Jackson handed his red clipboard, filled with a sheaf of papers needing checkmarks and signatures, to a captain standing next to him, who picked up the work without missing a beat, and pushed his way through a cluster of sergeants. “Yes, General?” he said in a laconic southern accent, saluting casually.
“Jackson--I’ve got to go up to London for a briefing on the Hitler situation.”
The young colonel looked at Wakefield, his grin widening. “I guess the Germans figured out we were coming and decided to end it all first, sir. But it would sure put me out if that meant we didn’t get into the war, General.”
“No Nazi son of a bitch is going to keep me out of this goddamn war,” Wakefield growled. “You suffered through too many goddamn training commands with me, and I made us both a promise. We’re going to kick some goddamn Kraut bastards back to where they came from before this thing is over.” He was personally less sure about that than he wanted to let on, but he was damned if he was going to disappoint Jackson on the eve of the transshipment to the Continent.
Jackson’s dark eyes brightened. “Yes, suh!” he said with pride and pleasure, his accent becoming even more pronounced.
Wakefield’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “Bob, meeting or no meeting, I don’t want to see the rest of our division leaving one minute behind schedule. Pulaski and General King and all of CCA are already in position. Getting CCB across, and the rest of the division troops ready--that’s now your job. Get them on the boats, get them the hell out of here. Early if possible. I probably won’t be back in time to join the trip, but don’t let anything stop you or slow you down. Get over there and get moving. I’ll catch up. Understand?”
“Yes, suh, General, suhr!” Jackson grinned.
He was a good kid, thought Wakefield. Hadn’t yet seen serious action, needed some seasoning, but he had the right stuff. He was smart, hardworking, and aggressive. A new-model tank officer, drilled in the latest ideas and ready for action. Wakefield felt good about having him, though he growled at him a bit about sorting the goddamn mess out a little faster, just to emphasize his seriousness.
“See you in France, General,” Jackson said with a final salute as Wakefield turned to go.
“Goddamn right,” he growled around his cigar, returning the salute with a quick chop.
Fifteen minutes later the sounds of machinery and yelling so characteristic of a big military move ebbed away as his jeep left the harbor area. Southampton looked just like an American military base except for some of the local buildings. As he passed into the southern English countryside, soon all evidence of the war and the buildup began to fade. The landscape was different, but the farms had the same feel as the one where he grew up. Fifteen kids, of which eight survived past age six; good, honest hard work; a solid life. He’d joined the Army in time for the Big One, World War I, got in at the beginning of armored warfare, then, like so many career officers, languished through the years in the wilderness between the wars. Promotions were few and far between, funding was scarce, and he was lucky to have a job at all during the Great Depression.
And then a chance for action. New respect. A chance at the general’s stars he’d coveted for so long. But there were too damn few career officers and too many new soldiers to train, and--for three years--Wakefield had been stuck trying to turn civilians into armored cavalrymen. Important work but not what he wanted, even though he had gone home each night and slept in the same bed as his wife of twenty years. Finally, he’d gotten his call, gotten his ticket to the war, and now he was afraid that everything would be for nothing. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled to himself. Wisely, his driver ignored him. It was easy in the racket of the open car.
London was crowded and twisty as always. The snapping one-star flags that adorned the hood of his jeep didn’t count for much; generals were thick on the ground here and you needed two or three stars to be part of the big game. Wakefield didn’t care; he wanted to be part of the show--the real war.
SHAEF--Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces--was overcrowded and still expanding. Soon, most of its functions would be transferred to the Continent, moving closer to the action, but the bureaucrats would remain, the acres of Teletypes and the dog robbers and the ass kissers and all the other bastards who turned trees into paper and turned the paper into a blizzard that took up more and more of his time.
“General Wakefield?” said a young lieutenant, saluting briskly. “The briefing will be held in room 101. Please follow me, sir.”
The division commanders were all present, except for those who were already on the Continent--like his division commander, General Jack King. Wakefield wondered if they were just as annoyed as he was to be here instead of with their units. The large briefing room had a head table, and standing behind it was the supreme commander, as well as Field Marshal Montgomery, the top Brit, and Omar Bradley, Wakefield’s friend and mentor for many years. A few of the generals were clustered around, some legitimately, some just ass-kissing.
There were some two-stars there, too. With a thin smile, Wakefield noticed his old nemesis, George Patton, sitting out with the division commanders instead of at the head table, where Wakefield was sure he thought he ought to be. Wakefield for a moment couldn’t think of that old German word, the word for feeling some pleasure in someone else’s misfortune. Schadenfreude, he remembered. That was it. He’d had a number of battles with Patton over the years, and lost too damn many of them.
Patton was smart and capable, but he kept assuming that everyone else was therefore a jackass, and that kept getting him into trouble. He’d done a great job commanding in Africa against Rommel, the Desert Fox, but he’d put his foot into his mouth over and over again, from slapping a soldier to making impolitic remarks about the Russian allies. Actually, Wakefield agreed with him about the goddamn Rooskies, but a good officer had to understand how to keep his goddamn mouth shut.
“Gentlemen, please take your seats,” announced a colonel. Wakefield grabbed one of the uncomfortable chairs and lowered his bulk into it.
General Dwight Eisenhower began the briefing. “Men, you heard the prime minister’s speech and you’ve read the newspapers. Truth is, we don’t have a lot more to add. We believe we know the people who did it. Obviously, we’d like to encourage them to form a new government and surrender unconditionally, but it’s not at all sure they’ll succeed. Therefore, at this point, we’re not looking at any changes in our overall battle plan, except to say we’re going to keep our eyes and ears open, and just watch and see. It’s possible that there’ll be some spot surrenders or a morale drop in the German military that will help us, but it’s also possible that the Nazis will be able to keep the lid on. No changes for now in any of your orders.”
Then what the hell are we having a meeting for? Wakefield thought. No news, no changes in tactics, just a statement of common sense.
Eisenhower called for questions. Patton was the first to shoot his hand up. “Seems to me that we ought to hit ’em twice as hard while they’re confused,” he growled. “Why give them the initiative?”
Field Marshal Montgomery leaned forward, his beret tilted rakishly, and smiled at Patton with smug superiority. “And what exactly do you think we’re holding back right now?” he sneered. Monty and Patton, in the parlance of politics, “went way back” in personal enmity. Wakefield disliked Montgomery nearly as much as he did Patton, but at least he had some respect for Patton’s abilities. He had none for Monty’s.
Patton was ready to launch into a chapter-and-verse critique of the current plan along with recommended actions, but Eisenhower smoothly cut him off. “As soon as we make the breakout from the Normandy peninsula, there will be a lot of new possibilities, but they’re not on the table quite yet,” he said, shutting up both of the ego-driven commanders before their dialogue degenerated into a war of words. “For now, we continue as planned and watch for any changes. Other questions?”
“What about Rommel?” asked another general.
<
br /> “He’s not dead, but he’s badly wounded and probably out of the war for good,” said Eisenhower. “He was shot up on a strafing run and is in the hospital right now. Field Marshal von Kluge is now in command of the German forces in the west.”
“Was he part of the plot?”
“Evidently not, as far as we know. But who knows where his sympathy lies now that Hitler’s dead? That’s why we’re continuing steady on course for now. I think it’s going to take a little time for all this to shake out.”
Since all the generals were present, Bradley provided a situation update. The foothold in Normandy, secured at such horrific cost on the sixth of June, scant weeks ago, was stable. Allied forces were moving across the Channel steadily, but the Germans were able so far to bottle up the Allies in the Normandy peninsula with their forces, built-in fortifications and obstacles, and the natural terrain, especially the bocage hedgerows that bogged down armor and infantry so effectively. Nevertheless, Bradley was certain that the breakout would be relatively soon. “Operational details will be provided as soon as they have been fully developed. In the meantime, building up Allied forces on the ground remains the number one goal.” Thorough, professional, competent, and modest, Omar Bradley was Wakefield’s ideal of the right kind of career military officer. Never a hotshot, but always reliable. That’s what won wars in the long run. No one deserved his fourth star the way Bradley did. Perhaps he didn’t have all of Eisenhower’s renowned diplomatic skills, but he was the officer Wakefield most trusted to get any job done.
After the meeting broke up, most of the generals stayed to chat and--in Wakefield’s eyes--kiss up. Grudgingly, he didn’t give into his first impulse, which was to bolt the room and head back at top jeep speed to Southampton. He made his way through the knots of people to Bradley’s side.
“Henry! Good to see you,” Bradley said. ‘The star looks good on you.”
Wakefield smiled. He knew that Bradley’s influence was one of the big reasons he got assigned to the Nineteenth with his newly minted star. “Thanks, General,” he said.
“Hell, don’t thank me,” Bradley said with a grin. “I had nothing to do with it. Well deserved and overdue, that’s all there was to it.”
“If you say so, General,” Wakefield said, taking the cigar out of his mouth.
“I do say so, Henry,” Bradley said. “And I’ll look forward to having you cover my flanks in France.”
“My pleasure,” Wakefield growled back, unable to keep the smile off his face. It looked like he’d get into the war after all.
Karinhall, North of Berlin, Germany, 2110 hours GMT
The telephone rang in Hauptmann Ernst Schmidt’s office shortly past ten o’clock. The Luftwaffe officer lifted the receiver without speaking.
“Ein Gewitter nahert sich,” said the caller, his voice taut with suppressed tension. A second later the line went dead.
The code phrase--”A thunderstorm approaches”--sent a surge of adrenaline through Schmidt’s veins. For a moment he feared that he would become physically sick, but he roughly forced down the emotion.
Still, his hand trembled as he pulled the Walther P38 automatic from the shelf behind his desk. Smaller than the long-barreled Mauser 7.63 mm he usually carried, the hard-hitting 9 mm was the weapon Schmidt wanted for tonight’s task.
Holstering the gun, he rose and stepped through the door of his office into the darkened corridor of Karinhall. The vast home, residence of Reich Minister--now Führer by the will of Adolf Hitler--Hermann Göring, sprawled dark and silent around him. Once these halls had echoed with parties, music, and laughter. The finest French champagne had been served, and the most elegant members of Berlin’s nouveau-riche society had admired the priceless artwork hanging on the long walls--pieces stolen for the most part from the wealthy Jews who had since utterly disappeared from German society.
But it had been a long time since the great manor had hosted such a gala. Now most of the elegant guests were frightened to travel, with the ever-present threat of air attack. Others had been called by the war to different endeavors, and more than a few who had once laughed and drunk here were dead.
These thoughts danced like ghosts through Schmidt’s mind as he passed through the darkened ballroom, toward the spot of light spilling from the office door that stood slightly ajar. Though he typically approached the minister a dozen times a night with information and requests, the captain unconsciously lightened his step--tonight, he didn’t want to be heard.
He paused for a minute, disgust rising in his gorge as he looked at the bloated man fidgeting nervously at his massive desk. Göring swallowed the last gulp of whiskey from a tall tumbler. Most of the bottle on his desk was gone. He was sweating furiously, although the room was not hot.
Slowly, with visible reluctance, the air marshal opened a drawer and looked longingly into the concealed space. Schmidt knew what was going through the man’s mind: he needed another injection, and he needed it soon. Göring stared longingly into a desk drawer, where he undoubtedly had a morphine-filled syringe ready to soothe his pain, his fear, his rage.
Schmidt stepped forward, and the air marshal slammed the drawer shut with a guilty gesture. He looked up at the door as the hauptmann pushed it all the way open.
“Mein Führer,” he began, but he was startled at the shock and guilt on the man’s face. It was as if Göring suddenly expected Hitler himself to walk through the door, alive. He’d been like that since he’d first heard of Hitler’s assassination--jumpy, ill at ease, unable to focus.
‘What--oh, yes,” Göring stammered back, realizing that he being addressed. For a moment, Schmidt saw the immense man straighten up, and inside the rolls of fat he could see, albeit dimly, the trim Luftwaffe leader who once had been an inspiration for Germany.
And then Göring looked up and noticed the gun in Schmidt’s hand. His eyes widened in shock, but not in surprise. One Göring’s immense paws immediately moved beneath the desk, his huge body shifting awkwardly as he reached for the Luger he kept there.
Schmidt stood there for a moment, gathering his though giving Göring a quick few seconds in which to draw his gun and seconds to see the contempt, the anger, in the eyes of his erstwhile aide.
Schmidt fired as Göring pulled his arm upward.
The large bullets shot forth in precise cadence. The first one struck the minister’s bemedaled chest, forcing him heavily backward as a crimson stain immediately marred the powder blue uniform. Göring’s unused Luger clattered to the floor as another slug struck higher, and the third punctured the rolls fat ringing his neck, snapping the huge head backward. Other shots continued to hit, still higher, but by this time the obese reichmarshal was already dead.
SHAEF, London, England, 22 July 1944, 0907 hours GMT
Die Brucke ist verbrennt. Ein Gewitter nähert sich. Major F Sanger stubbed out the butt of his cigarette in the remaining half inch of cold black coffee and scratched his head. Code phrases, obviously, but whose? The first one he knew; British intelligence had provided support to the German coup plot and instantly intercepted the code message that revealed death of Adolf Hitler. The second one was a mystery, and he didn’t like mysteries. That’s why he was in military intelligence, even if other people called it an oxymoron.
Hitler dead. It had sort of an unreal quality to it. Sanger was only a second-generation American, and his parents, among others, had worshiped the German führer when he first rose to power. So had Sanger, as a teenager, until he’d gotten a firsthand look.
It had been the summer of his seventeenth year, and his parents scrimped and saved to give him a summer in his homeland. He’d flown the giant airship Hindenberg across the Atlantic Ocean, the majestic swastika on its tail revealing German glory and might to the entire world. His German cousins, a few years older, wore the proud uniform of Hitlerjugend--Hitler Youth. He’d joined in a burst of patriotic fervor, only to have the true nature of the Hitler mystique revealed to him on a night of atrocity and horror in
which he’d been a willing participant, to his eternal shame. As the consequences of his actions set in, he turned against the Nazi Party, resigned his membership--to the dismay and disdain of his cousins. Having severed connections to that side of his family, he boarded the Hindenberg for the long and now lonely flight home, wracked with guilt and confusion.
The day of the landing, the Hindenberg had burst into flames. Most of the passengers escaped, including him, but he would never forget the horror of the inferno that raged around him. He bore scar tissue up his right arm and shoulder, creeping up his neck, divine retribution, he believed, for his actions on that night in Germany.
That trip had altered the destiny of his life forever. At first rated 4-F because of the fire damage, he’d finally managed to worm his way into the military with the aid of a sympathetic doctor. Because of his fluent German, he even managed to get a military intelligence post. He’d had to put up with inevitable suspicion about his background, and even now he suspected that his career was held back and his access limited for fear that he was a deep-background agent. The suspicion pained him, but it was inevitable, so he lived with it, refused to let it hurt him, and put all his energies into the war effort.
Ein Gewitter nahert sich. A thunderstorm approaches. He reviewed the steps in the conspiracy: the assassination of Hitler according to plan. Goebbels: dead, but not a direct target of the conspirators. Interesting. Himmler: attempt failed. Well, it was a long shot to have a deep-cover agent attempt the job. The SS Reichsführer was nearly as well protected as Hitler, possibly more so. And now Göring, dead. That wasn’t part of the plan either. The logical conclusion, therefore, was that there were two conspiracies at work: the Stauffenberg group and the “Thunderstorm” group.
So far, so good. Next question: Who is “Thunderstorm” and what are its motives? The possibilities were, first, dissident elements within the initial coup plotters who thought the plan didn’t go far enough and wanted to take out others in the Nazi high command. Objection: Now that the carnage is done, there is no reason they should not reveal themselves. It’s not as if anyone on our side would disapprove.
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