W E B Griffin - Men at War 3 - The Soldier Spies

by The Soldier Spies(Lit)

  When he came out of the briefing room, his father was there with Chief Ellis.

  "I'm sorry about last night," his father said. "I re'xy would have liked to have dinner with you. Charity take care of you all right?"

  "Just fine," Douglass said.

  "And on that clever little line," Charity said, "Charity will fold her tent and steal away."

  "You have to go?" Doug asked.

  "It was nice to see you again, Major Douglass," she said, offe ring her hand like a man. "Take care of yourself." KAND it was nice to see you, too, Miss Hoche," Douglass said, and then laughed out loud. "Who do you think you're fooling?" he asked.

  Lieutenant Commander Edwin W. Bitter, USN, came running down the marble corridor. He was out of uniform. He had no tie and no hat, and he was wearing a battered leather aviator's jacket with a Kuomintang flag painted on the back.

  He saw Captain Douglass.

  "I don't mean to intrude," he said.

  KRACK his ass, Dad," Douglass said. "For the first time in his life he's out of uniform."

  "I came to wish you Godspeed," Bitter said.

  KTHANK you," Douglass said, a little uncomfortably.

  "And to remind you that I have been a self-righteous sonofabitch as long as you've known me, and therefore you should not have been surprised."

  "You're an asshole," Douglass said, "but I love you."

  "And I wish to apologize to you, too, Charity," Bitter said.

  "That's all right, Edwin," Charity said. "I've known what a self-righteous asshole you are for a long time, too."

  "I don't think I wish to know what this is all about," Captain Douglass said.

  "No," Doug said, Kyou don't." And then he said, KI gotta go." He put out his hand to his father, who shook it.

  "Hug him, for God's sake!" Charity ordered.

  They both looked at her, and then embraced.

  Doug punched Bitter on the arm, then turned to Charity.

  "Do I get a hug too?" she asked.

  "A kiss, but only to shut your runaway mouth," Doug said.

  "How dare you, sir?" Charity said, grabbing his ears and kissing him with mock passion on the lips.

  It began as a joke, for the amusement of spectators, but it didn't end that way. When they finally stopped, Charity looked very much as if she was going to cry. isltrs cold," Douglass announced, "and two fans make a lot of wind. I think everybody ought to stay inside." The ground crew was already at the glistening, somehow menacing twin-engine fighter airplane. There was a ladder against the nose of the fuselage, which sat between the twin-engine booms, and Doug Douglass quickly climbed up it. When he was in the cockpit, a ground crewman climbed the ladder and saw that he was strapped properly into the parachute.

  Then he climbed back down and removed the ladder.

  There were ten meatballs, each representing the kill of a Japanese aircraft, painted on the fuselage nose above the legend 44 Major Doug Douglass." The first time Charity saw them, she had thought they were thrilling and very sexy. Now they made her cry, for they reminded her that he was fighter pilot. What fighter pilots did, presuming they could indeed make it across the Atlantic Ocean, was fight. She wondered if she was seeing him for the last time.

  Clear!" Douglass called down from the cockpit. The starter ground, and the left engine started. The sudden loud noise startled Chadty.

  Then the right propeller began to move, blowing away a cloud of light blue smoke.

  She saw Douglass pull a helmet over his head and then snap a face mask in place.

  He raised his left hand in a very casual wave. One of the engines roared, and the P-38 moved off the parking stand.

  He was almost immediately hidden from their sight by other parked aircraft, but they stood there against the glass of the terminal and waited. Two or three minutes later, they heard the sound of an airplane taking off. Douglassxs P-38C, its wheels already up, flashed past them. The plane turned to the right and was out of sight in thirty seconds.

  4ihe'll be all right, Charity, Ed Bitter said. , it here are no better pilots than Doug." Charity smiled at him. For him, that was a real apology.

  IV [ONE] The Fordn llsinistry B-rlin, re'dy |0 December 1942 The return to Berlin of Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz, recent German representative to the Franco-German Armistice Commission for Morocco, posed a problem at the highest levels of the Foreign Ministry, No one knew what to do with him.

  In some circles, von Heurten-Mitnitz arrived under something of a cloud. There was a suggestion--ever so tactfully phrased, they were, after all, diplomats--that perhaps he had been just a bit too willing to accept the loss of Morocco to the Americans. He might after all have considered making his way to Tunisia. From there, when the Fuhrer decided the time was propitious, the Wehrmacht would launch its counterattack for the recapture of Morocco.

  His defenders, who included his brother, the Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz, who was not only a Party luminary but reputed to be one of the few aristocrats with whom the Fuhrer was personally comfortable, pointed out, on the one hand, that transportation between Morocco and Tunisia was currently rather hazardous, and on the other, that Helmut had been ordered onto the Junkers transport which flew him to Italy.

  He was defended as well by most of his peers in the Foreign Ministry.

  He was a career diplomat, as indeed members of his family had been for centuries. He had done his duty as he saw it, and his duty was to make himself available for further service to Germany rather than to enter American captivity. He certainly could not be held responsible for the Americans blatantly violating French neutrality, or for the French, true to form, flying the white flag the moment they had come under fire.

  Some of the less politically savvy of these Foreign Ministry friends proposed that he go to the Reichschancellery to personally brief the Fuhrer about what had happened in Morocco. His brother had gotten him out. E of that. The Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz knew that Adolf Hitler sometimes blamed the messenger for the bad news.

  In the politically ill-conceived idea, however, was the seed of a good one, Since the Fuhrer blamed the successful invasion on high-level French perfidy, there was obviously no one better qualified than Helmut von Heurtenmitnitz to prepare for the Fuhrer a detailed report. He would work closely, of course, with Obersturmbannfuhrer Johann Muller, and between them they could come up with a detailed and balanced assessment that would lay the blame where it belonged. With Muller involved, the report could of course in no way be called a whitewash of Foreign Ministry failures or a condemnation of SS ineptitude.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was provided with an office overlooking the interior garden of the Foreign Ministry, a small staff, authorization for a personal automobile, and other perquisites befitting his rank as Minister.

  Talk of his too hasty departure from Morocco quickly dissipated.

  He was, after all, a member of the club, and gentlemen do not speak ill of their peers.

  That left but one problem still to be resolved, his military status.

  After graduation from the Gymnasium in Konigsberg in East Prussia, Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz served six months as an officer-cadet with the 127th Pomeranian Infantry Regiment. This was expected of him. The 127th Pomeranian Infantry traced its roots back to the Graf von Heurten's Regiment of Foot (1582). After his six months of cadet service, Helmut received a reserve commission as a lieutenant.

  Two months later, he matriculated at Harvard, from which he graduated in 1927. From 1931 until 1933, he was attached to the German Embassy in Washington, first as a cultural attache and later as a consular officer. From 1936 until 1938, he was the consul in New Orleans.

  On his return from New Orleans to Berlin, by then already a medium level diplomatic official destined for greater responsibilities in the Foreign Ministry, von Heurten-Mitnitz was courted by both Military Intelligence and the Sicherheitsdienst of the SS, each of which were as much interested in the internal operations of the Foreign Ministry as they were in any external threats to
Germany.

  Military Intelligence offered him a reserve commission as a major, with the subtle understanding that since he would be of more value to the Army where he was, there was little chance he would ever be called up.

  He politely declined the honor.

  And the SS offered him a commission as Sturmbannfuhrer (Major) in the Honorary SS-He declined this honor, too, mainly because he was well aware that the Honorary SS consisted of nothing more than those who did favors for or made substantial financial contributions to the SS. While the holders of honorary SS rank were entitled to wear the black uniform with the lightning-bolt runes and the death's-head, that really signified nothing.

  His hope was to keep out of the military altogether and to continue serving his country in the diplomatic service. This required some fancy footwork, however, especially after his return from Morocco, for there were new regulations eliminating many military service exemptions, including those for members of the Foreign Service. It was finally resolved at the highest levels.

  Still, it didn't hurt to be a member of the club, He was offered and accepted a reserve commission in the SS--not the honorary SS--as a Brigadefiihrer-SD, the secret service of the SS, with the understanding that he would not be called to active service and would remain with the Foreign Ministry.

  Attired in a quickly tailored black SS uniform, he took the oath of personal allegiance to Adolf Hitler in a ceremony presided over by Reichsfiihrer-SS Heinrich Himmler himself. Afterward, his brother was kind enough to hold a small reception for the new Brigadefuhrer at a home maintained by the family at 44-46 Beerenstrasse in Zehlendorf.

  Reichsfuhrer-SS and Frau Himmler put in a brief appearance en route to the symphony, which the Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz told Helmut was an unusual honor.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz considered asking Muller to be present at either the swearing in or the reception, but decided against it. If they appeared too chummy, that might provoke suspicion. After the reception, he took off the SS uniform and hoped that he would never have to wear it again.

  After settling into his new work, he labored industriously on the report for the Fuhrer without actually completing it. The point was to keep it on the burner until it was for gotten and they found something else for him to do.

  His name almost immediately appeared on guest lists of allied and neutral embassies, and he dined out nearly every night. He was a bachelor and thereby in demand on that account, There were many widows in Germany.

  That satisfied what he thought of as bodily demands, but he took care not to form anything approaching an emotional relationship.

  And then, on the nineteenth of December, the Americans sent him a message.

  On the morning of the twentieth, when his secretary Fraulein Ingebord Schermann came into his office, his desk was piled high with dossiers Kborrowed" from the French Deuxieme Bureau (analogous to the FBI).

  These were to assist him in preparing his report to the Fuhrer on French perfidy.

  What he was actually doing was reading a novel by the Viennese novelist Franz Schiller about a romance between an Austrian nobleman and a tubercular widow.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz's secretary made him uncomfortable.

  She was intense. Worse, fanatical.

  Ingebord Schermann's blond hair was parted in the middle, brushed tight against her skull, and then brought together in a tight bun at the base of her neck. What few words she uttered were delivered like orders, in a Hessian dialect even harsher than Obersturmbannfuhrer SS-SD Johann Muller's.

  Von Heurten-Mitnitz regarded Muller as the archetypal Hessian peasant, blunt, phlegmatic, practical, and dull. Like most Northern and Eastern Germans von Heurten-Mitnitz was convinced he spoke German, and that Middue--Hesse and the Ruhr--and Southern (Bavarian and Swabian) Germans spoke a vulgar patois only loosely based on that language.

  Fraulein Schermann was a not unattractive woman of, he guessed, thirty or thirty-two. Her calves and ankles were a little thick--another Hessian peasant characteristic, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought--but she was not fat and really didn't need the "foundation garment" that encased her body from just above her knees to just below her neck.

  It was difficult for von Heurten-Mitnitz to imagine Fraulein Schermann in the throes of carnal passion, although he had caught himself more than once thinking about her breasts. As a young man, he had once had a fling with a peasant girl, a Silesian, whose breasts had been nearly as firm as her tail.

  He suspected that in the unlikely event some young man got his hands on Fraulein Schermann's breasts, he would find much the same thing.

  Von Heurten-Mitnitz had not chosen Fraulein Schermann, she was thrust upon him.

  "And I have just the girl for you, Helmut," the Chief of the Foreign Responsibilities Division had told him. "Very efficient. Very dedicated." There were three reasons why Fraulein Schermann was assigned to von Heurten-Mitnitz The first was innocent coincidence, She was available for assignment when his need came up. Second, Fraulein Schermann's dedication translated to mean she was an informer for the Gestapo or the SD.

  There was no reason he should be under suspicion, but that didn't mean he wasn't being watched on general panciples. Third, Fraulein Schermann had made someone else in the Foreign Ministry as uncomfortable as she made him, and she had been gotten Ad of as tactfusy as possible.

  Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked up from his carefully hidden behind paperwork novel while Fraulein Schermann delivered in the tones of a Feldwebel (Sergeant) with two long service medals the announcement that'obersturmbannfuhrer SS-SD Johann Muller wishes to see the Herr Minister."

  "Would you ask the Obersturmbannfuhrer to come in, please, Fraulein Schermann?" Fraulein Schermann nodded her head, just once, an almost mechanical movement.

  "Jawohl, Herr Minister," she said.

  Muller marched into the office. He was wearing a black overcoat that reached almost to his ankles. There was a leather belt around the coat, from which hung a closed pistol holster.

  KHEIL Hitler!" Muller barked and gave the straight-armed salute.

  KHEIL Hitler!" von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "I'm pleased that you could fit me into your schedule, Obersturmbannfuhrer." KIT is my honor, Herr Minister," Muller said.

  "I have taken the liberty of reserving a table at the Adlon," von Heurtenmitnitz said. "Is that all right with you?"

  "The Herr Minister is most kind," Muller said.

  "It was good of you to give me a ride," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  "Just let me get my coat and hat." He had not quite reached the bentwood coat rack when Fraulein Schermann appeared, snatched the coat from the hook, and held it out for him.

  As he was shrugging into it, she handed him his hat.

  "Obersturmbannfuhrer Muller and I will be taking lunch at the Adllon, Fraulein Schermann," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "If there are any important calls for the Obersturmbannfuhrer or myself, please be good enough to transfer them."

  "Jawohl, Herr Minister." Muller's car, an unmarked Opel Kapitan, was parked in front of the Foreign Ministry.

  There were both uniformed Berlin municipal policemen and plainclothes SD men stationed there, wall king slowly back and forth in front of the sandbags stacked against the building. None was wihing to remind an Obersturmbannfuhrer SS-SD that parking was prohibited in front of the Foreign Ministry.

  Muxer got behind the wheel, and they drove off.

  "Drive by my house, will you, Muller?" von Heurten Mitnitz said.

  KI have to go inside for a moment." Muller nodded.

  Going to Zehlendorf and then back downtown would give them a few minutes to tallk in privacy. There was nothing suspicious in a man going home on his way to lunch to pick up something he had for gotten.

  Muxer drove past the Zoological Gardens and then down the Kurfurstendamm to Brandenburgischestrasse. Two blocks into it, the street was blocked by a mountain of rubble and two wholly unnecessary policemen waving directional signs to order them onto a detour. Von Heurten-Mitnit
z saw the shell of a department store where he had once bought underwear.

  A lane just a car wide had been cleared through the rubble on the side street, and Muller's Opel bounced over loose bricks and masonry.

  And then, as suddenly as it began, the destroyed area gave way to a neighborhood that, save for blacked-out windows and signs indicating air-raid shelters, seemed untouched by the war.

  They'll be back, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, sooner or later, but inevitably. And this neighborhood, too, will be a mound of smoldering rubble.