Himmler's War-ARC (9 page)

Granville decided to take it one step farther. “Maybe it’ll help us decide what to do about Phips, the little man who killed him.”

Smith rolled his eyes. “If only all our problems were that simple.”

* * *

Fourteen-year-old Margarete Varner sat on her favorite chair in her bedroom. Her knees were tucked under her chin as she listened intently to what the man on the radio was saying. It was impossible. It could not be so. Adolf Hitler could not be dead. Yet, the strident voice of Josepf Goebbels cried out that it was indeed so.

Goebbels said that the Fuhrer had died of his massive wounds after fighting heroically for his life and for the Reich. Germany, he said, would mourn privately. There was a war to be won. The Fuhrer would be interred in secret so that Allied bombers could not desecrate either the ceremony or his final resting place. When the war was over and the enemies of the Reich had been defeated, then would be the time for a public ceremony and a mausoleum of epic proportions, a shrine to the life and dreams of Adolf Hitler.

According to Hitler’s will, Heinrich Himmler was the new Fuhrer and Gerd von Rundstedt now commanded the armed forces of the Reich. Nothing was said about Hermann Goering, which puzzled Margarete. Nor was anything said about Martin Bormann, a shadowy figure her father had mentioned was becoming the
éminence grise
behind Hitler.

She could not quite shake the feeling of profound shock. She was fourteen and Adolf Hitler had been the Fuhrer for twelve of those years. All her conscious life was wrapped around Hitler. His picture was everywhere and his salute was a normal way of greeting friends and associates. Her teachers in school praised him just as they condemned the Jews who conspired against Germany.

She imagined an American girl’s feelings if Roosevelt had died, or an English girl’s if either Churchill or King George was dead. She sometimes wished she didn’t imagine so much.

And Goebbels had said that it had been the Jews who had killed him. He said that Roosevelt, the Jew, had conspired with Morgenthau, the Jew who was in charge of America’s money, to kill him, murder him.

Yet, Margarete was puzzled. She was a very bright girl and understood that the war was going against Germany. After all, weren’t the Russians pushing into Poland and weren’t the Americans, assisted by the British, crossing France? Italy’s fascist government had surrendered and that pompous fool, Mussolini, was on the run. German soldiers were fighting the Americans and British in Italy and not the Italians who, her father said, were surrendering in droves to the Allies, and that was just so wrong.

She also knew that Roosevelt wasn’t a Jew. Her father had let that slip one night.

She understood that her parents said things they didn’t want her to hear and she understood they involved the conduct of the war and Germany’s future. They didn’t want her blurting out something to her schoolmates that might result in questioning by the Gestapo. She shuddered. People were arrested and turned over to the Gestapo and, so many times, were never heard from again. Or if they did somehow surface, they were never the same, either physically or emotionally. She knew better than to ask what had happened to them. A friend whose cousin had been arrested had whispered to her that the beatings were the easy part. It was terrible to contemplate, but what else should be done to enemies of the Reich? But if the Reich was so perfect, she asked herself, why did it have enemies?

So what would be her family’s future? She had positive emotions about moving to a farm near Hachenburg, even though it would mean leaving her friends. It would be a great adventure, and it would be safer for her and her mother. Her father wouldn’t have to worry about them during the bombings. No more cringing and hiding when the sirens went off and no more crying when the bombs fell. And better, no more staring sadly at empty desks at school the morning after the bombings.

That she would also escape the odious Volkmar Detloff was another benefit. She had first been flattered by his attentions. After all, she was a plump adolescent who considered herself far from being a beauty, and he was an older boy and a Hitler Youth to boot. She had ignored his pimples and his loud and pompous manner. He had brought to the surface her first stirring of womanhood.

She deeply regretted letting him kiss her since the first thing he’d done after that was to jam his hand inside her blouse, ripping off a button, and painfully squeezing her small breast. When she demanded that he stop, he’d called her a tease and a bitch. Then he’d told all his friends that he’d stopped since she was a fat little thing and didn’t really have any tits yet.

Her mother entered the room. “Finished packing, Magpie?”

“Mother, I am just a little too old to be referred to as an annoying little bird.”

Magda sighed. Her daughter was growing up far too fast. “I know. I just can’t help it.”

Magda hoped that Ernst’s logic in sending them to a place near Hachenburg and nearer to the western front would render them safe. Hachenburg itself had nearly been obliterated by Allied bombers; thus it was presumed that there was little or no interest in further bombings. Besides, they would be at least twenty miles south of Hachenburg proper, and living in a large and even luxurious farmhouse. They would actually be eating real food and not the ersatz nonsense that was available in Berlin. Perhaps with good food Magpie—no, Margarete—would actually begin to develop properly. Certainly, walks in the countryside and work on the farm would help her.

A tear rolled down Margarete’s cheek. “Crying for Hitler?” her mother asked cautiously.

“No. I’m crying because I can’t take all my clothes.”

* * *

Who was the consummate idiot who thought it would be a good idea for Jack Morgan to learn all about a Sherman tank? Oh yeah, Jack remembered, it was Jack Morgan. Damn.

Whiteside had also thought it an excellent idea. Thus, Jack had badgered one of his new friends, First Lieutenant Jeb Carter, into teaching him all about the giant metal beast. Since the campaign had entered another lull with the regiment again behind the lines, the timing was good. The U.S. Army had broken out of the Normandy perimeter and was slowly approaching Paris on a broad front. The British under Montgomery were in the north and against the coast, while Omar Bradley’s Twelfth Army Group was south of the British. Patton’s Third Army, which was part of Bradley’s Twelfth, had originally broken out to the east, but then had turned east and was also approaching the south of Paris.

The entire enterprise was now under the direction of Eisenhower, who had established his headquarters in France, replacing Montgomery as ground forces commander.

Jeb Carter was a southerner through and through, and he mockingly referred to the U.S. Army as the Union army and called the Civil War the War of Northern Aggression. He commanded a company of tanks and was delighted at the thought of training Jack. Nor did Carter concern himself about the small difference in rank. He’d confidently announced that he was going to be promoted to captain momentarily; ergo there was no rank issue.

“The Sherman,” Carter explained, “weighs in at thirty-four and a half tons and has a crew of five. The main weapon is a seventy-five millimeter gun. This is a short barreled version and it’s going to be upgraded to a longer barreled 76mm one sometime down the road. That’ll increase velocity and hitting power, which is a problem. In addition, she carries two machine guns. The tank’ll go twenty-five miles an hour on a road and seventeen off road, although a good mechanic, and we have a lot of them, can goose that up five or ten miles an hour more.”

There was neither the time nor the intention to make Jack an expert. He found the tank to be cramped and stifling hot. Carter explained it was always that way except when it was cold. Then you froze your ass off. Jack decided that bombers had been absolutely spacious in comparison. Carter had laughed at his complaint, telling Jack that the Sherman had a lot more room than other tanks.

Jack spent several hours learning all five jobs, even driving the tank a few miles and not damaging anything more significant than a few small trees. To Jack’s mock dismay, he was not permitted to fire the seventy-five. Carter’s tank was named the
Rebel Yell
, an inevitability, Jack thought.

Later, they discussed basic tactics as they sampled some cognac one of Levin’s French speaking men had scrounged up. Another virtue of static warfare was that they also had a hot meal instead of C and D rations. Of course, Colonel Stoddard wanted the fortifications around his headquarters improved. More barb wire was strung and more sandbags piled strategically.

“If attacking, you should always keep your tank facing the enemy,” Carter said. “That’s where the Sherman’s armor is thickest, just a hair over four inches. Other spots are a lot less, so the beast is vulnerable from the flanks and rear, as are most tanks.”

“Why not add armor?” Levin asked.

Carter smiled knowingly. “Then, my friend, the tank would be too heavy to move, which would mean adding a bigger engine, which would require a larger tank, and the cycle goes on. Don’t worry, the krauts have the same problem with weight and armor. Also, a Sherman’s seventy-five won’t penetrate many parts of the hull of a Panther. Apparently not enough velocity, which we all hope will be fixed with the new gun. But the flanks and rear of a Panther are vulnerable. The Panther is about fifteen tons heavier than a Sherman and is designated a ‘heavy’ tank, while our tee-tiny little Sherman is considered a ‘medium.’ We don’t have any heavies in this man’s army. I guess the Pentagon said it was too expensive.”

“And when you’re on the defensive?” Jack asked.

“Hopefully, Bomber, that doesn’t mean the Panthers are attacking.”

Jack interrupted him. “Bomber?”

Carter laughed. “Hell, man, didn’t you know your nickname? Jesus, Levin, tell the man what he needs to know.”

Levin poured some more brandy into Jack’s glass. “I was waiting until he was ready. Seriously, Jack, Bomber is a helluva lot better than Stockade Stoddard and you don’t want to know what the men call me except that it is an insult to my beloved Jewish faith. Has something to do with being circumcised. Carter, big surprise, is called Rebel. Don’t worry, nicknames change more often than the men change their socks. Next week it’ll be something else.”

“Getting back to the defensive,” Carter went on, “always try to dig in. Use the tank to swivel and do a lot of the earth-moving work for you. Fire a few rounds at the enemy, then pull back to another prepared position if you can. If you don’t, their artillery and the German tanks will target you and hit you, dug in or not.”

Jack had had enough. The cognac was working. “Carter, you really as rich and important as rumors say?”

“Probably not, but I ain’t poor and my family does have a lot of connections. We lived in Virginia two hundred years before the Civil War and had a lot of property before you northerners stole it in 1865. But we recovered until the Depression came and we lost it all again, and we’re now are getting back on our feet. I’ve got relatives married to important people in business and some others in government. And you, did you really play football for Michigan State?”

“Third string quarterback. Despite my splendid efforts, our 1942 record was 4-3-2, and my big day came against Wayne University in Detroit. We won 47–7, and I carried the ball four times. Our coach, Charley Bachman, said I had potential. Unfortunately that was the second game of the season and I got drafted right after.”

Levin grinned wickedly. “Didn’t quarterbacks get to screw the cheerleaders?”

Carter shook his head. He’d played halfback for the University of Virginia. “Only the first stringers get the cheerleaders. Third stringers had to settle for fucking the ordinary students. And what did New York University accounting majors do for action?”

“We managed,” Levin said. “There were a lot of young Jewish girls at NYU who thought I was going to grow up rich and I encouraged that belief. First, of course, I have to survive this war.”

They heard the sound of cheering. “What the hell?” Jack said.

Sergeant Major Rolfe came up, grinning hugely. “Gentlemen, they just announced that the little fucker Hitler is dead.”

* * *

President Roosevelt wheeled around the Oval Office. He was perturbed and it showed. The pronouncement that Hitler was well and truly dead was wonderful, but it had potentially thrown a monkeywrench into plans to win the war in Europe first, and then concentrate on Japan.

“Our strategy will not change,” he said firmly.

General Marshall nodded his agreement while Admiral Ernie King showed his displeasure. King felt that America’s focus should be on the Pacific where much fighting remained to be done. In particular, the Philippines were still in Japanese hands, although plans for its liberation by MacArthur were well underway. In the meantime, the Philippine people were being brutalized and American POWs treated even worse. Reports said they were dying in large numbers from beatings, overwork, and starvation. Despite his personal feelings, King would do his best to support the policies of his President. Still, he could not help but feel that more men and more resources in the Pacific would make the task of defeating Japan that much easier and save American lives.

FDR continued. “With that monster Himmler in charge, we can assume that the atrocities in those lands under German control will continue. We can also assume that there will be peace overtures that must be dealt with. Secretary Hull has already informed me that representatives of Sweden and Switzerland wish to talk with us. About what is obvious. Herr Himmler wants a separate peace. Well, he shan’t have one.”

“Will the British hold firm, sir?” asked Marshall. “And what about the Soviets?”

Roosevelt took a deep breath. “I’ve been on the phone with Winston and he is in agreement with me. There will be opposition in his Parliament to his refusal to negotiate, but he feels he can bring it under control.”

“Are you certain, sir?” Marshall prodded. “England has suffered terribly. Food rationing has left her people malnourished and her cities have been bombed, and now they are under an ongoing barrage of V1 and V2 missiles. Her people are exhausted and her army is only a shadow of what it has been in the past, while her navy is now a distant second to ours. How long do you really think England can last?”