Himmler's War-ARC (6 page)

“And what about me?” Ribbentrop asked, almost plaintively.

“With Hitler dead,” Himmler said, “you might find it easier to negotiate with our enemies. Sound them out. See who really wants this war to end and what their true terms are.”

In Himmler’s opinion, Ribbentrop was useless and his attempts to bring peace would prove futile. He’d failed miserably as a negotiator in the past, often insulting those with whom he was supposed to be negotiating. Would anyone ever forget the time the man greeted the king of England with the Nazi salute? And in London no less. He’d become the laughingstock of England and the diplomatic community. For the time being, however, Ribbentrop was the best he had.

* * *

Franklin Delano Roosevelt looked up from his stamp collection and smiled genially. “Well, is the fucking little paper hanger dead or not?”

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General George Catlett Marshall, no longer winced at his President’s obscenities. He sometimes wondered whether FDR swore to be one of the boys, or to aggravate his senior general, or because that was just the way he talked. Marshall thought the latter. Many people had canonized the President as the perfect man, but the truth was that he was a cripple who couldn’t walk a step, and a man who drank and swore. And womanized. Jokesters in the know laughed about his womanizing and some wondered who wouldn’t stray if a cold and stern Eleanor Roosevelt was all he had to come home to?

“Sadly, sir, we aren’t sure what his condition is,” Marshall said. “The Germans have admitted that he’s badly wounded, although they’re saying he’s recovering. They’re also saying it was nothing more than as a despicable assassination attempt and a Jewish-American conspiracy. They are again cracking down on dissidents, although I wonder how many are left after all these years. Whoever they are, I feel sorry for them.”

“And what do you think, General?”

“I think he’s dead.”

Roosevelt leaned over the desk in the Oval Office and stared through his glasses at the array of brightly colored stamps, some of which were quite rare. “And why?”

“A very ambitious Heinrich Himmler is in charge and several of those associated with Hitler have, well, disappeared from the scene and perhaps forever. I believe Himmler and Goebbels are setting the stage for an announcement of Hitler’s heroic demise, after which, Himmler will be proclaimed the new Fuhrer.”

“And if Hitler really is dead, how will that affect the war?” Roosevelt asked.

Marshall was surprised. “I believe that’s your call, sir.”

“Indeed,” FDR said softly. “I am afraid there will be pressures from many quarters to work with the new German government to end the war. If nothing else, so that we can focus on destroying the little yellow bastards who bombed Pearl Harbor.”

Marshall nodded. Many senior military men, including Admiral Ernie King and General Douglas MacArthur, felt that America’s war efforts should have been focused on the despicable Japs and not Germany. Many in Congress, particularly those from western states, also wanted America’s focus on defeating Japan. Instead, Roosevelt had insisted on adherence to pre-war plans that called for defeating Germany first while containing Japanese aggression. Allied plans also called for Germany’s unconditional surrender and, if Hitler was indeed dead, would that affect it?

“Enough speculating over that,” Roosevelt said. “Now, what about this Phips person. A medal or what?”

“A medal at least, but I suggest waiting until Hitler’s death is confirmed.”

“And Ultra says nothing?”

Marshall instinctively looked around. Ultra was the name of the super-secret British code-reading activity at Bletchley Park in England. The Germans were unaware that England had broken their most secret and sacred codes and were now sharing the information, albeit reluctantly, with their American cousins. Very few Americans were in on the secret, and most key members of Roosevelt’s staff were unaware of it. They were also unaware of what was being developed in New Mexico under the name of the Manhattan Project.

FDR sighed. “And this Phips person is such a nebbish, a fucking clerk. Why couldn’t it have been the copilot who’d been in charge? He looks a helluva lot more heroic than Phips.”

Marshall permitted himself a small smile. “That might work in our favor. The German supermen would be humiliated to find that Hitler’d been killed by a scrawny little nothing like Phips.”

Roosevelt chuckled. “Perhaps it might. At any rate, do something about the plane.
Mother’s Milk,
my ass. That name and the caricature have got to go. The tits on that farm girl are larger than several states and are an insult to every woman voter.”

* * *

“Roy Levin’s my name and yes I’m Jewish, why would you even ask?”

Morgan grinned. “I didn’t ask and you don’t look Jewish.”

Captain Roy Levin was short and stocky, and had an olive complexion topped by short curly hair. He looked more Sicilian than anything else. Morgan decided he was an easy man to like. Levin sat on the bunk opposite Morgan’s in their four-man tent.

“Welcome to Stockade Stoddard’s rolling armored circus. And by the way, don’t let the colonel ever hear you refer to him by that name. He knows we all do, but not to his face. Could be fatal. You might bleed to death after getting your ass chewed.”

“Understood, but how did he get the name?”

Levin sat on his bunk and lit a cigarette. Jack declined his offer. “The good colonel’s regimental headquarters was overrun by the Germans in North Africa and he was nearly captured at a lovely place called the Kasserine Pass. His battalion was out of touch for several days until relief columns arrived, and he sincerely believes that a lot of his men died because his regiment’s HQ was gone. He decided then and there that his HQ would always be fortified. Thus, he moves men and equipment around and sets up with each new move. Kind of like the Roman legions did. And, yes, that’s your job now.”

“Wonderful.”

“To give Stoddard his due, the man is neither a coward nor stupid, just cautious. He’s got legitimate medals from North Africa and he’s also a decent guy as long as you don’t piss him off, like screwing up the defenses around his HQ for instance. He’s also one of the handful of guys in the 74th who’s actually been in combat. Even though we’ve been in Normandy for a couple of days, there’s been no real fighting for us. Some shelling and sniping, but nothing major.”

“I’ll do my best to keep him happy. Now, you’re supposed to tell me about the regiment.”

Levin pulled a bottle of wine from his duffle bag, opened it, and poured some into their canteen cups. “Crystal would be better,” he said after taking a swallow, “it enhances the bouquet, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, the wine ain’t all that good. One of my men got it from some guys in the First Infantry Division who liberated a bar or something.”

Levin explained that there were three thousand men in the 74th, clustered around the seventy tanks that made up its strike force. He added that the regiment was an independent unit, currently assigned to General Leonard Gerow’s V Corps, which was part of Courtney Hodges’ First Army. “All of which belongs to Omar Bradley’s Twenty-First Army Group,” he added.

“If you’re curious, and there’s no reason you should be, there are other independent armored regiments and even a slew of independent armored battalions floating around. As to our strength, we have fifty M4 Shermans and twenty Stuarts. The Stuarts are light tanks and aren’t worth a shit. Worse, all they’ve got is a piddly 37mm gun which won’t hurt a Panzer Mark IV or a Panther. Might scrape its paint, but that’s all. They’re supposed to be phased out this winter and replaced by something called a Chaffee which also isn’t worth squat against kraut armor. The Sherman is bigger than the Stuart, but isn’t much better.”

Levin went on to explain that the Sherman had a 75mm gun and could beat the Panzer Mark III with its 37mm gun and hold its own with the Panzer Mark IV and its 75mm gun, but the introduction of the Panzer V, the Panther, and the less numerous Tiger and King Tiger varieties had disrupted all that.

“The Panzer III is still around and the Germans’ main tank is the Panzer IV, which is what the Sherman was allegedly designed to fight. The Panther has come as a terrible and unpleasant surprise that we’ve so far been able to avoid. It can’t last, however.”

Jack took another sip of the wine. “What’s the difference between a Panzer and a Panther?”

“Contrary to popular belief among the willfully ignorant, Panzer is not German for Panther. Panzer is derived from something else, maybe a French term. Technically speaking, the Panther is the Panzer V. Others, like the Tiger, which actually is the Panzer VI, the King Tiger, and the Leopard are different breeds of cat.” He chortled, “Damn, I am witty.”

“Not really,” Jack said, “but you are confusing the hell out of me. However, please continue.”

“Screw you too,” Levin said amiably, clearly pleased with his lousy joke. “Simply put, the seventy-five millimeter gun on the Sherman can’t penetrate the Panther’s front armor and the Panther’s gun goes through a Sherman’s thinner armor like a hot knife through butter. Since we haven’t seen any real combat it hasn’t happened to us yet, but I’ve been told that, statistically, one Panther can knock out as much as a dozen Shermans before ultimately taking a damaging hit and a Tiger can do even better, which I hope is an exaggeration. The only saving virtue is that the krauts don’t have all that many Panthers or Tigers.”

“How the hell did it happen that we got the crappy tanks and the Germans the good ones?” Jack asked. “We make millions of great cars, so why not tanks?”

Levin shrugged and added some more wine. “Ask the politicians and the manufacturers who convinced the army that the Germans wouldn’t be leap-frogging ahead of us with their designs. I’ve also heard that the Pentagon wanted the Sherman kept small so more of them could be shipped overseas without taking up precious space in ships. Oh yeah, it’s got too high a silhouette so the krauts can see us long before we see them. There was also the idea that tanks wouldn’t be fighting other tanks. Instead, tank destroyers would kill the German tanks while Shermans aided the infantry. That hasn’t worked out that way either. Another perfectly good plan shot to hell.”

Levin took a swallow and grimaced. The wine truly was pretty bad, but it was alcohol and they were beginning to feel comfortable. Levin continued, “And along with the tanks, there are a number of semi-armored half-tracks and a dozen M10 tank destroyers, which are also under-gunned against the Germans and don’t have any tops on them in order to save weight, which is supposed to increase speed. Dumb.

“We have our own artillery, consisting of a number of 105mm howitzers on open tank chassis. We also have a large number of trucks, gas tanker trucks, and Jeeps, but it’s common knowledge that we don’t have enough of them.”

Jack added more wine to his cup. “What a fuckup.”

Levin laughed. “Yeah, and we’re supposed to be winning this war.”

* * *

Colonel Ernst Varner was well on his way home when the sirens began to wail. He felt his stomach churn as he moved quickly to the nearest bomb shelter in the basement of an office building. It was the middle of the day and that meant it was the Americans who were going to rain destruction down on Berlin. Again, just as they did almost every day. The British bombed at night.

Varner was as brave as the next man, but he felt helpless as he cowered in the shelter. He could only wonder as he did each time—what the devil had happened to Germany’s air defenses? Where were the fighters? Why weren’t German bombers hitting enemy airfields? When the war started, Hermann Goering had boasted that if an Allied bomb fell on Berlin he would change his name to Meyer, a Jewish name. Well, the bombs fell constantly now on a relatively helpless Berlin and the disgraced Goering rarely made an appearance. To the people of Berlin he was a buffoon. Varner agreed, although only to himself.

The crump-crump of the bombs could be heard. Some nearby area was getting pasted. Varner could only hope and pray the bombs weren’t falling anywhere near the apartment building where Magda and Margarete awaited his return.

The bombs were falling closer. The shelter began to vibrate and dust filtered down onto the scores of people who huddled in terror. People were moaning and a woman screamed. Children cried. Varner fought the urge to piss. A direct hit on the building above could bury them alive. No matter how many times he’d been in combat, there was always that feeling of unreasonable fear when the firing began.
Show me someone without fear,
he’d always thought,
and I’ll show you either a fool or a lunatic.

Like a thunderstorm in the summer, the bombs reached a violent and ear-shattering crescendo. The walls of the shelter shook with their violence, and still more dust fell from the ceiling, covering everyone jammed inside. Varner smelled smoke and prayed that the exit wasn’t blocked by flames or falling debris. He’d seen instances where that had happened and the people inside were fried to a crisp, their bodies stacked by a blocked exit.

The woman screamed again, yelling for the bombing to stop and then cursing Hitler and Goering for letting it happen. Someone stifled her and prevented her from crying out again. Varner could understand her fear and frustration, but not her outburst. While the Gestapo might not be everywhere, the Gestapo’s informants were, and such hysterical comments could be construed as treasonous.

As the dust settled, he saw the woman, now standing alone. Nobody wanted to be associated with her. She was wide-eyed and terrified, but now from a new sense of panic.

The sounds of bombing faded. But were the Americans through or was this just the first of many waves of attackers? The Yanks seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of planes. Berlin wasn’t totally helpless as hundreds, perhaps thousands, of antiaircraft guns fired at the distant bombers. They would hit some of them, but nowhere near enough to change matters. The British would come tonight and the Americans again tomorrow during the day. And so it would go on.

The all clear sounded and Varner led the group out of the shelter into a changed world. Walls were down and buildings were on fire. Choking black smoke filled the air and torn bodies lay in the street. Ambulances and fire engines were trying valiantly to stem the tide of blood, fire, and damage. He looked for the screaming woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. A policeman with a bandage on his face walked up to him.