Himmler's War-ARC (16 page)

“I never thought I’d praise shit on a shingle,” said Carter after they made it to the mess hall in their new uniforms. Nobody ever called it chipped beef on toast and it was almost always universally despised.

“And here I thought everyone else smelled terrible or it was the stench from all the dead bodies around,” added Levin, “but now I realize it was me. How did you ever stand me?”

“We didn’t,” gibed Morgan. “We attributed it to gas from all the kosher food you eat and tried to be tolerant of your religion.”

“How thoughtful,” Levin said. “And by the way, Jeb, did you notice that all the equipment was distributed by colored soldiers? Any thoughts on that?”

Carter scowled. “Actually, I have many thoughts. I have no problem with Negroes in the army so long as they aren’t officers and so long as they aren’t in combat.”

“Why not?” asked Jack. “Wouldn’t putting them in the fighting actually save white guys’ lives?”

“Yeah, but it’s not that easy,” Jeb said. “Put a gun in colored boys’ hands and rank on their shoulders and they’ll begin to think they’re equal to white men and nothing good can ever come from that. Then they’ll come home and want to go to school with us, be our bosses, and then maybe marry my sister. Now my sister may be truly ugly and desperate to get laid, but I still don’t want her marrying a nigger.

“On the other hand,” Jeb continued, “I sure as hell don’t want them sitting on their asses at home while I run the risk of getting shot at. I admit it’s a dilemma.”

“Blacks served in the Union army way back in that misunderstanding we call the Civil War,” Jack said, “and in combat. And we’ve had colored units in wars since then.”

“That’s right,” Jeb said, “and did you know that several thousand free blacks volunteered to serve the Confederate army?”

They’d never heard of that. “Why?” Jack asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Jeb answered. “If any are still alive go ask them. But let’s quit talking serious stuff and get some of that bottled dog piss they call beer.”

Levin concurred. The beer was low-alcohol, but it was better than no alcohol and, besides, Levin’s contacts for booze had dried up, temporarily they all hoped. “Might as well enjoy ourselves before we get tossed to the Nazi wolves.”

* * *

When the Nazis first invaded the Soviet Union, rumors flew that Josef Stalin had collapsed from the unexpected shock of Hitler’s betrayal of their nonaggression pact and had suffered a nervous breakdown. If they were once true, and no one knew for certain, they no longer applied. Stalin was in complete command of the Soviet war effort. His military title was Supreme Commander in Chief, and in theory there was a military hierarchy under him called the Stavka, but in reality Stalin controlled it. He also headed the Communist Party and was the Soviet Union’s prime minister. In effect, the massive Soviet Union was a one person empire. Stalin ruled alone and with an iron fist. The blood of millions of his own people was on his hands. He didn’t care. He cared only for the worldwide expansion of communism, and the Soviet Union was the tool that would do it.

It galled him that converting the world’s oppressed working people to communism had to take a back seat to defeating the vile fascists who were now led by the odious Himmler. The Nazis had broken the treaty with the USSR, invaded, slaughtered, raped, and plundered. They had nearly brought communism and the Soviet Union to ruin.

Both Field Marshal Georgi Zhukov and Foreign Minister Vacheslav Molotov sat in scarcely disguised terror as Stalin’s cold eyes fixed on them. They were in a large and ornate office in the Kremlin, one that had once served the Czar Nicholas II and other Romanov nobility. If anyone thought their presence in the home of the czars was incongruous, they didn’t mention it. Zhukov and Molotov had begun to sweat. Stalin had murdered thousands of military officers and politicians. Two more wouldn’t matter.

Physically, Stalin was a small man with a peasant’s habit of smoking cheap cigarette tobacco in his pipe, resulting in a noxious cloud of smoke around him. He was crude and undereducated despite having spent time in a Russian Orthodox seminary.

“Comrade Molotov,” Stalin said flatly and coldly, “is it true that the Hitlerites have initiated contact with Sweden regarding the Swedes their functioning as a broker for peace?” He smiled without warmth. “Or should we now call the Germans Himmlerites?”

Molotov smiled wanly at Stalin’s small joke. “It is true, Comrade Stalin, although nothing appears to be forthcoming regarding either England or the United States. They seem fixed on their policy of Unconditional Surrender.”

“Have the Germans asked to contact us?”

“Not yet,” Molotov replied. “It appears the Nazis are waiting for the current campaign for Poland to play itself out.”

Stalin nodded. The thought of negotiating with the hated Germans was worse than repugnant. Still, he knew just how much the mighty Red Army had deteriorated. There were many fine units left, but second and third rate divisions were also being used in key areas, which meant that the poorly trained and inadequately equipped infantry were simply cannon fodder.

The same was true of his once proud armored forces. The tanks, in particular the T34, were magnificent, and the larger Stalin series were at least a match for the German Tiger and King Tiger, but their crews were raw and inexperienced. The Germans had their own problems with manpower, but theirs were easier to hide when fighting a defensive war, and the Germans were masters of defense.

The Soviet air forces were large in numbers and steadily improving, but they too lacked the skills necessary to fight the Germans in the air. The Nazis didn’t have the numbers of planes they’d had in the past and their pilots were of a lower quality. On a qualitative basis, the Luftwaffe remained hugely better.

He accepted the simple truth that Russian peasants who’d never even been in a car would take forever to become mechanics, tank commanders, and pilots, while it came as almost second nature to German youths who had a long term familiarity with things mechanical. He knew that millions of Soviet soldiers had never seen a toilet, much less the engine of an airplane.

“Comrade Zhukov, your armies are now well into Poland and approaching East Prussia. The German defense is stiffening. When will you break them?”

Zhukov suppressed a shiver. He decided to answer truthfully. Why not, he thought, since Stalin had his spies everywhere and doubtless knew as much as he did. Zhukov was one of several leaders of what the Red Army referred to as “Fronts,”

Konev and Rokossovski being two of the more senior ones and both were Zhukov’s rivals. He and Konev had a particularly bitter relationship based on personal ambition. Stalin understood that and played them against each other to keep them off balance. Neither Konev nor Rokossovski was at this meeting and each was doubtless seething and wondering what was transpiring behind their backs.

Zhukov answered. “Comrade Stalin, the days of breaking through and surrounding whole German armies like we did at Stalingrad, or hammering them to destruction at Kursk are over. The Germans fight much more rationally and logically without Hitler to lead them and make his senseless demands that each piece of ground be held to the last German soldier. We will push them back, but it will be a slow and tedious process and we will suffer enormous casualties.”

Stalin barely nodded. Casualties were nothing to him as long as communism was safe. So many of his enemies misread him. They thought of him as a bloody and vicious dictator who used communism as a front for his iron-fisted and sadistic rule. They were wrong. Josef Stalin was a confirmed and dedicated communist committed to expanding his version of Marxism to the world, no matter what it cost. He was more than a dictator. He was a fanatic communist dictator.

He was also a realist. In the heady days after the fall of the Romanovs and the subsequent Bolshevik takeover, he and his mentor, Lenin, had been stunned when the proletariat of the world hadn’t risen in support of Russian communism. Now he understood that much of the world wasn’t ready, and that included many people in his own Soviet Union. In particular, the people of the Ukraine had welcomed the Nazis as liberators before they found out the truth. Therefore, he had to tread lightly, at least for now.

He was also concerned about the so-called communists who were fighting the Nationalists in China. They were peasants, not workers, and he doubted the depths of their commitment to true communism. He sometimes thought it would be good to side with the corrupt and incompetent Nationalists and purge China of her ersatz communists. After that purging, of course, he could easily turn on the Nationalists and impose true communism. That would have to wait. His first priority was the destruction of Germany.

“How much more can the army take?”

Zhukov understood the question. It was not a matter of dead and wounded, it was a question of possible mutiny by the masses when confronted with the likelihood of slaughter. The Russian peasant had fought desperately to save Mother Russia, but now Russia was safe and the Germans were slowly falling back through Poland, killing large numbers of Russians as they retreated. It was not a question of if the army would shatter, but when. If victory was unlikely and the primal urge to live perceived as hopeless, the army might revolt and communism go the way of the Romanovs.

“Unless something dramatic and unexpected happens, Comrade Stalin,” Zhukov continued, “I would estimate a couple of months at best before the army either cannot or will not move forward.”

“What do we need?”

Zhukov exhaled. Stalin was listening to him. He might make it through the afternoon without a bullet in the back of his head.

“A rest. A pause. A very long pause to build up our strength and train our armies. We must also weed out the defeatists who would poison our new recruits.”

“How long?”

“At least a year, Comrade Stalin, preferably two.”

Another purge, Stalin thought, with more people sent to the gulags. So be it. “Continue to push the Germans,” he said and turned to Molotov. “While you, comrade, contact the Swedes. We will see what Himmler has to offer.”

* * *

Life on the farm agreed with Margarete. After only a few days, she realized that she was eating better, losing weight, and gaining muscle. Of course, her mother said it might just be the natural shedding of baby plumpness, but it didn’t matter to her. She only knew that she was well on her way to becoming a woman.

Aunt Bertha’s farm was south and west of Hachenburg, which put it only a few miles east of the Rhine. The farm was prosperous. Bertha and her husband Hans grew wheat, raised cattle and pigs, and made a modest attempt to grow grapes to turn into the white wine that was grown so successfully elsewhere. Their pigs and cows prospered; the wine was ordinary at best. Magda whispered to her that some of the poorer versions could be used as paint remover. Hans and Bertha were stout and looked the part of wealthy farmers with more than enough to eat. As in contrast to the people in Berlin where fresh food was always short.

Margarete had taken with pleasure to milking the cows and feeding the pigs. There were cats and dogs everywhere demanding to be petted. It was almost possible to forget there was a war going on someplace and that people were being bombed to pieces. She could breathe deeply and think clearly. There was no smell of smoke and burned things in the air to choke and nauseate her.

No sirens went off when the American planes flew overhead, which they did quite frequently. Sometimes, she would just look up and watch the precise bomber formations and their fighter escorts as they headed eastward towards Berlin and other major cities. Sometimes she would say a short prayer.

Only two things bothered her. The first was petty—Bertha insisted on calling her Magpie despite Margarete’s protests. The second was far more serious—the depressing presence of foreign laborers at the farm. Large numbers of prisoners of war had been pulled from the POW camps to help out on farms, freeing up German men to fight the enemies of the Reich, and the Mullers had three of them.

It was clear from their sullen expressions and the hatred in their eyes that they despised their situation and everything German. One prisoner in particular, a man she knew as Victor, gazed at her family with barely concealed loathing. Bertha noticed it too and simply told Magda and Margarete to stay away from him. They could send him back to the prison camp, but what if anything would they get instead? They need him to do the work, so they would endure his silent insolence.

Bertha shook her head. “I cannot understand why the prisoners don’t realize that they are so much better off with us than back in the prison camp. Here they get good food and decent living conditions. Why are they so hateful?”

Because they are nothing more than slaves, Margarete thought. They might as well be Negroes working on the southern plantations in America that she’d read about. Since seeing the death train and the dead Jews, Margarete had become more attuned to what was happening around her. Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich had more than a few warts, she’d concluded, and Himmler was doing little to change matters. When she’d mentioned it to her mother, Magda had simply told her to be still. Hans and Bertha were devout Nazis and still mourned Hitler’s death. According to them, he was the greatest man in Germany’s history.

Everyone glanced up as a dozen American fighters flew low overhead. They were so low they could see the outline of the pilots’ heads in their cockpits.

“The arrogant yanks are doing that to annoy us,” Bertha sniffed.

“I think they are looking for trains to attack,” Margarete said, again thankful that they’d come by the automobile that was now locked away in a small barn.

Bertha agreed. “As long as we don’t do anything to annoy them, they will leave us alone. Someday soon we will launch our super weapons at them and then they will learn humility.”

Germany was a very large country and there were still whole sections where the war had scarcely touched them. Most of the major cities had been savagely bombed, but not little farms or villages like theirs south of Hachenburg. The war, however, was far from abstract. The enemy planes flying overhead prevented that, as did the feeling of dread when the mail came for those families with loved ones in the military. Far too many announcements had arrived saying that young Johan or Fritz had been killed, wounded, or was missing in such places as North Africa, Italy, Russia, and now in France. The war was an omnipresent dark and brooding background.