by Scott Palter
Bats had been early, and was waiting when Siegel and Schmidt had arrived at the commandant’s office. Siegel was pleased to discover that Bats’s German was actually somewhat intelligible, if he spoke slowly and stuck to a simplified vocabulary. It turned out that American had dialects. Schmidt, who introduced himself to Bats as John Smith, spoke standard American. Bats spoke a regional dialect called Brooklynese.
Berlin had been alerted that Bats was on a high-priority mission for Oberst Strauss, and would need someone to ‘expedite the paperwork’. Siegel had been detailed, but not given any specifics as to precisely what he was supposed to accomplish. Bats was not one to waste time with pleasantries. He got to the point, switching to American when the initial explanation began to get complex. “It’s two things. I ordered a bunch of parts on rush from shops I know here in Naples. Need formal purchase orders for the factory bosses and some idea of how many vehicles we are working with. Oh yes, and you’ll need to pay cash. I got prices based on that.”
“Vehicles?” Siegel was finding that dealing with this unit seemed to involve facts that were never in his briefings.
“You sent us this guy Peiper. Got these French armored cars. Suspension sucks. No radios. A bunch of other little things. It’s a two-day rebuild once I get the parts. Problem is, Peiper hasn’t a clue as to how many more of the AMR-35’s are coming, so I don’t know how deep a parts inventory to buy. Oh, and if you’re buying more of these things, send a factory guy down to us and we’ll go over the specs to have them built right in the first place. Whoever approved this design was a penny-pinching moron. You don’t go cheap on heavy-bodied types like this. Just gets you a pile of immobile hulks sitting at the side of a road or the middle of a field, waiting on the repair truck. The trick isn’t how many you have. It’s how many are functional after a few days of rough use. Truck drivers, armored car drivers, for all I know tank drivers – all of a type. They push what they’re driving past any limits you tell them, then sit having a cigarette, bitching on how long the service truck takes to arrive. So you build to survive mistreatment.”
Siegel heard the translation and paused. This was a supposed street mechanic, but he was talking like a senior factory design engineer, a man with degrees. “We were not aware you had such credentials.”
“No piece of paper from some college, but I’ve taken enough courses. I also have the experience. You work on enough different types and you have a brain, you learn. I know my stuff.”
Siegel knew of no agreed procedure to order material outside channels from Italian manufacturers. He also was sure that the Reichsführer would not accept that answer. He had purchase orders typed by the commandant’s staff, for enough parts to cover Peiper’s current vehicles. Berlin was telegraphed, asking how many more were in transit. He gave the commandant’s aide written orders to up the parts-quantitities, in multiples based on how many more AMR’s were coming. Siegel’s letter of authority with Heydrich’s signature, seemed able to move mountains in the military bureaucracy.
Siegel also had kept in mind that the NL Hauptmann had said, “Two things.” Parts was first, so he asked Bats what was next.
Bats had a list. “Did a bit of recruiting. We need more mechanics. I recruited a few on Malta, but this is turning into a serious business. I knew a lot of guys I’d worked with here in Naples, and they knew people. Mechanics, welders, metal workers. I’ve got sixty-two guys who need travel orders to be flown out with me to Libya. I need a second round of travel orders for their families to the camp. It is in Bari, right, not Taranto like we thought?”
People, Siegel could deal with. He just needed a justification. “Why more people? Why outside of channels?”
“I’ve seen that wilderness you’re sending the war to. No way anyone’s going to walk much of anyplace, so we need trucks; and trucks break. I’ve seen all different types of trucks there already, and we’ll steal more different ones from the British. Which means hand-crafting parts far too often. Hence the metal workers. You need welders for battle damage and field modifications. And however many guys you have, you’ll need more in Iraq. Been going over how that all works, with Isaak and Peter. Pipes will need fitting. Motors will need work. A fleet of vehicles will need maintaining. So I’ve been promising that once we take the oil fields, everyone can start their own shops, hire a bunch of locals as general labor, and all be bosses.”
Siegel panicked. The goal of the oil was supposed to be a state secret. “Why are you telling people this?”
“No one told me not to. Egypt goes to Italy. The oil goes to Germany, and we all work for Germany. NL’s German, right? That’s the gang I’m signing people up for. People I deal with don’t like the Rome government much. Some think Naples should be its own kingdom. Some are refugees. I don’t deal with political types. Just skilled tradesmen looking to get ahead in life. Same as me. This whole oilfield thing sounds like an opportunity for a young guy like me. You need the oil and don’t like living with a bunch of wogs and whatever. Keep your race pure or something like that?”
Siegel chuckled despite himself. This Bats had the core of the race theory even if his approach was backwards. However, he needed a minder. Siegel decided he could do without ‘John Smith’, who could be his eyes and ears with the NL unit. Smith was now to magically at once become an NL Leutnant instead of an HJ Rottenführer. He was fairly sure he had the authority for the promotion, and absolutely certain Berlin wouldn’t care either way. He had the travel orders prepared. He made sure that Obergruppenführer Wolff in Rome was sent copies of everything, in case difficulties arose with the Italian authorities. Siegel frankly doubted the less-than-well-organized Italians would even notice any of this.
1100 hours local; 1000 CET
4 September 1940
Camp Gorlov, Libya
SS Sturmbannführer Wilhelm Mohnke was pissed off. He had been in a foul temper ever since his former patron Brigadeführer Sepp Dietrich had exiled him to North Africa. Why was everyone so upset at a few dozen dead British? The prisoners had been inconvenient. Since when did the Waffen SS make war by the rules of the gentlemen of the General Staff? The National Socialist Revolution was supposed to do away with such reactionary drivel.
Mohnke had been swiftly educated that Himmler’s Waffen SS no longer existed. Heydrich’s learned how to take orders. If this meant that some former SS officers merited summary execution … Heydrich was not someone inclined to be squeamish. The prohibition on dead prisoners was for reasons of state, not Christian morality. Anything in British uniform was to be treated with fire tongs, even Niggers and Wogs, even Kikes. The next unfortunate incident would produce a dead Mohnke. No court of inquiry. Just two pills behind the ear delivered by some minion of Schellenberg’s. That swine had certainly proved talented at landing on his feet. He was Himmler’s loyal henchman, and then under twelve hours later was Heydrich’s number two, making up lists of Himmler loyalists to be sent to the wall.
Mohnke had delegated to his number two getting the men and equipment unloaded in the chaos of the port. What else were second-in-command’s for? He had gotten himself driven out to meet his new commander. It had taken all his rigid discipline not to go into drooling shock at what he found. The flies were everywhere, clouds of the foul creatures. The heat was appalling, and not even yet near its zenith. But the truly disgusting aspect of the situation, were his fellow officers. An obvious Yid, and a foreign one at that. A Slav. A short boy with a Major’s rank tabs, and, somehow, the Iron Cross First Class. A middleaged defective with an artificial foot and a cane. Even the one true Aryan was so overmuscled as to seem a circus freak. This Strauss had shaken his hand with a paw so large as to seem more suitable for a bear. “Welcome Sturmbannführer. How was the voyage?”
Wilhelm kept his composure by an act of pure will, as befit a Reichsdeutschen. “The idiot Italians got me here. I suppose I should be grateful they are capable of that much competence.”
Strauss frowned. “I don’t care if you like Italia
ns, or indeed any of the other types you will find here. But save those comments for home leave among friends. The Reich has decreed we are here. Our unit’s patron, the Reichsführer, decided for reasons of state he has not regarded me as needing to know, that non-Germans will serve among us, that we will serve under Italian command and alongside Italians. The Falcons of Malta Battalion was instrumental in our victory, so the Reichsführer’s wisdom was affirmed. The unit previously won mention in Wehrmachtbericht for exemplary service in Romania and Hungary. Now if you cannot cope with this, just speak out. I’ll relieve you. You can see if General Hausser needs a spare battalion commander. Or you can scurry back to garrison duty in Berlin. I could care less. The extra battalion you bring will prove useful. I have no need for you. Major Gorlov here has command experience at both battalion and brigade. Major Schwabe also has battalion command experience. Your promotion to that level is quite recent. Your experience is as a company officer.” Strauss had been speaking in a conversational tone. He now switched to a drill sergeant’s scream. “ARE WE CLEAR?”
Mohnke came to rigid attention with his eyes fixed a few centimeters over the head of his screaming giant troll of a commander, while he bellowed back variants of no sir, yes sir, till the screaming session slowly tapered off. All the while he cursed his luck and wondered how he would survive this African ‘vacation’.
1200 hours CET
4 September 1940
Wanda’s Happy Time Bar and Brothel, German cantonment, Bari, Italy
The cantonment area was vast and poorly marked. Even with a supposed map, the three SS ‘minders’ had to repeatedly ask for directions. The base was a chaotic hive of men. Large numbers jogged around doing tasks, but most just lolled in whatever shade their tents gave from the stifling midday heat.
Clara Fischer was amazed that her journey had led her here. Since her arrest (or ‘being taken into protective custody’ as her SS jailers preferred to call it), she had been nearly a week managing a brood of youngsters and her emotionally-shattered brother through a succession of railway cars, waiting areas, and overnight holding cells as they were shipped south through the overworked new Euro rail cartel. Why? Guards don’t tell prisoners why. Just another disaster in her interactions with the Nazi beasts. Why had they been added to a second traveling group straight out of Ravensbrück? Whores? Some of these young women looked awfully young, but Clara was aware of street realities. She had too much self-respect to be a whore, but felt only pity and class solidarity for those who had made the other choice … or more often, in her experience, been driven to it by parents and boyfriends.
Her entire adult life had been one long tragic farce. In 1933 she had been a student teacher, a Praktikantenlehrer, about to embark on doing her small part to make a better world by teaching working-class children their letters and numbers. The Party had warned that this Hitler was a demon, but Clara had been Communist in a utopian, religious sense. Her parents were Communist. Her whole family and neighborhood were. Communism was a heaven on Earth, a paradise for the working classes. No more bosses, no more rich, bread and shelter for all. Everyone labored for the common good, and no one starved in the gutter. The Party youth league ideals had led her to teacher training. She was the first in her extended family to have gotten any sort of higher education, any professional certificate.
Hitler became Chancellor in January of ‘33. There are farcical elections and an Enabling Act. She’s fired and black listed. She was Aryan enough, but no Communist would be allowed to pollute young German minds. So a trained teacher is reduced to being a cleaning lady at one of Solingen’s many industrial plants. Clara had never been one of the more obvious militants from the Red Front street battles. Thus she was spared the attentions of the new Gestapo. Her neighborhood police made sure that she knew she was watched, was under suspicion. Suspicion of what? Her only sins against the new regime were those of solidarity. Comrades would vanish. Into the underground, into exile, into the regime’s camps. Neighborhood activists such as herself would take in abandoned children. That’s what class solidarity meant to Clara. She would skip a meal when necessary to keep a child fed. She took a second job. The older children took what work they were able to, to supplement her meager pay; and other party members would lend a hand when they could.
Seven years had put working calluses on her hands and knees, had trained her to keep her eyes lowered and her mouth firmly shut. Her poor brother had tried to do the same, but his boyhood friendships kept coming back to bite him. Too many of those friends were illegals on the run, or old-line militants of the Rotfront. When the police couldn’t find them, poor Carl would be summoned for another beating to ‘loosen his tongue’. How do you beat the truth out of a man who knows nothing? He’d been the last three years in Dachau, over refusing to give up hiding places he didn’t know concerning people he often hadn’t seen since 1934. Her laughing brother had been reduced to the frightened mouse of a man now beside her. At least he helped with the children.
Clara had spent the days of travel trying to decide which supposed sin had exiled her. She was totally unprepared for the answer. Wanda! Her old neighbor and sometime employer. Clara and the older ones had sometimes made extra money tending Wanda’s still or doing deliveries of her bottled lightning. What was Wanda doing here, clearly in charge?
Wanda’s man Adolph came out and signed for the prisoners. Clara was amazed to see SS women salute Adolph. Then she noticed the rank tabs on his collar. Adolph an officer?
Wanda detailed the Ravensbrück girls to some middle-aged lady who answered to the name of Gretchen. Wanda led Clara, Carl and the flock of kids through the tap room to a kitchen area. She ordered someone to feed the youngsters. Their ears perked up at a mention of food, more so when the food proved to be pastries with real sugar. Wanda led Clara and Carl to a rough but sturdy table. She introduced a well-dressed young man, Paul Schwabe, sat the two Fischers down to some real coffee with more of the baked goods. “Glad to see you survived the trip, dear. Did they tell you that you weren’t in trouble, as they had been ordered to do?”
Clara wanted to explode. Wanted to but didn’t. Wanda the Polack bootlegger seemed to be a power now. Clara had no fight left in her. Her goal was survival. “They may have said something, but why would I believe Nazi police?” Clara knew Adolph was a Nazi, but he’d never been rude or violent about their political differences. Besides, Clara had grown good at reading situations these past years. Adolph might be an officer, but Wanda was clearly dominant. It had been that way all the years she’d known the two.
Wanda spent a few minutes making sympathetic noises, and then got to the point. “I’ve got a new job for you. You and your orphanage get to spend a Hauptmann’s pay. All you have to do is teach him proper German.”
“All? I’ve never put myself on the street before. Besides, I’m facing up to thirty. Why not someone younger, prettier, more his class?”
“His class?” Wanda and this Paul found that amusing. “He’s a working man Gunter recruited. Skilled mechanic. This Mr. Joey Bats is an Italian from New York City, only knows pidgin street German apparently. Orders came from Berlin, from the Reichsführer-SS’s office, to find him a language tutor. You don’t have to make him polite company. He merely has to be able to make reports to senior officers in intelligible German. Can you teach basic grammar and vocabulary to a bright man in his twenties? As for the rest … you are better off fucking him, making his coffee and being his woman, but that’s your choice. I’m promising room and board as a teacher. He can provide far more to a mistress.”
Clara thought fast. On an officer’s pay, there were things she could get for the children, ways to better educate them. She wasn’t a prude. There had been lovers before. But she’d never been a mercenary bitch like some girls she’d known. Even some Party comrades had used sex to snag the guy with a bigger wallet, instead of the nicest guy or the best-looking. “Can I meet him first?”
“That happens either way. Tomorrow you are shipp
ing out for North Africa. You’ll meet him there.” Wanda saw the terrified look on Clara’s face. “Gunter’s the boss man there. A full Oberst now. If you say no, his fists will back it up. Just give it a real try. Your life back home was killing you. You were working yourself to an early grave. This will be better. Just be a little flexible.”
Clara was left brooding, sipping her coffee while Paul motioned her brother to follow him. Carl went, terrified about what would come next. He was afraid of more beatings like at Dachau. This was a new camp and he didn’t know the rules. Paul had to enlighten him – this was a military unit, but it ran like a private company. Carl was now a new worker, an apprentice to this Paul. They did metal and building work of various kinds. Paul got him a beer and quizzed Carl on his skills. Told him the key was to do what you were told, but never bluff on what you knew. If Carl didn’t know, ask a supervisor. That’s how you learn. There were punishments for fucking up, but these involved more work at things like burning latrine barrels, rather than insane exercise routines with beatings when you collapsed. Carl started to cry. He was to be a working man again. He wasn’t a prisoner anymore. All he had to do was work. Carl had worked all his life. A boss that fed you beer was better than any he had ever had before. He vowed to find a way to recover some of his manhood, to be able in some way to protect his poor sister. He then laughed to himself. Nothing short of a pagan god could protect someone from Gunter. Even the old pre-Dachau Carl would have known better.