Oh yes, the Americans might be going home but their machines were still here. And, always, where the Russian Army went, so did its God of War. Artillery. The guns were ranks deep, parked wheel-to-wheel. The Russians didn't use artillery with the deftness and precision of the Americans, they just used it in such volume, with so many numbers that they crushed everything within range. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel hated the Russian artillery.
The headquarters was a wooden building, more than a lean-to, less than a mansion. Probably the home of a well-off farmer or woodsman. The Russians took him inside and his eyes took a second to adjust to the dimmer light inside. There was no mistaking the figure that sat behind the desk. Handsome, remarkably so and exuding a magnetic charm. Marshal of Russia Konstantin Rokossovsky was reputed to be irresistibly attractive to women. Rommel had heard that once Beria had tried to frame him by sending Stalin a long list of Rokossovsky's sexual exploits. When Beria had received his orders from Stalin, they consisted of two words “Envy Him.” Now when Rokossovsky saw the German entering he stood up,
“Marshal Konstantin Rokossovsky. Commander, Second Karelian Front, Russian Army.”
Rommel was startled, he had expected to be treated with coldness at best, open rudeness was more likely. Proper military courtesy was unexpected and, instinctively, he responded in kind. “Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. Commander, Army Group Vistula. German Army.”
Rokossovsky gestured to a scat. When both men were comfortable, he stared at the German intently. “German Army you say? Not President of the independent state of East Arselick?”
Rommel stared back. “Marshal. I am a German soldier, not a bandit. And I am still an officer in the German Army.”
Rokossovsky gave a single curt jerk of his head. “Then as a German officer you are aware that you are under orders to surrender unconditionally?'“
Rommel said nothing but took his pistol out of its holster. He could feel a couple of the guards tense but he continued to move slowly, dropping the magazine and racking the toggle so that the round in the chamber ejected and the action stayed open. He glanced quickly to check the chamber was empty and laid the pistol on the table in front of the Russian Marshal. The room was still and silent.
Rokossovsky picked the P708 up and looked at it. “Engraved with your name I see. I will add it to my collection.”
“To the winner, the spoils Marshal.” There was a movement beside them and a Russian woman placed two bottles on the table, one vodka, one schnapps and two small glasses. She poured the drinks and stepped back into the shadows. Before she did, Rommel caught the glance she had exchanged with Rokossovsky. Obviously one of his lady friends.
“To peace.” The glasses touched. Then Rommel caught his breath. This was going to be the hard part.
“As ordered I surrender Army Group Vistula to you -unconditionally. But Unconditional surrender is one thing; the method by why we reach that end is something else. Marshal Rokossovsky. There has been too much killing already, let us not waste more lives on a war that has ended. We owe it to the men who fought for us that we arrange this surrender so that as few lives as possible are lost. But to achieve that, my men must have something to surrender for, a real hope of going home.”
“What makes you think they have a home to return to? You know what the Americans did to Germany?”
“I have heard the destruction is terrible, unimaginable.”
“No more than you deserve German, No more than you deserve. But there are....... options. For those who deserve them.”
Rommel looked at the Russian, waiting to hear the rest. Beneath his charm, Rokossovsky was a Russian general, he reminded himself never to forget that.
“For those who surrendered in accordance with their orders there are indeed .... options. The question is who deserves to be given that privilege and who does not?”
Rommel listened carefully. He saw now the trap this Russian had laid for him when he had first entered and how he had escaped it. This would take care. “Marshal, perhaps we can establish where we agree. In complex matters like this, there is white and black we can agree upon. Then we can make a list of all the areas that have gray within them and take that list away to think upon. Perhaps when we meet again, some of those areas may have a solution. With patience, all of them.”
“'Very well. I will start with a white issue. We have a policy for German PoWs. Those who are without blame, those who just served as any soldier served, they may seek refuge where they can find it. Norway and Sweden will take them in. So will Finland, and the Netherlands, Denmark and Britain. Or they may go home to Germany and try to rebuild what is left there. We will assume that those soldiers against whom we have no information are innocent of wrong doing. liul the solders only. Officers and n on-commissioned officers we must hold for further investigation. But for this white I demand a black. There are those who have committed the gravest of crimes against the Russian people. The partizanjaegers, the Einsatzkommandos and Einsatzgruppen, the scum of that kind. The ones are mad dogs and who will be put down the same way as a mad dog.”
Rommel allowed himself to relax slightly. A start had been made, a good start, better than he had hoped, “Marshal Rokossovsky, there is not a man who wears the gray of the Wehrmacht who will deny you your black. Or fail to help you find those you seek. But I must warn you that the people you wish are outside the Army chain of command. Even the SS units that are part of Vistula are technically outside my chain of command.”
'“You say you cannot enforce any agreement you make? Then why do we hold this meeting?”
“To find a way that we can enforce the agreement we make. Marshal Rokossovsky I could lie to you and claim that any agreement we make will be easy to enforce. I will not do that. We have a problem and we owe it to the men who have served us so well to solve it as best we can. But it is a problem indeed. The SS, they are the heart of that problem. If they choose to fight, there are no orders I can give to stop them.”
“Field Marshal Rommel. The Red Cross will be here tomorrow with information on the numbers of your soldiers various countries are prepared to take as refugees. Once we have those numbers we can arrange the surrender of the first of your units. They can send messages back when they reach their destinations, that will ease the doubts of the rest of your men. But, for the SS, if all else fails..” Rokossovsky reached into his case and picked out a picture taken from a bomber called Roxanne, one of a mushroom cloud rising skywards, a B-36 making its escape in the background.
Rommel looked at it sadly. “Yes, there is always that. Let us pray to God we can avoid it.”
“Amen” said Marshal Konstantin Rokossovsky.
Aft Compartment. B-36H “Texan Lady”, Sheremetevo Airbase, Russia
“Now this is a cultured way to go to war. Texan Lady went to Berlin like this?'* The question came out mixed up with a steak sandwich, Swiss cheese and coffee. The coffee was good but the steak sandwiches just didn't taste the same cooked at ground level. Guards-Colonel Aleksandr Pokryshkin hadn't had the privilege of a high-altitude sandwich yet. And wouldn't, not unless he had a ride in a B-36 for his MiG interceptors were austere even by fighter standards. This flying hotel in the rear compartment of the B-36 was an amazement for him.