Resolute Nazi

by Wagher, Ward

  “That was one of the projects you managed, was it not?”

  “Yes, although that is not the point. The Reich Chancellor canceled a valuable weapons system. It is something we can use in this war.”

  “How many of them have we built?”

  “About two hundred,” the Reichsmarshall replied.

  “And none of them are in combat service, are they?”

  “They simply need further development.”

  “And none of the pilots want to fly them. Does that tell you something? We have a hundred Fortresses we bought from the Americans, and they have been flying every day. The crews love them. They are an effective weapon.”

  “But the Heinkel is a superior airplane. It is faster, it has longer range, and it carries a heavier bombload.”

  “Erhard,” Guderian said softly, “If it is parked for development, it is not a superior airplane. Our backs are to the wall in this war. We need weapons that are functional and effective. We don’t have two years to work through the problems on the 177. Heinkel is getting ready to launch production of the Fortress and we need it right now.”

  “It seems like such a waste,” Milch lamented.

  “It is a waste. Sometimes we must cut our losses. Losing Model’s four divisions to the Russians was a waste. We don’t have time to grieve. We learn from our mistakes and move forward. That is the only way we are going to survive this war.”

  Milch sat silently, staring into the distance. Finally, he spoke again.

  “The Reich Chancellor lost his temper with me.”

  “If you had this argument with him, I am not surprised,” Guderian laughed. “The Reich Chancellor yells really well.”

  “That he does.”

  “Okay, Erhard, let’s work on our plans for winter. I very much appreciate that you were thinking about this. I think we need to determine the overall guidelines for a winter war and get our staff working on the details. If we survive the fall, things will be even more unpleasant.”

  Milch nodded. “Right. What I had in mind was this…”

  And the two men began working their way through their initial thoughts and eventually roughed in a general strategy for fighting a winter war, and helping the Reich to survive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  August 25, 1943; 4 AM

  Western Ukraine

  “Gott im Himmel,” Walter Model muttered as he stumbled through the darkness.

  “What did you say, Herr General?” Georg Klein spoke slightly louder.

  Model stopped to catch his breath, and Klein eased up next to him.

  “I think I have found every thorn and thistle in this God-forsaken country.”

  “At least we are headed in the right direction,” Klein said.

  “Yes, and we need to find a copse to hide in soon. It’s starting to get light.”

  “Don’t you just love the long days of summer, Herr General?”

  Unfortunately, the sky had not brightened enough that Klein could see Model’s glare. The two men had spent the previous two weeks making their way across the Ukraine, mostly moving in the dark to avoid the roving Russian patrols. Model was thankful he had developed escape plans. Never expecting to use them, it was an intellectual exercise to keep him from thinking about what awaited him in Moscow. When the train derailed, he had immediately instructed the prisoners that shared the freight car with him to scatter.

  Major Klein had stayed with the general. That was his job, after all. Having grown up on a farm, he was adept at finding enough to eat for them to maintain strength. He was also better at moving through the countryside than Model. But the general had the plan. And, so far, things were working out for them.

  For the most part, Model was glad to have Klein with him on the journey. His only regret was the major’s somewhat questionable sense of humor. Somehow in the course of the war, he had not noticed this. It was after they had stumbled away from the train wreck and evaded the frantic Russian guards that Klein’s runaway mouth became noticeable. Model was philosophical, however, and was able to take the bad with the good.

  For some reason Model remembered these thoughts as the two men carefully eased into the wooded thicket in search of that day’s hiding place. They came to a sudden halt, each of them with a pistol in his face.

  “Move and you’re dead,” a voice hissed in Russian.

  “Mutter Gottes,” Klein said with disgust.

  “Du bist ein Deutscher?” the voice asked.

  “Ja,” Model replied with equal disgust.

  To have made it this far only to be caught was a crushing disappointment. He had begun to hope the two of them would slip across the lines into southern Poland and get home. That apparently was not to be.

  “I am Sergeant Hans Friedmann of the Wehrmacht,” Friedmann said in German. “And who might you be?”

  Model thought his heart would stop beating. It was as though the sun had risen an hour early.

  “Mein Gott, Sergeant. I nearly died when you stuck the pistol in my face. I am Walter Model.”

  “General Model?” Friedmann asked incredulously. “What are you doing clear out here, Herr General?”

  “We were on our way to Moscow as prisoners. A fortunate railroad mishap set us free.”

  The other man with Friedmann began chuckling. Friedmann glanced over at him.

  “And this is Corporal Baumann. We were the cause of your railroad mishap.”

  Model glanced over at Klein. “And this is Major Klein, my adjutant. May I assume, Sergeant, that you two make up a behind-the-lines team?”

  “Yes, Herr General,” Friedmann replied. “We had decided that there was little more we could accomplish for the moment, so we were heading home.”

  “Funny, we were heading home, ourselves,” Klein commented.

  “Perhaps we can lead you out,” Friedmann said. “We have some small experience with this. Although we have run out of supplies and are getting hungry.”

  “Major Klein has proven adept in this area, Sergeant,” Model said. “I believe he will be able to help.”

  “If I might suggest, Sir, that we find a place to conceal ourselves for the day. Some of the Russian military patrols are more competent than I prefer.”

  “We have been lucky so far, Sergeant,” Model replied. “I am happy to let an expert take over.”

  “We are not home, yet, Herr General. I suspect we both need sleep. Once we begin moving again tonight, we will need to discuss plans.”

  “Very well, Sergeant.”

  The corporal found a stand of thick undergrowth, into which they burrowed. Klein began snoring almost immediately. Model found himself staring at the patches of brightening sky that he could see through the thicket. What were the chances of him escaping in the first place? And now they had encountered a team that had some hope of getting him across the lines into Germany? Things like that only happened in fiction, yet here he was. What tempered his delight, though, was the thought of the tens of thousands of Germans who had gone into captivity because of his incompetence.

  After it grew dark, Klein opened a knapsack and fished out two loaves of bread.

  “Where did you find this, Major?” the corporal asked.

  “I slipped into a village one night and liberated the bread. I found the knapsack lying in a road as we crossed it.”

  “You’re a brave man, Major,” Baumann said.

  Klein shrugged. “We had to eat. I simply did what was necessary.”

  He broke apart the loaves and shared them with Friedmann and Baumann. And they began walking. Model was amazed at Friedmann’s ability to move in the darkness. Previously Model and Klein had seemed to find every bramble and every errant root as they crossed the country. Friedmann seemed to be able to see in the dark.

  “You can move a lot faster than we could,” Model whispered as they made their way.

  “I grew up in the woods, Herr General. This country is easy to move through, but harder to stay hidden. The forests around the Polish b
order are a lot safer.”

  “How far?”

  “Maybe another two or three-hundred kilometers,” Friedmann replied.

  “Another week then.”

  “At least. And this is the easy stuff. Getting across the lines will be tough.”

  “We can worry about that when we get there,” Model said. “Don’t rest on military courtesy, Hans. If we need to do something quickly, give the order.”

  “I appreciate that, Herr General. Things sometimes get… interesting.”

  “Getting in a train wreck was interesting,” Klein commented.

  “Hush, Georg,” Model said.

  § § §

  August 26, 1943; 2 PM

  Reich Chancellor’s Office

  Reich Chancellery

  Berlin, Germany

  “What brings you over here, Peter?” Schloss asked.

  The Reich Chancellor stood at the windows and gazed out at the street below his office. Peter Schreiber was a little uncomfortable talking to Schloss’s back.

  “I had a visit from the British ambassador this morning. He brought a message from the queen.”

  Schloss spun around and stared at Peter. “Is that so?”

  He walked over to take the proffered letter from Peter’s hand. He then walked quickly around to the other side of the desk and sat down in his chair. He slid the document from the envelope and opened it. The crackling of the paper was loud in the room.

  Peter watched as Schloss’s eyes moved back and forth down the page. Then the Reich Chancellor’s eyebrows raised. He looked over at Peter.

  “This is certainly unexpected, though very welcome.”

  “My question, Hennie,” Peter replied, “is whether she can do this without her countrymen getting indignant?”

  “I would suggest that she has a better feel for her people than we do,” Schloss replied. “She is very popular. Besides, you note that she wants to keep our conversations secret.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “Sharing intelligence can certainly be kept quiet.” Schloss lay the paper on the desk and tapped it with his finger. “Keeping a summit meeting secret would be more difficult. As would be finding a site.”

  “I think Karl would shoot you in the leg or something to keep you from going to Lisbon again.”

  “You exaggerate a bit, but not excessively so,” Schloss said with a smile. “As we well know, Karl is not so very different from Frau Marsden.”

  “Yes, but I would never tell him that.”

  Schloss chuckled. “Perhaps wise of you.”

  “What do you want to do?” Peter asked.

  “The government is meeting tomorrow. I think we will need to discuss this. Go ahead and draft a reply thanking them for the invitation and that we should be able to let them know within a week.”

  “Do you think it will take that long to convince the council?” Peter asked.

  “No, but I don’t want the English to think we are anxious.”

  Peter nodded as he thought. “Do you think the English have any worthwhile intelligence to share with us? They sacked most of their foreign intelligence service.”

  Schloss spun around and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the Thermos ju

  g on the credenza. He held up the cup and nodded to Peter.

  “No thanks,” he replied.

  Schloss spun back around and took a sip of the coffee. “Bah, it has gotten cold. Kirche!”

  “Yes, Herr Reich Chancellor?” the secretary stepped into the doorway.

  “More coffee. This has gotten cold.”

  “At once, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  Schloss watched the secretary leave and looked at Peter. “I think Gisela has instructed him not to keep brewing more coffee for me.”

  “Would he do that?” Peter asked with a grin.

  “Oh, absolutely. Willem idolizes Gisela.” Schloss paused for a moment. “And has absolutely no fear of me. What is wrong with this picture, Peter?”

  “Surely you know by now, Hennie, that this is the essence of married life. I thought you would have learned that by now.

  “How’s Renate and the baby doing?”

  “They are doing well. We’re not getting much sleep, but I suppose that is to be expected.”

  “Something all new fathers must learn,” Schloss commented. “It’s good for you. It builds character.”

  “Much more of it, and this character will start falling asleep in your meetings, Hennie.”

  “We can’t have that.”

  Peter simply shrugged.

  Schloss leaned back in his chair. “Gehlen told me that the English diplomatic community is plugged in in Moscow. They have better sources than we do. So, yes, I think the Queen could give us some valuable information on what Stalin is doing. The question in my mind is why she should want to do something like that. Having us and the Russians at each other’s throats has got to benefit the English.”

  “The English have always been good at long term thinking,” Peter mused.

  “Meaning what?”

  “If I had to venture a guess,” Peter continued, “she would prefer to have us rather than the Russians sitting on the continent here.”

  “At the rate things are going, she may not have a choice,” Schloss grumbled. “I don’t think our problems lie in a lack of intelligence out of Russia.”

  “There is that. But, on the other hand, it couldn’t hurt.”

  Schloss clapped his hands on his legs and stood up. “Well, we probably won’t solve that this afternoon. Get the response out, and we will see what kind of debate we’ll have tomorrow in the meeting.”

  “Right.” Peter stood up. “Thanks for your time, Hennie.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Kirche!” he shouted, “Where’s the coffee.”

  “On the way, Herr Reich Chancellor,” the heard his voice from the other room.

  “He could have simply forgotten,” Peter suggested.

  “Nah. Kirche doesn’t forget anything. Gisela has been talking to him.”

  “I’ll leave you to your challenge, then.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  August 27, 1943; 9 AM

  Chartwell

  Westerham, Kent

  Churchill looked up as Hansen ghosted past the doorway from the study. He was responding to the jangling of the doorbell. Old Dick Hansen had become something of a fixture at Chartwell and had remained even through the time when Churchill was unable to pay him. The former prime minister was glad to be earning income from his speaking engagements and was now paying the old man again, although Old Dick had refused to allow Churchill to repay the missing salary.

  Marking the arrival of the morning train, Kim Philby was at the door. Hansen led the visitor to Churchill’s office and then knuckled his forehead before withdrawing. Philby glanced at him curiously and then sat in the proffered chair across from Churchill’s desk.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Prime Minister,” Philby began.

  “I always appreciate those willing to make the trip,” Churchill replied.

  “I had thought to bring you further information and to relay any instructions to our friends,” Philby explained.”

  Churchill nodded. “Pray proceed, Mr. Philby.”

  “Very well, Sir. First of all, I have received information that a team of German saboteurs had rampaged across the Ukraine, even causing massive damage to a Soviet tank factory. We think this is what precipitated the war.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Philby, you have previously indicated to me that the Germans began the war by attacking across the frontier in Poland.”

  Philby seemed surprised but recovered quickly. “That is very true, Prime Minister. I think it was all coordinated. The Soviets began seeing massive disruption. Those Boeing Fortress bombers the Americans sold to the Germans have hampered Soviet logistics. While the Soviets were attempting to restore order, the Germans sent a massive armored force into eastern Poland. The Soviets only barely managed to hol
d the attack.”

  Churchill pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the bookshelves along one wall. He pulled several cigars from a humidor on the shelf and eased them into his coat pocket. He slid the remaining cigar under his nose and sniffed appreciatively. He looked at Philby.

  “It is very good, Mr. Philby, that our war with Germany is over, regardless of the situation. At least I no longer worry about my supply of cigars.”

  He walked back over to the desk, where he clipped the end of the cigar and struck a match. After getting it thoroughly alight, He turned back to Philby.

  “Pray continue.”

  Philby cleared his throat and squinted through the tobacco haze. “Another item, which I have not been able to confirm, but a source in the Prime Minister’s office passed word that the queen had asked for a summit with Herr Schloss.”

  Churchill had begun pacing the office as he puffed industriously on the cigar. He turned back quickly to his guest.

  “And what are the intentions of that summit?”

  “We have not been able to find out for sure; however, Attlee was heard muttering that the people would never stand for Britain allying itself with Germany.”

  “And when is this meeting scheduled to be held?” Churchill asked as he continued pacing.

  “The queen instructed Attlee and Eden to extend the offer to Schloss. We do not know if the Germans have responded.”

  “I know Margaret Windsor, and I know Clement Attlee. Signing a pact with the Devil is not something I would expect of them. Although, upon reflection, Neville certainly did.”

  “What does this mean?” Philby reflected bewilderment.

  “That would be the question, Mr. Philby, would it not?”

  Churchill continued to pace the room, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. Philby decided he looked remarkably like one of the stubborn steam locomotives used by British Rail. He turned, once again, to face the journalist.

  “Very well,” Churchill snapped. “You must return to London and find out what you can. You will, of course, keep me informed. Meanwhile, I will shake a few trees and see what drops out. Tell me, Mr. Philby, will I find apples or persimmons?”