Germanica (19 page)

“Point taken, Ensign. When we’re through we’ll head back and stick much closer to the Swiss shore.”

“Then let me also remind you that the Germans are even more nervous than usual since some American units have made it to the northern shore of Lake Constance. While you might have diplomatic immunity, the Germans can’t see that and might think you are scouting them for an invasion.”

With that, the ensign stepped back on his own boat and went his way.

“That was interesting,” Winnie said after the patrol boat had departed. She ducked into the cabin and emerged in her swimsuit. “If the Germans are watching through their good Zeiss telescopes, they can see what they did to me.”

“You look great, Winnie, and I mean that.” He had not seen all of the bruises on her body, but even he could tell that they were healing. Still, she had taken one hell of a pounding. This Hahn son of a bitch hadn’t missed too much while he was kicking and punching her. It was a wonder that she had been able to walk, much less wait a night in German territory for him to show up and save her. Jesus.

She dived into the water and swam for a few strokes before climbing out. The water glistening on her body made her look like a goddess. “You know what they say, Ernie? That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I can’t recall who said it, but I think it might have been a German. Let’s go back and you can buy me dinner while I quit feeling sorry for myself.”

* * *

This time George Schafer and Bud Sibre were part of a much larger force of American fighters and bombers flying over what the United States insisted was Germany, not what the State Department referred to as the pirate state of Germanica. Several dozen fighters were escorting an equal number of American bombers. There was little concern regarding the Luftwaffe. The German air forces had been almost totally destroyed. The real danger to the planes would come from the countless antiaircraft guns that covered the Brenner Pass and other parts of Germany’s Alpine Redoubt.

“Hey, Bud, try not to lose another plane.”

“Go to hell, Georgie.”

Bud had managed to nurse his wounded P51 until he was less than ten miles from their airfield. He’d bailed out and landed in a farmer’s field. The farmer and his wife had confronted him with a pitchfork and an ax. He had returned the favor by covering them with his .45 caliber pistol. The standoff had continued for about two hours until a truck with American soldiers in it showed up. The farmer and his wife had then become cordial and pro-American, professing that they had only tolerated Hitler because it was necessary to survive.

Bullshit, Bud thought.

At any rate, he’d been driven back to his base where he’d been subjected to some serious questioning. The fact that so many well-hidden guns were in the area was a problem. The German 88mm antiaircraft could hit high-flying bombers while the high-flying bombers could not hit small targets with precision unless they flew much lower. Flying lower, however, could prove fatal.

He’d been given a new plane with instructions that he was to take better care of this one. He’d endured too much ribbing from his so-called friends, although he understood that they were glad he’d made it.

This bombing run would involve no bombs. To the disgust of most of the pilots, they were to escort the bombers who would drop tons of
leaflets
on suspected German positions. The Allied command had even informed the Germans that this would be a paper run and not a bombing run. It was hoped that this would keep their superb 88s from killing them. The fighters were along to keep the Germans honest. Germans honest? They’d all laughed at that.

As they approached the scenic resort town of Innsbruck, bomb bay doors opened and a flood of papers fell out, falling downward like millions of white feathers, or snowflakes.

“Wow,” said George. “That’ll show the Krauts we’re serious about ending this war.”

“I am just stupendously impressed,” Bud said sarcastically. “It just kind of makes me want to surrender myself. With all that paper, they must know how desperate we are to go home.”

In the background, other pilots were making similar comments. They did not like endangering themselves in a propaganda run of dubious merit. Normally, their squadron leaders would be carping at them to shut up the idle chatter, but even they were silent. Let the troops bitch all they want. The next time it might not be so easy.

* * *

Leaflets covered the ground several sheets thick in some places. Wolfgang Hummel and Martin Schubert clambered out of their two man foxhole and ran towards a pile of papers. They scooped them up with both hands and ran back to their dugout and then returned for more.

“What the devil are you doing?” screamed Lieutenant Pfister. “If the Gestapo sees you reading that American propaganda, you’ll get a bullet in the back of the head.”

“They’re probably picking up their own,” laughed Schubert. “Just feel how soft this is.”

The lieutenant grabbed a couple of sheets and squeezed. “By God, you’re right.”

“Not even the Gestapo can complain if we wipe our asses with American reading material,” added Hummel. “Let’s face it, Lieutenant, Germany has been short of so many things and toilet paper has been one of them. My ass is raw from using whatever sandpaper they send us or whatever we can find.”

“Good point,” said Pfister as he reached for some himself. “If anybody asks, tell them that I gave you orders to keep the area clean and to keep this sick propaganda from contaminating younger soldiers.”

The men returned to their little fort where they divided the paper into two scrupulously equal piles. How much each man used each time would be up to him. They jokingly reminded each other to wipe with the inked side out so it wouldn’t run. When they were done, they sat down and read the sheets of paper.

Hummel spoke first. “This one says we’ll get plenty of good food, clothing, and shelter, and we’ll be sent back to our families within a few weeks. Do you believe it?”

“The Americans always have enough food, more than enough if you ask me. So yes, I believe we’ll get better food than we’re getting now. Of course,” he laughed harshly, “I’m not too sure how it could get any worse.”

“But what about getting us back to our families?” asked Hummel. He could not keep a sense of longing from his voice. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We have no idea where our families are or even if they’re still alive. We may never see our families again. The cities have been destroyed and the roads are no longer there. How would we even make the trip?”

Schubert agreed. “True, but how much chance of finding out do we have while we’re sitting on our asses in a dirty hole in what used to be Austria?”

“Then we will continue to try to surrender without getting shot by either the Americans or some Nazi fanatic like Pfister.”

Schubert shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder about Pfister. He has to make a lot of Nazi noises because he’s an officer, but I wonder just how sincere and devout he is.”

“Are you confident enough to let him help us try to surrender?”

“Hell no,” exclaimed Schubert. “I think it’s more likely that we’ll have to kill him than it is that he will help us.”

“A shame,” said Hummel, “but we’re much more important than he is.”

There was more than one version of the leaflets. A second one was titled “Are These Your Leaders?” and showed photos of various high-ranking Nazis either dead or in captivity. They laughed at the picture of Goering in a chair with an American MP beside him. “I wonder if he knew where he was?” laughed Hummel. Goering’s problems with drugs and alcohol were common knowledge. Additional photos showed Admirals Doenitz and Raeder and Field Marshals Jodl and Keitel. The most shocking photo was of a very dead Heinrich Himmler.

“But no pictures of the Fuhrer’s body,” said Schubert. He spoke softly. Even in a foxhole he did not want to be overheard. “Does that mean he might not be truly dead or is it that no one would recognize his body?”

Hummel shook his head. “Once upon a time I worshipped the ground he walked on. Now I don’t know. And I don’t think it matters if he is alive or not. Germany has been well and truly defeated, and I just want to get out of here and go home.”

“Wolfgang, don’t you wonder how many others feel like we do?”

“Are you thinking of planning a mutiny, then go someplace else. I trust you and you trust me, but we can’t possibly talk to anyone else about our feelings. The SS or the Gestapo would be on to us in an instant.”

* * *

SS Colonel Hahn had been unable to discover any Jews in Germanica. Indeed, as he told Goebbels, he would have been astounded to find any. “Any Jew fortunate to remain alive in Germany and with even a fraction of a brain would have headed across the Swiss border and sanctuary.”

“But the Swiss did not always admit Jews,” said Goebbels. “Although I think they would have in this instance. Once again the Swiss are caught between two powers. If they toady to us and turn back or return Jews, then the Americans will be outraged. Open up their borders and we will be angry. Frankly, I would let them take any Jew who wants to leave. After all we’ve done to chase them and capture them, there just can’t be that many Hebrews still remaining within a hundred miles of Germanica.”

“I totally agree, sir, which is why I am focusing on this kind of danger to the new Reich,” he said as he handed over several sheets of paper. “Our soldiers are being bombarded, literally, with this kind of filth. American planes fly overhead with impunity and drop these pieces of propaganda on our soldiers.”

Goebbels examined them carefully. “As propaganda minister, I must admit that they could be fairly effective. Has there been any indication that the men are reading these?”

Hahn laughed and told him that many soldiers were using them as toilet paper, which Goebbels thought was hilarious. “Perhaps, Colonel, we should issue toilet paper with the pictures of Truman, Stalin, and Churchill on them. But first, of course, we have to start production of toilet paper. It is just one item in the very long list of things that are either in short supply or not available at all. More important is whether or not any of our soldiers are taking these inducements to surrender seriously.”

“Indeed, Minister, which is why I wish authorization to suspend any searches for Jews in the Redoubt area. If there are any left, and I doubt that there are more than a handful remaining, I believe they should be ignored and our efforts focused on searching out malcontents in the army.”

Goebbels stood and paced his office. Once again he was annoyed that it was so small. He made a mental note to get Speer’s people to create something more suitable for the head of the state of Germanica.

“Hahn, you are absolutely correct. Instead of searching for phantom Jews, we must totally and ruthlessly suppress any signs of discontent. Our situation here is very fragile and I am well aware that most of our army does not consist of people who would die for us. Therefore, you must show
no
mercy. Don’t let anything distract you from that goal, not even your wish to punish the spy who escaped from you in Bregenz.”

Hahn winced. “I didn’t know that you were aware of that little incident.”

Goebbels could not help but smile. “I believe just about everyone in Germanica has heard about it, Colonel.”

Hahn smiled tightly. This would be all the more reason to make the little bitch suffer.

“Minister, I do anticipate soldiers either trying to surrender to the Americans or trying to cross the border into Switzerland. I request permission to greatly strengthen the border fence and send some small boats of our own out on the lake to stop soldiers from either trying to get to Switzerland or to the Americans who are also on the lake.”

“Do it. And make sure our ships are armed and that the crews have permission to shoot to kill.”

* * *

Since shooting that sick old Jew, Werewolf Hans Gruber hadn’t had the opportunity to kill anyone. He didn’t even like to think of that Jew with his brains splattered all over the floor of the cave. What he had done sickened him. He understood what the SS officer who was now a brigadier general was trying to do. He’d been trying to toughen young Hans Gruber and mold him into the kind of fighting man who would bring pride to the Werewolves. The more he thought about it, the more Gruber still didn’t like killing the man even though he had been a Jew. He was proud to be a German soldier and even prouder to be a Werewolf, but he wanted to kill real enemies, not sickly scrawny kikes. His parents were proud that he was a Nazi but he wondered if they would have approved of the murder—and that’s exactly what it was, a murder. He wanted to go after the Reich’s real enemies, the Americans.

One of his problems was that he just wasn’t a very good shot. He’d had several chances but none had panned out. He’d twice fired at Yanks and missed. For his troubles he’d had to run for his life. Now he was in a clump of small trees near a road the Americans frequently used. He wanted to find a solitary vehicle, and preferably one with only a driver and no passengers. He wanted to fight for the Reich but he was not suicidal. He would die if he had to, he thought nobly, but he didn’t want to rush things.

Gruber heard vehicles moving down the road. He would not attempt a kill. There were doubtless too many Americans to do so safely. Still, he wanted to take a peek. He had made a wise decision. At least a dozen trucks were headed towards him and they were filled with soldiers.

He had to pee. One of the less glamorous sides of being a Werewolf was finding a place to relieve one’s self. He stepped a few paces deeper into the woods and laid his Mauser against a tree. He opened his fly and, with a contented sigh, solved his problem.

Suddenly it was dark and he was on the ground. There was a bag or something on his head. He couldn’t see and he could only breathe dust. He felt helpless and had wet himself. Strong arms pinned his hands behind his back and he was tied up. The bag on his head was quickly replaced by a blindfold. He felt himself being thrown into the back of what he assumed was an American jeep and felt the jeep driven down a road. He had been captured. He was a prisoner of war and no longer a Werewolf. Hans Gruber was ashamed. He had been an utter failure as a warrior for the Reich. His only kill had been that old Jew and he now deeply regretted that.