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Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson

Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (31 page)

BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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“Stop the car, right here,” ordered Jochen Peiper.
“Ja, Herr Obersturmbannführer,”
said his driver, pulling the armored car over to the side of the wide, yet empty, boulevard. The SS officer pushed open the door and heaved himself out of the vehicle, finally drawing a breath of air in this once grand, now ravaged city. His destination lay just across the square, but he wasn’t yet ready to enter the forbidding building, to go through the inevitably unpleasant interview awaiting him.
“Turn the engine off—but wait for me here,” said Peiper. The driver nodded and obeyed. Peiper took a few steps away, and when the thrumming motor ceased running he was stunned at the overwhelming silence surrounding him, right in the middle of Berlin. The Tiergarten, to the south, was silent and dark, missing all of the frivolity and activity of peacetime, even lacking the purposeful congregations of citizens that had gathered there during the early, successful, years of war. It was like a ghost forest now, grim and oppressive.
He found himself strolling under the canopy of trees, shivering in the cold night. He saw the armored car, steaming but silent, across the street; except for that, he might have convinced himself that he was all alone, in some supernatural expanse of a Grimm Brothers’ forest.
Now he was here, in Berlin, and this had been his objective for a very long time. But the reality was anticlimactic, disappointing, even depressing. He knew that he had to shake this feeling away before he went to see Himmler.
It had been a harrowing trip across the nation. He recalled the details of war, of flight, and survival as if it were a story that had happened to someone else, a long time ago—though he had lived the journey, and it had taken less than a week. After the Americans had punched through to the Rhine at Koblenz, Peiper and the few remaining men of his kampfgruppe had made their way across the Rhine by boat. Two days later, after an interval of frigid eastward trekking, they had come upon a Wehrmacht patrol that had been using the squat, ugly armored car. When the sergeant in charge had refused to hand over the car, Peiper shot him between the eyes. The rest of the detachment had vanished into the woods, and the SS survivors claimed the vehicle as their due.
There was room for only four, so he selected three of his men to come with him, and left the rest with orders to reach Berlin any way they could. Making
their way northeast across the country, they had driven at night, traveling more like bandits than officers of the national military. Every day they pillaged fuel and food from the citizenry or from small units of the home defense forces or Wehrmacht, often at gunpoint. One of his men had been killed when a company of stubborn volksgrenadierie had refused to part with their precious cans of fuel. The rest of those fools, old men and beardless boys armed with World War I vintage rifles, had been slaughtered by the ruthless SS veterans in revenge.
Peiper snorted with contempt at the memory, the steam of his breath bursting from his nostrils as if in reassurance that he was still alive. They had been weaklings and cowards, those so-called Germans—unfit to call this great country their fatherland. Why couldn’t they
see?
The Third Reich needed resolute heroes, now more than ever, if the nation was not to be plunged into a nearly inconceivable era of slavery and subjugation.
He looked up at the Reichstag, dark and forbidding, yet solid and grandiose as well. There pulsed the heartbeat of the nation. He refused to wonder about the strength of that pulse, about the life expectancy of the Nazi government—for that pulse, and that life span, were his own, as well.
For a long time, as the night got colder and darker, Jochen Peiper sat on the bench in the Tiergarten, staring at the nerve center of the Third Reich barely a hundred meters away. His master was in there, and it was Peiper’s duty to report to Himmler, to tell him of the valiant but ultimately failed attempt to hold at the Rhine. He must seek new orders, new duties, tasks that would give Germany—and himself—some chance of survival as a true Teutonic state, not the puppet of Russian and American masters.
But for now, he couldn’t make himself move. Instead, he simply stared, not seeing, not feeling, not caring.
Only when the air-raid sirens started to wail did he get up and shamble toward the Reichstag. He would find Himmler, and get his orders, and the war would go on.
 
The Neue Reichstag showed damage, but had not been destroyed. Its many windows were mostly broken or boarded up; blackout curtains covered all the openings. He wandered around its periphery for a while before encountering guards who could let him inside, and he had to make the inevitable stops at lower levels of command before being admitted to the inner sanctum. Fortunately, he was quite familiar with the routine and with many of its players, and was able to get coffee and a cot to doss on, as well as an orderly to wake him up with enough time to wash and straighten up before being ushered into the führer’s presence.
When he was awakened, he had no idea what time it was. In the world behind the blackout curtains, there was no external cue. Day or night, it was
all the same. He washed in a small bathroom, straightened his uniform as best he could, shaved with difficulty over his scar tissue, and then allowed himself to be escorted. It would be the first time he’d seen Himmler as führer; he had been aide-de-camp to Himmler as Reichsführer-SS from 1938 until 1941, then had spent the rest of his military career with the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler—a division that now no longer existed.
“Jochen—how good to see you, my boy,” Heinrich Himmler said, getting up from behind his desk and coming around to greet him.
Peiper saluted in his most formal manner, then shook the führer’s proffered hand. “It is good to see you, too, sir. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long. This terrible war has so many consequences, but one is that there is no time to keep up with dear friends. I am delighted that you survived the terrible events of the past month. What a horrible shock this treason has been! And without my trusted Peiper at the front, how much worse could have happened! Here, sit down, sit down. Have you been well taken care of?”
“Very well, mein Führer, thank you.”
“Good. Now, Jochen, tell me what happened.”
For an hour, Peiper gave his report as Himmler asked questions. Heinrich Himmler was not primarily a great soldier, but he was enormously insightful about people and politics, and Peiper provided as much detail as possible on the personalities and situations he had encountered. Finally, he hit the part he most dreaded sharing.
“As we approached Koblenz, we found that the Allies had managed to get across first. We could not cross the Rhine, and therefore destroyed our vehicles, and the remaining forces of my kampfgruppe and other kampfgruppe of the LSSAH slipped across the river as best we could. Our division no longer exists as a fighting unit. This fills me with utter shame, mein Führer.”
Himmler sat and looked at him. “Jochen, the leading edge of the attacking force was farthest from safety. In addition, I tasked you with the additional role of making a raid on Rommel’s headquarters in Dinant. Had you not done so, but concentrated all your efforts on getting the unit back across, could you have done so?”
Peiper thought, not wishing to dodge the responsibility. “It is possible, sir, but …”
“Enough. It was a great sacrifice, but one that was necessary. The one part that we did not plan for was to have two-thirds of our attacking force turn traitor on us. For that, you cannot be faulted as a commanding officer. You did the best you could.” Himmler turned back to his desk, and picked up two boxes.
“For your heroism in confronting the potential mutiny at Sixth Army headquarters, for your daring raid on Army Group B headquarters, and your exceptional work in the near-extrication of the LSSAH from an impossible situation,
I award you Swords for your Knights Cross,” Himmler said, snapping open the first box and handing it to Peiper.
Peiper took the box. “Sir, I—I … Thank you, mein Führer!”
“And now for your next assignment, for our war goes on, and brave men are needed many places at once. The Das Reich division has a new commanding officer, Gruppenführer Werner Ostendorff. I am promoting you to standartenführer and assigning you as second-in-command of Das Reich.” The Second SS Panzer Division was known as “Das Reich.” Himmler handed Peiper the second box. In it were new collar insignia for his new rank as SS colonel. “It’s time for us to worry about the Slavs again,” Himmler said.
Colonel Krigoff walked through the quiet bivouac of the army headquarters. His boots crunched the brittle frost on the ground, and his breath steamed in the air. Tents were pitched all around the wide field, shelters for the enlisted men and lesser officers of the army’s intelligence section, while the large farmhouse occupied by the generals was shuttered tightly, smoke puffing from the chimney.
Krigoff knew that General Yeremko was in there. The commander of the battalion had disappeared through the door hours ago, leaving the real work to his underlings. No doubt he had finished his vodka and gone to sleep. The colonel grimaced in disgust; he knew there was still work to do, and it would fall to him to take care of it.
He entered the communications trailer, and the enlisted radio operator, knowing Krigoff’s routine, made a polite excuse and departed. The colonel sat down and tapped out his message, his daily report about the operations of the tank army.
DESTINATION MOSCOW
KREMLIN, SECTION 34
TO THE ATTENTION OF POLITICAL MARSHAL NIKOLAY BULGANIN
RE: PROGRESS OF SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, 3 FEBRUARY 1945
COMRADE BULGANIN:
 
OUR FORCES MADE SIGNIFICANT HEADWAY THROUGH THE CRUMBLING DEFENSES OF THE NAZIS. AFTER STRIKING WESTWARD ALONG THE NORTH BANK OF THE VISTULA SINCE WARSAW, GENERAL PETROVSKY HAS AT LAST BEGUN TO SEND SPEARHEADS SOUTH OF THE RIVER, THOUGH THESE CROSSINGS ARE ACCOMPLISHED ONLY WITH GREAT PREPARATION AND VERY DELIBERATE PROCEDURES—PROCEDURES THAT, AS USUAL, SEEM INCLINED TO PRESERVE THE LIVES OF THE MEN AT THE COST OF THE SPEED OF THE ADVANCE.
HOWEVER, IT MUST BE REPORTED THAT THE ENEMY IS YIELDING TO US IN EVERY SECTOR OF THE FRONT. WE MAINTAIN A SPEARHEAD THAT SEEMS TO BE SPLITTING BETWEEN THE FORCES OF NAZI ARMY GROUP A AND ARMY GROUP CENTRE. THERE IS AN EXPECTATION THAT COMRADE GENERAL ROKOSSOVSKY’S NORTHERN THRUST WILL ISOLATE THE LATTER FORMATION IN THE VICINITY OF EAST PRUSSIA BEFORE THE END OF THE MONTH. INDEED, THAT ESTIMABLE GENERAL SEEMS DETERMINED TO ACCOMPLISH THIS ENCIRCLEMENT, THOUGH HE IS REMINDED REGULARLY BY HIS COMMISSAR SECTION THAT THE TRUE OBJECTIVE OF THIS CAMPAIGN IS THE CAPTURE OF BERLIN. AS HAS HAPPENED SO OFTEN IN THIS GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR, THE EFFORTS OF THE MILITARY MEN SEEM TO LIE IN DIRECTIONS THAT ARE NOT NECESSARILY IN FULL COORDINATION WITH THE AIMS OF THE STATE, AND THE CHAIRMAN.
OUR OWN FORCES, UNDER COMRADE MARSHAL ZHUKOV, HAVE MAINTAINED A STRONG AXIS IN THE DIRECTION OF BERLIN. INDEED, IT IS THE FRONT COMMANDER HIMSELF, I BELIEVE, WHO HAS FINALLY PRESSED COMRADE GENERAL PETROVSKY INTO PUSHING ELEMENTS OF HIS ARMY ACROSS THE VISTULA—FOR THAT IS BUT A PRELIMINARY OBSTACLE TO OUR CARRYING THE WAR INTO THE HEART OF THE NAZI HOMELAND.
I KNOW THAT YOU WILL AVAIL YOURSELF OF STATISTICS REGARDING PERSONNEL LOSSES AND TERRITORIAL GAINS AS PROVIDED BY THE COMMISSAR SECTION, SO AS USUAL I WILL NOT BURDEN YOU WITH THOSE DETAILS—EXCEPT AS TO REPORT THAT THE CITY OF WLOCLAWEK (ACROSS THE VISTULA FROM OUR CURRENT POSITION) SEEMS POORLY DEFENDED, AND RIPE FOR LIBERATION. THERE, UNLIKE IN WARSAW, THE ELEMENTS OF POLISH RESISTANCE SEEM TO EXHIBIT A BENT OF PROPER COMMUNIST IDEOLOGY; IT MAY BE THAT WE SHALL BE ABLE TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THAT, AND EMPLOY THESE MEN AS WILLING AND PRESUMPTIVELY LOYAL ALLIES TO OUR OWN OCCUPATION.
FROM HERE, THE LINE OF POZNAN–KUSTRIN-AN-DER-ODER-BERLIN LIES BEFORE US. I SHALL ENDEAVOR TO UPDATE YOU DAILY, INSOFAR AS POSSIBLE, AS SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY FOLLOWS THIS LINE, DRIVING LIKE A SPEAR INTO THE VERY HEART OF THE THIRD REICH.
 
SIGNED: POLKOVNIK ALEXIS PETROVICH KRIGOFF,
DEPUTY CHIEF OF INTELLIGENCE,
SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY
After he sent the message he sat back, thinking. He went to the door and looked out, studying the house where General Yeremko was sleeping. Krigoff could almost hear the old man snoring, and he spit into the snow in disgust.
There was much work to do, and it saddened him that such a tired old fool was nominally in charge of those tasks.
How long would that state of affairs last? Krigoff pondered the question, and slowly a sly smile crept onto his face. The communications sergeant looked at him quizzically, wondering if he should return to his post, but the colonel of intelligence held up a hand:
Wait.
Still thinking about Yeremko, Krigoff went back to the radio and took the seat. He reached forward to begin a new transmission:
 
For the eyes of the Chairman, alone …
“What the hell do you mean, ‘deploying your infantry’?” demanded George Patton, his reed-thin voice grating through the headquarters company of Combat Command B of the Fourth Armored. All the work came to a standstill as officers and enlisted men alike stared in awe and fear at the army commander. “Are all of your tanks out of gas?”
“No, General!” snapped the colonel in charge. To his credit, he glared at the army commander, allowing no hint of hesitation in his voice. “But there is at least one Tiger dug in down there, covering the approach to the river and the bridge. We have a better chance of taking him out with a flanking maneuver than a direct attack. The terrain is no good for tanks, so the only way to get around the son of a bitch is to send men on foot. I’ve ordered the men to deploy with all possible haste—but I’m not taking the risk of throwing lives away when we can smoke the bastard out with a little patience, and a dose of tactics!”
“
One
Tiger?” Patton waved his hand at the column of Shermans on the road, halted now, with engines idling loudly. “You have twenty-five tanks I can see from here! And that’s probably the only fucking Kraut son of a bitch between you and Berlin! Now get moving!”
Patton felt his eyes bulging out, knew his face was taking on a sheen of redness that did not bode well for the health of his heart. He also knew that this was an effective look for him—it invariably provoked hasty obedience in whatever hapless underling he chose to fix those bulging eyes upon.
Thus, he was surprised almost to the point of speechlessness when the stubborn colonel refused to back down. “With respect, General, I lost ten men and two Shermans—my front units, with me since Normandy! And that fucking Kraut will pick off God knows how many more of them if we charge down the road. It won’t take long to get him from the flanks, to plant a satchel charge right on his turret, for Chrissakes!”
“
If
they don’t blow the goddamn bridge while you’re dicking around with this penny-ante bullshit! We have a schedule to meet!” shouted the army general. “If you can’t meet it, then I will find someone else who will! When we get to Berlin, do you want to find the fucking Russians waiting for us? Colonel, I am ordering you to take that bridge—now!”
The colonel glared, trembling for a moment as emotions ranging from outrage to grief raced across his features. Finally he replied, his voice dead level.
“Yes,
sir,
General Patton!”
“Good! These boys of yours will get the job done. And dammit, you know that the sooner we can finish this war, the more men’s lives we’ll save. Remember, speed—always
speed!
” Patton barked.
The colonel had already picked up his microphone. He didn’t look at the general as he issued his orders. “This is Dogpatch One to all Abners. Get these tanks moving, on the double! Blow up that fucking Tiger, cross this fucking river, and get some miles behind you before the sun sets!”
Patton nodded, then stalked away from the compound of parked trucks, hopping into his jeep without a backward look.
“Where to, General Patton, sir?” asked his driver, the ever-loyal Sergeant Mims.
“Take me back to HQ, Johnny,” said the army commander wearily. He had a headache, and he felt tired all over. He shook his head. “I tell you, the wheels would fall off this goddamned army if I didn’t personally see that they were bolted on.”
An hour later the jeep pulled into the little village square where Third Army had established a command post for today’s operations. As they had done ever since crossing the Rhine, the men of the army HQ staff were constantly on the move, setting up a new CP every day or two so they could keep up with the fast-moving spearheads of Patton’s armor. More and more of Germany was rolling past beneath their tracks, and each day brought encounters with only a few stubborn Nazis, like the men in the Tiger back at the river crossing. But the roads were bad for the most part, especially with the country still under the grip of winter weather, and the rough terrain proved troublesome as well. All of these factors seemed to combine with almost malicious purpose to keep him from that cherished objective, Berlin.
“General, the reporters have been here for the last couple of days. They’re wondering if you’d have time for a word?” Colonel Wallace, the liaison officer, spoke to Patton tentatively as the Third Army commander hopped out of the jeep.
Patton looked toward the small group of civilians, notebooks and pens at the ready, who were standing outside of the small inn that was serving as the temporary command post of the army. “What the hell,” he snorted. “Now is as good a time as any.”
He stalked over to the group, enjoying the sudden frenzy as they rushed forward, flipping pages in their notebooks, gathering around like a flock of young birds hungry for a tempting morsel of worm. “It’ll have to be quick, fellows—and lady,” he added, nodding and smiling at the female reporter from
Life
magazine. “I have a war to win.”
“General?” shouted one writer. Patton knew he worked for the
New York Times,
and eyed him warily. “Do you think the war is almost over?”
“Hell,” barked the general, “this war
is
over—these Nazis bastards are beat, and they know it. Of course, we have some bigger fish to fry, and I hope we don’t lose track of that.”
“Do you mean the Russians, General?” asked another writer, scribbling madly.
Patton recognized the man, Chuck Porter—a fellow who had been a pretty straight shooter in his stories about Rommel’s surrender. Still, the general snorted contemptuously for effect. “You’re not going to get me to walk into any traps,” he declared. “Let’s just say, those bastards know who they are—and they better know that we’re coming for ’em!”
“Are you going for Berlin, General? Is that a clear objective now?” pressed Porter.
“Hell, yes,” he replied. “Berlin
is
Germany—any sonuvabitch with a sense of history knows that. And—don’t quote me on this—we’re going to get there before any cocksucking communist faggot even gets a look at the place.”
With that, he stalked toward the headquarters building. Colonel Wallace, looking a little pale, came trotting along behind.
“Lew,” Patton said with a grin, as they entered the command post, “I think that went pretty well.”
BOOK: Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)
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