Westphal hesitated, glanced at Kesselring, who nodded in approval.
“Sir, General Keitel told me that, among your other indiscretions, you have been in contact with the enemy, specifically the British. The Führer was outraged that you would betray us so. I did not believe any of it, but I could not protest. I hope you understand, sir.”
Von Rundstedt looked at Kesselring again, raised his hands, a gesture of surrender.
“You see? I too am a conspirator. Be careful, Albert. They will find some conspiracy to hang on you.”
Kesselring turned toward Westphal. “Keitel actually said that?” He shook his head, rubbed a hand on his chin. “What he told me was that we should somehow find the means to bring the British and Americans into the war on our side. I interpreted that as a hint that there are some among the High Command who hope I will find a way to make discreet contact with the enemy.” He laughed. “You should know, Siegfried, that the winds blow in odd directions around Berlin. But there is fear there now, more than I have ever observed. The Russians have shattered more than our borders, they have shattered some of the High Command’s delusions. I was told of a message being prepared that might somehow be communicated to Churchill in particular: The communists have succeeded in infiltrating our army, and this infiltration is meant to continue westward, into the English army. I cannot speak for Jodl, but I am fairly certain that Keitel believes the Russians cannot be stopped.”
Westphal seemed intrigued by Kesselring’s frankness.
“But they have been stopped, have they not? I saw the maps.”
“A hundred kilometers from Berlin. The Führer considers that to be a victory, insists that our army has found its spirit and we are rising to the fore, inspired by our hatred of the communists. He told me it is only a matter of time before their filthy hordes are tossed back out across the Polish frontier.”
“And what do you believe?” von Rundstedt asked.
“I believe the Russians have stopped because they have exhausted themselves, and have stretched their supply lines too far too quickly. Marshal Zhukov is not to be turned back, I am confident of that. The forces that were taken from your command are being sent east to be fed into a meat grinder. It is only a matter of time, but not the way the Führer describes. It is a matter of time before the Russians are in the streets of Berlin.” He paused. “Forgive me for my dreams, Gerd. But I share the hope that we can somehow convince the Americans and the English to see this war for what it has become. We can persuade them to join us in a fight to keep the communists out of Germany. If Germany falls to Stalin, France could be next.”
There was no enthusiasm in Kesselring’s statement. Von Rundstedt saw the obvious gloom on the man’s face. After a silent moment, he said, “The Americans will not fight a war with the Russians. We are the enemy here. Our enemies seek our destruction, and no American and no Englishman will dare to stand up and say, well, this part of the war is over, so now, we must join Hitler’s people in a brand-new war. No, Albert, they have made it very clear that unconditional surrender is the rule that guides them. That, they share with the Russians.”
Kesselring did not respond, and von Rundstedt watched Westphal sitting slowly, the young man allowing his own pessimism to seep through.
Westphal said, “The Führer insists that we are close to our final victory. He insists that the Russians have destroyed themselves against our defenses, and that the English and the Americans have tired of fighting. He sees opportunity before us. I heard him myself. Is it wrong to believe him? If we do not have faith in him, are we disloyal?”
Von Rundstedt realized how much affection he had for the young man, felt suddenly sad for him. I shall not live so long, he thought, that I must endure what follows this war. But he … deserves to see a better world. We have not given him one, none of us.
“There is always hope, Siegfried.”
Von Rundstedt injected as much energy into the lie as he could. Kesselring seemed to read him, but Westphal spoke up.
“There is hope! We have squandered so much of our strength, and we continue to squander it. The Führer has ordered us to maintain far-flung outposts, from Scandinavia to Greece, just so he can claim those places on a map. If assembled here, that troop strength can become a formidable fighting force, and can add considerably to our efforts at keeping the Russians away. It is not my place to make such a suggestion, but you can! In Berlin, I was told of the weapons, many being tested even now. Any one of them could turn this thing, or at least convince the Anglos to speak with us, treat with us. Admiral Dönitz has assured me that our strength in submarines has never been greater.”
Von Rundstedt could not respond, did not want to erase the young man’s last glimmer of optimism. He looked at Kesselring. “General Westphal has served you well in the past, and he will do so again. As you can see, he has lost none of his energy.”
Kesselring smiled, said, “Yes, I know. I welcome his service.” There was a silent pause, awkward, and after a moment, Kesselring added, “On my journey here, I tried to imagine how different this war might have been if the Führer had enjoyed the counsel of men like Siegfried. Or you. If Rommel had been given what he required in Africa, if Paulus had been allowed to wage his own campaign at Stalingrad, if Göring had not wasted our air resources. So much could have been different.”
Von Rundstedt shook his head.
“If Stalin had tripped and fallen under a truck, if Churchill had choked on a peach pit, if the sky itself had fallen onto Patton and Montgomery … yes, yes. But I have heard too much of this. You are still a dreamer, Albert. That may serve you well here. This entire war, everything that has happened and everything that lies before us is all a wellspring from a mad little corporal’s tortured imagination. No dreaming will change that.” He pulled himself up slowly, fought the pains in his back, the dull ache in his chest. “Your authority is recognized, and I relinquish my command to you, Field Marshal. You must continue your fight with those things that fate has provided you. And fate has provided you with Adolf Hitler.”
KOBLENZ, GERMANY
MARCH 20, 1945
After a vigorous fight by what was now Patton’s Eighth Corps, led by Troy Middleton, the city of Koblenz fell into American hands. All along the Rhine River, the story was similar, Allied troops slugging their way forward, German resistance either falling back across the river or collapsing altogether, vast numbers of prisoners flowing back through the Allied lines.
Gotta hand you one thing, Troy. You’re the only commander I have who I haven’t cussed out.” Middleton walked beside him, looking down, said nothing. He walked with the familiar limp, favoring the arthritic knee that had bothered him for years. Patton never saw the limp without thinking of George Marshall, the chief of staff assigning Middleton to a field command when others in the War Department thought him too crippled for action.
I’d rather have a man with arthritis in the knee than one with arthritis in the head.
Patton could not have agreed more.
They walked past a line of troop trucks, supply vehicles, men all in motion, the Eighth Corps gathering strength along the west bank of the Rhine River, preparation for the inevitable crossing.
Patton had hoped for more of a response to his compliment, said, “I mean, you’ve done the job. The Krauts can’t swim their way fast enough, and we keep scooping them up in trainloads. Nice job here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Middleton’s Mississippi drawl was unmistakable, the man’s thick glasses and deliberate gait giving him the appearance of a mild-mannered college professor who would more likely be strolling through dogwoods and magnolias. In fact, Middleton was exactly that, or close enough for Patton to tease him about it. Middleton had served as vice president and dean of admissions at Louisiana State University before the war. It was a scholarly description that disguised the reputation he had earned in the First World War when, at twenty-nine, he had become the army’s youngest colonel.
All through the Normandy campaign, Middleton had served under Bradley, had done much to clear the Cotentin Peninsula of German resistance, and then had become a part of Patton’s now legendary breakout, the final nail that would eventually seal the coffin on Germany’s occupation of France. When the Battle of the Bulge began, it was Middleton who had recognized and then reacted to the vital importance of the town of Bastogne where, by a stroke of fate, the Eighth Corps had its headquarters. Unlike several of the higher-ranking commanders, who reacted to the German punch in the Ardennes with what Patton considered panic, Middleton held his ground at Bastogne long enough to allow the 101st Airborne Division to move in and set up their defenses. Patton knew that Middleton was due for some serious recognition for that, though, for now, he still wore only two stars on his collar. Patton glanced over at Middleton, saw him wiping his glasses, a constant chore with so much mud and debris in the air from the moving vehicles.
“You need a third star, dammit. Doing all I can about that.”
“Thank you, George. Not truly necessary. I’d trade all this décor for a victory.”
“See? That’s why I can’t cuss you out. I tried in Africa, I tried in Sicily, and by damn, I tried in France. You just won’t give me the satisfaction. I’ve given Ike more lip than I’ve given you. It’s not natural, you know. You need to screw up once in a while, let the men know what kind of a son of a bitch they work for. Keep them on their toes.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Patton laughed to himself, knew he couldn’t get a rise out of Middleton. He was so very different from Manton Eddy, who commanded Patton’s Twelfth Corps. Eddy spent most of his time as an agitated wreck, though even when he gave Patton cause to bathe him in swear words, Eddy would eventually get the job done.
Patton slowed his steps, didn’t want Middleton to strain the leg. They passed beside a cluster of supply trucks, a team of men unloading heavy wooden crates, some kind of machine parts. The men were covered in grease and sweat, and no neckties. Patton flinched at that, the temptation to explode in their direction, but their good work held him back. No one was wasting motion, no stopping to gaze at the passing brass. Sometimes, he thought, you need to let the boys do their jobs. And right here, we’re doing a damn good one. He continued walking, said, “You hear about my press conference?”
Middleton put the glasses back on, adjusted them. “Can’t say I did. You get in trouble again?”
“No, dammit. My staff had come up with our prisoner count. I just told the reporters what my people told me. The Third Army has been operational for two hundred thirty days. In that time, we’ve captured two hundred thirty thousand prisoners. A thousand a day. Pretty damn impressive, I thought. Figured the reporters ought to be impressed too, give them something they can say about me besides the usual bitching. Actually, they haven’t been writing much of anything lately. Hodges has been getting the headlines, all the Remagen stuff.”
“He earned it.”
“That’s what I told the reporters. He finally got a chance to stop licking his wounds and kick the enemy in the ass. How quick can you get your people across the damn river?”
The question stopped Middleton in his tracks, and Patton was past him, turned, saw a smile.
“When would you like?”
Patton pretended to ponder Middleton’s question.
“Well, it’s a little late to get started today. But Brad knows all three of my corps are pretty much in place. He’s got Ike on his back pushing Hodges to jump over the river around Bonn and drive like hell for Kassel. I think Brad’s a little nervous about that, because he wants me to head that way too, join up with Hodges at the same place, Kassel. Brad thinks that if we can pull that off, we’ll trap what’s left of the German Seventh Army in a pincer move. That’s the official explanation anyway. Brad knows if I send any of you up that way, you’ll move a hell of a lot faster than the First Army on its best day, and beat Hodges there by a long shot. I bet he’s using that to give Hodges a kick in the ass, like we should make a damn race out of it. It might be the best way Brad has of keeping Hodges from bogging down and screwing everything up.”
Middleton seemed to cringe. “You didn’t say that to the reporters, did you?”
“Oh, hell no. Can’t risk hurting Hodges’s feelings.” Patton couldn’t help the sarcasm. “Heaven forbid we should have any bruised feelings in this army. Nope, we’re going to be equal partners, share the spoils. A couple hundred thousand Krauts would make everybody happy. If Devers gets over the river down south and Simpson does the job up north, it’s all but over. That’s what Ike is thinking, anyway. Everybody’s gotta share, though. I can hear that crap being tossed around Ike’s headquarters from here. Can’t have anybody getting their toes stepped on, and Ike knows that if Brad turns me loose, we won’t stop until we get to Berlin. Heaven forbid.” He knew he was treading on sticky ground, but Middleton never reacted to the politics that seemed to swirl around Patton’s feet like so much molasses. “You didn’t answer my question. How quick can you jump off here?”
“Rather not jump off here at all. Difficult ground on both sides of the river.”
Patton knew that Middleton had more on his mind than he was saying.
“All right, if it’s not Koblenz, where’s the best place?”
“My engineers are advising south of here. Boppard. The river current isn’t bad at all, and we can send a good number of people across in boats after dark. We establish the bridgehead, it’ll put us on a straight shot toward Frankfurt. That’d be kind of a nice trophy. I’m hoping that any crossing we make will be a quiet one, no fanfare, nothing to give the enemy a heads-up. Eddy and Walker both agree with me. But … that’s your decision of course. You want some kind of rockets’ red glare, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Already thought it over. No artillery, no advance warning we’re coming, or where. Let’s just get there, and make it damn quick, even if it’s one company. You sure you’ll need the twenty-fourth?”
“Can’t be helped, George. We’ve got people strung out way the hell back. If I was to send a small operation across the river just to make headlines, they could get butchered. Not worth it. Sorry, George. I need a couple days. Walker and Eddy are both in better shape. You already know that, I guess.”
Patton didn’t answer. He knew he could count on Middleton for complete honesty, but he didn’t ever want to ask Manton Eddy how ready he might be. If Patton wanted Eddy to move, he simply ordered him to move. Patton had more faith in Walton Walker, the third of his corps commanders. One way or the other, Patton would get somebody from the Third Army across the river before anyone on either side knew what was happening. He had endured all the passive defense he could stand, that peculiarly ridiculous order Omar Bradley had insisted on, the order Patton had obeyed by attacking at every opportunity.
“All right, get your ass across the river on the twenty-fourth. I’ll tell Walker to put somebody over there as quick as he can. Maybe quicker.”
“So, when’s Monty jumping off?”
Patton hated hearing the name, but he couldn’t fault Middleton, knew exactly why he asked the question.
“Same day as you, dammit. According to Ike, Monty’s grand plan is to make his move by the twenty-fourth. But first, he has to make sure every truck in England is parked in a straight line, he has to put every man in a perfect new uniform, oil every damn rifle, and make sure King George has had his breakfast. Then, he might attack. Unless somebody shoots at him first. Then he’ll have to start all over.”
Middleton kept his laugh discreet.
“Don’t worry about us, George. We’ll be across before Monty.”
Patton rested his hands on his pistols, saw one of the men taking his picture, standing tall in the back of a large truck. Others had noticed Patton, were cheering him, and to one side a young lieutenant stood at the rear of a kitchen truck, staring with an open mouth. The officer held an enormous ladle in one hand, snapped a salute, still holding the ladle.
He seemed paralyzed with intimidation, food dripping on his open-collared shirt. Patton felt a slug of disgust, said to Middleton, “Fine that jackass fifty bucks. Next time I see him, he’ll be in a proper uniform or you’ll bust him to corporal. And for God’s sake, tell him an officer shouldn’t be dishing out the oatmeal.”
Middleton motioned to an aide trailing behind them, the man overhearing Patton’s order, moving quickly toward the dumbstruck lieutenant. Patton turned away, the matter settled, already gone from his mind. There was an intersection ahead, the traffic moving slowly, and he saw a howitzer towed by a truck, another, following behind. He loved watching the artillery moving forward, knew that the big guns wouldn’t go unless the ground was already in his hands. But there was traffic coming the other way as well, ragged civilians, two children leading a small dog, one old man hauling a two-wheeled wagon by hand. Patton kept walking, stood beside the remnants of the paved road, heard the artillerymen shouting his name. He ignored them, saw the old man looking at him, no recognition, dull despair in the man’s eyes. On the far side of the road, a group of refugees had gathered on a small knoll, the road becoming too congested with heavy vehicles. Patton saw a cart, heavy with clothing, half a dozen women in filthy dresses, one carrying a baby, wrapped in a rag of a blanket. Patton stared at them, the details, some without shoes, others wearing what must have been expensive clothes. One woman’s beauty showed through the dirt and misery, a child clinging to her, the young face staring wide-eyed at the passing cannon. But the adults kept their gazes to themselves, ignored the convoy, paid no attention to the guns, or the generals who stood only a few feet away. He tried to feel sadness, remembered how this scene had played out everywhere the wars had taken him. Not so different, he thought. They might as well be French or Belgian or Sicilian, that same look, the dull shock, people who’ve lost everything in their lives.