Germanica (39 page)

He shook off his bleak thoughts. He and Schafer were the victors and to the victors belong the spoils. Tonight a bunch of them would go to Stuttgart and head directly to that whorehouse where the hookers pretended to be nuns and the place a convent. Both he and Schafer had gone to Catholic school, so it was deliciously decadent to screw pretend nuns in a make-believe convent. They had to admit that the madam, Sister Columba, ran a hell of a fine place.

* * *

Hummel screamed as the cloud enveloped him. He and the others had tried running, but the gas was inexorable. Like an all-consuming monster, the wind, favorable to the Americans, drove it towards them and the lake, finally overtaking them.

As it approached and in their panic, they had thrown away their weapons, clawed out of their bunkers, and headed away as fast as they could run. Mindlessly, they’d headed in the direction of a once peaceful Lake Constance that was now covered by American landing craft that were moving ever closer. They could see that the Yanks were wearing gas masks and would be safe. They, poor German soldiers, would not be. Once again, their Nazi government had sold them out. Hummel cursed as his eyes watered and he choked. He was going to die and he wanted vengeance and it didn’t matter who would be on the receiving end.

An SS officer, his mouth covered with a rag, confronted them. “Get back to your positions, you fools. This is just tear gas. You aren’t going to die!”

Hummel had never endured tear gas before, so he had no idea whether the officer was telling the truth.

The officer, his eyes wide and running and streaming tears, waved his Schmiesser machine pistol and pointed it at Schubert. Without thinking, Hummel fired his own pistol, shooting the SS fanatic in the head and dropping him instantly. He looked around to see if he was going to be arrested and realized that nobody cared. It was the same as when Schubert had killed that other SS man. The body had never been discovered and no fuss had been made about one more soldier gone AWOL. It didn’t matter if the missing man had been SS or not.

Hummel was in the middle of a swirling mass of humanity all headed towards the lake. He also realized that he
wasn’t
dying. His eyes burned and he had begun coughing but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He had never smelled tear gas, but realized the SS man had been right. Coughing and retching, he grabbed his comrades. “Get to the lake. We can wash this shit out of our eyes.”

“Then what?” asked Pfister, all pretenses at differences in rank forgotten.

Hummel howled with glee. “Then we throw down our guns and surrender to those monsters who are arriving from the sea.”

The U.S. boats were close enough that they had begun disgorging their human cargo, and they indeed looked like monsters. They were also protected by masks that the German military couldn’t provide.

Up and down the shore, Hummel could see hundreds of German soldiers throwing away their weapons and throwing themselves into the lake. They did the same, and the irritation from the gas was soon controllable. The three of them raised their hands and hung close together as Americans disarmed those who still retained their weapons. There was confusion but no resistance.

A moment later, an American medic, still masked, looked at Schubert. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked in passable German.

Hummel answered. He was now their leader. “Shell shock. He got it a couple of months ago.”

“You want me to get him to a hospital or you gonna watch out for him yourselves?”

“We’ll take care of him,” Hummel said softly. “He is our comrade.”

* * *

Goebbels had finally found somebody with a radio. After a couple of tries, he made contact with Doctor Esau and ordered him to launch the rocket immediately.

Goebbels heard nothing but silence for a few moments, but finally, “It will be as you wish. We will launch in a couple of minutes.”

“Hurry, you fool. We might not have a couple of minutes.”

“Yes, Minister.”

Goebbels raged at the now silent phone. The next few minutes would determine whether or not he lived as the head of state or died in a town that was being overwhelmed by the enemy. It occurred to him that those in the Fuhrer Bunker in Berlin must have had the same feelings as the savages from the Red Army closed in and were only a few hundred yards away.

He fondled the box with the poison. Soon, he thought. Just not yet. And maybe never.

* * *

Overhead, Lieutenants Bud Sibre and George Schafer were breaking off their latest attack when Schafer noticed something on the ground through the thinning cloud of tear gas.

“Would you mind telling me just what the hell that is?”

“Not certain,” said Sibre. “But it looks an awful lot like a V1 rocket that’s about to be launched.”

“Say, buddy, why don’t we
do
something about that?”

The pilots dived and lined up to strafe the rocket, which was unmistakably a V1. They were just about to open fire, when the tail of the rocket belched fire and launched it into the sky. They tried to give chase but it was no use. The rocket was too fast. They watched in fascinated horror as the V1 headed towards the massed landing craft in Lake Constance. They would not be able to stop it.

Sibre’s hands began to shake. “Jesus, I hope that isn’t what I think it is.”

* * *

Tanner heard the roar of the rocket’s engine through the sound of battle. He looked up and saw the odd-looking craft streak over him. He could clearly see the stove-pipe design. “What the hell?” he wondered as did everyone else who could see the evil thing.

Then the rocket’s engine cut out and there was a brief moment of silence. They all knew what that meant from reports of the attacks on London. It was through flying and was about to strike. The rocket’s nose tipped forward and it knifed into the water only a couple hundred yards away. Everyone froze and waited for an explosion.
 

None came.

“I wonder what that was all about,” Cullen gasped. They were all breathing heavily.

“If the army wants us to know, I’m sure they’ll tell us.”

* * *

Goebbels screamed in impotent fury as he got the report of the rocket’s failure. “Schoerner, find those bastard Jew scientists and kill them immediately. Don’t worry about hanging them, just shoot them. They lied to me. They lied to Germany. They are traitors.”

Schoerner tried to calm him. “I will send some soldiers to their bunker. That is, if I can find any. Esau and his assistants have doubtless run away and we don’t have time to chase them now. We have more important things to worry about. Our survival must be our first goal.”

Goebbels shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Of course. We must escape and begin again to build another Reich. We will catch those swine some other time.”

* * *

“Where the devil is Sergeant Hill?” Tanner yelled.

A very nervous PFC responded. “Sir, Sergeant Hill said to tell you that he’s gone snipe hunting and that he’ll be back shortly.”

“He said that, did he?”

“Yes sir. He also said to remind you that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If it matters, he was heavily armed.”

“Private, just where was he headed when you last saw him?”

“Sir, he was headed for Bregenz and, oh yeah, he was carrying a German officer’s tunic. I have no idea where he got it.”

And it doesn’t much matter, Tanner thought. Sergeant Billy Hill had been chafing at being idle. Being attached to division headquarters didn’t leave much time for excitement. Hill’s skills as a sniper were becoming legendary, and so was his wanting to go hunting for kills. Was that what he was going to do, kill more Germans before the war came to a halt? That seemed plausible. And what difference was there between a snipe and a sniper? He wished the sergeant well. It would be a tragedy for him to get his ass blown away this late in the game. Of course, the same held true for himself.

Tanner dismissed the private, but not before telling the man to let him know the moment Hill returned.
If
he returned, that is.

* * *

Josef Goebbels and Field Marshal Ferdinand Schoerner decided that whatever happened, they would look the part of world leaders. Schoerner dressed in an immaculate field marshal’s uniform complete with baton, while Goebbels wore an expensive blue suit made for him an eternity ago by an exclusive tailor in Berlin. They would cross into Switzerland and claim sanctuary, confident that there were enough German sympathizers in the Swiss government to protect them. From Switzerland there was the probability that money would talk and that they could be sent secretly to South America. Argentina would be their ultimate destinations and a new Reich was their goal.

Only the gas masks they were wearing marred the effect. As they approached the door that led outside they could hear the sounds of chaos. Schoerner drew his pistol and suggested that Goebbels do the same.

“Some panic-stricken soldiers could try to take our masks from us in order to save themselves,” he said. “And it wouldn’t matter if they recognized us or not. Terrified men will not obey orders or be impressed by rank.”

Goebbels nodded agreement and pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. They opened the door and stepped out. They had not actually seen the gas clouds when they blew in, but what was left did not appear too thick. Could these wisps be lethal? Or was the wind causing them to diminish? It occurred to him that the German soldiers he did see were running around aimlessly and not lying dead in the streets. In fact, there were no bodies in the streets.

“Schoerner, either there is no gas or it has dissipated. I think we can remove our masks. We might even be safer that way.”

“If it’s all the same with you, Reichminister, I’ll keep mine on for a while longer. Although,” he said thoughtfully, “it does look like you might be correct. Was this a huge charade to cause our army to panic? If it was, it worked marvelously.”

“Halt!” A soldier had worked his way behind them. He had a Thompson submachine gun pointed at them. Curiously, he was wearing the tunic of a German officer, a captain. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. This was no German. It was an American who’d gotten this far in the panic.

“
Scheisse
!” howled Schoerner. He pulled out his pistol and fired. He missed. The American ducked and fired his Tommy gun. A dozen bullets struck Schoerner in the head and chest. He collapsed like a bloody wet rag. Something slammed into Goebbels’ shoulder and dropped him as well. It was over. He had to get the cyanide capsule into his mouth.

“No you don’t,” said the American. He pinned Goebbels’ good arm and ignored the screams as he tied it to his wounded one. He ripped off Goebbels’ gas mask and flung it away. In the back of his mind, Goebbels realized that he could indeed breathe. Calloused hands pushed his mouth open and fingers probed for a capsule disguised as a tooth filling. Through his agony, Goebbels regretted never having had that done. He hated dentists and he’d constantly put off having one inserted.

The American took off the German tunic and threw it away. He searched Goebbels’ pockets until he found the jewelry box. He opened it and laughed. Then he continued to search, convinced that where there was one poison cache there might be two.

Satisfied, the American pulled Goebbels to his feet. More American soldiers had arrived and, on seeing that it was Goebbels, began to cheer.

A grinning medic slapped a bandage over Goebbels’ wound and pronounced that it wasn’t serious. “The fucker’ll live long enough to hang. You want me to take him to the hospital or you got plans for him?”

Staff Sergeant Billy Hill grabbed Goebbels by his good elbow and began to propel him towards the shore and through crowds of Americans who were pushing other Germans towards prison pens that were being hastily thrown together.

Hill laughed. Captain Tanner would be pleased rather than pissed by his running off. Damned if he hadn’t caught the biggest snipe of all. The publicity he’d get from this would almost guarantee his getting elected to sheriff. Hell, maybe even to Congress.

Damnation, but this was a good war.

* * *

General Heinrich von Vietinghoff sat behind his desk and drummed his fingers on the highly polished surface while he listened to the reports. Every one of them said that what was left of the German Army was being destroyed. What fools. He tried to tell them that so many months ago. There was no way what remained of the army could withstand the overwhelming might of the Americans, even without their British and French allies. How many lives had been lost or changed because people like Goebbels wanted to save a thousand-year legacy that would last only a little more than a decade?

He had long since seen the light when he was commander of German forces in Italy. He had initiated contact with the Americans through Allen Dulles and tried to negotiate a surrender of German forces under his command. His plans had fallen apart when the now abortive attempt to create an Alpine Redoubt and call it Germanica had begun.

Vietinghoff sipped some very bad and cold black coffee and looked at the reports chronicling the litany of disasters. The gas attack that had been no gas attack had sown panic and confusion among much of the army. As a result, the Americans were in Bregenz and tens of thousands of German soldiers were now prisoners of war. All he had left were a few understrength divisions situated east of Bregenz.

The Americans had announced that Schoerner was dead and that Goebbels was a prisoner. Vietinghoff thought that it should have happened sooner. An aide had unctuously informed him that he was now the ranking person in the Third Reich, the new Fuhrer. The aide had the good sense not to suggest that he would likely be the last Fuhrer. What, therefore, were his plans?

Vietinghoff stood and glared at his staff, as if daring them to argue with him. They looked so defeated he didn’t think was likely. “Gentlemen, we have a choice. We can choose either life or death. I choose life and I order you to choose it as well. I wish to be connected with General Truscott.”

A few moments later and the raspy-voiced Texan was on the radio. There was an interpreter, but he wasn’t needed. The German general’s English was up to the very basic task before them.