Himmler's War-ARC (41 page)

“If Stone does try to stop me, I guarantee you that I will speak to the press. The
Chicago Daily Tribune
has always hated FDR and would be glad to assist me.” The
Tribune
hated Roosevelt enough to have printed military secrets and almost been prosecuted for the fact.

Byrnes looked at Truman with growing respect. “You wouldn’t dare. You would be jeopardizing the war effort.”

“If you don’t believe I’d dare, watch me. And as to the war effort, you are jeopardizing it by the coup you are pulling off, however inadvertent it might be. We are a democracy and that cannot ever be forgotten.”

General Marshall quietly but firmly injected himself into the discussion. “Vice President Truman is totally correct. We have, ah, accidentally overreached ourselves in our desire to protect the President and our country. Presidents have died in office before and doubtless will again. The country will go on regardless of what happens if and when FDR actually does pass on.”

“Then it’s conceded that his death is imminent?” Truman asked.

Byrnes shrugged. Anguish was evident on his face. “Ten minutes, ten days, ten months, Harry. Who the hell knows? And you and the general are right. You have to be here. In fact, the sooner you get totally up to speed, the better off we’ll all be. I suggest that you give us direction as if you were receiving it from Roosevelt. No one here will question it because, you’re right, it’s something we have to do.”

Truman smiled wickedly. “Does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what the hell’s going on in New Mexico?”

* * *

“Young Corporal Snyder, what the hell is this thing you’ve just shoved under my nose?” Morgan said in an attempt at humor. He knew exactly what it was. Rumors of their existence had been circulating for some time now.

Snyder was not intimidated, but kept the conversation formal. “Sir, it’s a petition. We’re trying to get everyone in the army to sign it and we’re going to collect them and send them to the White House.”

“And what do you hope will happen?”

“Pardon my French, sir, but we hope to get this fucking war over with. It’s been going on for long enough and there’s no end in sight, and there’s no reason to invade Germany if we can get them to negotiate a peace, just like they did the last time.”

“Snyder, are you aware that the last peace resulted in the next war, the one we’re fighting?”

“Which means that we have to do a better job ending this one, sir, and hopefully we’ve learned something from the past. Look, if we don’t do this, we’ll be confronting the biggest and bloodiest battle in American history and for what? Hitler is dead, and so are a lot of the Nazis who started this thing. It’s time to settle the score and move on.”

“What about the Jews in the concentration camps?” Morgan asked. “All those people are being murdered. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Sir, I hate to sound cruel or bigoted, but aren’t almost all of them dead already and won’t the rest of them die before they can be liberated? Maybe the peace negotiations can result in those who are left being sent to a neutral country. And besides, sir, how many Americans should have to die to liberate a handful of Jews?”

Morgan didn’t have an answer to Snyder’s comments because he was right. It was very likely that all the Jews in German camps would be dead long before they could be liberated. American dead versus living Jews—it was a hell of an equation.

“Are you aware that what you are doing is against military regulations?”

“Captain, there are tens of thousands of us organizing and circulating petitions and hundreds of thousands signing them. Do you really think it’s feasible for the army to punish American citizens for exercising their rights of assembly and free speech?”

Again Morgan admitted that the corporal had a point. Even though many constitutional rights were suspended in the military, they didn’t totally disappear and there was safety in numbers. As long as the signers and organizers did nothing overt, like fomenting mutiny or assaulting officers, they were fairly safe. Word had come from the top that the petitions were to be tolerated, which had outraged some of the officers and noncoms. People like Snyder might never be promoted, but that meant nothing to them. They wanted to go home. Hell, so did he.

The petitions were nothing new. They’d been circulating for a couple of months, although the arrival of Christmas seemed to have accelerated the process. Jack had to admit that Christmas for him in snowy, cold, and lonely Germany was incredibly depressing. So too was the fact that Jessica was closer but so far away.

“You know I’m not going to sign it.”

“Didn’t think you would, sir, but I had to ask. Some officers have, in case you’re curious.”

Jack grinned. “Ike?”

Snyder’s stern facade cracked. “We’re working on him, sir.”

“So what happens when you send these in, assuming the army will let you, and nothing happens. What will you do when the time comes to cross the Rhine?”

Snyder took a deep breath. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, although I have to admit it will probably happen. If we have to fight, everybody I’ve talked to says they will. Nobody’s going to let anybody else down.”

Snyder took the unsigned petition and left Morgan alone in the tent. Jack poured himself a cup of the black tar that passed for coffee in the army. The quiet revolution in the army was yet another item for concern. He sympathized with Snyder and all the others who simply wanted to go home, and he also sympathized with those like Levin who had relatives who’d disappeared into the maniacally evil beast that was Nazi Germany. The thought of the monsters who did that going unpunished and allowed to continue in charge of Germany was repugnant. Jack smiled at the thought of Snyder asking Captain Levin to sign the petition. It wouldn’t happen. Snyder wasn’t that crazy.

To further complicate matters, he’d received another letter from Jessica. She and three others had made it to Aachen where they were setting up a refugee information center. She mentioned that the military police had arrested her friend Monique and that Monique’s friend, Master Sergeant Boyle, had been killed. Reading in-between the lines, Jack had come to the conclusion that Jessica had been involved in the operation and it chilled him. Jessica should not have been in danger. What the hell was this world coming to when soldiers circulate peace petitions and women working for the Red Cross are put in danger?

How many thousand years ago was it when he played football for Michigan State and his primary concerns were wondering which hole to hit, which classes needed more study, and which coeds would go out with him?

Someday he might go back to civilian life, but neither he nor anyone else in the military would ever be the same, especially those who’d killed and seen their comrades killed or maimed.

Nor, he realized, would Jessica. Damn. The world was changing way too fast.

* * *

Carter got out of the Jeep and stared at the vast storage depot. Rows of vehicles of all kinds, tracked and wheeled, along with enormous stacks of materiel, seemed to stretch to the horizon. Out of sight but just as huge were stockpiles of gasoline, diesel and other material deemed flammable or explosive; thus requiring special storage facilities away from the other items.

Located a little more than twenty miles from the Rhine, the depot was considered out of the range of German artillery and it was protected by American fighters who maintained patrols overhead and were aided by radar that could usually pick up a German plane from far away.

The depot was surrounded by barbed wire, and grim-faced MP’s patrolled the perimeter. The depot was in occupied Germany and the army was taking no chances with saboteurs. Germany was still hostile territory. Some GI’s had taken to referring to the Rhineland Germans as Apaches and the Rhineland as a reservation.

Carter, Morgan, and the others all had to show ID and their orders at several layers of security before gaining admission to the supply depot that was more of a city than a storage facility.

And it was only one of a number of similar sites filling up with materiel in anticipation of the dreaded Rhine crossing.

“This must’ve been what it was like in England just before D-Day,” Carter said. “I heard jokes that the island almost sank under the weight of all the GI’s and supplies. Now I believe it.”

“You weren’t in England?” Jack asked.

“Nah, most of us came straight over from New Jersey, which is why we didn’t go into combat right away. They didn’t think we were ready. As it turned out, they were right.”

Morgan wondered if there were any landing craft in the depot. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean a thing. The presence of landing craft would confirm the rumor that at least part of the assault on what the krauts called the Rhine Wall would come from their area. What joy, they all thought at the prospect.

“I wonder why the Germans don’t lob their V-rockets at this site. It’s not like they could miss it,” Jeb asked.

“Why don’t you go ask them?” Morgan teased.

Actually, he thought he knew why. The rockets were terribly inaccurate and might not find the depot. Also, the warheads weren’t all that large, which meant any explosion, unless it was a direct hit on a large supply of ammo or fuel, wouldn’t accomplish all that much. And, even if they did hit something that went boom, losses could be made up fairly quickly. The United States, as the Arsenal of Democracy, was going full bore, pouring out an incredible stream of supplies. The air force was also doing a marvelous job of making life miserable for the Germans who had to manufacture and then launch the abominable rockets.

A guide in a lead Jeep turned left and they followed, passing a long line of replacement Sherman tanks. Finally, they stopped and Jeb gazed in wonder.

“Look at that,” he said. “Aren’t they just too beautiful for words?”

Jack laughed. “Tanks are not beautiful. In fact most sane people would think they’re kind of ugly.”

“Okay, asshole, so they’re not beautiful in a Betty Grable sort of way, but they are sinister and beautiful in a sexy life-saving sort of way.”

All the officers and enlisted men left their Jeeps and trucks and gazed in combinations of wonder and delight at the metal behemoths lined up to greet them.

They were all Pershing M26 tanks. A Captain Powell from the depot checked their orders and officiously confirmed everything. He was slightly overweight like most supply soldiers, which this time was not resented by the men of the 74th.

Carter patted the hull of one of the tanks and grinned. “Not quite as big or as fast as a Panther, but, damn, there’s that big, beautiful 90mm main gun that’s badder than a Panther, even a T34 if the rumors that the Germans have some are true.”

The tank also had a .50 caliber and two .30 caliber machine guns. It carried a crew of five and had a gas engine. Carter counted twelve of the tanks.

Carter continued to smile. “These are all ours, right?”

“Just be careful with them and don’t scratch them up,” Powell said, proving he had a sense of humor. “They don’t have to be whitewashed or otherwise camouflaged since the krauts already know they’re here. Probably every third German in the area is a spy and has seen them come in by train. After all, they are kind of hard to hide.”

Sirens went off and Powell guided them to a trench, which they entered almost casually. All over the area, soldiers were doing the same thing.

“It’s just a Jerry on a recon flight,” Powell said as he lit a cigarette. “They do that almost every day. If they would be so kind as to make it a scheduled stop, we might be able to ambush the bastard. Otherwise they’re just too damn fast.”

A Nazi jet streaked across the sky and disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. A couple of American planes appeared to give chase, but they lost ground with each passing second. No bombs were dropped.

“What is he up to?” Carter asked.

“I assume he’s taking pictures,” Jack answered before Powell could respond.

They climbed out of the trench. “There’s a school of thought,” Powell said, “that we should let them take all the pictures they want just to show them what they’re up against. However, I don’t think they’ll scare very easily.”

Morgan didn’t think so either. “So, the 74th gets twelve of these. Who gets the rest?”

Powell looked surprised. “What rest? This is it. Didn’t you know?”

“Wait,” said Carter. “You telling me that this is all the 74th gets?”

Powell laughed. “To the best of my knowledge, this is all the entire 1st Army gets. For some reason, Patton’s 3rd Army doesn’t want any, and we aren’t sharing with the frogs, of course. There will be more, but, for the time being, these are all the Pershings in Europe. Congratulations, Captains, but you are it when it comes to taking on German armor.”

* * *

Heinrich Himmler did not like to leave Berlin and the perceived safety of the Chancellery building. Even though it had been the target of Allied bombers on several occasions, luck had held and damage was still minimal. Of course, if he wished to, he could retreat to Hitler’s vast underground bunker system. Himmler had considered that option but dismissed it. The place was damp and depressing, and moving underground smacked of cowardice. He would not move there until and if it became absolutely necessary.

Himmler and a small entourage traveled at night and in his private armored train, hiding on sidings during the day. They made it safely to the outskirts of Frankfurt. The city center had been badly bombed; thus, no suitable and secure facilities were available for him. Himmler needed no further reminders that Allied bombers and fighters ruled the skies.

They left the train and traveled by car to an estate once owned by a long ago disappeared Jewish family and now run by the SS as a rest area. Tomorrow, he would take a brief drive to the Rhine Wall. Himmler didn’t want to, but Goebbels had convinced him that pictures of him with soldiers at the front would help with morale. Rundstedt added that viewing the defenses first hand would help him understand just what the military was confronting.

Himmler was very nervous and worked hard to hide it. He didn’t like being so close to the enemy. He felt that men who were very brave often wound up very dead. While he did not think of himself as a coward, he felt that his place was in Berlin, organizing and running the Third Reich and not anywhere near the front lines.