Berlin was dark outside, but it hardly mattered inside the tightly sealed inner office occupied by the führer. There, it was dark all the time, except for the single desk lamp that illuminated Heinrich Himmler’s work surface. As usual, there were endless reports to review, endless decisions to make—couldn’t his subordinates handle
anything
without his help? And then there were meetings. Paperwork and meetings, paperwork and meetings—the life of any leader.
“Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, Generalfeldmarschall Mödel und Generaloberst Jodl, mein Führer,
” announced his secretary.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Himmler said to his most senior Wehrmacht officers. “Do you bring me good news today for a change?”
Keitel immediately started to stammer out an optimistic view of the current situation, but Mödel interrupted smoothly. “Führer, we bring you a realistic assessment that is not devoid of hope.”
Himmler looked sharply at him. “Well, if that’s not code for more Wehrmacht pessimism and defeatism, then I’ll be glad to hear it.”
“I don’t think it is,” interjected Jodl.
“From you, I believe it,” said Himmler irritably. “Well, let’s hear this realistic assessment that contains hope.”
“Very well,” Mödel replied. Moving to Himmler’s conference table, he unrolled a large map and placed weights on each corner. “The key strategic issue before us is time. The longer we delay, the greater the likelihood that the former allies of East and West will find cause to struggle among themselves, the greater the likelihood that a populace tired of war will settle for a negotiated peace. Even a peace under less than completely favorable conditions allows us time to rebuild. We are, after all, destined to be a Thousand-Year Reich. What is a matter of a generation or two to us? That is one of the greatest advantages we have over the Americans, in particular. They have no history to speak of.”
“All right,” nodded Himmler. “Time. That was the motive behind our temporary peace with the Soviet Union. That time is about to expire. How do we get more?”
Mödel made a short bow in the direction of the führer, acknowledging his observation. “We must first stabilize the Western Front, then strike back
toward the east, forcing the Soviets to exhaust their supplies, then counterattack in the west once again. The perverse advantage of our setbacks in recent years is that our internal lines of mobility are much shorter. Although we must now move at night because of air-superiority issues, we can still move. Once we get past the current Soviet offensive period, we have an opportunity to force a decent settlement in the west. The odds are not entirely in our favor, but the strategy, as I said earlier, is not without hope. That is what OKW proposes.”
Himmler canvassed the two other senior officers with his eyes and saw their nods of agreement. Keitel’s opinion counted for little—the man would applaud anything once it was clear the führer wanted it. Jodl, on the other hand, combined patriotism and loyalty with a somewhat better sense of realism. And Mödel—well, the Führer’s Fireman was clearly the best man for this job. “Very well. I accept this plan, but with one important addition. I don’t see any plan for ensuring that forces on the Western Front don’t suddenly decide to join Rommel and the other traitors. Forces in the east, I think we can all agree, are unlikely to see switching sides as a practical option.” He smiled thinly at his own joke. Keitel chuckled in sycophantic chorus.
Mödel looked at his map, his pointer touching the various military headquarters. “Each major unit has political officers appointed to it. All have exemplary Party credentials. I think we can rely on them taking direct action in the event of any threatened disloyalty.”
“As Brigadeführer Bücher did?” Himmler replied in a silky voice.
Mödel raised his eyebrows. “Sir, Brigadeführer Bücher was a brave man, but remember that what happened was then without precedent. Everyone knows what happened, which means everyone is far more prepared. It would be far more difficult for anyone else to do what Rommel did—it would take only one brave officer and a pistol to stop attempted treason, and no commander could be so secure as to believe all his officers would follow a surrender initiative without resistance.”
Himmler considered this argument for a moment. Then he shook his head. “It’s not enough. Political officers are known. A treasonous commander would simply have political officers shot before any announcement took place. No, I’m afraid that the security of the Reich demands more. Much more.”
“What do you propose?” asked Mödel. Suspicion and resistance were clearly written on his face. These Wehrmacht generals didn’t understand state security, didn’t understand politics, didn’t understand the messiness of this business. Their problems were clean and straightforward, not like Himmler’s. All the big problems rested on his shoulders.
The Führer of the Third Reich looked at his most senior generals. “A conspiracy to surrender a large military command needs a number of people. No
single officer can do it alone. Rommel had a staff who largely hero-worshipped him. This, and of course the element of surprise, allowed him to succeed. Even then, he could not achieve the surrender of Sixth Panzer Army, and that was because loyal officers in that army were able to take action. Therefore, no commanding officer can be allowed to surround himself with sycophants, yes-men, and personal loyalists. I order, therefore, that the senior staff of all officers at the grade of colonel and above be switched randomly. All senior officers will have to work with a staff of strangers. This will prevent the kind of trust necessary for a conspiracy to surrender.” Himmler looked at Mödel, waiting for the argument he knew would come.
“But mein Führer,” Mödel protested, right on cue. “This move will dramatically hamper military effectiveness. Commanders need staff on whom they can rely utterly, and that kind of relationship is built over time. If staff is transferred, operations will be hampered.”
Himmler smiled. “If we were going on the offensive in the West, I might agree. As it happens, you yourself have stated that your plan is one of delay and defense. That requires far less communication. In any event, the danger to our cause of losing another army or even a division is far greater than the theoretical disadvantages of hampered communication within the senior command staff.”
Mödel looked back down at his map as he gathered his thoughts. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you, mein Führer,” he said, shaking his head, “even though this goes against virtually everything I was ever taught about leadership. However, one fundamental characteristic of war is that the unexpected happens and must be integrated into plans, and this situation is nothing if not unexpected.”
Himmler smiled. It was unusual for a Wehrmacht general to be actually convinced that Himmler was correct in something. Normally, they grumbled, protested, and sometimes grudgingly gave in, but Mödel actually saw the wisdom in Himmler’s decision. Well, Mödel was a smart man, and as führer, Himmler was prepared to recognize the man. “Very good. I thank you. Your plan is a masterful response to a difficult situation, and I appreciate the creativity with which you responded to the facts. So often I am confronted with premature hopelessness in my generals. You at least know the difference between difficult and hopeless.”
Mödel straightened slightly, showing Himmler that everyone responded well to praise. “An auspicious start to the morning. May the rest of the day continue to provide the same. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Himmler jotted notes in a thin, spidery hand. Mödel could not be expected to handle the security issues himself; that was not in his area of expertise. Gestapo would oversee the reassignment of staff officers in Army Groups G and H, the two main forces Mödel would use to hold the Westwall. He could
not prevent treachery and cowardice, but he could certainly make the price high, he thought.
“Obergruppenführer Dietrich, sir,” his secretary announced. Himmler removed his eyeglasses and polished them on his handkerchief. He was still annoyed at Dietrich’s stupidity at being maneuvered out of command of Sixth Panzer Army, and it was important that he not show it too clearly. Dietrich was too ignorant to be an ideologue—Party philosophy was too deep for him. He had simply fallen under the charismatic spell of Adolf Hitler and devoted himself to Hitler’s service. Now that Himmler was the führer, it suited him to bind the man’s loyalty to himself, for Dietrich was useful. But
lieber Gott!
the man was stupid. “Sepp, how are you,” Himmler said, his mouth curving in a thin smile.
“Good morning, Führer,” Dietrich replied, saluting in proper
sieg-heil
fashion and taking off his hat.
Himmler returned the salute and gestured toward a chair. “Sit down. Bring me up to date. How many of our brave troops have you extracted from the traitor’s clutches?”
“Most of them, yes, most of them,” replied Dietrich, his battered face nodding up and down. He sat with his legs apart, both hands holding his hat in his lap. “Most of them that didn’t surrender, you know.”
Yes, I know, you bleeding idiot,
Himmler thought, and jotted another note. “I’ve appointed Mödel as Commander in Chief West. He has overall responsibility for stabilizing the Western Front.”
“Mödel? Good man, Mödel. Good choice. The Führer’s Fireman, you know,” said Dietrich. “If anybody can do it, he can. Difficult job, though. Difficult.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s a bad time.”
Himmler took his glasses off again so he wouldn’t have to look at Dietrich’s slack-jawed expression. The old soldier had always annoyed him, and yet he was good with the troops. As long as he could be surrounded with competent staff, he was useful. And right now, the Reich couldn’t afford to spare any talent, no matter how modest. “Yes, Sepp, I understand. Now, we need to talk about what comes next, after the remnants of Sixth Panzer Army and any other Army Group B forces have successfully been returned to our control.”
“Next?” Dietrich stopped to think. “They’ll go into the Westwall, won’t they?”
“Yes,” replied Himmler with exaggerated patience. “They’ll go into the Westwall. Most of them, anyway. And there they will continue to hold against the Western Allies. Meanwhile, our Eastern Front will be commanded by Generaloberst Jodl as he defends against the renewed Soviet advance.”
“Jodl’s a good man, too,” Dietrich added helpfully.
“I’m glad you approve,” Himmler replied acidly. “In any event, Sixth Panzer Army’s role will be to set up a defensive posture along the Elbe to form an additional layer to continue to slow the US and British advance.”
“The Elbe?” Dietrich thought for a moment. “The Soviets are the bigger danger. We both know that. Shouldn’t we deploy along the Oder to fight them?”
“No,” Himmler said slowly. “I want you on the Elbe. Jodl is responsible for defense in the east. He has a good plan.”
Dietrich could not be shaken from his path quite so easily. “He still needs more troops. And the Soviets are the biggest danger to Germany. We should be along the Oder.”
“No. And that’s an order. You will coordinate with Generalfeldmarschall Mödel on this, but the basic strategy is that as he stabilizes the front, your forces will withdraw through German lines, cross the Rhine, then cross the Elbe and form a new defensive line there. You’ll receive detailed orders on this point. The forces you have to work with will be those you’re able to extract from Army Group B, so the more you get, the more you’ll have. Understand?”
“Jawohl, mein Führer,”
Dietrich replied, “but I still believe …”
“And I still believe that you will defend the Elbe. Thank you, Sepp. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dietrich, but the stubborn look on his face told Himmler that he was not convinced. Well, no matter, as long as the man followed orders—and he knew how to follow orders.
Frank Ballard jolted awake with a sense of panic, then realized he had just dozed off, again, in the command seat of his rumbling Sherman. It had been three days since he had actually slept in a bed or even caught more than a few minutes of uninterrupted slumber. When he ran his hand across the rough stubble on his chin he knew that his shave and shower on the morning of his promotion were but dim memories, lost in the haze of war.
But CCA, which now comprised virtually all of the fighting strength of the Nineteenth Armored division, was making great time. By late afternoon of the fourth they had roared into newly recaptured Bastogne, where he had learned that Americans of the Fourth Armored Division, aided by some friendly Germans of the Volksgrenadierie, had opened the road all the way to the German border.
The next stop for Nineteenth Armored was Dasburg, where they would slip through the Westwall and enter Germany proper. After an all-night run through the winding and hilly roads of the Ardennes, they rolled down the road into this border city, entering from the west. The picturesque town was located on the narrow river in a deep valley, and as they approached Ballard could see smoke lingering to his left. Obviously, there had been fighting here yesterday—but just as obviously there was an American flag flying over the city’s main hall, and emplacements of Sherman tanks and GIs guarding the approaches.
A helpful MP guided him toward the HQ compound, and while he sent the reconnaissance company and a detachment of Shermans through the city to take up positions on the far side of the river Ballard directed his driver toward the compound. Here they stopped to refuel, and he dismounted to learn what he could.
“You there, Major!” he called, to the first ranking officer he saw.
“Major Weber, Colonel. What can I do for our pals from the Nineteenth Armored?”
“Colonel Ballard, CCA. If you can tell me the situation in a hundred words or less, I’ll buy you a case of champagne when we get to Berlin.”
“My pleasure, Colonel. Can I interest you in some eggs and bacon while we’re at it? They were expecting you, and I think the kitchen has put out a few extra helpings.”
This was the best news Ballard had heard since getting his eagle. He sent the men of his HQ company toward the outdoor mess “hall” set up at the edge of the HQ compound, and gladly took a plate of hot food himself while he listened to Weber speak.
“We came from Bastogne, the day before yesterday. Things changed pretty fast for us in the last week of ’44. The bastards were entrenched in the hills south of there,” Weber explained. “Even with Georgie himself cracking the whip, we were having a helluva time trying to fight our way into Bastogne. Then we get word over the radio—the Krauts surrendered, and we were supposed to march right in! Heard you boys in Dinant had a little to do with that development—nice work.”
“Thanks,” Ballard mumbled around a mouthful of eggs.
“Well, let me tell you, we came into Bastogne with our heads down and our guns loaded. But the Kraut general—he was acting CO of the Twenty-sixth Volksgrenadiers; I guess their chief got killed in some fracas with his own men—handed over the whole town without a shot. Said he was acting on orders of Rommel himself. To hear the old guy talk, that was the next best thing to God.”
“I’ve met the man,” Ballard replied. “Impressive, even when he’s supposed to be a POW.”
“But he isn’t really, is he?” the major had asked. “Seems like he’s actually got some Krauts working on our side.” He frowned and Ballard felt again the strangeness of the current arrangement.
“That’s supposed to be the way it’s working,” Ballard allowed.
“Well, they got us into Dasburg without any trouble,” Weber continued. “Now, we have our CCA across the river, holding a five-mile stretch of the Westwall. Don’t know what’s happening north or south of here, but if you want a road into Germany, we’ve got it.”
“Then Rommel was as good as his word, again. He said he’d try to get us
through the Westwall, and it sounds like he came through,” Frank noted. “Though I’m still wanting to keep a close eye on my flanks.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Weber said cheerfully. “But, we’ve got scouts as far east as Bitburg—that’s halfway to Trier. The road is good, and it’s open.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Ballard had noted, wolfing the last bite of his breakfast. His driver waved, signaling that the Sherman had been refueled. “The Old Man will probably want us across the Rhine by tomorrow.”
Weber’s eyes widened at that, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. “You guys in the Nineteenth did some nice running in France—see if you can’t set a new record here in Kraut country.”
“Wish us luck,” Frank Ballard replied. “And thanks for the chow.”
The dawn had broken clear and cold around them, and a whole new country awaited as the tank engine roared to life. Ballard’s stomach felt full for the first time in days, and he wished he could take a minute to enjoy the feeling. He saw a pretty young girl—a German girl, no doubt—looking out the window of a nearby house, and he grinned at her and waved. Not surprisingly, she darted back behind the sill, though he had the sense she was still watching from within the shadowed room. Who was she? He wondered about that, wanted to meet her, just to hear the pleasant sound of a female voice.
But Smiggy’s reconnaissance company was somewhere up ahead. Beyond was Trier, the Moselle Valley, and the road to the Rhine.
He knew that he had better get going.