Hirschfeldt looked up with exhausted eyes. He had been around the silver tongue of Goebbels long enough to know what he really meant. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Reichsminister. I love my country …’ He took a long pull on the cigarette and tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t carry much conviction. He nodded in resignation and acceptance of his fate.
‘You’ll be all right, Erich. Trust me,’ Goebbels said, gazing at the wreck of a once-mighty man in front of him. The spectacle started him worrying. He began to wonder whether Peter Hencke had a family …
A special observation post had been erected overlooking the river on a hill above Xanten, complete with camouflage netting, mobile caravan and a host of junior liaison officers who hung around chatting in the background. From their vantage point they could see the broad sweep of the Rhine as it unfolded in front of them, a great ribbon of water disappearing northwards like a winding road into the early morning haze which still clung to its edges. To their left lay the ruins of Xanten, the spire of its church savagely torn off, the town emasculated, while above them scurried squadrons of fighters like swarming bees on a ceaseless mission through skies which were beginning to turn crystal blue as the sun burnt off the mist. It was a good day for dying, and there would be plenty of it before nightfall.
Churchill, in a bulging uniform of the 4th Hussars which he chose to wear on his visits to the front, clapped his hands in excitement as he turned to Eisenhower. ‘My God, but this makes the blood run thicker through the veins!’ There was strong colour in his cheeks for the first time in weeks, and the sparkle had returned to his eyes. ‘How I envy you fighting men. In my lifetime, General, I have seen war grow steadily more murderous and awesome, and perhaps I should be condemned for finding any glory in such a deadly clash of wills, but this’ – he waved a gloved paw across the panorama in front of them – ‘this is so exhilarating! You know, the easiest way of telling the true character of a man is to study his response to the call of the bugle – does it fill his guts with fire or render them liquid with fear? That’s when you know his real worth.’
Eisenhower, who hadn’t heard a bugle sounded in anger since reveille at boot camp, nodded and said nothing. He hadn’t wanted the Old Man here at the battle front, but Churchill had insisted – and Eisenhower knew that as usual he would try to interfere, throwing off an abundance of home-spun military theories and anecdotes with all the energy and subtlety of an exploding catherine wheel. As if launching the major Allied crossing of the Rhine wasn’t going to present him with enough difficulties … For a short while, however, Eisenhower would have no reason to worry, since further conversation was made impossible as the massed guns below commenced their barrage of the German positions on the opposite bank, filling clear skies with the menace and anger of thunder. They watched, mesmerized by the pinpricks of fire from nearly 2000 artillery barrels and the great plumes of smoke and destruction that erupted seconds later on the far bank. In response there were but a few tiny flickers of resistance from the positions facing them.
As instantly as it had begun the shelling ceased, as though the film they were watching had been pulled from its projector. There was silence, more deafening in its way than the sound of the guns, a stillness which surrounded them like a cloak, making the moments seem like hours and sending a shiver of anticipation through the tiny group. Eisenhower consulted his watch. ‘Time for the drop.’
Yet they were not to have it all their own way. No sooner had he spoken than, away in the great distance, a thin white trail of smoke or condensation began to climb slowly into the sky.
‘Hell fire,’ Eisenhower muttered, the satisfaction gone from his voice. ‘A V-2, on its way to London, I’d guess.’
‘No, General. Remember your Bible, when Moses led his tribes across the Red Sea. There was a pillar of smoke then, too. We have God’s blessing this day.’
‘Unfortunately, in my experience the Germans are very bad at reading smoke signals,’ Eisenhower responded caustically. It was all very well for the Old Man to come and make speeches from the hill top, like a new Sermon on the Mount, proclaiming his belief in God, but they were Eisenhower’s men down there about to die and after all these years of war he found death a more concrete concept than the Hereafter.
Then the Dakotas came, wave after wave of them, flying low and in tight formation with their fuselage doors open and men standing in the doorway, ready to jump. They had all but disappeared into the mists across the Rhine when the group on the hilltop began to see the parachutes open, falling gently as seed might be scattered on the ground. And there was reaping along with the sowing; soon the Dakotas returned, many in trouble and some on fire. The far bank was not going to be vacated by the enemy without a struggle. And the German guns seemed to have gained strength, pouring a hail of shells across the river and into the Allied positions. Soon a salvo of enemy shells began to creep towards the hilltop, gouging out a crater of earth and destruction as each shell stretched ever closer. Junior officers rushed forward to hustle the Prime Minister and the Supreme Commander back towards safety, but Churchill ignored them, stepping forward as if to meet the challenge head-on, oblivious of the danger, seeming to show supreme faith that this was not his time to die. Eisenhower, embarrassed by the older man’s bravado, brushed aside the protests of his staff and stayed out in the open. He was damned if he was going to be shown up by a seventy-year-old civilian.
Soon the moment had passed, the shells were gone, and Eisenhower was left with a feeling of deep irritation at the stupidity of it all. He didn’t share the Old Man’s direct line to God and the moment of danger had left his mouth dry. It would have been a pathetic way to go, the Supreme Commander and the Prime Minister swept away just when the victory was theirs to claim, all for a moment of petty play-acting. Heaven rid him of meddlesome politicians!
Churchill’s face was glowing when eventually he turned away from the view. ‘Marvellous! Marvellous!’ was all he could say. As he stepped closer to Eisenhower, however, his face took on a more considered expression, a scowl of concentration seeming to split his forehead in two. Something was bothering him.
‘My dear General, you have done a magnificent job today. I have no doubt that by nightfall we shall have achieved our objectives and another great step taken towards final victory.’
The old bastard’s buttering me up, Eisenhower said to himself. What does he want?
‘Seeing the valour of our troops and the selfless way they are willing to lay down their lives for that victory, it makes me more certain than ever that we have no option, in honour, but to ensure that their courage and sacrifice are not offered in vain.’
So that’s it! He never gives up …
‘We cannot afford to win the war yet see the peace we have worked so hard to build thrown away. We must push as far east as possible – surely you must see the sense in that?’
‘As far as Berlin, Mr Prime Minister?’
‘At least as far as Berlin …’
The American shook his head, slowly and deliberately. He had guessed this would come, they had told him Churchill was as hard to shift as a mule in mud, but now he felt almost relieved that he had taken so badly to Churchill’s vainglorious defiance of the German shelling. It made him more determined than ever to get this over and done with, and if it meant some plain speaking to the Old Man without any of the diplomatic niceties, well – sure as hell he was in the mood for it.