The Rommel Mission

Chapter 1

Captured

For a moment I thought I’d lost my way. The row of trees on the east side of the road were barren and leafless, a few displaying ugly scars of scorched wood. They should have been green and leafy. A single tank, one of our Mark IV’s, judging from what was left of its hull, stood burning to my right, sending a large column of black smoke into the lavender sky of an otherwise quiet summer evening. Bits of equipment lay on the road itself, a backpack here, a helmet there, much of it colored in the field gray of the Wehrmacht, my army. The destruction and the litter of war before me underlined what had become of it, and hinted at what would follow.

The front line had passed over this place. This surprised me, insofar as the morning report presented to headquarters two days before had the Allies many, many miles to the west. At that time our panzers, or rather what was left of them, were still reining in the British units to the area just south of Caen. Clearly the breakout had already occurred on this front. The event Rommel had long predicted, the collapse of our defenses on the Normandy front, had taken place. However, even to a professional like myself, the event seemed far different when actually experienced. Much like a death that finally comes after years of illness, the actual event, even if anticipated, still had the power to shock. Witnessing the death of my army left me cold.

I again looked over the road before me. I could pick out, even in the waning light, a few landmarks. A hundred yards down the road, stood the little stone chapel. France is dotted with hundreds of these, all on country lanes much like this one. This particular church was the one I had passed before for this mission. I knew it because of the color of the door. Even though it now hung by a single hinge, it still beamed its peculiarly pink colored wood. Surely no other church had such a gaily painted front door. Imaging the scene without the flotsam of war and the burning tank, and restoring the leaves to the surrounding trees, I could see this was the place.

So I had navigated correctly after all. It had been a difficult task, dodging the patrols of SS that were looking for me, as well as the Allied planes, hunting for anyone German. Now realizing that the Allied lines had indeed passed over this spot, I would have to beware of their infantry units as I made my way forward. It was out of the question that I could use the road. Still, that road was my lifeline, my only link to where I was going. I resolved to stay in the brush, but close enough to the road to follow its path. This path, I knew, would inevitably lead to the meeting place, the rendezvous with my British contact, and perhaps then, an end to this madness.

It would be difficult, on foot as I was. When I had reconnoitered this path a week ago, I had been in my Kubelwagon, and of course, the road had been firmly in our hands. One had to keep a ready lookout for the ‘Jabo’s’, those Allied devils in their fighter-bombers who shot everything that moved during the day. This lane, due to its canopy of elms, was mostly safe from them, and it was only in the infrequent clearings that one was really in danger. However the danger was all too real, as my superior, the Field Marshal, had learned when he was severely wounded in an attack a few weeks ago. That was a cruel turn of fate, the taking of the perhaps the only man capable of ending this for the betterment of my country. But he was gone, and I would have to try anyway to carry out his wishes. A week ago, I successfully made my way down this very road. Up ahead, perhaps five miles to the west, I had found the spot, a bridge over a small creek. It was the place we agreed to meet. It would be a small party, myself and my current superior, Field Marshal Von Kluge. On the other side, there would be representatives of Montgomery, brought by my opposite number, Major Browning. Then we could formally hand over the command, the German Armies of the West, and avert the gathering catastrophe.

Now, due to a peculiar set of circumstances, the mission was in my hands. A few weeks before, even before the abortive attempt on Hitler’s life, the plots had begun unraveling. Rommel at last had been galvanized to action, realizing that little time remained before the Gestapo would close in. The planning for my mission was accelerated. Rommel and I would carry it out. It had been scheduled for a few days after July 20, but events had overtaken it. Rommel was seriously wounded and out of the picture. Kluge, his superior, although sympathetic to Rommel’s views, required additional time to be convinced of the necessity of the mission. During that time, much had changed. Now the Allies were smashing through our lines, rendering our position in the negotiations ever weaker. On our side, the SS were closing in, threatening to bring an end to the whole scheme. My other contact, a German captain who arranged the meeting place, was missing. Only I remained, but perhaps I could still pull it off. I had my contacts with the British and there remained officers in Army Group headquarters loyal to the cause. It might still be possible to make the rendezvous, meet with the British, and head off this thing before it was too late. If it was not already too late!

I made my way through the brush, one eye on the road some twenty Yards to my right, the other eye warily scanning forward. I walked like this for some time, passing the church with its torn pink door, and onwards along the lane, destined for that little bridge, and the meeting with my contact. I could only hope that the enemy had gotten the message. With the captain missing, I had received no confirmation that the British had agreed to meet, nor had I received any response from him since I had sent my communication two days ago, just before leaving HQ. .

He had to have gotten it! But it was not for me that I worried. I had to depart my post in any case. The same SS who had ferreted out the July 20th plotters were certainly becoming wise to me. There was little choice but to go ahead and present myself to the Allies. If it worked, the nation would be spared the worst of what was to come. If it didn’t, no matter. I had nowhere to go in any case. Better an Allied POW cage than an SS prison cell.

I stopped instinctively. A noise! Before my mind could register the sound I hit the ground, senses alert, searching for its source. Where had it come from? I raised my head cautiously. I could see nothing, save for the green ferns of the forest underbrush, and the woods all around me. I waited, scarcely breathing, listening for another sound. Perhaps there never was one, possibly just my imagination. No, there it was again. This time I instantly recognized it--a footfall. I wasn’t alone.

Again I held my breath. It was unmistakable: footsteps--many of them. They emanated from a point just up ahead. I strained my ears, tilting my head, much as a dog does when puzzled by a sound. There were many men in the woods. They were ahead of me. No, to the right. Again, more sounds, this time to the left. I shuddered. They were all around me.

But who were they? I thought of my greatest fear--an SS patrol! Somehow they had tracked me to this place. Perhaps they had become aware of the location of the meeting. That was a distinct possibility. But there was a more likely explanation. It could be an Allied unit--perhaps British infantry advancing. Surely their armor, judging from the brewed up Mark IV I had passed, had already gone down this road. Logically there would now be the infantry, straining to keep up. I lifted my head a bit higher. Movement! My head spun to my left, focusing on a swaying branch, perhaps twenty-five Yards distant. I waited, and stared. Just beyond the branch a patch of green, barely discernible in the twilight, moved. A shape resolved--a helmet. I strained to make out its shape. In a moment my brain identified its distinctive inverted soup bowl shape--British!

I looked around. Perhaps I could retreat, retrace my steps a half mile back or so, and circle around this group. I didn’t know the size of the group, of course, but it likely couldn’t be more than a section or two. Anything larger would have made more noise. Possibly I could skirt this group and continue on my way to the rendezvous. I scanned the scene all around me. No other movement, but the sounds still issued from the area up ahead and to my left. I started rising, just coming to a crouch. I turned, cautiously, and as soundlessly as possible took a step backwards. Nothing happened. Another step. No response from up ahead. This was good. They hadn’t seen me. Then a third step. An angry bee whizzed by my ear followed by an impossibly loud crack.

Hold it, Jerry. The words followed the shot.

I froze. Clearly another step and I would be shot. I remained in my stilted position for a half minute before anything happened. Then a rush of sounds came--brush whipping, leaves rustling. Out of the corner of my eye a British soldier approached, large gun aimed right at me. Others I knew were coming up behind me. The one I could see was a frightful looking fellow, quite large, with a dirty unshaven face and tattered uniform. The smell of unwashed human and gun grease reached my nostrils.

Hande hoch! a harsh voice commanded from behind.

I raised my arms above my head. Rough hands assaulted my side, grabbing my sidearm. Another set of hands patted me down for any other weapons. Others quickly appeared out of the brush and rushed past me, no doubt looking for any companions of mine. I stood still as they fanned out all around me. After an eternity they started drifting back, unable to find anyone.

The one that I had seen approach now stood in front of me. A wicked grin crossed his features.

Let’s shoot the bugger, he laughed.

A voice chimed in from behind, Yes, let’s give him a proper sendoff.

Another voice from behind answered, a voice both weary and authoritative, a voice used to being obeyed as a matter of course. No, he’s an officer. Could be valuable for intelligence.

C’mon, let’s ‘ave a little sport. Send him off down the road and we’ll ‘ave a bit of practice. What’d you say?

The others murmured in agreement. Remember Kear, one of them said. And Douglass, added another.

They’ll be none of that, the leader answered again, at least not with this one.

As the one in front of me started to reply, I was spun around, coming face-to-face with several soldiers. They were various sizes and shapes but all looked as menacing as the fellow I had first seen, all of them, except one, the section leader, no doubt the sergeant. He was older than the rest, with the unmistakable aspect of command, and its burdening responsibility for men’s lives, etched in his features.

Namen?

I am Helder, Major Helder, I answered, scanning the men before me, focusing on their weapons which were all trained on me.

So you speak English.

Yes, in my youth I spent time in your country.

That so, came a reply from a soldier to the sergeant's right. He was a young man, with a cleaner, more innocent aspect than the others. Whereabouts then?

Cambridge.

Well we could be mates, then. I’m from....

Another cut him off. Oh, an educated man. One we trained so he could attack us. Very nice. These words were mouthed by a soldier considerably most menacing in appearance.

Quiet, the lot of you, the sergeant barked. I’ll do all the talking here. He gave each of them a brief stare in turn.

He then turned back to me. What are you doing out here? By yourself? Anyone else around?

I am alone.

You would say that, wouldn’t you? He regarded me with a rueful expression. Well, then, did you get separated from your troops?

I didn’t answer at first, wondering if I should go beyond the rules and tell him of my mission. I could wait until I was interrogated by their intelligence, or I could take a chance and tell him the real reason for my presence. Their threats to shoot me on the spot won the day. As he stared at me, I decided.

I am on my way to meet with Major Browning, of your 21st Army Group Headquarters.

Oh really, you’re on your way to a meeting. A spot of tea, perhaps? For what purpose?

My words are for him only. I am not able to discuss this with you....

And I could simply give you over to Archie here as well, he motioned to a man hanging back from the group, the man who had wanted to shoot me. When my eyes fell upon him, he caressed the bore of his rifle, smiling.

My fear quickly got the better of me. I am on a special mission from Army Group B. I am authorized to discuss terms.

Blimey, said one of the others, mouth agape. The buggers want to surrender?

Shut it, the sergeant again ordered, then turned to me. Why aren’t you under a white flag or something? Wouldn’t it be more proper for a surrender delegation or something of the sort?

We have an arrangement with your Major Browning, and his superior, General Dempsey.

Monty’s chief of staff? Really! He looked disbelieving, and slightly amused. He regarded me for a moment, an expression of amusement softening his features. Then he abruptly changed, the weary, and wary, look returning.

I don't know if you’re who you say you are, a dirty deserter, or perhaps just a nutter, but I don't care. I’ve got more important business to do, like get on with the war. I’ll just let our intelligence boys ‘ave a whack at you.

He motioned to the group behind him.

Mick, escort him back to Battalion.

One soldier steeped forward, reached out, and pushed me forward.

Let’s go, Jerry, let’s take us a little stroll.

As I started forward, prodded by the end of a rifle, I heard the sergeant add, Just be quick about it and make sure he gets there--alive if you don’t mind. My guard laughed, too gaily I thought. As we started forth, I could only wonder whether his laugh meant he would get me there, or if these woods would become my final resting place.

Chapter 2

De Guingand

Wisps of early morning sunlight played across my eyes, waking me from a dead sleep. Opening one eye, I could make out a window, skewed at a crazy angle. Beyond it were a few tree branches swaying across a yellow sky. As I watched the branches, I became aware of a severe ache in my neck and shoulders. A painful cramp greeted my attempt at movement .. I gradually realized that my arm was cradling my head from some hard surface--a table! It then all flooded back to me. I had fallen asleep in a chair, my head on the table in front of me. My guard had brought me in after all. I was still where I had ended up, in a back room of a building, one serving as some sort of Headquarters for a British unit. The questioning had finished sometime during the night, when, either finally realizing I could give no additional information, or just fatigued themselves, they gave up, and left me to let my exhausted body slump forwards and fall into that deep sleep.

I didn’t know precisely where I was. After my capture in the woods, the infantryman had escorted me to his local HQ. Since I was an officer, one with a decidedly odd story, they didn’t put me with the rest of the POW’s. Instead I was immediately questioned by one of their officers, a rather low ranking staff officer of some sort, and later, by what I took for their battalion commander. I told each my reason for being there, the basis of my mission, and so on, a more detailed version of what I had told the sergeant earlier that evening. The reactions from each of them alternated between unbelieving and amused. One even suggested I must be on a Rudolph Hess kind of mission. I took great offense at that, pointing out Hess was almost certainly a madman, and that I, in contrast, couldn’t be more serious. I repeated my request to be brought to my contact, Major Browning, or better yet, General Dempsey. Although the first time I said this, it was met with laughter, offers for an audience with the King and so forth, my repetitions slowly brought out a less amused reply from each. In the end I suppose they just simply didn’t know what to do with me, and did what universally occurs in every army when one is confronted with something one cannot handle--they push it up the line of command. In fact, it was this very reaction that I was counting on. Accordingly I was blindfolded, escorted to some sort of vehicle, and shunted off.

The drive was long and tedious, but probably seemed longer than it was in actuality. Being blindfolded in a vehicle was an odd experience. Besides the loss of the track of time, balance was a problem as well. Every turn seemed unexpected, and I never failed to slump over too much in the direction opposite of each turn. My hands were bound, so I could not grab onto anything to steady myself. The result was that I was more like a commodity than a person, although the thought occurred to me that it must be what my dog experienced with every ride--my swaying to and fro seemingly similar to what I’d see him do. At last, though, the vehicle stopped, and two men led me out. Grabbing each arm they pulled me across some sort of dirt area, up a small flight of stone steps and into a building. I couldn’t tell the type of building, but its function was clear. The many voices and the sounds of people moving about seemed quite familiar--I was in a headquarters, one larger and more important than the first. It could have easily been my own, if one just changed the language to German, and perhaps formalized the military greetings a bit. All the same I felt, much to my consternation, quite at home.

Once in the building I was ushered down several corridors before being dumped into one with a single table and chair, the very chair I now occupied. I was left alone for some time, with seemingly no one close by. Certainly no one was talking to me, although I was sure they must have left a guard.

After an interminable time, two men entered the room and strode over to me. They removed the bindings around my arms and the blindfold. My eyes stung from the glare of a naked bulb on a table in front of me, but otherwise I could see little. I heard the sounds of the men taking up chairs in front of me as my watering eyes adjusted to the light. I just could make out two British officers, but recognized neither. Apparently I was to undergo a more proper interrogation before considering my request to see my contact.

In a few minutes I realized that was the case, as I answered the same questions as before. Again I was met with disbelief, although this time it was a more aggressive disbelief, and peppered with questions of all sorts. I tried to answer as best I could, but blanched at some of the more specific military questions, both because I had been out of touch with the general situation for the past two days, and because I had no desire to be a traitor, even if perfectly aware some would judge me as exactly that anyway. With little useful information coming out of me, their questions honed in on my knowledge of Major Browning and Dempsey. I gave them a sketchy account of that but insisted I must talk to the Major himself. Each time I brought this up the two men exchanged odd looks between them, as if there was some inside joke of which I was unaware. This went for some time, probably several hours. I became more intransigent, and less forthcoming. They seemed to tire themselves, and, eventually left me alone to fall asleep.

I pulled myself upright in the chair and looked about the room. The sunlight pouring through the single high window to my right illuminated the room better than the solitary bare bulb of the previous night. I could see the two empty chairs in front but the room was otherwise empty. The walls were of stone masonry, quite old from the look of it, and French in origin. It was likely the back room of a large shop or home, perhaps even a chateau. As those large country homes usually made the best locations for a HQ, I leaned towards that interpretation. To my left inside a single open door and in its frame, leaned a large British soldier, sten gun in his hands, looking back at me.

I told him I needed to relieve myself and he motioned to a bucket behind me. Disappointed, I nevertheless completed that duty and returned to my chair. After a time, he came forward to offer me a cigarette but otherwise did not engage me in conversation. Later an orderly of some sort brought in a large cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted. Before drinking it, I just breathed in its aroma, reveling in its full flavor. It had been a long time since I had had real coffee, and the smell of this drink indicated it was just that--real coffee. Sipping the hot liquid I could scarcely believe I was actually drinking it. I savored this experience for some time, and when it was finished, felt my spirits buoyed. Perhaps my mission would not be in vain.

As if to underscore the point, two officers strode in. One was probably the same as the night before, although in the sunlight it was difficult to be sure. The other was someone I knew I had not met. The confident manner and self assured air about him stood out in contrast to the other, who was certainly a subordinate. I rose as they approached.

The new man extended his hand. As I grasped it in my own, he spoke, DeGuingand, and you are Major Helder?

His handshake was firm and straightforward, I am.

We broke contact and he began to sit. Halfway down, he invited me to do the same. I lowered myself into my chair, feeling relieved. I had succeeded. As we both settled in our chairs he motioned to the other officer in a dismissive manner.

I’ll call if I need you.

But sir, we don't know this chap at all. We’ve had reports of assassins and....

Bollocks, man. I’ll be fine. And you can remove the guard as well. Do you think a staff officer from the German High Command would be sent here to kill me, especially with the wild story this chap is spouting? Don't be a bloody fool!

DeGuingand didn’t take his eyes from me nor did he say anything further as his subordinate did as ordered. This was a man who didn’t have to question being obeyed. As he stared at me, I stared back, taking his measure, as he, no doubt, was doing to me. He was a handsome man, typically British, with intense, intelligent eyes that when coupled with his straight black hair, thick eyebrows, and full mustache, gave an aspect not unlike the Führer -- but in contrast to the icy blue steel of our leader’s, this man’s eyes were warm and welcoming. He seemed to be comfortable, even affable, in his initial presentation, and exuded an air of ease. I was elated at meeting him, and even more encouraged by this open manner.

Once the guard followed the officer out of the room, he began, I understand that you have asked to see one of my staff officers, a Major Browning.

That is correct.

And that you have an urgent issue to discuss with him, an issue of the highest order? His voice trailed off on a high note, as if begging the answer.

I nodded.

I further understand that this discussion is no less than the surrender of the German Army. He regarded me with a questioning look.

More precisely, sir, the turning over of Field Marshal Von Kluge’s command in the West. Even as I said it, I questioned the accuracy of this statement, since it was two days since I had had contact with the Field Marshal. Still, it was all I had.

This, presumably, was to be conveyed to my Major Browning...

Then to yourself, sir, Montgomery of course, and on to Eisenhower himself.

He looked away, I daresay.

We both sat silently. He seemed to collect his thoughts, turning to look out the window. After a few minutes, he turned back to me, his face taking on a grave, but not unsympathetic look.

Major Browning is dead, to begin with.

At my shocked expression he went on, Killed by a mine, this week. He paused before going on, Regrettable. Fine officer. Complex fellow though.

My mind was in a whirl. Browning! Dead! What would become of my mission? Could I go on without Browning, my most important contact? Was this the end? Was it all in vain?

I struggled to fight down my initial panic. Surely the major had discussed this with his superiors. He had indicated as much when I had met with him the previous month. Arrangements had to have been made. The general before me would certainly be involved in all of them.

Dreadful, sir. Major Browning seemed a fine officer...and man, I offered.

You’ve met him then.

What was he saying? Of course I met him. Was it possible that the major did not involve this man, his immediate superior? Unthinkable.

I stammered out a reply, "But