Fox On The Rhine (56 page)

He found Speidel and Reinhardt poring over a map in the gas-lamp brightness of the inn’s great room. Without ceremony the Desert Fox made his way to the table for an impromptu briefing.

“Great news, Herr Feldmarschall! We’ve captured a major Allied fuel dump, here, at Stavelot. Well over a million gallons, possibly even two, of fuel. We’ve sent word that all synthetic fuel stocks can be diverted to the Luftwaffe; we won’t need them any more. We’re loading up front line units with all they can hold and shipping the rest back to bring up reinforcements.” One of Rommel’s biggest concerns had been whether he would have the ability to bring up the forces in the rear. He had the troops, and now he had the fuel. This changed everything.

“Overall, the first three days of the rest of the campaign have gone as well as we could have hoped,” Speidel continued. “The Americans have shown some resistance here, and here....” he slapped the map, highlighting a rugged elevation known as the Elsenborn Ridge, “but we’ve isolated these pockets. Guderian’s spearheads are closing on Spa from the north. They’ve already captured St. Vith and are moving on the Meuse.”

“And Manteuffel?”

“He’s almost surrounded Bastogne. You remember, the town that controls the road network for the whole region. It’s being held by a few Americans, but they’re trying to get more reinforcements in. Our infantry have attacked for more than a day, but haven’t made any progress.”

Aside from Bastogne, it was success everywhere, Rommel noted. The initial spearheads of the attack cut through the stunned Americans with more speed than the Desert Fox could have possibly hoped. The field marshal had driven along in the wake of the lead panzer divisions. Several times he had passed hastily constructed POW compounds, where stunned Americans looked out from behind fences of barbed wire.

He had stopped at various unit headquarters, and everywhere learned that the attack was proceeding at a good clip. On the northern shoulder, the enemy had shown some initial resistance, but Guderian had hastily committed an extra panzer division, and finally the Tiger tanks had rumbled over the American trenches.

More prisoners... more headlong advances. Everywhere it seemed that the Americans were falling back where they weren’t surrendering. The Ardennes had in fact been held only by a thin screen of units, and once the German armor had punctured that screen, they had found great opportunities for advance.

Best of all, the weather stayed bad. When it wasn’t snowing, there were heavy clouds pressing close to the ground, shrouding these already dark hills in a gloom that prevented even the most rudimentary air activity.

Rommel hardly noticed when a thick piece of bread found its way into his hand--Mutti taking care of him again. He was surprised how good it felt to take a big bite; he was hungrier than he thought.

“Get a message to Guderian,” Rommel said, ready to head back to his car. “I want him to get his spearheads to the Meuse with all speed, then to throw a bridgehead across. And remind Manteuffel to watch the southern flank. Patton’s down there, and he’s sure to take an interest in what’s going on.” The field marshal took one more look at the map. “I am going to Bastogne myself. We need those roads--that’s where the battle will be decided!”

“Yes, field marshal!” Speidel promised.

As Rommel turned to leave, he paused. “Colonel von Reinhardt--will you walk me to my car?”

“Of course, sir,” said the young colonel.

As they walked back into the cold, Rommel asked, “And how does the battlefield look from a speeding half-track?”

“Very big, sir, and more than a bit confusing,” replied Reinhardt a bit ruefully.

Rommel laughed, and patted him on the back. “That was my first impression, too. And you know, it hasn’t changed much over the years.”

Reinhardt nodded. “Field Marshal, I kept one of the prisoners that we captured.”

“Oh?” said Rommel, quizzically.

“Yes, sir. It seems that the Paris bureau chief of the American Associated Press decided to get his own personal look at the front lines, and got a somewhat closer look than he expected. I asked him for his parole, because I thought that an American reporter’s perspective on this campaign might have a good impact on their public sentiment, making it more likely to achieve decent terms.”

“Interesting idea,” mused Rommel. “Colonel, you have a good grasp of the relationship of military operations to politics, and now you demonstrate an understanding of propaganda as well.”

“And,” continued Reinhardt, nodding an acknowledgment of the compliment, “I thought it might prove useful to have a German-speaking American who was not of the military.”

“It might, indeed,” said Rommel. “Do keep a close eye on this man,” he added. “Even supposed noncombatants have been known to give surprises.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Reinhardt. “I plan to take that very seriously.”

Carl-Heinz had the car door open. “I’ll see you at headquarters,” Rommel said, and then he was gone.

Bastogne, Belgium, 20 December 1944, 1017 hours GMT

“They can’t get through--the verdammt Americans have blown up six Tigers!”

The colonel of the panzer battalion could not keep the tremor out of his voice--perhaps because he accurately anticipated General Horst Bücher’s displeasure with his report.

“Then you will send in twelve, twenty, a hundred more--do you understand? You must keep attacking! And if you cannot follow these orders, you will be replaced with someone who can!” declared the general, fighting to hold his voice steady. All his nerves jangled, and frustration threatened to explode out of his every pore.

“Jawohl, Herr General!” declared the colonel, snapping his arm upward. “Heil Himmler!”

The officer spun on his heel and stalked out of the farmhouse where Bücher had set up his temporary command post. Climbing into his armored car, the colonel roared off through the slush and the thickening night.

The SS general found that he was still trembling.
These idiots--can’t they see? Bastogne must fall!

He stared at the map, wishing that his task was as easy as he had made it sound to the battalion colonel. In truth, however, this Belgian city was proving to be a remarkably stubborn nut to crack. Thus far the city had been attacked by elements of First and Second SS Panzer Divisions, as well as Panzer Lehr, and all these offensives had been repulsed in the wooded hills that bordered Bastogne on all sides. Too, the Americans had managed to hold open the road from the west, and German intelligence had confirmed that several reinforcements--including the crack 101st Airborne Division--were now fighting their way to Bastogne. Panzer Lehr had moved to bypass the city, but was finding tough going in the rugged terrain. The two SS panzer divisions, meanwhile, were regrouping to the north and south of the key crossroads, preparatory to commencing another series of attacks.

“We need that city--that road!” Bücher declared. At the same time, a voice of reason in the back of his mind suggested that he would never get it merely by bashing his tanks into a brick wall of defenses.

But he didn’t know what else to do, so he waited through the hours of the night, listening to the reports about the next offensive ... more losses, tanks destroyed, men--including the colonel he had sent back into the fray--killed. Each fresh piece of information confirmed that the Americans were holding the city’s perimeter with determination and courage, while the reinforcements were drawing ever closer to the western edge of Bastogne.

And he didn’t know what to do about it. The sense of impotence, of failure, was nearly intolerable to Bücher. Rommel and Manteuffel had sent him here to speed up the offensive, to see that a key crossroads in the Wehrmacht’s path was seized and held. But it seemed that he could do nothing to break through the armored shell of American resistance.

The car that rumbled up to the building sounded no different from the myriad of machines that constantly arrived here--until the guard at the door snapped to attention.

“Herr Feldmarschall!”

Bücher heard the feldwebel announce Rommel’s arrival, and the SS general immediately stood ramrod straight.

The Desert Fox, his scarred face a match for Bücher’s own, strode easily into the headquarters, his cane virtually ignored except as a pointer. He nodded smilingly to Bücher as the staff made way for him at the map table.

“Still outside the city, eh, Horst?” The army commander’s tone was calm, even friendly--further gouges into Bücher’s sense of pride.

“Yes, field marshal. I am sorry to report that each of three panzer divisions has been repulsed outside Bastogne.” The general’s shame urged him to beg for forgiveness, to offer his abject apology, but the discipline instilled in a lifetime of service held him silent.

“Yes... I think something needs to be done.”

The SS general stood at attention and waited.

“We have three different efforts under way, and this is clearly dispersal of our strength. General Bücher... I would like you to take the leading elements of all three divisions and command an attack against the city.”

“Of course, sir!”

“You understand my needs?”

“Yes--Bastogne must be taken, and quickly.”

“Correct. You will take such elements of the panzer divisions as you can gather to form Kampfgruppe Bücher. Then, I suggest that you attack from the west.”

“Yes, field marshal!” Bücher hesitated, then voiced his concern. “But from the west ... isn’t that exceptionally risky? That’s where the American relief forces are approaching.”

“Precisely. And that’s where the city defenses are likely to be the weakest. Concentrate all the artillery from three panzer divisions against your target zone, and then strike on a very narrow front. And, General Bücher, good luck to you. The success of our attack now rests upon your shoulders.”

SS General Horst Bücher had learned the arts of warfare from the famed commando Otto Skorzeny and had quickly advanced through SS ranks because of his Aryan heritage, his quick and ruthless mind, and his total loyalty to the party. And now he had a combat command and a military objective: Bastogne, thanks to the trust placed in him by Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.

He sat upright in the hatch of a Tiger tank’s turret, surrounded by a cacophony of artillery fire, shells exploding everywhere, splintering trees and scarring the landscape. Around him were dozens more of the armored behemoths, mottled white in winter camouflage. The Americans were dug in on the heights before him, and he imagined them cringing under the tumultuous onslaught. He knew that just beyond this hill ran the road to the west, and the city limits of Bastogne. And he knew that, as soon as this barrage was lifted, he would lead these tanks through the pulverized forest and into the key crossroads.

Bücher didn’t stop to wonder about the source of his confidence, but he was utterly certain that he would win. He had sought out many role models and mentors in his career, beginning with the Hitler Youth leader who counseled him to turn in his father so many years ago, and onward and upward. Virtually every man he had put his trust in had disappointed him, as had his father. This one was weak in his dedication to the Party, that one was a drunken whoremonger, the other one was not pure in his Aryan genotype. Only two men--Adolf Hitler, who was nearly a god, and Heinrich Himmler, his earthly apostle--had not disappointed him in his dedication, and neither of them was quite mortal in Bücher’s eyes.

Now there was a third: the Desert Fox, a man who represented all that was good and noble about the German race. And this great man trusted him--him, Horst Bücher!--and today he had the chance to prove it by leveling this pocket of American resistance.

Yet there was a deeper challenge underlying Bücher’s concern, and he was not sure what to do about it. For the first time the purity of his Nazi faith had begun to weaken, to show signs of inner tarnish.

After the Metz Massacre, he had received his long-expected order from Führer Himmler: He was to kill the Desert Fox at the conclusion of this battle, once victory was certain or defeat inevitable, and to make it look like a combat death. That would be easy for a man of Horst Bücher’s skills, but he had reached a decision, a momentous one for him. Führer Himmler’s massacre at Metz--for Bücher had instantly known the truth about who had arranged it--had sickened him, not because of the deaths, but because of the dishonor, especially when he knew Rommel was right.

Therefore, Bücher would disobey the orders to kill Rommel, the first time in his life he had ever disobeyed a Party directive, the first time in his life he had ever condoned behavior his leadership believed to be treasonous, or even mildly anti-Party. For once, Bücher saw Himmler’s directive about Rommel as being self-serving, motivated by envy, not by Party. Surely, he thought, Adolf Hitler would never have done anything like that. The Metz Massacre would have been justified had the retreat been cowardly or unneeded, but Himmler was simply wrong about the military situation. He wished he could argue the point, but he knew that would be futile.

What does it matter?
he thought.
I am planning to disobey my orders, and I know the penalty for disobedience. It is I, not the Desert Fox, who will not survive this campaign
.

His mind snapped back to the present, to the awareness that the artillery fire was slackening. Now he could hear tank engines rumble into life. He dropped through the hatch as the massive panzer began to inch slowly up the artillery-scarred hillside.

Somehow American soldiers had survived, and gunfire pinged off German armor. But the panzers replied with cannons and machine guns, and the huge treads crushed right over the crude trenches. Here was an enemy machine gun nest, quickly obliterated by fire from the tanks’ main guns. There an American tank destroyer took a few bold shots, until the crew in the open turret was killed by swarming panzergrenadiers. At the hilltop there was no pause as direct hits on two Shermans knocked out the last barrier before the city.

Soon the German tanks were rolling down the hill, some of them racing onto the road, others driving right around the houses and fields that formed the city’s fringe. The barrage had reduced many buildings to rubble, but these were still defended, infantry shooting rifles, automatic weapons, and bazookas amid the mounds of shattered stone.