As usual, they were not locked in the barn. After all, where would they go? He felt that the Mullers had deluded themselves into thinking that their slaves were happy with their lot. Victor would be happy when he could piss on their smiling faces.
He slipped quietly to the house. The dogs recognized him and ignored him. He patted them to ensure their silence and they wagged their tails. Sometimes he gave them pieces of meat to cement their friendship.
Victor was intrigued by the fact that two more women had joined the Mullers. One was older, about Victor’s age, and the other just out of childhood. Both of them aroused him. He had been a very long time without a woman. The last had been one of the workers he was supervising and she’d been old and ugly, although she had worked hard to satisfy him in return for extra food.
The two new women had been out working for the Germans and had returned earlier in the evening. He heard the sound of water running and visualized them naked and scrubbing down. On a couple of occasions he’d managed to get to the bathroom window and watch the beefy and very unattractive Bertha at her ablutions. If he had to, he would fuck her, but he wanted either of the two others. He laughed. Why not take both of them? Of course, after he would do that after they told them where their money was. They’d come from Berlin, after all, and that meant they had money.
* * *
Margarete felt that all of her muscles ached, including some she didn’t know she had. The work on the Rhine Wall was backbreaking. Many of the women, boys, and old men who’d been drafted to do the heavy work weren’t very strong and some had collapsed. Their foremen weren’t cruel men and the worst of the weak were allowed to rest and some were even sent home. It was Magda’s and Margarete’s bad fortune to be healthy and thus able to pick up the pails of dirt that had been excavated and carry them away.
She had experienced a feeling of camaraderie while working with a crew of young girls her own age. They had sung songs and told jokes, some of them shockingly bawdy, while they worked and tried to ignore the growing stiffness in their joints and muscles. They were under the nominal control of a local school teacher whose name she couldn’t remember. The next time she went, it would be with a different crew and another leader, so it didn’t matter.
What impressed Margarete was the massiveness of the construction. Along with hundreds of people like her, she was told there were dozens of other sites each with its own labor force. She thought of herself as an Israelite working on the pyramids until she recalled the Reich’s hatred of Jews in any form.
When she and her mother got home, Margarete let her mother soak in the hot water filled tub first. She’d teased Magda that older people took longer to recover from hard work and her mother had stuck out her tongue and made a vulgar noise that made both of them laugh.
Finally, she slipped into her own tub and let the hot water comfort her. When she finally stepped out, she paused for a moment in front of the full length mirror on the door. She scarcely recognized herself. Her body was leaner and longer and her breasts and hips more pronounced. She smiled. Now let an adolescent idiot like Volkmar Detloff try to paw her again. Not only would he find that she was a young woman and not a girl, but she would slap his pimply face silly.
She shuddered. She had the cold and sudden feeling that someone was watching her. The window to the bathroom was open only a crack, but she closed it anyhow and latched it. Her fears were probably groundless, but it paid to be prudent. What if one of the workers had seen her? What if refugees were wandering around the farm? She was worried about the laborer called Victor. She decided to ask her uncle where he kept his hunting rifles and shotguns.
Outside, Victor waited silently a few minutes after the girl closed the window. Then he moved back to the barn. He was more than pleased by what he saw. Both women, the older and the younger, were magnificent. The older was full bosomed, wide hipped and ripe, while the younger was lean and taut.
He reached inside his pants and began to stroke himself. He would take both of them.
* * *
Colonel Tom Granville waited as usual for General Bedell Smith to notice him. Finally, he looked up. “Okay, who’s dead this time?”
“Now we think its Martin Bormann, General.”
Smith leaned back and laughed harshly. “First Hitler, then Goering and now Bormann? Hell, somebody’s doing a lot of housecleaning in the new Reich. And how do we know about Bormann? Did they announce it?”
A week earlier, German radio had informed its listeners that Air Marshal and Reichsfuhrer Hermann Goering had died of a massive heart attack and then added that the grief of Hitler’s passing had probably played a part in causing it. The announcement had been a eulogy, reminding listeners that Goering had been a fighter ace in World War I and had been one of the earliest of Hitler’s devoted followers. The announcer had glossed over the fact that the Luftwaffe’s performance in the current war had been spotty at best and successes were due to regional commanders like Kesselring, rather than to the drug-soaked genius of Hermann Goering.
“General, Ultra picked up a message that Bormann was kaput. The sender appeared to be Skorzeny. It said that the Bormann problem had been, in his words, resolved. An hour later, a very terse announcement was made to key government officials that Bormann had been killed in an accident on the autobahn.”
“Skorzeny’s a busy boy,” said Smith. “He keeps knocking off people like he’s one of Al Capone’s thugs and, even better for him, he doesn’t have to worry at all about getting arrested. Capone’s murderers had at least a theoretical chance of getting caught. But you’re telling me that no one in Germany’s too terribly upset about Bormann’s demise?”
“Correct, sir. Aside from being a totally unlovable snake, he simply wasn’t all that well known outside of government circles. He’ll be cremated so no one will notice the bullet holes in his head and then be forgotten.”
“But Skorzeny won’t be. That son of a bitch is dangerous. He came really close to killing the Big Three and did kidnap Mussolini.”
The attempt on the lives of Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt had taken place at Teheran, Iran, in 1943 and Skorzeny had nearly pulled it off. At that time Skorzeny had been a fanatical follower of Hitler. Now he appeared to have transferred his allegiance to Heinrich Himmler.
“Tom, we’re gonna have to keep an eye on Skorzeny. God only knows what he’ll have up his sleeve with Himmler to prod him.”
“And with our move to Paris, sir, we’ll be that much closer to Germany, Himmler, and Skorzeny. Have you considered talking to Ike about staying someplace a little easier to guard?”
Smith rubbed his eyes. He would kill for a good night’s sleep. “Like New Jersey? We talked. He agrees it’s a good idea from a security standpoint, but, from a political point of view, SHAEF needs to be headquartered in Paris, at least for the time being. After all,” he said sarcastically, “it is the capital of our brave ally, France. Technically, we’ll be just outside the city and Ike will at all times be in a protective cocoon, surrounded by MP’s and other security types.”
“Are you and Ike aware that Skorzeny speaks both excellent French and English?”
“Just what I needed, Colonel, more good news.”
Granville grinned at the sarcasm. “At least there’ll be some good restaurants in Paris.”
CHAPTER 10
MORGAN’S FLIGHT over liberated Paris was simply a joy ride. He’d informed Whiteside that he needed to check out the Piper’s engine and then told Snyder he could stay home. Neither man believed for a second that there was anything wrong with the Piper Cub which now had the silhouette of a German truck painted on its side. Instead of a regular copilot, Levin sat in the back seat, enjoying the ride and the view.
The 74th was resting. For that matter, almost all the army was sitting on its hands, catching its breath and licking its wounds. The crossing of the Seine had not only resulted in heavy casualties, but had used up vast reserves of fuel and ammunition. Until replenished, it would
be unwise, even dangerous, to place the army in a position where they’d have to fight a possibly better armed and well-supplied Nazi force.
Nor would resupply be quick. There were still no major ports close to the Allied armies. Cherbourg was still being rebuilt after demolition by the Nazis and Marseilles was too far away. Stoddard had informed the regiment that the rumors were true—Montgomery’s attempted landings to the north had been a disaster. Britain’s First Airborne Division had finally fought its way to the sea and the remnants were being taken off by U.S. Navy warships, a further insult to the Brits. The British Airborne force had lost half its men and virtually all its equipment. Even those who disliked Monty and the British were appalled. It meant the Nazi tiger still had claws and teeth. Overall the Brits had suffered more than fifteen thousand casualties and there were echoes in Parliament for Churchill and Monty to explain themselves.
Patton’s crossing south of Paris had been successful because he’d not used bomber attacks like Hodges had. The bombers in Jack’s area had tipped off the Germans as to where the attacks would come. Instead, Patton had the bombers drop their load a full thirty miles south of his intended crossing point, which had thoroughly confused the Germans in the area.
Even though the American army had joined the Free French in Paris, a handful of fires still burned, which meant that fighting still continued as the Free French Forces wrested control of the city from Nazi collaborators and sympathizers, along with the communist-led labor movement. It looked more and more like leave time in Paris with a ration of wine, women, and song would have to wait a while.
For the sheer hell of it, he flew around the Eiffel Tower, doubtless exasperating gendarmes and American military police. A few moments later, a pair of American fighters flew by and checked him out. Jack decided buzzing the tower wasn’t such a good idea, even though the fighters had wiggled their wings at him once they realized he was harmless.
“Now let’s fly through Notre Dame and the Louvre and see how many other planes we can scare up,” Levin suggested. “Who knows, if I like the place maybe I’ll convert to Catholicism.” He had been taking pictures. “By the way, I heard you got another letter from Carter’s cousin. You and she are becoming regular pen pals, aren’t you?”
Morgan felt himself flushing. “Yeah, and I kinda like it. It’s nice having somebody fairly close by to write to. And it’s an interesting way to get to know someone.”
“So when are you going to marry her?”
Morgan laughed. “As soon as I can get her pregnant, which isn’t very likely since I haven’t even met her yet. She said her Red Cross unit will be moving to Paris soon, so just maybe I’ll get some time off and get to meet her.”
Jessica had sent him another picture and he’d decided she really was cute in a quiet sort of way. He’d sent her a snapshot taken by the regiment’s photographer. It showed him leaning against the plane and, in his opinion, smiling foolishly. He’d also sent one of Carter and Levin.
“Of course, by the time she gets to Paris, we’ll all likely be too far away.”
“Not a chance,” said Levin. “The way things are shaping up, we won’t be in any condition to move for a couple of weeks.”
“Okay, you know everything so what about the rumor that we’re getting new tanks?”
“False,” said Levin. “What they’re trying to do is upgrade the Sherman with a higher velocity seventy-five that’ll enable us to take on the Pk4 and the Panther on more even terms.”
“That’s not news, Roy.”
“I know, but what is news is that they’re actually doing it instead of talking the problem to death.”
Jack checked the time and his fuel situation. He turned the plane back towards the regiment. One of the last things he wanted to do was run out of fuel and have to cadge some from another unit. That would be too embarrassing, especially since there would be no compelling reason for it to happen except pilot stupidity.
“Roy, so what does it matter if we get better guns? What kind of surprises will the Germans have for us?” Levin replied that he didn’t want to think about it.
* * *
Much of the work on the weapons referred to by the Allies as the V1 and V2 rockets had taken place at Peenemunde, on the Baltic coast. In 1943, however, the facility had been heavily bombed, which resulted in the disbursing of its factory units to a number of other locations. This impaired efficiency, but the rocket program survived.
At only thirty-four, Dr. Wernher von Braun was technical director and effectively in charge of the program. He was almost childishly young for his position. Stocky, even plump, he smiled affably at Varner and the two men shook hands.
“So tell me, Colonel, Herr Himmler requires more information regarding the rocket program and wants to know why it isn’t performing better and winning the war.”
The so-called Vengeance weapons that had fascinated Hitler also had intrigued Himmler from the beginning, and he’d exercised considerable control and influence over the program.
“That’s a pretty close estimate of the situation,” Varner admitted.
Von Braun took a seat and gestured for Varner to do the same. “Sadly, Colonel, the V1 and V2 are merely high-tech toys. Someday when we are in outer space, history will say these were the first tiny steps towards taking man to the stars. They are capable of annoying the Allies, but not of winning the war. We can hurl them at England or even locations in France that have fallen to the Allies, but they cannot do enough damage to make a difference. As you know, both rockets carry a warhead of about one ton, while a single American or British bomber can exceed that by a wide margin. Better yet, a bomber stands a chance of actually hitting what it’s aiming for, while our rockets are unaimed and simply fired in the general direction of a very large target, say London. Even with such a huge target, very many of them go astray or suffer mechanical failure, or, worse, are shot down as the British are doing to our V1’s.”
Varner already understood that. “But what about the rocket that can hit New York?”
Von Braun guffawed. “A pipe dream. Someday certainly, but not for a decade or more. What is possible, theoretically, is that a V1 or V2 rocket might be launched from a U-boat and thus strike New York or any other American port. However, the warhead will still be small and odds are that it will land in a pond on Long Island or a farm north of the city and never even be noticed.”
“You don’t paint an encouraging picture.”
Von Braun smiled coldly. “I thought you wanted the truth, Colonel Varner. The wonder weapons will not change the course of the war. Ultimately and in another form, they might change the course of history, but that’s for decades in the future.”
Varner’s opinion of von Braun diminished. The young scientist had just said that the missile program was a fraud. The expenditure of money and manpower had been for nothing. Scientists like von Braun were using the resources of the Reich to foster their dreams of spaceships and travel to outer space instead of winning the war.
The whole V-weapon enterprise had also used thousands of slave laborers for the construction of the facilities. The more Varner saw and thought of the plight of the Jews and others who were being mistreated by the government, the more he realized that Germany would have a lot to answer for if she lost the war. Therefore, she could not lose the war.
* * *
“I think,” Monique said dryly, “that there are more American military police in Paris than there are Frenchmen.”
Jessica agreed. Every block or so they were stopped by MP’s who demanded their identification and orders and wondered why they were driving U.S. Army vehicles, even though they were clearly marked as belonging to the Red Cross. Jessica’s American passport and ID got her through, even to the point of intriguing the MP’s who hadn’t talked to an American woman in a long while. Monique was just another French woman and they were sometimes curt with her.
Monique didn’t mind. “They are the victors. The victors always set the rules.”<
br />
“And write history,” Jessica added. Or rewrite it, she thought.
She had been only mildly surprised when Monique decided to accompany her when the unit moved to Paris, leaving her son behind with relatives. It turned out that her master sergeant lover had also been transferred there as part of the massive American supply operation headquartered in Paris. He had used his influence to get them quarters they didn’t deserve, close to the center of the city. Jessica had to pay an exorbitant rent for the apartment, but that was all right as rooms of any kind were at a premium. Jessica and Monique would have separate bedrooms with a shared bath and a stunning view of a rubbish-filled alley. It would be more than satisfactory in a city overflowing with refugees and military personnel from a multitude of nations.
Uncle Tom Granville was somewhere in the mass of humanity and Jessica was determined to look him up. Among other things, she wanted to swap news about relatives back home, and she wanted to know what he could tell her about Cousin Jeb’s situation. She admitted to herself that she was more than a little intrigued by his friend, Jack Morgan. The photo he’d sent her made him look like a little boy alongside his flying toy, and the smile on his face looked genuine and not forced for the camera.
Dear God, she thought, am I falling in love with someone I’ve never met?
Monique had chided her frequently about dressing better and, therefore, looking better to men, especially American men who were starved for a familiar sounding voice. Jessica had laughingly informed her friend that she would not slink around the Red Cross offices in a low-cut red dress. Not only was it not appropriate, but all she had was very functional and relatively sexless clothing. She admitted that she’d never thought she’d wind up in Paris.
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