off the engine to conserve fuel while the lieutenant climbed from the turret, announcing over the intercom that he intended to reconnoiter. From his position, Carl-Heinz couldn’t see what lay behind them, so he popped open his own hatch and clambered down the sloping forehull of the big tank. The stone wall connected to a house, but the building stood on the other side of the wall--it didn’t block the tank’s line of withdrawal.

The driver saw a lower stone wall standing across the back of the yard about twenty meters away. The area around the farm was bare of trees, except for some brush fringing the nearby marsh. The only obstacle capable of stopping his tank, once he got rolling, was the house itself... and, of course, the muddy bog.

The road they had followed in the latest leg of their retreat from the St.-Lo position approached this farm in a straight line. Four days of running and fighting had brought them down this route, to this farm where they had elected to set up another ambush. For the nearest kilometer the road passed between the low swamp to the east and a forest of ancient oaks to the west; the American tanks, when they came, would be limited to that single lane, and the partially concealed Panther had a tight bead on the entire route.

Of course, a squad of infantry could slip through the forest and surprise them here--but the lieutenant was gambling that the Amis would be in too much of a hurry for such a tactic. Word was that their advance spearheads were already through Avranches. Now it was just a matter of falling back and making the enemy pay the highest possible price for each kilometer of France. No longer part of any coherent division, Schroeder’s panzer fought on its own, always facing the forefront of the American advance.

Carl-Heinz climbed back in as the lieutenant trotted back from scouting the other side of the house.

“Won’t be long now--be ready to start at a word.” The young officer scrambled up the turret with his usual efficiency of effort, settling onto the rim of his hatch so he could keep his eyes trained on that still empty road.

Carl-Heinz dropped into his own seat and clamped the metal hatch cover overhead. Ulrich Pfeiffer, at his radio and hull machine gun, sat in the adjacent position and shook his head lugubriously. The lean carpenter from Saxony remained convinced that the tank faced certain and imminent destruction here, as it had on many occasions since they had survived the cauldron of Kursk on the Russian front during the previous year. To Pfeiffer, today was simply another chance to die.

“Don’t worry--the leutenant’s got us tucked in snug,” Carl-Heinz said, with a friendly nod. “We’ll have the bastards cold as soon as they come into sight.”

“Sure,” Ulrich said sadly. “The first one ... maybe the second. But what about the dozen after that?”

Clausen clapped his pessimistic comrade on the shoulder, humoring him but unwilling to agree. Sure, there were times when it felt as if the entire United States Army sought to destroy them, personally. Still, Carl-Heinz found that the thought of death didn’t particularly affect him.

“Enemy observed.” The lieutenant’s voice came over the intercom, crisp and brief as always. Carl-Heinz instinctively placed his thumb over the starter button. “Driver--start the engine. Gunner, fire at 500 meters.”

The Panther’s gasoline engine roared into life. Carl-Heinz could see little through his driver’s viewing hatch, and when he swiveled the periscope to look to the left he saw only the blocking presence of the stone wall. No matter--he’d grown quite used to driving the big vehicle exactly as the lieutenant ordered.

“Here they come--column of at least a half dozen tanks, maybe more--with some half-tracks bringing up the rear. They’re moving fast and coming this way, so let’s see if we can hold them up for a few minutes. Gunner, aim for the lead tank. Fire when you’re sure of the target.”

“I’ve got him, leutnant.”

The crack of the long 75-mm gun rocked the Panther back and the first Sherman blew up in a spectacular fountain of flame. Immediately the American column dispersed off the road, but Fritzi put a round into a second tank moments later. The Shermans were not terribly well armored, but they were fast, and Carl-Heinz strained for a sight of the enemy tanks coming out of the woods before him.

“
Scheiss
! Behind us!” barked Lieutenant Schroeder. “Gunner, train forward--driver, back up--
schnell
!”

Double-clutching with his left foot, Carl-Heinz jammed the gear lever into reverse and floored the accelerator. The Panther jolted toward the rear, at the same time as Fritzi, the gunner, swiveled the long barrel to the front. The crew needed no prodding.

In moments the farmhouse concealed the tank completely from view up the road, the gun facing the thoroughfare at a perpendicular angle. “Driver--stop!” barked Schroeder, and Carl-Heinz immediately stomped on the clutch and knocked the tank out of gear.

“Swivel to the right--bring the turret around--full rear!”

The grinding of gears swiveled the barrel out of Carl-Heinz’s line of sight and continued until he knew the long barrel was trained behind them, sighting over the compartment where the big engine rumbled and snorted.

Nerve wracking seconds dragged on--
Where are the damned Amis?
Carl-Heinz stared down the length of wall, watching the comer where at any instant tons of olive-drab steel could roll into view. He couldn’t see to the rear but knew that Fritzi and the lieutenant were looking for targets to appear in that direction.