Himmler's War-ARC

by Robert Conroy

  * * *

  The 74th entered Germany south of the ancient city of Aachen, Charlemagne’s capital when he founded the Holy Roman Empire more than a thousand years earlier, and north of the rugged and wooded area called the Eifel. They estimated they had forty or fifty crow-fly miles before they hit the Rhine. If any of them cared, intelligence said they were up against the German Seventh Army under General Erich Brandenberger.

  American troops entering the city of Aachen were meeting stiff resistance in this first major German city to be attacked. Troops were fighting street to street and even building to building, just like what they’d heard of Stalingrad and Leningrad. Street fighting in old stone cities was a lousy situation for tanks, and the men of the 74th were universally thankful to not be involved in it.

  Even though there actually was a sign saying “Welcome to Germany,” it was quickly apparent that they’d entered a different country. For one thing, they noted that it was cleaner in Germany than in France. They’d concluded that French idea of sanitation was minimal at best, what with people pissing in the streets, while everything was tidy and clean in the Reich. Even the ruins had been swept, apparently by old men and women since the men were away in the army. The roads were better as well, paved instead of dirt.

  To their surprise, they’d met no immediate resistance when they crossed the border. They’d half expected the sign saying they were entering Germany to be booby-trapped, but it wasn’t. Nor had they seen any discernible German defenses. The Nazis had fallen back to more defensible positions rather than fighting for every inch of homeland soil like Hitler would have insisted.

  The first German village they entered was only a mile from the border, and many of the neat and well-maintained houses were festooned with white flags made from sheets.

  “Apparently nobody thought surrender was a likelihood,” Jack said. “Otherwise the proper Germans would have had regular white flags already made up.”

  Sergeant Major Rolfe chuckled. Snyder and a new lieutenant were up in the repaired plane with Snyder piloting. He had quickly developed into a qualified pilot. Snyder said it was because he was so smart, while Rolfe and Jack said it was because the plane was so easy. A second plane and another pilot were being prepped. Jack had written Jessica that he now commanded his own air force.

  The white flags brought home the fact that they were conquering Germany, not liberating it, and that was reflected in the troop’s attitude. If they “accidentally” broke something, well, tough shit. They had freed the French and were now going to punish the Nazis, assuming of course, that any Nazis could be found. When the villagers emerged, they told them the Nazis had all gone, which the Americans found laughable, especially since a number of civilians glared at them with unbridled hate in their eyes. Blank spaces on walls showed where pictures of either the late Hitler or his successor, Himmler, had once been displayed and had been prudently taken down. A handful of young men on crutches or missing limbs, or both, watched them stonily. These were former Wehrmacht and would be watched. They had been knocked out of the war because of their wounds, but they had not surrendered. Jack wondered how he’d feel seeing enemy soldiers in his home town, and decided he wouldn’t be happy at all. He didn’t sympathize with the krauts, but he thought he did understand them.

  Still, some of the people looked happy to see the Americans, admitting that they were exhausted by the war and wished the killing to end. They’d supported Hitler when he’d solved Germany’s economic woes, but, when questioned, solemnly said that they’d never supported his conquests and couldn’t believe what was said about the Jews.

  “Bullshit,” Levin said. “They’re all Nazi motherfuckers. The Russians are doing it right, giving them back just what they did in the Soviet Union.”

  It was common knowledge that the Reds were retaliating for the atrocities committed by the Nazis when they’d conquered large sections of the Soviet Union. They were taking a savage vengeance—looting, killing and raping their way west. Or at least they had been. There were more and more rumors that the Soviets had slowed, if not stopped.

  Denying their Nazi affiliations didn’t save the German civilians from having their houses, foodstuffs, and liquor taken by the Americans as they bivouacked for the night. Stoddard wouldn’t permit any heavy looting or the abuse of women, but chickens, eggs, and other delectables managed to make it to GI dinners. It amused them to see the displaced Germans carrying bags of extra clothes on their backs as they looked for a place to spend the night. For all Jack cared, the krauts could sleep in piles of barnyard shit. They’d get their houses back, and reasonably intact, when the regiment moved on, which he felt was more than they deserved.

  That night and for the first time since he’d landed in Normandy, Jack actually slept in a bed. Ironically, it was so comfortable he tossed and turned for much of the night. Still, he loved the feeling. Even better, the house he and several other officers had taken over actually had indoor plumbing, and they’d taken turns wallowing in the tub adjacent to the toilet. Carter suggested weighing one’s self before bathing and then right after to see how much the dirt on their skins weighed. Carter was told to go screw himself.

  Not having to use a latrine tent or relieve oneself outdoors was another almost forgotten civilized pleasure. Snow had fallen and lightly covered the ground. Soon enough they’d have to tramp through it to squat over a disgusting latrine trench, but this night was a wonderful reprieve.

  Morgan was enjoying a second cup of coffee when a PFC told him Colonel Stoddard wanted to see him ASAP. He took a couple of quick swallows and trotted to the mayor’s house, now Stoddard’s HQ.

  “Jack, one of the townspeople in this little piece of heaven whispered to me that there’s a work camp just outside of here, maybe a mile away.”

  “Jesus, is a work camp the same as a death camp, sir?”

  Stoddard nodded grimly. “That’s what you’re going to find out. Take an infantry platoon and a couple of Carter’s tanks and see.”

  Once again they smelled death before they reached it. As before, even the cold air couldn’t mask it. A dozen decrepit wooden barracks were surrounded by barbed wire forming a rectangle. Watchtowers were at each corner and were manned by guards who looked astonished at the sight of the approaching American column. Apparently, the guards were unaware of the American presence down the road. So much for Teutonic efficiency, thought Morgan.

  German guards in one of towers opened up with a machine gun and were blown to pieces by a 75mm shell from the lead Sherman. German soldiers spilled out of a barracks building and what looked like a headquarters. They saw the American column and ran towards the rear of the camp where another gate was quickly opened, allowing them to run through and away.

  “Shoot them,” Jack yelled. Cannon and machine gun fire cut down many of them, but a few managed to escape. Good riddance, Jack thought.

  A handful of prisoners were taken and they wore the skull and crossbones insignia on their caps. Jack had heard that these the special units assigned to run concentration camps and were especially cruel. He found it satisfying that most of them looked frightened. Some of their Nazi prisoners were women guards, exceedingly hard looking and ugly women, but females nonetheless.

  “Come here, Captain,” yelled a sergeant as he exited a barracks building. He turned and threw up against the barracks wall.

  Jack entered the barracks and walked into a hell dimly lit by light coming through holes in the walls. Scores of eyes stared at him from stark benches. They were shapeless and in rags and it took him a few moments to realize they were women. An emaciated hand reached out for him and touched his uniform. Without thinking, he recoiled and the woman cringed as if expecting to be beaten.

  “Who are you?” came a voice, timid and weak.

  “American,” he said softly.

  There was silence, then gasps and sobs. “You’ve come?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  There must have been
a hundred women jammed into the small building. Some of them stirred and got up. They lurched hesitantly to the door. Jack let them pass and go out into the fresh air. It was too cold for their rags to be much use against the weather, but being able to step outside seemed worth it to them.

  Several women remained on the benches. Jack checked them. A couple of them were dead and the others might be dying. More soldiers had entered the barracks and were looking around. He found a radio man who put him in contact with Stoddard.

  “How is it, son?”

  “Worse than you can begin to imagine, sir. We need medics, food, blankets, and, oh yeah, if you’ve got a correspondent or two hanging around send them here to take some pictures.”

  At that point, Jack went out and looked at the liberated women who were staring at the open gate and the empty watchtowers. Some of the GI’s had found blankets and given them to the women to cover their nakedness and help warm them.

  Sergeant Major Rolfe emerged from the headquarters building. “All gone, Captain, but you’re not going to believe this.”

  “Try me.”

  “We’re the 74th Armored, right. Well, this is work camp number seventy-four. Quite a coincidence, huh, sir?”

  “Yeah,” Jack admitted. “But it does make me wonder how the hell many of these snake pits there are.”

  CHAPTER 15

  FDR WAS LIVID. The photographs on his desk were damning beyond belief. One showed emaciated dead bodies stacked like cordwood, while another displayed the decomposing bodies of inmates hung on barbed wire, shot while trying to escape. Others were equally horrible. He glanced at them all, overwhelmed by the agony and inhumanity they showed.

  As the camps near the French border were overrun, the depth of the accumulated horror was becoming apparent, and no one had yet gotten near the most terrible places of all, a series of camps near the city of Auschwitz.

  “First, I want these pictures released to the troops and the American public. We must show them what we’re fighting for and what’ll happen if we lose. Above all, show these to our so-called allies, Great Britain and France. They most definitely need their spines stiffened.”

  Churchill had lost a vote in Parliament, which would almost certainly require a new election. Winston might be a hero to much of the British public, but he was not well loved even by his own party. The English people were exhausted by the long and bloody war and wanted it to end. They had been fighting since 1939 and had endured bombings and catastrophic battles. As long as victory was achievable, they were on board, but the increasing German resistance was demoralizing them. It reminded so many of the stalemate of World War I. All that was needed to cause England’s collapse was the sight of trench lines snaking along the Rhine.

  A growing number of people in England were clamoring for a negotiated peace, and the same clamoring was beginning to be heard from America’s citizens. So what if a Nazi stayed in power was the increasingly strident cry? Hitler was the monster responsible for the war, and Hitler was dead. Wouldn’t his successors be more reasonable? After all, wasn’t the little dictator insane? They couldn’t all be crazy, could they?

  Yet how could he negotiate with the authors of these atrocities? But so many wanted him to, and they included congressional members of his own party. Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter and Treasury Secretary Rosenthal as well as a number of Jewish-Americans had screamed their anguish at what was happening to their fellow Jews. Frankfurter, a man who at first disbelieved the atrocities, now wondered if many of his faith remained alive in Europe. It was a good question.

  FDR and Churchill had had a number of disagreements and Churchill was fighting the fact that Great Britain was now a bit player in the global conflict. Still, Churchill was a cut above whoever would replace him, in particular the colorless and, in FDR’s opinion spineless, socialist, Clement Atlee.

  Ultra intercepts said that the Nazis were slowing or stopping the shipment of Jews to death camps, but would that truly save the remaining Jews and other concentration and death camp inmates? Or did it make sense to negotiate an end to the war that included getting the Jews and others out of the clutches of the likes of Himmler. FDR rubbed his forehead. He had a miserable headache. He had won his fourth term, and, God willing, another four years in office. But at what price? Christ, his head hurt and it felt like his heart was racing to get out of his chest. He needed a rest, but had no idea when he would get one.

  * * *

  Heinrich Himmler mentally worked on his list of people to be eliminated once he consolidated power and a working peace had been achieved. It was a pleasant diversion. Once he’d seen a Shakespeare play in which characters dressed as Romans decided who would live and who would die. He appreciated it now that he was in a position to do something.

  Von Rundstedt headed the list. The arrogant field marshal was choice number one. He and a number of others in the military hierarchy were proclaiming themselves saviors of Germany for their efforts in slowing down the Americans and knocking Russia out of the war. For all intents and purposes, England was also no longer a factor, while France was on the verge of tearing herself in two.

  Ribbentrop would go as well, although Himmler thought the fool might be allowed to retire. The same held with the aging von Papen. The navy’s Admiral Doenitz seemed loyal, but the Kriegsmarine had always followed an independent line. His case would be reviewed. Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr and the font of all military intelligence, was also considered a candidate for purging. As yet unverifiable rumors had him supporting those who would have murdered Hitler. The Gestapo was working hard to confirm those rumors. While Himmler now firmly believed the bombing that killed the Fuhrer was a tragic coincidence, he did wonder just when the plotters would have made their move. Canaris would be carefully watched.

  And what to do about Rommel? The former golden boy from North Africa was still recovering from his wounds. Rommel had served as commander of Hitler’s bodyguard and had appeared to worship him. However, there were rumors that his devotion had soured as defeats mounted. Rommel was a popular war hero and would not be touched as long as he behaved himself. Himmler thought it was strange that Rundstedt hadn’t actually said that he would give a command to Rommel once he was better. Perhaps their personal animosity could be put to good use.

  Josepf Goebbels still served a purpose. The club-footed propaganda minister had once been very ambitious, perhaps even coveting ultimate leadership as Hitler’s heir, but the Fuhrer’s unexpected death had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he would make Goebbels an ambassador to an irrelevant country.

  Himmler was greatly concerned about what was happening to his SS army. Once it had consisted of thirty-nine divisions, but now it had been mauled to less than half its strength by the Russians. It would have to be rebuilt, which should not be a difficulty. Only finding the time to do it would be a problem. He had held back two divisions from being sent to the Eastern Front and they now constituted a personal security force in Berlin.

  It occurred to him that the entire regular army, the Heer, should become part of the SS instead of the arrogant and far too independent force it was now. He thought that the same should happen with the Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe. Yes, make them all swear allegiance to the Nazi Party and Germany, but in that order.

  But first he had to win the damn war. Or at least not lose it.

  * * *

  The intensity and fury of the rioting caught Jessica by surprise. There had been many disturbances in the previous few days as the French communists fought the police and some of the French troops who had been brought into Paris to maintain order, but nothing like this day’s fighting. Other demonstrations had been fairly restrained while this one had quickly turned savage.

  Several thousand communists had suddenly emerged from the side streets and taken over the area around the Arc de Triomphe, the sacred monument whose arches rose over the First World War’s tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier. Their banners and shouts proclaimed thei
r goal to make Paris a communist-run soviet, and further said that de Gaulle was a fascist dictator. So far this was nothing new, except for the size of the crowd and the quickness with which they’d shown up. Jessica concluded that they’d been waiting in nearby buildings and alleys for a signal.

  Noncommunist demonstrators showed up only a few minutes later, which led Jessica to conclude that much of this had been choreographed. These held signs that said that the communists were Moscow inspired traitors deserving of death. Within seconds, the two groups were at each other’s throats. Clubs and blackjacks cracked heads and men and women fell, screaming or unconscious, or even dead, Jessica thought grimly. She realized that she was getting used to sights like these. What had happened to the sheltered college girl, she wondered.

  Whistles and sirens screamed as the police made a belated entry. Again, more brawling and more people were lying injured on the pavement. A horrified Jessica saw knives flashing and tear at flesh. A young man ran past where she’d taken shelter in a store doorway. The skin of his cheek hung down like a piece of bloody meat. He howled in pain as the flesh of his cheek flapped.

  Jessica had merely thought to take some time off and see the Arc and the tomb. She’d seen them before, but their quiet dignity always gave her a sense of purpose. But now her goal was to stay out of the fighting. Regular army troops began arriving by truck and forming into battle lines. They had rifles and bayonets. The communist rioters were badly outnumbered and outgunned. It would all end in a few minutes.

  The communists fired first. They had pistols or small submachine guns hidden in their coats and they shot into the advancing soldiers and police or the de Gaulle supporters. More scores of people fell to the ground, lifeless or writhing. Blood poured from hundreds of wounds.

  Jessica had thrown herself on her belly and was watching the slaughter. It was ghoulishly fascinating, horrifying. She couldn’t turn away. The soldiers, enraged, opened fire and dropped a large number of the communists into bloody heaps. The communists broke and ran in a score of different directions while the police and soldiers chased them. A young French army private ran up to her and pointed his rifle at her. His face was contorted with anger. Some of his friends had just been killed or wounded and he wanted revenge. He saw her Red Cross uniform and nodded grimly, then he laughed and trotted away.