French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  French Betrayal

  An Alternative History of the Second World War

  Vincent Dugan Douglas Clouatre

  Cast of Characters

  Johann Franks A Luftwaffe pilot, he gains experience in the Spanish Civil War and is an early member of the new German parachute forces or the Fallschirmjäger.

  Hans Oswald Also a Luftwaffe pilot, he flies the Stuka, the effective dive bomber developed for the Blitzkreig style of modern warfare.

  John J. Reilly After helping the Soviets develop their tank fleet this American engineer is trapped in a collapsing Russia by love and war.

  Rudi Kleime Leading his Panzerkampfwagen III Helga through the Polish and Russian countryside, Rudi is in the front lines of the German war machine, the very tip of the Nazi spear.

  Etienne Descoteaux The French diplomat juggles a new wife and a long time mistress as he struggles to keep France out of the war.

  Albert Reichenau Captain in an Einsatzgruppen squad, this Great War veteran is haunted by a shameful family secret.

  Ianu Cohnescu A Rumanian Jew, he watches his adopted country descend into a Nazi inspired charnel house.

  Exner Updegrove This lord in waiting meddles in British politics and is exiled to the Balkans with unexpected consequences.

  Westbrook Pegler The American reporter views the upcoming presidential election and the war with the same cynical eye.

  Alexander Grotnov Better known by his nickname Sasha, this Russian peasant conscripted into the Red Army as a laborer is overwhelmed by the Blitzkreig.

  Frieda Essert Damaged and forsaken she finds a second chance at life from an unusual source.

  Tersten Holbricht A family suicide clouding his future, he tries to fit into a society where being different can be deadly

  Alexei Protopopov Cursed with a name dating to Russia’s czarist past, he rises to the heights of influence in the Kremlin and witnesses the paranoia and incompetence of the Stalin regime.

  Waltraud Shriver A Mischling with one quarter Jewish blood in his veins flies missions for a regime dedicated to the eradication of his people.

  Colonel Yuri Tarkenov A Soviet officer with malleable loyalties, after surviving a battlefield slaughter willing offers his service to the victors.

  PROLOGUE

  February 21, 1938Teruel, Spain

  Oberleutnant Johann Franks swiveled his scan to the right, confirming the location of the leader of the pair of Messerschmitt Bf 109B-2 fighters. Franks remained in position with Major Gotthardt Handrick slightly ahead, 150 meters off his starboard wing. Further right and equally spaced raced another pair of 109s, the remainder of their schwarm. Two other schwarms of 109s from their unit were minutes behind them.

  Franks twitched, raising his jaw and stretching his neck, gasping for air. A couple of centimeters shorter than average, he was well suited for the cockpit of the cramped 109. He was beyond nervous, more frightened of failure than death. Aerial combat was not likely today - it was certain. Franco’s Nationalist troops fighting in Teruel had begged the “volunteer” German pilots of the Condor Legion for relief from packs of Republican aircraft above the eastern Spanish town.

  Before takeoff, Major Handrick confirmed the Republican menace included dozens of their best fighter plane, the Soviet Polikarpov I-16. Known as the Rata or mouse by the Nationalists, it was believed the I-16s were piloted by Russians. As they rushed to their waiting 109s, Handrick grasped Franks’ shoulder, faces drew uncomfortably close.

  “Don’t worry Franks, watch my tail and I’ll do the hunting.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major!” replied Franks as he watched Handrick affectionately pat his plane’s propeller spinner on his way past its engine. While all of the 109s of the 2nd Staffel of Jagdgruppe 88 were emblazoned with the unit’s black Top Hat insignia, Handrick’s prop spinner uniquely displayed the five rings of the Olympics on each side with “1936!” printed below one set and “1940?” beneath the other.

  Handrick was a hero to the Third Reich before setting foot in Spain. The entire Condor Legion took pride in Handrick’s Gold Medal in the Modern Pentathlon at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Protecting “the medalist” added to Franks’ natural fear as he faced his first combat sortie.

  Franks sloughed sweat from his face as the mid-day sun blazed through the cockpit glass and the heater poured scalding air into it. The hot air smelled faintly of high octane gasoline. At their cruising altitude of 4,000 meters the temperature outside was well below freezing, but that was on the other side of the glass. Franks fumbled with the heat control, trying to cool the cramped cockpit. He glanced to Handrick’s aircraft and verified the correctness of his position for the hundredth time.

  The schwarm was cruising southwest at high speed and Franks sensed the 109 wanted to climb. He checked the propeller pitch and fiddled with the trim to keep the nose level with the horizon. He peered ahead through the tiny windscreen and spotted the rising smoke of the battle in Teruel. Franks confirmed his guns were cocked and silently vowed he would not let an enemy aircraft threaten Handrick.

  “Ratas below a thousand meters, nine o’clock,” announced Handrick. “Dive on them at max speed, then climb back to 4,000 meters for another pass.”

  Franks ignored the queasiness in his stomach. He looked left and downward, spotting the stubby Soviet I-16 monoplanes beneath them in the cloudless afternoon sky. Franks prayed for strength.

  “I count eight,” called Hauptmann Roerland, the leader of the second schwarm. ”The sun will be at our back.”

  “Don’t turn with them! Use your speed to climb,” warned Handrick. “Dive now!”

  Franks nosed over with the throttle open and followed Handrick, his airspeed indicator charged to maximum structural velocity. Franks resisted the urge to close the throttle, he would faithfully stay with Handrick. In less than a minute they were on the unsuspecting Ratas.

  Handrick opened fire on the middle of a loose flight of four Republican fighters with his three 7.92 mm MG 17 machine guns but struck nothing. Franks scanned the sky behind Handrick as the pair of 109s careened closer to their prey. He spotted nothing and returned to watching Handrick’s attack. Almost instantly, they were atop the Ratas. The I-16 seemed to be nothing more than an enormous radial engine attached to a tiny fuselage.

  Seconds ticked as Handrick continued directly at his target, and Franks grew more concerned. “He must pull up now,” he thought. “He’s but a 100 meters from colliding,” but Handrick pressed ahead. The Rata somehow survived, banking sharply to the right as Handrick climbed seemingly vertical, trading speed for altitude.

  Franks yanked the yoke back until he thought it would break, vaulting his 109 upwards. Gravitational forces slammed his body and crushed his lungs as he struggled to remain conscious.

  “What’s on my ass?” demanded Handrick.

  Unable to speak Franks forced himself to focus on Handrick’s 109. A bright green Rata was behind and slightly below, peppering Handrick with its four 7.62 mm Shkas machine guns. Panic shot through Franks’ soul. He lowered the nose, slammed the yoke right and stomped on the starboard rudder.

  “On him,” croaked Franks, as he narrowed the gap. He wondered where the attacker came from and how he maneuvered behind Handrick. Franks lined up the Rata in his sights and opened fire. Franks watched as the pilot of the Soviet plane turned to look back as 7.92 mm rounds riddled the cockpit. Whether Republican or Russian, he had perished.

  “Got him,” announced Franks as he renewed climbing. He searched the sky for other threats and caught a glimpse of cartwheeling aircraft to the north. He wondered how they could have separated from the melee so qui
ckly.

  “Good work Franks!” replied Handrick. “Turn left 90 degrees and level off. I might have some damage. I had a bad tail flutter climbing.”

  Franks complied, hoping Handrick’s problem was associated with the known tail flutter tendency of the Bf 109B and not the Rata. Franks pulled alongside as the pair headed southeast from Teruel and cringing when he noticed the line of holes on Handrick’s rudder.

  “There’s about five bullet holes on your rudder, Major,” reported Franks.

  “God dammit, Teruel is thick with Ratas,” sighed Handrick. “I do not want to leave but my controls seem heavy.”

  Franks observed as Handrick tested his 109’s rudder, ailerons and stabilizer, without adequate results. After several unsuccessful attempts to radio others from the Staffel, they returned to their base near La Cenia.

  On the return flight, Franks’ emotions oscillated. He worried Handrick would blame him for the damage to his 109 but was jubilant about his first aerial victory against an I-16, without question the finest the Republicans had to offer. War was a confusing enterprise.

  0

  Oberleutnant Hans Oswald leaned against the filthy wall of a seedy bar in La Cenia. He felt wetness on his sleeve and recoiled. A quick glance confirmed the wall was thick with a pattern of brown liquid. Certainly not something Oswald wanted on his Condor Legion uniform.

  It was almost midnight and Oswald was as drunk as he could get without adding vomit to the wall’s decorative coating. Not a happy drunk, he was madder than a bull that had been stuck with knives by a matador. He had yet to witness a bull fight since his arrival in Spain in January as part of the Condor Legion. Franks had been too busy flying the new Junkers Ju-87 Stuka dive bomber in precision ground attacks against the Spanish Republicans. Others in his Staffel dismissed the slaughter of the bulls as not particularly sportsmanlike, but Oswald believed he would enjoy the spectacle.

  Oswald wished he had something sharp, like a knife or a sword. Although his Spanish was rudimentary at best, two hours earlier he and his flying mates had been flirting successfully with a group of raven haired local girls. Ten more minutes and he was certain he could have claimed a personal victory. Their efforts were thwarted by the arrival of a handful of fighter pilots from the 2nd Staffel of his unit, Jagdgruppe 88. Oswald and his comrades were outclassed and knew it. Grinding his teeth with envy, they had no choice but retreat from the action at the bar.

  He swept his black hair to the side, toying with his thin mustache while ruminating over the changes in his fortunes. He too had been a fighter pilot in Germany until agreeing to “volunteer” for the Condor Legion. Colleagues returning from Spain had Reich marks overflowing their pockets while boasting of fun, women and combat sorties. Oswald wanted to join the club.

  Oswald jumped at the opportunity but was disappointed to learn he would not upgrade from the Heinkel He-51 biplane to the Bf 109. He would be one of the fighter pilots selected to fly the three Ju-87 Stukas shipped to the Condor Legion for testing. He was a fighter pilot and had no desire to fly the ungainly Stuka with its fixed gear and gull wings. He could only hope once in Spain another opportunity would let him pilot the sleek Messerschmitt fighter.

  Oswald had met the Jagdgruppe leader, Major Handrick not long after the 1936 Berlin Olympics. At a reception celebrating Handrick’s gold medal, they had talked about Germany’s resurgence and the expanding Luftwaffe. Handrick had remarked, “The Fatherland needs more level headed young fighter pilots like you, Oswald.” After his arrival in Spain, Oswald reminded Handrick of their prior meeting to no avail. As an Olympic hero of the Third Reich, Handrick had apparently met too many admirers to remember and Franks was relegated to the Stuka.

  The party in Spain had not met Oswald’s expectations. There was plenty of drink and women, but also an astonishing amount of flying. He could not remember how many sorties he had flown in the last week while obliterating the Republican lines around Teruel. The Nationalists had broken through, and occupied the city on February 20. The next day Major Handrick informed the entire Jagdgruppe the unit’s three Stukas were Franco’s most powerful weapon for holding the city.

  Tonight, the 2nd Staffel’s fighter pilots were celebrating. Earlier, the Jagdgruppe’s 109s fought a twisting and twirling battle above Teruel against dozens of the Soviet I-16s. Seven of the Ratas were shot down by the 109s, without the loss of a single Condor Legion plane.

  Oswald fumed as he consumed glass after glass of the vile regional wine, the horrific aftertaste nearly enough to make him stop drinking for the night. The 2nd Staffel flew the Bf-109B-2, easily the most capable fighter in Spain. While the local chiquitas would not know the difference between a 109 and a Stuka, Oswald was well aware of the pecking order.

  Even though the fighter pilots were countrymen and members of the same elite unit, Oswald despised their existence. His anger grew as he watched them laughing, touching and lean close enough to snatch a kiss from the Spanish girls. He should be one of them, perhaps even their leader and could not understand how the Luftwaffe desk generals could not recognize he was their best pilot and should be flying the 109. He was a fighter pilot, not a dump truck driver and thinking of his demotion pushed his rage to the surface until he could think only of brawling. Oswald’s eye was caught by an Oberleutnant like himself, although shorter and thinner. Oswald stumbled over to the group.

  “The Bolshevik Rata came out of nowhere and was suddenly on Major Handrick’s tail,” explained the slender pilot to his nodding brethren, demonstrating the relative position of the aircraft with his hands to the young ladies. “I set up for a deflection shot and –

  “And what? You pulled the trigger and blew him outta the air,” slurred Oswald. “Ah…these girls do not speak a word of German.”

  The 109 pilot stopped and steadied Oswald, “Herr Oberleutnant, I do not believe we have met. I am Johann Franks.”

  “Nein, we have not …I’m Hans Oswald…from Berlin,” uttered Oswald. “I fly one of the Stukas.”

  “I’m sure you do, it is an important mission.” remarked Franks, turning back to the very beauty that had been within Oswald’s grasp.

  Oswald made a feeble attempt to join the conversation, “I like the Top Hat insignia.”

  Franks paused and laughed, “Danke…But your pig is better.”

  The three Stukas of the Jagdgruppe had a large pig emblem on their wheel pants, the animal being a German good luck symbol. It was always visible as the Stuka’s gear did not retract and reduced its speed considerably.

  “Don’t make fun of Jolanthe, Herr Franks,” growled Oswald. Jolanthe was the nickname the Stuka pilots had given to the pig and thus their three aircraft.

  “Oberleutenant…it appears you have had enough to drink.”

  “I suppose…though it doesn’t matter…there’s not much of a trick to flying the Stuka,” conceded Oswald.

  “Bombers are why we need fighters,” Franks said. “We must clear the path for you to destroy targets.”

  Oswald’s considered the compliment for a moment. His glassy eyes struggled to focus as he leaned in to Franks. “I don’t like you.”

  Franks grabbed Oswald by his tunic and shoved him backwards. Oswald lost his balance and stumbled into the Spanish girl and knocked her to the floor. Oswald feigned injury, bending to the ground, his face in his hands. He twirled to launch an attack on Franks, but halted in his tracks. Standing before him was the Jagdgruppe 88’s commander, Major Handrick.

  Handrick interceded, “That is enough. Oberleutnant Oswald, stop this nonsense at once.”

  Franks glared at Oswald. Handrick waved his hand in a circling pattern, “Boys, it’s time we go.”

  The Luftwaffe pilots gingerly approached Handrick and tossed money on the bar for the tab. As they gathered to leave, Franks hung back. He leaned into Oswald and grunted, “Shall we continue this conversation another time?”

  “When you get a break from sucking the Major’s prick,” spat Oswald. “Does he let you w
ear his gold medal?”

  Franks narrowed his eyes, muscles tightened, hands clutched as if grasping Oswald’s skull. He stepped back to regain his composure. “We’re not done, Oswald.” Satisfied, Franks strode through the bar’s exit.

  0

  Morning came too quickly for Johanns Franks. He struggled to poke his head out the tent flap and was greeted with a dark sky and rain.

  A Feldwebel or sergeant passed Franks’ tent on his way to the grass strip and cheerfully reported conditions. “It rained hard from 0200 until 30 minutes ago. Don’t know if there will be flying this morning.” Franks did not listen as he gathered his flight gear. He was proud to be one of the first Luftwaffe pilots to test the Bf-109 against an adversary.

  Franks knew he had to make the most of his opportunity to gain combat experience. He had shot down a Rata on his first combat sortie. Franks was motivated to score five victories before his deployment was over, but his time in Spain was limited. The Luftwaffe generally did not allow tours to be extended, it was desired that as many pilots as possible benefit from “helping” Franco. As he ate breakfast, he reflected on the previous evening. Two things were certain. He would go back to the bar and look for the Spanish girl, and someday he would get that piece of scheisse Oswald alone and beat him to a pulp.

  1

  April 4, 1939

  The room in the Quai d’Orsai offered a view of nighttime Paris that rivaled most first class hotels. Home of the French Foreign Ministry, it was an elaborate building constructed as a tribute to the outlandish rule of Napoleon III. Situated on the left bank of the Seine, it offered its occupants a view of the river and the boats easing down it. None of this mattered to Etienne Descoteaux.

  As the new deputy foreign minister he had yet to be assigned an office, forcing Etienne to spend his first three weeks wandering the halls, and occupying space when it was available. It did not take much imagination to realize he was an unwelcome presence in the foreign ministry. Not part of the ruling majority party led by Prime Minister Edouard Deladier, he was considered a “spy” for the opposition led by Pierre Laval.