Impossible Nazi

by Ward Wagher

  “And to give credit where it’s due, your man Skorzeny here actually tracked down the team and called us in to make the arrests.”

  Schloss quirked a slight smile at Skorzeny. The man had many talents, obviously. It looked as though he had stashed Ben Gurion at the embassy and went hunting. He originally was one of Himmler’s and Heydrich’s triggermen, but had changed sides after Schloss took over. He was proving his worth multiple times over.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for this information,” Schloss said. “Is there any idea on why they decided to target President Wallace?”

  “They were targeting you, Sir,” Skorzeny immediately replied. You and the president both have similar builds and were dressed almost identically. In the dark, they mistook the president for you.”

  “Do you know that, Otto?” Schloss pressed. “Is this not just supposition on your part?”

  “Herr Reich Chancellor, you are the only target that makes sense. With you swept from the board, there would be no possibility of achieving peace. Herr Schreiber and Herr Rainer would be fully engaged in maintaining the government.”

  Schloss decided not to ask Agostinho what he thought. The PVDE captain was irrelevant to the discussion. Besides, Skorzeny made a lot of sense. He had a reputation as a brilliant operator. At this moment he was also showing solid strategic instincts.

  “Very well, as it happens, Herr Skorzeny, I agree with you. I had to have been the target. Captain, is there any news about President Wallace?”

  “As of a half hour ago he was still alive, but he was gravely wounded.”

  Schloss sighed deeply. “Very well, Captain. Thank you for the report.”

  Agostinho nodded and left the room. Schloss looked at Skorzeny.

  “A very nice piece of work, Herr Skorzeny.”

  “Herr Reich Chancellor, I am here to serve,” he immediately responded.

  “I think we should all try to get some rest. The upcoming day will likely be rough.”

  Schloss nodded to Schreiber and then left the room.

  § § §

  September 22, 1942; 4:30 AM

  American Embassy

  Lisbon, Portugal

  Misty had gone to sleep in a chair in the reception room. People were hurrying in and out of the embassy trying to look important, but nobody knew anything. On the other hand, everyone was terrified. She had commandeered a typewriter and written her report of the day’s activities, but the sergeant in charge of the embassy communications section had not wanted to transmit it. It had finally required her throwing her weight around and getting Ralph Fennes to intervene for her. She wasn’t sure what the ambassador or Secretary Hull had sent to Washington, but at least Donovan and the OSS would know what was going on.

  Fennes had then gone out to see what information he could uncover in the middle of the night. He had refused to allow her to go along. It was too dangerous, he explained, and he was better at this on his own. She decided to stay in the reception room rather than return to her guest room. If anything happened, she would be best positioned to hear about it downstairs.

  She gradually became aware of the smell of coffee as sleep retreated. When she opened her eyes, Fennes was waving a cup of coffee back and forth under her nose. Against her own will, she giggled.

  “Ralph! You’re lucky I didn’t slap that cup out of your hand.”

  “Naah, you’re too gentle.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I could tell you stories.”

  “Please,” he replied. “Life is too dull around here. I’ve heard rumors about the first secretary in the Berlin embassy.”

  “And they shall stay such. What news? What time is it anyway?”

  She twisted her arm around to look at her wristwatch and groaned. “Two hours of sleep is going to make for a long day.”

  “That is probably two hours more than I’ll get,” Fennes said. “I have some news.”

  “Well, stop jabbering and give over, Ralph.”

  “The PVDE arrested the team that managed the shooting. They are English.”

  She reached out and grabbed his arm. “The English shot the president? What on earth were they thinking?”

  “The team isn’t talking. However, the current theory is that they were sent out to kill Schloss. In the dark, outside of the hotel, he and the president looked very similar. They got the wrong man.”

  “What is this going to do to British-American relations?” she asked.

  He frowned and shook his head slowly. “Whatever their intentions, they probably set the relationship back about two-hundred years… around the time of Cornwallis. Misty, this is just about as bad as it gets.”

  “And any hope for ending the European war gets stopped cold.”

  “That was Churchill’s intent, I assume,” Fennes explained. “And, he succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.”

  “This will kill any hope of an early end to the Pacific war as well,” she said thoughtfully. “Gosh, what a mess. Is there any news about the president?”

  “Here comes the ambassador and Secretary Hull. Maybe they will have some news.”

  Misty stood up as they entered the room. Hull spotted her and walked over.

  “You have been reporting to Bill Donovan, I assume?”

  “Yes, Sir. I sent a report at 2:30,” she replied.

  “That was good initiative on your part. You are going to have to warm up your typewriter again, I’m afraid.”

  “Sir?”

  “As soon as possible after I send a message to the State Department, you will need to get another message to Donovan. You see, President Wallace is dead.”

  Misty choked. Fennes put his hand over his face and swore quietly.

  “What are we going to do, Mr. Secretary?” she finally said.

  “I do not know. The situation in Washington is going to be confused, to put it mildly. The Congress is still debating Wallace’s appointment of Harry Truman to be the Vice-president.”

  “In other words,” Fennes commented, “Hell just let out for lunch.”

  “That is it exactly, Mr. Fennes.”

  “If it has to be said, Mr. Secretary,” Misty said, “I am at your orders. Given the circumstances, I don’t believe Mr. Donovan will object.”

  “Thank you for that, Miss Simpson. I think Mr. Fennes accurately described the situation in his uncouth way. This is a sad day for America. For now, I will be closeted with the Ambassador. We need to make some sense of this mess. If any further news comes in, please let me know.”

  “Were you aware the PVDE arrested the assassins?” Fennes asked.

  “I was not.”

  “I had just found out and came back to the embassy. It was a team of British agents.”

  Hull staggered and put his hand on his forehead. “My God, my God!” he said softly. “What will we do now?”

  Misty and Fennes watched as the two diplomats stumbled out of the room.

  “The whole world’s going to hell,” Fennes said.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” she replied.

  “Well, you have some instructions. You had better go find that typewriter.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  September 22, 1942; 9 AM

  Hotel Avenida Palace

  Lisbon, Portugal

  “Thank you for seeing me this morning, Mr. Secretary,” Schloss said. “I understand things are very confused and I will not take much of your time.”

  “Herr Reich Chancellor, it is only fair that I see you this morning,” Cordell Hull replied. “Unfortunately, I will be unable to respond positively to your request to continue the talks.”

  “I was afraid that might be the case,” Schloss said. “Allow me, once again, to express my deep sorrow at the loss of President Wallace. I must say it was a shock.”

  Hull’s voice quavered. “It was the sheer unexpectedness of it. It was so soon after we lost President Roosevelt. You know, I used to worry about President Roosevelt. He was never really that healthy. But, President Wallac
e was so full of vigor.”

  “I got to know him only briefly,” Schloss said quietly. “But I was impressed with the man.”

  “Just so. And, now I must return to Washington. This event has spawned a major crisis. The Congress has yet to confirm Vice-President Truman.”

  “Is there an aircraft available?”

  “The Pan-American Clipper arrives tomorrow. They are expediting the turnaround, so I think I can leave in two days.”

  “That’s a bit of good news,” Schloss said. “Forgive me if I am indelicate, but have you given any thought to a continuation of the conference in the near future?”

  Hull shook his head. “I’m sorry. I must understand that life goes on, and I have a job to do. The problem is that under the circumstances, I may lack the leverage to move the British to a conclusion of this war. I would find it distasteful to even meet with them given what they did last night.”

  “Might I suggest that you tell them the Americans would view dimly their resumption of hostilities?”

  Hull stared at Schloss. “I should have thought of that myself. I believe I might be able to arrange a meeting with Eden. I think I would refuse to be in the same room with Churchill. I am convinced the man is complicit in murder.”

  Hull was a diplomat of the old school, Schloss thought. He was an honorable man and expected everyone else to uphold their honor. The man would have been utterly lost in the Berlin of 1982 where Schloss originally lived. Under other circumstances, Churchill would eat him for breakfast. Eden, himself, was more in the mold of Chamberlain. He expected the best from people. The shock of Hitler’s duplicity probably contributed to the former prime minister’s early death.

  “I won’t argue with you,” Schloss said. “Although, to be honest, I think Churchill was planning to kill me, and the death of your president was a mistake.”

  “My people have suggested that,” Hull said. “What a monstrous thing to do. I would like to see Churchill tried for murder. This is something that civilized nations would scarcely do.”

  Schloss thought about the murderers in Nazi uniforms who started this war in the first place. And, he was hardly better. He still had nightmares of the night he blew Himmler’s brains all over the curtains in the government council chamber. That was what began Germany’s slow climb away from insanity. At some point in the future, the blood-guiltiness of the nation would have to be addressed.

  “Would it help if you and I met with Eden together?” Or perhaps with our Foreign Minister?”

  “If Herr Schreiber could be available for something like that,” Hull replied, “I don’t think we would necessarily lose anything. And perhaps something good would come of it.”

  “I will have Peter contact you, Mr. Secretary,” Schloss said, shaking Hull’s hand. “Perhaps with a little luck, we will all get through this horrible time and move forward.”

  Hull swallowed. “I have nothing, personally, against hope as a diplomatic tool. Of course, it is often faint and frail.”

  “That it is. Thank you for seeing me, Sir.”

  § § §

  September 22, 1942; 2 PM

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California, USA

  The USS Hessian slowly motored into the harbor during the early fall afternoon. A broom was lashed to the periscope mast, indicating a clean sweep by the American U-Boat. She had exhausted all of her torpedoes and sunk seven ships. Commander Carper was a very satisfied man. As he stood to one side of the conning tower.

  The Chief of the Boat stood on the other side of the conning tower and surveyed the navy yard.

  “Bit odd, this afternoon, Skipper,” the chief said.

  “How so, Chief?”

  “We come into port with the broom like that, we at least get a few toots from the smaller boats. It’s very quiet, Sir.”

  Carper leaned in a bit. “Helm, two points starboard.”

  The sailor with the talker around his neck repeated the order. “Helm, two points starboard, aye, aye, Sir.”

  “You’re right, Chief. It is very quiet. I wonder what’s going on.”

  “The flags are at half-staff, Sir,” the sailor up on the watch position said.

  Carper brought up his binoculars and studied the harbor. He shook his head. Something bad had happened. He could almost smell it in the air. The Japs must’ve hit us hard somewhere, he mused to himself. He leaned over to the talker.

  “Helm, turns for three knots.”

  The talker repeated the order to the control room. “Turns for three knots, aye, Sir.”

  Carper looked over at the chief. “I think it would be a good idea if we came in to dock nice and easy. The people around here may not be paying close attention.”

  “Cripes, Sir. That would be all we would need if somebody decided to ram us.”

  Carper glanced up at the watch-standers. “Look alive up there. Let’s not have a wreck just before we get home.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” both men replied.

  Carper looked at the radio report in his hand. It contained the docking assignment for the Hessian.

  “Helm, thirty-degree right rudder.”

  “Thirty-degree right rudder, aye, Sir.”

  “Ask control room the battery state,” he commanded.

  The talker spoke into his rig. A moment later he answered. “Engineering reports battery at sixty percent, Sir.”

  “Helm, all stop on the main engines,” Carper ordered. “Rudder amidships.”

  Behind him, he heard the muted rumble of the diesels stop.

  “All stop, aye, Sir. Rudder amidships, aye, Sir.”

  “Helm, give me dead slow ahead on the electrics.”

  A moment later the talker repeated the order back. Carper glanced over at the chief, who looked at him quizzically. He shrugged.

  “The electrics give us finer control. Sorry, Chief. I’m a little spooked right now.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  “Get the deck crew topside,” Carper ordered. “Prepare mooring party.”

  “Deck crew and mooring party topside, aye, Sir.” the talker repeated.

  Carper expertly conned the U-Boat into its berthing space. The trick here was to make it look easier than it really was. The commander was good at it and loved to finesse a docking operation. The boat eased to a halt and just barely kissed the docking bumpers. The deck crew immediately worked with the hands on the dock to get the mooring hawsers in place.

  The exec climbed up to the conning tower and handed a portfolio to Carper. “Here’s your sailing report, Skipper.”

  “Thanks, Jolly. Please see to the boat. I don’t know when we will be going out again, but make sure we are arranged for bunkerage and victualing. I have a feeling we’ll be on our way again pretty darn soon.”

  “What’s going on, Skipper?”

  “I don’t know. But look at all the flags.”

  Rogers looked around the harbor and then swore softly. “Doesn’t look good, Skipper. Who’s in the car?”

  He pointed over to the dock at the 1940 Plymouth that just rolled to a halt.

  “That would be Admiral English’s flag lieutenant, I believe,” Carper said. “I, perhaps, should not keep the admiral waiting.”

  “I’ll see to the boat, Skipper.”

  “Thanks, Jolly. Good job on the mission, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Skipper.”

  Carper climbed down the ladder to the deck, and carefully made his way over the gangway to the dock. Now would not be the time to slip and fall into the water. He walked over to the staff car, where the navy lieutenant saluted him.

  “Welcome home, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Carper said. “A long voyage, but a profitable one, I think.”

  “Yes, Sir. The admiral wants to see you as soon as we can get you to his office.”

  Carper smiled. “Then let’s not keep Admiral English waiting.”

  They climbed into the back seat of the car, and the driver pulled away.


  “Lieutenant, what’s going on? I mean the flags and everything?” Carper asked.

  The lieutenant handed a folded newspaper to Carper. “The Admiral thought you would want to see this. It will explain a lot.”

  Carper opened the newspaper and thought his heart would stop beating. In the largest type he had ever seen for a newspaper headline were the words, Wallace assassinated. It seemed like his insides turned to liquid, and he wondered if he would have to make a quick stop in a head somewhere. He looked down into the article and began to read.

  “He was in Lisbon?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir. He was presiding over a peace conference between the Brits and the Krauts.”

  “And somebody shot him. Who was it?”

  “We don’t have that information, Sir.”

  “Lieutenant, this is just about as bad as it gets,” Carper commented.

  “No argument, Sir.”

  Carper stared out the window in silent speculation as they rode across the base to the administrative offices for COMSUBPAC or the Commander of Submarines in the Pacific. First Roosevelt and then Wallace, Carper thought. What was the country going to do? As the Plymouth rolled to a stop, Carper had the door open. He stepped out and quickly walked into the headquarters building. He absent-mindedly returned the salutes of any underlings he encountered. The lieutenant had to trot to catch up with him. When he entered English’s office, the grizzled chief that usually guarded the portal simply waved him in.

  “Siddown, Al.” Rear Admiral Robert English growled when Carper walked into his office.

  “Admiral… what in the world?”

  “You saw the paper?”

  “Yes, Sir. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Well, you can believe it, all right,” English said. “We’ve got seas lapping over the for’ard deck, and I don’t know what the country’s going to do.”

  “Sir, who did it?”

  The admiral looked like he was ready to spit nails. “Confidentially, Al, it was a British team from MI6. They shot the president as he was coming out of the hotel.”

  “What was Churchill thinking? Was he mad?”