French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  The smoke from burning houses began to spread, flames reaching the eyes of the Juden packed tight into their trucks, the past melting before their eyes, realization dawning that the Germans represented safety from the roving mobs. Reichenau chuckled as the Poles dragged the loot from the homes; a sudden wind spreading embers that caught fire to the booty then the Poles’ clothing followed by the Poles themselves. They milled about and swatted at the flames but their movement only adding fuel. Human torches, they rushed about blindly, darting into the burning homes and their doom. The captain was not surprised. The Poles were Slavs, incapable of civilized behavior, their soldiers more of a hindrance in their flight than in any fight. The entire scene was more fodder for an evening of drinks.

  Reichenau commanded 200 men that followed the Fourteenth Army from Slovakia into southern Poland and pointed toward Krakow, the center of Polish Jewry. It was a motley collection of “soldiers”, many of them barely trained police who knew only how to kill unarmed civilians. Not that the captain cared. He had been an ordinary soldier in the Great War, a twenty- three year old lieutenant with high aspirations if the Kaiser’s army had won. Instead defeat led to a dismantling of the military and economic chaos. Returning to Allenstein in East Prussia he found the Allies had placed Poland between Prussia’s ancient Germanic lands and the German homeland. Depression followed as family estates owned for centuries were sold for Pfennigs on the Mark, causing Reichenau and his family to seek answers to the chaos. It came in the message of the Nazi Party which properly placed the blame on profiteers, speculators, Jewish bankers and landlords.

  As Polanka Wielka was emptied, some of Reichenau’s “soldiers” snapped pictures of the rampaging Poles and burning village. The captain discouraged photos, fearful that scenes of Polish peasants and Juden would harm morale at home. He quickly learned the Herrenvolk craved news from the war front, wanting to see how their soldiers represented the Reich.

  “Obertruppfuhrer.”

  Reichenau glanced down at the rutted road to find his adjutant, Lieutenant Freissner, uniform covered in dust, face red, eyes squinting in the sun, motioning to him.

  “Obersturmbanfuhrer Schmundt wants to see you.”

  Reichenau grimaced, concerned Lieutenant Colonel Schmundt wanted to foist a recruit on Reichenau. Second in command of Einsatzgruppen 1 in southern Poland, Schmundt believed the Waffen SS should accept all comers in its crusade against the sub races. While the headquarters thought the more recruits the better, Reichenau watched newcomers destroy unit cohesion. Many were disturbed men, dangerous, murderous, uncontrollable, and ignorant of the military discipline that separated soldiers from animals. Schmundt received recruits from Norway, Denmark, Spain and France to units in Poland and now it was his turn. The Obersturmbanfuhrer lobbied for Baltic recruits enjoying a mix of German blood capable of following orders. It was not as if Reichenau needed more loose cannons; he already had Strauss, a German of mixed heritage but pure hate.

  Schmundt was only a few kilometers to Reichenau’s rear; the lieutenant colonel preferred to travel in close proximity to his men. Another disgruntled Great War soldier, Schmundt had taken the killings more philosophically as a plan to recover ancient German lands stolen by the Slavs and their western allies.

  Reichenau required only a few minutes to find the Obersturmbanfuhrer, though spotting him among his soldiers was difficult. Schmundt was a model of informality, gray coat unbuttoned, shirt collar twisted, single decoration was an Iron Cross sitting askew, his one firm memory of his time serving with General Mackensen in Poland and Rumania during the Great War. When Reichenau climbed from the headquarters car, Schmundt waved for him to join the mix of officers.

  Reichenau offered his full Nazi salute and received a quick, half-hearted response. Schmundt saw the SS as an opportunity to serve, but saw the Nazis as politicians to be distrusted even when he agreed with them. The general nodded for the colonel to join him at his table where Schmundt was enjoying a sausage, dipping it into a slick of mustard. Reichenau eyed the general’s lunch, while hunger pangs knocked at his stomach.

  “You are moving,” he mumbled, ripping at stubborn sausage skin. “Brest Litovsk.”

  Reichenau’s eyes widened. Two hundred kilometers to the east. “We have not finished here.”

  Schmundt waved a piece of sausage, mustard flecks dotted his uniform. “We have more units coming but we need experienced people in the east, there have been difficulties.”

  “Difficulties?”

  Schmundt chewed.

  “What are my orders?”

  More chewing allowed Reichenau to consider his answer.

  “New orders. We have to clear the eastern frontier of communist spies, Bolsheviks.”

  “Clear the frontier?”

  “The French are staying neutral, we will be moving troops east; there have been meetings in Berlin, plans.” Schmundt returned to chewing, the subject closed.

  The Captain nodded. Orders were orders. He saluted Schmundt, receiving a flaccid Heil Hitler in response, unconcerned with what he had unleashed upon the peasants of east Poland.

  9

  October 15, 1939

  “Who saw Wohler last?” demanded Schmidt.

  The platoon members exchanged glances, waiting for one to deliver the bad news. It fell on Rudi. “We were with him before he headed to the crossroads.”

  “And since that time?” Schmidt had awakened to find one of the 3rd Panzer Regiment’s three PzKpfw IIIs missing. He gathered the platoon and hoped Wohler had celebrated their victory with too much alcohol or been diverted by a sweet Polish lass eager to please the victor. Wohler, though, had simply disappeared.

  “We must find that panzer before division is informed.” Schmidt eyed the men, so successful at war, less competent at peace. “He may have broken down, his radio not working.”

  Rudi offered a suggestion. “The Storch might find him faster.”

  “We might as well call General Veiel himself,” Schmidt grunted. “It must stay among us.” What went unsaid were the dire consequences for losing something as massive as a panzer.

  “The motorcycle battalion -,” Rudi said.

  “Will you tell Groesbeck?” Everyone in the regiment knew Lieutenant Groesbeck, the regimental fanatic whose devotion to Nazi ideology made him dangerous. Groesbeck fancied himself an accomplished orator but his lectures on ideology only bored listeners.

  “I will think of something. We will find Wohler.”

  “I want the panzer here before headquarters begins asking questions.” Schmidt’s upper lip quivered. “It is easier to lose Wohler than his machine.”

  Rudi knew Wohler’s PzKpfw III was stationed at a crossroad north east of the company, close to the Soviet border. His disappearance could be explained several ways. He could have turned in the wrong direction and ended up in Soviet hands. He could have been ambushed by any of the thousands of hungry Polish soldiers who would slit his throat for his rations.

  Rudi reached Helga and explained their mission drawing an immediate reaction from Corporal Brauch. “Scheisse! That Berliner Schwuchtel.”

  Rudi agreed that it was shit but doubted Wohler was a homosexual. After his comments Brauch offered to trade a favor with a friend in the motorcycle battalion to acquire transport for the search. “I can get the bikes but I will need future considerations.”

  “If we find Wohler’s panzer, Lieutenant Schmidt will give us whatever we want.”

  “Just a few days of leave my wife won’t know about.”

  After a long day of searching the only sign of Wohler and his panzer were tracks heading toward the Soviet border; possibly proof he had lost his sense of direction and crossed into Russian territory. It was not the news Schmidt wanted to hear or Rudi wanted to deliver.

  II

  Emil Raeder stared out the window at the end of his hospital bed, his body clenched in preparation for another bolt of pain to shoot through his arm. He waited for the morphine to kick in and his world to e
ase into delicious numbness.

  The wave swallowed his consciousness, mind wandering back to secondary school. Emil stood at the back of the Hitler Youth herd, talking aimlessly about Emma Schneider’s chest until startled by a smack to the back of his head. Emil spun to see Fredrick the Asshole grin his gap toothed smile, his arms twitching with anticipation of Emil’s response. It came quickly. “I will shave your balls off with a burst of 7.92 mm rounds...in your ass.”

  The bell rang and the boys hustled back into leaving Emil searching for his MG 34. He had to find his machine gun; he ran outside even as the schoolmaster ordered him to stop.

  Emil opened his eyes expecting the worst but discovered Hauptmann Hans Oswald watching.

  “Emil, are you are right?”

  “But Fredrick…where is that bastard? He is after me. I must be ready.”

  “Who is Fredrick? An orderly? I will take care of him.”

  “No, Fredrick is an asshole from school, he pretends to be an avid National Socialist but he is too stupid.”

  “Worry not Emil, he’s not here. He wouldn’t want any part of a hero,” said Hans, pointing to the two medals pinned to Emil’s pillow. “Must have been a slow day for Reichsmarshall Goering himself to stop by and pin an Iron Cross on a little fraulein from Hamburg.”

  Emil grinned. “It’s the morphine scheisse. Goering pinned these here?”

  “Maybe it was Goebbels.”

  Emil laughed. It was good to see Hans. They talked for at least an hour before Emil needed another injection. Hans filled in his wounded friend. Jolanthe, their trusty Stuka, was repaired. Hans new rear gunner, an Austrian named Sandmann, displayed the typical ignorance of rural folk.

  “We will be fighting again,” Oswald said.

  Emil hesitated, mind swinging in and out of his Hitler Youth Brigade. “Who?”

  Oswald eyed the patients on each side of Emil. “The Bolsheviks.” He could not hide his concern. “There are so many and spaces so vast.”

  Emil reached up and grasped Oswald’s wrist. “Have confidence in the Fuhrer and our men. We will smash the sub-humans; they are only slaves to the Jews.”

  Hans patted Emil’s good arm; his friend lacked the education to do more than recited Nazi propaganda. He was sorry to have confided in Emil. Oswald knew the battle with the Soviet monster would be longer and bloodier than the Polish skirmish.

  Emil turned to their favorite subject, “Tell me, how it has been with the frauleins with medals on your chest?”

  “Emil, you shall know soon enough,” answered Hans. “The doctors tell me you will be released soon.”

  “I am ready for it. I can’t wait to re-join the Staffel!” whispered Emil, eyes bleary, feeling leaving his body.

  “We will fly together again Emil,” Hans wriggled in his clothes. “I am to see a Dr. Bluent, do you know of him?”

  Emil shrugged, the morphine slowing his mind. Hans waved his hand. “It does not matter,” he said as he left the ward. He hated to lie to his friend about flying, but even Emil had to know the war was over for him. Emil’s arm was gone, his soul slowly disintegrating under the pain the morphine meant to calm it, Hans knew he would never see Emil again.

  III

  October 18, 1939

  Hauptmann Johann Franks loitered in the mess of the enormous military hospital on the outskirts of Berlin, as he listened to the excited stories of the wounded.

  “The Fuhrer himself was here, checking on our condition,” stated a corporal, his face obscured with bandages. “He personally thanked me for my service to the Fatherland.”

  “Ja, I was sleeping and I woke to find the Fuhrer at the foot of my bed,” added a sergeant. “Mein Gott in Himmel!

  “When I saw that it was the Fuhrer, I raised my right arm so hard and fast, I think I dislocated my shoulder,” said another soldier. “He pinned an Iron Cross on my hospital gown…right here!”

  Franks smiled but was disappointed that he arrived at the hospital a day too late. He dreamt of a second meeting with the Fuhrer. He had first seen Hitler when a mere Luftwaffe lieutenant attached to the Condor Legion in Spain. He was a member of the fighter group J.88 and was one of the first to fly the Messerschmitt Bf 109 in combat.

  The Fuhrer had greeted him at the lowest point in Franks’ life. It began on February 22, 1938, when he took off in a steady rain shower in eastern Spain, his 2nd Staffel using a sloppy field with standing water which eliminated all traction. Franks would not have flown under those conditions but he was desperate to get his fifth kill and become an ace.

  The Bf 109’s narrow landing gear was already notorious and its powerful engine invariably caused a severe yaw during the takeoff roll. Franks remembered how he stood on the rudder and desperately tried to get airborne as his 109 slid sideways. The right main wheel hit a hole which had been concealed by a brown puddle, slinging the 109 hard to port, and caused the gear to collapse. Franks’ plane cartwheeled several rotations and then came to rest inverted.

  The destroyed 109 did not catch fire, but Franks was trapped, pinned in the cockpit. A piece of the canopy sliced into the left side of his face. Blood gushed from the wound. He was in intense pain, blinded by a white light in front of his eyes. Franks passed out before help arrived.

  Months of treatment followed the accident. The doctors said he was fortunate to be alive but Franks did not feel lucky at all. He had lost his left eye, his flying career taken along with his vision. Once back in the Germany, he was among a group of wounded Condor Legion comrades who were invited to visit the Fuhrer. He wore his Spanish Red Military Service Cross, awarded to him by the Nationalists for meritorious service. Adolf Hitler shook his hand, looked him in his good eye and thanked him for contributing to Franco’s victory. Mercifully, the Fuhrer did not appear to be aware that Franks’ injuries did not directly result from combat.

  Franks snapped back to the reality of the hospital. He surveyed the mess. The brave men before him were not pilots. They were the infantry; these men were comfortable marching with packs and rifles. Franks shook his head as he realized he was one of them.

  After Franks recovered from his wounds, he begged to remain in the Luftwaffe. Despite his frequent offers to demonstrate his flying ability, he was largely ignored. While waiting to meet with a colonel, whose name he no longer could remember, a posting on the wall attracted his attention. The Luftwaffe was developing its own airborne infantry force and was accepting volunteers. Franks immediately saw the Fallshirmjaeger as his opportunity to remain an officer in the Luftwaffe.

  He ran the fingers of his right hand over the edges of the black patch covering his missing eye. It had been a difficult journey back, but he was satisfied it had been worthwhile. He had risen to be a captain in Germany’s first airborne division, the 7th Flieger.

  Franks missing eye changed his perspective; depression soothed only by the bottle until he was saved by the opportunity to join the Fallshirmjaeger. The training for the airborne infantry was arduous and cured his carousing.

  As a Luftwaffe fighter pilot Franks had no difficulty attracting women. In Spain, he celebrated more victories in the bars than in the air. However the wound that had been his eye shook his confidence beyond his career. He could never allow a women to witness the disfigurement hidden under his eye patch.

  Franks stood up and straightened his uniform. He left the mess tent and strode to the examination area. It was time for his appointment. Major Bluent approached him and offered his right hand to shake.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Franks,” announced Bluent. “I understand that wish to speak to me privately?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major,” replied Franks. “I have a problem that I do not wish to discuss with the medical personnel from my division.”

  Major Bluent raised his eyebrows, “Well that can only be one thing…venereal disease.”

  “I do not believe so, but there is some type of trouble below,” responded Franks, pointing to the front of his trousers. “Perhaps we can do this wit
hout making an official record.”

  Bluent smiled, “Well Captain, I suppose that depends on what it is. Let’s get on with it.”

  The major pulled up a chair while Franks unceremoniously opened his trousers and lowered his underwear. Franks pulled back his foreskin and pointed to several small growths.

  “It’s not venereal disease,” remarked Bluent.

  “Is that good?”

  “Probably. You have what is known as genital warts. It is not a fatal disease. I can give you a topical cream that should reduce the individual warts.”

  “Then it will be cured?”

  “The body will often clear the condition itself within 18 months,” replied Bluent. “It can go dormant and reappear but that is somewhat unusual.”

  “I won’t have to be removed from my unit?”

  “You are fit for combat Herr Captain,” responded Bluent cheerfully.

  “How did I get it?”

  Bluent chuckled, “Is that a serious question? By sticking your sausage where it shouldn’t be, without a condom. But it is odd.”

  Franks stared at Major Bluent inquisitively, waiting for him to continue his thought.

  “This is not a common condition in the Wehrmacht and I saw a Luftwaffe Stuka pilot last week with the same affliction,” advised Bluent. “Did you serve with the Condor Legion?”

  Franks jumped at the question, “Ja, but how does that matter?”

  “I have heard of a number of these cases from Condor Legion veterans. Genital warts sometimes do not appear immediately and then are overlooked by the carrier. Perhaps you contracted it in Spain.”