Chapter 4
Tanner looked through his binoculars at Germany. He was in the upper floor of a two-story hotel located outside the village of Vogelgrun and on the west side of the Rhine. He could see the mist-covered river and Nazi Germany beyond it. The scene looked peaceful, but it was deceptive. Just past the Rhine lay the Siegfried Line. It was said that the wall was obsolete and that the troops manning it were second and third rate, but no one would know for certain until the river was crossed and the defensive line attacked. Tanner had the terrible feeling that the blood price would be very high, regardless of any obsolescence or lack of training.
He handed the binoculars to Cullen. “What I would highly recommend is lining up every artillery tube in the world and pounding the crap out of everything within five miles of the river for a week or two and then sending a thousand bombers over the place to finish the job.”
Cullen nodded. “Sounds like an effective use of military resources to me. Unfortunately, it ain’t gonna happen. Did you happen to notice that there’s not much to see on the other side of the Rhine? Like that bridge at Remagen, the Germans don’t seem to think this part of the Reich is all that important. There’s nothing out there but farmland and that little town of Briesach just to the north.”
Tanner disagreed. “Don’t you wonder just how many of those farmhouses and haystacks are pillboxes and bunkers in disguise? And how many machine-gun nests could be hidden in a field? Give me a bunch of Boy Scouts with water pistols and I could raise hell with anyone trying to cross. The Krauts didn’t help matters by destroying the only bridge in the area. Even if we do get troops across, it’s going to take a long time to rebuild it. In the meantime, we’d have to use small boats and pontoons. And did you notice that the river is running high and fast? And oh yes, the water coming down from the mountains is very, very cold. And unless I’m wrong, those are chunks of ice floating in it.”
The bridge that had once spanned the Rhine was in ruins. The center span was gone, dumped into the river by German engineers. Germany was so unreachable it might as well be on another planet.
“Answer me a question, oh Professor Tanner,” said Cullen. “Are we in Germany or France?”
“Son, this is land that has been shot, fought over, and pissed on for centuries. It was mainly France up until 1870 when the Germans took it. The French got it back in 1918 and then lost it in 1940. I think it’s safe to say that right now the fair city of Vogelgrun is predominantly French. Any Germans who lived there are either running for their lives or keeping their heads down and maybe learning French. There may be a number of Swiss in the town since the border and the city of Basel are so close. And we do want to keep the Swiss happy.”
Despite all the changes in nationhood, Vogelgrun had been spared much of the devastation of war. Only a few buildings had even been damaged. Some collaborators had been beaten and a few hanged, but there had been no orgy of destruction. Nor did they see more than a couple of cases where women who’d fraternized with the Germans had been punished by having their heads shaved or having “whore” painted on their bare breasts.
If it weren’t for the number of armed American soldiers in the streets, Vogelgrun and the neighboring towns could have been quaint tourist destinations. The American army had been greeted enthusiastically and an entire regiment of the 105th had taken up positions fronting the river. Wine and brandy had flowed freely and young French women and even some older ones had been generous with their bodies. Sergeant Hill happily informed them that he’d gotten laid twice. Tanner hadn’t yet been so fortunate. Sometimes he wished he’d kept in touch with his ex-girlfriend back in the States. At least he’d have someone to write to and get letters from. But that relationship had just faded away.
“I just want to keep General Evans happy,” Cullen said as he squinted through his own binoculars. “He wants to cross here and we’re supposed to find boats while he scrounges up a pontoon bridge. Better, he should find a whole lot of pontoons since they have an annoying habit of getting smashed by enemy artillery. I know I don’t see any enemy at all, but you know they are hiding out there and watching us.”
They were distracted by a buzzing sound. They looked to the west and saw a small plane, the army’s version of a Piper Cub, flying low over the far side of the river.
“I wonder whose mad idea this is?” said Tanner.
“Maybe we’ll find out if the Germans are awake,” Cullen muttered.
He had just finished saying that when tracers streaked skyward from several hidden German machine guns, probing for the plane. For a moment, it looked like the plane would dart through the fire, but it was like it was trying to dodge raindrops. The plane was struck by a stream of bullets. It shuddered and started to fall but then rose as the pilot regained a semblance of control. More bullets slashed into its thin fuselage. The plane rolled over and dropped straight down into the ground where it disappeared into a fireball.
“The Germans are alive and well and one pilot isn’t,” Tanner said sadly.
Sergeant Hill had arrived in time to see the plane and pilot die. “Poor bastard.”
In response, American artillery began shooting at targets across the Rhine. Shells exploded near where someone thought they’d seen the Germans fire at the doomed plane.
Tanner looked away from the window. “They don’t know what they’re shooting at. They just want to do something for that damned pilot.”
Shells from the American 105mm howitzers continued to dig up the dirt. The Germans decided they’d had enough. Their hidden guns began firing back. Vogelgrun and the close by city of Muhlbach began to suffer. A shell struck the hotel where Tanner and the others were watching. The explosion threw them to the floor, covering them with dust and debris. Someone in the distance screamed. They smelled smoke. Their hotel was burning.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tanner ordered, and they clawed their way through fallen roofing and walls. Civilians and American soldiers poured from the hotel. Nearby, buildings were burning.
“Why us?” Cullen asked plaintively. “What the hell did we do?”
Tanner ran to a ditch and jumped in. The others followed. The German guns found a nearby American battery of four 105mm cannon and smashed it. Tanner watched in horror as bodies were hurled around like leaves. In the street by their ditch, more broken bodies lay and some of them were burning.
Tanner replied. “Maybe because they saw us in the windows and thought we were artillery observers. Or maybe they were just bored. Maybe they’re just rotten pricks who like to destroy cities.”
More German shells struck buildings in the town and much of Vogelgrun was on fire. So much for it being a tourist destination, Tanner thought. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the Germans stopped firing. So too did the remaining American guns. A few moments of bloody, burning hate and it was over. The surviving American guns from other batteries were towed away out of range of their tormentors. The Germans had won this skirmish. Or had they? If someone was paying attention, they had just given away the positions of many of their guns.
Tanner gathered his small command and they retreated ignominiously out of range or at least out of sight of the Germans. They passed more men from the 105th Division moving in. The battle for Vogelgrun and a Rhine crossing was not over.
When he thought they were safe, they sat on the ground and rested. Canteens were raised and cigarettes lit. “Okay, Sergeant Hill, what the devil did you find?”
Hill took a long swallow from his canteen and poured a little on his filthy head and face. “Well, sir, you sent me out to scout and snoop and I did just that. And you’re right. Just about any boat of any real size was either sunk or dragged over to the other side. However, some very nice people in and around here hate the Germans so much that they’ll be willing to sell us some small boats and tell where some others are being hidden.”
Tanner laughed sarcastically. “Sell? They couldn’t hate the Germans all that much. Still, how many boats are we talking about and what kind of capacity?”
“I think we could get the general a hundred and each could hold a squad. We could get a battalion over with each wave.”
Tanner stood and dusted himself off. “Then let’s gather up all those boats and see what Evans wants to do. At a battalion per wave, it’d take forever to get the division over, much less the entire Seventh Army. He’s trying to scrounge pontoon bridges from Seventh Army and turn this patrol into a major push.”
* * *
Lena watched stoically as the long line of emaciated ghosts moved down the road, headed south towards the mountains. They moved in daylight. They weren’t worried about the American planes strafing refugees. Lena wasn’t so certain. Mistakes had a terrible way of happening, and maybe they weren’t always mistakes. Some Allied commander might just realize that even slave laborers were part of the German war effort and attack them. I could have been one of them, she thought. Perhaps I should have been and it’s still likely I will be.
These were prisoners from the large concentration camp at Dachau and other satellite camps. They all looked gaunt and sickly. Even though it was still winter, they were dressed in rags and many were barefoot. Their eyes were dead and they could barely shuffle. They were being marched south to work on the Alpine Redoubt. She wondered how many of them would make it and how much work they would be able to perform even if they did arrive alive.
They were divided into groups of about a hundred and each group was guarded by members of the Volkssturm, the People’s Storm that had been created by the SS a few months earlier. These so-called soldiers were too old or too young or too sick or crippled to fight in a regular force. This did not stop some of them from being sadists. She forced herself to watch as one prisoner fell and was beaten and kicked until he staggered to his feet. How long would he last? she wondered. A few moments later, she heard a gunshot through the window and knew the answer.
She couldn’t tell if any provision had been made to feed the prisoners. How could starving men work? she wondered. All of Germany was on short rations because of the war and it made macabre sense that prisoners would only get leftovers. But what was the point of marching them somewhere just so they could die? Of course, the Nazis were anything but logical. She was living proof of that. After all, was she a Jew or wasn’t she?
She sensed that Anton was behind her. “You are very fortunate, Lena. You could be one of them.”
“I know,” she said softly. She wanted to cry but would not let Anton see her weakness.
He put his hand on the small of her back and began caressing her. “Don’t do that,” she said.
Anton laughed throatily. He leaned into her and she could feel that he was aroused. “My father only said that I couldn’t fuck you because you are a Jew. Not only do I think that he’ll forget all about that little rule when we have to leave, but I don’t believe in it anyhow. Even if he beats me, I think it would be worth it.”
He slid his hands around and up, cupping her breasts. “Too small. A real German woman would be bigger.”
She reached behind and grabbed his erect manhood. “So would a German man,” she said, squeezing hard and twisting. He gasped in pain and let go of her. She released his penis and pushed him away. “I am now going to help your mother with housework. I strongly suggest that you not try that again.”
Anton held himself as the pain subsided. To her surprise, he laughed, “At least not until a better time.”
He went outside to get a better look at the inmates passing by. He would join other good Germans and abuse them. Spitting on them seemed particularly amusing. Lena watched through a window and realized that she would have to make her decision soon. She already had an emergency package that contained extra warm weather clothing. She would have to add food and other items essential to surviving in the woods. She had never slept outdoors in her life, but that was likely to change very soon. It would be better, she determined, to die in the woods than to be abused by Anton and then sentenced to a living death helping the Nazis.
* * *
Ernie Janek had gone for an evening’s walk. He was taking a break from the intense physical training at the embassy and decided that a beer was in order. Previously he’d gone to a tavern a few blocks away, and decided that a visit to a new one was in order. He had taken a seat and ordered. He had only taken a couple of swallows when he noticed two burly men sizing him up. They had short-cropped hair, which marked them as military, and he was willing to bet money that they were Nazis. Like an idiot he had just stumbled into a bar that was frequented by Nazis. He decided to act like he was drunk. With a clatter, he dropped some change on the table. He staggered outside and into an alley where he leaned against a wall and pretended to pee.
Ernie Janek sensed the presence behind him. He willed himself to stay calm. He would be immobile and not even change his breathing, which was shallow and, he hoped, silent. He was not a large man. There wasn’t room for anyone with any size in the cockpit of a P51. But he was stocky and powerfully built. He hoped the two German goons thought he would be easy pickings.
The presence was to his left. Good. When it was only a couple of feet away, he exploded. He kicked the man in the balls and grabbed him by the throat before he could scream. He punched the man in the temple and felt him go slack. Now where the hell was the other one?
Ernie stepped over the first man who wasn’t moving. The second man looked stunned at Janek’s sudden transformation. Ernie feinted with his left fist and kicked the man in the meat of his thigh with his right foot. He too went down, howling with pain. Janek silenced him by kicking him in the side of the head. He ran back to the embassy. The Marine guards stiffened as they saw him but relaxed a little when they recognized him. He quickly explained the situation and they grinned at the thought of a little action.
He went to his room and called Dulles at his palatial residence on Herrengasse Street. Ernie had been there a couple of times and it really was a centuries old palace.
“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 Eagles 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 Eagles 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.
“Private Gruber, congratulations, you are now a Werewolf. The sergeant outside will send you to your new quarters. Oh, and please tell him to send in some other prisoners to clean up this mess.”