“You will have as much of it as the Wehrmacht can provide,” the Desert Fox declared.
Later he heard from an artillery major, desperately in need of ammunition, and a panzer division commander who declared that with twenty or thirty new Panther tanks he could stop any breakthrough that the allies dared to punch into the Westwall. The front commander’s answers were always the same: he would do the best that he could, and he knew that the men could sense his sincerity.
Rommel took short walks along the front at these stops, keenly aware of his stiff gait--but also knowing that it was good for these troops to see their commanding general close to the enemy. Bücher, too, came along on these visits, but he seemed content to watch and made few comments--except to the SS components of the various installations, where he proved very useful in underlining the Desert Fox’s authority.
Back on the train again, still rolling south, they passed through the thick forests and steeply wooded hills of the German Ardennes. Jolting awake from a nap as they emerged from a tunnel, Rommel noticed that Bücher was staring at him strangely. “What is on your mind, General?”
“It’s the effect you have on the men, Field Marshal... you bring them hope, and it is obvious that they will fight for you.” Rommel sighed and rubbed his forehead, behind which his skull still throbbed. With a grimace he leaned back in his seat. “If only it will do us some good. You know, of course, that our greatest enemy lies in the east?”
“Stalin?” Bücher looked puzzled. “He’s a snake, I know... but I believe that he will stay out of the war as long as it serves his interests to do so.”
“Precisely. For all we know, he needs this autumn to restore his armies anyway. They advanced hundreds of miles in the summer, and you know that the Red Army must gather its strength for a long time before it makes another attack.”
“But surely if we can defeat the British and the Americans, we will be too strong for the Russians to attack alone!” Bücher insisted.
“I hope you’re right,” Rommel said wearily. He didn’t voice another thought that continued to irritate the back of his mind: it was for just that reason that the Russians could not afford to let the Germans win this war in the west. Whenever Stalin chose to make his move--in Rommel’s mind it was when, not if--it would create a very dangerous situation for the Fatherland.
Finally they reached the Army Group headquarters for the western front, the Hotel Continental in Trier that had been taken over by the Wehrmacht. Here Rommel and Bücher met Generals Bayerlein and Speidel, two of the field marshal’s old compatriots from Afrika Korps days, as well as veterans of the Normandy campaigns and the withdrawal from France. Also here were SS Generals Dietrich and Meyer, who pledged full and apparently sincere support to their new Army Group commander. Both, however, found private time to talk with Bücher.
“It’s good to see you, Herr Feldmarschall,” declared Speidel, reappointed as chief of staff as the generals gathered for a conference.
“I admit, it’s good to be seen,” Rommel replied. “But now, on to business. What is the most recent intelligence? And what is our situation along the entire front?”
For two hours the officers briefed him, and despite his weariness the Desert Fox found that his attention was focused, his energy high. He learned that the British had been halted in Holland, short of the Rhine River at the barrier of the Waal. Knowing that Montgomery was in command there, Rommel felt certain that there would be no precipitous Allied actions on that section of the front.
The American First Army was drawing up to the border from Aachen south through the Ardennes, and though Courtney Hodges’s men were making some aggressive probes--especially around the environs of that ancient city--the bulk of German reinforcements were being rushed into that sector of the line. With luck and determination, Aachen would hold.
“And Patton?” Rommel’s eyes ranged south along the map.
“He is becoming embroiled at Metz, Field Marshal,” Speidel explained. “Furthermore, Third Army seems to be plagued by serious supply shortages and has not yet drawn up to the West-wall.”
“And to the south, in the Vosges?” Next, he turned his attention to the range of low mountains that stood between the bulk of France and the Rhine.
“The Americans, heavily supported by French troops, have attacked continuously, both from the Normandy front and aided by a new army that has come up from Southern France following the landings at Marseilles. But your orders to General Weise were prescient, if I may say so, Herr Feldmarschall. The Nineteenth Army made a successful withdrawal, and now our troops are holding in the mountains, and the enemy has not yet reached the river.”
“What kind of train access do we have?” Rommel asked. “There are many troops that have been freed up from duties in the east--it is imperative that they be brought into line as soon as possible.”
“The priorities of the Special Ministry have barred us from most of the Reich’s rolling stock,” Speidel explained.
Rommel turned to Bücher. “That is Himmler’s province, is it not? We must convince him that the needs of the Westwall have priority.”
“I must warn you that such an argument will be difficult to win, Herr Feldmarschall,” Bücher answered frankly. “However, I have been ordered to return to Berlin as soon as you are established in your headquarters. I shall take the matter up with the führer personally and see what I can accomplish.”
The Desert Fox nodded, his mind already moving on to other things. “Now let us analyze the enemy situation along the front?” he asked. “Where is he strong, where weak?”
It was Speidel who answered again. “We have little access to air reconnaissance, as you know. However, it seems obvious that the Americans of the First Army are the greatest threat to cross the border into the Reich, from the vicinity of Trier northward. The British are held up in the marshes downstream of Antwerp.”
“And in the south?”
“Patton seems stymied by the fortifications of Metz... the Seventh Korps is defending heroically.”
“Very good. Gentlemen, we will work with what we have... and we will work hard. I will be touring the front as soon as the headquarters is fully established. The rest of you all have jobs to do. General Bücher, I hope that your mission to Berlin is successful--and I will expect your return at the earliest opportunity.” He was surprised to realize that he did, in fact, want the SS general back. Next he turned to one of the staff officers. “Make a note--I will need a good driver, someone of proven courage and skill. Though not for another week or so... I think there will be plenty to keep me busy around headquarters until then.
“That is all,” he noted in conclusion. “We have work to do.”
Reichstag, Berlin, Germany, 15 September 1944, 0900 hours GMT
Of course, Ribbentrop received adulatory press coverage for his “brilliant negotiations with the Soviet Union,” while Reinhardt’s name went completely unmentioned. This disturbed Müller far more than it apparently disturbed Reinhardt.
“I prefer to avoid excessive recognition. As Horace reminds us, ‘Whoever cultivates the golden mean avoids both the poverty of a hovel and the envy of a palace.’ The work is the important thing, and we have managed to deliver results.”
Müller was unpersuaded. “Do you think we’ll get a medal?” he whispered to Reinhardt, as they waited in the marble-floored anteroom outside Himmler’s suite of offices--the “Throne Room,” as the Wehrmacht officers had come to call it.
Reinhardt only laughed. He glanced in the mirror, made a slight tug on his jacket so that the fit was perfect. Müller quickly checked his imperfectly fitting tunic for food stains or crumbs. Then they were ushered into the Presence. Reinhardt clicked to attention, arm rigid and precise. “Heil Himmler!” he barked. Müller followed suit, though his salute was less perfect. Either way, Himmler didn’t seem to notice.
“Please have a seat,” the new führer said.
Behind Himmler, great banners draped the wall, black and red swastikas dropping all the way from the high ceiling. The window between the twin pennants allowed the brightness of the autumn day to illuminate the room, but the effect left the führer himself silhouetted in deep shadow. He seemed like a religious figure in his new majesty, even in the dim light.
Müller’s stomach rumbled nervously. Even though he imagined that this would be a session of praise and recognition, he still wished he were anyplace else.
“I’ve read the reports on your mission. Excellent staff work. You are to be commended for your performance.”
“Thank you,” Reinhardt said calmly. He even sat at attention.
“Because of your exemplary performance, I have a new assignment for you.”
This worried Müller. Normally, staff assignments would come through the normal chain of command. Any assignment the führer would give personally was likely to have serious drawbacks.
“Field Marshal Rommel, as you know, is once again in command of our western front. With Stalin neutralized, at least for the time being, nothing must stop his victory. I want him to have the finest possible staff. Colonel von Reinhardt, you are to be the field marshal’s aide for plans and intelligence. You will have access to all Reich intelligence resources to assist in this role. Colonel Müller, you will be responsible for supply and logistics, because of your excellent work with the Peenemünde program.”
“And we will provide additional reports to you from time to time?” asked Reinhardt.
Himmler smiled slightly. “It is always appropriate for the führer to be aware of the actions of his senior officers,” he said in his calm, quiet voice. “Field marshals, by the nature of their assignments, do not always have the time to provide a full accounting to the leaders of the State. You will take some of that burden off the field marshal’s shoulders, and thereby be of service to the State.”
“That is very clear, Führer,” Reinhardt said.
It was about as clear as mud to Müller, but even he could tell that there was a big hidden agenda going on right in front of him. Fortunately, Reinhardt would explain it all later, hopefully over coffee and cakes. It was a good thing that Müller was not here by himself, he thought, for he would end up failing to understand what Himmler wanted and be shot for it or worse.
He watched Reinhardt for his cues, stood when he stood, clicked his heels and saluted, and left the room with all the military bearing his stout form could manage.
Müller was about to start asking questions as they emerged back into the light of the anteroom when he noticed Reinhardt stiffen slightly. One jet-black eyebrow raised slightly as a tall, scarred SS general entered the room. The general paused as well.
“Gunter!” he said, his mouth spreading into a tight-lipped smile. “It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, Horst,” Reinhardt said, his own mouth smiling as the rest of his face remained still. “And I see it’s General now. Horst, this is Wolfgang Müller. Wolfgang, this is General Horst Bücher.”
Müller gingerly shook hands with the SS officer. His grip was hard and wiry, his scarred face vulpine. “Glad to meet you, General.”
“Horst and I went to Heidelberg together,” Reinhardt said.
Bücher nodded. “Gunter gave me one of these scars.” He touched his cheek, traced the thin line.
“Though as I recall, you were generally a better fencer than I,” Reinhardt noted.
“Indeed I was,” Bücher said. Müller got the impression he was ready for a rematch at any time. The two men were superficially friendly, but cautious, aware of each other like two snakes poised to strike. “But that was then. I heard about your contributions to the Ribbentrop mission. Congratulations. Where to now?”
“Field Marshal Rommel’s staff.”
“Indeed?” Bücher replied with an ironic smile. “I’m attached to Rommel myself. I suppose then we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the months to come.”
Reinhardt nodded. “I suppose we will. That will give us a chance to catch up on chess, perhaps.”
“At which you do better than fencing,” riposted Bücher. Reinhardt merely glanced at the scar he’d placed on Bücher’s cheek. “For the most part. And you’ve won a few games from time to time.”
“Chess isn’t a game of the real world,” Bücher said. “It’s an abstract of war, not war.”
“‘The chessboard is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature.’ Thomas Huxley.”
“Ever the academician,” Bücher laughed. It was not a friendly sound. “Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity to get your hands dirty at the front.”
Reinhardt nodded. “Perhaps.”
Bücher entered the throne room and saluted. His heart filled with an honest thrill at the sight of Himmler’s delicate features now creasing into a welcoming smile.
This man has true greatness ... he may allow us to win, where our führer’s weakness would have doomed us
.
“Ah, my dear general ... please relax. And tell me, did you see our Desert Fox established in his new headquarters?” Himmler didn’t rise, but gestured with a well-manicured hand.
The SS officer nodded, and allowed himself to sink into a chair. “He has some difficulty moving around--more than he would like anyone to know, and I suspect that he still suffers a great deal of pain. But his air of authority is real, and it was clear that the morale at headquarters improved merely from his presence. And he has a way with the men in the field... after talking with him, they truly
want
to fight.”
Himmler nodded primly at the closed door. ‘Those two will be going west as soon as possible. They have demonstrated some capabilities, and I have assigned them to Rommel’s staff.” “Indeed, Führer. I know one of them--Colonel von Reinhardt. We attended university together. In fact, he gave me one of my badges of honor.” He touched his cheek lightly. “A smart man, and able, but an academician, not a warrior. In his proper place, he will be of use.”
“And a staff officer role is his proper place?” Himmler asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bücher.
“Before you return to the field marshal’s staff, I have a more immediate assignment for you. I am afraid that I have intelligence from this city that indicates that trouble spots remain. That, in fact, is why I recalled you to Berlin.”