by Ward Wagher
In the distance, she heard a vehicle and saw the lights. If she were truly stranded here, she needed to act the part. She shrugged and began waving the flashlight. Some kind of a German military staff car halted behind her.
“You are a long way from nowhere, Fräulein,” the short, thin man in the SS captain’s uniform said.
“I drove up for dinner tonight, and now I have a flat tire,” Misty said. “I think I am lost as well.” She did her best to inject a slight helpless note into her voice.
“I am going to have to see your papers, Fräulein.”
“Oh, yes, of course. My purse is in the car.”
“Please stay where you are. Hans, bring me her purse.”
“Jawohl,” Hans said.
He immediately walked to the driver’s door and opened it. Seeing what he needed, he pulled the purse from the passenger seat and brought it to the captain. He carried it over to set it on the fender of his car.
“There is a diplomatic carnet in there, Herr Captain,” Misty said. “I am with the American Consulate in Berlin.”
He eased the small pistol out of the purse and looked at her. Although his face was partially shadowed because of the headlights of his car, she saw his eyebrow raise. He laid the gun on the fender, and then slid the carnet from her purse. He opened it and shined his flashlight on it. He then walked back over to her. The light glinted off the wireframes of his glasses.
“You are a long way from Berlin tonight, Fräulein.”
“I had dinner in Wolgast,” Misty explained. “I heard about a nice restaurant and wanted to try it.”
“Which restaurant would that be?”
“Gasthaus Sabinhorst.”
Fortunately, she had eaten at the Gasthaus Sabinhorst, and in fact, had heard about the place from one of the German employees in the consulate.
“That is a fine restaurant, and well known,” the SS Captain said. “Unfortunately, you headed in the wrong direction from Wolgast.”
She thought quickly about how to react and placed her hands on her hips with an audible sigh. “Well, darn! That just puts a cap on the day. I am in a real mess here. I have a flat tire, and I cannot find the tools in the car. I don’t suppose you could help me.”
The captain stared at her for what seemed like a full minute.
“Hans! Kindly change the tire on the Fräulein’s automobile.”
“At once, Sir.”
The other officer wore the uniform of a corporal, she thought. He looked briefly in the trunk, and then trotted back to get the tools from the trunk of their car. The captain continued to study her.
“It is perhaps fortunate we came along, Fräulein Simpson,” he said. “This is a military reservation and you really should not be here.”
She allowed her mouth to form an oh, and then she put her hand over it. “Am I in trouble?”
He chuckled. “No. But, you would have had a long walk back to Wolgast. No one lives between here and there. Hans will get your tire changed, and then you will follow us back to Wolgast. I will awaken a mechanic and have your tire repaired. Then I would suggest you get a room in the Gasthaus. It is a long way back to Berlin. If you encountered checkpoints at this time of night, they might not be as understanding.”
She now stared at him, trying to read his face in the night. She thought it best to play safe. “Perhaps you are right. I thank you for the advice.”
“Our Reich Chancellor has put a priority on maintaining our friendship with the Americans,” he continued. “May I suggest you not abuse your privileges as a guest in our land.”
“I understand.”
He nodded. “And may I suggest you sit in my car until Hans is finished? The rain is picking up.”
“Thank you for your courtesy,” she replied.
He led her over to the back door of his car and opened it for her. After she climbed in, he closed the door and walked back to where Hans worked on the Opel. She could see the rain dripping from the bill of the captain’s hat as he conversed with the corporal.
§ § §
August 3, 1942; 9 PM
U.S.S. Hessian
Philippine Sea
The former German U-Boat, U.S.S. Hessian quietly broached the surface of the darkling sea. A full moon was drifting towards the western horizon. The watch scrambled out of the hatch and climbed up to their posts at the top of the conning tower. Lieutenant Commander Carper followed them up and quickly scanned the ocean with his binoculars.
“Okay, start the engines,” he called down the hatch.
With a clunk, the exhaust ports opened. There was a hiss as the compressed air turned over the diesels. With a cough and belch, the engines settled into their muted thunder. He called down to make turns for steerage on the electric motors. Given the past several days, of playing cat and mouse with the Japanese destroyer, the batteries were almost exhausted and the crew completely. For now, Carper was content to push a charge into the batteries as quickly as possible.
Jolly Rogers, the Executive Officer, was busy below supervising the minor repairs and maintenance needed after the days of constant action. Carper was content to leave that to the Exec, while he supervised the deck watch, and kept an eye on the horizon himself. The boat was out of torpedoes, so if their friendly Jap showed again, all they could do would be to run and hide.
Rogers requested the opening of the forward hatch and then opened all the internal hatches so that the diesels could suck fresh air from the front all through the boat. Although the book said that you never opened all the internal hatches at sea, let alone the front deck hatch, the seas were glass smooth. The crew reacted to the fresh air as though it was ambrosia.
Carper noticed the deck hatch open and decided to say nothing, even though it made him nervous. He knew what Rogers had done and why. He redoubled his efforts to scan around the submarine. He could easily see the shadow cast upon the sea by the setting moon behind him. He was fairly confident the destroyer was somewhere to their west. They would see it before it saw them. Probably. For now, it was important to get the batteries charged, and the crew rested. He spent most of the night on deck pondering the performance of the boat, and the behavior of the Japanese.
As the eastern horizon just started growing light, Carper sent off his daily report over the radio and received the response. They buttoned up the boat again, and dove. They leveled off at one-hundred feet and cruised at five knots. The skipper and the exec held their morning meeting in Carper’s tiny cabin.
Rogers sipped his coffee and struggled with the bone-weariness. “We going to do an after-action review?”
“Yes, but you and I need to get some rest, first.”
“That was an amazing piece of ship-handling, Skipper. I was sure that destroyer had us cold. Where did you learn how to do things like that?”
Carper thought back on the grinding hours of terror as he frantically improvised one maneuver and then another in a futile effort to shake the tin can. “Honestly, Exec. I was sure we were dead, too. I just could not make myself give up. As long as we had air to breathe and there was something left in the battery, I had to keep trying. It was just sheer desperation.”
Rogers snorted and then had to set down the coffee cup. His shaking hands were causing it to slop over the edges. “I learned more from you during that time than the entire rest of my time in the navy. It was just… brilliant.”
Carper managed a sour laugh. “God, I hope we never have to go through something like that again.”
“Mr. Nip is still out there in his destroyer, Skipper. I wouldn’t be surprised if we run into him again.”
“You sure know how to ruin a good mood, Jolly. I could have gone all day without thinking about that.”
“And, if I know you, Skip, you are already turning over in your mind what you will do the next time we spot him.”
Carper decided to change the subject. “How’s the boat?”
“The boat is in good shape, Skipper,” Rogers reported. “We had a few brok
en light bulbs, but that was about it. Considering the number of depth charges that nip rolled on us, I’m amazed.”
“It’s a stout boat, looks like,” Carper commented. “And the crew?”
“Back on port and starboard watches. The off-duty group got a night’s sleep. We have the other half bedded down, now. You should probably get some sleep, Skipper.”
“I will. I’ll need to spell you, as well. When did you last sleep?”
Rogers looked one way and then the other. “I think I got a couple of hours last night. I let Lieutenant Dorsey stand the watch for a while. I sat in the corner and dozed. He needs the experience.”
“Fine. I need you to look at the bunkers and see how far we can stretch the diesel if the replenishment ship isn’t there anymore.”
“I hope to God, it is,” Rogers exclaimed.
“Me, too. But those crazy Nips are all over the place. Also, run an audit of the food stores.”
“I understand.”
“Very well, Mr. Exec. I am going to get some rest. Make sure the hydrophone operator stays on top of things. We don’t need any surprises.”
“Aye, aye, Skip.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
August 9, 1942; Noon
16 Rothschild Boulevard
Tel Aviv, Judaea
“There,” David Ben Gurion stated. “It is done.”
He affixed his signature to the declaration of the Jewish nation. “As of this moment, Judaea joins the nations of the world.”
The Jewish delegates crowded into the Tel Aviv Museum of Art broke into raucous applause, and cheers. The several reporters in the room, who had been taking notes, scrambled to leave and find a telegraph office.
“And our problems begin,” Golda Meyerson muttered.
Otto Skorzeny stood in the back of the room watching the event. Following the bombing that had killed Menachem Begin, Ben Gurion had become much more serious about his security. Skorzeny had plainclothes security people sprinkled through the hall, ready to pounce if any of the overly animated Jews crossed the line and became violent. Outside, armed guards maintained a presence. This was a day of triumph for the Jews, and he was determined no Jewish blood would be shed. Although he thought with a snort, he needed to start referring to this determined people as Judaeans. They were, after all, now a nation.
Skorzeny had prepared his own telegram with instructions to transmit it to Karl Rainer as soon as the assembly voted. He was not sure of what the reaction of the people in Germany would be, however, Rainer and Schloss were prepared to immediately accord diplomatic recognition to the new land and would follow it with military aid. The aid could not come soon enough, he thought. The Judaean Defense Forces were well trained and effective, but the lack of heavier weapons was a challenge. If the destruction of the Dome of the Rock had instilled a killing rage in the Moslems, the declaration of a Jewish state in Palestine would drive them insane.
After an hour, the flock of people gradually dispersed. Ben Gurion looked around, spotted Skorzeny, and tilted his head towards the door. Skorzeny made eye contact with his people in the room. Each had seen Ben Gurion’s decision. It was time to leave. The security team gradually folded in on itself as their principal made his way to the door. One of the guards stepped outside to warn the others they were on the move.
“Back to the office,” the Judaean leader murmured as he walked to the door.
“Very well, Prime Minister,” Skorzeny replied.
Ben Gurion chuckled. “I have not been called that, before.”
“It’s official, now, though.”
“Not really. Everyone defers to me because I am older and speak softly. There will be an election soon.”
Skorzeny had designed the security team so that an inner group kept close to Ben Gurion as they walked along the dusty streets of Tel Aviv. Another group moved out further so there was maybe a half block between the front and the back of the group.
There was a lot of excitement in the city. As the group walked along the thoroughfare, they were greeted by shouts of mazeltov and shalom. Ben Gurion smiled and waved to those who enthusiastically supported Judaean independence. The reflection of the sun off the whitewashed walls was almost blinding. The blue Mediterranean sky was free of clouds. It was not as warm as usual, and everyone concluded it was a wonderful day to celebrate.
When they arrived at the small office building the committee had co-opted as the temporary seat of government, Ben Gurion invited Skorzeny to come into his office. Skorzeny, himself, had set the rule that one of the security people was in the office with the Jewish leader at all times, but this time, he was invited to be a part of the conversation.
“What may I help you with, Sir?” he asked.
Ben Gurion eased himself carefully into his chair behind an average business desk. “I need some advice, and I have learned you are far more knowledgeable than people realize. Sit down. It is hard enough to look up at you when I am standing.”
“I have always profited by having people underestimate me,” Skorzeny replied as he selected one of the chairs in front of the desk and sat down. He noted the twinkle in the little man’s eye.
“And when you have given me advice, you have most often been right.”
“Within my area of expertise, I try to make sure I know what I am doing.”
Ben Gurion tapped his desk with an index finger. “Just so. What, in your mind, was the most significant disagreement within the committee this morning.”
Skorzeny tried but did not entirely succeed in smothering a smile.
Ben Gurion laughed softly. “You are right. The Jews are born to disagree. They are a disagreeable people. If they do not have something to argue about, they invent it.”
“The borders for Judaea, Sir,” Skorzeny replied.
“Very good, Otto. I finessed the argument about the borders of our land so we could wrap up the declaration. We would have otherwise been in that room all day, and into the night. Nevertheless, it is an important issue.”
“Can you make a decision on that, by yourself?” Skorzeny asked.
“I believe I can take action to establish the borders, and the people will accept the result. My question for you is, what should those borders include?”
“Dr. Ben Gurion, that is something that is outside of my expertise. I would be happy to offer advice on your armed forces.”
Ben Gurion was resting his wrists on the edge of the desk. He raised his fingers up. “I understand that. We will come to the armed forces, next. I expect Judaea to have enemies. Enemies who are determined to destroy us. This has always been so. What does my military advisor suggest for borders, given the threats we face?”
“They must be defensible, of course. A natural barrier is always best.”
“That makes sense. Is there anything else that comes to mind?”
Skorzeny folded his hands and considered what the little man asked him. “I received a letter from the Reichsprotektor a while back. It contained instructions for my continued support of your efforts.”
“Instructions to you?”
“Yes, of course. Neither the Reichsprotektor nor the Reich Chancellor would presume to give you instructions, Sir.”
“They handed me a blank canvass, this territory of Palestine.”
“And you should write large,” Skorzeny stated.
“I beg your pardon?” a surprised Ben Gurion responded.
“I’m sorry, Sir. It just occurred to me what Herr Rainer was saying in his letter. Your declaration of statehood was not unexpected in Berlin. In fact, they planned for it.”
“They expected this?”
“They hoped for it. I believe the intent is that Judaea must be in a position to defend itself. Herr Schloss has managed to stop the pogroms against the Jews in the Reich. Shedding German blood in Palestine to protect the Jews might be more than the German people are willing to accept.”
Ben Gurion rocked back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and gazed around t
he room. It was a simple office, without trim or wainscoting to offset the plaster. He contained his shock at Skorzeny’s words and forced himself to consider them.
“I believe that makes much sense. So, did the Reich Chancellor send us to this land to die?”
“Not at all. At least, it would not be the sure death if your people had stayed in Europe. You know that.”
“Then what would you have us do?”
“Herr Rainer made the comment in his letter that you would be wise to acquire as much territory as you can hold at the outset.”
“And why would he have said that?”
“I believe,” Skorzeny continued, “that he had two things in mind. One is that there is an American saying that possession is nine-tenths of the law. As soon as it receives the formal declaration, Germany will recognize Judaea. The borders will be in place, and we can probably force tacit acceptance by anyone who matters. I believe that might be more constraints in what would be accepted in the future.”
“If we wanted to expand our borders in the future at some point, in other words.”
“Exactly,” Skorzeny said.
Ben Gurion stared at the other man for nearly a minute. He was clearly thinking hard before he spoke. “I think you are a wise man, and a much more strategic thinker than you have allowed us to perceive.”
“Personally, Dr. Ben Gurion, I would prefer to be underestimated.”
“Well, I have consistently done that.” He folded his arms across his chest, and then leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. “So where would you draw the borders?”
“For what it’s worth,” Skorzeny said, “I would do this: take the Sinai to the border of Egypt. Extend to the east to the Jordan River, and draw the border straight south to the gulf. Grab the heights above the Sea of Galilee, and draw the border west to the sea.”
