Rudi reached out and touched Helga affectionately, aware that his very life was dependent upon it functioning as promised. “It is very capable, Herr General.”
Veiel smiled at Rudi’s confidence. Army intelligence reported the Poles had fewer than 500 light tanks and used horses instead. “I am very interested in its performance.”
Rudi could not think of anything intelligent to say, so he remained silent. He glanced at Lieutenant Luttwitz, who stood motionless and quiet. Finally, General Veiel ended the awkwardness. “Advance at all costs. Do not stop. Let me worry about the flanks.”
“Jawohl, Herr General. Advance at all costs!”
Pleased, Veiel placed his hand on Rudi’s powerful shoulder and looked into his eyes, “Good luck tomorrow, Staff Sergeant… Rudolf Kleime.”
Before Rudi could muster a reply, General Veiel was already walking further down the line. Rudi knew there would be no further delays. In a few hours, the Third Reich would be at war.
5
September 1, 1939
Etienne’s day promised to be long. It began with a German radio announcement of an assault on Poland. As the Wehrmacht moved east, the world’s attention shifted to the west, awaiting the French and British reaction. Those in the east expected a western front. In August 1914 the Russians had sacrificed hundreds of thousands to save Paris. Twenty-five years later the expectation was for the French and British to hurl themselves into the teeth of the Siegfried Line to slow the German drive toward the Polish – Soviet border.
The war had begun over a sliver of land, the Polish Corridor, separating Germany from its most ancient of lands, East Prussia. Hitler demanded the sliver, the Poles rejected any surrender, and war was the result. Whether the conflict extended beyond two countries to consume the entire continent would be decided in Etienne’s office.
In London Prime Minister Chamberlain’s government was paralyzed by a divided House of Commons. There was no such divide in Paris with France refusing to join British troops in attacking Germany. Without France, Britain lacked land access to Germany, reducing it to a naval war and bottling up the German Baltic fleet while harassing German ships around the world. A British declaration of war would neither stop nor even slow the panzers’ drive into Poland.
Arriving early after a late evening, Etienne puttered around his office as time ticked by for his first appointment, the Polish ambassador. Lord Bainbridge had requested an afternoon meeting as the French refusal to join the Anglos in a war having upended British foreign policy. Yet the French decision not to declare war could not have been unexpected, few would believe Minister Laval would allow diplomatic efforts to wither in order to aid the British. Etienne sensed the Polish visit would prove more difficult. The ambassador’s country was in desperate straits, lacking time to listen to reason or the delicacies of diplomacy. The Poles were under attack, their country about to be swallowed, victim of the voracious Germans.
The Polish ambassador was his first appointment. Count Poletyl, a minor Polish aristocrat who had married well. The money attached to his wife placed him within the realm of Polish leaders bent on building a new eastern empire. A cavalryman in the Great War, he had served with the Austrians then was captured by the Russians. After the collapse of Russia, he was part of the new look Polish Army, which had advanced to the gates of Kiev only to be thrown back to the gates of Warsaw. The count was among those who rallied the Poles, setting the final border within a short distance of Minsk, that border the final objective of the Germans who were rolling into his country. His slow entry into the Quai de’ Orsai was telling. Six years of war had taken their toll on the count and the dashing cavalryman had become a lurching shell of his former self, though he remained a man not to be crossed.
The Count had once been an impressive figure, barrel chested with stark features that made him attractive to women and intimidating to men. Etienne, though, had his instructions and none of them allowed him to be cowed by the ambassador. The two diplomats greeted each other in the mauve room; Etienne entering, the Count waiting, neither man revealing their emotions. The old cavalryman looked about for a place to ease his pained knees; Etienne offered a settee then taking a divan several feet away in case the Pole became agitated at the news about to be delivered. Etienne had always been obsessed with personal space and he knew men like the Count intimidated through close personal contact.
“I expected to see Foreign Minister Laval,” he said, stumbling over the name.
Etienne offered his customary excuse. “He had domestic concerns to handle.”
The count’s face screwed up, fully aware Laval was avoiding him and allowing a deputy to deliver the bad news.
“The Germans have attacked,” he said unnecessarily. “The Polish government seeks enforcement of the French and British guarantee of Polish -.”
Etienne shook his head, grunting in the negative and halting the Count. “You speak of a French and British guarantee of Poland but the French government knows only of a British guarantee. The Polish government must contact the British foreign ministry for clarification of their guarantee.” He breathed at the end of his practiced line, elegantly written and devastating when spoken.
The Count took the bad news in stride. “The understanding was that a German attack on Poland would be met with a French and British declaration against Berlin.”
Etienne stared hard at the Count, focusing on his green/gray eyes to demonstrate he was not cowed. “The Polish government misinterpreted our intent in this matter. The French government never expressed any interest in declaring war against Germany based on any guarantee of Polish soil.” Etienne folded his arms across his chest.
The count hesitated, mulling a response. “Possibly it is the French foreign ministry which misinterpreted the policy of the French government.” For the first time that day the Count smiled, a curl of his lip showing disdain at being fobbed off on a deputy foreign minister. He ground his teeth, a reflection of the barely restrained fury at an ally abandoning his country.
“The foreign ministry speaks for the French government.”
“Including Marshal Petain?”
“Minister Petain.” Etienne pursed his lips. The insinuation that he was a mere functionary and not a minister set his blood boiling.
The Count inched forward in his seat. “I request an audience with Foreign Minister Laval.”
“As I said earlier the foreign minister is detained with domestic concerns.” Etienne said. “I speak for him, my words are his and everything told to me is conveyed to him.”
The Count puffed out his chest. “You are refusing a formal request from a representative of the Polish government?” His face was reddening, legs tensed for a sudden leap from the settee.
Etienne maintained his tone. “I am refusing nothing,” he said. It was his opportunity to smile as the Count lost his temper. “I am taking your request under advisement and will pass it along to the foreign minister. Unfortunately domestic concerns can occupy several days or weeks of his time.” He smiled. “In France, cabinet ministers must engage the population.”
The Count, his position based on name, family and tradition, rather than fickle voters, did not return the smile. “What should I tell my government?”
Etienne knew the question was coming and had a speech prepared. “The French government is fully prepared to sponsor a conference between the two countries to find a peaceful solution acceptable to both sides.”
“The Germans have attacked, they have rejected negotiations.”
Etienne shook his head. “That is not the view of the French government. It is the Polish government which refused negotiations in the misguided belief France and Britain would save them. Poland must defend itself. My government has offered a peace conference, but if your government rejects the offer then it has decided that war is its best policy.”
The Count blinked, color draining from his face. He wobbled to his feet, face white, hand quivering as he offered it to Etienne who gave
it a perfunctory shake, also part of his instructions. The Count turned without another word, lurching from the Mauve room and leaving Etienne to slowly exhale. The more difficult of the interviews was over.
His assistant returned after escorting the Count from the ministry. Francois was wide eyed, stumbling over his feet. “He was very upset,” the young man murmured. “I believe he was crying.”
Etienne perked up for a moment, making a grown man cry. “He realizes his country has made a mistake. They want our soldiers to die on the Rhine so their soldiers won’t die on the Vistula.”
Francois blinked as his superior waxed poetic. “You believe the Polish cannot defeat the Germans?”
Etienne let out a quick laugh. “No. They will be fortunate to survive a month.” Generals Weygand and Gamelin have suggested three weeks at a cabinet meeting, barely enough time for French soldiers to crawl from the Maginot Line and cross the German border. Even less time for a trickle of British soldiers to cross the channel, leaving the French to bear the brunt of any German assault.
“The Polish Army,” Francois began.
Etienne waved him off. “They cannot win. They have little air force and few tanks, it is a nineteenth century army.”
Francois eyed Etienne with newfound respect, suspecting the deputy foreign minister was a military expert. “The British ambassador is scheduled.”
A bell rang, a summons for the deputy’s assistant. Francois hurried from the room only to return a few moments later to announce the arrival of Lord Bainbridge. Etienne sighed, the meeting a mere reiteration of what French policy Vis a Vis the Germans and the Anglos. If the British could not adjust their plans accordingly it was not the fault of the French foreign ministry. Unfortunately the Anglos were stubborn and the ambassador appeared to believe he could bully the French government into declaring war.
Lord Bainbridge was waiting for Etienne in the crème colored room, his face a mass of twitches, fingers twisting around each other. The dignified aristocrat had collapsed into a desperate politician who sensed he had lost control of the situation.
Etienne maintained his distance, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for the deluge.
“Prime Minister Chamberlain will be speaking in the House of Commons this evening. It is likely a declaration of war is forthcoming. His Majesty’s government inquires as to the French government’s position toward war with Germany?”
Etienne’s eyes widened. “Declaration of war? Why is His Majesty’s government declaring war on Germany?”
Lord Bainbridge’s mouth swung open. “The German army invaded Poland this morning.”
“Yes, I know.”
The ambassador shifted on his feet, trying to understand why the deputy foreign minister was being so obtuse. “Will the French government join His Majesty’s government in declaring war on Germany?”
Etienne managed a smile at the question. “That is not a decision I am able to make.”
“Then Foreign Minister Laval?”
“Unavailable.”
“When will he be available?”
Another smile.
Lord Bainbridge’s lip curled. “I cannot return to my government without a commitment from the French government.”
“No commitment is forthcoming or being discussed,” Etienne declared.
Bainbridge pulled himself up to his full height, his nerves having settled and centuries of aristocratic breeding asserted itself. “This is a breach of a long relationship between our two governments.”
Etienne eyed him, not one to be intimidated by the puffery of nobles. He fixed Bainbridge with his coldest stare. “A century is not a long relationship,” he said. “French interests are paramount and when they coincide with British interests then we both benefit from the relationship. When the interests of France and Britain are in contravention then we follow our own path.”
Bainbridge swallowed. “Britain seeks rights to fly our planes over French territory.”
“I will raise the issue with Foreign Minister Laval.” Etienne hid his puzzlement at the request, not believing the British would expect France to allow the Royal Air Force to conduct a war against Germany using French air space.
“We will await your government’s response.” Bainbridge bowed and left Etienne without uttering another word. Etienne remained, waiting for Francois and his announcement of the ambassador’s departure. His young assistant had worked hard at improvement, his hair nearly all in place, his tie square, crease in his pants nearly visible from thigh to cuff.
“Is it over?” Francois inquired.
Etienne nodded, unsure what he was agreeing to.
“There will be war?”
“Not for France.” Etienne looked past Francois toward the far window and the Seine. “England will never go to war,” he declared, sounding more confident than he felt.
II
September 1, 1939
Hauptmann (Captain) Hans Oswald banked his Junkers Ju-87B Stuka to gain a better look at the clouds of dust below him. He marked the advance of the Second Panzer Division and according to intelligence reports were headed directly for Polish forces. Hans checked his altimeter concerned he was higher than his planned 3,000 meters but it confirmed he was at his correct altitude.
From his perch he could make out the various sections of the panzer division. It was led by a motorcycle battalion, bouncing along the unfinished Polish roads in search of the enemy. They were the advanced infantry finding and tying down Polish units. Behind them were the Panzerkampfwagen’s I and II’s, their machine guns and small cannon assigned the task of sweeping away the enemy. The advancing column was impressive and Hans could not help but respect the panzer troops but under no circumstances did he want to join them. He was a flyer, a fascination with airplanes that began when he was a small boy.
He looked ahead over the cowling and through the three bladed propeller that was part of the Junkers Ju-87B Stuka. After his tour flying with the Condor Legion in Spain, Oswald was promoted to Captain. Awarded his own command, his unit was did not include his preferred Messerschmitt Me-109 fighter but instead was a Staffel of Stuka dive bombers.
Even with his successes in Spain, Hans could never fully relive the rush he experienced on his first solo flight. It started with nearly paralyzing fear, realizing he was alone and no one could take over for him during a crisis. It began with the overwhelming fear he was unprepared, required more practice, fears threatening to consume his senses until his training seized him followed by a rush of accomplishment. No pilot had the same first solo experience but it seemed all pilots felt that rush.
Time passed quickly since Spain and flying became part of Oswald’s nature. Instead of a rush, exhaustion crept in, back aching, legs heavy as he struggled to complete his fifth sortie of his day. Starting before dawn he had spent the day bombing; a single enemy plane had reached the otherwise clear sky only to be sent into a fiery spiral and crashing into the Polish countryside. The Me-109 that shot it down sped by, wagging its wings as Hans and his flight lumbered on to targets near Krakow.
Unlike Spain where each sortie held its own terror, Hans was relaxed flying over Poland. The lumbering Stuka, slowed by the massive fixed landing gear housing in large metal pants had made it an easy target over Spain. Hans removed his feet from the rudder pedals, stretching as he visually confirmed the rest of his Staffel remained in position.
Krakow appeared over the horizon. Reports had the Poles attempting to move troops to the front, a perfect target for the Luftwaffe. Hans understood his planes were the vanguard for the army, attacking the enemy before it could attack the panzers. Hans rolled right, scanning for their target, a road junction east of Krakow. He mentally reviewed the pre-dive bombing checklist. Flaps and elevator trim in the cruise position. Rudder trim and prop pitch were fixed at the cruise setting. The contact altimeter on and set to release at 500 meters. Supercharger set to automatic and cooler flaps closed.
Hans spotted his target, a road intersection b
ustling with peasants and horse drawn carts. He pulled back the throttle, deploying the dive brakes, preventing the Ju-87B from blasting through its structural airspeed limit of 600 kilometers per hour. Hans began his target run, glancing at the red markings on the side of the cockpit canopy, confirming he was in a 75 degree dive. Marveling at the ease in which he established the big single engine gull wing plane on its bombing dive, Oswald listened as the air driven sirens mounted in the landing gear struts howled and caused soldiers and civilians to scramble for cover.
He aimed his Stuka at the largest of the carts, unhindered by antiaircraft fire. At 500 meters, the light on the contact altimeter illuminated and Hans depressed the knob to release 250 kilo bomb. It swung free from the centerline of the fuselage on its trapeze and released. The automatic dive recovery system activated and Ju-87B pulled out of the steep dive.
“On target,” exclaimed Sergeant Emil Jarvis, Hans’ rear gunner. Hans didn’t respond, concentrating on maintaining awareness during the harrowing 6 G pullout. His bomb blasted the intersection clear; Hans missing the explosion as the Ju-87B’s nose reached the horizon, the recovery system retracting the dive brakes, set the propeller pitch to climb and opened the throttle.
Once Hans reached sufficient altitude, he circled to survey the damage. He ordered a second bombing run and watched the remainder of his Staffel attack. Sporadic rifle fire greeted the Ju-87Bs in their dives. Hans opened fire with the two wing mounted 7.92mm Rheinmettall MG 17 machine guns, which ripped into the chaotic mass. He pulled out of the dive and leveled off at 2,000 meters. With his bomb ordinance expended and most of his machine gun ammunition gone, Hans assumed a westerly heading.
“I think that’s enough for today.”” announced Hans.
“What a disorganized rabble,” ‘Emil’s voice sounded from the rear of the cockpit. “This war will be over in another week.”
“The second run looked more like refugees, than soldiers, barely worth the time.” Oswald’s thoughts focused on his companion. “Did you vomit?”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 6
