Chapter Five
Broken and bleeding, what was left of the German army was streaming toward the Fatherland. The squad that had ambushed Tolliver and his driver was just the remnant of a shattered unit. The entire German military had collapsed in the wake of the defeat at the Falaise Gap. The retreat was about as orderly as one could expect, considering that the fighting had decimated tens of thousands of soldiers. Huge numbers of German troops were either dead, wounded, or captured.
At Falaise, the Germans had been effectively trapped between British and Canadian forces to the north and American and Polish forces to the south, leaving just a narrow escape route. The image that it called to mind was that of troops pouring through a funnel — under fire all the way.
Devastating as the Falaise Gap had been for Wehrmacht forces, the Allies had also lost an opportunity to utterly crush the enemy. Logistics and communications had worked against the Allies, along with the reluctance to close the gap in such close quarters for fear of Allied troops from several nations accidentally firing on one another in what might be described as a circular firing squad situation. General Eisenhower had held back, determining that losses from friendly fire would undermine tenuous relations and the war effort far more than allowing the battered Germans to escape. For decades to come, historians would debate Ike’s fateful decision.
Having passed through that gauntlet, the Germans' best plan now was to retreat in hopes of regrouping later. Although the Allies nipped at their heels and Allied planes harassed them, the retreat was orderly, led by battle-hardened NCOs and officers.
Some troops rode on horses. A few lucky ones — mostly the officers — rode in motorized vehicles. Most men had to rely on their own two feet to carry them toward the Moselle River, and then the Rhine beyond. They knew that they were not walking toward salvation, but toward a final stand. One last chance to save the Fatherland. The Allies were closing in from the west, and from the east came the hated Russians, flooding toward the Fatherland like an inexorable red tide.
Retreating with the German forces was General Karl Unterbrink. The defeat at the Falaise Gap had left the military fragmented, flowing in motley units toward Germany in hopes of reorganizing. For now, these German troops counted themselves lucky to be alive.
The small unit that Unterbrink commanded was hardly large enough to be directed by someone of his rank. A general normally commanded a brigade or a division, not a collection of ragged Soldaten. There were remnants of units, and men in groups of two and three, all gathered together like metal filings to a magnet. As a general, it was Unterbrink who served as this magnet. Unterbrink was determined to be the commander that these hard-fighting men deserved.
This morning, he'd had sixty-three men. Yesterday, he'd had sixty-six. Sometime during the night, those three must have decided to take their chances in surrendering to the Allies rather than fighting it out to the last man.
Gefreiter Hauer had taken the head count. A sniper by training, Hauer had been with him since before the Allied invasion. Unterbrink had made Hauer his de facto aide de camp and scout, answering only to the general. He was loyal as a Rottweiler and twice as vicious.
"Three less than yesterday," Hauer said. “The deserters can’t have much of a start, sir. I can bring them back and shoot them in front of the others to set an example.”
Unterbrink wasn't happy about losing three men during the night to desertion, but he put a brave face on it. "We are better off without them if they do not want to fight," he said.
He wore an officer's double-breasted greatcoat that was a bit too warm for the weather, but he knew that the days would be turning colder soon enough. Unterbrink didn't mind that; he had always liked the winter.
Even spattered with mud, Unterbrink managed to look dashing. Normally, the lapels of a general's coat had red facing, but Unterbrink had opted for a plain junior officer's field coat that made him less of a target for enemy snipers. He knew about snipers because he had put them to good use himself. Hauer was a case in point.
He had left the coat open just enough to make the two gold oak leaves and single gold bar combination on the collar of his tunic visible so that his rank was clear. He did not yet have a Knight's Cross at this throat, which rankled him a bit. He held out hope that the defense of the Fatherland would offer new opportunities to win one.
The coat was belted around the middle. For a man of fifty-two he was very fit, thanks to daily calisthenics that he kept up even during the retreat. On the belt he wore a holster containing a Luger. He wore an officer's Jodhpur-style trousers tucked into black riding boots. On his head, instead of the familiar Stahlhelm, he wore an officer's cap with goggles pulled up over the brim, nearly disguising the ornate braided officer's insignia known as "the cabbage patch" for its close resemblance to that humble vegetable.
Although Unterbrink had downplayed most outward displays of his rank to avoid becoming a target, there was no questioning that he had an air of command that had nothing to do with insignia and gold braid. He exuded authority.
"This way," Unterbrink shouted, standing in a Kübelwagen, the sturdy vehicle that was essentially the German equivalent of a Jeep. They had just emerged from a forested area into open ground surrounded by farm fields. He glanced at the sky, worried that Allied planes would appear at any moment now that his men were out in the open. "Hurry! Hop, hop, hop!"
He waved toward the right-hand road at an unmarked crossroads. He did not know the name of this place and it did not matter. The goal was simply to move west. A few modest houses stood nearby to create something of a crossroads village. A couple of young boys had come out to watch the soldiers go by, but no adults were in sight. The road to the left was blocked by the smoking ruin of a Panther tank. Two bodies lay just beyond it, still steaming like roasts taken from an oven. The smell of charred flesh hung over the crossroads. The general's stomach rumbled hungrily in spite of himself because the smell resembled roast pork. He found that reaction more curious than revolting. Deep down, we are all beasts, he thought.
The crossroads carnage was a horrific sight, but they were inured to it, having seen too many of their comrades killed. But these men were not defeated or beaten. They were soldiers. They would fight until the end.
Unterbrink loved them.
He was doing the best that he could for them, leading an orderly retreat, trying to get these men back to Germany.
He saw one young soldier struggling to juggle his gear, which included a haversack and Mauser K98, with the ungainly weight of a Panzerfaust. Unterbrink jumped down and went to sort him out.
"Here, give me that a minute," the general said, reaching for the Panzerfaust. The rocket-propelled weapon would make short work of any Sherman tanks that they came across, but it was an unwieldy burden, being a wooden stick nearly two meters in length with the heavy charge at one end. Unterbrink grabbed a length of rope from the car and tied it to both ends of the Panzerfaust to create a makeshift sling. He held the weapon while the soldier slipped it over a shoulder.
"Give that a try," Unterbrink said. "Keep it over your left shoulder like that, and you can still fire your rifle when you need to."
"Much better, sir."
Unterbrink climbed back into the Kübelwagen.
"Probst!" shouted a soldier going past, raising a canteen that likely contained something stronger than water.