Varner was stunned. “You are a traitor?”
“You could say Hitler and Himmler were the traitors and I’m just trying to save Germany. You could also say I’m simply trying to save my ass. I don’t care. I’ve been channeling information about the Rhine Wall, unit dispositions, and other bon mots to the Americans for more than a year now.”
“How?”
Shurmer laughed. “Simple. I have access to a good German army radio. I operate it at night when I have to. No clerk is going to deny me. Do you recall when I negotiated with the Americans regarding Paris? Well, it was then that I formalized the arrangement with their intelligence.”
Varner was still stunned. He looked at the paper. “I can’t take this,” he said and returned it.
“Fine. Then look forward to spending the next few years in an American prison camp while they try to figure out if you really were a war criminal and how many Jews you either killed or had killed as a result of your orders, actions, or inactions. Or have you forgotten that you are a general on the OKW staff, and that you actually conspired to hide the fact of Hitler’s death? Oh yes, and weren’t you close to Heisenberg and his blasphemous bomb? Be careful or they might actually think you are a war criminal, in which case you’ll never see the light of day or your family again.”
Schurmer again held out the paper. “With this, you won’t spend more than a couple of weeks in a POW camp. Besides, you did provide me with excellent information that aided the allies.”
“I did?”
Schurmer laughed. “You are such a noble ninny, Ernst. Don’t you remember the day you told me out of the blue that there were no more atomic bombs? That cleared the way for the Americans to cross the Rhine with that little problem taken care of. Now, what is it—prison or freedom to find your family?”
“I thought you were my friend.”
“Ernst, I’m the best friend you ever had.”
Varner nodded and put the piece of paper in his pocket.
* * *
It was time, thought Mastny, enough hiding in a barn and skulking. The Allies were nearby. He could hear the bombing and the artillery. He and the two others had to make their move soon or the opportunity would be lost. Once the Allies overran the farm, they would be nothing more than nameless, faceless refugees. They had to get the wealth they knew was hidden in the Mullers’ house ahead of their so-called liberation.
They stuffed oily, greasy rags into several buckets and placed them near the barn door. Mastny lit the fires and waited. Very quickly, black smoke began to billow and find its way out the door. Janis was the least stupid of the two Latvians. He understood the value of money. And pussy.
Janis ran from the barn screaming the obvious—
“Fire, fire!” He reached the bomb shelter’s hatch, pounded on it and continued yelling. A second later, it opened and Eric Muller bounded out followed by his wife. He turned and told the others not to follow them to the barn.
From the barn, Mastny could see the two women were armed and that was part of his plan. As Eric Muller ran towards the barn, Janis added that Victor was badly hurt. Muller’s expression didn’t change. He was concerned about the barn, not some damn workers.
Eric reached the door first and rushed in. Once inside and in the dark, he paused, puzzled. Mastny hit him in the side of the neck with a shovel, nearly decapitating him. His wife lurched in, out of breath, and Mastny dropped her with a blow to the side of her head.
Victor grabbed Eric’s shotgun while the Latvians took their pistols. They looked towards the house. Both the younger women were standing just outside the shelter, wondering what they should do. They had pistols, but they were safely tucked in their holsters.
“We need more help!” Victor shouted and nearly laughed when the two women raced toward him. A few feet from the barn, the three men stepped out, weapons pointing at the astonished women, who were too stunned to even think of their own guns.
CHAPTER 25
“BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE,” Victor proclaimed while the two Latvians laughed. Magda and Margarete lay on the ground by the house where they’d been overwhelmed before they could defend themselves. They were bound hand and foot by ropes from the barn. Their assailants did not bother with gags. Who would hear their screams? In fact, Victor and the others wanted to hear them scream.
Uncle Eric’s body had been dragged from the barn. He was clearly dead, but Bertha was breathing and moaning. Mastny wondered how long that would last. He didn’t care. The German bitch deserved to die. The other two women were guilty but less so. Still, their punishment would be severe.
First they put out the fires in the smoke pots in the barn. Even though fires were common, attracting unwanted attention made no sense. Then they ransacked the house. The sounds of furniture being smashed and walls being broken into carried down to Magda and Margarete. Mother and daughter lay side by side on the ground, still not quite comprehending the terrible turn of events.
The two women wiggled close to each other and tried to undo each other’s bonds to no avail. Margarete began to cry. “Will he kill us?”
Even though there were three men, it was Mastny who was clearly in charge. Magda had no idea what lay before them. Perhaps it would only be rape, which they could survive as so many thousands of German women were learning to their shame and agony.
“I don’t know,” she said to her daughter. They had discussed the terrible fate befalling German women who fell into the hands of the Russians, but they never believed it could happen in the gentle lands east of the Rhine. Magda, however, had told her daughter that she should endure an assault and not fight. One could recover from rape, at least physically, but not from death or mutilation.
Shots rang out from inside the house. The two women looked at each other in shock. A few moments later, Mastny walked out carrying a small bag. He held it up to them.
“I’m disappointed. This is all you people had in the way of jewelry and foreign money? Deutschmarks are going to be useless except to wipe your ass with when this war is over. Why didn’t the Mullers have any English or American money, or even Swiss?” He cackled. “Of course. They were good little Nazis, weren’t they? They put their faith in Hitler and look what it got them.”
He set the sack on the ground. “At least I won’t have to share this with those two fools.”
Magda and Margarete stared at him in horror. The gunshots were Mastny executing his two companions.
Mastny took out a large kitchen knife. “Now, this is going to be very simple. If either of you resists, I will use this knife to cut off the nose of the other one. We are going to do it in the dirt because you are German swine and a fuck in the dirt is all you are good for.”
With that, he carefully sliced Magda’s clothes off. He stared at her hungrily for a long moment and then stroked her breasts and thighs. He ignored the fact that she didn’t respond, merely stared at a point above him while Margarete sobbed and turned away so that she didn’t have to watch her mother being violated.
Mastny’s voice was husky with excitement. “Excellent. I’d fuck the old lady first, but she’s unconscious and would probably never realize it.” He knelt between Magda’s thighs and pushed them apart. “You don’t have to cooperate. Just lie there and do nothing like all German women do when they fuck.”
He mounted her and thrust inside her. Magda bit back a scream from the suddenness and pain of the assault. She would give him no reason to hurt her daughter.
Finished with Magda, he went to the barn to get his other possessions, the stolen goods he and the others had buried. “Yes,” he said to the women. “We took these from refugees and you were too stupid to realize what was happening underneath you noses.”
He looked down on Margarete. Her eyes were closed and she was crying. He was aroused again. “Please take me again,” pleaded Magda. “Just don’t hurt my daughter. She’s only a child.”
“Shut up, cow,” he said and slapped her several times across the face. Again th
e knife cut through clothing until Margarete was naked. Her eyes remained closed tightly as if willing this to go away. Mastny went a little slower with Margarete, caressing her and fondling her before finally pushing his way inside her. She screamed, and he laughed.
Gasping and grinning, he lurched to his feet and arranged his clothing. He was about to say something when his skull exploded in mist of gray and red. He fell backwards and lay still.
Two hundred yards away, Alfie Swann lowered the Mauser he’d taken so long ago. “Damn good shot if I do say so.” He wouldn’t admit that he’d aimed for the chest and the shot had ridden up to the skull. He’d been lucky. He could have missed altogether.
The others grunted. They had no sympathy for Germans, but the man Alfie’d just killed was obviously committing rape and was about to commit murder.
They walked slowly forward to where the two women lay huddled and crying. Their nakedness did not arouse the three men. The women were dirty and bleeding.
“We won’t hurt you,” Rosenfeld said in German. He took Mastny’s knife and cut their bonds. It was pathetic the way they immediately tried to cover themselves with the remnants of their clothing.
Magda was the first to recover her wits. She staggered to her feet. “Who are you?” she gasped.
The three men looked at each other. Alfie nodded. It was time to take a chance. Did they have a choice? The women had seen them and the only alternative was to kill them as well.
“Do you speak English?” Alfie asked. When Magda said yes, he continued. “These two are Jewish escapees from the slaughter houses and I am an escaped British POW.”
“Then you are in grave danger, aren’t you?” Magda said. She was not surprised. There were so many stray people wandering about. “If the Gestapo or the army catch you, you’ll be lucky to be shot.”
“Yes.”
Margarete had regained her feet as well as some of her emotional poise. Magda put her arms around the weeping girl. Margarete’s lip was bleeding from where she had bit down and there was blood on her thighs.
“Then you will stay with us,” Magda said. “We had three laborers who tried to kill us and they are dead. Now we have three men who saved us. We will keep you here and pretend you are the other three. Slave laborers are faceless so one will notice. You can stay as long as you wish. Perhaps the Americans will be here soon, perhaps not. At any rate, you’ll be safe. And so will we.”
Alfie looked at his companions. Staying with the two women was perfect. Nobody would be looking for them and, as laborers, they would be invisible. The two Jews took off their jackets and handed them to Magda who wrapped them around herself and her daughter.
Alfie laughed grimly. “Well then, I suppose you had better find some clothing and clean up while my friends and I bury the dead.”
“There are two bodies in the house,” Magda said.
Alfie acknowledged the simple statement, and the other two men went inside to remove the corpses. “The three who attacked you will be buried out in a field. Your family members we’ll bury with dignity when you are ready, but please make it soon.” He looked in the sky. The sky was clouding up and he could almost smell the rain.
* * *
A fine mist had begun to cover the ground and visibility was dropping. It was Nazi weather once again. Somewhere out in front of the American lines a German army had been rendered invisible. Morgan had read the reports and heard comments from both fighters and recon planes. A mighty host of German infantry and armor was heading their way.
The 74th Armored Regiment was across the Rhine and dug in a couple of miles east of the river. More men, tanks, and supplies continued to pour across the pontoon bridges that connected the two sides. Jeb’s Pershing tanks had crossed with little difficulty, although it had been a little nerve-wracking to see the mighty tanks rumbling across the shaking and shifting pontoons. Only inches on either side kept the tanks from sliding off the unstable bridge and into the river. Jeb was annoyed that they hadn’t seen any real action yet while the rest of the regiment had sustained serious casualties both in the crossing and climbing the hills where the Germans were dug in.
“They are out there and they are coming,” Stoddard said grimly. “We are going to live up to my nickname and dig in and make stockades like we’ve never done before. God only knows when the weather will break and our planes can begin killing the krauts again. In the meantime, we’re going to fight them all by our lonesomes.”
Jeb Carter raised his hand like a kid wanting to go the bathroom. “What you’re saying is that they could be on our asses before we even know it.”
“Correct and astute as always, Captain,” Stoddard replied. “Any way we can prevent it?”
“Obviously we’ve got to send out patrols and hope they don’t get overrun before they can signal back.”
“That’s being done, Captain.”
“Great, sir, but I’d like to take it a step farther. The krauts will doubtless come down the clear land south of that fairly large stand of woods to our left. I want to send my tanks through the woods and into a position where they can take the Germans in either the flank or the rear.”
Jack and Carter had taken a Jeep through the clear ground as well as the woods to their front the day before and when the weather was better. There were dirt paths snaking through the trees and both were confident that the Pershings could make it, stay hidden, and hit the Germans hard. Nor did they think the Germans would try to bull their own way through the forest. There was no need for them to do that and it would only slow them down. Speed was of the essence for the Germans. The sky could clear at any moment.
“Sir,” said Jack. “We have maybe forty Shermans and a dozen tank destroyers left and we are digging in to let the earth provide additional protection for their thin armor. The Shermans all have either the better guns or flamethrowers and could give German armor an unpleasant surprise, especially if Jeb attacks their rear.”
“That and the tank destroyers and our 105mm guns along with the infantry would help,” Jeb added.
In addition to their own armor, the regiment had been reinforced by several battalions from the 116th Infantry Division. That unit had been badly mauled crossing the Rhine and would not be functioning as a division for a while.
Stoddard smiled grimly. “Then let’s make it happen, gentlemen, and that includes you, Carter.”
“Sir,” said Morgan, “does that mean I get to fly and try to find them?”
“It does not. At this time you will be more useful helping with the defenses. We have other men who can fly those dinky little planes and besides, there ain’t much to see right now. Former air force Captain, you just became an infantry officer. Congratulations.”
* * *
Muddy, dirty, filthy, wet, hungry and discouraged. All these terms described Volkmar Detloff as he trudged eastward accompanied by thousands of other Volkssturm soldiers and a sprinkling of totally mad SS types who actually thought they could win the war.
He no longer had any illusions. He was a coward and his men hated him. His new platoon was as bad as his first. When Colonel Schurmer told him he’d never command troops again he hadn’t taken into consideration the Reich’s desperate need for officers of any kind. Ergo, Volkmar once again commanded a platoon of old men and boys far younger than he.
Rain and snot dribbled from his nose and he wiped them with his sleeve. Somewhere up front hundreds of German tanks were approaching the American defenses. The infantry was supposed to accompany the tanks, but no one had considered the fact that there were too few trucks to transport the infantry. Many of the trucks the army had possessed had been pulverized by the American planes. Tramping through the mud, the infantry were simply incapable of keeping up with the armor.
Thankfully, no planes were overhead this day. Volkmar had seen enough of burned trucks and charred pieces of bodies to last a lifetime. A lifetime, he giggled nearly hysterically. His own lifetime could end any second now.
The Germa
n army was a mob. Not only had so many been killed by the Americans before even reaching the front, but large numbers of older men had simply collapsed and refused to move on. At first he’d been inclined to call them cowards, but many were older than his father and they were simply too exhausted to move. When they found them, SS soldiers shot them in the back of the head and called them traitors.
No, Volkmar thought, they were not traitors. They were simply old men who were poorly fed, inadequately clothed, and so tired they were incapable of moving. Was this the Reich he’d been supporting? Something was wrong. Worse, in his opinion, so many soldiers in the so-called German army weren’t German at all. Instead, they were conscripts from various nations and whose loyalty was dubious at best.
Any unit coherence had also disappeared. Instead of a platoon, Volkmar was now followed by more than a hundred dispirited Volkssturm who had no idea who he was, only that he was an officer and he was taking them in some direction.
In the distance to his front, Volkmar could hear the sounds of cannon firing. He shivered. In a while he and the others around him would close up on the tanks and attack the Americans. Volkmar was sure he would piss himself again. This time, he didn’t care.
* * *
Joachim Pieper was a veteran of the war against the Soviets and, at thirty, commanded an ad hoc mixed corps of infantry and armor. His force was supposed to penetrate the American defenses, reach the Rhine, and then turn north, cutting off the enemy defenders. Other units had similar assignments. With luck and skill they would defeat the Amis and take many prisoners.
He initially commanded two hundred and fifty tanks and an infantry brigade. He now had only maybe half that many tanks thanks to the American planes. God only knew how many infantry still followed him. They were a mixed bag of SS, regular army, and Volkssturm, and he didn’t think the Volkssturm were capable of fighting. His armor was first rate, but many of the crews were inexperienced and had never worked together. It was a recipe for disaster, but he was hell bent on avoiding that. While he preferred to maneuver and attack simultaneously from several sides, his men’s lack of experience would not permit him that luxury. No, he had chosen the simplest way and would attack straight on and smash his way to the river. They would endure heavy casualties for victory, but that was a blood price that had to be paid if the Americans were to be driven to the negotiating table.
Himmler's War-ARC Page 40
