American Under Attack

by Jeff Kildow

  “No, they’re mostly healed. The surgery scar still hurts, where he dug out the feathers, but it was pretty deep. Thank God I didn’t get infected there. Did I tell you I found another little piece of Plexiglas shaving yesterday?”

  “Ouch, that must have hurt,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “So tell me about your family, Joel. How long have they been in Colorado?” Susan asked as she snuggled up next to him.

  “Well,” Joel began, putting his arm around her, “my great-granddad, Obadiah Knight, came out west from Ohio in 1870. They homesteaded in the Calhan area northeast of Colorado Springs. Had some rough years, but once the railroad came, they were able to get cattle to market easier.

  “My dad, Jubal, was born on the ranch in 1885. He married my mom Ilene in 1907. My brother, Samuel, was born the next year. I came along in 1911, and my baby sister Edna was born in 1915. She and I were both born in Colorado Springs.”

  “Obadiah, Jubal, Samuel, Joel – your family likes Bible names,” Susan observed.

  He shrugged, “Been sort of a family tradition. My uncles and boy cousins all have Bible names, too. Sort of getting to be a challenge to find one that hasn’t been used already.”

  “No repeats, then?”

  “Nope. I’m the only-est Joel Knight there is, Ma’am.” Joel deadpanned with an exaggerated western movie twang.

  She elbowed him playfully in the ribs, and began to unpack the picnic basket.

  Obertstleutnant [Lieutenant Colonel] Freiherr [Baron] von und zu Schroeder sat at his stark, military desk, reading the report somberly. Not even at his level had the German military been fully informed about Hitler’s true condition, or how the beheaded government was going to survive. There had been assurances that the Luftwaffe hierarchy was still in place and functioning, including a message to all Bomber Command officers from Generalmajor Wever.

  Von Schroeder could read between the lines as well as any German.

  They wouldn’t be putting out this nonsense if Hitler was alive and well; he must have died! Deep in his mind, the fear that the Allies would use this turmoil to strike a mortal blow churned despite the propaganda. He believed without reservation that Germany would prevail in the vast struggle; she had to. He clenched his fist.

  To lose again – it is unthinkable. Morose thoughts of the dark times after the Great War only added to his depression.

  If only they would permit me to strike America, he thought, the Americans are cowards; they will cower and sue for peace as soon as we kill a few of them on their own homeland. I can do it. I know I can. I must convince Generalmajor Wever. He must permit it.

  He reached for the bottle of English whiskey in the bottom drawer, oblivious to the irony that what he was drinking had been distilled by an enemy, and poured himself a tall glassful.

  More focused, a goal in mind, he began to write what he would say to Generalmajor Wever, how he would convince him to support the concept of a trans-Atlantic attack. Surely he would see the advantages of an America reeling from an attack on her own countryside. As he wrote, the thoughts became clearer; yes, he could convince Wever, he was sure of it. His confidence returning, he began to flesh out the presentation.

  Susan and Joel were laughing and enjoying their lunch and conversation, when an ominous, deep rumble of thunder interrupted them. Across the lake to the west was a big, fast-building thunder cloud, and it was headed right for them. Even as they watched, lightening snapped to the ground.

  “OK, time for us to pack up and move,” Joel said starting to do just that.

  “Why?” Susan asked reluctantly. “This nice tree will keep us dry.”

  Joel shook his head, “This tree is a lot taller than the others around here; that makes it a prime target for that lightening.”

  As he spoke, another crash of thunder resounded across the water; the storm was moving onto the lake.

  In minutes, the picnic gear was in the trunk of the Packard, and as they clambered inside, the rain began to rattle against the windows. A brilliant flash and a deafening thunderclap startled them both.

  “Oh! Oh, look,” Susan said, her eyes wide, “it hit the tree, just like you said.”

  A huge, smoking branch slammed to the ground not far from where they had been sitting.

  “That’s twice now that you’ve saved my life, Mr. Knight!” she said with a touch of awe.

  “Ah, shucks, Ma’am, twarn’t nothin’,” Joel twanged.

  “Yes, it was, and it deserves a reward,” Susan said softly, and reached over to kiss him.

  They both were startled at the electric shock when they kissed.

  “I think we better try that again,” Joel smiled. It was several minutes before they realized the storm had intensified.

  “Joel, this dirt will turn into mud quickly; we’d better get out of here and back on some pavement.”

  “You’re right.” He started the engine and they slipped a bit on the already muddy surface.

  “Just in time,” he said as they bumped back onto the paved road back to Millville.

  Chapter 31

  23 May 1943

  Amalgamated Radio Network Broadcast Studios, New York City

  1900 Hours

  Chaos Reported

  “This is your announcer speaking. I am Henderson Caldwell, the host of Answers and Questions, the radio program which explores ‘What’s behind the news with those in the know.’ Today’s guest is Mr. William L. Shirer, the well known author of Berlin Diary, and long time CBS Radio Network correspondent. Welcome to the program, Mr. Shirer.”

  “Thank you, my pleasure to be here,” Shirer said politely.

  “Let’s jump right into it, if we may, Mr. Shirer; is Germany undergoing civil war?”

  Shirer said, “The short answer is no, not in the conventional sense. It is possible that the situation could evolve into civil war, but at this time, no, it has not risen to that level.”

  “Upon what do you base that statement, sir?”

  “I have – shall we call them correspondents? – in Germany with whom I remain in contact. I trust you will forgive me if I identify neither their names nor the cities in which they reside, for obvious reasons. These correspondents inform me that the violence has been constrained mostly to the larger cities, and mostly between the SS forces and the Whermacht – the German army, with occasional exceptions. The smaller towns appear to have been unaffected so far. ”

  “What do you predict the outcome to be?”

  Shirer chuckled, “I am surely no prophet, Mr. Caldwell, neither am I the son of a prophet. My guess, and it’s only that, a guess, is that the SS will be divided into its two parts. Those parts are the police arm of the Nazi party, and the elite military units. I believe that the police arm will wither away, most likely by force, and the military units will be absorbed into the German Army.”

  “Who will take Adolph Hitler’s place, do you believe?”

  “That’s a very difficult question. Hitler’s heir apparent was Göring, of course. Following Göring’s death, there was silence on Hitler’s part as to whom he would impart his blessing. Heinrich Himmler made some strong moves to take over, but has been thwarted in his efforts, for the most part, by the assassinations of nearly all of his highest ranking people.”

  “That is amazing, sir! We have not heard about these assassinations; are you sure of these facts?”

  “As sure as I am of any other.”

  “Is the Nazi party dead then, as some have said?”

  “No. It has been beheaded, and is being dismantled, but there are still powerful forces, both civilian and military in Germany who are still slaves to Hitler worship. If I may say so, the Anti-Nazi forces have shrewdly used the chaos around them to continue that dismantling process. And it has been far from bloodless. May I be just a bit philosophical here?”

  “Of course.”

  “There is something about the German psyche that craves strong leadership. This has been true for hundreds of years. With Hi
tler out of the picture – and my correspondents tell me that he will never again be an actor on the German stage, there is a power vacuum. The old saying that ‘nature abhors a vacuum’ is never truer than in politics, especially so in German politics. Now, this next part, I must put strong caveats upon, for if it is true, it would be unprecedented in German history.”

  “You have our rapt attention, Mr. Shirer, I assure you,” the announcer said.

  “What I am hearing –none of the factions within Germany trust each other – it’s closer to loathing, but at the same time they are very much aware that they cannot exist as a country without cooperating. The outcome of the war hangs in the balance. The result of this conundrum may – I emphasize, may, we are certainly not sure – result in some sort of shared governance. Perhaps they will take turns at the Chancellorship or rule as co-equals in some manner. As I said earlier, always in the past, going back many hundreds of years, it has been a single, powerful man at the top. This may be changing.”

  “What forces or factions are involved here; surely the Army, what other factions?”

  “The Army, of course – the Army within Germany has been a government within the government since the first Kaiser; nothing happens there without the Army’s approval. The Germans being who they are, another faction will likely be a civilian police entity, perhaps the Gestapo. Almost certainly not the SS. The last aspect, and the one of which I am least sure, would be some representation of the civilian or production portion of the population. Whether this will take place, or whether it will be stable enough to last is very much up in the air.”

  “Another difficult question, if I may?” the announcer said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do Germans, the ordinary Germans, believe that they can win the war? Surely, they must see the inevitability of an Allied victory.”

  “Nothing is inevitable, Mr. Caldwell, least of all an Allied victory. The Germans are a very resourceful, determined race, a formidable foe. To answer your question, however, the German man on the street has had significant doubts about the outcome of this war since even before I left Germany in 1941. That pessimism runs much deeper and higher today, especially among professional military officers. I have no doubt that our Allied leaders will do all they can to exploit it.”

  Chapter 32

  23 May 1943

  Delsea’s Diner, Millville, New Jersey

  And Then Dinner

  Joel wiped his mouth. “Now, that’s good fried chicken.”

  “Yes, it’s quite good, isn’t it? Even if we did just have fried chicken on our picnic,” Susan answered. “And the mashed potatoes are delicious, too.”

  They were enjoying a traditional Sunday dinner at a diner in Millville. Joel had picked her up at the boarding house and they had gone to Millie’s church together that morning. He had to admit he’d enjoyed it, and it wasn’t just because he’d had a beautiful woman by his side; it’d been a long, long time.

  “So, what’d you think of that sermon this morning, Sue?”

  The pastor at Millie’s church had announced he was beginning a new sermon series on the New Testament book of Philemon; Joel couldn’t believe there was enough material in that short one-chapter book to support one sermon, to say nothing of several, and he had said so. To his surprise, the first sermon was interesting, and actually had some pretty profound insights.

  “I was amazed he could bring so much out of so little. I mean, there just isn’t much there in Philemon, is there?” she said.

  He shook his head, his mouth full of biscuit.

  “Was the service a lot different than what you were used to?” Joel then asked. “I’ve never been to a Lutheran service.”

  “Well, yes, it was.” she said. “I’m used to a lot more formal service order, and our pastor always wears a vestment. I must say, though, that everyone was so friendly. Why, there must’ve been a half-dozen people who said hello before we even got to our seats. And, say, there was scarcely any Bible-thumping at all!”

  She dimples beautifully when she smiles, Joel thought.

  “Yeah,” Joel said, “maybe these Baptists aren’t so bad after all.”

  She laughed and Joel thought her voice sounded like bells.

  Joel, Joel! he told himself. She can get to you so easily.

  They lingered over pie and coffee.

  “Have you thought about what Charles said?” she asked, her voice gentle.

  Joel felt his gut tighten. “Yes, to be honest, I’ve thought about it a lot,” he replied.

  “Have you done anything about it?” Her voice was soft.

  Conviction poured over him, and he put his head down, saying nothing.

  There were a few seconds of awkward silence, then she said, “Joel, I simply must get home. I’ve papers to grade, and more than a dozen essays; oh, how I hate those! You can’t imagine how poorly eleven-year-olds think, to say nothing of spell. And the hand writing, especially the boys—. I have to get ready for final exams, too.” She shook her head ruefully.

  He walked her to the boarding house door, holding her hand. “So, shall we go see that new cowboy movie next Saturday?”

  “Yes, lets,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  He walked back to the Packard with a spring in his step.

  The Next Saturday

  The movie was disappointing; it was just another “B” Western with “stars” no one had heard of. They sat alone at the same little diner. This time the dessert was bread pudding, with fresh raisins and pecans. The coffee was good this week, too.

  Joel put his chin on his fist, “OK, I just have to ask: how’d a nice Wisconsin girl like you end up teaching school in Stanton Township, New Jersey, of all places?”

  She gracefully wiped her mouth. “I was tricked, you might say,” and laughed at his raised eyebrows.

  “No, not really. I’d finished college, and wanted to do some graduate work at Georgetown University, but I had this little money problem.”

  She laughed in a self-deprecating way.

  “I saw an ad in a Philadelphia paper for a Junior High teacher in a ‘nearby township.’ By the time I discovered how ‘nearby’ it actually was, I was committed. It’s not so bad, actually. I like the other teachers, and the pay isn’t all that great, but being so far from the city, I’ve managed to save a lot of it. I should be able to start classes next fall. We’ll see.”

  “Masters degree, huh? That’s unusual.”

  “For a girl, you mean?”

  “Ah, uh, no, for anybody; you don’t see very many in either sex.”

  It wasn’t the smoothest recovery from a gaff, but she let him off. Grateful, he tried a follow-up, “So what will your masters degree be in? Education?”

  “Oh, no, silly. I’m going to pursue my masters in Psychology.”

  Joel nearly choked on his coffee. “Psychology? Really? Why would you want to do that?”

  He stroked his chin and tilted his head, and in a terrible German accent said, “I haf dis vision of der egg-headed Viennese professors mit goatees, nodding sagely and saying profound things like ‘Ach, so!’”

  He squinted one eye, as if holding a monocle in place. “That’s a psychologist, not a beautiful blonde!”

  She laughed, her head back, her fine, slender neck accenting her flawless complexion.

  “Why? Because I’m very good at it, fly boy! Besides, that’s what I got my undergraduate degree in.”

  “Really? Now that’s something! So you know all about Jung and Freud and those guys?”

  “Well, yes, but I think they over-emphasize the influence of mothers or mother figures on boys, and all but ignore girls and women.”

  “You want to study women and girls, then?”

  “No, not particularly.” She leaned forward enthusiastically, “What I want to do is study Predictive Behavioral Psychology, because I’m more interested in analyzing behavior patterns in people in general, to observe how they respond under stress. What makes them react as they do,
and whether or not their actions can be predicted. If they can, it could be very useful in say, law enforcement, to know whether your local gangster will do this or that when you put the squeeze on him.” She held up her finger like a gun and squinted along it.

  “Or,” she looked at him levelly, “perhaps if you understand what makes him tick, you could predict what a general might do when he’s forced to make a decision on the battle field.”

  “Wow!” Joel said. “That makes driving an airplane for a living seem a little on the mundane side.” Now, this young lady has some depth to her, he decided.

  Chapter 33

  31 May 1943

  The White House, The Oval Office

  0913 Hours

  Phone Call

  “Mr. President, Prime Minister Churchill is on the transatlantic telephone, sir.”

  Franklin Roosevelt wheeled himself to the telephone, and picked up. He glanced at the desk clock set to London time.

  “Good afternoon, Winston. Have you some good news for me for a change?” His tone was light, even though he was sure the call wouldn’t be.

  “Good morning to you, Franklin,” Churchill growled. “No, I sorely regret that the news is not so good this day. Our spies have informed us that the German government are not as close to collapse as we had dared hope. We may have missed a most opportune moment, to my regret. It appears that they have responded rather promptly, and are in process of putting some sort of ‘troika’ into place. As yet we are unaware of whom the members would be, but we suspect that they will be military.”

  “Such arrangements as that are seldom stable for long,” Roosevelt commented. “What about Hitler? Is he dead, or are we all to suffer his miserable existence still longer?”

  “It is most difficult to ascertain much reliable information regarding him, Franklin. Our best estimate is that the paper-hanging reprobate remains in a comatose state, neither alive nor dead. It appears they have him at the so-called Wolf’s Lair. That however, is not the subject of my call. I must inform you about Uncle Joe; have you heard?” He referred to Joseph Stalin, the Russian dictator.