Churchill dimly recalled meeting the fellow once. He was a small, nervous man, and completely inadequate to the tasks at hand. It would be a disaster. Not that Franklin was without faults; but his charm, breeding, strong character, and a superior intellect more than offset them. Most importantly, he was a friend, not only of Churchill, but also of the British people. Together, they stopped the Hun and rolled his armies back, but the process utterly bankrupted the British Empire. Franklin understood that. Without his help, the Wall Street power brokers would have picked Britain clean long ago. Britain would have become the poor stepchild, a lowly pawn in American policy; and she may still.
Done with the newspapers, Churchill reached for the stack of correspondence and dispatches, which an aide had placed on his bedside table next to him. An hour later he came upon a report from an obscure Reserve Colonel named Bromley at SOE. At first blush, it seemed a minor enough matter dealing with a planned foray by the American OSS to grab the German aircraft designers at Volkenrode. Anyway, as Churchill later remembered, that was how he first became involved in this sordid business. It was in the big four-poster bed in Chequers that those three disparate threads began to weave themselves into a colorful tapestry in his mind — the destructive force of the German wonder weapons, the imminent demise of Britain’s last great friend in the White House, and this inexplicable power grab by the Americans. What on earth were they up to, he questioned? Since Pearl Harbor, the Allies had been bound together by the one unwavering principle of unconditional surrender. There were to be no bargains, no separate peace, no deals, and no exceptions. They would share the pain and share the fruits when it was over. While one might excuse the professional German soldier for doing his wartime duty, it was the Nazi party hacks, the secret police, the SS, and those twisted scientists and engineers who had created Hitler’s terror weapons who must be sought out and punished. Those people deserved no mercy. There must be a day of reckoning for them.
Unfortunately, Churchill could see that was not what was happening here. The Americans had begun sneaking around behind his back, negotiating with the SS in Italy, with Von Braun’s people and the Luftwaffe in Switzerland, with Ribbentrop’s Foreign Ministry in Sweden, and even with Heinrich Himmler’s agents in Spain. What perfidious conduct. With Franklin Roosevelt gone, the American industrial corporations would grab all the technology for themselves and leave their allies out in the cold. Had the Americans taken leave of their senses? No wonder Stalin did not trust us. The jet airplanes, the rockets, the deadly new munitions, new submarines, and the metallurgy would give the Americans world hegemony for decades to come. Denying that technology to the Russians was perfectly sensible. They were incapable of putting it to significant use anyway. Denying it to Great Britain, however, was another matter altogether. Without the technology, she would become irrelevant to America’s future and lose any hope of getting significant American aid to rebuild her shattered economy. Obviously, the Americans must be saved from their own short-sightedness and stupidity. That was why this reckless adventure in Volkenrode must be stopped at all costs.
Churchill reached for the telephone a second time. “Connect me with a Colonel Bromley at SOE,” he said. “When you reach his extension, be certain he knows who is calling, and let him wait for five or ten minutes before you connect me.” An adequate period for self-reflection often does wonders for a man’s soul, Churchill knew all too well.
Bromley was shocked to receive a telephone call from the Prime Minister’s military aide, calling for the Prime Minister himself. Churchill? Calling him? He sat bolt upright in his desk chair, wide-eyed and at full attention, waiting for the Prime Minister to come on the line, still wondering if this was a prank. When the connection was finally made, Churchill’s gravelly voice was unmistakable. This was no prank.
The Prime Minister’s message was personal and strictly private, and it found fertile ground in George Bromley’s ears. “Colonel, we are Englishmen, you and I,” Churchill told him, “and we shall be Englishmen long after this war is over and our American cousins depart these shores; so we must look after ourselves. If we do not, no one will do it for us. That is why I need your discreet assistance in this business of the German airplane engineers…”
Bromley’s eyes went wide when Churchill began questioning the Volkenrode mission, but the Prime Minister’s arguments were simple and compelling. “It is a matter of Great Britain’s power and national influence in the post-war world. If the Americans obtain all of these new weapons, they will become a super power — the only super power. Everyone else will be relegated to second- or even third-rate status, including Great Britain. I cannot watch that sad chain of events happen. Can you? It would be far better for the Russians to get them. Even if they did, the Russians could never topple the Americans. However, a credible Soviet Union would restore some balance of power in the world, and maintaining a strong Britain would continue to be of value to the Americans. Do you understand, Colonel?”
“Absolutely, Sir,” Bromley obediently agreed.
“So you must see to it that this mission to Volkenrode fails. See that it becomes confused or delayed. You know, for want of a nail. Perhaps the Russians will get there first, or Herr Himmler will learn of the Luftwaffe’s plans to defect and solve the problem for us. As a last resort, we shall have to find some excuse to bomb the place into oblivion, but that would lay bare our intentions to the Americans. That is why you must handle it quietly, deftly, and very, very discreetly. No one else at SOE is to know of this conversation, or of my involvement. It is that important, Colonel. For the sake of Great Britain, you must see that it fails. If you do, our people shall forever be in your debt… and so shall I.”
Later, Bromley turned and looked out the window, thinking back on his conversation with the Prime Minister. It had been brief, but the Colonel had no doubt about what Churchill expected of him. As he told Scanlon, it had been a long, painful war and it would be an even longer peace, especially for a shopkeeper’s son and ex-army Colonel. Bromley knew he had limited prospects. With no distinguished combat record to his credit, he even lacked a proper regimental tie or school connections. Staff officers like him would be selling for a sixpence on the High Street, especially backroom types like him who were not allowed to even hint about what they did in the war. Yes, George Bromley would need all the friends in high places he could muster, and Winston bloody Churchill would do very nicely for a start.
Bromley turned back to his desk and summoned Carstairs. When the big Sergeant Major arrived, Bromley motioned for him to close the door. “I want you to escort our friend Captain Scanlon on his flight tonight. Do not let him out of your sight until you see him dropping through the hatch.”
“Sir!” Carstairs snapped to rigid attention, rendering a crisp parade-ground salute.
“When he does,” Bromley added with a dark, sinister glint in his eye, “a parachute will be optional attire. Is that perfectly clear, Sergeant Major?”
The satisfied smile on Carstairs’s face said it all.
PART THREE
LEIPZIG, GERMANY
APRIL 1945
CHAPTER TEN
It was another night drop into Germany.
The closer he got to Leipzig, the faster Ed Scanlon’s stomach churned and the more the tips of the fingers on his left hand began to itch. He jammed them deep into the pocket of his flight suit and rubbed them hard on the rough fabric. Still, the itching only grew more intense. It was hard to blame the fingers, though. They knew he was taking them back into Otto Dietrich’s back yard, and they knew how truly insane that was. Among the men he met in training, how many of them had been dropped in and never come back out? How many would do it once, and then risk it a second time? Only a fool who thought he could silence the bad memories, turn back the clock, and make everything right again, even if it killed him.
The heroic excitement of dropping behind enemy lines the first time was long, long gone, and he was going in alone. Without Will Kenyon to
help drive it away, Scanlon felt fear wrapping itself around him like a boa constrictor in the city zoo, slowly squeezing the life out of him. This time, his only companion in the back of the “Iron Annie” was his old nemesis Sergeant Major Rupert Carstairs, playing ‘minder’ again, and he was far worse than no company at all. The big Brit sat near the hatch in the floor, glaring at him like Charon at the River Styx, beckoning him to come closer and pay the toll; but Scanlon ignored him. He did not believe a word Bromley told him about the German airplane designers, the Hermann Goering Research Institute, or Volkenrode, but he was determined to find out what happened to Hanni Steiner. The rest of it could go to hell for all he cared.
Scanlon turned in his seat and stared out a small side window of the Ju-52 into the moonless night. He and Carstairs had not spoken a word to each other since the plane took off. That was fine with him, since there was nothing to say. For the frigid flight across, Scanlon had pulled on a thick parka over the dark gray Luftwaffe flight suit he wore. It covered him from neck to ankle. Underneath was a blue Luftwaffe officer’s uniform with all the appropriate ribbons and insignias, and he had a regulation Luftwaffe parachute strapped to his back. Carstairs, on the other hand, wore a bulky black British flight suit and his usual expression of utter contempt. Why not? He was along for the ride, but he would not be jumping. He also had a Webley service revolver strapped to his hip, no doubt in an attempt to intimidate the American, but it did not work. Wrong man, wrong place, and wrong time.
Carstairs realized it too, but that didn’t stop him. “A bit tense tonight… Sir?” Carstairs asked with a satisfied smirk on his face. He was no doubt looking for the first signs of fear in Scanlon’s eyes, but the American was not about to give him the satisfaction. He felt the nose of the plane rise and realized they were now on final approach and the pilot was gaining altitude for the jump. Finally, the light above the cockpit door switched from red to amber. Carstairs rose from his seat, stepped to the belly hatch in the floor, and pulled it up and open.
“Two minutes, Yank,” he screamed triumphantly over the engine roar. “We wouldn’t want to keep Herr Dietrich waiting, would we? He would be so disappointed… and no funny business with my leg this time. You won’t get away with that twice.”
Scanlon pulled off his parka and walked to the other end of the hatch. He stood staring down into the black abyss, his stomach rising into his throat. Carstairs expression suddenly turned sinister as he stepped to the other end, tore the glove from his right hand and pulled out his Webley pistol. He pointed it at Scanlon and shouted with a sadistic grin, “Now unbuckle that parachute, mate!”
Scanlon looked up at him and read the bastard’s eyes as all the pieces fell into place. Carstairs was a rigid disciplinarian and wouldn’t have even thought of it without orders. “Another present from your moron boss, George Bromley?” he asked.
“What? You don’t think it’s my idea?”
“You, Rupert? You don’t go to the crapper without a ‘by-your-leave, Suh!’ ”
“Drop the ’chute, I said,” Carstairs growled, as the bulkhead light switched from amber to bright green. “Now, Scanlon! The Colonel didn’t much care whether you went out dead or alive, so drop that ’chute or I’ll drop you where you stand.”
“You, a Sergeant Major? Shoot an officer? You don’t have it in you.”
“Just watch me, you Yank bastard!” Carstairs cocked the Webley and extended it further. “The green light’s on, now drop the ’chute!” Carstairs screamed at him again.
Assuming the American had jumped, the pilot dropped the Iron Annie’s nose and started his dive back down to treetop level. The airplane suddenly lurched and threw Carstairs forward, off-balance. Like a big oak, he had planted boots along the side edges of the open hatch, well balanced to fend off any last-minute stunt Scanlon might pull, but he was not balanced back to front. Scanlon reached out, grabbed the pistol barrel, and pulled. From the shocked expression on the Brit’s face, that was the last thing he expected to happen. Carstairs instinctively tightened his grip and pulled back. As he did, his weight shifted even further and he found himself toppling forward toward the open hatch, off-balance, wide-eyed, and arms flailing. Almost effortlessly, Scanlon pried the Webley from Carstairs’s grasp as the Brit’s hands grabbed the cowling on each side to stop his fall. It worked, but he now found himself helplessly spread-eagled over the open hatch, buffeted by the blasts of wind rushing inside.
Scanlon knelt at the edge of the hatch, looked down, and counted the seconds as a patchwork-quilt of shadowy grays and blacks rose up towards him. He never had any intention of following Bromley’s plan and intended to jump late to land well-past the original drop zone. Any second now, he thought, any second, but not yet — not quite yet; knowing full well that if he waited too long, he would be splattered across someone’s wheat field.
With their faces only inches apart now, Scanlon looked across at Carstairs for a long moment as if he were studying a bug, without the slightest hint of pity. “Rupert, old man, how careless. You seem to have forgotten your parachute.”
“Uh, Captain Scanlon… look, mate, I…” he said, his eyes pleading.
“Not my problem… mate!” Scanlon answered with a thin, cruel smile. “The long flight home should give you plenty of time to reflect on the errors of your ways.”
Carstairs’s face turned red. “I’ll kill you, Scanlon, I swear I will.” He seethed with anger, his knuckles turning white on the hatch cowling. “When I get back, I’ll…”
“When? If you get back, but I’m not the one hanging over the hatch, am I?” The big bastard had tormented him for weeks, and it was time he learned some humility. “You’re a strong guy, Rupert. I’m sure the pilot will take a look back here sooner or later, so who knows? If you do make it back and bump into the Colonel, tell him he made a big mistake. I have my own plan now. Before you go see him, however, you might want to change those pants. They’ll start smelling before long.”
Getting back at Carstairs was priceless; but they were now miles past the drop zone and the ground was dangerously close to the belly of the Ju-52.
“Goodbye, Rupert. Have a good flight,” he said as he leaned forward and dropped through the open hatch, just missing Carstairs.
“You bastard!” Carstairs screamed after him. “I’ll kill you; I’ll kill you…” but his voice was soon lost in the roar of the engines.
Scanlon immediately yanked the ripcord, praying he had fallen far enough to get past the Junker’s tail. If he waited any longer, though, he would surely pancake into the German countryside. Fortunately, the parachute caught the wind. In a split second, it filled with air and opened, wrenching him sideways and upright like the crack of a whip. He had not tasted dirt yet, but the ground was coming up fast. Fortunately, it was a freshly plowed field, still soft from the heavy spring rains. When he did hit, he splattered in the mud and rolled as they taught him to do. He came to rest on his side, gasping, and trying to get his wind back. Nothing felt missing or broken, so he got to his feet and turned his attention to the stark, foreboding landscape around him. Get moving, he reminded himself. Got to get moving.
Under the bulky flight suit, all he carried was a regulation Luftwaffe uniform, money, a German Luger, and a pair of black leather gloves. Not much to work with, he realized. Dragging the parachute behind him, he set off across the muddy field to a tree line. He stripped off the flight suit, cleaned what dirt he could from his hands and boots, and buried the parachute and the jump suit beneath some rocks at the bottom of a drainage ditch. To the east, he saw a gravel farm road and set off toward it at a brisk pace. There was no time to waste. He needed to get as far away from here and from the original landing zone as he could. Scanlon never intended to meet his contact, that Luftwaffe Major, Von Lindemann. Trust a German and George Bromley on the same day? Never. He knew his only chance to stay alive was to work alone, so the Colonel could go screw himself. He had his own agenda this time, and it began and ended with Hanni St
einer. Once he found out what happened to her, he might try his hand at the airplane designers, for Allen Dulles’s sake if nothing else, but not before he tracked Hanni down.
Looking around, he saw nothing but muddy, abandoned fields and patches of woods running to the far horizon. The Harz Mountains were nowhere to be seen. Funny, he thought. The gently rolling farmland reminded him of Johannes’s farm, and the hay barn where he and Hanni spent those long winter nights together. How long ago was that? Three, maybe four months now? Like everything else, the blustery sky, the sounds and smells of the night, his anxiety and tension, and even the air he breathed reminded him of her.
There was a dirty-orange pall hanging low in the sky up ahead, which he figured had to be Leipzig. Well, at least he would not need a compass. Bromley’s drop zone had been closer to Volkenrode. By waiting, the airplane had carried him a lot closer to Leipzig than he expected, and he was almost in the city’s suburbs. That was good. If he pressed, there was a chance he could reach that dirty-orange glow before dawn. A half-mile further on, he saw a small decrepit farmhouse near the road. It had an old bicycle resting by the side door. Despite a barking dog and an angry shout from an upper window, he was off and pedaling down the road before he could be stopped, thankful that this farmer didn’t have a shotgun stashed near his bed. Scanlon’s first stop would be in a neighborhood near the rail yard and the old bookshop where he and Hanni first met some six months before. Last winter, he trusted Georg Horstmann with his life many times. The old man was a rock and he would know what to do.
As he reached the outskirts of Leipzig, he saw that the long months of Allied bombing had broken the back of the quaint old city. He peddled in from the west through Lindenau and King Albert Park, and then on to Augustus Square. Everywhere he looked, there were piles of brick and burnt wood where proud old buildings once stood. Their distinctive steep-pitched tile roofs and half-timbered facades had been smashed and broken like so many doll’s houses. No need for lights, by the time he reached the city center, the dull-orange haze easily lit his way. Unfortunately, the haze carried in it the stench of burnt wood, burnt rubber, and human flesh. It was more than enough to make him gag. How sad, he thought, as he bicycled past the ravaged parks, the boarded-up museums, and the bombed-out shops where he and Hanni once walked. The Leipzig he remembered was full of life and character. Now, its once-beautiful boulevards and squares were filled with piles of rubble, twisted streetcar tracks, and burned vehicles. The stores were dark, their windows and doors gaping wide open. Destruction was everywhere and there had been no place to hide.
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