Authors: Robert Conroy
Ulbrecht smiled.
“You should envy me, lieutenant.”
“Why?”
“Because my war is over, while yours is just beginning.
Once your people are through interrogating me, I’ll be sent to some pleasant camp in Kansas or someplace where I’ll be fed and sheltered.
Perhaps I’ll be granted parole and allowed out of the camp where I can meet people, perhaps even lovely young American girls who might find a cultured and handsome German fascinating. And what will you be doing besides getting another plane and preparing to put your life at risk once more?”
“Prick,” Tony said and the German laughed.
“So we're going to settle into another Sitzkrieg?” asked Grant.
He was referring to the protracted period between the declaration of war between France and England on one side, and Germany and Italy on the other.
They had spent long months in what was also known as the “Phony War,” staring at each other until the Germans launched their deadly assault on France, Belgium, and the Netherlands.
“Can’t be helped,” Downing answered.
They were in the kitchen of Downing’s house and the colonel was making cocktails. Missy and Alicia were in the other room.
“We aren’t ready to launch a real invasion of Ontario and won’t be for a couple of months.
The newspapers and radio commentators like Walter Winchell are going crazy, so I hope nobody gets stampeded into doing something rash.”
“Rashness costs lives,” said Alicia, as she came in for her drink.
The men were clearly taking too long making them.
“Are we being rash?” Tom asked.
“With our marriage, that is.”
He still couldn’t believe that Alicia had agreed to marry him, and that the ceremony would take place the next Saturday.
Her parents were on their way in and, while hurried and lacking some of the traditional elements, it would be a real wedding.
She’d even found a woman to make a basic but lovely white dress.
General Truscott had used some pull and gotten use of a cottage overlooking the Chesapeake for a week.
He’d assured both of them that the war would go on despite their absence.
“Not rash, dear,” she answered.
“In this chaotic little world we live in, it would be rash to not take advantage of every opportunity for a life together.”
“However short?”
“That’s right,” said Missy.
“Make hay while the sun shines or something like that.”
She was just a little drunk.
“Never look back, never have regrets.
Mark and I never have.”
Her husband mockingly glared at her.
“I prefer you call me colonel in the presence of others, madam.”
Missy smiled sweetly.
“Screw you, beloved colonel.
Oh dear, my vile tongue has gone and betrayed the fact that I’ve lived on army posts for twenty-odd years.”
Tom and Alicia stepped outside.
The night was crisp, which was a wonderful excuse for holding each other tightly.
“Do you think it will be warm enough for us to swim in the Bay?” she asked.
“I wasn’t planning on going outside,” he said as he slipped his hand onto her breast.
“Well, that makes two of us.”
Guderian quickly realized that he had not been invited to a normal conference with his fellow general.
Instead, something was terribly wrong.
He kept his face impassive as the motorcycle was driven down a dirt path to a tent that was clearly marked with a Red Cross on the top.
He thought about asking the driver about von Arnim’s condition, but decided that the young man probably didn’t know much at all.
When it stopped, he eased himself out of the sidecar.
He ached from the cramped space, but tried to keep it from showing. Guderian was relieved to see a familiar face emerge from the tent, an anxious looking Koenig.
“How is he?” asked Guderian.
“Very bad, general.
His vehicle was bombed and he was thrown from it.
From what we can figure out, he hit his head on a tree.”
Guderian nodded and pushed his way inside the tent.
He was met by a man in a doctor’s smock who introduced himself as Doctor Rinaldi, and that he was part of the Italian detachment sent by Mussolini to show his support for the Reich.
The doctor spoke passable German.
“Your general is unconscious.
We took x-rays and concluded that he has a depressed fracture of the skull, along with some cracked ribs and a broken leg.
I can show you the x-rays if you’d like.”
Guderian did not wish to see them.
“Will he live?” Guderian asked softly.
Rinaldi shrugged.
“If we can give him nourishment, yes, but the proper questions should be when will he recover and how well will he recover.
The answers to those are simple – we don’t know.
He is not responsive and we believe he is in a coma.
Some people come out of them and some don’t, living forever like a vegetable.
Some others come out perfectly normal and others recover as little children who have to learn everything all over again. His recovery is in God’s hands.”
If there is a God, Guderian thought as he entered the screened off area where von Arnim lay motionless on a bed.
His leg was in a cast, which was bad enough, but his skull was heavily wrapped in bandages.
Only the lower part of his face was visible.
Guderian wanted to ask how they were sure it was von Arnim, but held his comment.
“Koenig, how many know about this?”
“Just a handful, I hope, and they’ve been sworn to secrecy. Realistically, I can’t be certain that there aren’t others who know, or that those who do know won’t talk.”
Guderian agreed with the realistic assessment.
“And as the days go on, more will certainly find out.
This cannot be kept a secret forever.”
He especially wondered how long before the Italian army doctor informed his fellow doctors, or how long before he needed their input to care for his patient.
Mussolini had sent a division of infantry to help hold Canada and they had been an utter disgrace.
Arriving a month before the start of the war, fully a third had deserted in the first few days and simply crossed the border.
The joke went – if you seek the Italian army, check Manhattan.
They were followed by even more of their compatriots to the point where only a couple of thousand were left and von Arnim had sent them to Ottawa, which was much farther away from the tempting American border.
Guderian wondered how resentful Rinaldi was that he was in a war in Canada and not home in Italy.
He would arrange for a German doctor to take over caring for von Arnim.
“We cannot keep a secret,” Guderian said.
“Koenig, draft an announcement to the army and I will prepare one to send to Hitler and the OKW in Berlin.
The messages will simply state the truth – General von Arnim has been seriously wounded and it will be a while before he recovers.
In the meantime, I will assume command over all German forces in Canada.”
Koenig nodded and started to leave.
“However,” Guderian continued with a wry smile, “if those in Berlin think one of von Arnim’s subordinates is more qualified, I will step aside.
Or, if they wish to send someone from Germany, like that arrogant jackass Rommel, they are welcome to try to run the blockade the Americans are setting up as we speak.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sam Lambert was exhausted by the time he finally arrived home.
He lived in a small frame house a couple of miles north of downtown Toronto.
It wasn’t a very nice house and it wasn’t in the best part of town, but it was what he could afford on a cop’s salary.
He’d been saving up for a better place, but now wondered if that day would ever come.
He was distressed that his city was on the verge of chaos.
Thousands of people had already fled Toronto on what they felt was the logical assumption that it would be a target for American bombers.
Lambert wasn’t quite so certain.
He thought the Yanks would be after military targets, rather than civilian ones.
Toronto was one of Canada’s largest manufacturing centers, if not the largest, but most of those businesses made goods for the civilian sector.
Of course, he thought, they could be converted to military use in short order should the Germans demand it.
They couldn’t make tanks, but they could make small weapons and ammunition.
The absence of so many people had led to a degree of anarchy among those who remained.
Many of them didn’t have the resources to flee and had nowhere to go anyhow.
There had been cases of looting and Lambert was sure that looting would only increase.
The Black Shirts were having their own little party, robbing businesses and homes and breaking heads.
Some of the fools were actually resentful when police intervened.
They believed that the war rendered them immune from prosecution.
He hoped they weren’t right.
Damn it, he thought as he took a bottle of Molson’s from the fridge.
He would rest, try to unwind, and then go to bed.
He had a feeling tomorrow would be as bad as today.
The knock on the door startled him.
He got up and walked over warily, first making sure that his service revolver was tucked in his belt.
“Who’s there?”
“Sherry, now open up.”
Sherry?
Who the hell was Sherry?
Somewhat confident since it was a woman’s voice, he opened the door a crack.
A short blonde woman about thirty stood before him.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sorry, but I don’t.
Should I?”
“I guess I’m not surprised.
My name is Sherry Piper and the last time you saw me I had been beaten and raped, and was lying naked and bloody on a stretcher.
My brother was even more terribly beaten as well.
Now please let me in.”
Sam opened the door enough for her to enter, closing it quickly once she was in.
Now he did recognize her, sort of.
She had lost a lot of weight and had died her hair a gaudy blond that did nothing for her.
There was a vivid white scar on her cheek, a reminder of the beating and worse she’d endured.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why?”
He took a deep breath.
That night had upset him terribly.
“That we couldn’t get there in time.
Our source in the Black Shirts couldn’t get us the info until the attack was about to happen.
As it was, I could only get six guys together and only four of us had weapons.”
“But you did manage to kill two of them.
Now I’d like to kill some more.
First, however, get me one of those things in your hand.”
Lambert grinned.
He’d picked up his beer when he closed the door.
He got her a Molson and opened it for her.
She declined a glass.
“Don’t tell me I’m looking well,” she said.
“I can’t stand being patronized.”
“How’s your brother?”
Her expression changed to one of deep sadness.
“He’s dead. He killed himself.
He was filled with irrational shame that he was the cause of what happened to us, to me in particular.
He kept telling me that he visualized me spread-eagled on the bed and being forced to watch while those bastards raped me.
He felt it was his fault for getting involved with the printing operation, totally forgetting that I was the one who urged him to do it.
Maybe the beating unhinged him.
I just don’t know.
He ate a whole bottle of aspirins one night and never woke up.”