* * *
Joseph Goebbels did not particularly like General Walter Warlimont. Goebbels acknowledged that Warlimont had worked marvels in creating everything that remained of the Third Reich at Bregenz and outlying areas. There was still the nagging feeling that Warlimont simply hadn’t been caught in the July 20, 1944 plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler.
Goebbels slammed the papers down on his desk and spoke harshly. “What do you mean that German soldiers have contracted scurvy? Isn’t that the illness that affects sailors?”
Warlimont was unfazed. Contrary to the rumors, he had been a devout supporter of Hitler and felt that Goebbels was a pale and second-rate imitation of his Fuhrer. “Scurvy will affect anyone who doesn’t get enough Vitamin C. If unchecked, a patient will die. If Vitamin C can be located and given to a patient in sufficient quantities, the patient will recover, possibly fully. Right now we have several thousand soldiers suffering from the extremely painful and debilitating problem. If we cannot get enough Vitamin C to the men, the German Army will cease to exist.”
The blunt answer subdued Goebbels. “Then what do you propose, General?”
Warlimont shrugged. “The answer is obvious, Minister. We must get some Vitamin C. There are vitamin tablets that can be manufactured and perhaps acquired from the Swiss. I very much doubt that we can get much in the way of fruits or vegetables, but apparently eating some meats will help. I suggest that the next shipment of foodstuffs from Switzerland include vitamin tablets and the right meats. We simply cannot have our soldiers existing on field rations for extensive periods of time.”
Goebbels sat down and sagged. He had just received other news from Field Marshal Schoerner, who’d forwarded additionally unwelcome information from Generals Rendulic and von Vietinghoff. The gist of their problems was that ammunition and fuel were being expended at a rate faster than anticipated. Soon, Goebbels thought glumly, what remained of the German Army would be both sick and impotent.
“Marshal Schoerner, what do you propose as a solution?”
“We have enough ammunition for one last major battle. Perhaps we should launch an all-out attack in an attempt to shock the Americans. Perhaps they will think we are stronger than we actually are and begin negotiations.”
Goebbels was not convinced. “That sounds very much what the late Fuhrer hoped would be the results of the attack in the Ardennes. It was a failure and led to the collapse of the Western front. If your attack becomes a suicide attack, everything we have here will be destroyed.”
“Minister, only the stupid and racially inferior Japanese commit suicide attacks. I do not propose anything resembling a kamikaze attack. I would like to hit the Americans hard and drive them back in a limited assault. Our goal would be to show that we cannot be taken easily. There is no possibility of driving them more than a few miles, but even that might shake them. Thanks to the Swiss, we can monitor civilian radio broadcasts and there are apparently growing numbers of civilian protests in the United States, even riots, over the continuation of the war with us. The American people want peace with Germany so they can concentrate on destroying Japan.”
Goebbels leaned back in his chair. What Warlimont proposed made sense. He would have to ask if using the atomic bomb would be an appropriate weapon to support the attack or if it would be better to wait for an American offensive before considering its use.
* * *
Mildred Ruffino was hot and sweaty. Her several layers of clothing, including a heavy girdle, were clinging to her. The fifty-five-year-old grandmother, however, would not be deterred no matter how humid and sticky Washington D.C. was. She had a goal and that was to help bring home the boys home from Europe. She was not totally consumed by the need for peace. She understood fully that the nasty little Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor and needed to be punished severely. She further understood that it would cost additional lives. For Mildred and her family, some of the price had already been paid. One of her nephews was in a hospital in Honolulu getting over the fact that he’d lost much of his left foot on some awful place called Peleliu. Another neighbor had lost a son fighting in France and that was where she thought it should end. Hitler and Mussolini were dead and what was left of Nazi Germany was nothing more than a little corner of that nation. Some people were making noises saying that the country couldn’t trust Joe Stalin, but that was nonsense. For years every American had been told by FDR that we could trust good old Uncle Joe, so who was this little piss-ant imitation of a president, Harry Truman, to tell her otherwise?
Why not just dig a ditch around the place called Germanica and let the Nazi inhabitants all starve to death if they didn’t want to surrender? It would serve them right. It would also bring home her oldest son, who was in the 82nd Airborne Division and God only knew what plans the army had for him. Why the devil he had ever volunteered to be a paratrooper was beyond her. Mildred thanked the lord that one of her other sons was a sophomore in high school and too young to be drafted, while the oldest, Joey, had a bad foot that made him 4F. Of course, rules could be changed and they could start drafting infants if the army needed the manpower.
So here she was, marching around the White House along with a couple thousand other Americans, mainly women. They all carried signs urging Harry Truman to get them out of what they felt was the unnecessary German war. They’d enjoyed being interviewed and photographed by reporters but now the heat of the day was getting to them. Mildred congratulated herself on having had the common sense to bring a canteen filled with water and put it in her oversize purse. Still, she gave herself another hour before she would have to surrender to the oppressive weather. Already she’d had to share some of the water with one of her companions who looked red-faced and terrible. She didn’t want to be told what she looked like.
“There he is,” someone shrieked. Sure enough, there was Harry Truman and he was beginning one of his frequent walks. She had to give the little man credit. He knew that he was going to have to run the gauntlet of angry protesters but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that deter him. The protesters would follow him and dog him and shout at him to stop the war. Truman would wave and smile and continue walking at his usual brisk pace. As always a handful of younger reporters started to walk with him but soon gave up.
Mildred Ruffino snorted. She would not give up. She was made of sterner stuff. Still she wished she’d lost the twenty or thirty pounds she’d been planning to but never managed to. It would have made keeping up with Truman so much easier. She also wished she hadn’t worn so much clothing, but standards dictated that she wear not only the damned girdle, but cotton stockings, a slip, and, of course, a bra.
After another mile, Mildred was gasping. Most of the other protesters had fallen back. She gave Truman credit for one more thing. He was in excellent shape.
She looked around and saw that she was alone save for a handful of Secret Service agents and one young reporter who was sweating like a hog. Truman was only a few feet away. He looked at her with some concern.
“Ma’am, you don’t look well. Don’t you think you should stop?”
Mildred was stunned. The President of the United States was actually talking to her. “I’ll stop when you bring our boys home.”
“And I promise you that I’ll bring them home as soon as I can.”
Mildred was feeling lightheaded. “Not good enough. Please bring them home now. Let the Nazis have that little corner of their world, and bring them home now.”
Mildred was about to add something to this wonderful conversation that she was having with one of the most powerful men in the world when her vision turned red and the sidewalk rose up and hit her in the face. She felt hands turning her over and heard the sound of a siren in the distance and coming closer. She looked up and saw a very concerned Harry Truman looking down on her.
“Lie still and you’ll be all right,” the president said gently.
Mildred’s world was spinning and she had the feeling that she was about to take flight li
ke a bird. “No, I won’t,” were her last words.
* * *
“Do you recall Operation Cobra?” asked General Devers.
“Of course,” said Ike. “It was an attempt to break out of Normandy and take the city of Caen.” They were in Devers’ Sixth Army Group headquarters in Strasbourg, France.
“And Cobra succeeded. Now I want to recreate it and start with a massive carpet bombing of German positions. Bradley used three thousand bombers to blast the Germans and I propose the same thing. And then I want to hit them with all the tanks and infantry I have, at least,” he paused, “as much as can fit through the relatively narrow opening of the Brenner Pass.”
Ike was solemn. “I recall that the massive and concentrated bombing, while effective, led to tragedy. So many planes dropped their bombs short and a large number of American troops, including General Leslie McNair, were killed and many others wounded. We can’t have that again.”
“Agreed. We can and must be more cautious and the planning must be more detailed and precise. There was a huge misunderstanding about the direction the planes would come from and that led to the disaster.”
Both men knew it hadn’t been a misunderstanding. The air force had disregarded orders to bomb north to south and had attacked east to west, thus putting their planes over the American lines for an extraordinary amount of time. During that time, the pattern of bomb dropping had crept back towards American lines while horrified GIs waited, unable to run or dig in. The air force did it that way because they were concerned about German planes and the possibility of dense antiaircraft fire shredding the bomber formations. German planes were no longer a threat, but antiaircraft fire still was. But AA could be heavy and come from any direction.
“Ike, I am very confident that we can break through the German defenses and split this Germanica animal in half. With Clark hitting them from the south and my men from the north, we can deal the Germans a decisively catastrophic blow that might just end the war.”
Ike nodded. He would approve Devers’ plans, but he would keep close tabs on them. There would be no surprises and the air force would be fully on board. He looked at Devers, who turned away. Ike had the feeling that the other general’s presentation had smacked of desperation. Devers had lost weight and looked stressed. He’d been defeated in his first attempt to push through the Brenner, and neither he nor his career could stand a second loss. Damn it. Patch was going to relinquish the Seventh Army because of his health. Would he have to replace Devers as well?
* * *
Doctor Lennie Hagerman was still wearing scrubs when Tanner showed up after being requested. “I want to show you something,” Hagerman said. “That last group of prisoners had some unusual problems and you might want to report it upward.”
“Sure,” said Tanner. He’d helped interview several of them and, aside from looking hungry and miserable, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. They were prisoners who’d been beaten down both physically and mentally.
Hagerman pulled out a folder with a number of photographs in it. “I know you’re not a doctor, but try to figure out what’s wrong with these people.”
Tanner agreed that he was not a doctor but agreed to look anyhow. The photos were in color, which made the Germans look terrible. They were all staring at the camera with their mouths open and their teeth and gums exposed. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “what am I looking for?”
“See how their gums are discolored? Take my word for it but there were sores all over their bodies.”
“Jesus, please don’t tell me it’s something contagious like the plague. Something like that could wipe out the entire German army.”
“Along with a few million other people,” Hagerman added. “No, this is nothing that bad. These poor dumb Nazis are suffering from scurvy. Being a kind and gentle soul, I’ve prescribed vitamin C, which should solve their problems. When they go to a prison camp they’ll be somebody else’s problem. However, if too many Germans facing us get it, there will be large numbers of men too sick, too lethargic and in too much pain to do much of anything in the way of fighting.”
Tanner thought of how Lena had been weakened when he’d first met her. He’d put it down to lack of food and not necessarily to incomplete diet. Perhaps she had been in the beginning stages of scurvy herself. Hagerman was right, however, this was something that had to be bumped upstairs and quickly. Out of curiosity, he would ask Lena if she’d ever suffered any of the symptoms.
After that he would try to find out when the army would make its inevitable next attack through the Brenner.
* * *
“Private Gruber, it is wonderful to see that you escaped from the clutches of the Americans.”
Gruber grinned widely at the compliment from General Hahn, a man he worshipped almost as much as he had his late Fuhrer. “It wasn’t all that difficult, General. They had a fool guarding me. I tricked him, hurt him, and then took his uniform and rifle.”
Hahn rubbed his hands with glee. What a resourceful and violent boy young Gruber had turned out to be.
“And when you were in their clutches, what information did you give them?”
“I admit I told them everything I knew, which wasn’t much at all. They already knew about the Werewolves, so I embellished everything I said. I told them there were hundreds of us and that we were well armed and trained. I begged to be saved and promised them everything if they wouldn’t send me off to Russia.”
Hahn nodded amiably. He had read the young man’s detailed report and didn’t doubt that Gruber had told the Americans everything that he knew. While there might have been some embellishment in telling of his escape, Hahn was confident that Gruber had been basically truthful. He also doubted that the Americans had believed everything Gruber had told them. The Americans were not fools, after all. They would know that a skinny fourteen-year-old wouldn’t have access to anything important.
“What would you like to do now, Private Gruber?”
Gruber smiled. “I wish nothing more than to serve Germany.”
“Excellent answer and you shall. It is an added bonus that you brought an American uniform. We can never have too many of those and, to be frank, they are in short supply. The rifle was a bonus as well. The uniform you brought will be given to an older and more senior soldier to use when infiltrating American positions.”
Gruber was crestfallen. He had hoped to wear it.
Hahn reached out and fondly patted Gruber’s shoulder. “I know what you are thinking, but, even though the American you took it from was a small man, he was still larger than you. The Americans would not hand out a uniform that was too large and ill-fitting. You were quite fortunate to make it through to us without getting caught and then hanged for hurting that guard. I do admit, Private Gruber, that carving a swastika in his forehead was a marvelous idea. And don’t worry about being left out of any future Werewolf operations. There will be a special place for you. Who knows, we might even let you use the rifle you stole.”
* * *
“Hey Tanner, who the hell is, or was, a Mildred Ruffino?” asked Cullen.
He had been reading the latest issue of Stars and Stripes, the newspaper printed for the men and women of the American army. The paper was editorially independent of the Army’s hierarchy and frequently printed items that the higher-ups did not always want published. The paper’s editors had gotten into trouble with a number of senior commanders including General George Patton who’d tried to have the newspaper shut down—only to be overruled by higher powers.
“Isn’t she that lady who passed out and died in Harry Truman’s arms?”
Cullen laughed. “If I found myself in Harry Truman’s arms I’d pass out too. Yeah, I recall her now. They’re talking about peace marchers using her name as if she was some kind of damn martyr or saint. Hey, I guess she was sort of a martyr, wasn’t she?”
The soldiers of the 105th had mixed emotions about the peace efforts. Yes, they wanted the war to end and they di
dn’t much care if it was through a negotiated peace or the abject surrender of either or both Japan and Germany. But they knew they couldn’t go home until the Germans gave up. And then it would likely be a brief stop while on their way to invade Japan. There was an uncomfortable feeling that well-meaning people like Mildred Ruffino were inadvertently encouraging the Germans to hang on, that the United States would grow genuinely war weary and give up. That could not be allowed to happen.
All of which meant that the Army was going to have to attack again. There had been a significant lull that was about to end. Ammunition and other supplies had been stockpiled. Destroyed tanks had been replaced and large numbers of replacements had arrived.
“Tanner, do you realize that the division is two thousand men understrength?”
“Yep. We’ve lost three thousand and only gotten one thousand to fill in. Worse, those replacements are very miserable specimens, both physically and mentally.”
“And don’t forget morally,” Cullen added and Tanner agreed. There had been more and more incidents of soldiers finding ways to avoid combat without getting court-martialed for cowardice or for disobeying a direct order. Large numbers of soldiers had managed to wound or injure themselves. Some of the more creative ones had discovered that you could live quite nicely without a big toe, so they “accidentally” shot it off. Now such wounds were automatically considered criminal and court-martials were convened. Sadly, some soldiers considered jail time and a dishonorable discharge a better alternative to being killed or horribly maimed. Nobody either Tanner or Cullen knew felt that way, but another disaster could change matters.
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