their escape routes.
Patiently, Dietrich nosed his way through the little cleric’s dogma and blind fanaticism. “If — let us just say if — some of the top men wanted to escape when there was no longer any possibility of victory, would you help them?”
“If they weren’t escaping purely because of cowardice.”
Well put, Dietrich decided, regarding Hudal with new respect. “If they were escaping to form a new order elsewhere. The cream of Aryan manhood. To form an alliance between the Church and National-Socialism,” Dietrich suggested slyly.
Hudal’s eyes gleamed. “Then of course I would help.”
“And you have many followers here who would help?”
“Of course.”
“Inside The Vatican?”
“I have many friends inside The Vatican. The Teutonic College itself is on neutral territory.”
Dietrich stood up. He stuck out his hand. “Then let us hope we never have to make use of them.”
Hudal stood up. “Are things really as bad as you make out?”
“They’re not good,” Dietrich said.
* * *
That night as he lay between the soft sheets of a bed in the luxurious Excelsior Hotel where many German officers stayed, Dietrich, unaware that he had escaped death by a couple of seconds, reappraised his day. A bad one.
Soon he would be back fighting in Russia — the Führer couldn’t afford to keep the Leibstandarte “slummocking” (as Field-Marshall Günther von Kluge had put it) in Italy much longer — and today he had finally acknowledged to himself that only defeat lay ahead. So much for those shining dreams of the ’30’s, for the glorious victories of the Leibstandarte as they swept through Europe.
Dietrich, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, knew that he would fight to the last tank, the last man. And he would execute the Führer’s every order even if he had lost that intuitive touch of genius of the early days. Hitler had resurrected the pride of Germany: had shown its men that they still had balls. Elevated me from a nonentity to the commander of the most feared military machine in the world.
Dietrich reached for the suitcase beside his bed. Underneath a copy of Mein Kampf was a well-thumbed sheet of paper, a copy of Hitler’s remarks at the birthday celebrations for Hermann Göring on January 12th, 1942.
The role of Sepp Dietrich is unique. I have always given him the opportunity to intervene at sore spots. (Sore, well that was a bit of an understatement). He is a man who is simultaneously cunning, energetic and brutal. Under his swash-buckling appearance Dietrich is a serious, conscientious and scrupulous character. And what care he takes of his troops. He is a phenomenon … someone irreplaceable. For the German people Sepp Dietrich is a national institution. For me personally there is also the fact that he is one of my oldest companions in the struggle.
And I would die for him, Dietrich thought. Or, more practically, save him from the vengeance of the enemy.
Which was precisely what Dietrich proposed to do.
This was the plan known only to a handful of other top-ranking SS officers. To snatch Hitler from the muzzles of the enemy guns when Germany was finally on the brink of defeat. Regardless of the Führer’s wishes. Dietrich smiled fondly as he imagined Hitler’s ferocious reaction if he heard of Grey Fox.
And it was Grey Fox — Dietrich’s description of the Pontiff — that had prompted Dietrich to seek an audience with the Pope. How could Pius XII refuse with the 3rd Panzergrenadier camped on his doorstep?
Dietrich had proposed to sound out the Pope’s true feelings towards the Nazis. To test his reactions to any proposal to spirit top Nazis to freedom via The Holy See. To threaten, in the vaguest terms, retribution if he didn’t agree to collaborate. To extract a promise from the one man who couldn’t break his word.
But it hadn’t worked out like that. Dietrich had lost his motivation in the presence of the Pontiff with his long eloquent fingers, pallor of sanctity, aescetic features and gaze of total understanding.
The Pope had promised nothing, given no hint of his sympathies. He had handled the exchange with the practised ease of the career diplomat.
And finally Dietrich had kissed his ring a chastened man. Out-smarted by a priest!
But still, Dietrich comforted himself in his hotel room, the Pope had not denied any of his faltering proposals. Cold comfort.
Dietrich swore tersely and, thrusting aside the memory of the humiliating experience, took a green folder from the suitcase. On the first page was a list of eight names. The possible candidates to implement Grey Fox. Not Dietrich himself, nor the other SS conspirators, because they were all soldiers, nothing more, and they intended to fight to the last.
The chosen candidate had to have exceptional qualifications to carry out the most daunting mission of World War II. Bravery obviously — if he was Leibstandarte that went without saying. Authority. Resourcefulness. Unquestioning loyalty to the Führer.
But he had to have more even than these qualities. Much more. He had to be a man whose moral fibre had not been corrupted by the brutality of war. Untouched by cynicism. A man who still believed.
Inside the green folder were reports on the eight candidates. All good men. The finest examples of the Waffen-SS. But only one man had those additional qualities that Dietrich sought.
Now he would have to be put through the tests that the Committee of SS officers had devised. Tests far more exacting than the gruelling training of the SS.
With a thick-leaded pencil Dietrich scored out seven names on the list. The eighth name was Kurt Wolff.
The Russian T-34 tank seemed to have lost its way. It stopped 150 yards from the German foxhole, its 75 mm gun swivelling slowly like the proboscis of some prehistoric animal scenting danger.
The young officer seconded to the 5th SS Panzer, the Viking, raised his head over the lip of the foxhole and cautiously surveyed it.
He turned to the Sergeant crouched beside him. “Do you think they know we’re here?”
“I don’t know, Hauptsturmführer.”
“Then it’s time we let them know.”
“If you say so, Hauptsturmführer.”
The blond Captain with the startling blue eyes looked at the T-34 — perhaps one of the survivors of Kursk, the greatest tank battle in history — through a pair of captured Russian binoculars. No movement except the slowly rotating gun.
“A pity to lose a fine specimen like this, Unterscharführer.”
“You are not suggesting we capture it?” the Sergeant asked. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about this laconic young officer, the embodiment of the Teutonic dream, who had so mysteriously arrived in the midst of the exhausted Viking, now in full retreat towards the Dnieper, the last natural barrier before the Polish border.
Ordinarily he would have assumed that he was a fanatic, dispatched from headquarters to bolster morale. My God it needed bolstering! The Viking had been fighting since the invasion was launched over the River Bug on June 22nd, 1941. More than two years in this bastard wilderness that the Ivans called Mother Russia!
But no, this man was no instrument of discipline, instructed by generals skulking far behind the sound of gunfire. This man was a soldier, albeit a rash one. There was the Knight’s Cross at the throat of his tunic, open at the neck, and a Silver Wound Medal, and a scar on his cheek which the Sergeant recognised as the furrow from a bullet.
Nevertheless he was an enigma. The scar long healed, the tunic miraculously well-preserved, standing out