-men escorted him through the inner gate, and he found himself in an enclosed yard of gravel, not unlike a prison’s exercise yard; and here in the strongish sunlight, which enriched the familiar railroad smell of creosote and of something else, too, probably the river, all the principals of Operation Blau awaited our Führer’s call. General Warlimont, who was Deputy Chief of Operations, greeted Paulus with pleasure, and they shook hands.—And when will we ever be prepared to act in the West? he murmured, to which Paulus did not reply. Now he must bow and click his heels, for his commander, Field-Marshal von Bock, who’d received his baton at the end of the French campaign, came to join them, remarking with a smile that our Führer had been astounded at the number of Aryan-looking females here. Since the tall Field-Marshal was not ordinarily known for his sense of humor, Paulus once again found himself at a loss, but General Warlimont for his part laughed loudly, perhaps because he wished to distract Paulus from his previous, rather unfortunate question. He was known to be gradually losing his access to the Führer.
Well, Paulus, said von Bock, not at all unkindly, have the Russians been keeping you up at night?
Not in the least, Herr Field-Marshal, returned Paulus with quiet pride. Opening his silver cigarette case (a birthday gift from Coca), he offered smokes all around.
Field-Marshal List was there (not quite as well turned out as Paulus), and so were Generals Halder, Hoth, von Kleist (who was not yet a Field-Marshal), Ruoff and all the rest. His own chief of staff, Major-General Schmidt, had been there for several hours already; he’d arrived by a separate Fiesler-Storch. General von Richtofen of Air Fleet Four was there, pacing and biting his lip impatiently, while a hapless little Luftwaffe man with a large briefcase tried to keep up with him. Generals von Greiffenberg and von Mackenson were whispering cliquishly by the perimeter fence, until an -man strolled over to fix an eye on them. The gong rang. Braving the gaunt, brooding glance of Hitler’s adjutant, the generals entered the conference car, set down their briefcases, and sat attentive while the Führer painted them a picture of the wondrous crops which someday would be harvested from the experimental fields of the East. Then it was time to prepare our great drive upon the Volga River. The Führer himself led the way into the map room. Now the generals all stood deferentially around the long table which shimmered so whitely with maps that Russian winter seemed to dwell there; but the Führer strode right up to it and sat down on the edge, frowning down at Maikop, Rostov, Stalingrad, a little whiplike pointer in his right hand as the generals all waited on him, their Iron Crosses and Oak Leaves marking them as ornamentally important personages; and Field-Marshal Keitel, whom everyone referred to behind his back as “the nodding ass,” stood in the corner, grinning anxiously as the pointer began to descend, while Field-Marshal von Bock suddenly grimaced; he suffered from ulcers. General von Sodenstern, his chief of staff, already had a pill ready.—Keitel, is this line ready? the Führer asked sharply.—Yes, my Führer.—All the way to here?—Without a doubt, my Führer, said the poor mediocrity, unable even to see what Hitler might be pointing at; and Paulus stared at the map, so embarrassed on the nodding ass’s behalf that he felt unclean. What would the mission be? In the Führer’s treasurehouse the many triangular flags of the OKH reserves waited black and white on the grey pages of the secret files, ready to be activated and expended; but too many of them were already gone; mistakes had been made last year, which was why Moscow and Leningrad remained uncaptured. No one except the Führer knew for certain how many men had died in the Russian winter; that information was secret. But Warlimont had whispered outside just now that our total losses thus far on the Ostfront were six hundred and twenty-five thousand. Paulus had lost seven hundred men to frostbite alone. The OKH reserves were half spent now. Someday, nobody knew when, the Anglo-Americans would strike on the Westfront, and then the last reserves must be rushed to the point of penetration in France or Italy or maybe Yugoslavia, to halt them without fail. Would the Russian campaign finally be wrapped up by then? Operation Blau must succeed. And now the Führer began to speak. He told them that this area where the Don and Volga rivers kissed was the strategic hinge upon which the entire Eastern campaign might depend. Army Group South, he announced, was to be split forthwith into Army Groups A and B, in order to execute an immense pincer action here and here (two more strokes of the little toy flail). Field-Marshal von Bock, whose balding forehead imperturbably shone above everyone else’s head, would retain command of Army Group B, which consisted of four armies, including Paulus’s Sixth; while Field-Marshal List would lead Seventeenth and First Panzer Armies through Rostov to the oil fields. It was a grand enough goal; but that grandness could scarcely disguise the fact that von Bock had been deprived of part of his command.
To Paulus, who sometimes fell victim to a sensitivity to slights which others received, the announcement was simply agonizing, not only because von Bock was a friend, but also because he was a Field-Marshal—the highest rank to which any German soldier could aspire: second only to the Führer himself! To Paulus, therefore, this capricious alteration of authority seemed demeaning and worse; for a moment he felt positively indignant at the Führer. (To be sure, List was a Field-Marshal, too; doubtless he was also deserving.) Moreover, Paulus believed that once the Supreme Command had set a goal for an Army Group, the Army Group ought to be allowed to achieve that goal in its own fashion. But this was not the Führer’s way, at least not since Operation Barbarossa had begun to go wrong. Von Bock, pale and thin, did not change expression, and Paulus admired him for this. Nor did his chief of staff appear to be at all offended, but then, he was known to be a friend of Keitel’s. Calmly, the tall, skeletal Field-Marshal requested a brief delay in the commencement of Operation Blau in order to finish liquidating some Russian elements around Kharkov…
After the general conference ended, the Führer summoned each commander in turn. To the victor of Kharkov he said: My dear Paulus, I’ve given you an extremely important task. It’s not just a question of annihilating a few more Russian divisions. Any one of my generals could do that.
Paulus experienced a feeling of intense pleasure. He bowed a little, not daring to speak.
The fuel situation is becoming critical, the Führer went on. If I don’t get the oil of Maikop and Grozny, I’ll have to liquidate this war. The political generals don’t understand that.
I understand, my Führer. Sixth Army will carry out its assignment.
That is beyond doubt, said the Führer with a smile. Rising, he pressed Paulus’s hand.
Comprehending that he’d been dismissed, Paulus murmured farewell and had already turned to leave the briefing car when the Führer said: Paulus.
Yes, my Führer.
Don’t worry about being slightly under strength. You know, the losses we suffered last winter had one positive aspect. All the weaklings died. As you go into action this summer, you’ll find that Sixth Army is the better for it. There’s hardly a man left on the whole Ostfront who’s not as hard as armor plate and as fanatical as ten Bolsheviks!
Yes, my Führer.
The Russians can barely stand up. You’ve seen the reports. We’re going to crush them all by the end of this summer. Moreover, we’ll soon have V-weapons in unlimited quantities.
Paulus, still dazzled by the Führer’s praise, did not begin to wonder until later whether among those political generals his predecessor, Field-Marshal von Reichenau, might be included. At von Reichenau’s funeral, as they stood in the niche beneath the immense iron cross, the Führer had laid a hand upon Paulus’s shoulder, murmuring the phrase which daily appeared in the black-bordered section of every newspaper: Ordained by fate our proud sorrow.