Cauldron

CHAPTER 37 Collapse

Deployed in a wedge formation, fifteen M3 Bradley fighting vehicles and M1 tanks rolled southwest. They were moving through a flat, drab countryside dotted by beet fields, small orchards, and gray slag heaps. Tiny helicopters flitted ahead of them, climbing only to clear power lines — OH-58 Kiowas probing for the first signs of any EurCon force. Behind the scouts, shark-nosed Apache gunships flew even tower, ready to pop up and unleash salvos of deadly, laser-guided Hellfire antitank missiles. The Belgian border with France lay just twenty kilometers up the highway.

Hundreds of M1tanks and M2 infantry fighting vehicles, the rest of the U.S. 1st Cavalry Division, were further back, moving in columns behind the advance guard. Their presence was signaled by billowing dust clouds and a low, deep, grinding, growling, clanking roar. More dust clouds along the western horizon revealed units of the Belgian Army advancing alongside the Americans.

Riding with his turret hatch open, Lieutenant Colonel John Chandler, the commander of the U.S. division’s cavalry squadron, studied his surroundings intently. Eighty-four years before, during one of the World War I’s opening battles, Britain’s khaki-clad riflemen and the Kaiser’s spike-helmeted infantry had clashed at Mons. Thousands had died on both sides. Now, as the century drew to a close, it seemed bitterly ironic that men were still prepared to fight and die across the same bleak, polluted landscape.

Chandler shook his head somberly, listening to the steady stream of reports crackling through his headphones. The French and Germans had started this insane war. If they were foolish enough to fight on against overwhelming odds, he and his troopers would certainly oblige them.

Like a stone and glass phoenix, Germany’s resurrected Reichstag — its Parliament Building — stood almost alone in the vast, darkened expanse of the Platz der Republik. Inside a corner office in the building’s east wing, Chancellor Heinz Schraeder turned away from his inspection of Berlin’s blacked-out skyline. He glanced at the clock on his desk. It was just past midnight. How appropriate, he thought wryly.

He looked up from the clock toward the five grim, determined men standing on the other side of his desk. Germany’s Defense Minister, her Foreign Minister, and the three uniformed service chiefs stood motionless, waiting for his permission to speak. Even in the face of certain defeat, certain formalities had to be observed. “Well, gentlemen?”

“The strategic situation is hopeless, Chancellor.” Jurgen Lettow, the Minister of Defense, never minced words. “Belgium’s defection and the Dutch declaration of war against the Confederation have finished us.”

Schraeder nodded. Together, the Americans, the British, and their new Dutch and Belgian allies now had well over 150,000 troops and nearly two thousand tanks massed within striking distance of Germany’s virtually unguarded industrial heartland. With most of its army tied down in Poland and refusing any orders from higher headquarters, Germany had almost nothing left to throw in their path. Little more than a corporal’s guard of reservists and a single panzergrenadier division. It was not enough.

He cleared his throat. “Then what do you suggest, Herr Lettow?”

“That we seek a separate peace while we still can,” Lettow replied. His companions muttered their agreement. The Defense Minister’s eyes flashed. “We owe the French nothing.”

That much was certainly true, Schraeder thought angrily. Entranced by the man’s vision of a Europe united under French and German influence, he’d backed Nicolas Desaix down the line — only to have his trust betrayed at every turn. The secret negotiations with the Russians had demonstrated only too clearly that France was perfectly willing to sacrifice Germany’s vital strategic interests for its own short-term gain. And the murderous French attack on the 7th Panzer’s headquarters only confirmed what many Germans already suspected: France viewed its ally not as an equal partner, but instead as a puppet to be used, bled white, and then contemptuously discarded.

Still he hesitated. Too much of his own political prestige and power was bound up in the French alliance. Could he afford to walk away from Desaix so lightly?

Lettow leaned across the desk. “I speak for the rest of the cabinet and for the armed forces, Chancellor. Abandon this absurd alliance and this lost war before it is too late.”

Again, heads nodded their agreement. Every man in the room knew only too well the horrible price Germany had paid for her last military defeat.

Schraeder slumped back in his chair. “Very well.” His shoulders bowed. “What must I do?”

“Sign these orders.” Lettow began laying documents in front of him.

Suddenly weary beyond his years, the Chancellor paged through them. The first formally notified Paris that Germany was withdrawing from all its treaty obligations as a member of the European Confederation. The second authorized the Foreign Minister to open immediate peace talks with the Combined Forces. The third and final document instructed the country’s two railway systems — the Deutsche Bundesbahn and the Deutsche Reichsbahn — to halt all supply shipments to French forces in Germany or Eastern Europe.

Moving slowly, almost unwillingly, Schraeder uncapped his fountain pen and scrawled his signature across the bottom of each page.

Before he’d put his pen down, one of the waiting officers picked the orders up and hurried out of the room. Lettow tossed another piece of paper onto the desk. His voice turned ice-cold. “You have one more document to sign, Chancellor.”

Schraeder stared down at it. “What is this?”

“Your resignation.”

“Movement to the front!”

The shout woke Reynolds from an after-lunch siesta. Two days of relative peace and quiet made the sudden warning almost as startling as it would have been during his first days in Poland, but his reflexes were still solid. In seconds he was out the CP’s door, weapon in hand.

The rest of Alpha Company’s soldiers were just as fast. They dove into foxholes and readied their weapons, all the while scanning the ground to their front for signs of the approaching enemy. Or was “enemy” still the right word? The scuttlebutt filtering up from the rear areas said that EurCon was breaking up.

Was the war really over? Reynolds wasn’t sure, but with the practical cynicism of a combat soldier, he’d decided he wouldn’t let down his guard until he had definite proof.

The CP was fifty meters back from the center of Alpha Company’s sector. Reynolds covered the distance in what seemed like three strides.

Sergeant Robbins reported as he slid into position, “We’ve got a single Marder cruising up the road, Captain. Nothing else.” He managed to shrug, even while tracking the vehicle on binoculars.

Reynolds lifted his own field glasses. The German APC was roughly five hundred meters away and still closing. “Tell the company to stand to. No chances.”

The Marder was just coming into Javelin range. Whatever the bastards inside wanted, if they made trouble, they’d have a short life and a violent death.

He studied the vehicle, as if its steel sides could tell him the intentions of the people inside. In a way, they could, because as the Marder drew near, he saw that its turret and 25mm cannon were reversed, “Pass the word to Battalion. I think they want to talk.” Now Reynolds was almost sure the Germans had peaceful intentions. Either that or they had a strong death wish.

The Marder stopped well short of their positions, about a hundred meters out. Two officers in German battle dress got out, carefully walking down the lowered rear ramp. One was tall and thin, but looked fit. He wore the green beret of armored infantry. The second German was shorter and older. His beret was black, indicating a tank unit. Although they appeared to be unarmed, both men were wearing standard-issue flak vests.

They strode forward confidently, heading straight for the 2nd Platoon’s positions. Fighting his instincts, but convinced he was right, Reynolds climbed out of the foxhole. Accompanied by Sergeant Robbins, he walked out to meet them. He kept his own M16 cradled casually under his arm. During Alpha Company’s two bloody encounters with the Germans there had been winners and there had been losers. He wanted to make sure they knew which was which, He stopped a few paces away and regarded the two Germans carefully. A few years back he would have been saluting these guys as senior officers in an allied army. A few days ago he might have shot them on sight.

The taller man spoke first, in hard-edged, accented English. “Good afternoon, Captain. I am Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm von Seelow, commanding officer of the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade. This is General Karl Leibnitz, commanding officer of the 7th Panzer Division. We would like to speak with your division commander. We are here to arrange a temporary cessation of hostilities while our respective governments negotiate a more permanent peace.”

Reynolds stared back, scarcely able to believe what he’d just heard. For once, the rumors were true.

On the edge of London’s Piccadilly Circus, CNN’s lead political correspondent stood against a backdrop of revelry. “Like a gigantic block party, the celebration in Piccadilly continues nonstop. As EurCon collapses like a house of cards, the news of each country’s defection provides new energy and new celebrants.”

The image changed to show an overhead view of the crowd.

They filled the square, with the statue of Eros rising like a maypole in their midst. A close-up showed exultant Londoners in every kind of dress, waving and cheering, dancing either to the music from nearby radios or to no music at all.

The picture switched back to the reporter. “Right now, the crowd is celebrating news of Austria’s decision to withdraw from EurCon. The Austrian move was expected last night, but apparently it required what a government spokesman termed ‘a change in internal political alignments.’ Others might call it a coup d’état.”

A map of Europe appeared with EurCon’s prewar member states colored red. “Starting with Belgium three days ago, nation after nation has withdrawn from the French-dominated European Confederation.

“Belgium’s decision to switch sides rocked the continent.” Belgium flashed from red to blue. “But then Germany dealt the Confederation a body blow.” It changed color as well, leaving only France and a scattering of small red blots across the map.

“Since then, all the smaller states, either yielding to internal pressures or free of EurCon restraints, have jumped on the Combined Forces bandwagon.” As he spoke, countries turned blue in sequence, until only France was left, alone.

Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky and Oskar Kiraly drove slowly up the designated road. It led through a forest just north of Tatabanya, a city roughly sixty kilometers west of Budapest. Presumably the area was crawling with French soldiers, but none were visible. Though neither said anything, that made them wary. Despite French assurances, weeks of war had made the two men suspicious and bitter. Even so, with EurCon destroyed, Hungary was on the brink of victory.

Obeying Berlin’s stringent orders, the remaining German troops inside Hungary were withdrawing peacefully — guaranteed safe conduct and assistance in leaving the country. Eager to see the last of them, Hungarian military police units were even providing traffic control for the 10th Panzer’s vehicles as they headed west.

The German retreat left the EurCon IV Corps’ two small French divisions alone and isolated. Austria’s defection left them unsupplied.

Hradetsky permitted himself a small smile. The French had their backs right against a cliff. Now it was time to push them off.

“Halt!” French soldiers emerged from the woods and waved them to a stop. They left their own vehicle in a clearing and rode the rest of the way in a jeep, accompanied by a grim-faced French lieutenant. More troops mounted in an AMX-10 APC pulled onto the road and followed the jeep.

Hradetsky suspected that this was all part of an attempt to intimidate them. Knowing what he knew, it didn’t work. He looked over at Kiraly. The broad-shouldered blond man was smiling, almost gleeful.

IV Corps headquarters was a textbook model of efficiency. Carved out of the forest, fully camouflaged, and heavily defended, it looked like an important and busy place. It impressed Hradetsky, and Kiraly, with his army background, nodded approvingly, but there was still the hint of a smile on his lips.

The jeep stopped, and they were escorted to a tent in the center of the compound.

General Claude Fabvier waited for them, seated at a folding table. The short, lean man’s camouflage battle dress was neatly creased. As he rose to greet them, Hradetsky saw the briefest of scowls pass over the Frenchman’s face, but that was quickly replaced by an expression of studied indifference.

Fabvier seemed a little impatient. “All right, gentlemen. As you can see, we are all here. Now, what is it that you wish to discuss?”

“Your surrender,” Hradetsky shot back. There was anger in his voice, more than he had intended to reveal. Fabvier had led the invasion of his country. Apart from Nicolas Desaix, this French general was the man most responsible for Hungary’s pain.

Fabvier flushed beneath his dark tan. He silently motioned the Hungarians to seats at the other side of the table.

As the three men sat, the Frenchman set his jaw. “It was my understanding that this meeting was to arrange my corps’s withdrawal from Hungary.” A little of his own anger crept into his voice.

Hradetsky shook his head. “Not quite, General. Our message requested a meeting to discuss ‘the peaceful departure of the troops remaining on Hungarian soil.’ That is not quite the same thing. Certainly you didn’t think you’d be allowed to leave so easily — not after invading our country.”

Fabvier’s eyes narrowed. “I am prepared to withdraw unmolested. I am not prepared to surrender. We can cut our way out through your precious land if need be,” he warned.

Oskar Kiraly shrugged, speaking for the first time. “A brave sentiment. But we know your supply status. You’ve got less than twenty thousand liters of fuel, barely enough ammunition for one short battle, and you’re already forced to send foraging parties out to scour the countryside for any food they can find.” His smile reappeared.

Fabvier sat, impassive and silent, showing neither agreement nor disagreement with Kiraly’s figures.

Hradetsky leaned forward a little, pressing home the point. “You’ve got just enough gas for an uncontested road march to the Austrian border. But what then? The Austrians have turned against you, too. Besides, you know you’d never make it that far.”

Kiraly nodded. “We have two motorized rifle divisions, also fresh and rested, dug in along the roads east of here. More Hungarian and Slovak units are moving into striking range. You are already outnumbered. Within hours, you will also be completely surrounded.”

Fabvier sat silent, his head bowed.

“Here are our terms, General.” Hradetsky removed a document from his jacket pocket. “Your troops will disarm and assemble in areas we designate. They will turn over all their equipment intact, down to the last radio and pistol. Only personal gear — clothing, bedding, and the like — is exempt. Your tanks and guns will be partial compensation for what you’ve destroyed here.

“In return, we will transport you and your men to the Austrian border. We will also grant all French soldiers immunity from prosecution under Hungarian law.”

“What?” Fabvier exploded. “How dare you threaten us with prison! We are at war — ”

Kiraly interrupted him. “Many of your men have committed what could be considered war crimes, General. Your own hands aren’t clean, either. Summary execution of hostages, demolition of homes by the occupying forces…”

“Make up any charges you want. That’s the right of the winning side,” Fabvier snarled.

Hradetsky ignored the dig. “What will it be, General?” he demanded. “Will you yield or will you throw your men’s lives away to save your own pride?”

“Your soldiers will die, too.”

“We’re used to it,” Hradetsky said coldly.

Fabvier looked at the two implacable Hungarians, then away from them as though a solution to the dilemma they posed might lie off to one side. It didn’t. “Very well, we will disarm,” he said, refusing to face them.

Six hours later, 25,000 French troops marched into temporary captivity. Tens of thousands more left stranded in Germany and Poland met the same fate before nightfall.

Abandoned by his closest associates and subordinates, Nicolas Desaix sat alone in his private office. Ever the opportunist, Morin had vanished as soon as the news of Germany’s defection reached his desk. Guichy was dead. Shamed by failure and fearful of the future, the Defense Minister had shot himself after learning that all French units in Germany and Eastern Europe had capitulated.

Desaix grimaced. Both the DGSE chief and the Defense Minister had chosen a coward’s way out. He had not yielded so easily. For hours he had worked frantically, trying his best to restore order — to salvage something for France from the wreckage of his ambitious schemes. He had failed.

His orders were ignored. His telephone calls went unanswered. France was tired of Nicolas Desaix and all his works.

Not that there was very much he could have done anyway, he reflected sourly. Spread thin from the Mediterranean to the Channel ports, the tattered remnants of the French Army and Air Force were no match for the armies arrayed against them. At last report, U.S., British, and Belgian troops were already past Cambrai, advancing cautiously toward Paris against pitiful resistance. Most Frenchmen seemed content to sit at home waiting for a change of government — whether imposed from the outside or altered from within.

Cloaked in his own despair, Desaix barely noticed the four tough-looking men file in from his outer office. Even wearing civilian clothes they couldn’t hide the air of complacent authority common to policemen or special security agents.

“You are M. Nicolas Desaix?” one of the men asked in a bored, unhurried voice.

Desaix glanced up sharply. Idiots! Who else would he be? His fingers drummed sharply on his desk. “I am.”

“Then I must inform you that you are under arrest.”

Something of his old fire flashed through Desaix. He drew himself up haughtily. “I am a minister of the republic! By whose authority do you arrest me?”

In answer, the senior plainclothesman handed him a sealed warrant.

Signed by all his cabinet colleagues except for Guichy and Morin, it also bore the signature of the President. Desaix stared down in utter astonishment. Having at last nerved themselves to act against him, the little worms had even roused Bonnard from his senile torpor long enough to plant this dagger in his back. Determined to save themselves, the President and the others were throwing him to the wolves.

Numbed by constant disaster, Nicolas Desaix allowed his captors to lead him out to a waiting unmarked car.

His downfall preceded the complete collapse of the French Fifth Republic by only a matter of hours.