12
THE JU-52TRIMOTOR TRANSPORT PLANE WITH swastikas on the wings bumped to a halt on the rain-wet runway at Rastenburg in the East Prussian forest. A small man with big features—a large nose, a wide mouth, big ears—disembarked and walked quickly across the tarmac to a waiting Mercedes car.
As the car drove through the gloomy, damp forest, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel took off his cap and rubbed a nervous hand along his receding hairline. In a few weeks’ time, he knew, another man would travel this route with a bomb in his briefcase—a bomb destined for the Fuehrer himself. Meanwhile the fight must go on, so that the new leader of Germany—who might even be himself—could negotiate with the Allies from a reasonably strong position.
At the end of a ten-mile drive the car arrived at the Wolfsschanze, the Wolves’ Lair, headquarters now for Hitler and the increasingly tight, neurotic circle of generals who surrounded him.
There was a steady drizzle, and raindrops dripped from the tall conifers in the compound. At the gate to Hitler’s personal quarters, Rommel put on his cap and got out of the car. Oberfuehrer Rattenhuber, the chief of the SS bodyguard, wordlessly held out his hand to receive Rommel’s pistol.
The conference was to be held in the underground bunker, a cold, damp, airless shelter lined with concrete. Rommel went down the steps and entered. There were a dozen or so there already, waiting for the noon meeting: Himmler, Goering, von Ribbentrop, Keitel. Rommel nodded greetings and sat on a hard chair to wait.
They all stood when Hitler entered. He wore a grey tunic and black trousers, and, Rommel observed, he was becoming increasingly stooped. He walked straight to the far end of the bunker, where a large wall map of northwestern Europe was tacked to the concrete. He looked tired and irritable. He spoke without preamble.
“There will be an Allied invasion of Europe. It will come this year. It will be launched from Britain, with English and American troops. They will land in France. We will destroy them at the high-water mark. On this there is no room for discussion.”
He looked around, as if daring his staff to contradict him. There was silence. Rommel shivered; the bunker was as cold as death.
“The question is, where will they land? Von Roenne—your report.”
Colonel Alexis von Roenne, who had taken over, effectively, from Canaris, got to his feet. A mere captain at the outbreak of war, he had distinguished himself with a superb report on the weakness of the French army—a report that had been called a decisive factor in the German victory. He had become chief of the army intelligence bureau in 1942, and that bureau had absorbed the Abwehr on the fall of Canaris. Rommel had heard that he was proud and outspoken, but able.
Von Roenne said, “Our information is extensive, but by no means complete. The Allies’ code name for the invasion is Overlord. Troop concentrations in Britain are as follows.” He picked up a pointer and crossed the room to the wall map. “First: along the south coast. Second: here in the district known as East Anglia. Third: in Scotland. The East Anglian concentration is by far the greatest. We conclude that the invasion will be three-pronged. First: a diversionary attack on Normandy. Second: the main thrust, across the Strait of Dover to the Calais coast. Third: a flanking invasion from Scotland across the North Sea to Norway. All intelligence sources support this prognosis.” He sat down.
Hitler said, “Comments?”
Rommel, who was Commander of Army Group B, which controlled the north coast of France, said, “I can report one confirming sign: the Pas de Calais has received by far the greatest tonnage of bombs.”
Goering said, “What intelligence sources support your prognosis, Von Roenne?”
Von Roenne stood up again. “There are three: air reconnaissance, monitoring of enemy wireless signals and the reports of agents.” He sat down.
Hitler crossed his hands protectively in front of his genitals, a nervous habit that was a sign that he was about to make a speech. “I shall now tell you,” he began, “how I would be thinking if I were Winston Churchill. Two choices confront me: east of the Seine, or west of the Seine. East has one advantage: it is nearer. But in modern warfare there are only two distances—within fighter range and outside fighter range. Both of these choices are within fighter range. Therefore distance is not a consideration.
“West has a great port—Cherbourg—but east has none. And most important—east is more heavily fortified than west. The enemy too has air reconnaissance.
“So, I would choose west. And what would I do then? I would try to make the Germans think the opposite! I would send two bombers to the Pas de Calais for every one to Normandy. I would try to knock out every bridge over the Seine. I would put out misleading wireless signals, send false intelligence reports, dispose my troops in a misleading fashion. I would deceive fools like Rommel and von Roenne. I would hope to deceive the Fuehrer himself!”
Goering spoke first after a lengthy silence. “My Fuehrer, I believe you flatter Churchill by crediting him with ingenuity equal to your own.”
There was a noticeable easing of tension in the uncomfortable bunker. Goering had said exactly the right thing, managing to voice his disagreement in the form of a compliment. The others followed him, each stating the case a little more strongly—the Allies would choose the shorter sea crossing for speed; the closer coast would allow the covering fighter aircraft to refuel and return in shorter time; the southeast was a better launch pad, with more estuaries and harbors; it was unlikely that all the intelligence reports would be wrong.
Hitler listened for half an hour, then held up his hands for silence. He picked up a yellowing sheaf of papers from the table and waved them. “In 1941,” he said, “I issued my directive Construction of Coastal Defenses, in which I forecast that the decisive landing of the Allies would come at the protruding parts of Normandy and Brittany, where the excellent harbors would make ideal beachheads. That was what my intuition told me then, and that is what it tells me now!” A fleck of foam appeared on the Fuehrer’s lower lip.
Von Roenne spoke up. (He has more courage than I, Rommel thought.) “My Fuehrer, our investigations continue, quite naturally, and there is one particular line of inquiry that you should know about. I have in recent weeks sent an emissary to England to contact the agent known as Die Nadel.”
Hitler’s eyes gleamed. “Ah! I know the man. Go on.”
“Die Nadel’s orders are to assess the strength of the First United States Army Group under General Patton in East Anglia. If he finds that this has been exaggerated, we must surely reconsider our prognosis. If, however, he reports that the army is as strong as we presently believe, there can be little doubt that Calais is the target.”
Goering looked at von Roenne. “Who is this Nadel?”
Hitler answered the question. “The only decent agent Canaris ever recruited—because he recruited him at my direction. I know his family—strong, loyal, upright Germans. And Die Nadel—a brilliant man, brilliant! I see all his reports. He has been in London since—”
Von Roenne interrupted: “My Fuehrer—”
Hitler glared at him. “Well?”
Von Roenne said tentatively, “Then you will accept Die Nadel’s report?”
Hitler nodded. “That man will discover the truth.”