Improbable Nazi

by Ward Wagher

  “It is good to be underestimated, Signore. Perhaps it is good when we underestimate even ourselves.”

  The Italian dictator laughed again. “You have a way of letting people down easy.”

  “Not at all. I am very aware of my own limitations.”

  “Of course, of course.” Mussolini looked down at the notebook in front of him. “I understand you are essentially on a holiday, and we are delighted to have you visit our country. I wonder if we might discuss your Mediterranean strategy?”

  “True,” Schloss said. “My primary objective of this trip is to spend time with my wife. However, I also wanted to become acquainted with you.”

  “And you are also meeting with the Jewish leadership?”

  “I arranged to have a meeting with Ben Gurion. I trust that does not impose on Italian hospitality.”

  Mussolini raised his fingers from the table. “We are delighted you are able to meet with other leaders. Italy is happy to play the host.”

  “Thank you, Herr Mussolini,” Schloss said. “And with that, we should go ahead and discuss the Mediterranean war.”

  With that, Schloss and Mussolini spent the afternoon in discussions. Schloss was surprised at the depth of Mussolini’s intellectualism. The man was well read and had carefully elaborated a philosophy of governance. He was also embarrassed about the poor showing of his military. Although the Italian Navy had worked well with the Kriegsmarine, the army simply could not maintain any critical positions. Rommel had them covering his flanks, but showed his lack of confidence by backstopping them with German troops.

  The day ended with the obligatory banquet, and Schloss was forced to admit that Mussolini had style. The Germans had rescued him from a couple of disastrous military adventures, but ironically, the success of the current operations around the Mediterranean had resulted in a revival of his popularity. And he took advantage of this by working on initiatives to expand the economy. Schloss was not sure anyone truly liked the man, but he provided stable government and made the trains run on time. For that, the Italians seemed to be willing to overlook many of Mussolini’s peccadilloes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  March 17, 1942; 9PM

  Hotel Romano

  Riva del Garda, Italy

  Heinrich Schloss reluctantly admitted to himself that he was enjoying the evening. He had come to Italy prepared to dislike the self-styled Il Duce. Somehow the Italian dictator had managed to charm him. Several times he had caught Gisela grinning at him – she apparently enjoyed his conflicted emotions. He wondered if he had made a mistake in relying upon his historian’s view of Mussolini, formed in that other reality. The man he met here was self-deprecating and… likeable.

  “And so, Herr Schloss, here I am leading this poor woman from one office to the other in Government House trying to locate where she was starting her new job. All the while, she kept up a running commentary on how the Fascists were ruining the country and Signore Mussolini had not a clue as to what he was doing.”

  Schloss chuckled. “And she had no idea who her guide was?”

  “Not at all. And when we would walk into an office, everyone would jump to their feet. After the fourth or fifth time she was completely befuddled.”

  “That is sad,” Gisela said with a giggle. “How could she not know?”

  Mussolini shook his head. “Apparently she did not attend the movie theater and had not seen any of the news reels. I do not know. I was concerned about how embarrassed she would be when she eventually figured things out.”

  “And how did it turn out?” Schloss asked.

  “I discovered she was an accountant and was starting a job in the tax office. The office manager told me I should not have gone to the trouble to bring the lady down, she would have been happy to come to the lobby to fetch her. I replied that it was good for me to wander the building occasionally, because I did not want to forget the people who were doing the real work in the government. The Tax Director chose that moment to walk in and immediately shouted, ‘Il Duce, you honor us by your visit.’”

  “And so, the lights went on for the new accountant?” Schloss asked.

  “First, she went pale, then her mouth dropped open, then she fainted. I decided a strategic retreat was in order. It wouldn’t have been good for me to be there when she revived.”

  “The poor woman,” Gisela said.

  “My wife berated me about it,” Mussolini said. “But, che guaio, how could I extricate myself? As usual, it was all my fault.”

  Schloss laughed. “Sometimes, my friend, we wander into these situations through no fault of our own. First you wonder how this could be happening, and then you frantically try to think of a way to retrieve things.” He saw Gisela look down at her plate with a smile. He wondered what she was thinking. There was no way he could tell Mussolini his experience.

  “Exactly, exactly!” Mussolini said. “It is sort of like a slow-motion train wreck. All you can do is brace yourself for the impact.”

  Their laughter was interrupted by shouting outside the room, and then gun fire, followed by screams. Schloss watched the event unfold in exquisite detail as Mussolini’s words about the slow-motion train wreck echoed in his mind. Schlempke and his other guard in the room pulled out their pistols, as did the Italian guards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Italian dictator start pulling a pistol from his belt.

  “Get down!” he shouted as he pushed Gisela’s chair over and rolled under the table, dragging her with him. He struggled to pull his pistol out.

  The guards on the outside of the room were giving good account of themselves, he thought. He hoped the guards in the room had enough sense to get under cover, although they undoubtably knew more about their jobs than he did.

  There was more firing and the windows in the doors to the lobby shattered. He heard bullets slapping into the wall behind him. There was no other exit from the banquet room. He briefly considered taking Gisela and diving through one of the windows, but did not know what they would find outside. They would have to make their stand in here.

  The shooting stopped, then a moment later the doors were kicked open. The vicious crack of the guards’ pistols combined with the deeper reports of rifles, and men shouting. Pistol fire closer at hand meant that Il Duce was emptying his pistol into the attackers.

  Schlempke screamed, “Muttergottes!”

  The shooting stopped once again, and a single set of footsteps sounded as someone moved across the room to their table. Schloss watched through a fold in the table cloth. The boots approaching the table were not military. Either one of the attackers was still alive, or one of the hotel staff was creeping in to see if anyone had survived. Schloss decided he could apologize later for possibly crippling an innocent Italian. He took careful aim and shot one of the boots. He was rewarded with a piercing scream.

  He rolled out from under the table and launched himself upwards. The single remaining attacker was in the process of grabbing his foot, completely ignoring his rifle. Schloss fired once and hit the man in the chest. He fired again and hit somewhere in the face – he saw debris fly from the back of the man’s head. The final attacker tumbled to the ground.

  Gun smoke drifted through the room like fog. The smell of the burned powder mixed with the metallic tang of blood and competed with the sewer smell of voided bowels. Bodies lay about the room in contorted positions.

  “Hennie. Hennie, what is happening?” he heard Gisela call out.

  “Just stay put, Gisela. I don’t know if there are any more around.”

  He swung his head around viewing the room and watching through the doorway. He felt slightly faint from hyperventilating. He heard the blood pounding in his ears. Outside of the room he could hear shouts and screams, but no one seemed disposed to get close to the scene of the battle.

  Schloss heard running boots and brought the pistol up again. He knew he would not survive a second attack, but he also knew his choices were limited. A group of a dozen German guards b
urst into the room, and he barely avoided pulling the trigger.

  “Herr Reichschancellor are you all right?” one of the guards, a lieutenant called.

  “Secure the room,” Schloss said. “There may be another attack.”

  “You and you,” the lieutenant said, pointing to two of the guards, “stay in here with me. The rest cover the lobby and the entrance. We are very exposed here.”

  The other guards quickly moved outside. There came more shouting in Italian and German. The lieutenant walked over to the door and spoke in Italian. A group of Mussolini’s guards marched into the room. Schloss reached down and pulled Gisela to her feet. She clung closely to Schloss’s left side, as he still held his pistol free.

  “Are you all right, Frau Schloss?” the lieutenant asked.

  She nodded. She looked across the room at the body of their guard captain, and cried out. “Alden!” She held a knuckle to her mouth as she stared in horror. Schloss hugged her close.

  Schloss turned and looked at the body of Benito Mussolini. The world once again was spinning out of control for the transplanted historian. One of the Italian guards stepped over and gazed at the dead dictator and moaned. Then, he shook his head. Schloss didn’t know what to do next, and also concluded the Italians would have no idea what to do next.

  § § §

  “The report has been transmitted, Herr Reichschancellor,” the radio operator said.

  “Any problems getting through to Berlin?” Schloss asked.

  “No. The atmospherics were good tonight.”

  “You will need to keep a listening watch. Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not, Herr Reichschancellor,” the radio man said.

  “I somehow think this will stir things up in Berlin,” the lieutenant said.

  “Well, Lieutenant Achtenwald, I certainly hope so,” Schloss said. “We are hundreds of kilometers from Germany and our security force has been cut in half. I am frankly at a loss as to what we should do next.”

  “I have seen to your security as best as I know how,” the lieutenant said stiffly.

  “I did not intend to slight your capabilities, Lieutenant,” Schloss said. “Considering the circumstances, you are performing well. But understand, we are in a difficult situation here.”

  “Of course, Herr Reichschancellor. I suppose I am under pressure myself.”

  Schloss touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Just do your best to keep things secure.”

  He walked across the room to where Gisela stood hugging herself. “How are you doing?”

  “How do you think I am doing?” she said softly, but with intensity. “Some of our closest people were slaughtered this evening. We were nearly killed ourselves. How can you stand there so calmly?”

  Schloss shook his head. “There is no way to view this calmly, Beloved. I am just relieved that you were not injured.”

  “And what about Alden? And Mussolini, for that matter? We deserve to be as dead as they are.”

  “No one deserves that,” he said. “Alden, and the other guards died protecting us. Even Mussolini refused to take cover. Honor demanded that he defend his guests. He died so doing. We honor them by living, Gisela.”

  She whirled away from him and moved to the other side of the room. Schloss looked at her and shrugged. What do I do now? All I can think is that she needs time to come to terms with this.

  Schloss walked over to Achtenwald. “What are the arrangements with the Italians?”

  “Obviously they are in shock over the loss of their leader,” he said. “If anything, they are even more horrified that they allowed a foreign head of state, who was their guest, to come under attack. They suggested holding the perimeters while we guard this wing of the hotel. Even so, it badly overextends us.”

  “I expect Rainer to get reinforcements to us as quickly as possible,” Schloss said. “I think we should stay here until that occurs.”

  “I am forced to agree with you, Herr Reichschancellor,” the lieutenant said. “Attempting to get from here to the railroad station with our current resources is risky. Frightening, in fact.”

  “I expect to hear something back from Berlin rather quickly.”

  “And then you should try to get some sleep, Herr Reichschancellor,” Achtenwald said.

  Schloss snorted. “I would not expect to be able to sleep tonight. And I’m sure my wife would not. I will wait here as long as she remains.”

  § § §

  March 17, 1942; 10:30PM

  Reichprotektor’s Residence

  Berlin, Germany

  Karl Rainer, the Reichsprotektor, had decided to indulge himself with a brandy before retiring for the evening. In a robe and slippers, he sat in his favorite chair, next to the only lamp in the room that was lit. He had been reading a biography of Luther. He once again marveled at the courage of the man who faced down the entire Holy Roman Empire. He chuckled to himself when he remembered the historian who said that that particular aberration was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire. But it was still a deadly threat to an obscure monk who had rediscovered the ancient truths taught by Saint Augustine.

  His interest in the book was replaced by annoyance when the doorbell rang. The guards around his apartment never allowed casual or uninvited visitors, which meant that business called. He slid the marker into the book and snapped it closed, then stood up with a sigh. He opened the door to the night courier, an SS Major. The man handed him an envelope.

  “This just came in, Herr Reichsprotektor. The Colonel said that you needed to see this immediately.”

  “Thank you, Major. Please wait while I read this.”

  He closed the door and switched on the light in the vestibule. Not having his pen knife, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the foolscap. He unfolded it and held it up to the light so he could read it. He was going to have to remind the colonel, once again, to have his people change the ribbons on their typewriters. A few moments later the typewriter ribbons were forgotten, as was Martin Luther, and his snifter of brandy. He swore fervently as he reached over and jerked the door open again.

  “Major, come on in. I want you to call the colonel. Have him call the governing council into emergency session at the chancellery. And have him courier this message to each of the members. And have my car brought around while I get dressed.”

  “At once, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  March 17, 1942; 4PM

  Gatun Locks, Panama Canal

  Panama Canal Zone

  (United States Territory)

  Hirochi Namaguchi watched as the U.S.S. Wrangell made her way through the Gatun Locks of the Panama Canal. Timing was important. The directions his control gave him stressed the importance of blowing the ship in the third lock before it started filling. He wasn’t sure of the reasoning, but the control assured him that the engineers from Japan had studied the canal extensively before the war. They knew what they were talking about.

  He jumped at the hand on his shoulder.

  “Sorry, Sailor,” the petty officer said. “This your first time through the canal?”

  “Yes, Chief. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It has that effect on everybody,” the petty officer said. “But we can’t have the whole crew skylarking out here.”

  “Aye, aye, Chief. I understand.”

  The petty officer grinned. Everybody liked Hiram Gorn. That he was getting the ways greased by the Skipper to OCS was popular with the crew.

  “Then you’d better get back to work. You don’t want the Exec to lose your orders.”

  “No, Chief, I sure don’t.”

  The petty officer grinned as Gorn trotted back to the superstructure. It was people like Hiram Gorn who would be the future of America.

  As the ship eased to a stop in the third lock, Namaguchi made his way to the lower level of the cargo deck carrying a tool box. He hadn’t dared to simply leave the bomb in place among the cargo crates for fear of some
one finding it. He had learned that the crew of an ammunition ship took nothing for granted. An object lying in the hold without identification or clear purpose would bring an immediate investigation if it were discovered.

  He slid the toolbox between two crates and eased the lid up. The bomb consisted of ten sticks of dynamite, two detonators, two timers and two batteries. The controller had also pointed out there was a manual switch which would trigger the bomb in the case of an emergency. What was unsaid was that if it became necessary to press the manual switch, his mission would turn into a suicide run. The timers were already carefully wound. All he needed to do was to start the timers on their ten-minute run. That would give him plenty of time to get off the ship. He hoped.

  “What are you doing, Sailor?”

  Namaguchi was surprised, but contained his shock. He did not jump, but carefully looked around to see one of the ship’s officers walking toward him.

  “The CPO had me inspecting the cargo, Sir.”

  “Which Chief?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Broadwich was not really suspicious, but he did wonder what one of the crew was doing down here.

  “Chief Jackson, Sir.”

  “Very well. Come with me please, and bring your toolbox. We can’t leave things lying about down here. I need to chat with the chief, then you can go about your duties.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  He had heard the rumble of the engines stop, which meant they were in position. There was no more time. He reached into the box and pushed the button. He wondered if he would feel anything when the bomb detonated.

  § § §

  March 17, 1942; 3PM

  Naval Headquarters

  San Diego, California

  “Well, where are they?” Admiral Chester Nimitz demanded. “The Japs sailed from Tokyo four weeks ago and no one has been able to find them.”