“Günter,” Rommel addressed Reinhardt informally. “Please be good enough to bring us a new set of maps from storage. I wish to see the entire front in the west.”
“Of course, Herr Feldmarschall.” With a click of his heels, the tall intelligence officer departed.
The Desert Fox drew a deep breath and spoke to no one in particular. “Bring me the telephone. I would like to speak to Baron von Esebeck.” Müller brought him the handset and Rommel paused for a minute, waiting for the operator to make the connection. He looked at Müller and spoke with genuine affection. “Wolfgang, go out to the courtyard and have a look. I’d like to know how close the Americans are getting to my headquarters.”
“Of course, Field Marshal!” Müller saluted and hurried away, but Rommel was already speaking into the phone.
“Baron? Hello. Can you come up here, to my headquarters. Right away, please. I need the help of someone who speaks good English.”
Rommel looked over the maps Reinhardt brought, contemplating, examining his plan for potential flaws, concerns. A moment later he heard the arrival of Baron von Esebeck, accompanied by a short, balding fellow wearing American combat fatigues. The newspaper reporter Reinhardt had captured.
“Herr ... Porter, is it?” the Desert Fox asked politely.
“Yes, sir,” the reporter replied in his halting German, confused and quizzical. Rommel smiled again.
“Herr Porter, I believe we can do each other a mutual service. I need the assistance of an honest translator, and as a reporter, I’m sure you would like access to a newsworthy story.”
Rommel could see the eagerness on the reporter’s face. “Sir, I’d be honored to help, but I’m still an American, sir. I won’t betray my country.”
“Of course not,” murmured Rommel. “Nor will I ask you to. I merely want you to provide honest translation. Nothing more.” He noticed the raised eyebrow on Reinhardt’s face. The intelligence officer had figured out the situation, at last. Now it was time for the others to know. He cleared his throat, for once in his life at a loss for words, unsure where to begin.
“Gentlemen, I have reached what I believe is a decision of unavoidable necessity. This operation is over. We can fight on, of course, but only by throwing away German lives with no benefit to the Fatherland. We can retreat, but in my military judgment that will only postpone the day of reckoning, and not by long. Again, we will lose many German lives for no appreciable gain. The danger in the east I cannot dismiss as lightly as others do, with no disrespect to the diplomatic efforts of our own Colonel von Reinhardt.”
“Sir, I guaranteed that Stalin would refrain from attacking us only as long as it was in his self-interest to do so,” interjected the colonel. “With the current situation, I believe it is only a matter of a short time before Stalin’s self-interest argues for another choice.”
“As do I, Gunter,” Rommel said, nodding acknowledgment. The field marshal could see the growing awareness on Horst Bücher’s scarred face. “Sir--” the SS general interrupted. “This discussion is most inappropriate. Political decisions are taken in Berlin, not by field officers, regardless of their rank, with no disrespect intended, sir.”
Speidel, Müller, and von Esebeck were still obviously puzzled by the direction of the conversation. Rommel held up his hand.
“This is now a military decision, and as the field commander I am the only person in a position to make it. I understand there are political consequences, but the decision necessarily still rests with me. Gentlemen--” he paused, took a deep breath, “I plan to surrender Army Group B to the Allies.”
If an Allied bomb had crashed through the window at that very moment, it could hardly have set off a greater explosion. “What?!” “No!” “Field Marshal, what are you saying?” “Surrender? Never!”
Rommel stood under the buffeting of competing opinions, remembering his view of the scarred, broken oak tree from his hospital window as the winds of debate and opposition swirled around him. Like that tree he would stand in the tempest, hold firm until the fury stormed past.
Finally he held up his hand to still the room. “I see no other alternative. I believe General Patton sees the Soviet threat as clearly as I do; I can only hope our surrender will be in time to save the Fatherland from a worse fate and a worse tyranny than it has suffered these past years.”
“You can’t do this--you can’t!” shrieked Bücher, his scars glowing redly as his passion rushed to his face. “Field Marshal--” he was pleading now, nearly in tears, “think about this! You’re betraying the Fatherland to its enemies! You’ll go down in history as the worst sort of traitor! Look--there’s still hope! Where there are Germans, there is still hope. We are the Aryan people; we will succeed--we have to succeed! Fall back, let us regroup. We will attack again and again and again... and if we have to go down, let us go down like men, not like cowards! Sir, you’re a wounded man; you’ve been under enormous pressure. Today is a grim day, but there’s no call, no justification for such an enormity of a response! Surrender? How can you even think of it? You’re the Desert Fox! You’re an inspiration to your men! Tell them to fight and they will fight! One of us is better than any ten, any twenty of the enemy! Don’t you see?”
Rommel walked toward Bücher, tried to place his hand on the man’s shoulder, but the SS general tore himself away. “Field Marshal, you cannot do this. Tell us now that you have changed your mind, that this was simply a momentary lapse....”
The Desert Fox slowly shook his head. “Horst, I must do this thing, although you must believe me that it is truly the most painful and difficult choice I have faced in my life. I would do almost anything else... but the truth is, I see no other hope for the Fatherland. Look--you have been a good soldier torn between two masters. I know you must now call Berlin, and Berlin will take what action it can. Like all soldiers, you must do what you must. As must I.”
He turned back toward the others. Speidel was unable to conceal his elation and remained utterly obedient to Rommel. Reinhardt was on his side. Müller would follow Reinhardt. Von Esebeck and the reporter would play their roles. He wondered briefly about Guderian and Manteuffel. No, they were good military men, they would understand the situation the same way as he did. There were some subordinate SS commanders to deal with, but with care, that could be managed. This was a campaign once again, and Rommel could manage it well.
“Gentlemen, I have listened carefully, but my decision is firm. Surrender is our only viable option. Baron, you and Herr Porter will make contact with the Allied general whose division was opposing us in Dinant. Use the radio and speak in the clear. Explain that I want to negotiate the terms of a surrender. Hans--” he looked at Speidel, “I want you to contact the Fifth and Sixth Panzerarmee headquarters and explain the situation to Manteuffel and Guderian.” Speidel bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Colonel von Reinhardt, you’ll provide tactical support to this process. I need a list of units and commanders, current positions, and other information necessary to support the stand-down. Colonel Müller, assist him, please.”
He was pleased to see his officers snap to and attack this new problem with the professionalism they had shown in planning the overall campaign. It was then he noticed that General Bücher had silently left the room.
Nineteenth Division Mobile Headquarters, Givet, France, 1644 hours GMT
“General Wakefield... we’re getting a radio call.” Sergeant Johnson was unusually hesitant. “It’s... well, it’s someone named Chuck Porter--an AP correspondent captured by the Krauts. He says he’s got a message for us--a message from someone who claims he’s Field Marshal Rommel of the German army.”
“Hello?” Wakefield snatched up the microphone, in no mood for word games. “Who the hell is this?”
“General Wakefield ... of the Nineteenth? My name is Porter. I’m here, in Dinant... in the German HQ, as a matter of fact. With Rommel and a couple of his staff officers. The field marshal wants to talk to you about the terms of a surrender.”
“Surrender? There’s no way in hell I’m going to surrender!” the American general growled.
“No--no, General. It’s Rommel. He wants to surrender... to you.”
Wakefield froze, unable to believe his ears. His teeth clamped down on the unlit cigar. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”
Another voice came on. “General,” it said in German-accented British English, “I am Baron von Esebeck. I can assure you this is not a joke at all. Feldmarschall Rommel wishes to discuss the terms of a surrender of the German forces.” Wakefield cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Johnson. “Put me through to General Patton--pronto!”
“I... er, I was just about to tell you, sir. He’s here.”
And there he was, Old Blood and Guts himself, all three stars gleaming on his shiny helmet. “Hello, Hank,” Patton said with unaccustomed mildness.
Wakefield put up his hand. “Quiet!” he barked.
Patton’s face showed he was unused to being given orders by his subordinates. Johnson quietly spoke up, “General Patton, sir--”
“What is it, sergeant?”
“That’s Rommel’s headquarters on the phone--they’re calling to surrender.”
The look on Patton’s face would be remembered forever by everyone in the room.
Army Group B Field Headquarters, Dinant, Belgium, 1732 hours GMT
Horst Bücher pulled the Luger automatic from his holster, checked the gun to make sure that the action was smooth, and rose from his desk. He had done his duty to the Fatherland; he had explained the situation to the führer, who had--not surprisingly--exploded at the news. “Stop it!” hissed the voice through the telephone. “Stop the surrender at all costs! I feared something like this; that’s why you were given the earlier orders concerning the fate of the Desert Fox. It is a serious mistake that those orders were not carried out earlier. Do it now. It is no longer important whether it looks like Allied action or not.”
Bücher put down the telephone. He felt his world crumble around him. Erwin Rommel was a traitor, and yet Bücher admired him as he had admired no other man.
Was it only a day or two ago that the SS general had resolved to disobey his orders to kill Rommel? After everything that had happened to him in his life, he should have known better than to put his trust in any man. The Party was his real father, his only father. Hadn’t that been proved to him, time and time again? Humans were weak; the Party was strong. And the party leaders were always right.
Perhaps, Bücher thought, some good might come out of this, after all. For Rommel would have to arrange an in-person meeting with someone very senior on the American side, perhaps Patton or Bradley... or even Eisenhower. And wouldn’t it redeem everything if at the same time the Desert Fox died, Patton died as well... at the hand of the SS? His scarred face broke into a bitter and twisted smile.
His first stop was the SS communications feldwebel. That man would be loyal to Germany, to the Party. “Where has the field marshal gone?” he demanded.
“There is a truce in Dinant” the feldwebel replied, nearly stuttering in his fear. “The field marshal’s staff car is flying a white flag; they will meet Allied generals in the Church of Notre Dame in the center of the city.”
“Very good,” he said, and strode away, eyes blazing, scars furiously red. It was late afternoon and already dark. There were wide stone steps in front of the headquarters chateau. At the bottom were several staff cars, one of which he commandeered.
“Horst,” called a calm, clear voice behind him. He looked up. There was Colonel Gunter von Reinhardt standing on the top of the steps. “Stand where you are. I can’t let you leave the headquarters.”
Bücher’s eyes narrowed. His smile was cold. “I am your superior officer, Gunter. Don’t give me orders.”
“I know where you are planning to go, Horst. Give it up. He’s right, you know. Himmler is wrong. Only Rommel’s move has a chance of saving Germany.”
“No, Gunter. If we surrender, Germany is not saved. Some men live, but Germany--the glorious Fatherland--is lost. As Hitler said, ‘The world is not intended for cowardly nations.’ Or cowardly field marshals, either.”
“It’s not cowardice. Our Desert Fox is brave and calculating. This surrender defends us against a far worse evil from the east. Watch and see--Germany will be stronger for this.”
Bücher shook his head. “No. I’m going now.”
“No,” Reinhardt said, lifting his own pistol, a Walther. “I can’t let you.”
“I’d just as soon not kill you, Gunter, but I will. Count on it.”
“
Aut tuam mortem aut meam
. Your life or mine.”
Another quote
, Bücher thought
How like the man. “Tuam
, then,” replied Bücher, whipping out his concealed Luger and firing. The more experienced warrior’s bullet slammed into the intelligence officer’s chest. Reinhardt fell backward, red welling up over the gray of his uniform.
“Good-bye, Gunter,” Bücher said, sliding into the driver’s seat of his commandeered staff car and turning on the engine.
Wolfgang Müller stepped out into the cold, dark air and shivered. “Gunter,” he called, “where are you? The field telephone lines have been cut! One of the communications officers is dead--they need you inside!” There was no answer. Again he called, “Gunter? Where are you?”
In the weak light of an exposed bulb next to the main chateau door, he saw a horrifying sight: his friend sprawled, bleeding blackly from a chest wound, blood leaking from the side of his mouth as well. “Gunter! Gunter! I’ll get some help! What happened?” he gasped, babbling in near panic.
Reinhardt’s weak voice gasped back, “Wolfgang--wait! There’s something more important...
Müller knelt beside his friend, “I can’t hear you, Gunter. Let me get some help. You’re going to be all right.”
“Horst Bücher... he’s gone to kill the Field Marshal... to stop the surrender. You’ve got to stop him.”
“I can’t stop him--the phones are dead!”
“You’ve got to drive... stop Bücher... Wolfgang, Germany depends on this.”
The thought of Germany’s fate resting on Müller’s round and pudgy shoulders was ludicrous, but Reinhardt’s weak hand reached up to grab Müller by the arm. “I’m serious, Wolfgang. It all depends on you now. You must stop Bücher. I believe in you. You can.” The effort was too much; the wounded colonel sank back, coughed up more blood, and closed his eyes.