This was no more than the officers--and the Allies, for that matter--already knew. A few of the hardcore SS officers wore shocked looks, for any defeatist talk, no matter how rational or justified, seemed on the edge of treason to them. General Bücher, Rommel noticed, did not look shocked. The senior SS liaison had seen the same things Rommel had in their extensive tours of the Westwall fortifications.
“Having stabilized the front as much as possible, it is time to return to offensive operations,” Rommel continued. A slight whispering buzz greeted that statement. Although German field strength was substantially higher with the Russian Front troops than it would have been had Germany continued to fight a two-front war, and the remarkable Me-262s had neutralized Allied air superiority at least for the present, the German supply situation was still precarious, and offense carried higher inherent risks than defense.
“Our critical vulnerability, as you all understand, is in supply, especially fuel. But ultimately, our enemy’s vulnerability is in the same place.” Rommel moved to the large map. “While the Allied resources far exceed our own, fuel does no good unless it is delivered to the tanks and other vehicles that require it. And a tank without fuel is merely a target. Because France does not make its own supplies, fuel is brought in by the means of ports controlled by the Allies. The key resupply point is here.” Rommel snapped the tip of the pointer against Antwerp.
“We have been trying to disrupt the Antwerp supply process primarily by the use of V-1 rockets, but that has been largely unsuccessful. Gentlemen, we will take Antwerp, disrupting Allied resupply operations, and not incidentally taking those supplies for our own use, and from there we will be able to move southward, cutting off the gasoline spigot from enemy tanks that will quickly exhaust their own fuel reserves. Properly executed, this campaign will result in nothing less than the destruction of the Allied armies in the west.
“Gentlemen, this is Operation Wacht am Rhein.”
The whispered buzz grew louder with excitement. This was a daring, amazing plan, and, although dangerous, one with a real chance of ultimate success. A few voices began to sing the famous patriotic song,
“Lieb’ Vaterland, magst ruhig sein/Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein!”
Other voices joined in, filling the room with the sound of martial music. Rommel smiled. This was the reaction he hoped for.
Colonel von Reinhardt stood up. “Herr Feldmarschall, I propose a different name for this operation. To strike fear into the enemy heart and to remind them that we are led by the Desert Fox, I propose this operation be known as Operation Fuchs am Rhein--the Fox on the Rhine!” A loud cheer broke out among the officers. Rommel could only bow his head and accept the recognition. His heart was full. He would lead these soldiers to victory.
As the cheers continued, Rommel finally held up his hand for silence. “For this effort, we have the use of two reinforced panzer armies...the Fifth, under the command of General Hasso von Manteuffel, and the Sixth, which is as of today under the command of General Guderian. General Guderian, I want to apologize to you for your demotion from inspector of panzers back to a mere combat command.”
The apology drew sharp bark of laughter from Guderian as well as the other officers. It was well known that the noted panzer leader had been “kicked upstairs” and that a combat command was what Guderian wanted. From the momentary scowl that passed over the man’s features, Rommel suspected that what he really wanted was in fact Rommel’s own job, to be up here leading this whole offensive. In a different war that might have been the case, but the Desert Fox smiled tightly at the knowledge that, for now, the onetime student would remain the new schoolmaster.
Manteuffel and Guderian both stood, accepting the applause and congratulations of the officers. The Wehrmacht officers applauded loudly and generously; there was notably less enthusiasm among the SS, who had expected to be under the command of one of their own. Well, thought Rommel,
if I lose, it matters not; if I win, it matters not
.
When they seated themselves again, Rommel felt the full attention of his men. He drew a deep breath, ready now to explain the plan in more detail.
“I propose to strike the Allies here, in the Ardennes Forest. We will revisit the Blitzkrieg that served us so well in 1940, striking to the Meuse River. Once we have forced a bridgehead, our armored spearheads will turn north, clearing through Belgium, retaking Antwerp. The British armies will be surrounded, and the Americans will be left without their primary source of supply.”
He continued talking about operational details, speaking for more than an hour, then answered questions for another hour. The interrogatories were detailed and often challenging, since Rommel did not require “yes men” in his service. Everyone present recognized that the plan was ambitious and risky, and they probed for weaknesses. There would be numerous small-group meetings and breakouts, detailed analysis of the planning documents, necessary adjustments to be made, but it would not be long before they were ready to strike.
As Rommel turned the briefing over to Speidel, he could let his mind wander for a while. He looked out over the officers. Even the SS were interested and enthusiastic, in spite of the increasingly dour expression on the face of Sepp Dietrich. He knew the man would be complaining to Himmler within the hour and perhaps would return with papers placing him back in formal command, although Rommel would make sure those papers never made it to his desk. This was a risky game, but no more risky than others he had played. Perhaps Himmler would have him shot--win or lose--but then soldiers always acted at risk to their lives. Or perhaps, Rommel thought, the orders for his death had already been given. He looked at Bücher for a long moment and wondered, not for the first time, if he was staring into the face of his own death.
Luftwaffe Advance Airbase, Bitburg, Germany, 9 December 1944, 0817 hours GMT
Willi Schmidt cowered slightly as Colonel Krueger came out of the hut into the chill air of the flight line. The bruises along the right side of his face had changed from purple to yellow, but the fear of another pistol-whipping was strong. He had seen Krueger’s temper flare dramatically before, but it had never been directed at him until the day the engine on his Schwalbe had died.
“The new engine is installed, Kommodore,” he declared, saluting. “Would you care to inspect your machine?”
“Yes, of course, Willi,” said Krueger with a smile. Since the beating, Krueger’s temper had receded, to be replaced first with embarrassment and withdrawal, then with excessive friendliness. Willi tried to relax, but he couldn’t help tightening up whenever the kommodore drew near.
The two men crossed the tarmac toward one of the small hangars that had been hastily erected under the protection of the ubiquitous evergreens. Most of the jets remained outside, sheltered only in earthen revetments screened by camouflage netting, but the kommodore’s aircraft had been moved inside for the repair job.
It was strange to work in this small airfield after the broad installation of Lager-Lechfeld and the steppes of Russia. Here, the dark hills pressed close, and tall trees grew between the barracks and briefing huts, helping to conceal the installation from Allied aircraft. To enhance the claustrophobic effect, the seemingly eternal overcast pressed low in the leaden skies, concealing the rounded summits and extending tendrils of mist down the ravines and gullies of the steep slopes.
In neighboring valleys, the two other Gruppen of the kommodore’s Geschwader were quartered in similar facilities. They were connected by dedicated telephone lines, and the kommodore spoke constantly to them, trying to control them as closely as if they were physically present. It was the price for moving closer to the front. From Bitburg, and the other bases like it, Krueger declaimed regularly, the Luftwaffe would once again rise to challenge Allied air superiority over the battlefield.
Within the hangar, the flame-draped Me-262 looked as good as new. The entire jet had been repainted to match the immaculate gray green paint over the new engine, and the artist had taken great care to restore the distinctive nose to its bright, fiery insignia.
“We test fired it for ten minutes... it runs well,” added the mechanic, praying that he was correct. The temperamental jet engines weren’t nearly as predictable as the piston engines that drove propeller aircraft.
“Good. Now, if only this verdammt weather would clear, I could find out for myself,” said Krueger, patting Schmidt on the back in a friendly gesture that only made Willi more nervous.
The gloomy weather was all the more frustrating for the kommodore, Willi knew, because tomorrow the entire force of Army Group B would hurl itself against the Americans in the attack named Operation Fuchs am Rhein. Krueger, drunk on too many snifters of cognac last night, had laughed at what he considered the Desert Fox’s naked ego, but Willi Schmidt had heard that his own officers had insisted on the operation’s name in spite of Rommel’s own reluctance. Willi thoroughly approved.
The Geschwader was perfectly positioned to fly over the front and contest the Allied air superiority, but the raging winter weather showed every sign of lasting for another week or more. That meant no aircraft on either side. He knew that the ground troops welcomed the absence of aircraft, but all the fighter pilots chafed against the conditions that prevented them from proving their mettle. Willi assumed the American fighter pilots felt the same, though he would never have suggested it.
“We’ve got the whole Gruppe in as good a shape as possible,” the mechanic offered in a sympathetic voice that turned into a whine.
Krueger didn’t notice. “Well, keep up the work, Willi ... sooner or later the sun will come out again,” he said cheerfully.
“Jawohl, Herr Kommodore!” The mechanic snapped off a salute as Krueger impatiently stalked out of the hangar and glared up at the sky as if he were willing the heat of his gaze to tear through the mist, to dissolve the clouds and open up the sky for his aircraft.
But instead, the overcast seemed to press closer, and as if to flaunt its superiority, it began to send flakes of snow drifting downward.
Army Group B HQ, Trier, Germany, 15 December 1944, 2207 hours GMT
“Ready for a drive tonight, Carl-Heinz?” said the Desert Fox with a broad smile that indicated unusually good spirits.
“Certainly am, sir! Nice weather for a drive, isn’t it?” replied the driver as he opened the door to the rear seat and made sure that his field marshal was comfortably seated. Rommel’s chief of staff, General Speidel, joined him, and Carl-Heinz thought that the second officer seemed tense, thin faced, compared to the easygoing cheerfulness of the army commander.
“Where to, sir?” he asked, as he slid into the driver’s seat and put his hands on the big steering wheel.
“Start out west and keep going,” Rommel said with a chuckle.
This was the night, Carl-Heinz knew as they passed out of the city. The word had been kept close, but it was impossible to conceal a major action from the troops who had to carry it out. He knew more than most because of his proximity to the field marshal, but the rumor mill was unstoppable, better than the Gestapo itself in finding out whatever there was to find out--and making it up if there wasn’t anything good to know.
The hour was approaching midnight, but there was activity everywhere. Guards were posted at all crossroads, though after a brief word with the soldiers on duty the field marshal’s car sailed through each checkpoint.
Soon they were following a column of tanks, the hooded headlights barely illuminating the engine housing of a growling Panther. The night was black, heavy overcast blocking any potential light from the moon or stars. The driver remembered the many campaigns where he had been at the wheel of one of the armored behemoths. Now he felt no envy for the men in the panzers, though a sense of kinship still nagged at him, suggested that he should really be driving a tank right now.
The launch of the huge battle was imminent. He fixed every part of his vigilance on the task before him, knowing that the German army’s chances of success depended on the health of the man in the backseat of the car. Carl-Heinz could sense it in the attitude of the guards at the checkpoints, in the looks that followed the command vehicle as it wove its way between the massed formations of the Wehrmacht.
They rolled down a slope and through a broad valley. Though the road signs had been removed, Carl-Heinz remembered this place, knew that they were crossing into Luxembourg. To the right and left the gaunt, white “Dragon’s Teeth” of the Westwall rose from the darkness and then faded away behind them. The road meandered into a grove of shattered evergreens, the scene of battle a few weeks earlier. German artillery had fired long and hard in the desperate effort to halt the American advance before the borders of the Reich.
From the distance, now, he could hear the blasting of heavy gunfire. Flashes lit the horizon to the north and west, and there were still tanks everywhere, rumbling toward the enemy, breaking from the road into companies and platoons. Even when he could no longer see them, the driver heard the rumbling of engines in the night, felt the quivering of the frozen earth under the crunching tracks of Panthers and Tigers.
They crossed the next ridge and abruptly the night sky was illuminated by the glare of massive searchlights, whole batteries of them, all directed toward the layer of low clouds. The effect was startling as the light reflected down before them, brightening a vast swath of landscape. Carl-Heinz could see individual trees and farmhouses on the rising ground two or three kilometers before them.
“Impressive, don’t you think?” Rommel suggested from the backseat.
“Indeed it is, Field Marshal!” the driver replied. “Very clever.” He admired mechanical creativity. It was the sort of idea that he had from time to time, though he’d never worked on a scale such as this.
“It was suggested by some of the men who had fought on the Russian front... ‘artificial moonlight,’ they called it. It seems to turn a dark night into something much more visible.”