North Reich

by Robert Conroy

  “What the hell are they doing?” asked Dubinski.

  “They’re looking to see what we do with their comrades,” Canfield answered. “If it looked like we were going to kill survivors, I think they would have attacked our rescue boats. As it is, I think they’ll leave them alone.”

  Apparently satisfied, the surviving German powered up and raced away towards Canada. Moments later, the life boats returned with a dozen surviving German sailors. They looked stunned at the sudden and deadly turn of events. Well, fuck’em, Canfield thought. They started it.

  The FBI had finally shown a little interest in the missing personnel from the German embassy. Just how much interest was shown by the fact that they sent only one very young agent to the Pentagon to discuss matters with Grant.

  Special Agent Travis Dunn was about five-ten, lean, and looked about twenty-five and, if he was intimidated by the military brass, he didn’t let it show. Like all agents, he wore a dark suit and a white shirt that was as much a uniform as the khaki worn by the army.

  Dunn looked at his notes and put them away. “Major Grant, first of all, I would like to know why you didn’t bring in the FBI in the first place.”

  “Let me assure you that I had no voice in that decision. It was made way above my puny rank. Our concern was simply professional. We wanted to know how many had not been swept up when the German embassy was surrounded. We all knew that a number of them were military personnel regardless of their cover title and that had us somewhat concerned.”

  “So you sent your monster, Sergeant Farnum, to get the information from the State Department. Apparently he absolutely terrified some of the twinkle-toes there.”

  “Don’t let Farnum hear you call him a monster or he’ll rip your arms off and make you eat them.”

  Dunn turned to where Farnum was seated a couple of desks away and pretending to be deaf. “Good point,” Dunn said.

  “At any rate, we found, just as you did, that there were three people missing, and one was likely military. I don’t know about the other two.”

  Dunn actually laughed. “The other two we found in a hotel in the Bronx. They’re a couple of queers who didn’t know the war had started and were deliriously butt-fucking their little hearts out when we crashed their party.”

  “That would’ve been an interesting sight,” Grant said. He was beginning to think that Special Agent Dunn might be okay.

  “It gets better,” Dunn said. “We threatened to tell their chums at the embassy about their tryst if they didn’t cooperate and tell us everything they knew. They asked for asylum and it was declined. We felt that the krauts would retain a couple of our people if these two stayed behind. So, in return for our silence about their sexual preferences, they sang and sang, and what they told us was that your friend Stahl is a very bad man. I guess they didn’t want to go to a concentration camp and wear a pink badge telling the world that they were fags.”

  “But what about Stahl?” Grant asked. “Where is he?”

  Tom had been briefed on the attempted treason by Professor Morris. He’d been shocked to find that Alicia had played a part in it.

  Dunn continued. “We believe that Stahl has set up a number of safe havens in the area and is probably holed up in one of them. We also believe he has a small number of associates available to help him.”

  “I understood that your FBI had rounded up all enemy aliens and sympathizers.”

  Dunn rolled his eyes and looked around, concerned that someone might be listening. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Hoover’s going crazy at the possibility that some have been missed, a fact that he will never admit happened. His man Tolson told everybody that we had it totally under control and that’s the way it’s going to be, at least publicly.”

  “But that doesn’t tell us what Stahl and any of his comrades will actually attempt. Until they come out of their holes, we’re blind, aren’t we?”

  Dunn grimaced. “As blind as bats.”

  Heinrich Stahl looked out the living room window of the small two bedroom bungalow he’d rented several months earlier. It was several miles away from the center of Washington. The landlady, an old woman who lived several blocks away, thought Stahl was a Swedish refugee. Nobody had challenged him yet, but he did have the proper passport and other documentation and, even more fortunately, had spent several summers in Sweden and even spoke it passably.

  He lit a cigarette and poured a couple of inches of bourbon into a reasonably clean glass. From a strictly military sense, he should be alert and watching everything like a hawk. As a practical matter, he was no superman and was exhausted, both physically and emotionally from the unexpected early start to the war. He needed some sleep. If the FBI was surrounding his house right now, there really wasn’t much he could do about it. He would surrender and try to bluff his way out of the predicament by claiming he thought he’d be killed if he turned himself in. The Americans were so naive they’d probably believe it.

  He’d contacted two of the four cells that remained to him after the surprisingly effective FBI sweep. They were the only two with their own telephones and their response to his coded message indicated that they’d been undetected. He would get in touch with the others by meeting with them in a public park, and then in Lansburgh’s Department Store, a very large building on the curiously named Eighth Street. He’d checked out their residences and concluded that they weren’t being watched.

  Stahl took a swallow of the bourbon and wished the Americans made better whiskey. He had enough cash to live on for quite some time, especially if he didn’t have to share it with as many operatives as he’d originally planned. Thank God for small favors, he thought ruefully and took another swallow. Christ, it was vile.

  Of course he paid cash for everything. Just about everyone did. Checking accounts were very rare and only for the elite; ergo, his financial transactions couldn’t be traced. He would take public transportation, again just like most people, and hide in the crowds. He thought he might buy a car, used of course as there were no new ones. It would give him freedom of movement and, as long as gasoline remained available, it was something to consider. He smiled as he thought of him committing an attack on the United States and then having to wait for a damned bus.

  A rented warehouse outside of town contained his weapons. He’d been dealt a setback by the unexpected start to the war, but he would persevere. He chuckled and took another swallow. He always persevered. The United States was rich with targets and the Washington area was the richest by far. The Americans had a decent idea how to protect things but not people, and even then the guards were usually old and lazy. A handful of men with guns and dynamite could wreak havoc on them.

  He smiled and raised his glass high. “For the Reich. For the Fuhrer.”

  The wedding went off without a hitch. Tom’s and Alicia’s relatives got along reasonably well together, although each side was very curious about the other. Missy Downing compared it to two packs of dogs sniffing each other’s asses. Tom didn’t think he was supposed to have heard the comment, but agreed nonetheless. Not everyone’s relatives could make the service which took place in a Methodist church in Alexandria. That neither of them was Methodist didn’t bother the minister or the families. The cleric was an army chaplain, a good guy, and, most important, was available. Civilian travel had a low priority and there was talk about the government finally rationing gas. Colonel and Missy Downing were the best man and matron of honor.

  After the ceremony and a brief reception, the bride and groom got into a car that Master Sergeant Farnum had borrowed from the local police who had confiscated it from a criminal, and drove down to their cottage. It was located roughly where the Potomac met the Chesapeake and was on the Maryland side. The view of the river and the bay was breathtaking.

  Too bad they didn’t notice it. They had one week and they spent almost all of it indoors, either making love or getting ready to make love. Alicia did manage to take a couple of snapshots of them, dressed o
f course, with her Kodak Retina I, a gift from her father. A couple passing by was easily talked into taking their picture together in front of the cottage, after which they raced inside and got undressed.

  On the last night of their honeymoon, she played for him. It was like he’d dreamed and she’d promised; only this time they both were naked.

  Thus it was with immense sadness that they returned to their uniforms and duty the next week. Alicia knew that Tom would be treated to cheers and jeers while she would have to endure the winks and knowing smiles from other women. She would smile bravely and endure it. Like she had a choice, she thought. Missy told her to tell the girls that she had totally worn the poor boy out. Alicia assured her that would not happen.

  She was at her desk at Camp Washington, going over some redundant reports, when she heard the piercing scream. She jumped up and ran down the hallway, nearly knocking over a Western Union delivery boy whose shocked expression told her everything. Oh God, she thought.

  Mrs. Kosnik, everybody called her Mrs. K, was seated at her desk but slumped over in her swivel chair. She’d fainted and two other women were trying to revive her and hold her up. Mrs. K was a retired math teacher with two sons in the navy. Without being told, Alicia knew that now she had only one.

  The telegram was on Mrs. K’s desk. It was short and terse. The navy deeply regretted that her son, Stanley, had been killed in action. There was no word as to when or where. She vaguely recalled that Stanley had been on a destroyer. Alicia wondered if the destroyer had been sunk, in which case the casualties might have been heavy, or if he had just been one of a smaller number because of Jap kamikaze attack. Did it matter? There was no mention of burial, so that meant he’d likely been lost at sea or buried at sea. Poor Mrs. K wouldn’t even have a grave to visit.

  Mrs. K had revived a little and was looking around wildly. She caught sight of the dreaded telegram and moaned like her heart was breaking, which it surely was. Her two friends continued to hold her upright. Alicia tried not to sob, but it was helpless. Was this going to happen to her? For how much longer could Major Tom Grant avoid going into combat? How would she handle getting such an awful telegram?

  Alicia’s stomach churned. She turned and ran into the women’s room and vomited into a toilet.

  Captain Franz Koenig had been ordered to report to Guderian’s underground and hidden headquarters and wait for the general to return. As everybody else seemed to have something to do, Koenig went to the map room and studied a map of Canada, looking for updates and changes, and finding very few. Still, it was fascinating to see the forces arrayed against each other and wonder just how much of the information was accurate and how much of it was speculation when it came to the enemy’s forces.

  The map of the Soviet Union on another wall was particularly vague. A massive German army had crossed the Volga near Stalingrad and was advancing towards the Urals. Curiously and despite the fact that the Reds were being pushed into a corner, there was little indication of any major Russian forces threatening the German Army. He found that difficult to believe. Were the Reds planning an ambush? They’d tried that before and had almost pulled it off at Stalingrad.

  Koenig had read reports saying that the only enemy von Paulus’s army was confronting was mud. Russia in the spring was an ocean of mud. Better them than me, he chuckled. Koenig had heard Guderian and, before he’d been hurt, von Arnim, talking about the Russian campaign. Both had idly wondered if Paulus was up to the task of wiping out what remained of the Red Army. Von Paulus had been a good staff officer, but had not held a field command until Stalingrad where he’d almost lost the battle. Like most Germans, Koenig assumed that the Fuhrer knew what he was doing. He shuddered. At least he hoped the Fuhrer knew what he was doing.

  “Like what you see, captain?”

  Koenig snapped to attention. He was gratified to see that Guderian looked amused. “Sir, would I be impertinent if I said I don’t understand much of the rationale behind the distribution of our forces?”

  “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” Guderian said, and idly waving for the captain to relax. “If you don’t understand what we’re up to, then the Americans might not either.”

  The German forces in Ontario had been divided into two unequal halves. The smaller one, West Front, faced Patton’s army on the Windsor to Sarnia line. Despite the fact that a very large American army had crossed and confronted the German army, there had been little movement by either side. Intelligence intercepts said that the Yanks, stunned by their defeat east of Windsor, were waiting to get newer Sherman tanks to replace their pathetic M3’s. This could not be done overnight and it wasn’t just a case of swapping one tank for another. Crews and mechanics had to be changed and trained. What actually seemed to be happening was that American armored units with Shermans were replacing units with the M3s and all of that took time.

  The larger portion of the German army was arrayed just east and south of Toronto, and along the line of the Niagara River. Many units were well back of the river, and that puzzled Koenig.

  Guderian caught Koenig’s puzzled expression. “We have too much land and border to defend. Remember the saying that he who defends everything defends nothing? Well, that is the situation here, although we are in reasonably good shape. For the time being, the Americans cannot or will not either cross the Niagara River or launch amphibious operations against our flanks. Have you figured out why?”

  “I would surmise that they are concerned about our submarines.”

  “In part, yes. We have six U-boats in Lake Ontario and three in Lake Erie. The Yanks have no idea that the number is so small, and are looking hard for them. They are concerned about the possibility — no, the likelihood — of an LST jammed with soldiers being hit and sunk with a thousand or more dead. They are appalled at the thought of hundreds of bodies washing up on American shores. No, they will not cross either lake until it is safe.”

  Guderian jabbed at Buffalo on the map. “Nor will they cross the river. For one thing, we have fortified it, especially the part east of the falls where we might be vulnerable. The part west of the falls is treacherous because of the possibility that men and boats could be swept downstream and over them.”

  “A most pleasant thought, sir,” said Koenig and immediately wondered if he was being presumptuous. Too late now, he realized.

  Guderian chose to ignore the comment. “An even more important deterrent is the presence of large cities in the area. We would probably wind up fighting in Niagara Falls, Ontario, along with other Canadian cities like Hamilton, St. Catharines and any number of smaller places like Niagara-on-the Lake. Street by street fighting would occur and, again, the attackers would suffer immense casualties. Also those places would be destroyed in a battle and, after all, Canada is an ally of the U.S., and one does not go around destroying allied cities if it can be helped.”

  Koenig smiled. “And we would return the favor by bombing and shelling Buffalo and the New York version of Niagara Falls, among other American cities. This would horrify the American people who believe, foolishly, that they are still safe from war. I would presume that the only place left to cross would be around the Youngstown area where the river enters Lake Erie.”

  “Yes, captain, you may presume that and you may also presume that we are fortifying that area as well. You doubtless further noticed that most of our best units are being held well away from either border, and that is so that we can react quickly once an attack actually does arise. Personally, I feel that they will ultimately attempt a series of amphibious landings both east and west of Buffalo while Patton puts pressure on us from the west. Now, captain, what are our weaknesses?”

  Koenig was pleased to be asked. “Along with the immense size of Ontario, it is the fact that every tank of ours destroyed, every bullet fired, and every man killed or wounded cannot be replaced. They can simply wear us down.”

  “Correct. We have more than a quarter of a million men, thirteen hundred tanks, and a thousand planes, and
not a one of them can be replaced. Halifax is being blockaded and only food shipments are being allowed out. In a while, we shall be praying for the relief convoys to arrive from Germany, and their arrival is problematic at best. For all intents and purposes, we are under siege.”

  Siege? Koenig had read about sieges. Terrible, horrible things, they were. People wound up eating rats to avoid starvation, perhaps even cannibalism occurred. There had been rumors of that during the siege of Leningrad.

  “Thank you for sharing your thoughts, general.”

  “Sometimes, Koenig, it is good to simply put things into perspective. You’re a good listener and you don’t argue with me like my fellow generals do. However, what if all that we’ve done is wrong?”

  “Sir?”

  “What if the Americans establish supremacy in the air, which is extremely likely. In that case, we might not be able to move our forces close enough to the battle line to engage them. Indeed, it is possible that reinforcements will be decimated by their planes before they even get close to the battle. And what if the Yanks are able to send major warships, or even a number of minor ones, into the lakes? Then they would be able to destroy our submarines and then launch any number of amphibious assaults. They could flank the cities and we would have to abandon them.”

  Guderian laughed and ceased his lecture. He gave Koenig an assignment. He was to talk to Neumann about the treatment of American prisoners of war since the Red Cross wanted to inspect the conditions in the prison camp.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the White House map room, FDR was feeling the frustrations that were angering the entire nation. The American people felt that Germany had to be punished for her insolent and brutal attack on the U.S. mainland, so why wasn’t it happening?

  He turned his wheelchair so he could confront Admiral King and General Marshall. “Gentlemen, I am catching grief and hell from my friends as well as my enemies in congress. I am being crucified in newspapers, magazines and on the radio for what they feel is our dilatory response to Hitler’s aggression. Everyone wants to know the same thing — when are we going to drive the Nazis out of Canada?”