French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  “I’m sure it will.” Reilly was uninterested in the German’s plans. “If the communists capture you –,” he trailed into the distance.

  “They would shoot you as quickly as me.”

  “That puts us in the same boat then.”

  The fat Colonel looked past Reilly, “I do not understand this boat. We are in the same truck.”

  Reilly leaned forward. “We are cooperating with the Germans. We are different but have similar interests, in other words, the same boat.”

  “We are together in your boat, we should help each other if possible.”

  “Exactly.”

  Reilly’s exclamation drew the attention of the German guard in the truck cab. Reilly slumped against the side of the truck until the guard turned back to the driver. “You are familiar with this area?”

  “Close to the Minsk-Moscow highway. There is a large aerodrome near Minsk.”

  Reilly watched the passing terrain which reminded him of the American Great Plains. As in his homeland, the Russian steppes offered little scenery, the only change being their arrival at the Minsk-Moscow highway and a turn west.

  They arrived at the remains of the aerodrome. The burned out Polikarpov I-16 aircraft sat in neat rows on the turf in front of the scorched remains of three massive hangars. Tarkenov nodded at the destruction, “Stalin is finished.”

  “Doesn’t look promising,” Reilly frowned at the rows of machines. “Why were these planes destroyed on the ground?”

  “We were ordered not to provoke the Fascists. No commander could make deployment decisions without direct orders from Moscow.”

  “But the Soviet Union has many more aircraft,” Reilly said. “There are thousands more and I have seen at least 20,000 tanks. How can the Germans be winning the war?”

  The truck pulled aside a grey Fieseler Storch Fi 156 observation plane and halted.

  “We have far fewer aircraft than a month ago,” Tarkenov squinted at the tiny airplane near the truck. “They expect us to fly in that?”

  “Not unless one of us can fly. It is a two seater.”

  “It is like a child’s toy.”

  “It has been six years since I handled a plane of any size.”

  The guard scampered to the back of the truck and motioned to them. Reilly was quick to comply but Tarkenov struggled, and required both men to lower him to the ground. The guard laughed and pointed to Tarkenov’s hind quarters.

  “Geh schneller!”

  Reilly did not need to know German to understand “hurry up.” He put his hands on Tarkenov’s fat behind and eased him to the ground. Tarkenov accepted the aid without embarrassment, his focus fixed on the Storch. “I am much too large to fit into such a small airplane.”

  “I doubt the Germans will fly you to Warsaw in an observation plane.”

  Tarkenov frowned as Captain Scheller strode from the staff car. “Our plane is not here yet, it will be another hour.”

  “Is it bigger than that?” Tarkenov pointed.

  “Ja, Herr Colonel. It is a Junkers Ju-52 transport,” Scheller said. “I will locate some water and lunch.”

  Reilly and Tarkenov dropped to the baked ground, the colonel sloughing perspiration from his face with a handkerchief. “What is a Junkers Ju-52?”

  “The Ju-52 is one of the most common transport planes in the world.” Reilly said. “It has three motors and has been used by Central European airlines.” “

  “What is an airline?”

  Reilly smiled, Russian ignorance as predictable as their cruelty. “It does not matter,” he said. “I saw them in Spain during the Civil War. Franco used them to transport his Spanish Legion form Morocco to the mainland in 1936. They are quite large.”

  His explanation was interrupted by a shout from the guard. A number of junior officers approached, heads tilted skyward, mesmerized by a growing dot in the sky that eventually became a tri-motor Junkers Ju- 52.

  “That’s our ride,” Reilly said.

  Tarkenov began flexing his hand.“This is my first flight.” He retreated a stop from the approaching plane. “I have never been off the earth.”

  “Today’s airplanes are plenty safe.”

  The Ju-52 taxied directly to them. The clutch of junior officers gathered at its rear door, ready to greet the departing passengers.

  “The plane’s skin doesn’t seem right,” Tarkenov pointed. “It is buckled.”

  “It is corrugated metal, not usually found on modern aircraft but it works.” He was reminded of his college metallurgy classes where he learned corrugated light alloy was a crude replacement for fabric as a wing and fuselage covering.

  The junior officers fidgeted as the rear door remained closed, which suggested the plane held someone important. The propellers slowed and stopped, as the aft cabin door sprung open. A Luftwaffe sergeant popped out and stood aside the door. He offered help to the occupants as they exited the ungainly aircraft. Reilly recognized General Erwin Rommel and behind him another familiar face from the Soviet newspapers, the dreaded Heinz Guderian. Reilly had skimmed the English edition of the general’s book, Achtung! Panzer! Rommel spotted Reilly, and pointed him out to his commander.

  The pair approached, the senior general extended his hand and stated the obvious, “Heinz Guderian.”

  Reilly bowed his head slightly and shook Guderian’s hand, his grip firm but not overpowering. “James Reilly.”

  “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

  “Nicht gut, Herr General.”

  Captain Scheller rushed to Reilly’s side, offering to translate. Rommel motioned for Tarkenov to be removed, and a junior staff officer guided him to the Ju-52’s door.

  Reilly caught snippets of the generals’ conversation, including the mention of an elefant panzer as Guderian stretched out his arms.

  “General Rommel tells me that you are an American who helped the Russians with tank development. Why would an American help the Communists develop tanks?”

  “Herr General, I was an engineer employed by an American company named Christie that developed a light tank that was sold to the Russians. I was instructed to assist with its introduction into the Red Army.”

  Guderian nodded, “I am familiar with the Christie tank. An innovative design with its road wheels.”

  “But Christie went kaput and the Russians paid me to help them further the design.”

  “And the American government allowed this?”

  “I didn’t ask permission,” Reilly said. “I am an engineer not a politician. All I saw was the potential of improving on the Christie design.”

  “How long have you been in the Soviet Union?”

  “Too long, Herr General,” Reilly said. He waited for Guderian’s response to Scheller’s translation. There was no laughter, not even a smirk. “About ten years with some time to travel to the real world.”

  “Then you must be aware of the cooperation between the Wehrmacht and the Red Army when Versailles limited your development of new weapons.”

  “Most people are aware of this.”

  “Circumstances result in unusual relationships, Mr. Reilly. I suppose we cannot be too upset, we both used the Soviets and they used us.”

  While Reilly and the general were talking, Rommel spoke animatedly to Captain Scheller who nodded, taking deep breaths as he translated. “Herr General Rommel wants to know whether Army Intelligence has verified your story. I revealed we believe you are who you say you are and that your knowledge of Russian tanks would be helpful.”

  Reilly needed no prodding. “I have worked on the BT series of light tanks and compared them to a captured Panzerkampfwagen III after the Polish campaign.”

  The generals frowned at the news of a captured tank in Russian possession. Rommel snapped. “What is your evaluation of the III?”

  Reilly swallowed, knowing the Soviets curdled at any criticism of their work, but Rommel seemed interested. “It is too intricate and over engineered causing it to break down frequently on the steppes. Its tracks
are too narrow for the Russian bogs and muddy roads, while its 37mm gun is too small to penetrate the larger Soviet tanks and its armor is too thin to protect it.”

  Guderian pressed his lips, his pained expression showed Reilly had touched a nerve. “I warned General Lutz of this when I was his Chief of Staff to the Inspectorate of Transport Troops.” Another grimace. “German bridges limited us to a gross weight of 24 tons, but I argued for the 50mm main gun.”

  Emboldened by Guderian’s agreement, Reilly continued. “The 50mm will no longer be large enough. The new Soviet tanks have frontal armor over 80mm thick and a 76.2mm main cannon.”

  Rommel interjected, “I have seen this monster myself. Mr. Reilly called it a KV-1. Twenty direct hits from our towed 50mm antitank guns did no more than dent it. One of the Second Panzer Division’s brave men knocked it out by pouring petrol on it and setting it on fire.”

  Guderian’s eyes narrowed while Rommel continued, “Mr. Reilly claims the elefant was only a prototype. The Soviets plan to produce thousands of them and a new main battle tank known as the T-34.”

  Reilly waited patiently for Scheller’s translation then nodded “As we say in America, too little too late. These new tanks will not matter, they are too few in number and the Soviets do not know how to use them. Stalin’s purges eliminated his best officers; they fear failure more than they desire success.”

  Guderian smiled before Scheller finished his translation. He patted Reilly on the arm and said in English, “Good luck, Mr. Reilly.”

  The interview was over. Captain Scheller directed Reilly to join Tarkenov by the Ju-52 while Rommel and Guderian walked over to the Storch. At the side of the plane a young Luftwaffe officer stood at attention, back ramrod straight. Crisply saluting the generals he announced, “Lieutenant Shriver, Herr Generals!”

  “One moment, Lieutenant, I wish a word with General Rommel.”

  Shriver was trying to busy himself by organizing his charts and checklists but could not resist overhearing the generals’ conversation.

  “The American has convinced me we must reach Moscow quickly and end this war.”

  Rommel said. “I fear these monsters would annihilate my Czech Pzkpfw 38(t)s. My men are fresh; I would like the 7th Panzer to lead the final lunge to Moscow. I fear the OKH will force us to remain in place until all units regain their strength.”

  “The OKH and the OKW are old women. They would have us building stone walls on our flanks before we continue the advance. ” Guderian smiled. “We have been permitted to reconnoiter, eh?”

  “Ja, we have.”

  “Then reconnoiter in force, my friend with the entire 7th Panzer Division.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General,” answered Rommel. “I will deploy 88mm Flak guns from our heavy ant-aircraft company. Their high velocity armor piercing shells should destroy even this KV-1.”

  “I am eager to hear how the 88 works,” Guderian said.

  Rommel handed his briefcase and overnight bag to Lieutenant Shriver. “I will return to the 7th Panzer and prepare our reconnoiter.” With a nod and a smile he joined the two generals in a conspiracy against the desk bound bureaucrats in Rastenberg.

  “Safe travels,” Guderian said, hesitating. “The brave lad from the Second Panzer who blew up that KV-1, did he survive?”

  “Sergeant Kleime? I have a Knights Cross for him in my briefcase and plan to pin it on him at the Smolensk field hospital.” Rommel climbed into the Storch. Shriver was in the pilot seat, ready to engage the electric starter. Rommel called to his superior. “His regiment has been withdrawn. If he returns to active duty, it will be with the 7th Panzer.”

  II

  “I am sorry Herr Lieutenant.” Rommel arranged himself in the Storch rear seat. “You introduced yourself but General Guderian distracted me. What is your name again?”

  “Waltraud Shriver, Herr General. Should I start the engine?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” said Rommel. “I have not forgotten my pilot training.”

  Shriver dropped his chart on the floor and scrambled to locate it. He waved the ground personnel clear and engaged the electric starter. The air cooled inverted V-8 Argus As 10C-3 engine sprang to life.

  Rommel looked out the Storch’s oversized windows to General Guderian, who stepped away from the group of junior officers and saluted. Rommel returned the salute and opened his brief case. Retrieving the maps of the area east of Smolensk, he studied the terrain. Shriver taxied the Storch to the end of the grass strip and turned it into the wind. Moments later they were airborne, heading east to the front.

  Rommel’s voice crackled over the intercom, “Have you been assigned to the 7th Panzer Division?”

  “Nein, Herr General,” Shriver yelped. “I was attached to the Second Panzer Division but it has been temporarily withdrawn.”

  “Are we stopping in Orsha for fuel?”

  “That was my intention. Does the general wish me to plan a different route?”

  “Nein, Orsha is fine but do we have enough daylight to reach Smolensk?”

  “It will be very close, Herr General.”

  Rommel shifted in his seat, a sign of nerves. “The 7th Panzer Division’s Storch was destroyed earlier when its tire caught a large rock during a night landing.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General. The Storch’s tires make it difficult to land on unprepared strips.”

  “I am sure you will, Lieutenant,” Rommel said. “But there is no need to land in Smolensk in dwindling light. I can remain overnight in Orsha. I will visit the field hospital, then we can leave for Smolensk at dawn.”

  “As you wish Herr General.”

  Rommel changed the subject. “Our maps east of Smolensk are incomplete, have you flown over the area Lieutenant?”

  “I have been as far east as the north-south rail line at Vyazma. The terrain is much as we have seen so far,” said Shriver. “There are Russians in and around Vyazma but I have not seen any prepared defensive positions.”

  “Are there armored units?”

  “Only infantry, Herr General and many peasants.”

  Rommel turned to his window to observe the endless Russian landscape, light dimming as Rommel drifted into a light sleep. An hour later, Shriver announced, “Herr General, we are approximately 20 minutes west of Orsha.”

  Rommel spotted the Minsk-Moscow highway below them. Wrecked Soviet trucks and horse drawn carts littered the sides of the road, while a column of German Lorries moved east, an armored car at its head serving as protection against roving bands of Russian soldiers.

  “Where are you from?” asked Rommel.

  “Stuttgart, Herr General.”

  “Stuttgart! I am from Heidenheim, just 75 kilometers east of Stuttgart,” Rommel clasped Shriver on the shoulder.

  “Ja, my family is originally from Ulm, we are Swabian.”

  “As am I, Lieutenant Shriver. It is always good to visit with a comrade from Wurttemberg.”

  Something out the right side of the Storch caught Rommel’s attention. Several gashes appeared, new earthworks being constructed several kilometers south of the Minsk-Moscow highway, west of Orsha.

  “What is that, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m not sure, Herr General. It was much smaller this morning.”

  “Fly over it, Lieutenant.”

  Shriver complied and pointed the Storch’s nose at the fresh ditches. The Storch was directly into the wind when it passed over the site, its ground speed reduced to a virtual crawl. Shriver pushed the yoke right into a 30 degree bank to offer a clear view of the scene.

  At least twenty German soldiers were lined up west of the nearest ditch, covering a collection of women and children. Rommel began to speak but stopped when the civilians began their grotesque dance into the pit as smoke drifted from the rifle barrels of the German detachment.

  “Mein Gott!” exclaimed Rommel. “Circle again.”

  Bile rose into the back of his throat. He rolled the Storch to the left in a tight turn over the ditches. The Storc
h was drifting a 100 meters above the slaughter as if watching the events from a movie house balcony.

  Behind the east bank, German soldiers prodded another group of Russian civilians forward. Rommel retrieved a small camera from his brief case and snapped photographs. The Germans unleashed another volley, with the same result. An officer stood erect behind the firing squad, looking up at the Storch and waving as if at a festival.

  “Unbelievable.” Rommel’s voice trailed off then he barked. “Land the plane at once, Lieutenant.”

  “Jawohl!” Shriver struggled to find a strip but could not find a suitable stretch of flat ground. “General, I do not see anywhere to land.”

  Rommel continued snapping photos. “It does not matter, I have what I need. Proceed to Orsha.”

  Shriver placed the Storch on a 90 degree heading eastward. Silence settled into the plane, Shriver unable to speak and worried what he might say. Fifteen long minutes passed before Shriver landed at the small grass strip at Orsha. He taxied as directed by a Feldweber and shut the Storch down. The Feldweber opened the door as Rommel rushed from the plane. He motioned for Shriver to join him away from the Feldweber.

  “I am disgusted, those men are a disgrace to the Wehrmacht.”

  `Shriver said nothing, stomach churning. The Feldweber approached but stopped when Rommel raised his hand. “Why, Herr General? Why were they executing the Russian peasants? Children are not Bolsheviks.”

  “I do not know. There is no honorable justification for the murder of women and children.” Rommel patted his camera. “But I have these and with them I will make certain those responsible are held accountable.”

  Shriver collapsed on the ground, overcome with emotion. Rommel knelt by his side, “They will be held accountable.”

  Shriver grabbed Rommel’s arm and whispered, “Herr General, I am a Mischling. My grandmother was a Jew.”

  Rommel hesitated and then grasped Shriver’s trembling hand. “Lieutenant Shriver, you are not a Mischling…you are a fine young Luftwaffe officer and from this day forward, you are my pilot.”

  28

  June 24, 1940

  Philadelphia. Westbrook Pegler adjusted his Fedora to block the early summer sun. He lit a cigarette and waited outside the Mayfair Hotel to watch the pedestrians pass. Leaning against the stone exterior he eyed those people too consumed with their own lives in an eleventh year of economic depression to notice a stranger, even one representing the Scripps Howard syndicate at the Republican National Convention.