Read Online Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) by Douglas Niles, Michael Dobson - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Niles, Michael Dobson
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running about half strength with damn little ammunition left. We’ve gotten some ambulances in and the worst of the wounded are out. The first company of engineers has arrived, and they’ll be bridging the river pretty soon.”
The general shook his head in concern. “Frank, get some scouts out around your perimeter and get someone into the highest building that’s still standing. I guess it’ll be that big church. Try to shape what you’ve got into a defensive line.”
“Yes, sir. Any specific threat indication?”
“No, Frank,” replied Wakefield. “Just an old man’s rheumatism acting up.”
“Well, better safe than sorry.”
“You’ve got it, Frank. Listen, I’ll get this typed up as an order of the day, but in the meantime, you should pass this along. Met with the Desert Fox himself, and he sends his ‘personal respects’ to you and your men for fighting ‘courageously and well.’ I concur.”
“Thanks, General. I’ll pass the word. And you can give him my ‘personal respects’ as well. Those were some tough Krauts.”
Wakefield cracked a small smile at the remark. “I’ll tell him. And Frank—”
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s a hot meal on the way.”
“That beats a compliment any old day, General. Ballard out.”
Porter was scribbling rapidly in his reporter’s notebook when Wakefield put down the walkie-talkie. When Wakefield looked up, he stopped writing. “What now, General?” he asked.
“I’m going to get that formal okay I promised the major, and see what else I can do.”
“Do you really expect trouble?” Porter asked.
“I always expect trouble,” growled Wakefield. “Only sometimes it doesn’t happen.”
29 DECEMBER 1944
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC, 1226 HOURS GMT
It was still early morning in Washington, DC, and the day was surprisingly bright for late December, the golden sunlight glinting along the reflecting pool that lay between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Hartnell Stone had chosen to walk the relatively short distance from his apartment in Foggy Bottom to the White House to get a little bit of that sun. Working a regular day, not to mention a long day, in the Washington winter could mean not getting a glimpse of sun for days on end. It had been nice to get out of the White House for a bit; sometimes several days would pass between visits to his apartment. He was freshly showered, freshly dressed, with two cups of coffee in his stomach and his third cigarette of the day in his mouth. The world was his.
It was cold, but not too cold. Stone wore a long navy wool coat over his gray suit. Although he held military rank as an Army major, his regular duties let him wear civilian dress for the most part. His fedora was tilted just slightly to keep the glare out of his eyes; his jet black hair underneath was slicked back in the best style. Freshly polished wing tips clicked along the pavement as he walked briskly along Constitution Avenue.
He turned left toward 17th Street beside the Ellipse. A line of government cars, mostly dull green Fords and Chevrolets with the occasional Studebaker for contrast, filled every available parking space—another reason for him to walk. Although he was a White House staffer, that wasn’t enough to always rate a parking space in Washington, DC. The ability to park wherever and whenever you wanted was the mark of real power in the nation’s capital.
He showed his pass to the Marine guards at the entrance to the Executive Office Building, a huge and ornate building in the French Second Empire style, with columns everywhere. Stone privately thought it was the ugliest building in Washington, especially when set next door to the classically elegant White House. He knew his way around the building, so once past the guards he made his way to the lower level and the passageway that connected to the White House itself.
The morning meeting was to be held in the Cabinet Room on the ground floor. Stone hung
The general shook his head in concern. “Frank, get some scouts out around your perimeter and get someone into the highest building that’s still standing. I guess it’ll be that big church. Try to shape what you’ve got into a defensive line.”
“Yes, sir. Any specific threat indication?”
“No, Frank,” replied Wakefield. “Just an old man’s rheumatism acting up.”
“Well, better safe than sorry.”
“You’ve got it, Frank. Listen, I’ll get this typed up as an order of the day, but in the meantime, you should pass this along. Met with the Desert Fox himself, and he sends his ‘personal respects’ to you and your men for fighting ‘courageously and well.’ I concur.”
“Thanks, General. I’ll pass the word. And you can give him my ‘personal respects’ as well. Those were some tough Krauts.”
Wakefield cracked a small smile at the remark. “I’ll tell him. And Frank—”
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s a hot meal on the way.”
“That beats a compliment any old day, General. Ballard out.”
Porter was scribbling rapidly in his reporter’s notebook when Wakefield put down the walkie-talkie. When Wakefield looked up, he stopped writing. “What now, General?” he asked.
“I’m going to get that formal okay I promised the major, and see what else I can do.”
“Do you really expect trouble?” Porter asked.
“I always expect trouble,” growled Wakefield. “Only sometimes it doesn’t happen.”
29 DECEMBER 1944
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC, 1226 HOURS GMT
It was still early morning in Washington, DC, and the day was surprisingly bright for late December, the golden sunlight glinting along the reflecting pool that lay between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Hartnell Stone had chosen to walk the relatively short distance from his apartment in Foggy Bottom to the White House to get a little bit of that sun. Working a regular day, not to mention a long day, in the Washington winter could mean not getting a glimpse of sun for days on end. It had been nice to get out of the White House for a bit; sometimes several days would pass between visits to his apartment. He was freshly showered, freshly dressed, with two cups of coffee in his stomach and his third cigarette of the day in his mouth. The world was his.
It was cold, but not too cold. Stone wore a long navy wool coat over his gray suit. Although he held military rank as an Army major, his regular duties let him wear civilian dress for the most part. His fedora was tilted just slightly to keep the glare out of his eyes; his jet black hair underneath was slicked back in the best style. Freshly polished wing tips clicked along the pavement as he walked briskly along Constitution Avenue.
He turned left toward 17th Street beside the Ellipse. A line of government cars, mostly dull green Fords and Chevrolets with the occasional Studebaker for contrast, filled every available parking space—another reason for him to walk. Although he was a White House staffer, that wasn’t enough to always rate a parking space in Washington, DC. The ability to park wherever and whenever you wanted was the mark of real power in the nation’s capital.
He showed his pass to the Marine guards at the entrance to the Executive Office Building, a huge and ornate building in the French Second Empire style, with columns everywhere. Stone privately thought it was the ugliest building in Washington, especially when set next door to the classically elegant White House. He knew his way around the building, so once past the guards he made his way to the lower level and the passageway that connected to the White House itself.
The morning meeting was to be held in the Cabinet Room on the ground floor. Stone hung
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