by Ward Wagher
“And let me know when my car is out front.”
“Of course, Herr Reichsprotektor.”
The reply seemed smug to him. He had no one to blame but himself. Things had gotten out of hand, and word of his lovers’ quarrel would ricochet around the building for hours before losing momentum.
§ § §
August 11, 1942; 3 PM
Reich Chancellor’s Office
Reich Chancellery
Berlin, Germany
“Now, what is it that requires my immediate attention, Karl?” Schloss asked. “You have made me nervous. What have the English done now?”
“No, Herr Schloss, this is a personal matter. I… I have lost my objectivity. I understand you would have trouble finding a replacement for me. But I am not sure I can continue to serve you well.”
Schloss cocked his head as he studied the man he had come to know well over the previous year. The man who had known Heinrich Schloss, the alternate Heinrich Schloss for probably ten years, he wasn’t sure. Rainer was a man who was sure about his mission in life, and completely ruthless in the pursuit of it. The only time he had seen him hesitant was in his relationship with the young American girl.
“Are we talking about woman problems, Karl?”
Rainer shook. “Is it that obvious, Herr Reich Chancellor? The woman has me completely at my wit’s end.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“I received a call late this morning from an SS captain at Peenemünde. A week ago, he came upon Fräulein Simpson beside the road with a flat tire. This was at nearly midnight, and it was in the restricted zone around the Peenemünde installations.”
Schloss laid his elbows on the desk and folded his hands. “That is very interesting, Karl. And did you talk to her about this?”
“She claimed to have driven to Wolgast for dinner that evening. Upon leaving she got confused and took a wrong turn.”
“That is certainly plausible,” Schloss commented. “Although, it seems like quite a distance to drive just for a meal.”
“That was my thought,” Rainer said. “And she had her camera in the car.”
“And it took the SS captain a week to tell you about it. I thought they were supposed to report any interactions with the diplomatic community immediately.”
“Yes, that occurred to me as well. I am going to have to speak to that officer’s superiors about his performance. That was unacceptable.”
“As well you should,” Schloss said. “And, I assume you are at a loss on how to handle Fräulein Simpson?”
“When we catch someone with a diplomatic carnet in something like this, the usual course of action is to declare them persona non-grata, and send them packing.”
“I can understand that,” the Reich Chancellor agreed. “But, there is something holding you back; is that correct, Karl?”
“Yes, Herr Schloss. Our standing with the Americans is somewhat sensitive at this time. I would have to consider their possible reaction to the PNG. And since I have allowed myself to become infatuated with the girl, I feel it is affecting my judgment.”
“I see.”
Schloss stood up and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain away and studied the traffic in the street below. I must maintain my serious demeanor, he thought sternly to himself. It would not do for Karl to realize he has amused me. He stood there for fifteen or twenty seconds, and then walked around to the front of the desk and sat on the corner.
“You were very correct to consider the impact on our relationship with the Americans,” he said. “I believe kicking the first secretary of the consulate out of the country would be counterproductive when they are about to upgrade it to an embassy.”
“That is it, exactly,” Rainer responded.
Schloss held up a finger to stop him. “There is nothing wrong with your thinking processes, Karl. And, I dare say, little wrong with your judgment. Here is what I would suggest, reserve a day to take the Fräulein up for a tour of the Peenemünde installations. We can let the Americans know what we are working on in general terms. We can let them know that any details they desire would be subject to negotiation. Then, take her to dinner at her restaurant in Wolgast.”
“But, that is one of our most closely guarded secrets,” he responded.
“The English clearly knew something was going on there. If Fräulein Simpson was wandering around up there, the Americans are also aware of it. I think we should pay attention to how our friends and our enemies are finding out about this. That makes me unhappy, Karl.”
“I have already dedicated some resources to attending to that problem,” he said. “It frightens me.”
“It frightens me, too,” Schloss said.
“Very well,” Rainer said, standing up. “Thank you for your time and your advice.”
“One other item, Karl, before you go,” Schloss said as he slid off the corner and desk, and walked around to his chair. The chair squeaked as he sat down.
“You are involved, of course, in that new model of the Enigma coding machine that is ready for distribution.”
“Yes, Herr Reich Chancellor. We have been testing it. It seems to be much improved.”
“I think so too. I am still getting some resistance from the military, well, the Wehrmacht and the Kriegsmarine. I believe foot-dragging is the term, and I am weary of it. Goering seems to be ramming through the Luftwaffe with dispatch.”
“Active or passive?” Rainer asked.
“Passive, I think. Hermann and I have an ongoing project to reorganize the high command, and the OKW has not responded to that well, either.”
“I thought it was Goering dragging his feet on that project,” Rainer commented, looking down at his hands. “He certainly hasn’t covered himself in glory.”
Schloss snorted. “That would be one way to express it. I had hoped this was something he would be able to accomplish on his own. I think we are rapidly approaching the point where I am going to have to take direct action.”
“Do you fear a military coup?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so. But, I think we are going to have to replace some people over there, and I don’t have the liveliest respect for Goering’s judgment on personnel matters.”
“I don’t either.” Rainer thought for a few moments. “Perhaps I should give this some thought.”
“I wish you would, Karl. I would like to have several options immediately available in case things come unglued.”
“I fervently hope that will not happen. Let me prepare some options for you, in case we have to act quickly.”
“I would appreciate that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
August 16, 1942; 2 AM
Over Birmingham, UK
Captain Gregor Koche studied the instrument panel, and then scanned the night sky. His flight was part of a massive bombing raid in the heart of England. Their target on this early Sunday morning was the Castle Bromwich factory near Birmingham. The so-called shadow factory produced Spitfire fighters. The Luftwaffe briefer had told them that with the Supermarine factory in Southampton bombed out, the destruction of this plant would seriously affect the supply of Spitfires to the RAF.
While there was always a level of unease while flying over enemy territory, this was nothing like the terror he had experienced the previous December when his flight had become separated from the formation and he found himself over England in broad daylight. This time he had the security of a large formation, coming from an unexpected direction.
The Reichsmarshall had directed that the raid stage out of Brest on the northwest coast of France. After flying north over the Celtic and Irish seas, they had turned due east for Birmingham. For the first part of the trip, they had been accompanied by a Condor radar aircraft so they would have some warning of attacks by night fighters. They had been unmolested thus far, and the Condor remained orbiting over the Irish Sea, close to the neutral nation’s twelve-mile limit.
After cruising at 5,000 meters for
most of the trip, the formation was now in a shallow dive and planned to arrive over the target at 2,500 meters. With the target illuminated by parachute flares from the lead plane, the dive would give them the speed to get through the target area as quickly as possible.
Kocke glanced at the instruments one more time. “Very well, pilot’s airplane,” he said to the copilot
“Pilot’s aircraft,” the copilot repeated back and lift his hands from the controls.
“All right, Hans,” Koche said, “let’s do our job and go home.”
“Fine by me, Herr Captain.”
The low-level clouds and fog that often obscured the English countryside were mercifully absent. They had been given strict orders to abort the raid if the target was not plainly visible. The new rules forbade them from indiscriminate bombing. Rumor was the early Sunday morning timing was selected when the factory was at its minimal manning levels. While Koche would normally have been happy to send as many of the Inselaffe to meet their maker as possible, he understood the strategy of separating the civilians from the military. Anything that contributed to ending this war was fine with him.
“Pilot, I have the target,” the bombardier called. “Steer two degrees right.”
Koche touched the rudder and watched the compass as the Junkers drifted ever so slightly to the right.
“Easy, easy,” the bombardier said. “We’re right there. And...”
Koche felt the plane surge upwards as the bombs released.
“Bombs away!” the bombardier called unnecessarily.
He followed the planes ahead of him in a gentle turn to the right, and his flight followed.
“No anti-aircraft?” the copilot asked. “Did we catch them that much by surprise?”
“Crew,” Koche called, “be on the lookout for fighters.”
Behind them, anti-aircraft shells began to burst. It seemed the English had awakened. The flashes as the bombs landed flickered like lightning. As they swung around to return to the coast, the copilot stretched to look out to their right and behind them. He held a pair of field glasses.
“Looks like we were right on target, Herr Captain.”
“There’s some good news, then,” Koche replied. “Now, let us see if we can get ourselves home with our skins still attached.”
“All right by me. Heidi wants me in one piece.”
“There is just one piece of you that Heidi is interested in,” a voice called over the intercom.
Koche barked a laugh, and then pushed his intercom button. “Enough. There will be English night fighters around, and they won’t be happy.”
The Condor had swung back closer to the English coast as the bombers returned. It detected numerous contacts which were probably RAF night fighters searching for the raiding formation. For some reason, they were unable to close with the Bombers, and the Germans were able to cruise out over the Irish Sea without seeing action. They swung south and eventually landed in Brest.
§ § §
August 16, 1942; 8 AM
Chequers Court
Near Ellesborough, UK
“So, my friend Herr Schloss has gifted us with a night visit?” Winston Churchill commented as he read the dispatch.
He looked up at the RAF captain, who had delivered the message. “May I assume you have been up the better part of the night.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. I was most familiar with the details, so I was sent.”
“You can confirm the factory is gone?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“And what about the casualties?”
The airman cleared his throat. “The plant had shut down at Midnight for Sunday. There was a twenty-five man maintenance crew on site. Eight survived, two uninjured.”
“Thirteen deaths at the plant,” Churchill shook his head. “What about the surrounding area?”
“The bombers were surprisingly accurate. While a number of bombs fell outside the plant property, no one was injured, and there was minimal damage to civilian property.”
“And, were we able to reduce the raiders?”
“Two of the bombers were shot down, Sir.”
Churchill picked up a glass of wine on the table next to where he stood and took a healthy drink. “I had hoped to keep Schloss off balance longer than this.”
“Do you have any instructions, Sir?” the captain asked.
“Please let my office know when the funeral for the workers is to be conducted.”
“I shall do so, Sir.”
The prime minister nodded. “Thank you for bringing this news, sad as it was.”
After the messenger left, Churchill strolled into the garden alongside the house. He noted his minders, as he thought of the guards and then studied the plantings. He would have liked to return to his home at Chartwell, but the distance from London was further than he liked, and its proximity to the English Channel made his minders very nervous. Everyone knew that Jerry did not have the capability to nip across the channel for a kidnapping, but stranger things had happened.
The summer blossoms gave their heady scent, and the slight rush of the morning breeze was pleasant. As he meandered around the garden, he pondered his challenges. It always came back to the war. Heinrich Schloss had succeeded in tilting the propaganda war back in favor of the Germans. People had quickly forgotten that the German Reich was the aggressor in this war, and had rolled over almost every acre of Western Europe.
The death of Hitler the previous June had brought a new breed of Nazi into the leadership of that nation. Less murderous and more pragmatic, Schloss had engineered such bold strokes as creating a homeland in Palestine for the Jews. He had freed the economies of the conquered territories, and the entire region was seeing honest growth. Worst of all, Schloss had succeeded in avoiding war with any other nations. He had even accomplished a rapprochement with the United States.
All of this impacted Churchill’s leadership of the United Kingdom. The people of London were no longer ducking their heads in the Underground as bombs rained down upon the city. There were beginning to be questions in the House about the horrendous costs of a war that seemed to be over. People were listening to Schloss’s overtures and asking themselves, “Why not?”
The Prime Minister was determined not to let the Germans off the hook. They had not only enslaved the better part of a continent, but they needed to be held accountable for their brutality and theft. When their backs were to the wall, the Britons backed their leader with stoic determination. Now that the pressure was off, they were anxious to demobilize the armed forces and get back to their pubs and their pints.
Winston sensed that he did not have a lot of time. He was beginning to despair of building a coalition to defeat the Germans. President Henry Wallace of the United States had made it clear that this country would remain scrupulously neutral. Besides, America had her own war in the Pacific. It appeared England no longer had a part in that. Without America, he had no hope of beating Germany. Parliament was restive. The people were tired. It would be so easy to give in to the siren call coming from Germany.
He stared up at the sky, and the mood of the weather matched his. The day seemed gloomy and foreboding. Not superstitious, he shook his head. When one approach failed, a new one was called for. What could he do that would shore up his approval in the Commons as well as with the people of England? What would be the thing that accomplished that goal as well as put the Germans on the defensive?
He stopped walking suddenly. Then he pulled a cigar from his pocket, bit the end off, and lit it. Puffing energetically, he considered the possibilities. Yes, that might work. He puffed some more as he thought. The broad outlines of a plan jelled for him. He spun around and marched back to the house. If he had to sit here on a Sunday, he would not only relax, but he would work on a plan to twist Schloss’s stratagems against him. He was not confident of success, but also had nothing to lose at this point.
§ § §
August 18, 1942; 4 PM
Reic
h Chancellor’s Office
Reich Chancellery
Berlin, Germany
Kirche laid the afternoon summary on Schloss’s desk and quietly walked out again. He had learned that the man would become crabby if he interrupted him to tell him the obvious. Schloss was carefully working his way through the endless paperwork that deluged the seat of government, and at some level was aware of Kirche’s presence. He continued working his way down the document, touching it with his ever-present pencil in places. Finally, he sighed and initialed the first page of the document to indicate he had looked at it.
He then spun around and refilled his coffee cup from the thermos bottle on the credenza behind his desk. The secretary made sure it stayed filled and hot. Schloss, under pressure from his wife, had limited himself to three or four cups of coffee per day, but at the point he wanted the coffee, he desired it to be plenteous and hot.
He sipped the cup in appreciation and then spun back around to confront his desk. Noting Kirche’s latest delivery, he picked up the afternoon digest and skimmed. He stopped two paragraphs down.
“Kirche!” he shouted.
“Yes, Herr Reich Chancellor?”
“How long have we known about this?”
“You are speaking of the English announcement?”
“Of course, I am! You should have interrupted me. I might not have gotten to this for another hour.”
“Of course, Herr Reich Chancellor.”
Schloss glared at his secretary and waved his pencil at the man. “Always the games, Willem? Someday you will be sorry.”
Kirche ignored the rebuke. “Would you like me to call the government together, Sir?”
“Put together a government meeting for tomorrow morning,” Schloss ordered, “but, get me Peter on the phone now.”
“At once, Sir.”
A few minutes later the bell on his telephone tinkled. He picked up the receiver.
“Schloss.”
“I gather you saw the afternoon digest,” Peter Schreiber commented.
