Germanica (8 page)

“That is most unusual,” said Dulles over the phone. “Thuggish behavior like that is frowned up on in neutral countries, especially neutral capitals. Well, I guess it’s about time to move you on and out. Tomorrow or the day after, however, I will want you with me when I meet with a Swiss banker. After that, you will be moved to another site. I will tell you more later. You might find what the banker has to say fascinating.”

Of course, Ernie thought. He hated it when Dulles was vague, but he understood—The phone might be tapped. Do not divulge future plans. But what about tonight’s episode? “Sir, what if those two guys are badly hurt, or maybe even more than badly?”

Dulles chuckled. “Then the master race would have to admit that they got the crap kicked out of them by one man. Even if you killed them, which I doubt, the Germans are highly unlikely to complain. If they pressed the issue, I suppose the Swiss could have you declared persona non grata and expelled from Switzerland, although I have no idea where you’d go. There is a war on, after all. No, we’ll get you out of Bern and somewhere more suitable. Is that a problem?”

“No sir.”

“Good and congratulations. I rather felt you had potential. In the meantime, stay where you are and I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

Josef Goebbels had reluctantly come to the conclusion that a pilgrimage to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest at Berchtesgaden was a bad idea. His original thought was to gather all his senior military commanders there for a conference where they would be inspired by the spectacular views. Field Marshal Schoerner had sent a brief coded message that quickly talked him out of it. The Eagle’s Nest had no real military value, so it had not yet been seriously bombed. But the Americans might find out about the arrival of so many high-ranking Nazis and change their mind. American intelligence was often very good, which led some high-ranking officials to believe that there were spies at work.

Schoerner further convinced him that making Generals Vietinghoff and Rendulic travel over dangerous roads was a chance that should not be taken. Along with being away from their commands during this crucial period of time, their vehicles could be attacked by the swarming American fighters. Not all of them could be disguised as ambulances, Goebbels thought ruefully.

Magda had enthusiastically agreed. The sooner they got to the relative safety of the Redoubt the better. “There is no point in going to the Eagle’s Nest and crying over past glories. We must begin to build new ones. And the children are exhausted. I want them someplace where we don’t have to look up at the skies all day and hope that the Amis don’t suddenly decide to destroy ambulances.”

Her husband sometimes wondered if there was any place in the Reich where the Nazi faithful could be truly safe, but the mountains of the Alps would be much safer than riding down country roads. She looked up into the sky. Contrails marked where enemy planes flew with impunity. How nice it would be, she thought, to wipe away the arrogance of the Americans and their corrupt allies, the French and English.

Josef Goebbels caught her looking at the sky. “A few more days at the most and we’ll be safe.”

“The Americans will still bomb us.”

“Where we are going will be too close to the Swiss border. The Americans won’t chance it. Both sides need Switzerland’s neutrality.”

* * *

Assistant Secretary of State Dean Acheson flew to London to visit the U.S. ambassador to Great Britain, John G. Winant. A Republican, Winant had replaced the rich and controversial Joe Kennedy several years earlier, after Kennedy’s pro-appeasement stance had offended so many in England.

The meeting with Winant was brief. It was intended to be. Nobody would think it in any way significant that an assistant secretary and an ambassador had met and talked. The media didn’t bother to cover it.

Thus, no one noticed when the DC3 chartered to the State Department turned south towards France instead of flying directly back to the U.S. The plane landed at a military field near Reims and Acheson was driven to a private home that had been taken over by the Army just so that he and Eisenhower could meet in private. General Marshall had informed Ike that Acheson was going to arrive and that Acheson had his full support.

After the amenities and a bite to eat, the two men sat across from each other at a table. Acheson opened up his briefcase and took out some photographs. Wordlessly, he slid them over to Ike.

“Dear God,” Eisenhower said in shock. “I had no idea he was in such bad shape. These are almost the photos of a dead man.”

The pictures were among the latest taken of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. They showed a man who was frail, shrunken, and gaunt. The photos were in color and Roosevelt’s skin color was a sickly, deathly gray. Ike shook his head. “He looks like a refugee, or someone who has just been liberated from a concentration camp.” He sat back and returned the pictures to Acheson who put them away. “We’ve all known that he is exhausted, but what these show is well beyond that.”

“And that is the point of my showing them to you, General. FDR just began his fourth term. He very strongly felt that, for better or worse, he was the only man who could navigate the U.S. through the end of this war. Now it looks like he won’t make it and that his conceit will likely kill him. Certainly, it is extremely unlikely that he will complete the three plus years remaining in his term. It is, therefore, very likely that he will either die or be forced to resign and Vice President Harry Truman will become President of the United States. FDR does not appear to have much faith in the man. Of course, he never had any use for his previous vice presidents.”

“Truman? I don’t believe I’ve even met the man. I know he was a senator from Missouri and hadn’t been involved in any scandals, or anything else for that matter. But if he is going to be the next president, why in God’s name did FDR choose him?”

Acheson shrugged. “Who knows? Franklin has always treated his vice presidents with contempt. But it gets worse. It is strongly believed that there will be elections in England and that Churchill will lose. The Brits are sick and tired of years of austerity and war and they want a chance at a better life. In particular, they want one without bombs, and without telegrams saying that a loved one has perished. And they do want sufficient food for their children. England is a land that is significantly malnourished. Churchill was, is, a fine war leader and a marvelous symbol of British tenacity, but the consensus is that he would be a miserable peacetime leader. If there is an election, Clement Atlee would then become prime minister.”

Ike recalled Atlee as a colorless and dour man. Would this be the leader of what remained of the British Empire? Relationships with Churchill were often difficult, but at least the man wanted to fight the Nazis.

“There’s nothing we can do about Churchill, is there?”

“Not a thing,” said Acheson. “It is very likely that we will have to deal with Attlee. We don’t know what his stand on the war will be, although we suspect he will want it ended as soon as possible. We hope that doesn’t mean compromises, but who knows?”

“There are other problems,” Ike said as he digested that pronouncement. “I presume you’re aware of my difficulties with the French? Generals Leclerc and de Lattre won’t even speak to each other much less take orders. De Gaulle has threatened several times to pull his army from my command. Only when I threaten to cut off his supplies does he relent and do roughly what we want. Even then his army very liberally interprets our orders to satisfy his needs. I doubt very much that the French will be willing to have their army climb the Alps.”

An aide brought coffee. Acheson sipped and smiled. “This is excellent. Yes, General Marshall is well aware of how difficult the French can be and that leaves the Russians, doesn’t it? Not so long ago, FDR said that Stalin was a man he could deal with. Now the Soviets are stealing everything that isn’t nailed down. They are raping, murdering and plundering their way through Germany and forcibly occupying countries as they go. There will be a big stink about their seizure of Poland, especially from FDR’s Republican opposition, but there’s nothing anybody can do. The Red Army occupies Poland and we cannot push them out unless we wish to start a new war. However, the consensus is that the Reds will actually stop at the Elbe, the demarcation line agreed on at Yalta, and not move beyond. It is further believed that they are even more exhausted militarily and economically than England and France. Only Germany itself may be in worse shape.”

Ike lit a cigarette and drew slowly. It gave him a moment to think. “And now you’re wondering just what I can do to speed up the demise of Nazi Germany. In particular, can it be done in time for us to assist in the invasion of Japan?”

“Precisely. General Marshall wanted me to remind you that invading Japan will require much of your army and will also need to divert supplies to the Pacific theater. The invasion of the home island of Kyushu is scheduled for October of this year and is called Operation Olympic. Operation Coronet, the invasion of Honshu and the attack on Tokyo, is planned for about six months later. The army is scraping the bottom of the barrel and drafting men who were rejected just a few months ago. We cannot sustain your army as well as the large force that will be needed to invade Japan.”

“Mr. Acheson, are you aware that Herr Goebbels is en route to this Alpine Redoubt?”

The normally poised Acheson showed his surprise. “No. Are you certain?”

Ike’s normally cheerful face showed his anger. “Our intelligence intercepted a message saying that he was not going to hold a conference at Berchtesgaden because it would be too dangerous. He was right. We would have bombed the place back to the Dark Ages and the days of Barbarossa. Instead, he said he was going to go directly to the Redoubt. A new Nazi Germany would then arise from the ashes of the Third Reich. I don’t want that. I want Nazi Germany destroyed!”

“General, everyone wishes that. The only question is how in God’s name do we do it?”

* * *

Major Alfonse Hahn smiled coldly. The thin and pale boy standing before him and staring at him was perhaps fourteen. He had either lied his way into the Wehrmacht, or the army was so desperate that it was now taking little children. Sadly, he thought the latter. He was so young that his face was covered with pimples. The boy had not been one of the rabble inducted into the Volkssturm. He had been enlisted in the regular army, which meant he had received at least minimal training. That and his eagerness to serve the Reich would suffice.

“Private Gruber, what do you see before you?”

The boy giggled. “A piece of shit, sir.”

The man kneeling before them with his back to them winced slightly as he heard the two men talking about him. He was so weak and emaciated that he could barely maintain his balance. His eyes were blank and it was clear that the man would die soon if he wasn’t helped, which wasn’t likely. They were in a room in a newly dug cave in the heart of the redoubt and it was cold.

Hahn laughed. “An apt description, Private. Now, specifically what kind of shit do you observe?”

Gruber walked around the man, who barely moved except to shiver from the damp and cold and fear. “From his clothing, or the rags he is wearing, it is obvious that he came from a camp. My guess is Dachau, since we are moving so many of those inmates here to work.”

“What is this man’s crime, Private?”

Gruber glared at the offending prisoner. “He has a pink triangle sewn on what’s left of his uniform. This means he is a homosexual. He is a fag, a queer. He is almost as bad as a Jew.” Gruber looked puzzled. “Sir, is it possible that he is both a queer and a Jew?”

“No. The camp administration ranks crimes and nothing is more serious than being a Jew. Even if he was a Jew and a queer, he would be wearing the yellow emblem. Now, what do we do with shit like him?”

“Send him to the gas chambers, I would hope, sir.”

Does everyone know about the gas chambers and the death camps? wondered Hahn. “Have you ever killed for the Reich?”

“To my sorrow, no.”

Well-spoken lad, Hahn thought. There was no braggadocio about having killed hordes of Soviets. “Could you? Could you kill someone who was right in front of you and someone whose face you could see?”

Gruber began to understand the game. “If it was a piece of subhuman shit like this queer, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Hahn gave the boy a Luger. “Then do it.”

The boy took the pistol, smiled and walked over to the prisoner. He put it to the back of the man’s head and fired. The sound echoed in the cave. The bullet entered the prisoner’s skull and blew out his forehead, splattering brains and blood on the earthen floor. For an incredible few seconds, the dead prisoner continued to kneel, but then collapsed soundlessly. Gruber looked shocked at what he had done and Hahn thought the boy would vomit. That would hardly disqualify him, however. Even the best got sick the first time they killed. He had. Instead, the boy fought for control and won.

Gruber calmly handed back the Luger. “Do you want me to clean it for you, sir?”

“No thank you, Private. I prefer to clean my weapons myself. Now, do you still want to join my elite new force?”

The boy smiled. “I want to be a Werewolf, sir. More than anything else, I want to fight for the Reich and kill the enemies of the Fuhrer.”

“And what if the Fuhrer is dead, killed in the battle for Berlin?”

Gruber’s eyes welled up. His lips quivered as he blinked back the tears. “Then I will fight for whoever follows him. I always knew that Adolf Hitler was mortal. I just didn’t think his end would come so soon. It’s all the fault of the communists and Jews.”

Hahn smiled. Gruber was one of several dozen like him whose fanatical devotion to Hitler and their vision of Germany made them volunteer to be Werewolves. All were young men who were either in their early teens or looked like they were. They’d known nothing more all their lives then to worship their one true god, Adolf Hitler. They all swore that they would be willing martyrs for their god. Hahn stroked the star-shaped red scar on his cheek. He thought that martyrdom was stupid, but if it helped Germany, he would utilize the foolish martyrs.