Impossible Nazi

by Ward Wagher

  “Frau Marsden?”

  “I didn’t know her name. The resemblance was scary. If I didn’t know better I would swear it was her.”

  Rainer pursed his lips as he leaned back in the seat. She sat and studied him for a while, as he did not speak.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “The English have a saying. Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “Through the Looking Glass,” she said. “Alice in Wonderland. How does that apply?”

  “Obviously we have a mutual interest here, Misty,” he replied. “Who was that old woman? Why did she suddenly show up when you were alone? Then she disappears again. Nobody else saw her.”

  “Are you saying I made it up?”

  “No, you misunderstand me. I believe you saw what you told everyone you saw. There was no reason for you to make this up. You managed to interrupt an English operation. Unfortunately, they were able to react quickly.”

  “Was your Frau Marsden out of Berlin this week?”

  “I think not,” he said. “Whenever Herr Schloss is absent, Frau Marsden guards the man’s wife and children like a mother bear with her cubs. The security people are terrified of her. Still...”

  “This is getting spooky,” she commented.

  “If that team had been able to kill Herr Schloss, then Churchill would have succeeded in stopping any efforts towards peace. From the standpoint of the English, what actually happened was the worst possible outcome for them.”

  “Except for President Wallace,” she said bitterly.

  “I am sorry, Misty, I was being incautious in my speech.”

  “No, Karl, that’s okay. It was just a very painful experience.”

  “And I have not been sensitive to your feelings,” he said quickly.

  “You are not inconsiderate. But, it has been a stressful week.”

  “For everyone,” he agreed. “Herr Schloss and I got into a shouting match after his return. That does not happen very often.”

  “It might have been interesting to watch,” she said with a small smile.

  “Herr Schloss yells very well. Everyone in the room was frightened.”

  “He can be intimidating, I think.”

  “True. Although I have known him for years. He doesn’t bother me much.”

  “Does Frau Marsden frighten you?” Her smile turned impish.

  Rainer laughed. “Frau Marsden likes me. But, I have to admit she gives me pause, sometimes.”

  “I would have laughed at you,” she said, “but that old woman I met in Lisbon scared me.”

  “And you don’t frighten easily.”

  Now, she laughed. “Oh, I am frightened most of the time. Daddy taught me how to use fear as a tool. I don’t let it paralyze me.”

  “Like in Munich?”

  “You got it. Something wasn’t right, and I knew it. They put me in that car and I knew I was in trouble. So, I started scheming and looking for an opportunity. You know, most people just give up. Daddy would never let me quit.”

  The previous fall, Misty Simpson had made a trip to Munich in an attempt to meet with an underground splinter faction of the Nazi party. They had nearly succeeded in killing her. She had jumped through the glass of an upstairs window and made an escape. Rainer had concluded, then, that there was nothing that would cause the girl to hesitate.

  “You’re braver than I,” he said.

  “Let’s not spend the evening debating who is braver,” she said. “I know it’s not me.”

  “Sometime,” he mused, “I would love to spend a Friday evening with you, following a week that was dull and boring.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Both of us seem to have chosen professions that preclude that, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  September 26, 1942; 8 PM

  USS Hessian

  N30 W130

  Pacific Ocean

  “Chief, this just sucks!” Commander Carper said to the senior master chief.

  “Yes, Skipper, it does. No two ways about it. We’re due for dry dock.”

  They both stared at the hole in the side of the M-A-N Diesel where the thrown connecting rod had punched a hole.

  “Did the oil get into the batteries?” Carper asked.

  “No, Sir. It all went down into the bilges.”

  “Well, get it pumped out. I need to get us back to Diego. Heaven help us if we need to dive.”

  He turned and stomped out of the engineering spaces of the U-Boat, his tone, and posture indicating total disgust. He stepped into the control room where the executive officer was standing watch.

  “Jolly get us headed back to Diego. I’d guess a course of about eighty-five degrees for a start.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Rogers said. “What do we have back there?”

  “We have us a hole in one of the engine blocks where a rod knocked it.”

  “Well crud, Skipper. They’re not supposed to do that.”

  “Tell me about it. Uncle Sam is going to have to whistle up another diesel out of Germany. Which means we’ll be on the beach for a while.”

  “We just got this crew trained up, too,” Rogers commented. “We’ll end up with another green crew.”

  “We’ll end up in training command is what we’ll end up,” Carper groused.

  Rogers blanched. “I hadn’t thought of that, Skipper.”

  “Can’t worry about it now. We have a couple of hundred miles of ocean to cover to get our chicks back to port. We just lost half our margin of error.”

  “At least it didn’t drive the rod through the keel,” Rogers replied.

  “Hush your mouth,” Carper said. “I really didn’t need to hear that, Jolly.”

  Rogers grinned. “No extra charge, Skipper.” It wasn’t often he could get the skipper riled. He enjoyed his small victories.

  “Helm,” Rogers ordered, “come to 85 magnetic.”

  “85 magnetic, aye Sir.” the helmsman replied.

  The U-boat gradually swung around so that it was pointing in an easterly direction. It swayed in the gentle waves of the calm ocean. As far as Rogers was concerned, the Pacific Ocean was badly misnamed. While it was calm and placid at the moment, it could transform itself into a ship-wrecking fury in a few short minutes.

  “What do we have on the topside watch, Exec?” Carper asked.

  “Two, Skipper. Port and starboard.”

  “Double it. Are the colors aloft?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Rogers walked to the intercom and ordered two more sailors on deck.

  “Are we expecting trouble, Skipper?”

  “Lord, I hope not. I’m just not too happy with the boat right now. I would rather not dive it. Let’s just hope that any patrol plane sees Old Glory up there and takes the time to wave at us, instead of filling us with fifty caliber.”

  “That would be my prayer as well, Skipper,” Rogers intoned.

  “When’s the next radio sched?” Carper asked

  “Two hours, Skipper.”

  “Let me get a message ready to send. Admiral English needs to know about this and he won’t be happy. We’ve just blown a hole in the patrol perimeter.”

  Carper stepped through the hatch at the front of the control room and moved into his tiny cabin. He folded the desk down and slipped into the chair. He then picked up the intercom and punched a number.

  “Yes, Skipper?”

  “Coffee, please. My cabin.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  A few minutes later, the cook knocked and brought in a pitcher of coffee and a plate of donuts.

  “Ah, thanks, Cookie. I need this.”

  “No problem, Skip.”

  He poured a cup of coffee and selected a donut. His waistband was starting to get a little tight, so he was soon going to have to swear off the donuts. He pulled a notebook off the shelf and began drafting the message to COMSUBPAC. He really hated sending messages like this. This type of engineering casualty was not something that c
ould be attributed to poor maintenance, so he did not expect to be gigged over it. But, he really hated hanging the navy out to dry by leaving his assigned station.

  So far, he had had a good war. Any U.S. Navy officer considered copping one of the immigrant U-boats a coup. His cruise into the Philippine Sea had been challenging, and at times terrifying. But, he had brought the boat back intact, along with the crew. He had expended all his torpedoes and had several sinkings to his credit. The German torpedoes clearly outperformed the American munitions, which could not seem to make up their minds whether to explode when desired.

  He was surprised to be sent back to sea so quickly, although the reasoning was clear. He had expected to an extensive debriefing on the performance of the U-boat. The navy was frantically trying to pull together the requirements for the next generation of submarines, and his recent experience was one of the keys. One thing was certain, neither the American or German designs really had the range to be fully effective in the Pacific war. This limited time on station because it was too risky to place refueling tenders far enough west where they might be intercepted and sunk.

  Another problem facing the U.S. Navy was the unexpected effectiveness of the Japanese anti-submarine forces. Carper was convinced the Japanese acoustic gear was far better than the Americans understood. This was the only explanation for the Hessian’s experience in the Philippine Sea. The next generation of submarines needed to be much quieter and faster. Since the beginning of the war, the Americans had been chronically behind the curve. And at the moment they were once again reacting. He knew they had stung the Japanese, and now they were pulling back again.

  Everyone knew America would eventually defeat the Japanese. The disparities in the size of the economies of the two nations would virtually guarantee that. But, nobody seemed to be in any haste to make that happen. Oh, he was aware that the Americans were frantically building aircraft carriers as fast as they could find yard space to lay the keels. But, they needed something besides twenty-five second-hand U-boats to carry the war to the western Pacific.

  His musings were interrupted by the dive klaxon. He scrambled out of his chair and slammed the desktop back into the bulkhead. He quickly exited his stateroom and made his way into control. As he got close, he slowed his walk and purposely reconfigured his face into is normal calm, assured manner.

  “What do we have, Jolly?”

  “One of the lookouts spotted a periscope. I thought we’d better get out of sight.”

  “Good call,” Carper said. “I have the conn.”

  “Skipper has the conn,” Rogers commanded.

  “Bearing on the periscope and distance?” Carper asked.

  “Ten degrees off the port bow. Maybe a thousand yards. The lookout spotted the feather.”

  “Okay, let’s come ten degrees to port. Turns for five knots. Make your depth one-hundred feet.”

  The helm repeated the commands and the crew felt the boat heel over into a slight turn. Carper walked over to where the hydrophone operator was working his gear.

  “What do you have?” he asked.

  “Nothing Skipper. Whoever is out there is as quiet as the grave.”

  “Quiet on the boat,” Carper called conversationally.

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Rogers said.

  He walked over and repeated the order to one of the crewmen, who walked through the boat and repeated the order. Anyone on the boat who was not otherwise occupied grabbed a chair or rolled into their bunk.

  “How do we look?” Carper asked the hydrophone operator.

  “I’m getting a clanking sound aft, Sir. Whoever is out there probably can’t hear it.”

  Carper motioned with his head to Rogers, who immediately left the control room and headed aft to isolate the source of the noise.

  “Torpedo launch, Skipper!”

  “I need a bearing.”

  “The fish is about twelve degrees starboard and drifting right. Skipper! It’s a Mark 14. That’s a clear miss.”

  Carper ran his hands through his hair. “I guess we’ve got Helen Keller out there. We had our biggest flag on the mast, and this clown didn’t see it. He sees a sub and takes the shot. Admiral English will have his guts for garters. All right. We need to clear datum.”

  He stepped back into the control room. “Take us down to two-hundred feet. Maintain course and speed.”

  “Two-hundred feet, aye,” the helmsman replied.

  § § §

  September 28, 1942; 10 AM

  British Foreign Office

  King Charles Street

  London, England, UK

  John Gilbert Winant stood, hat in hand, in the outer office of Anthony Eden’s domain. The past week had been an unending nightmare. After the optimism going into the Lisbon Conference, the assassination of President Wallace had been an unimaginable shock. The capture of the British action squad had further deepened the crisis.

  Winant had worked assiduously to maintain decent relations between the Americans and the British. After the Americans had abrogated the Lend-Lease agreement in January, things had been chilly. The British perceived the American pressure to resolve the European war as unwanted interference in their business.

  The death of Henry Wallace had put everything into sharp relief. The American actions in Europe had been viewed by Washington as simply business. Murdering a head of state was now personal. And, John Gilbert Winant had been selected to deliver the message.

  An anonymous-looking foreign office employee walked over to where Winant stood.

  “The Foreign Secretary will see you, Ambassador.”

  Winant nodded. “Thank you.” In spite of the heightened tensions and the rage of the Americans, he felt the need to maintain diplomatic politeness. Whatever else happened, the British and American fleets eventually had to work together in the Pacific against the Japanese. That is if there was to be any hope of concluding that war in this generation.

  Winant followed the FO employee into Eden’s office. In spite of the stress, he again admired the opulence and classic design of the room. The British knew how to do things in style. Eden, however, was another story.

  The man made his way across the room to greet Winant. To the American, he looked like a gangly bird strutting across the room. He also looked terrible – as though he had not slept in a week.

  “Mr. Ambassador, thank you for coming.”

  “Your Excellency,” Winant replied. “I have a message from Washington that I was required to deliver.”

  Eden went pale. “I… I understand. This past week has not been… pleasant.”

  Winant eased the heavy envelope from his coat pocket. “The message came in overnight. I called for an appointment as soon as I saw it. For your information, the Congress has confirmed Harry Truman as the new president. This message is under his direction.”

  “Very well.”

  “In view of recent events in Lisbon,” Winant began, “the United States demands an explanation from Her Majesty’s government of said government involvement in the tragic death of our president. The Portuguese government has assured us that it will conduct a thorough investigation in Lisbon and hold the team of malefactors to account. The United States demands the cooperation of British law enforcement and will conduct its own investigation of the conspiracy on British soil. The United States will convene a grand jury to examine the evidence and will return any indictments on citizens of the United Kingdom. Said accused will be returned to the United States for trial.”

  “Further,” Winant said, “the United States desires an immediate resumption of negotiations between the United Kingdom and the German Reich. We consider the current relationship between your two countries to be unacceptable and expect that to change.”

  Winant continued. “The government of the United States wishes to make clear that it desires to maintain cordial relations with the United Kingdom, once this matter is cleared up to our satisfaction. I, of course, remain available to relay any responses to my gov
ernment. I trust we will not wait long to have this matter resolved.”

  “Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention,” Eden said in a strangled voice. “I, of course, cannot predict or suggest a response at this time. However, I can assure you we will give this matter our immediate and undivided attention.”

  “Thank you for your time, Your Excellency,” Winant said.

  The two men bowed, and Winant walked briskly out of the room. After he left, Eden’s assistant stepped back into the office.

  “Well,” Anthony Eden said with a sigh, “that went about as badly as I expected it would.”

  He took a letter opener from his desk and sliced open the envelope. He pulled out the single page and quickly scanned it. He handed it to the assistant.

  “Please make a photocopy of this. I will take the original to the prime minister. Please contact the prime minister and ask that I may see him at his earliest convenience.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  September 28, 1942; 2 PM

  Buckingham Palace

  London, England

  When Eden arrived in the Queen's private office, Prime Minister Clement Attlee was already sitting on the other side of a small side table. The silver tea service on the table was already in use. Attlee carefully sipped from a cup and balanced the saucer in his lap. The crumbs from a couple of scones remained on the plate, he having already consumed them.

  “Please have a seat, Minister,” Margaret said. “I understand we received an ultimatum from the Americans.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Ambassador Winant delivered it this morning,” Eden said as he fished the envelope from a coat pocket.

  “Please allow the prime minister to read it first.”

  Eden handed the envelope over to Attlee. “I haven’t had a chance to speak with you, Clement, however, you shall have my resignation by the end of the day. I will, of course, offer every cooperation to whoever you appoint to replace me.”

  “I want you to stay, Mr. Eden,” the queen said.