Himmler's War-ARC

by Robert Conroy

  With that she took a suitcase and left Charley to watch her. For the first time, she noticed a .45 automatic in the back of his belt. His expression changed and he glared at her.

  “Y’know, I’ve always hated people like you. Rich bitches, officer’s kids, officer’s pussy. People like you don’t even notice enlisted men, no matter how many stripes I have or how much experience I have. We’re just part of the furniture to you.”

  “Not true. I’ve always respected you.”

  “Bullshit. You tolerated me. You know what else I hate? Teenage lieutenants giving me orders, that’s what. Some of those young pricks are still in diapers, yet they’re in charge. Ain’t right. Used to be the army was for men, not for little kids.”

  He stood over her and leered. “Here’s something to remember me by.”

  He put the rag back in her mouth and then tore her blouse apart. He pulled her bra over her breasts and she whimpered from the pain.

  “Not bad,” he said, fondling them as she tried to pull away.

  Charley laughed and pushed her slacks down and pulled her thighs apart. His hand slid inside her panties and began pawing her, hurting her.

  Monica returned and pushed him aside. “Damn you, Charley, we don’t have time for that. Take these packages and get down to that car.”

  Boyle laughed and did as instructed. Monique took the gag partway from Jessica’s mouth. “You’ll be able to spit it out in a bit. Then you can scream your little heart out and someone will probably find you before dark. Either that or you can crawl out the door and someone’s bound to see you. Sorry it had to end this way, but that’s life.”

  Monique disappeared out the door. Jessica lay there, working the gag. A moment later, she heard screams and the sound of popping. What now?

  The door opened and an American MP entered, his gun drawn. “Oh shit,” he said on seeing her. He threw a blanket over her and checked the other room, finally holstering his weapon. He took a knife and cut her bonds.

  “What is happening?” Jessica asked, anxiously as she rearranged her clothing under the blanket. Another man entered and she recognized him as Major Harmon, one of the Provost Marshal types who’d questioned her before. She heard the unique squeal of Parisian sirens coming from the street below.

  “Sorry this had to happen, Miss Granville,” said Harmon, “but we we’ve been watching this place for several weeks and were about ready to rush in when we saw Boyle. But then we saw you go in and wondered what the hell was going on.”

  “You thought I was part of it?” she said, clutching the blanket closer.

  “Yep. Not anymore though.”

  Jessica stood and took a deep breath. She made it down the stairs without help, even though she thought she knew what she would find.

  Monique lay on the floor by the door. A medic was treating her for gunshot wounds in her chest and leg. Monique’s face was pale, her eyes unfocused and rolled back in her head.

  Jessica felt unsteady and Major Harmon took her arm. “She actually pulled a pistol on us,” he said. “If she lives, she’ll spend a long time in a French jail, maybe forever. Not so for Boyle.”

  Charley Boyle lay on his back on the sidewalk. A cloth covered his face. Blood had poured from wounds in his skull and run down the sidewalk and into the gutter.

  “He could have surrendered,” said the OPMG officer. “But I guess he couldn’t abide the thought of spending the rest of his life in a federal prison. Tough.”

  What a waste, she thought. Charley’s family was destroyed and Monique would spend much, if not all of her life in prison, assuming she recovered.

  * * *

  Harry Truman took the oath of office as Vice President in FDR’s residence in the White House on Saturday, January 20, 1945. Eleanor was present, looking even more somber and gloomy than she usually did. Fewer than a dozen dignitaries were present at the low-key event. All plans for a gala were cancelled. The public was informed that the President was too ill to attend, although he was steadily improving. After the swearing in, Truman wondered if the poor man was alive enough to be cognizant of where he was and what was happening.

  Chief Justice Stone administered the oath to the four-term President. FDR did not speak. He merely nodded to questions regarding whether he would preserve and protect the Constitution. His eyes were glassy and his breath was shallow. His cheeks were sunken and his skin was gray. This is a farce, Truman thought.

  On the way out of the White House, Truman was intercepted by the departing Vice President, Henry Wallace.

  “Best wishes, Harry, and I hope you are better prepared to step in than I was. At least Franklin lived long enough to prevent me from becoming President, which I think was one of his goals. I don’t think he will accomplish that regarding you.”

  Nor do I, Truman thought.

  “By the way, Harry, I understand there’s a strategy meeting tomorrow morning at ten in the Executive Office Building. Have you been invited?”

  Truman bristled. He had not. What the hell had happened to the idea that he would be informed and involved? He would see about that.

  Promptly at ten the next morning, the uninvited Truman strode forcefully into the conference room. He loved the look of surprise on everyone’s faces. “What is the problem, gentlemen? Or had you forgotten I existed and, more important, that I am the Vice President who will shortly become President and commander in chief?”

  Jim Byrnes responded angrily. “That’s presumptuous, Harry. Franklin’s still alive.”

  “Is he?” Truman retorted. “Yesterday, a breathing corpse began his fourth term as President. He was barely present at the occasion. Was he conscious, or was somebody pulling his strings like he was a puppet? And since when did we use a Ouija Board to determine presidential responses?”

  Byrnes stood and glared, his face was turning red as his Irish temper showed. “That is disgusting and I demand an apology.”

  Truman returned his glare. “And I demand one for being ignored. Who the hell decided not to include me, Franklin or you people?”

  Truman looked at those assembled. Along with Byrnes were Marshall, Admiral King, and the secretaries of defense and navy. No one answered, although he thought he detected quiet amusement in the eyes of the unflappable Marshall.

  “Gentlemen,” Truman continued, “with the exception of me, no one in this room is elected to public office. Therefore, no one besides me is entitled to run this nation.”

  “You’re forgetting that FDR still lives,” Byrnes said softly. His choler was receding.

  “Once again, does he? Gentlemen, I’ll give you a most unpleasant choice. You immediately accept the fact that I am the surrogate President, or I will go to federal court tomorrow and file suit alleging that Roosevelt is mentally incompetent and unable to serve as President.”

  “Justice Stone will put a stop to that,” Byrnes said, but he was clearly uneasy at the prospect. Just what would the Chief Justice really do? Chief Justice Stone was a law unto himself. Nobody knew for certain what he would decide. Besides, he thought, Truman had a point. Was FDR mentally competent or not? Why the devil was the Constitution so silent on the question of a disabled president?

  “If Stone does try to stop me, I guarantee you that I will speak to the press. The Chicago Daily Tribune has always hated FDR and would be glad to assist me.” The Tribune hated Roosevelt enough to have printed military secrets and almost been prosecuted for the fact.

  Byrnes looked at Truman with growing respect. “You wouldn’t dare. You would be jeopardizing the war effort.”

  “If you don’t believe I’d dare, watch me. And as to the war effort, you are jeopardizing it by the coup you are pulling off, however inadvertent it might be. We are a democracy and that cannot ever be forgotten.”

  General Marshall quietly but firmly injected himself into the discussion. “Vice President Truman is totally correct. We have, ah, accidentally overreached ourselves in our desire to protect the President and our country. Presiden
ts have died in office before and doubtless will again. The country will go on regardless of what happens if and when FDR actually does pass on.”

  “Then it’s conceded that his death is imminent?” Truman asked.

  Byrnes shrugged. Anguish was evident on his face. “Ten minutes, ten days, ten months, Harry. Who the hell knows? And you and the general are right. You have to be here. In fact, the sooner you get totally up to speed, the better off we’ll all be. I suggest that you give us direction as if you were receiving it from Roosevelt. No one here will question it because, you’re right, it’s something we have to do.”

  Truman smiled wickedly. “Does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what the hell’s going on in New Mexico?”

  * * *

  “Young Corporal Snyder, what the hell is this thing you’ve just shoved under my nose?” Morgan said in an attempt at humor. He knew exactly what it was. Rumors of their existence had been circulating for some time now.

  Snyder was not intimidated, but kept the conversation formal. “Sir, it’s a petition. We’re trying to get everyone in the army to sign it and we’re going to collect them and send them to the White House.”

  “And what do you hope will happen?”

  “Pardon my French, sir, but we hope to get this fucking war over with. It’s been going on for long enough and there’s no end in sight, and there’s no reason to invade Germany if we can get them to negotiate a peace, just like they did the last time.”

  “Snyder, are you aware that the last peace resulted in the next war, the one we’re fighting?”

  “Which means that we have to do a better job ending this one, sir, and hopefully we’ve learned something from the past. Look, if we don’t do this, we’ll be confronting the biggest and bloodiest battle in American history and for what? Hitler is dead, and so are a lot of the Nazis who started this thing. It’s time to settle the score and move on.”

  “What about the Jews in the concentration camps?” Morgan asked. “All those people are being murdered. Doesn’t that mean something?”

  “Sir, I hate to sound cruel or bigoted, but aren’t almost all of them dead already and won’t the rest of them die before they can be liberated? Maybe the peace negotiations can result in those who are left being sent to a neutral country. And besides, sir, how many Americans should have to die to liberate a handful of Jews?”

  Morgan didn’t have an answer to Snyder’s comments because he was right. It was very likely that all the Jews in German camps would be dead long before they could be liberated. American dead versus living Jews—it was a hell of an equation.

  “Are you aware that what you are doing is against military regulations?”

  “Captain, there are tens of thousands of us organizing and circulating petitions and hundreds of thousands signing them. Do you really think it’s feasible for the army to punish American citizens for exercising their rights of assembly and free speech?”

  Again Morgan admitted that the corporal had a point. Even though many constitutional rights were suspended in the military, they didn’t totally disappear and there was safety in numbers. As long as the signers and organizers did nothing overt, like fomenting mutiny or assaulting officers, they were fairly safe. Word had come from the top that the petitions were to be tolerated, which had outraged some of the officers and noncoms. People like Snyder might never be promoted, but that meant nothing to them. They wanted to go home. Hell, so did he.

  The petitions were nothing new. They’d been circulating for a couple of months, although the arrival of Christmas seemed to have accelerated the process. Jack had to admit that Christmas for him in snowy, cold, and lonely Germany was incredibly depressing. So too was the fact that Jessica was closer but so far away.

  “You know I’m not going to sign it.”

  “Didn’t think you would, sir, but I had to ask. Some officers have, in case you’re curious.”

  Jack grinned. “Ike?”

  Snyder’s stern facade cracked. “We’re working on him, sir.”

  “So what happens when you send these in, assuming the army will let you, and nothing happens. What will you do when the time comes to cross the Rhine?”

  Snyder took a deep breath. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, although I have to admit it will probably happen. If we have to fight, everybody I’ve talked to says they will. Nobody’s going to let anybody else down.”

  Snyder took the unsigned petition and left Morgan alone in the tent. Jack poured himself a cup of the black tar that passed for coffee in the army. The quiet revolution in the army was yet another item for concern. He sympathized with Snyder and all the others who simply wanted to go home, and he also sympathized with those like Levin who had relatives who’d disappeared into the maniacally evil beast that was Nazi Germany. The thought of the monsters who did that going unpunished and allowed to continue in charge of Germany was repugnant. Jack smiled at the thought of Snyder asking Captain Levin to sign the petition. It wouldn’t happen. Snyder wasn’t that crazy.

  To further complicate matters, he’d received another letter from Jessica. She and three others had made it to Aachen where they were setting up a refugee information center. She mentioned that the military police had arrested her friend Monique and that Monique’s friend, Master Sergeant Boyle, had been killed. Reading in-between the lines, Jack had come to the conclusion that Jessica had been involved in the operation and it chilled him. Jessica should not have been in danger. What the hell was this world coming to when soldiers circulate peace petitions and women working for the Red Cross are put in danger?

  How many thousand years ago was it when he played football for Michigan State and his primary concerns were wondering which hole to hit, which classes needed more study, and which coeds would go out with him?

  Someday he might go back to civilian life, but neither he nor anyone else in the military would ever be the same, especially those who’d killed and seen their comrades killed or maimed.

  Nor, he realized, would Jessica. Damn. The world was changing way too fast.

  * * *

  Carter got out of the Jeep and stared at the vast storage depot. Rows of vehicles of all kinds, tracked and wheeled, along with enormous stacks of materiel, seemed to stretch to the horizon. Out of sight but just as huge were stockpiles of gasoline, diesel and other material deemed flammable or explosive; thus requiring special storage facilities away from the other items.

  Located a little more than twenty miles from the Rhine, the depot was considered out of the range of German artillery and it was protected by American fighters who maintained patrols overhead and were aided by radar that could usually pick up a German plane from far away.

  The depot was surrounded by barbed wire, and grim-faced MP’s patrolled the perimeter. The depot was in occupied Germany and the army was taking no chances with saboteurs. Germany was still hostile territory. Some GI’s had taken to referring to the Rhineland Germans as Apaches and the Rhineland as a reservation.

  Carter, Morgan, and the others all had to show ID and their orders at several layers of security before gaining admission to the supply depot that was more of a city than a storage facility.

  And it was only one of a number of similar sites filling up with materiel in anticipation of the dreaded Rhine crossing.

  “This must’ve been what it was like in England just before D-Day,” Carter said. “I heard jokes that the island almost sank under the weight of all the GI’s and supplies. Now I believe it.”

  “You weren’t in England?” Jack asked.

  “Nah, most of us came straight over from New Jersey, which is why we didn’t go into combat right away. They didn’t think we were ready. As it turned out, they were right.”

  Morgan wondered if there were any landing craft in the depot. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean a thing. The presence of landing craft would confirm the rumor that at least part of the assault on what the krauts called the Rhine Wall would come from their area. What joy, t
hey all thought at the prospect.

  “I wonder why the Germans don’t lob their V-rockets at this site. It’s not like they could miss it,” Jeb asked.

  “Why don’t you go ask them?” Morgan teased.

  Actually, he thought he knew why. The rockets were terribly inaccurate and might not find the depot. Also, the warheads weren’t all that large, which meant any explosion, unless it was a direct hit on a large supply of ammo or fuel, wouldn’t accomplish all that much. And, even if they did hit something that went boom, losses could be made up fairly quickly. The United States, as the Arsenal of Democracy, was going full bore, pouring out an incredible stream of supplies. The air force was also doing a marvelous job of making life miserable for the Germans who had to manufacture and then launch the abominable rockets.

  A guide in a lead Jeep turned left and they followed, passing a long line of replacement Sherman tanks. Finally, they stopped and Jeb gazed in wonder.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Aren’t they just too beautiful for words?”

  Jack laughed. “Tanks are not beautiful. In fact most sane people would think they’re kind of ugly.”

  “Okay, asshole, so they’re not beautiful in a Betty Grable sort of way, but they are sinister and beautiful in a sexy life-saving sort of way.”

  All the officers and enlisted men left their Jeeps and trucks and gazed in combinations of wonder and delight at the metal behemoths lined up to greet them.

  They were all Pershing M26 tanks. A Captain Powell from the depot checked their orders and officiously confirmed everything. He was slightly overweight like most supply soldiers, which this time was not resented by the men of the 74th.

  Carter patted the hull of one of the tanks and grinned. “Not quite as big or as fast as a Panther, but, damn, there’s that big, beautiful 90mm main gun that’s badder than a Panther, even a T34 if the rumors that the Germans have some are true.”