A chorus of “yes sirs” responded. Pulaski was determined that his CCA would run like a well-oiled machine, though he was more than a little nervous. There were a thousand problems to solve and a thousand more too well hidden to discover until it was too late.
Still, he would be the best, or he would die trying.
SS Headquarters, Berlin, Germany, 0635 hours GMT
“You have come to report on the progress of Operation Reichsturm?” Himmler’s quiet voice came out of the shadows as the new acting führer of the Third Reich--a role the reichsführer had taken on “with the greatest reluctance”--sat down at his desk, blinking up at the tall, handsome form of Horst Bücher as the general clicked his heels and saluted.
“Indeed, Herr Reichsführer,” the SS general reported with pride. Himmler was--at least so far--refusing the honorific that had been so identified with Adolf Hitler. There would be time enough for titles after the power itself was firmly in his hands. “The plan proceeds with remarkable success. Most significantly, the radio network and all broadcasting stations have all been seized. Your announcement this morning seems to have answered the needs of the public--the people mourn, quietly for now.”
“As they should,” Himmler agreed, with a tiny nod.
“The representatives of the General Staff will arrive within minutes--they’ve expressed a willingness to listen.” He chuckled.
“Go on.” Himmler’s voice betrayed no amusement, no emotion.
Bücher focused his mind back to the present. “The conspirators have, for the most part, been identified. In accordance with your instructions, they have not been arrested--though, naturally, we keep them under careful observation.
“In the meantime the call-up of the Volkssturm has begun. Designated recruiting sergeants are summoning the remaining manpower reserves of the Reich--all men physically able to serve. The age eligibility bracket, for now, is fifteen to fifty years. The operation is careful and precise--for example, men who suffer from stomach ulcers will be gathered into special companies to simplify the dietary concerns of the field kitchens.”
“Splendid. What is the anticipated increase in our strength?”
“We will create more than two dozen new divisions in the first month, Herr Reichsführer. However, I must caution that these formations will have little equipment or mobility. They’ll be suited for barely more than static defense.”
“Don’t underestimate these men, my dear general--after all, they’re Germans!” Himmler’s tone carried a gentle hint of rebuke. “They will do as they are told, whether that be defend, attack, or die. Indeed, they can be replaced more easily than tanks. When the time comes to resume the offensive, they will doubtless serve as useful fodder for the enemy guns.”
If Bücher felt any surprise at the notion of battered Germany going on the attack, his careful expression gave no clue. “All SS divisions have been placed on full alert,” he continued. “We have no indications that any troops of the Wehrmacht intend to offer violent resistance.”
“Is there any adverse reaction from the Gauleiters?” Both men understood that the approval of these key politicians, Nazi leaders for the various geographic regions of Germany, formed a crucial pillar of their ultimate success.
“It seems that Kramer, in Dusseldorf--also, I believe, Fitzmunde in Essen--refused to cooperate with the local SS authorities. Their replacements have proven more... reasonable.”
“And the railroads?”
“The Gestapo has taken full control of all lines. Even should some aristocrat of a general take it into mind to move a division toward Berlin, he would find it quite impossible.”
“The Special Transports continue?” Himmler asked the question nonchalantly.
Bücher allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Yes, Herr Reichsführer! The number of trains has actually been increased--naturally, our Gestapo units are providing full cooperation. Your orders have been followed exactly, urgency added to the transports in light of the ominous developments on the military fronts.”
“Yes, the war...” The new leader of Germany lowered his wire-rimmed spectacles onto his nose and looked up at Bücher in determination. “The war with the Allies we will consider soon--but first we must deal with the battle of Berlin. After all, ‘Your objective, before all else, is to bring maximum concentration of force at the decisive point.’ “
“Clausewitz, of course, sir,” Bücher murmured. “The principle of the Schwerpunkt, and remarkably appropriate to our own circumstances. After all, we control the center of power--and this shall prove the point of our first victory!”
Himmler smiled his thin, tight smile. Now the generals were coming to him. The situation was dangerous--very dangerous. But, conversely, his position was strong indeed.
SHAEF, London, England, 0917 hours GMT
The situation in Germany had unraveled completely. Stauffenberg and the other conspirators had been outmaneuvered by Heinrich Himmler. Hitler was dead, but it was looking as if Germany had simply swapped one sociopathic tyrant for another. Or worse: had they swapped a dictator sinking into dementia for one who was still somewhat dangerously sane? The situation might now be worse than it had been before July 20.
Captain Reid Sanger felt his mind treading around in circles, like a hamster, revisiting each detail over and over again, not finding anything new but unable to stop. Along with several other members of the intelligence staff, they had spent hours in a small office that doubled as a conference room. The smell of stale tobacco had long since driven out any oxygen, and Sanger could feel a migraine coming on. He rubbed his temples.
“Do we actually know anything?” he asked.
“What is this--a philosophy class?” joked Captain Keegan, one of the numerous Yalies that tended to dominate the American intelligence community. “How do we know what we know? Can we know anything? Are we putting Descartes before the horse?” A chorus of groans followed by flying paper clips and rubber bands greeted the atrocious pun.
“My head is about to explode,” complained Sanger. “Give me a break.” He stood up, yawning, and stretched.
The other tired intelligence officers nodded wearily. They had been working for hours. Should the coup plotters be rescued now, or would Allied intervention deprive them of any legitimacy and hope in bringing down the Nazi regime? Could the plotters be rescued at all? If so, which ones? What about those who were left?
What about Himmler? Was his accession now certain? Were there moves that could yet pull out this abortive coup? Or would it be better to leave Himmler in place to hasten the fall of Germany? Or would it extend the war? Questions, questions, questions--all important, but all essentially unanswerable... except that answers--right answers--were being demanded upstairs.
“You still want a field intel assignment, Reid?” asked Lieutenant Foster. “Instead of doing all this fine work at headquarters?”
“Now more than ever,” groaned Sanger. He wanted to be nearer the real war, not stuck in the rear, stuck in headquarters. Intelligence wasn’t a combat specialty; he knew that going in.
His German fluency was too useful to put him anywhere else. But he wanted more of the war than he was getting in London.
“All right,” said Colonel Cook, calling the meeting back to some semblance of order. “We know we don’t know much, but we’ve got to make a recommendation. Best guesses, gentlemen, and make them good.”
The table went in order from junior to senior.
Foster started. “I think we try to rescue Stauffenberg and the key conspirators. It’s the right thing to do; it gives hope to the others; we may get some propaganda mileage out of it. Himmler’s won, and I don’t think there’s much we can do about it.”
Keegan disagreed. “I don’t think it’s over, and letting the Germans work it out is best. Stauffenberg and company are doing this for their own reasons, not for ours. Support them if we can, arm them if possible, and figure that chaos is a benefit for our side.”
Sanger was torn
. Foster and Keegan had staked out the range of positions--do something, do nothing--and wearily the other officers weighed in more on one side than on the other. He could see both positions and it bothered him that there wasn’t any clear-cut answer, at least not one that he could see. In his mind, he reviewed everything he knew, or suspected.
There had been various conspiracies over the years to assassinate Hitler, and Allied intelligence had assisted where possible, though most of the work and initiative was home grown. Stauffenberg and his crew had taken a shot at Hitler, after trying for some time to create an opportunity to remove both Hitler and Himmler simultaneously, which clearly would have been a superior option. Himmler had probably moved against the plotters, making Sanger suspect that he must have been at least generally aware of the plot in advance, though not knowing enough of the details or key players to enable him to stop it. If indeed he wanted to stop it in the first place, Sanger suddenly thought. But no, that was probably unlikely. If Himmler wanted to remove Hitler, it would have been done better, if for no other reason than that Himmler had better access, better resources.
No, this was game, set, and match for Himmler. As callous as it seemed, rescuing the conspirators was a bad idea. They weren’t Allied agents, they were indigenous personnel with their own motives who understood the risks. And the Allies didn’t even know all the players, making a rescue even more complicated. Better to let the situation play out, hope there were enough left in deep cover to make another move later.
“Sanger? Sanger?” The colonel’s voice was sharp.
“Yes, sir?” he replied, mind coming back to the present. “Oh, yes, my recommendation is to let it play out. It’s the best of a bad set of options.”
The colonel nodded. “And that’s the most definite remark I’ve heard today.”
Reichstag Building, Berlin, Germany, 0930 hours GMT
The Wilhelmstrasse rumbled to a parade of long gray Mercedes staff cars--radiating an image of strength and control to the civilians, mostly very old or very young, or female, who gathered along the broad boulevard. Swastika banners draped in black bunting now lined the street, somber recognition of the national mourning over the führer’s death as all Germany wore faces of shock and grief.
“I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all,” Colonel Müller whispered to Reinhardt. They shared one of the cars with two other colonels. No doubt the other colonels had similar feelings, but they kept their opinions to themselves. “We could be walking into a trap. Himmler could kill us all. What does your vaunted history say about this?”
Reinhardt looked forward into the driver’s compartment to catch Müller’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “It is possible, of course, but remember that he could easily have leveled our headquarters. I am therefore fairly confident that we will not be killed--today, at least. Remember, this is a staff, not a single leader. If he kills us, military command authority automatically devolves on others, and those others are farther from Berlin. Himmler may prefer to keep those who control the armies under his physical influence. I rather suspect we will be allowed to live.” He turned to look at the very agitated Müller and could not resist adding, “Most of us, anyway. Himmler may choose to make an example.”
Müller shot him an angry and anxious look, then turned to stare out the window. Hordes of mourners wearing black armbands flocked the streets, an outpouring of spontaneous national grief--clearly Hitler still occupied an unshakable position in the hearts of the nation. The crowds had begun forming within minutes of the announcement of the führer’s death, and there had been throngs throughout the city ever since.
Müller noticed one elderly woman wearing a black shawl. She knelt in the street, sobbing uncontrollably. On a piece of black velvet she had laid out military decorations. Obviously the mementos of a son or husband, now dead.
The cars rolled to a halt in front of the Reichstag, before the line of SS troops that ringed the building and stood with Schmeissers at the ready. Wehrmacht sergeants bearing their own submachine guns leaped out of the cars, opened the doors for the high-ranking officers, then snapped to attention.
The soldiers of the two rival armies, both German, regarded their brothers carefully, each watching for any hint of hostile action. The generals and their staff aides marched into the Reichstag for the meeting that would determine the destiny of the Reich.
Müller admired Reinhardt as he followed the taller man up the vast stone steps. Calm, distinguished, shiny black hair perfectly in place, uniform pressed and tailored, the man presented the very model of the New Germany. Absently, Müller patted his paunch and adjusted his glasses. As he approached the looming doorway he couldn’t help checking to see if his shirt-tail had once again become untucked, acutely conscious of the Wehrmacht troops standing at impeccable Teutonic attention.
Within the massive conference room Himmler stood up from his seat at the foot of the immense, polished table, the very soul of friendliness and respect. The windows behind him let in the sunlight so that he appeared to be a shadow. The officers all had to blink and squint to see. It was an old meeting trick, but it was still effective.
“Gentlemen, thank you for graciously attending this meeting. This is a tragic day for all Germany, and we must take the right course for our people.” He wore a black armband trimmed in red below the swastika insignia on his right arm. Walking over to greet the officers, he shook the hands of each general and marshal.
The elegantly formal Reichstag conference area was dominated by the huge table, but the richness of the carpet, the huge paintings, the vaulted ceiling scrolled like something from King Ludwig’s reign, all spoke of the opulence and power of the Third Reich. Huge swastika banners, bold swaths of red and black, hung from floor to ceiling on each wall. The silver coffee service gleamed in the light of the July sun streaming through the huge, tall windows on the south wall. There were boxes of fine Cuban cigars, traditional German cakes dusted with powdered sugar, white-jacketed stewards, all the trappings of a formal military reception or government affair. Before the war, Müller remembered, this was the norm. Now, the sight of those cakes made his mouth water. And perhaps there was even real coffee!
He soon discovered that it was not only real coffee, but the cakes were made with real eggs and real sugar, and at that moment he decided that they were not going to die after all. Müller grabbed a large piece, then realized with embarrassment that the delicate cake was covering his uniform and the carpeted floor with crumbs and powdered sugar. He could see the distorted reflection of Reinhardt in the silver coffee urn as he sipped his coffee with casual elegance, not a crumb on him. How did he manage to stay so neat? No doubt it was an inherent trait, something ingrained into the Prussian nobility. Or maybe it was that he could resist the cake.
Himmler circulated quietly among the military leadership, a quiet word here and there, a reassuring pat on the back for the poor stricken Jodl, still bereft by the führer’s death. Müller stood against the wall, staying just far enough from the refreshment table so that there was no chance anyone would notice him.
The Reichsführer SS--he had made it clear he did not want to be referred to as the “acting führer”--raised his hand and all eyes focused on him. “Gentlemen, let us attend to the Fatherland’s business,” he said quietly.
The room settled quickly, the generals seating themselves by rank; the colonels taking chairs along the wall. There was a slight clinking of china as the silent, efficient stewards freshened the cups of those sitting at the table with the real coffee. Müller desperately wanted another cup, but dared not fetch it himself.
Here were ranked the most famous and powerful military figures in all of Germany. Keitel, Jodl, Model, representing the Wehrmacht. General Adolf Galland, veteran fighter pilot and now the acting head of the Luftwaffe in the wake of Göring’s death. Admiral Karl Doenitz, commander of the German navy, the Kriegsmarine.
Müller felt a nervous energy in the room, an extreme awareness of the importanc
e and danger of the situation. He was witnessing history, a tale for his grandchildren if he ever lived that long, and the picture was burned into his mind. Himmler sat at the foot of the long conference table, facing at the far end the empty high-backed leather chair that had been Hitler’s.
“Gentlemen, the future of our Reich rests on decisions in this room today,” Himmler began. “We represent the German nation, and we must agree on the Reich’s destiny.”
One junior general, whom Müller decided must be one of the Stauffenberg conspirators, interrupted, “Our first order of business must be to appoint a new chancellor, and for that the Reichstag must be consulted. If we are to sit in judgment on the destiny of millions, we must act within the law. We have been ruled by a dictator long enough.”
Himmler’s brow creased almost unnoticeably as the genial smile he had used to woo the generals thinned. He collected himself and spoke calmly, deliberately. “Of course, General Bermel. I do not mean to suggest that we will override the law. However, this is wartime. Military necessities sometimes force compromises in the ways in which we must conduct our affairs. Our decisions will be ratified by the Reichstag in good time.” He paused slightly.
Reading from the paper in front of him, Himmler returned to his prepared remarks. ‘Together we represent the military power of the Third Reich. Together we must first decide on the best course for the Reich. Together we must present a positive front to the great people who depend on us and whom we serve. Gentlemen, the National Socialist ideal cannot perish with the great visionary who has so transformed the nation and the world. The National Socialist ideal cannot go down to barren defeat. We will not return to the bankrupt and decadent Weimar days.” His eyes gleamed with the passion of a true believer. “The Thousand Year Reich will yet fulfill its destiny.”
Fox On The Rhine Page 9