He fondled the box with the poison. Soon, he thought. Just not yet. And maybe never.
* * *
Overhead, Lieutenants Bud Sibre and George Schafer were breaking off their latest attack when Schafer noticed something on the ground through the thinning cloud of tear gas.
“Would you mind telling me just what the hell that is?”
“Not certain,” said Sibre. “But it looks an awful lot like a V1 rocket that’s about to be launched.”
“Say, buddy, why don’t we do something about that?”
The pilots dived and lined up to strafe the rocket, which was unmistakably a V1. They were just about to open fire, when the tail of the rocket belched fire and launched it into the sky. They tried to give chase but it was no use. The rocket was too fast. They watched in fascinated horror as the V1 headed towards the massed landing craft in Lake Constance. They would not be able to stop it.
Sibre’s hands began to shake. “Jesus, I hope that isn’t what I think it is.”
* * *
Tanner heard the roar of the rocket’s engine through the sound of battle. He looked up and saw the odd-looking craft streak over him. He could clearly see the stove-pipe design. “What the hell?” he wondered as did everyone else who could see the evil thing.
Then the rocket’s engine cut out and there was a brief moment of silence. They all knew what that meant from reports of the attacks on London. It was through flying and was about to strike. The rocket’s nose tipped forward and it knifed into the water only a couple hundred yards away. Everyone froze and waited for an explosion.
None came.
“I wonder what that was all about,” Cullen gasped. They were all breathing heavily.
“If the army wants us to know, I’m sure they’ll tell us.”
* * *
Goebbels screamed in impotent fury as he got the report of the rocket’s failure. “Schoerner, find those bastard Jew scientists and kill them immediately. Don’t worry about hanging them, just shoot them. They lied to me. They lied to Germany. They are traitors.”
Schoerner tried to calm him. “I will send some soldiers to their bunker. That is, if I can find any. Esau and his assistants have doubtless run away and we don’t have time to chase them now. We have more important things to worry about. Our survival must be our first goal.”
Goebbels shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Of course. We must escape and begin again to build another Reich. We will catch those swine some other time.”
* * *
“Where the devil is Sergeant Hill?” Tanner yelled.
A very nervous PFC responded. “Sir, Sergeant Hill said to tell you that he’s gone snipe hunting and that he’ll be back shortly.”
“He said that, did he?”
“Yes sir. He also said to remind you that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If it matters, he was heavily armed.”
“Private, just where was he headed when you last saw him?”
“Sir, he was headed for Bregenz and, oh yeah, he was carrying a German officer’s tunic. I have no idea where he got it.”
And it doesn’t much matter, Tanner thought. Sergeant Billy Hill had been chafing at being idle. Being attached to division headquarters didn’t leave much time for excitement. Hill’s skills as a sniper were becoming legendary, and so was his wanting to go hunting for kills. Was that what he was going to do, kill more Germans before the war came to a halt? That seemed plausible. And what difference was there between a snipe and a sniper? He wished the sergeant well. It would be a tragedy for him to get his ass blown away this late in the game. Of course, the same held true for himself.
Tanner dismissed the private, but not before telling the man to let him know the moment Hill returned. If he returned, that is.
* * *
Josef Goebbels and Field Marshal Ferdinand Schoerner decided that whatever happened, they would look the part of world leaders. Schoerner dressed in an immaculate field marshal’s uniform complete with baton, while Goebbels wore an expensive blue suit made for him an eternity ago by an exclusive tailor in Berlin. They would cross into Switzerland and claim sanctuary, confident that there were enough German sympathizers in the Swiss government to protect them. From Switzerland there was the probability that money would talk and that they could be sent secretly to South America. Argentina would be their ultimate destinations and a new Reich was their goal.
Only the gas masks they were wearing marred the effect. As they approached the door that led outside they could hear the sounds of chaos. Schoerner drew his pistol and suggested that Goebbels do the same.
“Some panic-stricken soldiers could try to take our masks from us in order to save themselves,” he said. “And it wouldn’t matter if they recognized us or not. Terrified men will not obey orders or be impressed by rank.”
Goebbels nodded agreement and pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. They opened the door and stepped out. They had not actually seen the gas clouds when they blew in, but what was left did not appear too thick. Could these wisps be lethal? Or was the wind causing them to diminish? It occurred to him that the German soldiers he did see were running around aimlessly and not lying dead in the streets. In fact, there were no bodies in the streets.
“Schoerner, either there is no gas or it has dissipated. I think we can remove our masks. We might even be safer that way.”
“If it’s all the same with you, Reichminister, I’ll keep mine on for a while longer. Although,” he said thoughtfully, “it does look like you might be correct. Was this a huge charade to cause our army to panic? If it was, it worked marvelously.”
“Halt!” A soldier had worked his way behind them. He had a Thompson submachine gun pointed at them. Curiously, he was wearing the tunic of a German officer, a captain. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. This was no German. It was an American who’d gotten this far in the panic.
“Scheisse!” howled Schoerner. He pulled out his pistol and fired. He missed. The American ducked and fired his Tommy gun. A dozen bullets struck Schoerner in the head and chest. He collapsed like a bloody wet rag. Something slammed into Goebbels shoulder and dropped him as well. It was over. He had to get the cyanide capsule into his mouth.
“No you don’t,” said the American. He pinned Goebbels’ good arm and ignored the screams as he tied it to his wounded one. He ripped off Goebbels’ gas mask and flung it away. In the back of his mind, Goebbels realized that he could indeed breathe. Calloused hands pushed his mouth open and fingers probed for a capsule disguised as a tooth filling. Through his agony, Goebbels regretted never having had that done. He hated dentists and he’d constantly put off having one inserted.
The American took off the German tunic and threw it away. He searched Goebbels’ pockets until he found the jewelry box. He opened it and laughed. Then he continued to search, convinced that where there was one poison cache there might be two.
Satisfied, the American pulled Goebbels to his feet. More American soldiers had arrived and, on seeing that it was Goebbels, began to cheer.
A grinning medic slapped a bandage over Goebbels’ wound and pronounced that it wasn’t serious. “The fucker’ll live long enough to hang. You want me to take him to the hospital or you got plans for him?”
Staff Sergeant Billy Hill grabbed Goebbels by his good elbow and began to propel him towards the shore and through crowds of Americans who were pushing other Germans towards prison pens that were being hastily thrown together.
Hill laughed. Captain Tanner would be pleased rather than pissed by his running off. Damned if he hadn’t caught the biggest snipe of all. The publicity he’d get from this would almost guarantee his getting elected to sheriff. Hell, maybe even to Congress.
Damnation, but this was a good war.
* * *
General Heinrich von Vietinghoff sat behind his desk and drummed his fingers on the highly polished surface while he listened to the reports. Every one of them said that what was left of the German Army, was
being destroyed. What fools. He tried to tell them that so many months ago. There was no way what remained of the army could withstand the overwhelming might of the Americans, even without their British and French allies. How many lives had been lost or changed because people like Goebbels wanted to save a thousand-year legacy that would last only a little more than a decade?
He had long since seen the light when he was commander of German forces in Italy. He had initiated contact with the Americans through Allen Dulles and tried to negotiate a surrender of German forces under his command. His plans had fallen apart when the now abortive attempt to create an Alpine Redoubt and call it Germanica had begun.
Vietinghoff sipped some very bad and cold black coffee and looked at the reports chronicling the litany of disasters. The gas attack that had been no gas attack had sown panic and confusion among much of the army. As a result, the Americans were in Bregenz and tens of thousands of German soldiers were now prisoners of war. All he had left were a few understrength divisions situated east of Bregenz.
The Americans had announced that Schoerner was dead and that Goebbels was a prisoner. Vietinghoff thought that it should have happened sooner. An aide had unctuously informed him that he was now the ranking person in the Third Reich, the new Fuhrer. The aide had the good sense not to suggest that he would likely be the last Fuhrer. What, therefore, were his plans?
Vietinghoff stood and glared at his staff, as if daring them to argue with him. They looked so defeated he didn’t think was likely. “Gentlemen, we have a choice. We can choose either life or death. I choose life and I order you to choose it as well. I wish to be connected with General Truscott.”
A few moments later and the raspy-voiced Texan was on the radio. There was an interpreter, but he wasn’t needed. The German general’s English was up to the very basic task before them.
“General Truscott, I wish to surrender what remains of the German army. I am in the process of ordering all units to cease fire and lay down their arms. I sincerely hope that you will command your units to accept my army’s surrender and that it occurs both quickly and without incident. I wish to bring an end to this foolish extension of a war that should never have been fought. We can arrange a formal signing of a surrender document at any time and place of your choosing. In the meantime, I wish to stop the killing.”
“My orders are going out as we speak,” said Truscott. To Vietinghoff it sounded like the American’s voice was heavy with emotion. Well, his was too. Perhaps someday he would be able to go home.
* * *
Archie Nixon’s Sherman tank plowed through the knee-deep water and onto dry land just outside Bregenz. As instructed, their hatches were closed. Even though the white cloud might not have been deadly, it was, they were told, uncomfortable and could incapacitate Driver and play hell with Gunner’s vision. That meant closed hatches, even though that might make them targets for fanatics with Panzerfausts or Molotov cocktails. As it was, a few bullets had pinged off their hull and turret. No harm had been done to men or tank, but it had been unsettling.
Nixon was pleased that Gunner had fired on seeing the flashes and hit the target with the first round. The building hiding the shooter had already been badly damaged and the rest of it flew to pieces when their 76mm shell hit and exploded. Nixon had trained them all well.
At first they’d thought it annoying that they had to wear gas masks. But now, as they drove slowly through throngs of choking, gasping and terrified German soldiers and gaunt, frightened civilians, they changed their minds.
Nixon stopped his tank in the charred mess that had been the town square of Bregenz. He was amazed. He had just seen Josef Goebbels being hustled onto the back of a truck. Even better, he and his new crew had survived the war. He climbed out of the tank and his crew followed. They looked at him with apprehension and a little bit of fear. He had been a monstrous and cold taskmaster. But he had won. They had all survived. He could be a human being again.
Nixon slipped off his mask and took a quick breath. The tear gas was almost gone, dissipated and blown away. He took a deeper one and signaled for the crew to do the same. They did and looked around in amazement. Several German soldiers came up, lay down their rifles and stood with their hands up. Some grinned sheepishly like this whole thing had been a silly mistake and could we all go home now?
For the first time in a long while, he grinned and turned to his crew. They had climbed out and stood beside him. “Guys, what say we go find a bar and get a beer or six?”
* * *
Lena found Tanner in Doc Hagerman’s clinic. He was sitting on a table while a medic swathed his feet in ointment and wrapped them in white bandages. Hagerman looked at her. “I told the foolish little boy not to get his feet wet, so what does he go and do? Why he spends all day playing soldier in cold mud and water. So now he has a flare-up that was caused by his initial trench foot incident. This has to stop.”
“So what are you going to do?” she asked timidly.
“Why, after I’m through curing him again, I am going to sign papers that will have his worthless ass thrown out of the army. You two might as well book passage on a ship back to the U.S., unless you’d like to fly. I’ve got some friends in the air force who can arrange it.”
She slid easily into Tanner’s arms. Neither cared who saw. “I think flying is a great idea,” Tanner said, and Lena nodded. “I’ve had enough of Europe.”
* * *
Swiss soldiers had moved several hundred yards inside what had been the German border. It was necessary in order to control the large numbers of people who wanted to leave the remnants of Germany. The Swiss were meticulous. They would ultimately admit everyone, but they wanted to know who each person was. That some of the more odious Nazis would disappear was obvious and none of their business.
Ernie Janek was getting used to life on crutches and enjoying the scene. The curtain on the final act of the Third Reich had fallen. The Twilight of the Gods part of the Wagnerian opera had ended with a ludicrous whimper and not in flames of glory. An entire army had run from a terror weapon that wasn’t. The German army might never recover from the embarrassment. Good.
Winnie slipped her hand in his. “I’ve arranged for us to go and see Vietinghoff formally surrender. It’s going to be across the lake in Constance. You’ll have to be careful of your leg.”
“I was planning on it.”
“I’ve also arranged an elegant suite for us in a hotel overlooking the lake. With all those American warships out there, the view won’t be as lovely as it could be, but who plans on looking out a window? I just want to learn how to make love to a man with a broken leg.”
“Carefully,” Ernie said, “very, very carefully.”
* * *
In the White House, Werner Heisenberg was well on his way to being drunk. He was being toasted for the failure of Germany’s atomic bomb. He’d almost passed out when word that the warhead on the rocket had been a dud. Heisenberg wondered if there had even been a warhead on the V1. Esau had likely been working in a secure area and could have filled the warhead with sand.
He’d even been hugged by Harry Truman, who clearly had been crying. He’d been informed that his incarceration would cease immediately. He could go wherever he wanted, but with one exception. General Groves said he would not be able to work with the American scientists in what was called the Manhattan Project. So be it. He’d had enough of nuclear weapons. He would go back to Germany—the American zone, of course—and try to pick up the pieces of his life.
Epilogue
The newspaper said it was the Fourth of July, 1960. In the United States they would be celebrating their independence with fireworks, picnics, baseball and beer. Not so Alfonse Hahn, former general in the SS. The war in Europe had been over for almost fifteen years. The world had changed and not for the better. Hahn still could not fathom a world where the Jews had their own nation and had defeated other countries in order to keep it. Who knew that Jews could and would fight? And
now they had their own secret police force, the Mossad. Like the worms they were, the Mossad slithered all over the world and part of their job was to seek out and either kill or capture what they referred to as Nazi war criminals.
Just last month, Israelis had located and kidnapped Adolf Eichmann from a suburb of Buenos Aires. This had shaken Hahn. He lived only a dozen miles from Eichmann and had seen him on several occasions, although he had never approached the man. He respected what Eichmann had done in planning the disposal of the Jews, but he personally thought the man was nothing more than a pale, mousy clerk. At least, Hahn thought, he himself had been a Nazi warrior, not a glorified railroad engineer.
But Eichmann’s capture meant that the Jews were close by and still looking. He’d read some of the magazines and seen lists of those Nazis the Jews were looking for. He was high on the list. Hitler was first even though most people thought he was dead. Josef Mengele, the “Angel of Death” who decided who would live and who would die on arrival at Auschwitz, was high up as well and nobody knew where the hell he was. It was an honor to be in such company. Still, he had been small potatoes when compared with the Nazi hierarchy. He had personally killed only a few dozen people, mostly Jews, although he had shipped off large numbers to die in the death camps. He had only killed two Americans, yet they were still infuriated by it. A surviving witness named Tanner had written a book about it. It had become a bestseller and that galled Hahn. What a book he could write and what stories he could tell! Sadly, that would not happen.
Hahn’s escape from Italy had been fraught with danger. His companion, Diehl, had been killed in a gunfight with Italian partisans only a few days after escaping through Switzerland. Hahn had used the money and identification he’d taken from Bregenz to get on a steamer to Spain and then to Buenos Aires, where he’d lived a quiet and simple life in a small apartment overlooking a quiet street. It was far from the glamor and glory of the days when he’d been an SS general, but it would do until the Reich rose again.
Germanica - eARC Page 39