Himmler's war

by Robert Conroy

  “And if you don’t mind my saying, sir,” Marshall persisted, “Stalin’s Russia is in even worse shape than England. The Russians are beyond exhaustion. They’ve lost millions of people and millions more may be dying of exposure and starvation. We don’t really know how many since it is such a closed society, but things have to be truly awful in the Soviet Union. They might just like a breathing space.”

  Admiral King jumped in. “A breathing space would give us a chance to squash the Japs.”

  “Are you aware what the Nazis are doing to the Jews and others?” Roosevelt asked quietly.

  “We’ve all heard the rumors and accusations, but they are very hard to believe,” King said. “Concentration camps and prisons and people unjustly held, yes, but death camps, death factories? Assembly line mass murder of a people simply because they exist? It is beyond comprehension. We all know there are camps throughout Germany and a large complex near the town of Auschwitz, but to send people to the camps for the sole and entire purpose of killing them is both monstrous and illogical.”

  Roosevelt shook his head sadly. “But I’m afraid we must believe. More and more information is arriving and a few brave souls have actually escaped from those places. We must put a stop to these exterminations.”

  King shook his head angrily. “Sir, are you saying we should give priority to rescuing a few thousand European Jews who might or might not be in mortal danger, while American soldiers are languishing and being brutalized in Japanese prison camps? Sir, our first duty is to our boys, not other people. The Jews and other inmates must wait, especially if the British and the Russians decide to leave us to fight this war alone.”

  “In that regard, the admiral is correct,” said Marshall. “If England and Russia leave the alliance, we cannot go it alone and, if that occurs, we must give our own people first priority.”

  “It’s well more than a few thousand Jews in peril,” FDR said sadly. “The death toll will easily reach the hundreds of thousands, if not the millions.”

  Both men were shaken, stunned. King found his voice first. “It’s impossible, sir, absolutely impossible. No man, no government, no civilized nation would ever even contemplate such a thing.”

  Roosevelt continued. “Admiral King, I am afraid we must contemplate the fact that the Nazis are barbarians, perhaps worse. The word civilized does not apply to them.”

  It was clear to the President that his logic and his decision were not totally accepted by his two senior military leaders. The idea of trading in American blood was repugnant and FDR accepted that there was no right decision, only a series of bad ones forced on them by Japan and Germany.

  King and Marshall stood, gathered their papers, and departed solemnly. Roosevelt understood their logic, even agreed with a lot of it. More than ten thousand American soldiers, sailors, and marines were starving as prisoners of Japan, while millions of Philippine peoples, America’s responsibility, were held in brutal slavery. The Japanese also held thousands of American civilians in prison camps in the Philippines and elsewhere.

  Yet, to negotiate a peace with Hitler’s heirs was repugnant. Himmler was a monster, the head of the SS and the Gestapo and the architect of the concentration camps. He was in charge of the mass killing of the Jews and other people deemed undesirable by the Nazis. Negotiating with him would leave the German people and much of Nazi-occupied Europe still in his control. But the idea of a breathing space was tempting. A lull in Europe would permit a fairly quick and decisive victory over the Japanese. However, breathing spaces had a way of ending, and that meant the fighting would begin anew, perhaps not a month later, or even a year. Maybe it would be more like the twenty-year lull between the First World and Second World Wars, but fighting would begin again and with renewed savagery.

  So what to do? Negotiations with America’s allies was a paramount need. A shame that Secretary of State Cordell Hull was such a sick and weak reed. A fine man, but, Roosevelt thought wryly, Hull was in worse health than he.

  Perhaps a weapon like the one the scientists were trying to develop in New Mexico would be the answer.

  CHAPTER 5

  Werner Heisenberg was forty-four but looked much older. Exhaustion had taken its toll and he appeared gaunt and strained. He was a Nobel Laureate, having won the prize for physics in 1932. He now headed the Physics Department at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin. He was exasperated at having to spend his valuable time meeting with a mere colonel, even though he’d received directions to do so from his superior, Albert Speer, and the new head of the OKW, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt.

  As a result of Allied bomber attacks, much of the institute’s work had been scattered about the Berlin area, a fact that further aggravated Heisenberg. However necessary, coordinating efforts from multiple locations was extremely difficult and inefficient.

  “Have a seat, Colonel, and please tell me how I can satisfy you and your leaders and then get back to my work.”

  Varner smiled with what he hoped was a degree of geniality. There was no reason to aggravate the obviously exhausted little man. He’d dealt with scientists and academicians before and they’d all thought that whatever they were doing was the most important thing in the history of humanity. He’d been told that, this time, Heisenberg might be right.

  “Field Marshal von Rundstedt wishes an assessment of the Reich’s true military potential. I emphasize the word true, since much of what has been disseminated or reported in the past has been absolute fiction and fairy tales involving weapons that don’t work and production levels that never happened. I need the plain, unvarnished truth, Dr. Heisenberg, and I don’t care who is insulted or made uncomfortable. I have been told that you are working on a wonder weapon and need to know if this is true and if the weapon is feasible.” He smiled tightly. “Does my candor bother you, Doctor?”

  “We’ll see,” Heisenberg said. There was a hint of mischief in his eyes. “What do you know about the science of physics?”

  “I believe I can spell it if I had to, but not much more, Doctor.”

  Heisenberg blinked and then laughed. “Good God, you’re not a typical all-knowing OKW staff officer, are you?”

  “Hardly. I much prefer commanding tanks and overrunning large countries like Poland or Russia. Now, please, what are you working on? I was told it was a very large bomb.”

  “Colonel Varner, I will keep it very simple. Do you know what an atom is?”

  “Somewhat. The smallest thing in the world, I believe.”

  “What I am working on has the potential to be far more than that large bomb you referred to. My staff and I, along with a number of others in other countries, are working on the possibility that the energy inherent in the atom can be channeled and used as a bomb. And not just a large bomb, but a device with enormous explosive potential.”

  “How enormous?”

  “An estimated twenty-thousand tons of dynamite per bomb.”

  Varner’s mind reeled. One bomb would be enough to effectively destroy most large cities, and cause extensive damage to the largest ones. On the battlefield, it would destroy at least one enemy division, perhaps a corps.

  “Is that possible?”

  “Theoretically, yes. Right now, if you wanted a twenty-thousand-ton bomb, you would have to accumulate twenty-thousand tons of dynamite, somehow transport it to the target, and then figure out how to detonate it all simultaneously. Our efforts will, hopefully, correct that and result in a bomb of that strength, but only weighing a couple of tons, not twenty-thousand.”

  “You’ve used the word theoretical, Doctor, what are the difficulties?”

  Heisenberg sighed. “Almost too numerous to mention, Colonel. First, I need scientists. Please recall that physics has often been referred to as a ‘Jewish science.’ Ergo, the brightest of the Jewish scientists fled Germany and other countries when Hitler either came to power or took over their countries. The people who remained behind are far too few and, in large part, second-rate. I need first-rate peo
ple and many more of them.

  “Also, I need the equipment and resources. We need a substance called uranium and we don’t have enough of it, along with other materials, such as heavy water. Do you understand this, Colonel?”

  “I understand that you need help from a number of sources. Would you like me to invite Einstein to return? We could declare him an honorary Aryan.”

  Heisenberg chortled. “Him and a hundred others, yes. There are other issues. Are you aware of something called radiation?”

  Varner shrugged. “It causes watch dials to glow in the dark and it killed Marie Curie. I understand it can cause cancer in large doses if exposed to it over a period of time.”

  “Excellent, Colonel. Extraordinary large doses will be instantly released when a uranium bomb explodes, and with what long- and short-term effects we do not know. And, of course, I have absolutely no idea just how such a large bomb could ever be transported to an enemy.”

  Varner thought quickly. The Luftwaffe had a handful of bombers with multiton capacity, but how to get them through Allied air defenses was a problem. “Could you make a number of smaller bombs, instead of one large one?”

  Heisenberg was surprised and intrigued. “Quite possibly. Why?”

  Varner grinned. “They would be far easier to transport. I can even visualize a uranium bomb as the warhead of a V1 or V2 rocket. Each one now carries a warhead of approximately one ton. And the FX1400 radio-controlled bomb that was used so successfully against Allied shipping off Italy weighs approximately half that.”

  “Indeed,” Heisenberg said thoughtfully, “but I have to build the first bomb before worrying about the second and third.”

  Varner stood. He was making mental plans to visit Werner von Braun at the V1 and V2 launching sites. “I will report this to von Rundstedt, although I question what he will be able to do about solving your difficulties.”

  They shook hands. “Then tell your field marshal this, Colonel. Einstein and all those brilliant emigre scientists are in the United States are they not? Well then, just what the devil do you think they are all doing?”

  ***

  The little village was named St. Theresa of Something and was just a speck on the inadequate maps provided to the 74th Armored. It consisted of a dozen stone buildings, and included one church and a tavern. Jeb Carter said that ’bout evened things out.

  Everything looked centuries old and all the stone buildings had thick walls and each could easily be its own fortress.

  A patrol consisting of two Jeeps and one Stuart tank had circled behind the village and been fired on. Two GI’s in the Jeeps had been wounded, one seriously. A subsequent probe had drawn heavier fire from the village, although no casualties, and Colonel Stoddard had come to the inescapable conclusion that the German garrison had to be removed before they could proceed.

  The dirt road the 74th was on ran west through the village and on to Paris somewhere in the distance. The road curved sharply as it wound through the village. Jack commented that there were no straight lines in France. Everything seemed to wander all over the place. Levin thought that all French engineers were drunks. St. Theresa could not be bypassed. Even though most of the bocage area was behind them, traveling cross-country was not an option. While the tanks and half-tracks might make it through the boggy ground, the wheeled vehicles were road-bound.

  Levin handed the binoculars to Jack. “Everything’s stone and six feet thick. Don’t these people ever build with plywood or even straw?”

  “That would be nice,” Jack said. “We could huff and puff and blow the walls down.”

  He had never seen an armored assault and was intrigued. They were in the loft of a barn, also of stone, on a slight rise that gave a good view of the village. It was a mile away from the tree line and surrounded by neat farm plots all fenced solidly with stone. Another stand of woods lay a mile or so beyond the village.

  Colonel Stoddard had assigned ten Shermans and two Stuarts to the attack. A company of infantry mounted in half-tracks would accompany the tanks. Jack had been close enough to the colonel to hear him say that a dozen tanks would be enough to handle any resistance from what appeared to be a small force seeking merely to delay the American advance. The German force had to be small. St. Theresa of Something just wasn’t that large a village.

  Delaying the American advance was something the Germans were proving to be quite skilled at. Bridges were blown, roads cratered, and mines were strewn everywhere. Some were hidden, but others just lay there, daring the Americans to advance. Houses, corpses, and anything that could be booby-trapped were tied to explosives. Everything, therefore, had to be cleared, painfully and with exquisite slowness.

  The regiment’s advance was less than a crawl. Jokesters said they’d be in Paris by the end of 1980. Others said they’d be collecting Social Security before they reached the Rhine.

  The entire American army was barely moving as the Germans fought a masterful defensive withdrawal. Intelligence said that the krauts had successfully withdrawn their Seventh and Fifteenth Field Armies from vulnerable positions in southern and western France and were moving east towards the Seine where they would dig in and make a major stand. Nobody liked the idea of crossing a major river under fire.

  With Hitler dead, there was grumbling among the troops, both enlisted and officers, about why they were still fighting. Hitler was dead, they said, then weren’t the Nazis dead as well? Let’s get the hell out of Europe and stick it to the little yellow bastards who’d bombed Pearl Harbor. And then let’s all go home where we can drink ourselves silly and make babies.

  Jack supported the idea of going home, although, like everyone, deep down he knew that nobody was going to leave until the German government had been toppled and that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon. Also, as the advance slowed, some of the older officers and NCOs had a horror of refighting the murderous trench warfare of World War I. Therefore, they had to keep moving before the krauts established a new line of trenches.

  Major Tolbert would command the assault. Jeb Carter’s tank company was in reserve. It felt funny to Jack to watch people he knew go into combat and know some would not return. It was a most unpleasant feeling and unlike anything he’d known before. He also felt strange being so useless. The overwhelming majority of the regiment was not going to be involved in the attack. He and Levin were merely spectators.

  An artillery shell landed in the village and exploded, sending up a cloud of smoke and debris. “Ranging shot,” Levin said.

  Seconds later, shells from a half dozen 105mm howitzers began to paste the village. Roofs collapsed and great plumes of smoke and dust rose skyward, although most of the thick stone walls remained intact. The sound waves rolled over them. Colonel Stoddard might have had a reputation of being paranoid about security, but he was very careful with the lives of his men. He was not one for sending men charging hell for leather into enemy fire, which was greatly appreciated.

  Colonel Whiteside crawled beside them. A secondary explosion ripped the village. The shelling had hit either ammunition or fuel, and some men cheered.

  The tanks started to roll out and the barrage, on schedule, stopped. “Now they’ll crawl out of their hidey-holes,” Whiteside muttered, “and either fight or run to Berlin.” Jack was incredulous. People were still alive in that smoking hell?

  The armor fanned out and began their own firing. At about a hundred yards from the ruined stone buildings, a projectile streaked out and just barely missed a tank.

  “Panzerfaust,” snarled Whiteside. The German Panzerfaust was a self-propelled rocket, their equivalent to the American bazooka and, some said, far more lethal.

  More Panzerfaust rockets streamed from Germans dug into the rubble. One hit a Sherman, stopping it dead. A second tank was hit, ripping its tracks off. The remaining tanks began to flank the village. They would attack it from the rear. Jack had a sense of foreboding as he watched the drama play out before him. Half a dozen tanks and ten half-
tracks rolled behind the village, turned, and began to move towards it. Then it hit him.

  “Colonel, it’s another ambush.”

  Whiteside looked up, startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our tanks are showing their fannies to that line of woods. If you look carefully, you can see tracks leading up to those trees and not beyond. There have to be more krauts in there, Colonel.”

  Jack was about to say some more when the woods on the other side of the village erupted in fire. German armor became visible as camouflage fell off. Three Panzer IV tanks began blasting at the American armor and tanks began to explode. German machine guns ripped through the thin armor of the rear of the half-tracks and Jack could only imagine the carnage inside.

  Another Sherman erupted in a plume of exploding gasoline, reminding him of their sardonic nickname-Ronsons, named after the popular cigarette lighter because they lit up so easily.

  The American units hastily retreated, leaving four more burning tanks and three dead half-tracks. A number of dead and wounded littered the ground. As the mauled American force returned in disarray to the American lines, German vehicles hidden in the village began racing out, carrying the survivors of the German garrison away to fight another day.

  They were all in shock. It had happened so quickly. Only Whiteside was in control as he barked orders to have the artillery hit the wood line. It took a couple of moments to coordinate, and, by that time, the Germans were pulling back beyond it and the shells landed on empty dirt. Jack had never seen German armor in action and, even from a distance, their tanks looked formidable. Hell, they were obviously formidable. The Panzer IV was supposed to be inferior to the German Panther or Tiger, but a trio of them had just kicked the shit out of an American column of Shermans and Stuarts.