Almost on cue they glanced at the map on the wall. Antwerp had fallen to Montgomery’s armies, but the port was useless. First, it had been thoroughly sabotaged and, second, the Germans still held Walcherin Island, a boggy mass on the Scheldt River north of Antwerp that enabled the Nazis to control access to the city. Montgomery had moved too slowly to prevent the Germans from digging in on the island. Now its capture would require a major effort by the British.
Moving south, Bradley’s and Devers’ army groups had reached the Rhine at a number of spots and were mopping up resistance on the western side of the river. More than half a million German soldiers had surrendered, although the great majority of them were the Volkssturm. What remained of the regular German army had escaped and was ensconced in the forts facing the Allies.
Edward Stettinius had recently replaced Cordell Hull as Secretary of State. He coughed now to get attention. “May we also discuss the situation with France and how it relates to Russia?”
Byrnes and Marshall eyed the man with some distaste. They considered the forty-four-year-old investor and banker “soft,” even naive, particularly regarding Russian intentions. If Stettinius had his way, there would be no code-breaking efforts against the Russians.
“Of course,” said Roosevelt.
“Gentlemen, the Soviets are complaining about what they refer to as our unwarranted attacks on French communists,” Stettinius said solemnly.
“Bullshit,” snapped Byrnes. “The communists attacked several of our supply columns and even killed a number of American soldiers. Our men defended themselves and did a damned fine job of it.”
Marshall nodded. “And our boys will continue to fight off attacks.”
“I’m telling you what the Reds are saying,” Stettinius retorted. “I’m not saying I agree with them. The Russians want guarantees that there will be no more fighting and certainly no support of de Gaulle in his now near civil war with the communists. I’ve spoken with Ambassador Gromyko, obviously speaking for Stalin, and he strongly suggests that we stop using France as a base for operations and stop supporting the French army. Either that or we support the French communists and this Thorez person as France’s legitimate government.”
Marshall slapped the table in a rare show of emotion. “All of which represents a reason, or series of reasons, for the Russians to pull out of the war. The chaos in France is just another excuse.”
Byrnes laughed bitterly. “And it doesn’t matter what we do—it’ll be wrong.” He turned to Roosevelt. “Now do you see, sir, that the Russians are changing their role and can’t be trusted?”
“There’s one other thing,” added Donovan. “One of my teams was able to confirm a tank park near the old Polish border with what they first thought were several hundred German tanks in it being painted and repaired.”
“So what?” snapped Stettinius, in a most undiplomatic manner.
“All of the tanks were Russian T34’s. What the hell are the Nazis doing with a large number of Russian tanks?”
Marshall drew a deep breath. “I can see them capturing some of them in the course of fighting, but hundreds?”
“Yes,” said Donovan, “and my source said a maintenance worker proudly told him there were other parks just like that. He, the source, said that Germany had bought them. The information’s been passed on to the air force and I presume Doolittle’s bombers will plow the park.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Stettinius. “Why the devil would Stalin sell tanks to Himmler? What did Himmler have that Stalin would have wanted so badly?”
There was silence until Marshall spoke. “Vlasov.”
“Dear God,” said Byrnes. The Soviets had recently proclaimed the capture of the turncoat Vlasov and his key lieutenants by a party of heroic Red Army commandos. There would be a show trial and then the executions.
Roosevelt looked around. Agony was etched on his face as he finally absorbed what he’d been told. “They’ve played me for a fool, haven’t they?”
Donovan tried to soothe him. “Sir, they’ve lied to everyone. At least now we know what they are capable of and can react to it.”
Roosevelt’s voice was barely a whisper, “Too late.” His eyes rolled back in his head. He fell forward and hit his forehead on the desk with a terrible thud.
* * *
Vice President-Elect Harry Truman walked into the Executive Office building located across the street from the West Wing of the White House. He was puzzled by the nighttime summons. He only knew that Jim Byrnes, FDR’s trusted advisor, had requested his presence to discuss some matters related to the transition between him and outgoing Vice President Henry Wallace. Truman had almost laughed at the caller. There was nothing Wallace did to justify a transition, and Truman had the terrible feeling that the vice-presidency would be the same for him. Wallace’s predecessor, John Nance Garner, had accurately described the vice presidency as being as exciting as a bucket of warm piss. Truman could see no reason for any such transition meeting to take place at night.
He was met by a uniformed guard and taken to a meeting room. Henry Wallace had arrived and was sipping a cup of coffee. The two men asked each other about the summons and both pleaded ignorance. Truman asked for and got some coffee. He would have preferred some bourbon, but he sensed that this was neither the time nor the place.
Jim Brynes entered and took a seat. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a while.
Truman caught on immediately. “My God, does this have anything to do with Roosevelt’s flu?”
The press had been informed that FDR was suffering from a mild form of influenza and had been ordered to rest for a couple of days. That had been two days ago.
Byrnes mouth quivered. “There was no flu. The President has suffered a stroke.”
“How bad?” asked a shocked Wallace.
Byrnes swallowed. It was difficult for him to speak. “At the moment he is in a coma. He does not communicate and does not respond. Doctors are not hopeful of a full recovery and some feel he will never come out of the coma.”
“Then who is running the country?” asked Truman. He had a sinking feeling he knew what the answer was going to be in a short while.
“Right now, it’s a committee made up of Secretary of State Stettinius, General Marshall, Secretary of War Stimson, Secretary of the Navy Forrestal, Admiral King, Treasury Secretary Morgenthau, and, myself. It is obviously a war cabinet and an expedient.”
“And why wasn’t I on it?” Wallace said angrily, his face turning red. “Or had you all forgotten that the office of vice president exists?”
Byrnes flushed. “Let me be blunt. FDR never included you in anything substantive for reasons best known to him. We thought—prayed?—that this crisis would pass quickly, but it appears that it isn’t going to happen. Therefore it is indeed time to begin including both of you for reasons both constitutional and honorable.”
“Good,” said Truman. He’d harbored the fear that he too would disappear like FDR’s previous vice presidents.
Byrnes continued. He seemed relieved that the two men would now be informed. “I have discussed the matter with Chief Justice Stone and he confirms that, while the President yet lives, neither of you has any authority whatsoever. The President can die, or he can resign, but you cannot become President or assume the duties of President until one or the occurs. The Constitution makes no provision for an acting President, not even in the event the President is merely ill or, in this case, has suffered a stroke. Congress might be able to pass legislation to enact a succession, but that would take time we don’t have.”
“That should be changed,” muttered Truman. “There’s a god damn war on. At least Woodrow Wilson’s stroke and incapacity occurred during a period of relative peace. What the devil do we do if something requires the President to act?”
Byrnes shrugged. “At best, the law is murky, and you’re right Mr. Truman, the law should be changed and doubtless will be. However, for the moment we are stuck with what we hav
e.”
“What about Tom Dewey?” Truman inquired. The New York governor had been the Republican candidate defeated by Roosevelt in November by a more than four to one margin in the Electoral College. “And what about the Democratic Party? Can there be changes in the candidates at this time?”
“I need a good night’s sleep,” Byrnes said as he rubbed his eyes. “First, Justice Stone says that the Democratic Party could have changed the names on the ballot before the election, but not after. Therefore, FDR has been elected and you, Mr. Truman will be at least the Vice President. If FDR is unable to take the oath on January 20th, you will become President.”
“Dear God,” Truman said with deep emotion. That date was just a little more than a month away. “I feel like the roof is falling in on me.”
“Much like we all do,” Byrnes said. “And to answer your question about Dewey, Justice Stone said there can be no do-over election. What is done is done. General Marshall took an air force plane to Albany this morning to inform Governor Dewey about FDR’s health. Governor Dewey is an honorable man and I doubt that he will do anything contrary to the best interests of the country.”
“Other than those mentioned, who else knows about this, ah, dilemma?” Wallace asked.
“Eleanor, of course,” said Byrnes, “and she is with the President in the White House. Also, a woman named Lucy Mercer who is not in the White House.”
Truman suppressed a smile. So the rumors were correct. FDR had a mistress. “Will we be a part of this war committee?”
“Effective immediately, yes.” He handed each man a binder. “This is a summary of our position vis a vis the war in Europe. The war against Japan is proceeding just as the newspapers are saying so there’s little new in the binder about it; however, it is the situation in Germany and Russia that is most disturbing. With your permission, we will adjourn. You will doubtless have many questions to ask after you’ve read the reports. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have cars pick you up and return you here where the committee will meet. It was considered unseemly to continue to meet in the White House.”
“How long can we keep up this charade?” asked Wallace.
“God only knows,” Byrnes answered.
They left and an exhausted Byrnes stared at the table. One or both of them would likely become President of the United States. If the worst happened, the U.S. could have three presidents in six weeks. Even if FDR was to die today, Wallace’s term in office would be mercifully short. An inauguration would take place on January 20, 1945, come hell or high water, and if Roosevelt was unable to take the oath, it would be given to Truman. Which man was most qualified to be President, Byrnes wondered, and then realized it didn’t matter. Justice Stone had confirmed it—if Roosevelt didn’t recover, Harry Truman, the virtually unknown senator from Missouri, would be President.
Byrnes took a deep breath. As of now, neither Wallace nor Truman knew anything about the Manhattan Project and the plans for an atomic bomb. He would continue to keep it from them. Wallace would fade into well-deserved obscurity in a couple of weeks, while Truman might or might not become President. Roosevelt had intentionally not included him in the secret, so Byrnes would not add him, at least not yet. He made a mental note to tell those on the committee who knew about it to keep quiet in Truman’s presence. Some day Truman might be pissed, but so be it.
CHAPTER 18
A DAY IN THE SKY was a welcome elixir for Morgan. on the ground, the world was snow-covered and cold, brilliant white except where it was bloodied and black-scarred from the intermittent fighting. Near blizzard conditions had prevailed in much of the area, blanketing the world in snow depths that made walking difficult and driving nearly impossible. Even tanks had a hard time plowing through the accumulated piles of snow and slush.
Finally, the army had begun to get winter uniforms, including boots, liners for field jackets, gloves, and hats with ear pieces. The result was a welcome reduction in incidents of frostbite.
At least as important were white coverings for the uniforms that helped the GI’s blend into the ground and avoid drawing attention from the Germans across the river. It was a source of aggravation that the Germans had their snow coverings long before the Americans. Tanks and other vehicles had been hastily white-washed. Tankers groused that when the thaw came, it would mean the tanks would have to be scrubbed clean. They were reminded that war was hell.
Morgan turned back to his copilot. “Snyder, what do you want for Christmas besides an honorable discharge?”
“That about covers it, sir.”
“Sorry I can’t get that for you. If I could, I’d get one for myself first.”
“Then maybe getting laid would be nice, too, if they’d ever drop that damn rule.”
“No comment, Snyder.” The unrepentant Feeney was now the butt of many jokes. Non-Catholics who had no idea what a rosary was, actually stopped and watched him pray, which thoroughly annoyed Feeney.
Below them, the Rhine was still snow-choked. On a different day, it might have been scenic. Now they looked below for a military advantage. Had anything changed since the last time they’d flown over? If so, what was it and why? They would both take notes while Snyder took pictures.
As always, their orders were to stay on the American side of the Rhine. Across the river on the German side, a German Storch flew on an almost parallel course. Jack fought the insane urge to fly over and see who the pilot was and ask him what he thought of the war. There was an informal truce between the two sides regarding the small observation planes—don’t shoot at me and I won’t shoot at you. Also, don’t cross the damn river.
Suddenly, the German banked sharply away. “What the hell,” Jack said. Fingers of tracer fire erupted from a dozen hidden sites and streaked skyward. They looked up and saw a plane much higher in the sky. “Somebody’s using a real plane and taking real pictures now that the weather’s cleared.”
For the past week, reconnaissance flying had been nearly impossible as the snow had socked in everything. Now that the weather was beginning to get better, everyone wanted to see what had happened while they were grounded.
“Y’know sir, I don’t think it was a smart idea for the Germans to shoot at that recon plane.”
Morgan concurred. Never give away your hiding place unless there was a really good reason. To prove the point, a flight of six American P47 Thunderbolt fighter bombers swooped low and dropped their loads. Clouds of flame erupted where they landed, exploding in a horrible beauty.
“Napalm,” Jack said, recalling the destruction of the SS position in the forest. Death by burning was a horrible fate, even for a Nazi, but if it ended the war or even got them across the Rhine by turning German forts into charnel houses, then napalm was a godsend. Nobody on the U.S. side could imagine a weapon they wouldn’t use against the Germans, with the possible exception of poison gas. It was common knowledge that the krauts had stockpiles of gas and everybody wondered if the Germans would use it when the crossing came.
A dark shadow sped by and one of the Thunderbolts exploded, while the others scattered like sparrows attacked by a hawk. One of the American planes flew low overhead and was quickly followed by a shape that screamed by at incredible speed.
“Jesus, Captain, did you see that?”
“Yeah,” Jack answered. He was a little stunned by the savage turn of events. One minute they were enjoying the view and the next people were burning to death on the ground and being shot out of the sky.
“That was a jet, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Snyder, I’ve never seen one, but I’ll bet that’s exactly what it was. I think we’ve had enough excitement for today. Let’s head for home.”
Home, he thought. What the hell was home? He’d just been served napalm and a jet fighter for Christmas.
* * *
“Who in God’s name gave you permission to piss on the floor of my shiny new bunker?” Schurmer raged at the hapless young officer standing and shaking before him.
Volkssturm
Lieutenant Volkmar Detloff stood at attention and took the scolding. His lips were trembling but he swore he would not cry. Colonel Schurmer’s face was livid. “Answer me, you little turd, why? And did you shit yourself as well as pissing on the floor and why did you find it necessary to perform such acts in front of your entire platoon?”
Volkmar flinched. He had shit and pissed himself, but not that much. He had never been so afraid in his young life and had completely lost control.
“Detloff, I hope you recall that, in your cowardly haste to leave the bunker, you trampled over two men who were seriously wounded and a lot braver than you.”
“I’m sorry,” Detloff stammered.
“I should have you shot,” Schurmer snarled.
He wouldn’t, of course. Schurmer had made a quick call to Berlin and his friend, Ernst Varner, and confirmed that the odious little twit’s equally odious father was still a senior aide to Heinrich Himmler. This was why he, and not Detloff’s direct superior was handling the incident. Not only would the boy not be shot, but Schurmer had to figure a way to hide this incident.
Nor did he think young Detloff was all that much of a coward. From everything he’d found, the situation in the bunkers when the American planes had dropped napalm had been terrible.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me! Your disgusting pimples say you’re younger.”
The boy gulped. “Sixteen, sir.”
“Now tell me the truth. Wouldn’t you rather be at home waiting for the Christ child to deliver presents on Christmas Eve, or do you believe Santa Claus does it at night like the Americans do?”
Prudently, the boy didn’t answer. Schurmer thought it more likely he, like so many devout Nazis, didn’t believe in anything except Hitler’s dogmas. Perhaps the boy’s family would just sit around the lighted and decorated Christmas tree and exchange presents and lift a glass of schnapps to Himmler and the memory of Hitler.
Himmler's War-ARC Page 29
