Germanica (17 page)

“I was just doing some reconnoitering, sir.”

“What in God’s name did you do?” asked a shocked Winnie. “You didn’t cross the border, did you? You wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds if you’d been stopped.”

Ernie was quietly delighted that she was concerned. “Nothing of the sort. I just wondered if the hole in the fence I’d made had been fixed, so just before dawn I went and checked it out. At first it didn’t look like anything had been done to it, so I crawled closer. Then I noticed a bunch of wires and realized the place had been booby-trapped by the Nazi swine.”

He smiled at the memory. “So I went to the garbage dump and found a really ripe dead cat. I put it in a bag and crawled close to the wire. When I figured I was close enough, I took the stinking animal out of the bag and hurled it into the hole in the fence. Sure enough, it triggered the booby traps and they exploded. Dead cat went flying all over the place. Lights went on and German soldiers went screaming towards the pieces of the poor little dead kitty. When I left them, I think they were trying to figure out if it was the cat who’d set of the explosives or something else. It was nice to see the Germans grubbing through debris and dead cat.”

Dulles shook his head. “Do me a favor and don’t do it again.”

“But I did it for Winnie.”

Winnie leaned over and clutched herself. “I told you not to make me laugh.”

Ernie decided it was time to change the subject. “Sir, what plans do you have for us?”

“For the time being you are to sit tight and observe. Check the border and note any changes. Take the boat out and observe, but only after Winnie is cleared to swim in case something should happen.”

“What was the information I was supposed to pick up?” Winnie asked.

Dulles smiled tolerantly. “Are you wondering just what was worth risking your life? Well, I can’t tell you that right now, but someday I will. Trust me, though, it might have been worth many lives. And if we can still get it, the info will indeed be worth it.”

* * *

Eisenhower and Devers looked over the several pages of information they’d just received courtesy of someone. “Amazing,” said Devers. He had flown into Reims at Ike’s request. “It certainly looks like we have people high up in the Redoubt.”

Ike was not so confident. “You’re assuming that the information is correct. If it is, it is a godsend. How many generals would have loved to have all this much detail about an enemy army before a battle?”

“I can think of a few who did and still blew it,” Devers said and Ike chuckled.

What they had before them was a detailed listing of all German units in or near the redoubt. It gave their size, location, and a succinct analysis of their fighting ability. It said that the Germans had reconstituted twenty-five divisions out of the retreating remnants. These totaled one hundred and eighty thousand men. An additional twenty thousand Russians who had turned against Stalin were included along with a division of ten thousand Croats. The Germans also had four hundred tanks. All of the German units were said to be above average in fighting ability. The two generals had their doubts.

Devers gave his own analysis. “First of all, I believe this analysis tells Goebbels and Schoerner what they want to hear and not what is necessarily the truth. I sense some lower-ranking staff officers trying to save their own skins. I just can’t believe that all the German units are such rabid and diehard Nazis. After all they have been surrendering by the thousands, the hundreds of thousands north of the Redoubt. Why should these guys be any different? They weren’t chosen for any particular skill or dedication. These are just the poor schmucks who happened to be in the area when the Redoubt was formed. If they’d been more fortunate, they’d be in prison camps awaiting repatriation instead of the opportunity to get blown to pieces.”

“Are you saying they might surrender if given a chance?”

“Couldn’t hurt to find out.”

Ike agreed. “Any other thoughts?”

“Yes. The Russians and the Croats will fight like cornered tigers because they know they are all dead if they are captured. Any captured Croats will be murdered by Tito and the Serbs, and the Russians will be turned over to Stalin who will either shoot them outright or send them to Siberia to be worked to death. If there was some way we could promise either group sanctuary somewhere, perhaps they would not fight so desperately.”

Ike conceded that Devers had a good point. The current agreement with Moscow required the U.S., Great Britain, and France to turn over to the Russians any captured Red Army deserters. Already there had been incidents of suicides and suicidal resistance from those preferring death with a rifle in hand. Killing one’s self was preferable to either being executed or spending a horrible brutish existence in the snows of Siberia. He did not know of anything regarding the Croats. He made a mental note to check it out.

“It may be a lost cause, but I will contact General Marshall regarding your thoughts. Any soldier we can get to surrender will be one less that we will have to root out and kill while he’s killing our boys.”

“Ike, I could not help but notice that those non-German troops are all stationed on the west side of the Brenner Pass. I wonder if that’s a coincidence. Or maybe they don’t trust them all that much.”

Ike had noticed it as well. “Very interesting,” was all he said.

* * *

Wolfgang Hummel and Martin Schubert had known each other since the day they’d been inducted into the German Army some six years ago. Now they had each risen to the rank of corporal and were still close friends. The men were a team. They operated the MG42 machine gun. Hummel did the actual firing while Schubert supplied ammunition and generally assisted whenever he could. Sometimes they’d switch, but not for long. Hummel was by far the better shot.

They’d lugged the twenty-five pound weapon along with many pounds of ammunition across several European countries and now found themselves in Germany with the Alps to their back. They considered the gun to be a marvel. It could easily fire twelve hundred rounds a minute, had a range of more than a thousand yards and this one even had a telescopic sight. It also gave off a horrible screeching noise that could easily terrify an enemy soldier. They treated their new gun like a queen, keeping her clean and oiled. And why not? She had helped keep them alive.

Hummel looked around to see if anyone could hear them speak. He had to do it casually since any furtive movements attracted suspicion. “Martin, do you think we’ve come far enough to stop retreating?”

“I think we went far enough a month ago. When the Americans landed at Normandy I knew it was all over. We couldn’t stop either the Russians or the Americans. Germany had to sue for peace, but our leaders didn’t and now it may be too late.”

“Agreed.” Hummel pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed it to Martin. They lit up and enjoyed the smoke. The cigarettes were Americans, taken off a dead GI. He would no longer need them, they’d thought. Besides, they had laughed, cigarettes were bad for your health.

“So what are we going to do?” Schubert asked, almost plaintively.

Artillery was rumbling in their rear. American spotter planes had found something and their guns were trying to kill it. At night when they were trying to sleep, the rumbling would be accompanied by distant flashes of light. The Americans were not going to leave them alone. “If the Yanks push us, we’re going to have to climb those damn mountains. I can’t climb mountains. Christ, I sometimes can’t even climb a ladder.”

“I can’t either. Are you suggesting that we should surrender?”

Hummel finished his smoke and field stripped the butt. He thought about saving the shreds of tobacco in case he had to try and roll his own, but figured the hell with it. He let them go with the wind.

They were in a foxhole that they had turned into a small bunker. With skills learned from years of experience, they had made it strong and practically invisible. They had solid fields of fire and were confident that they could decimate any attacking force, just as they had so many times before. They didn’t particularly enjoy seeing enemy soldiers being riddled with bullets and turned to bloody pulp, but this was war and nobody wanted to finish in second place.

Their small fort also had places to relieve themselves, although they joked that it didn’t much matter. It had been so long since they’d been able to wash or put on a clean uniform that their personal stench would overwhelm that of body waste. All the German soldiers were in the same condition. They joked that the Yanks would find them from their smell.

Hummel just wanted the war to finish. “I would like to surrender, Martin, but I don’t know how to go about doing it. We can’t just tell the others to have a good war and then go walking up to the Americans with our hands in the air. First, the Yanks might shoot us as revenge for some of the atrocities the SS and others have committed, and second, Lieutenant Pfister would have the others kill us before we got twenty feet.”

Schubert again looked around. Lieutenant Pfister was walking towards them. “What the hell does the idiot want now?” Pfister was a devout Nazi, to put it mildly. They’d heard that the lieutenant had howled like a dog when he’d heard that his beloved Hitler was dead. He had vowed that he and the platoon would die to the last man before surrendering. Sadly, Hummel and Schubert and the others believed him.

They did not stand and salute when he arrived. The Americans were too close and they had their own snipers.

“What are you two plotting?” Pfister asked.

Hummel almost froze before answering. Then he realized that their usually uptight lieutenant was just making a small joke. “We were just talking about some marvelous carnal adventures that we will have when we win this war and get to go home.”

Pfister laughed. Some days he actually had a sense of humor, proving that he used to be human. “Don’t get your priorities mixed up. Gather all your gear. We’re going to be maneuvering again. As usual we will move when it’s dark so the Yank planes can’t see us.”

The two gunners nodded their understanding. “Maneuvering” was another word for retreating. “Any idea where we’re going, sir?” asked Schubert.

“I’ve heard that we’re going to the northern head of the Brenner Pass.”

Hummel looked intently at the lieutenant. “Sir, when are we going to stop and fight the Americans? I’m sick and tired of retreating. I want to stop and kill the bastards who are violating our nation.”

Pfister looked impressed. So too was Schubert who knew that Hummel meant not a word of the bullshit he was spouting. He wanted to know when they might make contact with the Americans so they could give up.

Pfister smiled broadly. “Corporal, our opportunity will come soon enough. When we get to the pass there will be no more retreating. There we will stand and fight. Then we will destroy the swine who have invaded our land and who are violating our women.”

“That was most impressive,” said Schubert after the lieutenant had left. “It almost brought tears to my eyes.”

“Not to mine,” said Hummel. “Once upon a time I thought Hitler was God. I thought that Germany would conquer the world and then there would be a true peace, one that would be based on Nazi values. For the longest time I even enjoyed fighting in Poland and Russia. The fire bombings of our cities opened my eyes and cleared my mind. Germany doesn’t stand a chance, if indeed she ever did. I know longer wish to fight for a cause that is lost. I don’t care if Jews take over the world. I want to go home and find my family.”

Schubert shook his head. He felt infinite sadness. “I just hope we have families to find.” They both came from cities that had been leveled by American bombers. They’d heard nothing from their families and expected the worst.

* * *

Harry Truman was still growing into his job as President of the United States. He was mad as hell at Franklin Delano Roosevelt for shutting him out of the decisions that had been made and now had to be enforced by a very inexperienced Truman.

He had been considered such a nonentity that he’d lived in an unguarded apartment until Roosevelt’s death. Now, however, he had Secret Service crawling all over the place trying to protect him. He’d joked that they even wanted to go to the john with him. He liked to take brisk walks and now he did so surrounded by guards. It was a little unsettling.

He still hadn’t moved into the White House because Eleanor Roosevelt hadn’t yet left. In a moment of generosity, he’d told her to take as long as she needed and now he wondered if she would ever move out.

Truman wanted to be furious at the military and diplomatic leaders who’d quietly humiliated him by shunning him, but he knew it wasn’t their fault. It had been Roosevelt’s and they’d had to follow his orders. But why, he wondered, and realized it no longer mattered. FDR had made a pattern of ignoring his vice presidents, so why should his experiences or lack thereof, have been any different?

He was seated behind Roosevelt’s massive desk in the Oval Office that he’d already decided to retain for his use. Many of the former president’s personal items had been removed, either taken by Eleanor or packed up to be moved. A few pictures of his own wife Bess and his daughter Margaret graced the desk. Thank God he had them as his anchors, he thought.

A glum group of men looked at him. He wondered if they thought they were having a bad dream and would wake up and find that Roosevelt was still president. Someday he would tell them that he’d had that same dream.

Shortly after becoming president, he’d been informed that the U.S. was making a super-bomb, an atomic bomb. He’d been staggered to realize just how much money and effort had gone into the project. Almost as astonishing was the fact that it remained a secret. Even from FDR’s vice president, he thought angrily.

Truman forced himself to smile. “Gentlemen, I trust that the first test of an atomic bomb is still scheduled for mid-July?”

“That is correct, sir,” responded General George C. Marshall, the Army’s Chief of Staff. He was accompanied by Major General Leslie Groves.

Groves was very overweight and pear-shaped, which somewhat bothered Truman. He felt that soldiers should look the part. Still, Groves had been the man who’d ramrodded construction of the Pentagon and now the physical parts of the development of the atomic bomb. The unmilitary looking Groves was reputed to be one tough son of a bitch and Truman did like that. Groves was not a physicist, but he understood enough of the bomb to explain the military aspects of it.