Inconsequential Nazi

by Ward Wagher

  “Isoroku Yamamoto, I understand you were retired,” the emperor said softly.

  The Admiral bowed deeply again. “Being addressed by the emperor is beyond honor. I abase myself in your presence, Majesty.”

  “Are you a horse that is content to look for grazing and water and allow the world to go by, Admiral?”

  “No, Majesty. I wish to serve the emperor and the empire.”

  “Why were you pastured, then?” the emperor asked.

  “I protested the prime minister’s policies and decisions beyond what he could tolerate. I was simply turned out to pasture, Majesty.”

  Hirohito nodded slowly. “I understand. Perhaps I should ask you a question, Admiral. Were you aware that you protested my policies and decisions?”

  Yamamoto bowed deeply again. “I crave the pardon of the emperor, for I was not aware you controlled the government with your wise, all-seeing eye.”

  “Even though you were correct?”

  Yamamoto was so shocked at that statement that he looked up at the emperor. Realizing his error, he quickly looked down again. One did not stare at the emperor. Although he really did not believe the emperor was god, he profoundly respected the royal house.

  “I do not understand, Majesty.”

  “You were courageous in protesting a course that allowed us to ignore the potential of our enemies. I was angry with you for doing so and asked the prime minister to allow you to take your rest.”

  “I understand, Majesty. I was profoundly disrespectful.”

  “No, Admiral. You said things that needed to be said. After having pondered these things, I concluded that you should not be ignored.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “I have examined reports of our economy and that of America. You have handed us amazing victories, and yet we have awakened a sleeping giant. I believe those were your words.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “And what do you think we should do about this situation, Admiral?” the emperor asked, his voice still soft.

  “I have shamed the emperor and the empire. I request permission to withdraw and perform seppuku.”

  The emperor studied the admiral for a full minute. The man was clearly growing uncomfortable.

  “I have another form of punishment in mind,” Hirohito announced. “I believe this will be far more appropriate to your actions.”

  “Majesty,” Yamamoto said quickly, “I stand ready for whatever judgment you render.”

  “Very good, Admiral. In that case, my judgment is that you will be my next prime minister.”

  There was a quick intake of breath and an involuntary “What?”

  “Majesty, I did not hear you correctly.”

  Hirohito chuckled. “Oh, I believe you heard me quite correctly. It appears that you were correct in your assessments and the former prime minister was not. I have studied your writings and statements. I am concerned that our reach may have exceeded our grasp. The successes of this war were the result of your strategies and plans. I am giving you a difficult task. You are to pursue this war to a successful conclusion. You shall have a free hand in doing so. I ask that you regularly inform me of your actions.”

  Yamamoto had turned white and was shaking. Hirohito stood up and walked over to the admiral. He grasped his arm. The other man looked up in shock. This was a level of familiarity unknown from the emperor.

  “Come, we need to announce my appointment to our people.”

  “Of course, Majesty.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  January 8, 1943; 1 PM

  Cafe Fledermaus

  Berlin, Germany

  “This is an interesting place, Karl,” Misty Simpson said as she looked around the small restaurant.

  “I just found out about it last week,” Karl Rainer replied. “This is the first time I have visited. I selected it on the strength of a recommendation.

  “The food has been very good,” she commented.

  He nodded to acknowledge her statement. “I agree. Very good, but maybe not exceptional.”

  “I would say that it is very good, considering the prices on the menu.”

  “It is reasonable,” he conceded. “And, the service has been good.”

  He looked down as she slid an envelope across the table. He looked at it curiously as he picked it up.

  “This is some information my friends back in Washington thought that Herr Schloss might be interested in seeing.”

  “Very well. Please send them my thanks.”

  He placed the envelope in the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  “Did you see the contents of the message?” he asked.

  “I decoded it,” she said simply. “It is some background information about our successful raid on Tokyo.”

  His eyebrows raised now. “The American papers were all competing for the most exciting account of the raid.”

  “They were, and there is more. There are some things the President thought the Reich Chancellor needed to know. For example, we are pretty sure that Tojo was killed in the bombing.”

  Rainer was now surprised. “We had not heard that. We had a good source in Japan, but apparently, he suffered something unfortunate.”

  “It is very hard for us to confirm things, as well,” she replied. “Some information that came to our attention, along with signals intelligence has given us a high degree of confidence in the matter.”

  “And the question is whether this should be considered good news or bad news,” Rainer commented. “I suppose it depends on who the Emperor appoints to replace Tojo.”

  “And, we have no further information in that regard,” Misty said.

  “That you can share,” Rainer said with a grin as he completed the sentence.

  “No, Karl, I don’t think we know. If Hirohito had appointed a replacement, and we knew about it, I think it would have been in that note.”

  “Well,” he said graciously, “thank you again for this information. And for your general store of information, we believe Stalin is strongly considering an attack upon the Reich.”

  “Why in the world would he do something like that?” she asked, surprised.

  “It seems the Russian economy is in shambles, and he views war as a possible way to mobilize the people to support the Motherland, including Stalin.”

  “If that’s true, it is really cynical.”

  “True,” he agreed. “And we are very much afraid it is true.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” she asked. “And is Russia truly a threat?”

  “Herr Schloss takes it seriously. And he has an uncanny knack for knowing what is happening.”

  “What are you doing about it, then?” she asked.

  “Obviously we are preparing to fight a war. Hence the need for the Boeing bombers. The special weapons you saw at Peenemünde are a part of the strategy as well.”

  “I had hoped the fighting was halted in Europe,” she said.

  He took a sip of his water and set the glass down. “We fervently hope that is the case. The High Command had agreed with Hitler that if we kicked the door in against the Russians, they would collapse. Herr Schloss has a rather different opinion. He told me that Stalin would succeed in firing up the Russian people, and they would move heaven and earth to stop a threat to the Motherland.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Yes, it does. Doesn’t it?”

  “When?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t have a lot of information as yet. Practically speaking, the spring would be a good time. Once the land dries from the winter weather.”

  “It sounds like you are convinced it is going to happen.”

  “I fear it is going to happen. Obviously, I hope it will not.”

  “Oh, Karl, why do people do things like this?”

  “I think it is a madness that afflicts humanity.” He smiled sadly. “It is like the lemmings that run themselves off the cliff. Nobody knows why they do it.”

  “Thank you for t
he information, regardless,” she said. “I’m sure Washington will be very interested in it.”

  “And not in a good way,” Rainer commented.

  “We don’t need another war,” she said. “A general European war would be tragic.”

  “What would be the response of the Americans if this happened?” he asked.

  “I expect we would stay neutral,” she answered. “We do not have any means of fighting a war with the USSR. And the public is so relieved that Germany and the British have settled things, I don’t believe they would stand for us getting involved over here. There are already some grumblings in the press about us selling you those bombers.”

  “Is there some danger that the deal will not go through?” he asked quickly.

  “I don’t think there’s a problem,” she replied. “But understand that you are dealing with the United States of America. We tend to be a bit unpredictable.”

  “That does not reassure me.” He suddenly grinned and then shook his finger at her. “You! It’s not nice to frighten the Reichsprotektor.”

  “Could the Soviets fight their way to Berlin?” she asked as she toyed with her meal.

  “Personally, I think not. However, Herr Schloss views that as a risk. Tactically the terrain favors an attack across the Northern European plains. And to be honest, Russia is a larger country with more people than Germany. If they managed to get their armaments industry in gear, we could have our hands full.”

  She reached out and placed her hand on his. “Karl, what does Germany need from the Americans?”

  “I think the bombers are a God-send. There are some strategic minerals that we cannot forego. And oil, of course.”

  “I will mention this in my cable to Secretary Hull.” She picked up her fork again. “I have no claim to great influence, but President Truman has certainly been cordial to Herr Schloss.”

  “Such requests for trade should properly come from Ribbentrop,” Rainer said. “However, I believe he has been exploring such ideas with Ambassador Smoke.”

  “Then I will certainly mention this in my report. Gordie usually does a good job, but sometimes he is slow off the mark.”

  “I hope I have not caused problems for you at the Embassy,” Rainer said quickly.

  “You do not cause problems, Karl.” Her smile was like spreading warmth through the winter chill. “In many ways, Gordon Smoke is an idiot. Fortunately for all of us, he does consistently land on his feet.”

  “Speaking privately, of course,” Rainer returned the smile, “Herr Smoke is a noxious little ferret.”

  Misty quickly brought her napkin up to her mouth as she shook in laughter. She was able to still the convulsions long enough to swallow her bite of pork loin so she could laugh with him. He obviously enjoyed her discomfort.

  “You, Sir, are cruel.”

  “Merely observant.”

  They laughed more, then, and returned to their meal.

  § § §

  January 8, 1943; 8 PM

  Red Square

  Moscow, USSR

  There was not enough to eat. There was not enough heating oil to keep warm. The stores were bereft of winter clothing. No one seemed to pay attention to the people. At various times in the history of Mother Russia, its citizens would congregate in what was now called Red Square and seek redress from the government.

  This was not a mob. Young couples held hands and stood close to conserve what little warmth they could muster. Factory workers and farmers milled about discussing the situation. Babushkas bundled up against the cold stood silently, watching and waiting. Comrade Stalin must needs learn about the plight of the people. He would surely stand by them and ease their suffering.

  The Politburo met in the evening, and its members were watching the crowd outside, and watching for a reaction from Stalin.

  “We must teach the people who the masters are,” Beria stated. “This is impermissible.”

  “We have not taken care of them,” Khrushchev said. “They are out there because they have no food. They have no heating fuel.”

  “The situation is dangerous, though,” Malenkov said. “The crowd is quiet and orderly at the moment. It could easily turn into a mob.”

  Stalin sat at the head of the table, smoking his pipe. He had said nothing, so far. The other people in the room were watching him but trying very hard not to be obvious about it. He puffed clouds of vile smelling smoke from the Russian tobacco. The situation was serious, and he was convinced he would have to take action. He raised a finger towards Beria.

  “Yes, Comrade Stalin?”

  “What will this crowd do?”

  “If we ignore the crowd,” Beria replied, “it will grow restive.”

  “Does it represent the way things are across the nation?”

  “I believe that it does.”

  “We cannot allow the mob outside to remain. We must set a lesson for the people. See to it.”

  “I understand, Comrade,” Beria said. He walked quickly from the room.

  The other members of the Politburo stared at each other, but no one spoke. It was very quiet as Stalin reloaded his pipe. The sound of the striking match was loud in the room. The leader of the USSR puffed on his pipe as he considered.

  “We must safeguard the socialist revolution,” he said. “If we fail, then all of this is for nothing.”

  Outside came the sound of machine gun fire. And, people screaming. The gunfire went on and on, and then eventually dwindled to sporadic shots. Stalin continued puffing his pipe. A winter stillness returned to scarlet-stained snow of Red Square.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  January 8, 1943; 8 PM

  Eastern Poland, near Bialystok

  Sergeant Hans Friedmann decided his current position was relatively secure. The dense forests around Bialystok were sometimes difficult to traverse, but this also provided an additional element of safety. The Russians simply did not like to patrol very far off the forest paths. And this position was slightly elevated. He could see down into the Russian military encampment. He looked over at Corporal Uwe Baumann.

  “I think this should do it, Uwe,” he said in a quiet voice. “Let’s get some camouflage set.”

  “At once, Sergeant.”

  The corporal pulled a small hatchet from his pack and began nipping some smaller branches from the thick clump of pines. He began stacking it around their position. Because of the winter weather, the foliage would not change color, which meant it would not quickly give away their presence.

  Friedmann worked his way into a snow drift. This would further hide their position. The snow also provided some additional insulation. The German soldiers wore Finnish winter gear. With its gray-white color, it not only provided additional camouflage but kept them warm. It was better than anything the Germans had. After he had piled brush around the position, Baumann worked himself into the snow drift.

  “What are we looking at Sergeant?” he asked.

  Friedmann focused his Karl Zeiss binoculars on the Russian base. “It looks to me like we have a Russian panzer army, Corporal. See if you can get a count of the tanks.”

  “Right.” The corporal scanned the area with his binoculars. “That is a mothering lot of tanks.”

  “And the question is what they are doing here.”

  “Sarge, I don’t recognize that model of tank.”

  The sergeant nodded as he continued to study the base. “I wonder…”

  Baumann laid twigs in front of him to keep track of his count. At this distance, it was difficult to follow the rows and counts. After several minutes he spoke again.

  “Wonder what, Sarge?”

  Friedmann was having his own challenge in getting a good count. “I wonder if those are T-34’s.”

  “Is that a new type?”

  “We have picked up some information about a new type. I wonder if this might be what we are looking at.”

  “I make it 580,” Baumann said. “I’ve never seen that many tanks before.”

>   “I think we need to call this one in,” Friedmann said. “Let’s abort, and make ourselves scarce.”

  “Right, Sarge. I would just as soon not get picked up by the Ivans.”

  “And you will kindly keep those comments to yourself, Corporal. It’s time for us to be mud-gluttons again.”

  Baumann grinned as he collected his kit. It had been a long walk to this position, and they would have to retrace their steps. But he had expended a lot of shoe leather during his short career in the Abwehr. He concluded a long hike had never killed anybody. It was the Russians that posed the danger. While technically still a peace, their erstwhile partners in Poland had become increasingly confrontational over the previous months. The sergeant had become nervous of late, and if Hans Friedmann was nervous about the Russians, it behooved Uwe Baumann to pay attention.

  The two men moved a short distance during that morning and burrowed into the snow again. They each gained several hours of sleep while the other watched. The deepening afternoon twilight presaged a winter storm, and the two men resumed walking in the fresh snowfall.

  “Don’t get lost, Sarge,” Baumann commented as they stopped for a breather.

  “Trust the master at work,” Friedmann replied. “The snow smudges the vision and dampens the sounds. It’s an easy tradeoff against moving more slowly. Plus, it covers up our tracks.”

  Friedmann had grown up in the mountains of Bavaria. The Polish plains offered no particular challenge to him. He was, however, more cautious than usual because of the importance of intelligence he was bringing back. He had never cared much for the Russians, and it looked to him like the swine-buggers were getting ready to bend the Reich over a barrel. While not liking the Ivans, he did respect them. They were not the incompetent clods as was widely perceived. And it was a matter of when, not if, they would roll over the Polish frontier like an ocean wave. And when that happened, the Wehrmacht would have its hands full.