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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

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2 JANUARY 1945

ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS, DINANT, BELGIUM, 0903 HOURS GMT

Omar Bradley came into the small anteroom, shaking his head. Rommel couldn’t tell if it was a reaction of amazement or pleasure—perhaps a little of both. The Desert Fox had been waiting here with General Patton and the translator, Sanger. Bradley had been in the private office beyond the anteroom, to take a phone call from the Supreme Commander; through the other door was the large conference room, where the top staff officers of the American Third Army and the German Armeegruppe B were gathered, waiting expectantly,

“Well, Brad?” asked Patton, bouncing out of his chair, his full height looming over the other men in the room. “What’s the good word?”

“I can’t quite believe it,” Omar Bradley said. This time, Rommel could sense the scowl behind that benign visage. “But it’s a go. Ike says to run for the Rhine and try to get across!”

“Goddamn! I knew it!” Patton crowed, his voice all but squeaking in his excitement. “I’ve gotta give Ike credit—now that he doesn’t have Monty whispering in his ear every step of the way, he’s showing some real balls!”

“George,” snapped Bradley, clearly appalled. “That’s
enough!
”

Patton settled back onto the edge of his chair, his grin a mile wide. He looked at Rommel, and the German field marshal couldn’t help but share in his former adversary’s delight—though he was far too circumspect to make a reference to the gonads of the Supreme Allied Commander.

General Bradley drew a deep breath, looking from Patton to Rommel and back again. “It’s the plan as you outlined it—Third Army runs for the river, cutting through the Westwall at the gap held open by Fifth Panzer Army. For the time being, Field Marshal Rommel’s men will be responsible for holding open that gap against SS pressure, which seems mostly to have developed in the north, in the Sixth Panzer Army area; First Army will move into that role over the course of the next week. Mobile German formations, notably Panzer Lehr, will commence the pursuit of the withdrawing forces of the Sixth Panzer Army, with Hodges’ First Army advancing behind them as quickly as they can get over to the offensive.”

“And the Brits?” Rommel could tell that Patton was trying hard not to grin.

“They’ll keep the pressure on in the north, together with our Ninth Army. But for now, it looks like the broad front strategy is out the window—we’re authorized to make a single, strong punch. It’ll be called Operation Can Opener: We pry up the lid, and the rest of the Allied Expeditionary Forces let the beans spill out.”

Bradley fixed a glare upon Patton, his eyes icy behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “That was a cheap shot about Monty, George. Surely you know that, if Ike hadn’t insisted on the broad front advance, it would have been Monty, not you, who would have gotten the resources, the chance to make the single punch that you’ve wanted to do for so long. After all, his forces were approaching the plains in the north, the fastest route to Berlin—at least, until the gate swung open for us down here in the south.”

“Aw, Brad, I know. Truth is, Monty was a good soldier, in a McClellan sort of way. He built up a hell of an army, just hated to see it dirtied in the field. We both know he never could have moved fast enough to make that dash.”

“Be that as it may—” Rommel noted with interest that Bradley didn’t exactly disagree with his underling’s assessment, which in fact echoed the Desert Fox’s own opinion of his old British adversary. “—this has more to do with the Russians than the Brits. They stabbed us in the back with this armistice last summer, and we’re not inclined to forget about that. Any thinking man has to see that they’re ready to start attacking again, and who’s to say they’ll stop with Berlin? The president seems to think Stalin will make a grab for all of Germany, and wants us to do what we can, as fast as we can, to see that doesn’t happen.

“And Georgie, you are the man with the right tool, in the right place, for the job.”

“Brad—a chance to keep attacking. That’s all I’ve ever wanted!” Patton replied. Rommel could tell that the American general was speaking the utter and complete truth.

ARMEEGRUPPE B HEADQUARTERS CAFETERIA, DINANT, BELGIUM, 1231 HOURS GMT

Reid Sanger felt a little schizophrenic when he translated. It was as if he put part of his brain in neutral and put it in the service of someone else, taking in words in one language and delivering them in another, without any conscious sense of the process. The rest of his mind, aloof from the process, operated as a free-floating observer, commenting on people and reactions. He took an odd pride in being able to disconnect himself in that way.

By now, he was almost used to having all the senior brass around him. Eisenhower, Rommel, Patton—these were figures destined for the history books, people who were real in one sense and unreal in another. When he
thought about being in the presence of living history too much he became nervous and tongue-tied, but he was slowly developing an immunity, learning to see these men as mortal while still being aware of their special roles and impact.

Fortunately, there were other translators from SHAEF who could shoulder some of the load. After the initial meeting, the group fissioned into smaller breakout units of specialists. There was an enormous amount of coordination and planning to be accomplished in a very short period of time, and it would take everyone’s focus to get it done.

The staff meeting had lasted past the noon hour, as the dazzling plan code-named Operation Can Opener was revealed to the officers of two armies. They understood the unspoken potential of this operation: the crossing of the Rhine had gone from a goal to a preliminary step, and the true objective was nothing less than the liberation of Germany. Roles were outlined, assignments made, and preparations were already under way. Finally Patton had given a truly inspiring speech centering on the historic opportunity awaiting them.

This led to a break, and Sanger was able to slip away for a quick cup of coffee—Rommel’s headquarters had some of the worst ersatz coffee he’d ever tasted—and a cigarette.

Sanger thought about the major groups and their assignments. Eisenhower, Bradley, Rommel, and Speidel—with Sanger as translator—would work on the high-level issues involved in turning Rommel’s force into an Allied army. Policy, rank, status, chain of command, all of these highly sticky and political matters required extreme delicacy even in the approach.

Patton, von Manteuffel, Bayerlein, and Wakefield, along with their senior aides, would develop the revised military plans. Since Rommel’s army group was located in what had been the Third Army area of operation, this involved modifying large amounts of previously settled strategy. Sanger wondered if Patton was frustrated that his military target had now become his ally, but then realized that Patton had already claimed credit for the entire situation—Old Blood and Guts would be fine as long as there was at least one more battle to be fought.

Other working groups included intelligence coordination—Sanger would normally have killed to be part of that group, but he was otherwise occupied—supply and logistics, and even finance. Those maintenance issues were incredibly tricky. Army Group B had drawn its supplies from Germany, and that was obviously no longer possible. The Allies could resupply them, but there were differences in ammunition, spare parts, even standard ration issues. The Germans would certainly appreciate getting American cigarettes, though, Sanger thought, taking a puff on his Lucky Strike.

And finance: that was going to be what the British called a sticky wicket indeed. Soldiers needed to be paid, and obviously Army Group B could no longer draw on the Reichsbank to meet its payroll. The new government was not in a position to issue money, and there was not even a legal structure that would allow the provisional government to borrow money! They would be able to finesse their way around this situation, no doubt, but only at the cost of breaking regulation after regulation. Some senior officer would have to sign a lot of incriminating documents, but there was little choice in the matter. Situations got ahead of themselves sometimes, and one simply had to cope.

Sanger’s train of thought was interrupted by a familiar voice barking, “Sanger?”

Sanger looked up to see his old boss at SHAEF intelligence in London. “Colonel Cook!” he said, standing up. Cook stood out in any crowd, since he weighed over three hundred pounds. He was nearly bald, a thin ribbon of hair surrounding his crown somewhat like a monk’s tonsure. There was one thing different about Cook since Sanger had seen him last: a star on each shoulder replacing the eagles that had lived there previously. “I mean, General Cook,” he amended quickly. “Congratulations, sir. How are you doing?”

“Fine, Sanger, fine. See you made light bird. Congratulations to you, too. Still prefer the front lines to the home office?” The general reached out a beefy hand and Sanger shook it.

“Yes, sir. Nothing like it. Thanks for giving me a shot at it.”

“You’re welcome, Sanger. You remember Keegan, don’t you?”

Of course Sanger did. The two men had worked together as captains in SHAEF headquarters in London. Keegan, now a newly minted major, had been the bane of Sanger’s life back in London. He was a product of the American upper class, complete with an aristocratic nasal drawl through teeth that did not move. He had attended the right prep school followed by Yale, and jumped into a career liberally lubricated with Daddy’s money. When the war was over he would slip right back into a Wall Street life. He stood elegant in a crisply tailored uniform, and everything from his expression to his sneering tone showed that he was completely convinced of the inferiority of the working classes—of, in short, Sanger himself. “So, Sanger,” came his annoying nasal drawl. Keegan looked around the busy, somewhat dirty headquarters. “Slumming again?”

Sanger as usual wanted to reply with a fist sunk into his fine aristocratic features, but he restrained himself. “Hi, Keegan,” he replied, then couldn’t resist a slight dig. “I see it’s
Major
Keegan now. ongratulations.” It was petty of him to call attention to his own superior rank that way, but he couldn’t help it. He could see by the brief flash of anger across Keegan’s face that the dig had worked.

“Congratulations on your own promotion. I hear you’ve swapped intelligence work for the translation business. More opportunities in that department?” drawled Keegan in return, with the edge of a smile flashing across his lips.

Sanger felt his own anger rising in return. He could never score a clean hit on Keegan; the man always had a comeback. He decided not to go another round. “Yep. Lots more opportunities,” he said neutralizing the attack. Then he turned back to Cook. “You’ll be working with Rommel’s G-2 people on intelligence sharing?”

“Yep, that’s what we’re here for. This is an absolute gold mine of information. Of course, it’s nearly cheating when you sit down with the enemy commanders and they hand you their top-secret documents.”

Sanger laughed. “I had much the same feeling last night. I kept thinking someone was going to shoot me as a spy. So, what’s the plan?”

“Since Rommel’s army is going to be part of SHAEF, we’re setting up the intel liaison office. We’ll be running the G-2 coordination function,” said Cook in his gruff voice.

Sanger felt a real pang at this news. He had thought of himself as the sole person in charge of intelligence coordination between SHAEF and Army Group B. Of course, on reflection he knew that there was no way anyone would permit a mere lieutenant colonel to be in charge of something like that. Wakefield had given him the assignment, but it had been with the warning that it would only be true until some SHAEF chair-warmer shoved him out of the way. And here was the shove. Keegan’s dig about him merely being a translator now rankled even more because it was turning out to be true. That was about the only role left for him—if he wasn’t shoved out of that as well.

He fought to keep his feelings off his face; the thought that Keegan would witness his despondency was the only thing that could make his humiliation worse. The only good news was that it was time to get back to work. “Good luck, General. You too, Keegan,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you around the campus.” He stood up to make his leave.

When he got back to Rommel’s office, he found that there was another translator—this one only a major—allowing Rommel and Eisenhower to converse. That was all he needed; he was too low in rank to be in charge of intelligence or liaison, and too high to be a mere translator. He was going to be shoved right out of the action, and the thought was killing him. There was nobody around in whom he could confide, either. He resolved to be stoic, to continue to do his job. After all, everyone was aimed at the same goal. What did it matter who led? In his heart, he knew it mattered very, very much.

Eisenhower interrupted his reverie. “Sanger, I want you to know that
Rommel has been telling me what an outstanding job you’ve done under tough circumstances over these last few days.”

Dully, Sanger replied, “Thank you very much, sir.” He stole a brief glance at Rommel, who was sitting back comfortably in his office chair.

“You’ve been filling in as SHAEF liaison, and I want you to know I appreciate that as well. You’ve done fine work.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“Unfortunately,” and here Eisenhower paused, “the role of military liaison at this level requires an officer of appropriate rank. I’m afraid that there’s no possible way I can permit the role to be filled by a lieutenant colonel. You understand, of course.”

Sanger nodded. This was even faster than he expected. “I understand perfectly, sir. I expected that to be the case. It’s been an honor to serve in that capacity, even on a temporary basis.”

Eisenhower nodded. “It’s good you feel that way, because Rommel has asked for you to continue in the role. And since I can’t put a lieutenant colonel in that slot, you’re a colonel, effective today.”

Sanger took a moment to process the words. “Sir? I mean—thank you very much, sir—it is a great honor and I will do my very best—” He realized he was beginning to babble a little bit, and decided that shutting up was the best course of action.

“Congratulations, Oberst Sanger,” Rommel said in German. “I hope you will be willing to remain in this assignment.”

“It is a very great honor, Generalfeldmarschall,” said Sanger, getting himself back under control. He switched to English and said, “Thank you very much, General Eisenhower.” He saluted.

Eisenhower leaned forward and said, “Now you get to earn your pay. Back to work.”

“Yes,
sir!
” replied Sanger.

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

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