Germanica (24 page)

“About the German Army and its local dispositions, a little. About my father, nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, but I have no plans to stop looking. I will talk to every Czech I can find. I will either find that he is dead and at peace, or I will find him alive in some slave camp and get him out.”

Her body shook and Tanner put his hands on her shoulders. She slipped against him and rested against his chest. “Sorry,” she said softly after a few seconds. He slipped his arm around her and she did not resist.

“I’m not sorry at all. If you’re hungry, we can get something to eat.”

She looked at him in surprise and backed off.
 

“Did I say something wrong? If I did, I’m sorry.”

She smiled at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m still not used to people being nice to me. I think I’ll get over it, and yes, you can find some place for us to eat even if it’s just another mess hall. I’ve developed a taste for Spam or even that delicious dish called shit on a shingle.”

* * *

Schafer and Sibre flew their heavily armed planes low down the valley that led to Innsbruck. Low and fast was one way to avoid the numerous antiaircraft guns that had been emplaced and were extremely well hidden. This morning, their target was a line of haystacks. Their orders were to kill those haystacks. Six other planes followed them and all were armed with semi-armor piercing rockets. To the best of their knowledge, theirs were the only P51s with rockets, although a number of P47s carried the weapons. They’d had a chance to practice with them and thought they were pretty damn good at hitting their targets.

“There,” Schafer said. The line of haystacks was coming up quickly as was flak from antiaircraft guns. The various pilots peeled off and chose their targets. Sibre fired first and a pair of rockets streaked away. One missed by a few feet, but the second hit, sending hay and debris skyward. The explosion exposed a dug-in German tank and men were running away from it even though the tank didn’t look badly damaged. A second pass and another hit. The tank blew up. Other tanks were dying as well. Napalm was dropped, turning wrecks into charnel houses. Both men later swore that they had flown so low that they could smell human flesh burning.

Their work done, they turned and headed for base. They counted noses. One P51 was smoking and the pilot would land first if he made it that far. Otherwise, he would have to jump. They teased him about having to jump like Sibre did and got an obscenity in return.

They had destroyed a number of Nazi tanks and word was that the tanks were irreplaceable. If they lost one plane it would still be a good day. If the pilot and plane got back safely, it would be a great day.

“I wonder how the intelligence guys found out about those tanks,” Sibre mused.

“Maybe a little bird told them.”

“A bird?”

Schafer couldn’t help himself. He started giggling. “Yeah, a stool pigeon.”

* * *

SS General Hahn was in a good mood. A sweep by some of his elite SS soldiers had resulted in the capture of four men who were not only planning to desert, but inciting others to desert as well. He watched as the men were interrogated. They were stubborn but they would soon break. Everyone did. Sometimes just the threat of torture would cause a man to collapse, while others had to endure some pain in order to prove to themselves and others that they’d done what they could. Hahn did not like to wait. Experience had taught him that sending currents of electricity from a car battery through prisoner’s bodies via clamps attached to very sensitive parts of their bodies generally resulted in a quick reaction. His favorite places were the nipples and the genitals of both men and women. The anus was another excellent alternative.

Two of the four men were naked and strapped to chairs. They had already lost control of their bowels and bladders and were screaming and babbling incoherently. In a very short while they would confess and implicate others. Those too would be interrogated and still others would be named. He knew that some of the prisoners would lie through their teeth to put a halt to the agony. Therefore, he had to be very judicious. As Field Marshal Schoerner had said, if soldiers keep ratting on other soldiers, soon there won’t be an army left. Hahn had thought that the field marshal was kidding, but there was a distinct message. Don’t arrest everyone.

As Hahn watched, the third man began to howl and then the fourth. It was a very nice serenade.

The would-be deserters were asked if they were ready to talk. Three of them said yes while the fourth shook his head. “More power,” Hahn ordered and the juice was turned up. The man screamed like he was on fire, which, in a way, he was. His body spasmed and then stopped. His head hung low on his chest.

“Shit,” said Hahn and signaled that the power should be cut off. A quick check proved what he’d suspected. The man had died. His heart had likely given out. Well, it had happened before and it would doubtless happen again. He had no way of knowing who could stand what level of agony before falling apart. It was a nuisance when it happened after all his good work.

He enjoyed torturing men, but he truly enjoyed making women howl in agony. Sadly, there were very few women in Germanica and none were part of the military. He hoped there would be other times.

When the remaining three men were finished spilling their guts, they would be hanged or garroted. By order of the field marshal, no bullets were to be used in executions. It was a grim reminder that their existence in the Alps was fragile.

On the positive side, the deaths of the four men meant that their food rations would not be squandered keeping traitors alive. The thought made his stomach grumble. He tried to remember the last time he had a full meal.

His aide, Captain Eppler, approached and saluted crisply. Hahn returned it and wondered if he could get the man a promotion. A general should have at least a major for an aide.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Sir, I believe a prodigal has returned.”

“And what the devil do you mean by that?”

“Sir, the young Werewolf, Private Gruber, has returned from the Americans’ clutches. He was wearing an American soldier’s uniform and carrying an American rifle. He says he’s fine but quite hungry.”

Hahn paused and then laughed hugely. “I wonder just how the hell he managed to pull off that feat. Get him fed and into a decent German uniform. I will talk with him then.”

CHAPTER 12

When it was decided that OSS teams would try to sabotage the food shipments to Germanica, Winnie was the first to volunteer. She was also the first to be rejected.

“Your German and French are very good,” Dulles said, “even excellent, but you could never pass for a local. Your American accent would give you away immediately. You would then fall into the clutches of the Gestapo who would wrench from you everything you know about us. Then they would kill you. I have had enough agents fall into enemy hands and be executed. They were brave and you are brave for asking, but accepting your offer would be the same as signing your death sentence. I will not permit useless deaths. I have another team coming here and they will arrive shortly.”

Winnie moped for a while. She was disappointed that she couldn’t go in harm’s way, but she understood Dulles’ rationale. Another part of her was relieved that she had been rejected. The idea of capture and torture followed by death was frightening. The incident in Bregenz where she’d been brutally beaten for no reason at all by an SS officer was still fresh in her mind. The physical scars were gone, but not the mental ones. Thank God, she thought, that she had Ernie to depend on.

Her spirits were buoyed when the new team arrived. It consisted of two very tall and athletic young men and a short and boyish-looking woman. “Marie!” Winnie screamed on seeing her, and the two women embraced.

“Obviously, you know each other,” Ernie said with a grin.

“Absolutely. Marie was a junior and I was a senior in high school. She was an exchange student and we were good friends.”

Marie was warm and friendly but did size Ernie up. “He’ll do,” she said. The two men were introduced as Sven and Hans and it was understood that those weren’t their real names. Even Marie would have been using a different name if Winnie hadn’t recognized her and blurted out her real one.

“How long will you be here in Arbon before you have to go and do whatever you’re going to do?” Winnie asked.

“As long as is necessary. Mr. Dulles did not give us a precise schedule. As to what we are going to do, I understand it involves observing the movement of German supplies from Arbon to Bregenz and out to the troops in the field.”

Ernie was puzzled. “No sabotage?”

“Not at this time, although the three of us could certainly accomplish it. I’m sure that we could be supplied with dynamite or nitroglycerine.”

“How did they get you here?” Ernie asked.

Marie answered for the group. Apparently she was the spokesperson. Either that or the other two’s English wasn’t all that good. “We came in the back of a truck. We’d arrived by plane in Zurich two days ago.”

“Are you going to be confined to this building or will you be allowed to go out?” Winnie asked.

Marie laughed. “Are you suggesting that we act like the schoolgirls we once were and go shopping in marvelous Arbon? I can’t imagine that we’ll find anything to match Wanamaker’s in Philadelphia. Sorry, but I think we’ll stay right here and out of sight until Dulles decides when he wants us to move out.”

Winnie was a little chagrined. Of course they could not allow themselves to be seen by any of the Germans wandering Arbon. They could not risk being identified and followed. But it did feel good to have someone she’d actually known from her life as an ordinary person. She wondered if she could ever go back to an ordinary life. She knew that Ernie was thinking much along the same line. How did the old song go? Oh yes, how you gonna keep them down on the farm after they’d seen Paree? Well, Switzerland wasn’t Gay Paree, but being part of the OSS was more thrilling and fulfilling than anything she’d done in her life.

* * *

Joseph Goebbels did not particularly like General Walter Warlimont. Goebbels acknowledged that Warlimont had worked marvels in creating everything that remained of the Third Reich at Bregenz and outlying areas. There was still the nagging feeling that Warlimont simply hadn’t been caught in the July 20, 1944 plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler.

Goebbels slammed the papers down on his desk and spoke harshly. “What do you mean that German soldiers have contracted scurvy? Isn’t that the illness that affects sailors?”

Warlimont was unfazed. Contrary to the rumors, he had been a devout supporter of Hitler and felt that Goebbels was a pale and second-rate imitation of his Fuhrer. “Scurvy will affect anyone who doesn’t get enough Vitamin C. If unchecked, a patient will die. If Vitamin C can be located and given to a patient in sufficient quantities, the patient will recover, possibly fully. Right now we have several thousand soldiers suffering from the extremely painful and debilitating problem. If we cannot get enough Vitamin C to the men, the German Army will cease to exist.”

The blunt answer subdued Goebbels. “Then what do you propose, General?”

Warlimont shrugged. “The answer is obvious, Minister. We must get some Vitamin C. There are vitamin tablets that can be manufactured and perhaps acquired from the Swiss. I very much doubt that we can get much in the way of fruits or vegetables, but apparently eating some meats will help. I suggest that the next shipment of foodstuffs from Switzerland include vitamin tablets and the right meats. We simply cannot have our soldiers existing on field rations for extensive periods of time.”

Goebbels sat down and sagged. He had just received other news from Field Marshal Schoerner, who’d forwarded additionally unwelcome information from Generals Rendulic and von Vietinghoff. The gist of their problems was that ammunition and fuel were being expended at a rate faster than anticipated. Soon, Goebbels thought glumly, what remained of the German Army would be both sick and impotent.

“Marshal Schoerner, what do you propose as a solution?”

“We have enough ammunition for one last major battle. Perhaps we should launch an all-out attack in an attempt to shock the Americans. Perhaps they will think we are stronger than we actually are and begin negotiations.”

Goebbels was not convinced. “That sounds very much what the late Fuhrer hoped would be the results of the attack in the Ardennes. It was a failure and led to the collapse of the Western front. If your attack becomes a suicide attack, everything we have here will be destroyed.”

“Minister, only the stupid and racially inferior Japanese commit suicide attacks. I do not propose anything resembling a kamikaze attack. I would like to hit the Americans hard and drive them back in a limited assault. Our goal would be to show that we cannot be taken easily. There is no possibility of driving them more than a few miles, but even that might shake them. Thanks to the Swiss, we can monitor civilian radio broadcasts and there are apparently growing numbers of civilian protests in the United States, even riots, over the continuation of the war with us. The American people want peace with Germany so they can concentrate on destroying Japan.”

Goebbels leaned back in his chair. What Warlimont proposed made sense. He would have to ask if using the atomic bomb would be an appropriate weapon to support the attack or if it would be better to wait for an American offensive before considering its use.

* * *

Mildred Ruffino was hot and sweaty. Her several layers of clothing, including a heavy girdle, were clinging to her. The fifty-five-year-old grandmother, however, would not be deterred no matter how humid and sticky Washington D.C. was. She had a goal and that was to help bring home the boys home from Europe. She was not totally consumed by the need for peace. She understood fully that the nasty little Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor and needed to be punished severely. She further understood that it would cost additional lives. For Mildred and her family, some of the price had already been paid. One of her nephews was in a hospital in Honolulu getting over the fact that he’d lost much of his left foot on some awful place called Peleliu. Another neighbor had lost a son fighting in France and that was where she thought it should end. Hitler and Mussolini were dead and what was left of Nazi Germany was nothing more than a little corner of that nation. Some people were making noises saying that the country couldn’t trust Joe Stalin, but that was nonsense. For years every American had been told by FDR that we could trust good old Uncle Joe, so who was this little piss-ant imitation of a president, Harry Truman, to tell her otherwise?

Why not just dig a ditch around the place called Germanica and let the Nazi inhabitants all starve to death if they didn’t want to surrender? It would serve them right. It would also bring home her oldest son, who was in the 82nd Airborne Division and God only knew what plans the army had for him. Why the devil he had ever volunteered to be a paratrooper was beyond her. Mildred thanked the lord that one of her other sons was a sophomore in high school and too young to be drafted, while the oldest, Joey, had a bad foot that made him 4F. Of course, rules could be changed and they could start drafting infants if the army needed the manpower.

So here she was, marching around the White House along with a couple thousand other Americans, mainly women. They all carried signs urging Harry Truman to get them out of what they felt was the unnecessary German war. They’d enjoyed being interviewed and photographed by reporters but now the heat of the day was getting to them. Mildred congratulated herself on having had the common sense to bring a canteen filled with water and put it in her oversize purse. Still, she gave herself another hour before she would have to surrender to the oppressive weather. Already she’d had to share some of the water with one of her companions who looked red-faced and terrible. She didn’t want to be told what she looked like.

“There he is,” someone shrieked. Sure enough, there was Harry Truman and he was beginning one of his frequent walks. She had to give the little man credit. He knew that he was going to have to run the gauntlet of angry protesters but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that deter him. The protesters would follow him and dog him and shout at him to stop the war. Truman would wave and smile and continue walking at his usual brisk pace. As always a handful of younger reporters started to walk with him but soon gave up.

Mildred Ruffino snorted. She would not give up. She was made of sterner stuff. Still she wished she’d lost the twenty or thirty pounds she’d been planning to but never managed to. It would have made keeping up with Truman so much easier. She also wished she hadn’t worn so much clothing, but standards dictated that she wear not only the damned girdle, but cotton stockings, a slip, and, of course, a bra.

After another mile, Mildred was gasping. Most of the other protesters had fallen back. She gave Truman credit for one more thing. He was in excellent shape.

She looked around and saw that she was alone save for a handful of Secret Service agents and one young reporter who was sweating like a hog. Truman was only a few feet away. He looked at her with some concern.

“Ma’am, you don’t look well. Don’t you think you should stop?”

Mildred was stunned. The President of the United States was actually talking to her. “I’ll stop when you bring our boys home.”

“And I promise you that I’ll bring them home as soon as I can.”

Mildred was feeling lightheaded. “Not good enough. Please bring them home now. Let the Nazis have that little corner of their world, and bring them home now.”

Mildred was about to add something to this wonderful conversation that she was having with one of the most powerful men in the world when her vision turned red and the sidewalk rose up and hit her in the face. She felt hands turning her over and heard the sound of a siren in the distance and coming closer. She looked up and saw a very concerned Harry Truman looking down on her.

“Lie still and you’ll be all right,” the president said gently.

Mildred’s world was spinning and she had the feeling that she was about to take flight like a bird. “No, I won’t,” were her last words.

* * *

“Do you recall Operation Cobra?” asked General Devers.

“Of course,” said Ike. “It was an attempt to break out of Normandy and take the city of Caen.” They were in Devers’ Sixth Army Group headquarters in Strasbourg, France.

“And Cobra succeeded. Now I want to recreate it and start with a massive carpet bombing of German positions. Bradley used three thousand bombers to blast the Germans and I propose the same thing. And then I want to hit them with all the tanks and infantry I have, at least,” he paused, “as much as can fit through the relatively narrow opening of the Brenner Pass.”

Ike was solemn. “I recall that the massive and concentrated bombing, while effective, led to tragedy. So many planes dropped their bombs short and a large number of American troops, including General Leslie McNair, were killed and many others wounded. We can’t have that again.”

“Agreed. We can and must be more cautious and the planning must be more detailed and precise. There was a huge misunderstanding about the direction the planes would come from and that led to the disaster.”

Both men knew it hadn’t been a misunderstanding. The air force had disregarded orders to bomb north to south and had attacked east to west, thus putting their planes over the American lines for an extraordinary amount of time. During that time, the pattern of bomb dropping had crept back towards American lines while horrified GIs waited, unable to run or dig in. The air force did it that way because they were concerned about German planes and the possibility of dense antiaircraft fire shredding the bomber formations. German planes were no longer a threat, but antiaircraft fire still was. But AA could be heavy and come from any direction.

“Ike, I am very confident that we can break through the German defenses and split this Germanica animal in half. With Clark hitting them from the south and my men from the north, we can deal the Germans a decisively catastrophic blow that might just end the war.”

Ike nodded. He would approve Devers’ plans, but he would keep close tabs on them. There would be no surprises and the air force would be fully on board. He looked at Devers, who turned away. Ike had the feeling that the other general’s presentation had smacked of desperation. Devers had lost weight and looked stressed. He’d been defeated in his first attempt to push through the Brenner, and neither he nor his career could stand a second loss. Damn it. Patch was going to relinquish the Seventh Army because of his health. Would he have to replace Devers as well?