Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (56 page)

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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

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FLASH/BULLETIN
PARIS BUREAU, 15 MARCH, 1500 GMT
COPY 01 VICTORY OVER NAZI GERMANY!
DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS
 
PARIS, 15 MARCH (AP) BY CHUCK PORTER
WITH A TRIUMPHANT PARADE OF ALLIED TROOPS THROUGH THE STREETS OF BERLIN, THE WAR WITH NAZI GERMANY HAS FINALLY ENDED.
AT 0800 HOURS BERLIN TIME, COLONEL-GENERAL SEPP DIETRICH, NAZI MILITARY COMMANDER FOR THE CITY OF BERLIN, FORMALLY SURRENDERED THE CITY TO THE WESTERN ALLIES, REPRESENTED BY LIEUTENANT GENERAL GEORGE PATTON OF THE UNITED STATES AND FIELD MARSHAL ERWIN ROMMEL OF THE GERMAN REPUBLIC.
SIMULTANEOUSLY, COMMANDERS OF THE NAZI ARMY GROUP G, THE LAST MAJOR OPERATING NAZI MILITARY FORCE IN THE WEST, SURRENDERED TODAY TO THE 21ST ARMY GROUP UNDER THE COMMAND OF BRITISH FIELD MARSHAL SIR MILES DEMPSEY, ENDING FORMAL NAZI RESISTANCE IN THE WEST.
SOME NAZI FORCES CONTINUE TO FIGHT DEFENSIVE ACTIONS AGAINST ADVANCING SOVIET FORCES IN THE EAST, BUT HAVE YIELDED TO WESTERN ALLIED FORCES TAKING OVER THEIR POSITIONS.
CIVILIAN OFFICIALS OF THE NAZI REGIME, INCLUDING FUERHER HEINRICH HIMMLER, HAD ALREADY FLED THE CITY BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF ALLIED TROOPS. UNCONFIRMED REPORTS SAY THAT HIMMLER HAS BEEN CAPTURED SOUTH OF THE CITY NEAR THE CZECHOSLOVAKIAN BORDER. WHEREABOUTS OF OTHER TOP NAZI OFFICIALS ARE NOT YET KNOWN, BUT SHAEF OFFICIALS EXPRESSED CONFIDENCE THAT MOST WILL BE CAPTURED WITHIN A FEW DAYS.
CONTINUED PEACE TALKS WITH SOVIET OFFICIALS IN MOSCOW AND WITH FRONT LINE COMMANDERS ARE TAKING PLACE AROUND THE CLOCK. SOVIET, BRITISH AND U.S. OFFICIALS HAVE ALL EXPRESSED THEIR DESIRE FOR PEACE IN THE REGION …
 
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AP PAR 334639 RZ/021445
The makeshift compound for captured enemy soldiers stank of blood and shit and piss and fear. Medical attention was not always available even for Soviet troops, so much less was available for captured Nazis, who were left to rot and fester in their own waste. The POW area was a commandeered farm. The holding pen was a barnyard, its fence reinforced with barbed wire and patrolled by guards. Some barrels filled with scraps of wood and leftover oil served as sources of heat; scraps and leftovers from the mess tent were taken over and given to the prisoners for their meals. The barn was used as an interrogation center, the milking stalls pressed into offices where German-speaking interrogators took down information and made dispositions. Transport to more formal POW camps, reeducation centers, gulags, or other destinations would take place over periods ranging from days to weeks after the battle; there were numerous activities that took higher priority. However, as trains returned empty, loading them with prisoners took advantage of otherwise wasted space.
Colonel Alexis Krigoff did not normally like going to the prisoner compound, because it was smelly and dirty, but it was one of the areas under his command, and proper military procedure demanded that he make the rounds periodically. He wore older boots and clothing that could get dirty, for there was no way to ensure that he could remain clean. Paulina had expressed some interest in photographing the prisoners, but Krigoff had done his best to discourage her. Although this process was fully in accordance with Marxist-Leninist doctrine, it was not something for the squeamish. We all eat meat and the butcher is a comrade, but that does not mean we would all enjoy seeing him at his work. Frankly, some of the necessary activities even turned Krigoff’s stomach from time to time.
Lieutenant Jerozlaus Kraichin was just stepping out of one of the stalls. Krigoff could just see the shadowy figure of a Nazi prisoner slumped against a wall. He had been rather badly wounded, Krigoff could see, with damage to right arm and leg. Kraichin saluted when he saw Krigoff. “Comrade Colonel!”
“As you were, Lieutenant. That man—an officer?”
“Yes, very interesting, too. He’s a Nazi celebrity.”
“Really?”
“Yes, if you’re interested, Colonel.”
“Sure. Tell me about him.” Krigoff knew very little about Germans or Nazis as actual individuals.
“He was only giving name, rank, serial number, but as he’s Waffen-SS, there’s quite a lot of information to be gotten from the uniform, you know.” Krigoff didn’t know, but he nodded anyway. Kraichin continued. “The Nazis we overran were the remnants of the Second SS Panzer Division ‘Das Reich.’ They were originally one of the most elite panzer units, especially in the beginning. But this man had an embroidered cuff from the First SS Panzer Division ‘Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler,’ which means he was in that division. His name is Peiper, and he was a leading Nazi in the Mscha campaign. A very nasty man.”
“Good we’ve got him, then.” Krigoff didn’t care what the lieutenant was prattling on about; the man might have been a big Nazi fighter, but he was a helpless prisoner now, and the Nazi fangs had all been pulled.
The lieutenant smiled. “I want to put him in for reeducation, sir.”
“Why on earth? If he’s such a top Nazi, can he be bent to our ways?”
“Oh, yes, I think he can. You know that Nazi stands for National Socialism, of course.” Krigoff remembered hearing that, but it had never really occurred to him to think about it, so he nodded once again. “It actually was originally a socialist party, until Hitler and his thugs took it over. They kept the name, even though they purged the socialist elements from within. They did keep a sense of dialectic and a bit of a sense of class struggle—all this nonsense about the Jews was a way to displace class hostility. Originally, it was anti-aristocrat, but the Jews were turned into a symbol of aristocracy, a hidden aristocracy, if you will.”
“This is all interesting,” said Krigoff in a voice suggesting that it was anything but, “but what has this to do with your pet Nazi celebrity here?”
“This man is already sensitized to indoctrination. Men like this don’t bend easily, but they do break. With reeducation, he could be turned into a good communist, then sent to work for the greater good of the proletariat, say in Siberia. He can serve his remaining days on earth helping to repair what he fought so hard to destroy. Justice, yes?”
Krigoff nodded. “A little elaborate, but if it pleases you, go right ahead. Killing the man’s probably easier, but as long as you make sure your plan works, it has my approval.” It didn’t matter to Krigoff, and if that sort of thing improved his lieutenant’s efficiency, all well and good.
He went into the stall and looked at the man. He had been handsome once, though half his face had been terribly scarred. His uniform was torn and dirty; his arm and leg wounds were open and festering somewhat. He might or might not live long enough to be reeducated; either way, he was due for a lot of pain. His eyes had gone dull, though Krigoff could detect a feral spark of hate underneath. He wouldn’t want to meet this one healthy and
armed. No matter; this was one fewer Nazi with which the world needed to contend.
He moved on to the next stall.
“Kim Philby a Soviet double agent? You’ve got to be out of your mind! That’s the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard.”
“Nevertheless, Minister, the evidence is rather damning. He has passed a list of personnel on the Tube Alloys project to someone who has been identified as a Soviet agent.”
“Nonsense. First, you must have made a mistake. Second, even if it’s true, I’m certain there is some sound, reasonable explanation for this. He’s probably running some complicated scheme for our side, you know.”
“That is possible, Minister. In any event, we don’t propose arresting him, or anything like that, certainly not at present.”
“No? Then what’s all the fuss about?”
“If we assume for the moment that he is somehow working for the Soviets as a spy, an identified enemy agent is quite useful. It’s the ones we don’t know about who are really troublesome. We don’t mind Stalin learning of the existence of the atomic bomb—in fact, he was informed about the project in Casablanca by the prime minister himself. In fact, we might do well to have him believe we have more of them and that they are far more successful than may be the actual case.”
“Mmm. Go on, then.”
“We would be quite concerned if we believed Stalin—or anyone else—was learning how to construct such a bomb for himself, but that’s not at issue here. We’d like to make sure that Philby receives the information he seeks—suitably edited to meet our purposes, of course—and successfully transmits that information to the Soviet Union. We’ll monitor the document flow; now that we know where the drop-offs are located, we’ll slip in, copy and replace the transmissions between Philby and his Soviet contacts. Anything too dangerous can be stopped or edited. We’ll learn through our own intelligence sources there whether the doctored information is getting through, and that, of course, will be the final confirmation of Philby’s true role.”
“I still say that’s rubbish, but I can’t fault the plan. Go ahead, then. If you find ironclad proof that Philby’s a traitor, then when the time comes, I assume you’ll take appropriate action against him.”
“Yes, when he ceases to be useful.”
“Dirty business, this. You’d better be damned sure you’re right before you make any move against Philby. I mean, do you know who his
father
is?”
“Yes, Minister. Thank you for your time.”
Marshal Zhukov looked grim, and Colonel Alexis Krigoff did his best to shrink into the back row of officers, mostly division and army-level generals of the First Ukrainian and First Belorussian fronts. They had been summoned to learn the details of the great soldier’s new plan.
“The delay at the Oder has proved to be disadvantageous,” the marshal reported bluntly. “While the Nazis were fighting us tooth and claw, they were also opening the back door to their capital, inviting their new friends in the West to take up housekeeping in Berlin.”
There was only silence among the gathered officers, all of whom had heard this truth in some level of detail. In addition to General Petrovsky, who had committed suicide as a result of his attack’s failure, two other division leaders and the general commanding the First Shock Army had been relieved, sent back to Moscow in disgrace. Krigoff had been more than happy to go along with the story about Petrovsky’s fate—a story that was remarkably close to the truth, when he got right down to it—and had reasoned that there was no reason to provide to the NKVD additional details on the general’s last confrontation.
“Our latest information indicates that most of Patton’s Third Army has moved into Berlin; some nine divisions taking positions around the capital. They are accompanied by at least three Wehrmacht divisions under the command of Rommel. There are also numerous airborne troops, parachute and glider units, that have landed in and around the city—perhaps as many as four full divisions of elite soldiers. Marshal Konev—will you continue?”
“Thank you, Comrade Marshal.” Konev, a square and stocky man with the build of a wrestler, fixed a glare on the gathered officers. “As you have heard, we are facing something like fifteen divisions of fascist and capitalist troops in the city itself. The American general, Eisenhower, has filled Berlin with these troops, and herein we may find the enemy’s weakness.”
The marshal gestured to a large map that an aide had unrolled for him, the graphic image hanging like a tapestry on the wall. “This is the road from Küstrin to Berlin. It is fully blocked, and guarded by antitank emplacements and heavy fortifications. Here, here, and here”—he snapped his pointer to the north and south of the great city—“are strong defensive positions. Comrade
Chairman Stalin has indicated that it is not his wish that we commence attacking the Americans in these positions.”
Now his pointer trailed, almost sensually, along two threadlike marks on the map, roads connecting Berlin to the regions of western Germany.
“The enemy is bringing supplies into the city along the A-two autobahn and another road, Reich Highway Twenty-Four.” Neither of them is well protected, and if we can cut them both, the city and its garrison will be cut off from the rest of Eisenhower’s armies.
“But the Americans are in a state of flux, and we must strike quickly, before the rest of their armies can come up to support Patton. We have two great fronts poised to commence the attack. But there is an additional consideration.” Here Konev paused for effect, and Krigoff—as well as his fellow officers—anxiously waited to hear what that consideration was.
“The chairman, in his wisdom, has determined that this is not the moment to embark upon a wholesale war against the West. This is not a reflection on his faith in our prowess—Comrade Stalin has told me, personally, that he knows we would prevail in such a contest. Rather, it a question of diplomacy and timing. And besides, why should we go to the effort of annihilating the enemy, when we can attain the same geographic objectives with patience, and maneuver. Comrade Marshal Zhukov, would you care to conclude the session?”
“Indeed. Well stated, Comrade Marshal.” The great soldier came forward and took the pointer, but he did not face the map. Instead, he looked at his men. “We will test the mettle of these Yankees,” he said, “but not with a direct attack. The key are these two roads, the highway and the autobahn, by which Patton is still connected to his headquarters.” Now he turned, and indicated Reich Highway Twenty-Four.
“This road, to the south, will be seized by a paratroop attack. Intelligence shows that it is very lightly defended, logically enough since it is forty or fifty miles from our current positions. We have reason to believe that the Allies, despite their own use of the airborne tactic in seizing Berlin, will not be prepared for such a move on our part. We will drop a full division along the road, reinforced with a second of glider-borne troops. They will have to hold their ground until Marshal Konev’s spearheads come up, forty-eight hours after the drop.
“In the meantime, my own front will attack—aggressively—in the north, and close off the last supply route into Berlin. But we will not trigger the next war—because we will not smash into American troops. Instead, we will hit the Germans, here.” He indicated the region directly north of Berlin, where a swastika marked the position on the map. “Rommel has three divisions in line here, and we will obliterate them.” Zhukov smiled, thinly. “This may be my last chance to kill large numbers of Germans in my lifetime. I intend to make the most of it.”
Krigoff joined in the round of hearty chuckles that greeted the marshal’s gallows humor.
“Attacking a day after our own offensive begins, Marshal Konev’s men will jump off without artillery preparation, as soon as the parachutists drop on the highway. There are few American troops that far south—yet—and any that he encounters will be brushed aside. The First Ukrainian Front will sweep around the city to the south, while my own Belorussian Front with take the northern route. In less than three day’s time, we will meet between these two roads.”
The marshal waited as the officers absorbed the plan, murmurs of approval rumbling quietly from one man to the next. The scheme was elegant, and did not seem to require a great deal of murderous combat. Rather, it required a certain element of finesse that had not been a character of Red Army operations. Still, Krigoff felt certain that it would work. And once those fifteen divisions were trapped in Berlin, he could see that the Soviet Union would have a very strong bargaining position.
Krigoff returned to the division HQ, which occupied the same tent compound as a week earlier, when Petrovsky had killed himself. The new CO was General Benko, who had been Petrovsky’s XO, and he looked up nervously as the colonel of intelligence came into the room. He had been treating Krigoff with considerable respect, ever since his promotion, and the young officer was pleased with this development.
“What did Comrade Marshal Zhukov have to say?” asked Benko deferentially.
Krigoff explained the plan as he remembered it, knowing that the front’s official marching orders would be coming soon. “I expect that we will be in the secondary wave of advance,” he guessed. “Since the main thrust of our attack will come from south of here, near Frankfurt-an-der-Oder. With luck, we will have a key role in closing the trap around the Yankee dogs.”
“Yes, yes! That would be splendid, indeed,” agreed the general, who then remembered some matters requiring his urgent attention and beat a hasty retreat.
Krigoff found Paulina in the officers’ mess tent, where, since the incident with Petrovsky, she had been warmly welcomed by the men.
“Comrade Colonel!” she said, her one eye brightening at Krigoff’s entrance.
He felt a great happiness at her reaction, an immense outpouring of gratitude for her loyalty, courage … and, to be truthful with himself, with her discretion. She had never rebuked him for his blatant explosion of fear when it looked as though Petrovsky had been ready to shoot the colonel. If she had noticed his shameful wetting of himself—he had tried to mask his stained trousers with the ubiquitous mud—she had never mentioned the fact.
“Come with me,” he said, gallantly offering her his arm. He led her from
the dark, smoky tent and into the cold night. The stars were bright in the cloudless sky, and he gestured toward the river, unseen but felt by both of them from the dense mist that seemed to be rising from the ground.
“Soon,” he said, relishing the squeeze of her fingers on his arm. “Soon, we will cross that river, and then the war will be won.”

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