armed conflict.
Rather than being led to the operations center, which didn't surprise Dixon but disappointed Cerro, who wanted to see what his counterparts had posted on their maps, Dixon and Cerro were taken to the commander's office. They were greeted there by the military region commander; the mayor of Bayreuth, chief's of the city and state police for the area, and several other officers and civilian officials standing along the rear wall of the commander's office who were not introduced. The differences between the two groups were stark. Dixon in full battle gear looked and smelled the part of the combat commander just in from the field. The faint smell of diesel fumes that permeated his mud-splattered green, brown, and black field uniform contrasted sharply with the neat, freshly pressed gray dress blouse and tie of the German officers and the somber dark business suits of the city officials. After the principals were offered seats and served coffee, the German commander, Colonel Dieter Stahl, began by asking what exactly the Americans intended to do.
Dixon, hoping that Stahl had done his homework, took a sip of coffee before setting his cup down and answering. 'You have, Colonel, no doubt heard the broadcast transmitted from Pizen by our Armed Forces Radio Network this morning.' When Stahl nodded, Dixon continued. 'That, Colonel, is Lieutenant General A. M. Malin's Fehdebrief to the German people.'
Stahl's smile and nodding head told Dixon that he understood perfectly. The mayor of Bayreuth, however, was unfamiliar with the medieval term and asked Stahl in German what Dixon meant by a Fehdebrief. Apologizing for the interruption, Stahl turned to the mayor and in German explained. 'During the Thirty Years' War and before, when marauding expeditions moved freely about Germany, the leader of the expedition, normally a knight, was obligated under the accepted codes of chivalry to deliver a formal challenge, or Fehdebrief, to the local inhabitants that explained and justified the knight's actions. If the local inhabitants chose not to accept the knight's explanations for his actions as articulated in the Fehdebrief and resisted the knight, that knight, under those rules of chivalry, was free to wage cruel and destructive war on those inhabitants. If, on the other hand, the inhabitants chose to cooperate, the knight was obliged by the same code of chivalry to protect both the persons and the property of the region through which the knight's army passed. In our cold, cruel world of impersonal and scientific warfare, we would call Lieutenant General Malin's Fehdebrief an ultimatum.'
Turning to Dixon, the mayor, whose English didn't match Stahl's, tried to make sure that he fully understood what the American colonel's intentions were. 'You are, then, as I understand this, threatening us. You are telling us that if we do not cooperate, that if we attempt to defend our country against your aggression, you will devastate our communities. Is that the purpose of this Fehdebrief?'
Having anticipated this line of discussion, Dixon had already framed his response. When he spoke, he did so in an even, measured manner. 'Please understand that it is not General Malin's intent to rain death and destruction down on Germany. We are not here to punish. To do so would be a waste of time and resources. It would be counterproductive to our true goal, which is to move the Tenth Corps to the coast where our Navy can evacuate us as a complete and coherent fighting force. You only need to consult with Colonel Stahl, your own military expert. He will tell you that General Malin has neither the resources nor the time to lay waste to your nation
After listening to Dixon's explanation, and while the mayor considered what Dixon had said, Stahl began to carefully probe Dixon while laying out the position he was in. 'You realize, Colonel Dixon, that I am under orders to resist your incursions and contain you as best we can until the Bundeswehr can redeploy. How can I, a soldier like you, do anything other than follow my orders. To do otherwise, to allow you to violate our national sovereignty and do nothing, would be treason.'
Again Dixon was ready. 'Who, Colonel Stahl, would you be betraying?'
Stahl looked at Dixon with a quizzical look on his face before responding. 'Why, I would be disobeying my orders. I would betray Germany.'
Dixon switched tactics. Leaning forward for dramatic effect, he looked into Stahl's eyes as he spoke with a clear, sharp voice. 'Whose Germany, Colonel Stahl? Chancellor Ruff's Germany, the Germany of his dreams and ambitions? The Parliament, who are at this very minute debating the constitutional right of Chancellor Ruff's authority and actions? The mayor's Germany, one of working people and their families who have had no say in the past weeks over Chancellor Ruff's provocative actions and unreasonable demands upon my government? Or your Germany, a theoretical Germany that knows only blind duty to orders and traditions? Who, Colonel, will you be betraying, and, more importantly, what will the cost be to Germany if you do not?'
The mayor looked at Dixon, then at Stahl, as everyone in the room waited for him to respond. When he did, it was obvious that he was unsure of himself, that his comments were as much his thoughts as they were statements. 'How can you possibly expect me to do other than follow my orders? You, Colonel Dixon, are a soldier. You know that we are expected to obey orders and do what we can on behalf of our nations. We are not like other people, free to pick those orders that please us and disregard those that do not suit us. If we were free to do so, anarchy would prevail.'
'We are not, Colonel Stahl, machines. We are not puppets unable to think and act on our own. On the contrary, we are humans, with the ability to think and a conscience to guide that thinking. It is these qualities that we, senior officers in our respective armies, are selected for. While we do have our duty as prescribed by oaths of office, regulations, and orders written in black and white by men in distant capitals, we each are expected to interpret the solemn duties of our office and execute our orders using the high moral and ethical standards that our society has instilled in us.' Dixon paused, leaning back in his seat. 'I myself am guilty of disobeying the orders of my President. She ordered General Malin to lay down our weapons and leave Europe without them. She was wrong in her assessment of the situation and wrong to give such an order.'
Shifting slightly in his seat, Dixon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his hands palms up out toward Stahl. 'While I could easily hide behind those orders and blame her, I know she was wrong and that to follow her orders would have terrible consequences for the United States today and in the future. Just as Xenophon knew in 400 B.C. that it would have been a mistake to disarm his ten thousand and trust the Persian King, every officer in the Tenth Corps knows in their hearts that it would be wrong for us to allow the United States to capitulate in the face of nuclear blackmail. If we follow our President's orders and allow Germany to strip the United States of its military machine, other nations will follow suit. Every petty nation will seek to obtain nuclear weapons, legally and illegally, in order to threaten both its friends and enemies. Yes, I had my orders. But,' Dixon added as he sat upright, bringing his hands to rest on the arms of his chair, 'I also had my duty to those under my command and those we were pledged to defend. In all good conscience, I could not follow orders that were morally wrong. I do not ask you to betray your nation. I ask you to allow your conscience to guide your decision.'
For several minutes there was silence. While the lesser German officials standing in the rear of the room who understood English finished translating Dixon's speech to those who didn't, the mayor looked at Stahl, then Dixon, then back to Stahl. Finally he asked Stahl if he could, in fact, refuse to do as Berlin had dictated.
Stahl studied Dixon's face for several moments before he answered. He knew that the American colonel's response had been well thought out and weighted for maximum effect. Stahl had come to realize that Dixon, though not saying so, had intentionally been hammering away at the question that had been debated in the Bundeswehr since its inception in 1955. The concept that a soldier was honor-bound to obey orders without question had allowed the German Army to be drawn into helping the Nazis create the nightmare that led ultimately to the death of over seven and a half million Germans and the near total destruction of Germany. Revival of the old Prussian concept that an officer was responsible for his actions and was expected to use his conscience in determining right from wrong had been the cornerstone of the Bundeswehr from its birth, its hedge against the recurrence of another nightmare. The American colonel, Stahl saw, was reminding him in a very circumspect way of the terrible results of a war caused by an army that had turned a blind eye to its moral obligations to the people it was pledged to defend. Without publicly rubbing his nose in the crimes of his fathers, Dixon was reminding Stahl of their terrible consequences.
