Himmler's war

by Robert Conroy

  A guide in a lead Jeep turned left and they followed, passing a long line of replacement Sherman tanks. Finally, they stopped and Jeb gazed in wonder.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Aren’t they just too beautiful for words?”

  Jack laughed. “Tanks are not beautiful. In fact most sane people would think they’re kind of ugly.”

  “Okay, asshole, so they’re not beautiful in a Betty Grable sort of way, but they are sinister and beautiful in a sexy life-saving sort of way.”

  All the officers and enlisted men left their Jeeps and trucks and gazed in combinations of wonder and delight at the metal behemoths lined up to greet them.

  They were all Pershing M26 tanks. A Captain Powell from the depot checked their orders and officiously confirmed everything. He was slightly overweight like most supply soldiers, which this time was not resented by the men of the 74th.

  Carter patted the hull of one of the tanks and grinned. “Not quite as big or as fast as a Panther, but, damn, there’s that big, beautiful 90mm main gun that’s badder than a Panther, even a T34 if the rumors that the Germans have some are true.”

  The tank also had a. 50 caliber and two. 30 caliber machine guns. It carried a crew of five and had a gas engine. Carter counted twelve of the tanks.

  Carter continued to smile. “These are all ours, right?”

  “Just be careful with them and don’t scratch them up,” Powell said, proving he had a sense of humor. “They don’t have to be whitewashed or otherwise camouflaged since the krauts already know they’re here. Probably every third German in the area is a spy and has seen them come in by train. After all, they are kind of hard to hide.”

  Sirens went off and Powell guided them to a trench, which they entered almost casually. All over the area, soldiers were doing the same thing.

  “It’s just a Jerry on a recon flight,” Powell said as he lit a cigarette. “They do that almost every day. If they would be so kind as to make it a scheduled stop, we might be able to ambush the bastard. Otherwise they’re just too damn fast.”

  A Nazi jet streaked across the sky and disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. A couple of American planes appeared to give chase, but they lost ground with each passing second. No bombs were dropped.

  “What is he up to?” Carter asked.

  “I assume he’s taking pictures,” Jack answered before Powell could respond.

  They climbed out of the trench. “There’s a school of thought,” Powell said, “that we should let them take all the pictures they want just to show them what they’re up against. However, I don’t think they’ll scare very easily.”

  Morgan didn’t think so either. “So, the 74th gets twelve of these. Who gets the rest?”

  Powell looked surprised. “What rest? This is it. Didn’t you know?”

  “Wait,” said Carter. “You telling me that this is all the 74th gets?”

  Powell laughed. “To the best of my knowledge, this is all the entire 1st Army gets. For some reason, Patton’s 3rd Army doesn’t want any, and we aren’t sharing with the frogs, of course. There will be more, but, for the time being, these are all the Pershings in Europe. Congratulations, Captains, but you are it when it comes to taking on German armor.”

  ***

  Heinrich Himmler did not like to leave Berlin and the perceived safety of the Chancellery building. Even though it had been the target of Allied bombers on several occasions, luck had held and damage was still minimal. Of course, if he wished to, he could retreat to Hitler’s vast underground bunker system. Himmler had considered that option but dismissed it. The place was damp and depressing, and moving underground smacked of cowardice. He would not move there until and if it became absolutely necessary.

  Himmler and a small entourage traveled at night and in his private armored train, hiding on sidings during the day. They made it safely to the outskirts of Frankfurt. The city center had been badly bombed; thus, no suitable and secure facilities were available for him. Himmler needed no further reminders that Allied bombers and fighters ruled the skies.

  They left the train and traveled by car to an estate once owned by a long ago disappeared Jewish family and now run by the SS as a rest area. Tomorrow, he would take a brief drive to the Rhine Wall. Himmler didn’t want to, but Goebbels had convinced him that pictures of him with soldiers at the front would help with morale. Rundstedt added that viewing the defenses first hand would help him understand just what the military was confronting.

  Himmler was very nervous and worked hard to hide it. He didn’t like being so close to the enemy. He felt that men who were very brave often wound up very dead. While he did not think of himself as a coward, he felt that his place was in Berlin, organizing and running the Third Reich and not anywhere near the front lines.

  He met with von Rundstedt and his staff, along with the Luftwaffe’s Galland and Canaris the spymaster. They assembled in a dining room that could have doubled as a medieval banquet hall. Himmler thought it was far too nice for a Jew to have ever owned.

  “What happened to the people who lived here?” he whispered to an aide.

  “Bought their way out before the war and went to Brazil.”

  Himmler smiled. They had paid dearly for their lives. Excellent. Their money had helped fund Hitler. Belatedly, Himmler had come to the realization that it would have been far better to have allowed all the Jews to buy their way out, rather than the politically messy results of the Final Solution in places like Auschwitz. Of course, many countries, including the falsely pious United States, had closed their doors to Jewish emigres. Hypocrites all, he thought.

  “I would like you to see some of these photos, Reichsfuhrer,” Rundstedt said. “These were just taken by pilots flying over American lines.”

  Varner handed them over. Himmler nodded briefly as he tried to identify objects on the ground. “What am I looking at?”

  “A number of things,” said Rundstedt. “First, these are pictures of several incredibly vast supply depots that the Americans are building up in anticipation of the invasion of Germany. They are spread up and down the length of the Rhine, which gives us no clue as to their intended target. Still, look at the enormous number of tanks and other armored vehicles, which include a handful of a new and very large tank that we believe is their Pershing. It is designed to counter the Panther.”

  Himmler sniffed. “A handful? That is hardly a threat.”

  “At one point there were only a handful of their dreadful Shermans,” Rundstedt said acidly, “and now there are tens of thousands, and that will be the case with this new tank within a year from now. And I’m certain it will be better than the Sherman since the Americans almost always learn from their mistakes.”

  Himmler nodded. “Then the war must be over sooner. Now, what is this?” he asked as he picked up other photos.

  Varner pointed. “These are the American defenses along the Rhine. They aren’t very deep and they aren’t well hidden. They know we can do nothing about them and that we don’t have the capability to counterattack across the river.”

  “Which brings us to a point, Herr Himmler,” Rundstedt said, intentionally not using his rank. “There is one important thing missing from all these photos and that is landing craft. The Americans will require hundreds of them to cross the river in force. Either they aren’t there yet, or they are very well hidden. It is also possible that the craft are still in France, or even in England and will be moved to the Rhine at the last minute.”

  Himmler turned to Canaris. “Well?”

  “Our sources in either country say nothing, although I will push them for more intelligence,” the admiral answered. “However, please recall that on January 9 the Americans landed in the Philippines in force. This must have required a large number of the platoon-sized landing craft called LCVI’s, many of which would have to be transported here if they are going to be used in a crossing.”

  “Could they do it without those craft?” Himmler inquired.

  “W
ith great difficulty,” Rundstedt answered. “Their only other option would be to use hundreds, perhaps thousands, of truly small boats and we’ve scoured both sides of the Rhine for anything that could float and be used. During our withdrawal, we destroyed any craft we found along all of the rivers. While we can’t totally discount the possibility of them making small craft locally, I don’t think it’s feasible. No, I think they will have to have landing craft.”

  “What about paratroops?” Himmler asked.

  Rundstedt laughed. “We almost wish they would. Intelligence says they have five airborne divisions, four American and one British. The British division is being rebuilt after the disaster at the Seine. We are well prepared for a paratroop attack, although, again, they would have to have large numbers of transports and gliders to fly such a horde and there are no indications that they exist in such quantities.”

  Himmler walked to the stone fireplace where a pile of logs burned. The warmth felt good.

  “Who took the pictures?”

  Galland smiled. “Some of our brave pilots flying our jet fighters, which were configured to be photographic platforms.”

  “If our jets can cross American bases with such impunity, why don’t we drop bombs on them?” Himmler asked.

  Galland flushed. “Our jet is not designed to carry bombs. Hitler originally wanted it used as a long-range bomber, but it would have been able to carry only a small bomb load, so the idea was scrapped. In the final analysis, it was not considered feasible or even useful.”

  Himmler understood. Once again the military had changed Hitler’s directive after his death, and his field marshals and admirals had all said it was for the good. Still, it galled him to have the finest army in the world and no air force to protect it. Galland had insisted and Rundstedt had concurred, that the Americans and British had such vast fleets of planes that what remained of the Luftwaffe would be overwhelmed. The respite caused by winter would allow for the production of what would have been a large number of planes just a few years earlier, but the Americans’ ability to produce weapons of all kinds and in such huge quantities had been a staggering and unwelcome discovery. For every plane or tank Germany produced, America turned out a half dozen.

  Himmler smiled at Galland. The situation wasn’t his fault. “I am certain that all your pilots will do their best.”

  Galland accepted the gesture. Yes, they would do their best with too few planes and too few pilots. Now that there was a cease fire on the Eastern Front, pilot training had commenced in German occupied areas of Poland. Hopefully, they were far enough away to keep the Americans from shooting down the trainees, and, as long as the Russians stayed back, the trainees would have time to learn their craft. The Luftwaffe would fly and die for the Reich. They had no other choice.

  CHAPTER 20

  Privates Feeney and Gomez walked slowly through the 74th’s motor pool. The ground was slushy and churned up from a multitude of trucks and tanks. Care had to be taken to not trip and fall into the mess. A light wet snow was falling, barely covering the ground.

  They were on guard duty, protecting the trucks and tanks of the 74th, but neither man was taking things all that seriously. It was, after all, the dead of winter and they were well away from the Rhine which the krauts couldn’t cross in the first place. Even so, their weapons were loaded and they kept an eye out. There might not be any krauts around, but there were officers who might try to catch them goofing off.

  Captain Morgan had warned them to be on the lookout for saboteurs or spies, but neither man thought it was likely a Nazi could get this far. To keep themselves alert and pass the time, they teased each other.

  “How many more rosaries, Feeney?”

  “Maybe six hundred, damn it. Hey, don’t you Mexies say one each day? Maybe you and your Mexican buddies could say some for me.”

  “Feeney, how many times I gotta tell you, we ain’t Mexican any more than you’re an Irishman. I’m from California and you’re from Boston. In fact, my ancestors were in California long before your people came over from Ireland, and they were literate long before your people knew what writing was about.”

  “Screw you,” Feeney said genially, happy that he’d gotten to his friend. If you had to walk around a lonely motor pool in the cold and snow, then it was good to be with a buddy.

  Gomez grabbed Feeney’s arm. “What the hell, tracks.”

  The only tracks they’d seen in the new snow while on their rounds were their own. This fresh set of tracks was clearly somebody new. It was either saboteurs or some prick of an officer trying to trap them. The two men looked at each other and began to follow the tracks. As one, they shifted their rifles off their shoulders so they could be fired.

  They turned a corner and were confronted by a row of the new M26 tanks. The footprints disappeared in between them. They could hear muffled sounds of someone working on a tank. Maybe it was a mechanic with a job to do, or maybe it was something else, something sinister. They walked farther and saw a man on the hull and crouching behind a turret.

  “Watcha doin’ there, buddy,” Feeney said. He was supposed to say “halt” and “who goes there,” but that sounded dumb. After all, the guy wasn’t moving.

  “Maintenance,” came the answer.

  “Now?” said Gomez. “In the middle of the fucking night? Maybe you should come down here so we can see you.”

  “Hey, don’t get your horses in an uproar.”

  Feeney stared at Gomez. Horses in an uproar? Fuck. They pointed their rifles at the shape. “Get your ass down now!” Feeney snarled.

  “Coming,” the man said, and then slipped and fell off the tank. He rolled and came to his feet, a pistol in his hand. He snapped off a couple of shots. Gomez screamed and grabbed his face. Blood was gushing over his hand and, just then, Feeney felt something smash into his leg.

  The son of a bitch is going to kill me, Feeney realized. He swung his rifle and pulled the trigger again and again. The attacker stumbled backwards and fell to the ground just as waves of pain reached Feeney’s brain. As the world turned black, he wondered if he was dead.

  ***

  He came to in a tent with Captain Morgan standing over him. “Welcome back, Feeney.”

  “How’s Gomez?” Feeney asked. It was difficult to talk. His mouth felt fuzzy.

  “Not good. He took a bullet in the face. He’ll probably live, but he lost part of his jaw and one eye.”

  “Aw, Christ, Feeney said, then brightened. “Hey, it does mean he’ll go home, doesn’t it? Helluva price to pay, though. Jesus, he’ll be going home with half a face.”

  “The man you shot is dead. No surprise, he was a German, complete with an SS tattoo. We found it a little above the inside of his left elbow. It also said gave us his blood type, which was useless information since he was already dead. I guess the rumors are true. They are trying to infiltrate English speaking people behind our lines. This guy’s job was to sabotage our tanks. He damaged a couple before you nailed him, but the tanks can all be repaired. And don’t worry about your leg. You took a ricochet and you’re just badly bruised.”

  “Good to hear, sir. But how the hell is Gomez going to live with half a face? Who would want to look at him? And, yeah sir, I can’t help but think that it could have been me who got shot.”

  Morgan had no real answer. “Couple of days’ rest and you’ll be as good as you ever were, which, some days, wasn’t much,” he teased and Feeney laughed. “Seriously, you did well, Feeney, I’ll tell Father Serra I’ve suspended the remainder of your sentence.”

  ***

  Admiral Canaris sat nervously in front of Himmler. “Reichsfuhrer, Harry Truman is a complete nonentity. Our files on him are limited to nothing more than his age, sixty-one, and the fact that he is a farmer and a failed businessman from Missouri who somehow wound up as a United States senator and, even more improbably, as Vice President of the United States.”

  “Incredible,” Himmler said, staring at a picture of a bespectacled Truma
n smiling vapidly at the camera. “Yet this is the man who will be succeeding Roosevelt if he dies.”

  “When Roosevelt dies, Reichsfuhrer. We believe his death is imminent. A few more things about Truman. He is married to a frumpy woman named Bess and they have and equally frumpy daughter named Margaret. On the other hand, this Truman did serve in the First World War with some distinction as an artillery captain.”

  “What type of business?”

  “We think it was men’s clothing.”

  Himmler laughed. “A two-paragraph resume. Well then, can you tell me what he will do as a war leader?”

  Canaris shrugged. “So little is known about him that we have no idea how he will react under stressful circumstances. However, his rise in American politics indicates willingness to compromise and his experience in combat might show that he understands what it is like to send men out to die.”

  Himmler shook his head. “In short, Admiral, you know absolutely nothing about the man.”

  “Correct, Reichsfuhrer. It is as if the postmaster of Potsdam is about to suddenly become Fuhrer of Germany. The situation is incredible, preposterous.”

  “Then he will be too inexperienced to be his own man. Will he be led by Churchill or someone in the American government, Marshall for instance? And what about his future relations with Stalin? We must know these things and much more.”

  Canaris picked up his briefcase. “We are working on all of these matters. It is entirely possible that Stalin is as puzzled as we are. Churchill, however, must be salivating at the thought of dominating Truman.”