Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  And Neil thought he’d seen it all. He turned up the last drops of his cool coffee, an idea striking him.

  “Alright, enough of this. Gotta get lunch made,” Frau Heinz said as she began to stand. He stopped her.

  “Hildie…what if I go with him?”

  She clucked her tongue, dismissing the thought as she moved to stand again.

  “Wait,” he said, motioning her down again. “I’m completely serious.”

  “I can tell.” She motioned to his side. “But you’re in no shape to go, and besides, your accent would be a dead giveaway. You’d get arrested and then me and my family will be up shit creek with the gestapo.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t have anyone in this country who doesn’t speak without an accent?” He paused, his eyes cutting to the side as he thought of who he might be. “I’m his uncle. I’ve been abroad in…in Canada…yes, Canada. And now I’ve returned to support the Reich.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. And while she wasn’t ready to allow it, he could see the relief begin to creep over her face. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you get caught…”

  “Yes, you do think it’s a good idea. It’s quite evident in your eyes. And Hildie…I’m pretty capable at this type of thing. Trust me on that. I’ve been blending in for years.”

  Frau Heinz tried but was unable to contain her mirth.

  “I was planning on leaving next week, anyway. So now I’ll leave a day or two after we get back. This will give me a goal to work towards.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Does he have to go to the rally with this brigade commander?” Neil asked.

  “No. Most of the boys are going with their fathers. They’ll assemble as a brigade in Nürnberg.”

  “Good. Like I said, I’ll be his uncle…from Austria, who’s been abroad in Canada for many years.”

  “Austria?”

  He winked at her. “I don’t think you need to know any more than that.”

  Frau Heinz sat still for quite some time, her eyes off in the distance. Finally she placed her calloused hand over his. “Thank you.”

  He turned his hand over, squeezing hers. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Tell me that after you get back.”

  Neil went into the bedroom, straightening his things. He found the saltwater-stained photo of Fern, Gregor Faust’s granddaughter, propping it up by his comb so he would see her picture each morning.

  Hang in there, Fern. I’m coming. And I will get you out.

  ~~~

  On Saturday, Peter and Neil made a morning trip to see the brigade commander, a shifty punk in Neil’s estimation. Together, they informed the young commander that Neil—Dieter Dremel, actually, Peter’s uncle—would escort Peter and they would join the brigade at the parade grounds on Monday. Peter, beaming, sat in the passenger seat of the old Adler as they made the short trip back to the farm to pack the truck.

  Then, on Sunday morning, Frau Heinz saddled the two men with enough food to feed an entire platoon of real soldiers for a week. In order to fashion a tent, Neil and Peter took tarps, ropes and implements from the barn. Gabi pitched in, placing a stack of blankets behind their seats that would later be made into their bedrolls. Frau Heinz gave Neil some final instructions, surprising him with a bear hug before she moved around the old converted flatbed Adler truck to embrace her son.

  Gabi appeared from the other side of the vehicle. She put out her hand to shake Neil’s and, as her mother was hugging Peter on the other side of the truck, she pulled Neil into an embrace, kissed him on the lips, and used her left hand to squeeze his rear end. Neil was wide-eyed as he pulled backward. She winked at him and disappeared into the house, sashaying her hips over the entire distance.

  That was earlier, but Neil couldn’t quite stop thinking about the kiss—and about Gabi.

  And now that they were finally in Nürnberg, the quiet Heinz farmhouse seemed like a memory of nirvana to Neil. To say the area around the Imperial Grounds was a veritable zoo would have been an incredibly disparaging remark to zoological facilities the world over. All his life Neil had despised large crowds, especially when they became mob-like. Some of the people camped around the rim of the grounds had been there for weeks in anticipation of the big event. Poor sanitation ruled the day. Neil would have thought, after years of putting on the same event, that the moronic Nazi hierarchy would have had enough sense to know that a hundred thousand people in a confined area have the ability to create a sizeable amount of garbage and bodily waste.

  But the hierarchy wasn’t concerned with conditions. They wanted to whip these adolescents into a frenzy, and capture film of it for the world.

  Fortunately, many of the assemblage were farmers, and makeshift sanitation and sewage areas had been designated at a low spot in the bottoms area of a shallow valley. Anyone caught urinating outside of the designated area risked a serious beating, as Neil witnessed within an hour of being there. Peter was clearly nervous over the crowd’s pulsating tension, and Neil reassured him that, if they were to mind their own business and make no waves, they would be fine. Thankfully there was no sign or mention of the Nazi-sponsored orgy. As with many things, it turned out to be a rumor.

  A passing horse-mounted guard of some sort stopped and gave Neil the third degree for not wearing any National Socialist insignia. Without ever speaking a word, Neil nodded apologetically after each of the guard’s insults. Once the mounted ass moved on, Neil and Peter locked the truck and went on a quest for swastika-laden paraphernalia. They made their way across two teeming fields to the towering façade of the stadium where, on the outer edge, each district was represented with a check-in booth below the massive rear pillars.

  Neil stood back and watched as young Peter registered, retrieving complimentary National Socialist armbands and hand flags. Neil chatted with another boy’s father as he stood waiting, introducing himself as Dieter Dremel. The father and son were from Düsseldorf, in the north. An amiable fellow, the father eventually picked up on Neil’s foreign accent and became quite excited when Neil told him he had lived for many years in Canada. When Peter returned, handing Neil his armband and flag, Neil told the man where they were parked and shook his hand. His newfound friendship might come in handy later.

  Now donning the proper National Socialist attire, Neil and Peter set about building their base camp. The weather was comfortable but humid. Neil, thinking it might rain later, felt they should not waste time in erecting their shelter. They gathered wood from a pile of smashed apple crates, stacking the flat slats two high in an effort to raise their sleeping surface from the ground. Afterward, Neil showed Peter how to construct a sturdy shelter, pulling the guy wires tight at each of the four corners to give it strength against the rain and wind.

  Once complete, the two men sat on the flatbed of the old Adler and ate their evening meal of salty pork, sourdough bread, and a jar of cooked green beans. The gentleman from Düsseldorf and his eleven-year-old son arrived just before sundown, carrying a wooden crate of American Coca-Cola, the familiar Coke logo tarnished by branded swastikas that still smelled of burnt wood.

  “Where did you get those?” Peter asked, ogling the sugary liquid.

  “They were handing them out up by the stadium,” the other boy answered. “The man said they were compliments of Adolf Hitler, paid for from his personal bank account!”

  Neil fought not to roll his eyes.

  As the boys swilled cola after cola, Neil and the other gentleman stood by the truck, smoking and chatting. The clouds that Neil thought might bring rain broke just as the sun set majestically, the gloaming pink and purple on the western horizon. Neil learned that the man’s name was Albert Wahler. He was a middle manager at a Düsseldorf steel factory. As dusk set in, Neil managed to move Wahler past his fascination with North American culture. Wahler glanced about conspiratorially and leaned close.

  “You’ve heard the rumor, haven’t you?”

  “What rumor?” Neil asked, thinki
ng about what Frau Heinz had told him about the mass impregnation of thousands of young women.

  “The Führer will be here, tomorrow.” Wahler inhaled the last of his cigarette before flicking it underneath the truck. “He usually comes at the end of the rally but, this year, the rumor is that he is coming at the beginning, specifically to address the youth. His youth.”

  “That’s sure to cause a commotion,” Neil said flatly.

  “It’ll be a sight to see, that’s for certain. When he came to Düsseldorf last year, women were fainting at the very sight of him.”

  “He’s just a man,” Neil said quickly, feeling his face tighten. “Takes a dump every morning just like the rest of us.”

  Wahler seemed apprehensive at such loose talk. “But he has done so very much in such little time. The economic miracle he has wrought is almost Biblical.”

  “I’m not ready to call it Biblical, Albert,” Neil said, careful to keep his tone conversational. “His methods may work in the short term, but what about long-term? I’ve read about all of this sabre rattling over Czechoslovakia and the Sudetenland. And then I hear about Great Britain and France’s misgivings with his positions and actions. I think he means to take us to war, and soon.”

  “I don’t care for some of the things I’ve read, and some I have actually seen. However…” Wahler paused, seemingly gathering his words. “Now I have a job, a good one. My three children have bountiful food. My wife has hot water to cook and clean with and my family has shelter and clothing. No one can argue this. The times are good.”

  “Good for some.”

  “Well, I have to think of my own family.”

  Neil nodded, understanding the man’s position. “That makes sense, but why does he insist on taking more and more land?”

  Again, Wahler appeared shaken by even having to ponder such things. He swallowed thickly as he moved close to speak. “The Sudetenland will be the very last. Hitler’s one aim was to unite all the Germanic-speaking people. Once he completes the annexation, his goals will be accomplished.”

  “Hmmm,” Neil mused. He pinched off his cigarette before dropping the nub in one of the growing number of empty Coke bottles. “For our sake, I hope so. If he’ll stop at that, and remain peaceful, we may have a chance to flourish.”

  Wahler’s tone was not one of pride or indignation. He appeared to have great respect for “Dieter Dremel” and his opinion. So the following question seemed genuine. “And if he persists?”

  Neil shook his head, thinking for a moment. “From all I can tell, the military he has built is impressive. Very impressive. But twenty years removed from the war, I’m not so sure the world is ready for us to be a conquering Germany.”

  “And the Americans? What is their attitude on this? We hear…of course…that they support our actions, that they’re our ally. But you having lived in Canada, you must have heard the truth, if it’s otherwise.”

  Neil chewed on the inside of his lip. “As best I can tell, the Americans are sitting on the sidelines right now, but I don’t think they’re at all supportive of us. However, if Hitler stops at the Germanic lands, and continues to aid the world economy through Germany’s own growth, I would imagine things will settle down.”

  “Do you think they will intervene if he doesn’t stop?”

  “Almost certainly.” Neil eyed Albert Wahler. “If Hitler doesn’t stop…if he keeps going…if he goes for France or Great Britain, then our greatest hope is for a patriotic German to kill him in the name of Germany.”

  Wahler’s mouth fell open. He glanced around before leaning close. “I know you’ve been away for some time, and I like you Dieter…I really do. But, please…for your sake…and mine…and my son’s…please never say such a thing around us again.”

  Wahler began to walk to his son.

  “Wait,” Neil called out. “Come back. I’ll be careful about what I say.”

  “I can’t risk being party to such talk,” Wahler hissed.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You’re scared of the Nazis, aren’t you?” Neil asked.

  “My God, man,” Wahler said. “You must have been away most of your life. One doesn’t talk of such things.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m still learning.”

  “Fine, but can we please talk about something else?”

  The men took the conversation to brighter areas and, after the boys had drunk four colas each, they built a fire and sat around it until nearly midnight. Neil’s side ached from all the activity, but that night, as he laid his head down on his bedroll, he had to admit that the day had been a unique adventure. He truly felt better for meeting Albert Wahler and his son and, most of all, Neil had enjoyed his father-like time with Peter.

  But tomorrow, as Neil silently pondered, it would be time to get back to work. He had a feeling that this event might present a few unique opportunities.

  Neil’s final thoughts before sleep claimed him were of Gabi Heinz, and the kiss.

  And he slept well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  FROM THE TIME THEY OPENED THEIR EYES to the first golden rays of late summer sunshine, the electricity in the air on Monday made the entire area around the Imperial Grounds buzz with rampant anticipation. The rumor of Hitler’s possible appearance was now openly and incessantly talked about. It even put a kick in Neil’s step—for a completely different set of reasons.

  After a cold breakfast of day-old bread and canned nectarines, Peter donned his Hitler Youth uniform, looking as if he might be sick at any moment. While Neil despised the Nazi youth movement, he couldn’t admit such a thing to Peter. He certainly didn’t want Peter to have a bad day, so he assisted his young friend in making his uniform perfect, adjusting Peter’s straps and helping him spit-shine his boots to a mirror gloss. After insisting Peter brush his teeth, scrub his face and comb his hair, Neil straightened the young man’s sash before stepping back and nodding.

  “You look like a future colonel.”

  Peter dipped his head. His cheek twitched. He seemed to be on the verge of crying.

  “You okay?” Neil asked, resting his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “I’d rather stay here with you.”

  Neil lifted Peter’s chin. He eyed the young man sternly, making his voice match. “You’re a young man now, Peter. You’ll learn that, as we get older, we often have to do things we don’t like.”

  “Shit we don’t like,” Peter said.

  Neil nodded. “Yes, Peter…shit. But shit or not, the best thing to do is to do it, and do it well. Do you understand?”

  “Not really.”

  “You grow whenever you can, wherever you can. Then, when you’re old enough, you will have the clout and the influence to make a difference. And once you’re to that age, you do everything you can to make that difference. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever heard of Abraham Lincoln?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “He was an American president. He said, ‘Whatever you are, be a good one.’”

  Peter took a deep breath and nodded.

  “When you’re done, I’ll be right here waiting on you.” Neil squeezed Peter’s shoulder.

  Peter’s brigade commander came by shortly after and collected him for drill and ceremony practice, informing the parents that their boys would not be back until nightfall. Peter stared apprehensively at Neil, but Neil pumped his fists in a “be tough” fashion, telling him to remember what Abe Lincoln said. As Peter fell into ranks with the others from his brigade, Neil shadowed them at a distance. They marched in a giant column to an enormous field on the far side of the Imperial Stadium. Neil found a hill a full kilometer away. What he witnessed from the vantage point, the unbelievable scale of it, left him staggered.

  The field was as long as an aircraft runway. It had been roped off and guarded to prevent it from being disturbed by
the campers, meaning, unlike the trampled campground, the parade field was still covered in brilliant green grass. The Hitler Youth brigades linked together with remarkable precision, dress-right-dress, in a formation at least a mile long and wide. Neil narrowed his eyes, counting five hundred youth in one section. He used his index finger to count the sections before doing the multiplication. Once finished, he was so stunned by his product that he did the calculation again.

  There were at least 75,000 Hitler Youth on the parade field.

  Neil did his best to get over his shock so he could listen to the voice booming over the loud speaker. After several mundane announcements, a uniformed man approached the microphone, smoothing his hair before donning military headgear. He yelled the command of attention. Every one of the thousands of scarlet flags whipped through the air, standing straight up and down. As if on cue, a strong wind blew from the east, whipping each of the flags in unison. Never in Neil’s life had he seen such precise, singular iconography. The swastika was everywhere, stark and bold. The German eagle was the secondary symbol, virile and strong. The panoramic result was breathtaking.

  And scary.

  Neil smoked a cigarette as other fathers and guardians joined him up on the vantage point. The man on the speaker was a high-ranking military leader of some sort. Though it was tough to hear everything he was saying due to the distortion from the speakers, Neil could tell that the gist of the oratory was preparing this massive assemblage for the arrival of der Führer. The leader kept referring to Hitler as “our most special guest,” and said he was expected sometime in the early afternoon.

  Neil left the hill and walked to the far side of the oval stadium, where the military presence was located. Each of the staff vehicles was adorned with more Nazi flags, as well as insignia identifying the importance of the man who rode inside. At the head of the column was a sleek black Mercedes. On the front bumper was a flag, snapping in the breeze, marked with a different kind of insignia. Neil recognized the insignia as that of the few elite Reichsleiters. Other than the Führer himself, Reichsleiter was the highest Nazi rank in all of Germany and included such officials as Goebbels and Himmler. The insignia was a dual oak leaf cluster over a scarlet red background. The driver, who Neil identified as a senior SS NCO in his early thirties, leaned against the front bumper, smoking a cigarette and cajoling a teenage girl who’d tried to pass by with a basket of food.