Wakefield mangled his cigar with his teeth as he growled, “Hell, I’d have laid odds you wouldn’t have even caught up to them, much less get any of the trucks back. That was good soldiering, son, good soldiering. Aggressive and fast.”
Sanger took a deep breath. “Damn it, I hate that I couldn’t get more of the men out of there.”
“Welcome to the world of officers, Sanger,” Wakefield said with gruff sympathy. “If the choice is a half-assed job on the one hand, and doing jack shit on
the other, then you have to do a half-assed job. People get hurt and get killed no matter what you do.”
“It still hurts, General.”
“Damn right. Doesn’t stop, either.” Wakefield shrewdly changed the subject. “Reminds me. What were you doing last night over at Rommel’s shop?”
“Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to look around the enemy HQ. It’s not every day a G-2 gets to do that without risking being shot as a spy,” replied Sanger. “When the news arrived, I happened to be there along with Schmidt over there—who’s damn competent, by the way—and so we worked out a plan. Sorry to have to wake you, but I figured it was best to get permission. I talked to you, he talked to General Bayerlein, and you pretty much know the rest.”
Wakefield grunted in acknowledgment. “What do you know about a man named von Reinhardt?”
“He’s Rommel’s G-2. Evidently he was on the mission that negotiated the Soviet peace treaty and is supposed to have done all the heavy lifting after von Ribbentrop, their foreign minister, had a stroke. A very smart man, by all indications.”
“What’s he doing in the hospital?”
“Took a bullet trying to gun down Rommel’s would-be assassin, an agent Himmler had planted on him.”
“Looks like he’s definitely on Rommel’s side, then.” Sanger nodded agreement, and Wakefield asked, “Did he get him?”
“No. The kill went to Colonel Müller. The man over there.” Sanger pointed to the plump balding man in the round glasses.
“The supply officer?” Wakefield asked in surprise.
“Yes, sir.”
Wakefield shook his head. “Doesn’t look the type, but I guess you never know.”
“No, sir, you don’t. The way the story goes, the supply colonel chased this SS officer into the Notre Dame church in Dinant, the one where we first met Rommel, and shot him dead right before he could get the field marshal.”
Wakefield shook his head in disbelief. “Hell, we must have been this far away from walking right into an ambush.” He puffed on his cigar as he contemplated the thought.
“If it weren’t for Müller, probably so, sir. We’d be dead, or at least prisoners, right now.”
“We’re all living on borrowed time, son. You did good, Sanger. Real good.” Wakefield abruptly changed subjects. “Okay being our translator?”
“Certainly, sir. Good place for an intelligence officer, wouldn’t you say? Right next to the enemy commander.”
That drew a snort that resembled laughter. “All right. Keep it up. Think I’ll make it official. You’re the American liaison officer for this arrangement, at
least until some seat warmer from SHAEF decides to pull rank on you. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s an interesting assignment. You know, I worked for Rommel before.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Hitler Youth. I was over here in ’37, staying with relatives. Rommel was their military adviser for a while.”
“Big fan?”
“I guess, sir. Back then, most Germans were fans of Hitler and the Nazis. I was, myself, before I got a good close look. I’ve paid attention to Rommel for a long time. It’s interesting to be up close and personal.”
“Keep it up, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rommel had worked his way over to the two men. “If I may intrude,” he said in German. “I would like to offer my deepest thanks. These were not your men, but you risked your life to save them.”
“Thank you, Generalfeldmarschall,” Sanger said. “I deeply regret that your driver was not in the truck we were able to rescue.”
“It’s little short of miraculous that you brought away this many. I am happy for those who have been returned. And the book is not yet closed on the others.”
“Thank you again, sir.”
“Will you ask your general what medal he plans to award you? Under other circumstances, I would ask him how to award you one of ours, but it would be rather awkward, I’m sure.”
Embarrassed, Sanger translated Rommel’s question, and added, “I don’t need or expect anything, sir.”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, son,” Wakefield said. “I had already decided on a Silver Star if you brought anybody back.”
Even more embarrassed, Sanger stuttered through the reverse translation.
Rommel nodded. “I think that’s quite appropriate. While I’m at it, please ask your general if he would be amenable to having you continue to provide liaison between our two forces. That is, if you don’t mind—it may be a comedown from the intelligence work you usually do.”
“My general had just finished offering me the same assignment,” Sanger said, after quickly translating the exchange. “I had accepted with pleasure once already, so let me do so again. Thank you. It is an assignment of great honor.”
“The honor is mine,” replied Rommel. “A brave man is always welcome.”
Sanger saluted, then bowed and heel-clicked in the German fashion. Rommel returned the bow.
Wakefield grinned as Sanger quickly brought him up to date. “Always like to make a POW happy,” he said, then quickly added, “Don’t translate that.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sanger, smiling.
General George S. Patton was proud to tell anyone who’d stand still that he personally owned the world’s toughest, meanest, fastest, and best military force, the United States Third Army. Put up against anyone, anytime, and anywhere in the whole history of the world, Patton guaranteed he could beat anything that moved, walked, slithered, or crawled. And once again he was going to take command of the immense fists of Third Army, this time to beat the hell out of the Nazis in the final round.
When the massive United States Third Army moved, it changed the very earth it crossed. That mighty force consisted of three entire corps, each with two armored divisions and two or three infantry divisions, with battalions of engineers, antiaircraft guns, field artillery, mechanized cavalry, along with headquarters companies, hospitals, mess facilities, officers’ and enlisted clubs, supply depots, repair shops, and everything else needed to operate. The associated XIX Tactical Air Command, though not an organic part of Patton’s army, carried out thousands of sorties, an entire air force dedicated to smoothing the Third’s path across the ground. In full movement, the army consumed an average of 350,000 gallons of gasoline a day. Combined with the other supplies needed to keep a hundred thousand men and thousands of pieces of equipment operating, an immense trucking apparatus known as the Red Ball Express operated over six thousand trucks running a nonstop convoy operation just to keep the rest of the army on the move.
Taking advantage of every opportunity, the army had exploited captured enemy supplies. During one period, eighty percent of the artillery ammunition used by XX Corps had been captured from German units. Working with French civilians, the Third Army had even taken over a large part of the extensive French rail system, operating it as their own. French factories provided repair shops, antifreeze, coal, and even dry-cleaning for Patton’s men. Even the French rubber manufacturing plants became part of the Third Army supply apparatus, producing fan belts and tires.
Third Army engineers had built and were still building thousands of bridges and entire road networks. The army’s Signals Corps operated a telephone system that handled over 13,000 calls per day. A chaplain corps, a finance corps, a complete legal system, a network of hospitals—there was no service and no function that men needed that was not provided. Third Army was in effect its own city, but a mobile city, capable of rapid movement, often against heavy resistance.
A force of this size could hardly be manhandled around like a platoon. Yet, at the outbreak of Rommel’s Fuchs am Rhein offensive, General George S. Patton’s Third Army had stopped a full-scale attack then in progress, pulled back the entire force, swung it around ninety degrees to the north, moved one
hundred miles, and launched a full-scale attack on the southern flank of the German forces, all in only three days. Nothing like it had ever been done before in the history of warfare.
And now, only days later, it was time to do the impossible again: disengage from a wide front, swing ninety degrees around to the east, and move forward to cross the mighty Rhine River and establish itself in the German heartland, all before the remaining German forces could seal off the hole made by the surrender of Rommel’s Armeegruppe B. It was a chance for nearly instant victory, but the effort required was once again nearly superhuman.
Patton’s driver, Sergeant Mims, had said on the way north, “General, the army is wasting a lot of money on your staff officers. You and I can run the whole war from your jeep.”
Patton had laughed at that, but the truth was that his intelligence officers had sent warnings about German troop buildup and maneuvering to SHAEF headquarters well in advance of the attack. When Eisenhower and Bradley had dismissed the indicators, claiming that the German POL situation was so bad that no major attack was possible, Patton had gone ahead and had his team develop plans just in case. When the word came down, he simply called his headquarters and gave one code word: “Nickel.”
This wasn’t going to be nearly as easy, because this time he didn’t have plans prepared in advance. Of all the things George S. Patton had anticipated, dealing with a friendly Field Marshal Erwin Rommel after a sudden surrender was not one of them.
Third Army headquarters was already bustling when his jeep pulled into the compound. They had left Paris and SHAEF headquarters after 0300 hours and had driven through the night. Patton had caught a few winks in the back of the jeep as it jounced along the roads. He was enough of an old soldier that he could sleep anywhere, even in the back of a jeep in below-freezing temperatures. “Stick around, John,” Patton said as he stepped out of the jeep. “I may need you on very short notice.”
“Yes, sir, General,” replied the sergeant. “I’ll be gassed up and ready to go whenever you are.” Patton knew that Mims would get the jeep ready and then sack out himself, but that he would be awake and alert at a moment’s notice.
Two sentries at the door to his commandeered headquarters snapped to attention and saluted as he approached; he returned the salute absently, his mind already racing as he roughed out his new campaign.
His senior staff was already hard at work as he strode into the large planning room. Wall-size maps dominated the open space; more maps covered table after table, each with numerous men standing around working. The room was brass-heavy: majors and colonels and generals doing the active strategic planning, and sergeants and corporals turning decisions into orders. Every officer wore a tie, and each uniform—if somewhat unkempt and wrinkled—was
complete per U.S. Army regulations. A line of Gestetener mimeograph machines ran off stacks of paper that were then carefully collated and placed into cubbyholes. The room was thick with stale cigarette haze. One table had a large metal percolator and numerous old, crusty coffee cups. The buzz of conversation was constant; occasional words and phrases cut through the general din.
“Ten-HUT!” called out a sergeant as Patton strode into the room. Discussion ceased suddenly.
“As you were,” replied Patton as he returned his men’s salute. “You got my phone call, and I’m glad to see you’re all at work already. This has been the goddamndest few weeks I think I’ve ever seen. Thanks to your outstanding work, we responded to a German breakout that could have knocked us flat on our ass, and now the Desert Fox has surrendered to Third Army.”
The men in the room cheered and applauded. Patton let it go on for a minute before he raised his hand.
“Field Marshal Rommel told me that the biggest reason for surrendering was that he wanted to make sure it was us Americans, not the fucking goddamn backstabbing Rooskies, that finally beat the Nazis and took over Germany. When we started this, I told you that I wanted the goddamned Germans to piss themselves and howl, ‘Jesus Christ, it’s the goddamned Third Army again and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch Patton.’ And that’s just exactly what they said.”
There were more cheers. Patton grinned. He knew his men. He raised his hand again for silence.
“We showed the Germans, and now we’re going to show the cocksucking Russians what the United States Third Army is all about. The Desert Fox has given us a free shot at getting across the Rhine, but some of those Nazi bastards that haven’t had the good sense to surrender yet may want to knock out a bridge or two before we get there. But when they show up—if they aren’t too piss-soaked and addled to show up—they are going to find themselves staring down the barrel of one of Georgie-fucking-Patton’s tanks!”
This time he didn’t stop the cheers.