Authors: Robert Conroy
“Of course, sir, there’s also the thought that we have more than enough bomber pilots and planes?”
“What?” Whiteside said incredulously. “That better be somebody’s idea of a joke.”
“Sorry, sir, but it isn’t. There’s a feeling among air force brass that the Nazis are on their last legs and that victory is just around the corner, so a lot of pilots and trainees are being declared superfluous and transferred to other branches. Obviously, top brass doesn’t talk to me, but there are rumors and nobody’s disputing them.”
“Shit.”
“It gets worse. The air force thinks they’re running out of targets.”
“Bull-fuck and double shit,” Whiteside said, his face reddening. “Why don’t they come and ask the guys who are trying to clear Nazis out of the way? They want targets? Hell, I’ll give them a dozen just a few miles away.”
Whiteside again shook his head. “Jesus, what a war. Well, here we are, and, even though you don’t know diddly about tanks, I have no choice but to put you in charge of Headquarters Company B, the position held by your predecessor. You’ll be in charge of setting up the regimental headquarters when we move and for security at all times. The CO is Colonel Stoddard. He’s at division getting orders and you’ll meet him soon enough.”
Whiteside looked through some more papers. “You a college graduate?”
“Not quite, sir. I made it through three years at Michigan State College in East Lansing, Michigan, before I got drafted.”
“Life’s a bitch,” the major muttered. “I ran a hardware store in Cleveland.”
“May I ask what happened to the guy I’m replacing?”
“What happened shouldn’t have. I wrote a letter to his family saying that his Jeep struck a mine and he’d been killed instantly. Of course it didn’t happen that way. He saw a dead kraut officer and tried to take the dead guy’s Luger as a souvenir. Unfortunately, the body was booby-trapped and your predecessor lost his arms and his face. And he didn’t die instantly. He screamed for two hours before medics got enough morphine in him to shut him up. Permanently. Rule number one for rookie officers is don’t go souvenir hunting. I’ll have someone take you to your quarters and you can meet Captain Levin. He’s in charge of Headquarters A Company.”
Morgan was dismissed but had a point to add. “By the way, Colonel. Maybe you don’t want to wish for close-in bomber support.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter what propaganda they’ve been feeding you, but bombers can’t hit anything accurately from high up. If you’re within a couple of miles of the target, you’re in more danger than the krauts.”
“Shit.”
“Frankly, sir,” Morgan said wickedly, “the safest place to be when bombs drop is right at the target.”
* * *
First Lieutenant Phips did what he was told. In the middle of a clammy and rainy night, he gathered the crew of
Mother’s Milk
and they were taken away in two trucks while he rode in the back seat of an army sedan. The trucks were buttoned up and there were shades on the side windows of the sedan. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought that the army didn’t want anybody to see him.
And why not? He was a pariah. On finally making it back to base, he’d had his ass chewed up down and sideways for having broken formation; thus putting both himself and others at risk. He’d endured it because he knew his superiors and peers were right and that he’d committed a major wrong.
Even worse, one of his men had been killed and likely as a result of his stupidity. Phips had been told in no uncertain terms that it might just be a cold day in hell before he ever saw the inside of a plane from the pilot’s seat again. It was further implied that his crew would be broken up and that saddened him. They would pay for his fuckup and that wasn’t right.
Thus, he wasn’t really surprised when the trucks containing his crew went one way and he the other. He’d tried discussing matters with the sergeant driving him, but the sergeant tersely said he was not allowed to talk to him, which further depressed Phips.
After several hours of slow driving through the English countryside, they pulled up in front of a guard post where their papers were scrutinized and the car searched before being sent on. There was a splendid looking country manor house that might have been several hundred years old and it was surrounded by a several dozen large army tents and Quonset huts. To his surprise, they went to the main old building where Phips was hustled down an ornately furnished corridor lined with portraits of distinguished looking people in historic costumes, and finally into a room containing only a couple of chairs. His duffle bag arrived a few moments later and was deposited with a thud by his feet.
A little while later, a full colonel entered and glared at him. Phips snapped to attention and was told to sit down. The colonel was maybe forty and was powerfully built. Phips quickly noted combat ribbons on his chest.
“I’m Colonel Tom Granville with army intelligence and I’ve got a few questions for you. For the record, confirm that three days ago you flew a B17 named the
Mother’s Milk
over Germany, East Prussia to be precise. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“Was your plane alone?”
“To the best of my knowledge, yes sir. At least after we shot down that ME that’d been chasing us all over the place.”
“Good job doing that, by the way. And after killing the ME, you knowingly and intentionally dropped a load of bombs on some buildings you spotted at the last second?”
Oh Jesus,
Phips thought. Despite the antiaircraft fire they had hit a school, or a convent. He visualized dead and maimed children. He swallowed. “Yes, sir. We dropped the bombs to save on fuel and the buildings were the first things we saw.”
“Any idea just what the hell you hit, Lieutenant?”
“No sir. One of my crew said it was Germany so it didn’t much matter and I agreed. We just had to lighten our load so we could get home.”
The colonel’s grim-set mouth flickered. Was that a smile? Maybe he hadn’t hit a school. Granville continued. “Well you certainly did hit Germany and you did make your way back, and you did shoot down that ME, and now we don’t quite know what to do with you.”
“Sir?”
“Without divulging our sources, let me say that we now know that Adolf Hitler was at one of his secret headquarters in Rastenberg, Prussia, when a lone American B17 bomber flew low over the compound and dropped a load of bombs on his ugly fucking head.”
Phips jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah, Lieutenant, oh my God. Germany has just announced that he was injured in a one-plane bombing attack. However, we are getting subtle hints that his Fuhrer ass is dead and that his unlamented demise will be announced in a few days. This delay will give the new Nazi regime a chance to get settled. The krauts are saying it was a Jewish-American conspiracy to murder Hitler. However, we know better, don’t we? It was just one dumb, lucky son of a bitch in a lost B17 who dumped a load of bombs to save fuel and hit the jackpot.”
“And you’re sure I did it?”
“Yes we are and, until this all gets sorted out, you and your crew are going to be kept incommunicado. We don’t know whether to give you a medal for maybe killing
der Fuhrer
or court-martial your ass for breaking formation and maybe for losing a crewman. Maybe we’ll do both. A medal would look good on prison fatigues, don’t you think?”
Granville rose and Phips did as well. “In the meantime, you will stay here in utter squalor in this sixteenth-century building that might have housed Queen Elizabeth at some time. Try not to break anything. Sleep in, eat all you want, drink all you can find, and keep your mouth shut.”
“And my crew, sir?”
“I will be debriefing them shortly and you will all be reunited, hopefully to live happily ever after.”
CHAPTER 3
HEINRICH HIMMLER had always been a loyal supporter of Adolf Hitler. He had joined the Nazi party in its early days and had worshipped. The Fuhrer had given the former fertilizer salesman and chicken farmer’s life a sense of meaning. Himmler had flourished as head of the SS and the Gestapo and now he was one of the most important men in the Nazi hierarchy.
But Adolf Hitler was dead and there was much for Himmler to do if he wished to live to a ripe old age in a Nazi cult that didn’t mind killing off rivals. First, the Fuhrer’s legacy must be sustained, even improved on, despite the difficult times ahead, and that called for strong leadership. Hermann Goering was not capable of such strength. The First World War fighter ace and one-time confidante of Hitler was in virtual disgrace as a result of his incompetence as commander of the Luftwaffe, his ineptitude as an administrator, and his looting of museums to provide art work for his disgusting and decadent pleasure palace at Carinhall. Goering was addicted to drugs and alcohol, further impairing his limited abilities. Still, the obese fool considered himself a major participant in the Reich and the heir to Hitler.
Himmler had sent SS troops to Carinhall ostensibly to protect Goering from a possible coup. Instead, they’d taken him prisoner and had him sent to a small private hospital outside Berlin where he was under heavy guard. Goering, of course, was too far gone in a narcotic fog to realize what was happening to him. He would stay in the hospital and in a drugged stupor until a decision was made regarding his future.
Martin Bormann, Hitler’s secretary and party chancellor, held power only while Hitler lived. Himmler had taken steps to isolate Bormann. He was held in protective custody by another SS detachment. Himmler was exacting sweet revenge against the man who’d plotted against him and tried to humiliate him in front of Adolf Hitler. Sadly for Bormann, Bormann had forgotten that while he had great influence with Hitler, it was Heinrich Himmler who had a private army.
As further security, Himmler had brought in one of his favorites, SS General Sepp Dietrich, who had raced to Berlin with several thousand SS soldiers. Berlin was secure. Whether Hitler’s death was an accident of war or an assassination from within, no one but he would take advantage of the situation.
His secretary tapped on his door and informed him that Field Marshal von Rundstedt and Foreign Secretary Joachim von Ribbentrop were ready. Himmler preferred small meetings. Large groups, in particular during these uncertain times, drew attention and could lead to panic among the people.
The field marshal and the diplomat seated themselves and stared at Himmler with differing degrees of expectation and deference. Von Rundstedt was an aristocrat, while Ribbentrop presumed to be one. Like most aristocrats they looked down on Himmler and ignored the fact that Himmler’s godfather had been the prince of Bavaria, a fact that was important only to Himmler.
Himmler began. “Gentlemen, let me begin with the obvious. Our beloved Fuhrer has been brutally murdered by an American-British-Jewish conspiracy. Steps are being taken to track down and destroy the perpetrators and they will succeed. Several diplomats and even some generals are involved and will be dealt with severely. However, we have a tremendous duty ahead of us. We must win the war.”
Rundstedt nodded. “It is also an opportunity.”
“How so?”
Himmler could see the older man choosing his words with care. Hitler might be dead but it was still dangerous, possibly even fatal, to criticize him. Many generals, Rundstedt included, had been critical in the past. Rundstedt had criticized Hitler openly, mocking him as a “Little Corporal” in reference to Hitler’s First World War rank, but had carefully not crossed the line into treason.
Rundstedt smiled slightly. “Hitler is dead; thus, we will no longer have his brilliant intuition and inspiration to guide and inspire us. Instead, we must depend on our more pedestrian intellects to get us through the growing crises.”
Well said,
Himmler thought, even if it was a bald-faced lie. “I am aware that the professional military disagreed with the Fuhrer on many occasions,” Himmler responded, “but had always acquiesced in the end. And look what it got us—France, Poland, and much of the Soviet Union.”
Rundstedt laughed harshly, more confident that his comments hadn’t been rebuffed. “It got us lands that the Soviets and the Americans are rapidly taking back from us. If we are not careful and if we do not act quickly, the Third Reich will become a footnote in history, and we will all be dead or prisoners.”
Himmler flinched, but he could not disagree. It was exactly what was preying on his mind and the field marshal was correct. On the other hand, Ribbentrop’s face showed shock.
“Then what should we do, Field Marshal?” Himmler asked. “How can we attain victory?”
“It may depend on how you define victory, Reichsfuhrer. If you mean forcing Russia, the United States, and Britain to the surrender table, such is not likely. If you define victory as the survival of Germany, the Nazi Party, and we here, then yes, that definition of victory is attainable. However, in order to do that, I am afraid that we will have to take some steps that are repugnant and even go against what our late Fuhrer has directed.”
Ribbentrop, attempting to be the diplomat, regained control of himself and kept his face expressionless. This was what Himmler expected. “Go on,” Himmler said.
“In order to defend Germany, I need men and supplies. It is that simple. Right now, many tens of thousands of trained German soldiers are languishing away, far from the field of battle because the Fuhrer declined to give up any ground we’d taken, especially against the Soviets. I suggest that the circumstances have changed and that we must act with decisiveness and haste while there is still time. Our scattered armies must be retrieved and our extended defensive lines shortened.”
Finally Ribbentrop spoke. “You would have us give up our conquered territories?”
“Quite frankly, yes.”
“Other than that, do you have a plan?” Himmler asked.
“In theory and development, yes. However, I am not ready to divulge it without input from Speer.”
Himmler concurred. The young Albert Speer was the Minister for Armaments and Munitions. The capabilities and limitations of the economy were paramount to their plans. “He will attend here tomorrow.”