American Under Attack

by Jeff Kildow

  “No. Rheumatic fever. Bad eyes. Bad heart,” he said in his staccato fashion, tapping his chest.

  “Been 4F since ’41. Can’t do a thing about it. Want to do more than teach. Applied to Martin Aircraft, over in Baltimore. Maybe I can build ‘em if not fly ‘em.”

  Chapter 26

  16 May 1943

  Bachelor Officer Quarters

  Millville Army Air Field, Millville, New Jersey

  0001 Hours

  Contemplation

  Joel lay in his bed, staring without seeing at the ceiling in the darkness. Around him, the temporary wooden building creaked and popped as it cooled. His tiny room still smelled like sawdust and fresh paint. He could hear some of the floor’s more lusty snorers through the thin plywood walls. Privacy was a relative thing in this barracks even if it was a BOQ [Bachelor Officers Quarters].

  Over and over in his mind, he considered what Charles had said, and how inadequate his reply was. Since the Point, he probably hadn’t been in any church more than a dozen times. He’d been raised better than that. Christ had been alive for him once. What had happened?

  When he answered himself honestly, he had to admit that he had left Christ, not the other way around. He’d just gotten too busy doing – things. He was building an exciting career in the Army, doing what he truly loved. He had been to exotic places around the world. He worked with men he respected and who respected him. He got to fly the most advanced airplanes in the world, and flying was his life. Now, he’d even found a woman he could fall in love with. Yet, here in the quiet darkness, he knew that all of that wasn’t enough.

  He remembered his dad’s rough hand on his shoulder. He’d been about twelve, and had been caught committing some minor infraction – he couldn’t remember what now.

  “You apologize, now,” his dad had said, “and when you’re finished, you go get on your knees and pray for forgiveness. That’s an advantage we Christians have, son; we can always go to the Father and ask forgiveness. You must always keep your accounts with the Lord short ones.”

  His accounts were far from short now. How long had it been since he’d followed his dad’s advice? Five years? Seven? Ten? He couldn’t remember.

  He knew what he should do, but just couldn’t bring himself to confess. He’d piled up too much in all those years. Even that fact shamed him. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, the issue unresolved.

  Chapter 27

  16 May 1943

  Village of Tomsk, Occupied Russia

  1132 Hours

  Forest Village

  Adolf Hitler was canny and more than a little paranoid, and with good reason. He had already survived several assassination attempts by the skin of his teeth and he fully intended to make it as difficult as possible for anyone making future attempts. As a result, he very seldom traveled anywhere exactly as initially planned, and rarely arrived at the announced time. Although careful preparations had been made for him to fly to Russia in his specially equipped Focke Wulf FW-200 four engine airliner, at the last minute, he took his armored train, improbably named Amerika. He was driven the last mile in an armored truck and arrived with little initial fanfare.

  Tomsk, Western Russia

  The small village was home to the impressive country dacha of a wealthy Russian Commissar, one of Stalin’s cronies. German troops had captured the small village easily and the unoccupied building was undamaged. Expertly made of heavy timbers, the exterior was made to look like a larger, grander version of a humble peasant’s log house. Inside, it was the height of luxury, as might befit a Commissar, or the Führer. Red and black flags with Swastikas and Hitler’s personal banner had been quickly hung in the entry way. In the big dining room they would use for the conference, a huge, heavy oak banquet table was pressed into service. The room’s lighting was augmented by fixtures borrowed from a field marshal’s mobile command center. A trusted cook prepared Hitler’s vegetarian lunch.

  Outside, fifty yards away, a mobile telephone switching center was set up. Miles of copper wire were strung to connect to a bank of phones for the important visitors. The Adolf Hitler Liebstandarte [life guard], the hand-picked, fanatical and superbly trained protective troops for the dictator had set up a strong defensive perimeter all around the village.

  With the pomp and genuflecting that always accompanied him, Adolf Hitler swept into the dacha. Looking at the impressive interior, he nodded to the general acting as host.

  “These decadent Bolsheviks seem to know how to live well! Pity they won’t be enjoying this any longer!” Everyone in the entourage chuckled on cue. “Now, then. Let us promptly get down to business,” he directed.

  Hitler sat himself at the left front of the heavy table, his ever present bottle of mineral water at hand. In front was a movie screen and a large paper tablet on an easel. A second easel held covered aerial photographs. Around him were senior generals and field marshals. As each man gave his presentation, he moved to the rear, and those waiting moved to the next seat closer.

  Von Stauffenberg had moved forward, and was two seats from the Führer when a young courier stepped to his side. “My apologies, Oberst; an urgent telephone call from Berlin.” he whispered.

  “Thank you,” von Stauffenberg said softly, his heart beginning to thump. He placed his folder back in the briefcase. Quickly, he pulled the wire to start the timer, snapped the briefcase closed, and taking his leather folder, rose to walk out of the building. “Please excuse me, General Hoepner,” he whispered to the man sitting beside him, on Hitler’s right. “My aide is calling with the new information I mentioned.” The man waved dismissively, not taking his eyes off the speaker.

  It was among the most difficult things he had ever done, walking steadily, but not too quickly toward the telephone center. His heart was hammering. Knowing the conversation would be monitored, he had arranged to be given legitimate, new information.

  “Good morning, Herr Oberst,” his young sergeant greeted him; “I have finished compiling the new recruitment figures by district, sir. I trust that I am not too late in getting them to you?”

  “Not at all, Horst!” von Stauffenberg replied evenly, trying to hide his excitement, “I am to speak to the Führer in the next half hour; I commend you, you are just in time. Wait just a moment as I get my pen.” He took out an ornate fountain pen, and opened the leather-bound tablet. Handling the two with one hand was difficult, but it was a skill he was quickly learning. He cradled the phone with his shoulder.

  Nearby, inside the telephone truck, the SS man monitoring them was already bored. He made some entries in his log sheet, and switched to another conversation.

  Von Stauffenberg made the noncom go through the numbers slowly, repeat them, and then he read them back, making a show of careful preparation.

  “One does not speak to the Führer often, and I must be absolutely correct,” he reminded the young man. He had almost forgotten the bomb as they meticulously went over the information.

  Chapter 28

  16 May 1943

  Village of Tomsk, Occupied Russia

  1217 Hours

  Explosion and Attack

  The explosion was huge, loud, sudden, and savage, like a vicious slap. The ground beneath him heaved. Von Stauffenberg was thrown down roughly, a bloody gash on his right cheek, his leg collapsing under him. He was as startled as everyone else – this was a far greater explosion than he had expected!

  “Dear God! The Führer! Quickly, get medics!” he shouted, his voice one of many. He was amazed at his own presence of mind. All around, chunks of log, wooden shingles, and bits of stone pounded down out of the sky like a demented rain.

  He raised himself on one elbow, and saw a towering cloud of smoke billowing up over the far end of the building. His ears were ringing as he saw more than heard the building begin to fall in on its self.

  To his amazement, there were more explosions; it took his addled brain long seconds to understand that they were under attack! From the woods came a murd
erous rain of mortar rounds, machine gun fire, and even hand grenades! The Russian army had somehow found the camp! How had they gotten through the ring of Liebstandarte sentries?

  Like a bad dream, von Stauffenberg saw several men struck down, then the crack Liebstandarte troops guarding the Führer began to rally. At first ragged, their answering fire quickly became focused and disciplined.

  An SS major leapt up to direct the solder’s fire. A fusillade from a heavy Russian machine gun cut him down. His shouted commands died in his throat, and his empty helmet rolled a few feet and stopped. An SS sergeant took his place and the counter attack continued.

  With a thunderclap, another mortar round went off only a few dozen yards away, and von Stauffenberg was hit with a glancing blow by a ricocheting piece of shrapnel. His head hit the ground, and all went black.

  He awoke slowly, in a fog, not knowing where he was. He started to lift himself, and was stabbed so sharply with pain in his upper chest and left arm that he cried out.

  “Not so fast, Oberst!” a male voice said gently, a hand pushing against his left shoulder. “You are incapacitated. Kindly lie back down and allow me to examine you.”

  Blinking his eye, von Stauffenberg saw a white coated man, a stethoscope around his neck. The “ceiling” above him moved in ripples; it took a moment to realize he was in a tent.

  “Where am I? What has happened?” he began. Then memories flooded back.

  “Rest easy Herr Oberst; you were wounded in the attack on the Führer, and have been unconscious. You have deep wounds, on your face, right leg, and side. I believe the leg may be broken as well, so kindly lie still.”

  “The Führer! Is he—?”

  “We don’t know,” the doctor said quietly, “they have flown him back to Berlin.”

  “What about General Hoepner and the others?”

  The doctor regarded him sadly; “He is dead, Oberst, along with almost everyone in the building. You narrowly avoided death yourself.”

  He lay back and let the man look at his wounds. His head was spinning and the pain was screaming inside him. He knew how to control pain; this wasn’t his first encounter.

  All around him, white coated men hurried to tend to other figures, some of whom were moaning. Outside, he heard a sharp burst of gunfire, then silence.

  “Didn’t we drive the Russians off?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes, yes, don’t worry. It was a bloody fight,” the doctor replied, suturing a deep cut with strong hands. “We captured several of them, the bastards. What you just heard was their firing squad.”

  “It was terrible! Did the building collapse?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “A direct mortar hit, maybe several. What was left burned to the ground.” He interrupted himself to give his patient another shot. “This will ease your pain, even let you sleep.”

  Von Stauffenberg started to object, and then thought better of it. He’d gained little from his refusal of pain deadeners in Africa. He’d take what they had to offer here in Russia.

  The doctor continued, “There were many, many deaths; you are one of the few lucky ones near the building. Now, I’ll have my assistant splint that leg; it is broken. The Luftwaffe is flying home wounded senior officers; you will leave within the hour. When you get to the Fatherland, that leg will have to be properly set. You will survive again, Herr Oberst; I have seen men with much worse wounds do so. There are others here also needing my attention, so I must leave you. I wish you God speed in your recovery. Heil Hitler!” He left the tent.

  Von Stauffenberg lie thinking about what had happened.

  The Russians attacked us! What a literal Godsend! I cannot believe it! It hid my bomb! They thought it was part of the attack. With any luck, the Führer will die, if he isn’t dead already, and the Russians will get the blame! A slight smile crossed his lips, then the drug took effect, and he slept.

  Chapter 29

  20 May 1943

  Office of the Minister of Propaganda, Berlin, Germany

  1037 Hours

  Germany in Shock

  Radio Berlin had been playing mournful, funereal music all morning long. Everyone knew a solemn announcement was coming. The nation had been stunned at Göring’s death; what could have happened now? Not least among the very interested listeners were the members of the conspiracy. They had begun to carefully add senior military men. A plan for quickly seizing control of both the civilian government and the military was in place, waiting.

  Dr. Joseph Goebbels worked furiously; this announcement must be handled very carefully. I must convince not just the German people that the Führer was only wounded, and will soon recover, but the Allies as well. He knew there were teams of listeners in Great Britain who monitored and analyzed everything broadcast from the Fatherland. Should he be less than convincing, there were even Germans ready to overthrow the Nazi government, if Himmler was to be believed. For himself, he doubted the Führer would survive his horrible wounds. The whole side of his head was caved in, the chief doctor had told him confidentially. A great piece of the oak table had been flung into him.

  If he survives, he will be a vegetable, a pitiful relic of his powerful former self; better he should die! At least it would be a warrior’s death. This way, to waste away, slowly… this is no way for a Teutonic warrior to die.

  For himself, he fully planned to be a big part of whatever government came out of this disaster. He was acutely aware his own neck was on the line.

  The announcer said importantly, “Citizens of the Third Reich, the Minister of Propaganda, Dr. Joseph Goebbels.”

  Goebbels’ distinctive voice rang out:

  “People of Germany! Today we have learned that the cowardly Bolsheviks have feebly attempted to strike a deadly blow against Germany and our beloved Führer. While he was meeting with our indomitable generals and field marshals, in a remote section of occupied Russia, they attacked unexpectedly, secretly, and with great force, like the cowards they are.

  “The Führer’s own legendary Adolph Hitler Liebstandarte Guard bravely fought the cowards, at great loss: not a single Russian survived. Despite the valiant efforts of our dedicated medical men, several German general officers have given their lives in defense of our glorious Reich. They will be immortalized at formal state funerals, as befits selfless leaders willing die for the Führer!

  “Our beloved Führer lies wounded, grievously so, in hospital at an undisclosed location. He is being attended, the clock around by the very finest medical experts in the Reich. His wounds, though serious, are not fatal – do not fear, my stalwart Germans! Our great leader will soon rise and lead us again. He will yet again inspire us.

  “The undaunted military chiefs of the Third Reich have already closed ranks around our fallen leader, to stand steadfastly in his stead for the short time until he once more arises to take his rightful place in history, to continue and finish our march toward undoubted, certain victory!

  “Our fury toward the Communists is unabated and irresistible. Already, massive forces are moving on the Russian capital. Revenge will be ours! Moscow will fall in days at most. The madman Stalin will be hung in a public square like a dog, his henchmen along with him; I promise you this!

  “Our soldiers will be ever valiant, we shall not falter, we shall triumph in our mighty Führer’s name! Heil Hitler!”

  London, Number 10 Downing Street

  Five days later

  “So tell me Raleigh, just how is the so-called German man on the street taking Dr. Goebbels’ remarkable speech?” Churchill asked his intelligence aide, as he knocked the ash from his ever present cigar.

  “Prime Minister, it would appear that most are highly skeptical, but of course, not publically. They have long since learned to read between the lines, so to speak; it seems the general expectation is that he – Hitler – is either dead or will soon be so. There is some indication that ordinary Germans are hopeful this may lead to an early end to the war.”

  “I fear their hopes sha
ll again be dashed,” Churchill growled almost to himself.

  Raleigh shuffled some papers in his hands.

  “Within the German government, it rather seems chaos is the order of the day, to mix a metaphor. Civil service are continuing to go through the motions, with a wary eye toward whomever may take the reins. The German military are, to be blunt, paralyzed. It would appear that to a man, the OKW leadership are hesitating to make decisions that Hitler might oppose should he suddenly regain consciousness. No less so, we believe, is the SS leadership gripped by the fear of acting contrary to ‘Der Führer’s’ wishes.”

  Chapter 30

  22 May 1943

  Union Lake Park, Millville, New Jersey

  1145 Hours

  Picnic

  It wasn’t New Jersey hot yet, in late May, as Joel and Susan walked from the Packard and found a shady spot under a huge, old, maple tree.

  “This is a nice place,” Susan said, looking around.

  “Ah, yes, a spreading tree, ‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou—’” Joel quoted.

  “Well, not quite,” Susan said, laughing. “It’s more like a couple of pieces of fried chicken, cold Cokes, and each other.”

  “As long as we have the last one, I’ll take it,” Joel smiled at her. She seemed to like the comment.

  They sat on a blanket and admired the view; Union Lake stretched out into the distance. The light breeze rippled the water agreeably, and the occasional water fowl dove after elusive fish. The peaceful scene belied the violence an ocean away; for now, the two of them were happy just to be away from the constant barrage of war news.

  “Are they still tender?” Susan asked, lightly touching the bright pink scars on Joel’s face.

  I love her touch, Joel thought.