Alternate Generals (39 page)

A day. A Tuesday. Like the rest. The weather was bad early. Skies cleared in patches through the afternoon. More losses. English harbors choking up black clouds from burning oil spills. The Channel water was rough.

Feldmarschall Erwin Rommel telephoned before the line was cut again. He had slipped back to Berlin two days before—by car, as OKW didn't like its commanders to fly. Rommel called because the tides were right, he said. Had a fear of the land battle starting without him. Trusted Moelders to give him a straight, accurate answer.

"No. You're not missing the show," Moelders assured him. "It's still an air war. Try to enjoy your leave. You get few enough of them." Glanced at the date in his diary. Remembered, before he rang off, "Say happy birthday to Lucie." That was June 6.

By November everyone knew there would be no invasion from the West this year. Hitler was calling it a victory, the fatal blow to all their enemies—as if a buildup of forces did not yet threaten on the far side of the Alps, or the Bear's millions weren't pushing back in force, or bombs from Britain did not still rain from the sky every night.

Hitler swore revenge on that warmonger Roosevelt. Wanted to attack America. He wanted 262's on aircraft carriers. Bombs on 262's. Asked Moelders for his suggestions.

"Sue for peace while we still can," Moelders answered.

Blew up. Railed at Moelders for his lack of Nazi ideology. It was his Roman Catholicism that stood in his way. "Rome and Moscow are the same," he reminded him. Demanded Moelders' loyalty. All of it.

Moelders didn't understand. "But you have it,
mein Führer
."

No. Wanted him to renounce the church.

"Everything of this world is yours," Moelders assured him.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I can only render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and unto God that which is God's."

The Führer reminded Moelders from whom came his Knight's Cross, oak leaves, swords, and diamonds, his rank, his command. Did he want to keep those? Caesar demanded.

Moelders unfastened the Ritterkreuz with all its attendant decorations from his neck, surrendered it on its red, black and white ribbon. "Hail Caesar."

Cigar smoke stung his nostrils. Moelders recognized his visitor even before he stepped into his library, before he spoke: "Where's your tin tie, Moelders?"

Rolled gray eyes up to find Galland standing above his chair in a wreath of cigar smoke. Moelders answered without animation, "I've been sacked."

Galland took in the cozy room—the little girl fallen asleep over a picture book by the hearth, the baby boy clutching
Vati
's pantleg for balance with one wet hand, the other pudgy little hand in his mouth. Moelders had married another pilot's widow back in '41 and had started a family at once. "So this is your new position? Nursemaid?"

Moelders pulled the boy onto the chair with him. "This is Viktor."

Galland lifted a scarred brow at the name. "For your triumph over the Americans?"

"For my brother."

Viktor made gurgling sounds, vaguely wordlike, gazed about with wide, wide eyes. Had 20/10 vision like his father, no doubt.

Moelders smoothed down a wispy cowlick. "I just want to protect them. But I'm three years old again, holding my mother's skirt. My father is dead and my homeland is under the heel of the world. I told her I wanted to be a soldier. It's what I wanted since I can remember wanting anything."

"You don't talk like the man who just saved the Reich."

"Is that what I did? I wanted to save
Germany
. I don't think I saved anything. I prolonged the war. Can tactical brilliance be a strategic blunder?"

"You're babbling, Moelders," Galland said loudly; then, drawing up a chair, in a murmur, "The walls have ears. I know my phone does. They record my calls."

No need to say who "they" were. Moelders nodded.

Galland went on, "When you dropped out of sight, I was afraid you'd . . ." Paused, regarded the children, rephrased, "Had an accident. People do."

Moelders gave a bleak smile. "Remember when all the accidents were real? Spanish roads. Spanish wine. Our
driving
. No one even shooting."

Sleeping beauty stirred by the fire. Sighed back to sleep.

Father's eyes fond, sad. "What's to happen to them? I don't know what I achieved in the West, if anything. The bombs still fall. The Amis aren't going to just sit on that island. What it cost them not to cross—it's too bitter to contemplate. They won't let the Ivans fight it out alone. There are millions of them. With factories we can't touch."

"And a supply line I can't even think about," Galland countered.

"They'll find a way to get into it. We should hold our borders while we still have borders. I can't even imagine how this will end. If the war ever does end, do you think we could manage to have an
election
, again?"

That was the closest to treason Werner Moelders would ever come. A soldier to the core, mutiny was not in him. But apparently he'd had enough of the greatest supreme military commander of all time, too.

"Are you going to run for office?" Galland asked, only half jesting. "They talk about you and Rommel that way. Bad for both your healths, by the way."

"I'm only thirty-one."

"You're older than I'll ever be." Galland was thirty-two.

"I'm not a politician. But having these makes you think." He snugged his little boy close to his side. "I look into the future and all I see is war. The end—there isn't any end. None that I can see."

"Do you want to get back in it?"

Brow lifted. Listless curiosity.

"If you can stand taking orders from me, you can fly for me," said Galland. "The squadron's all aces. I could use another qualified pilot. Tolerably qualified."

Moelders' reaction was not as eager as expected. Gray eyes gazed into space. "You can lose every battle but the last one. Can I have won the battle and in so doing lost the war?"

"What?"

"Slim says I think too much. Is there such a thing?"

"I don't know, hero. Are you going to come fly, or sit here in a flat spin?"

Moelders settled little Viktor into the deep armchair and rose slowly. "I'll fly for you."

War without end. Amen.

But all things end. It came with the drone of Superforts in 1945. A wail of air raid sirens. Ack-ack pounding the night. Search lights raking the darkness.

Moelders' ears pricked like a hound's. Engines. Couldn't see them. Knew the heavy Wright growl.

Viermots
. The really big ones. Knew most of them would get through. Damn them, how deep they could strike. Wished Germany had English radar.

Thought of Hitler's voice on the radio earlier in the day, whipping enthusiasm, envisioning a new dawn for the Third Reich.

As this night, over sleeping Dresden, the dawn came early. Brighter than a thousand suns.