by Ben Bova
And while the Americans are demobilizing, Churchill thought, Stalin will be taking over Eastern Europe and preparing to move westward. Then, sooner or later, we will have to fight the Communists. We will have to go through this whole bloody business all over again, just as we did with Hitler. Only worse this time, because the Russians are so much stronger.
He must be stopped. Now, before he can consolidate his grip on his winnings. If the plan fails I will take the blame.
But if it succeeds . . .
Churchill's fleshy face puckered into a frown. Who will replace Stalin? The most likely candidate is Beria, the head of their secret police. He is not well loved by the other men in the Kremlin, I'm sure. But he is closest to the seat of power. Undoubtedly there will be a power struggle among them. But the chances are that Beria will win it.
Will he be just as bad as Stalin? Probably so. But will he be as capable as Stalin? The others will not trust him, although they will doubtless obey him out of fear.
Beria is the number two man in Soviet Russia. He is a very good number two, by all the reports we have had of him. But how good a number one man would he make?
Churchill leaned his head back against the pillows and stared sightlessly at the heavy beams supporting the ceiling.
Number two men rarely make great leaders. Goering would be nowhere as powerful or effective as Hitler is. Even Eden, good man that he is, could not possibly be as strong a Prime Minister as I. He simply hasn't the stomach for it. And Franklin's number two, that little man Truman, I should hate to see what a mess he would make if ever he became President.
Churchill reached out a hand and patted the lockbox as if it were an affectionate grandchild. Broadsword is the answer, he told himself. Whether it works or not it will get the job done. The only question is, how many of us will it take down to ignominy along with Stalin?
Chapter 12
Burg Valdenstein, 6 April
Despite himself, Allen Dulles whistled aloud as the open car climbed the last section of winding road. General Wolff, sitting beside him, allowed a wintry smile to cross his face.
"It's like a castle out of a Grimm Brothers tale," Dulles said.
"Just so," said Wolff. "Burg Valdenstein is nearly a thousand years old. It has withstood many invaders over the centuries. It is the Reichsmarschall's home, since he was a little boy."
It wasn't a huge place, Dulles saw as they came nearer.
But there were the stone turrets and battlements, arrow-slit windows, even a wooden bridge across an empty moat.
The two big blond types that had come with Wolff to Switzerland were up front, one of them driving the heavy Mercedes, both in their regular black SS uniforms. Wolff was still in mufti and Dulles in his usual tweed jacket and casual slacks. He clutched his snap-brim fedora with one hand to keep the wind from whisking it away; Wolff had on a tweed cap that matched his suit. It was a beautiful April morning, bright with sunshine and sweet with blooming flowers. A bit chilly in the back seat of the open Mercedes, especially when the road cut through the deep shade of the mountainside forests. But once they were in the sun again it felt fine, bracing, the kind of a day when great things can be accomplished.
They had started out from Berne as soon as Dulles had gotten the go-ahead from Washington for this meeting with Goering. Eisenhower's headquarters wanted to send one of their G-2 people, but Washington had nixed that, thank god. Bad enough to have the top OSS man in Europe waltz into Nazi Germany in the company of a clutch of SS; it would be stupid to hand them an Army G-2 man as well.
Dulles ran his tongue across the poison capsule lodged between his right molars and his cheek. Cyanide. Just in case. But Goering had a reputation for being an honorable man—for a Nazi. He had been a top fighter pilot during World War I. He had helped Jews to get out of Germany once Hitler's intentions about them became clear. Of course, the Jewish families had to leave all their possessions behind when they fled. And of course they signed over all their wealth to Hermann Goering, in thanks for being allowed to leave with their skins still in one piece.
A big open gate loomed in front of them and the car passed through the deep chilling shadow of the walled castle entrance. Then they came out into a sunny courtyard.
Standing at the top of the steps of the main building stood Hermann Goering, in a powder-blue tunic heavy with medals and decorations over a pair of salmon-pink riding britches.
His boots were shined to a mirror finish. His broad face was wreathed in a smile of welcome.
The car pulled up and even before it came to a full stop the SS man on the right leaped out and opened the rear door. Wolff stepped out first, then Dulles slid across the leather upholstery and climbed to his feet for the first time in nearly six hours.
To his surprise, Goering was not much taller than Dulles himself. He had expected a much bigger man. Goering was wide in the shoulders, heavy-set, although he seemed much leaner than earlier photographs had indicated. Dulles wondered to himself, If the Reichsmarschall is only this tall, then Hitler must be a real shrimp.
Although Dulles spoke passable German, Wolff introduced the two men in English. Goering took Dulles' proffered hand in both of his, tightly, like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver.
"I am delighted to meet you," Goering said in barely accented English. "I am very glad that you decided to meet with me. And even more glad that no American fighter planes were strafing the roads this morning!" He laughed heartily.
The Reichsmarschall radiated sincerity, which put Dulles on his guard even more than he would normally have been.
Very tricky undercurrents here, he told himself.
Instead of plunging into the discussions that he had come for, however, Goering insisted on giving the American a tour of his castle home. He was obviously very proud of it, and he walked Dulles through every room like a real estate salesman showing a property to a prospective buyer. Dulles recognized paintings and sculptures from the cream of Europe's collections: Degas, Renoir, Cranach, Durer. He sighed to himself. I suppose if Goering hadn't stolen them the Nazis would have destroyed what they call decadent art works.
The Reichsmarschall looked healthy and fit; not slim, of course, his build was too stocky for that. But the rumors of his being addicted to morphine seem to be exaggerated, at least, Dulles thought. Goering's voice boomed through the high-ceilinged rooms, enthusiastic, authoritative, very much in command.
Finally Goering ushered him and General Wolff into the dining hall, where the gleaming long table was set for three.
Waiters in forest-green livery stood at attention along the paneled wall, beneath a row of antlered elk and deer heads.
"I had wanted Kesselring to join us," Goering said, gesturing Dulles to the chair at his right, "but it wouldn't do to have too many prominent men here at the same time."
He laughed again. Too heartily, Dulles thought.
Dulles started to talk about the war, but Goering interrupted him to have the wine steward pour a straw-colored wine into their gleaming crystal glasses. Then the waiters served the fish course.
"Trout from the local streams," Goering said. "One of the many unfortunate aspects of this war is that it is very difficult to get good salmon."
"I've come here to see if we might be able to end this senseless fighting," said Dulles, determined to get to the subject.
Goering probed at his fish with a fork. "Senseless to you, perhaps," he muttered, not looking up from his plate. "We, however, are fighting for the very life of our Fatherland."
"It's hopeless, you know." Dulles had wanted his words to sound sympathetic; they came out like a threat.
"The Führer does not think so. He believes a miracle will happen."
Dulles glanced at Wolff, who was busily attending to the food in front of him. Even an SS general doesn't eat this well every day, he realized.
To Goering, he asked, "Do you believe in miracles?"
The Reichsmarschall smiled ruefully. "I used to. I had great f
aith in Hitler. We were comrades together. I was badly wounded in Nineteen Twenty-three, you know."
The infamous Beer Hall Putsch, Dulles thought. Too bad the police hadn't killed Hitler then and there.
"I never wanted this war." Goering leaned his massive body toward Dulles. "Ask anyone. I tried with all my might to prevent it. Ribbentrop and that gang of pissers, they brought this calamity upon us! Even after the fighting started I tried to get the English to see reason, to agree to an honorable peace."
Dulles asked mildly, "And what kind of a peace do you want to agree to now?"
Goering sat back in his chair, as if affronted by such a direct question. But abruptly his fleshy face broke into a boyish grin. "Yes, yes. You are right. The past is gone and cannot be changed. The future is the only thing we can deal with. Only the future."
Dulles took a taste of the trout. It was poached to delicate perfection.
"For us to continue to fight each other is foolish," said Goering. "No, worse. It is madness. There is no further reason for the United States and Great Britain to remain at war against Germany."
"What do you propose?"
"That we make common war on our common enemy: the barbarian hordes of Bolshevik Russia!"
"The Russians are our allies," Dulles said. "You can't expect our people to change sides."
With a ponderous shake of his head, Goering said, "You will end up fighting Stalin and his Asian hordes sooner or later. That is certain. The only question is, will you have Germany fighting alongside you, or will you allow Germany to be totally destroyed before the Russian dogs turn on you?"
Dulles had no answer, so he said nothing. He turned his attention back to the food on his plate, using his knife and fork to keep his hands busy, a substitute for his pipe. Wolff sat silently across the table; not entirely silently, he was mopping up the last morsels of the fish course.
"At the very least," Goering said, with growing impatience, "you could disengage the American and British armies and allow us to move our troops to the eastern front. We will face the Russians alone, if we must."
Putting his fork down on the bone china dish, Dulles said, "Our policy is unconditional surrender. We can't—"
"I know your policy! It's nonsense! You can't expect the German people to surrender unconditionally. You're just forcing us to fight on, even when all hope has gone!"
"Are you willing to surrender to General Eisenhower?"
"I am willing to negotiate an end to hostilities on the western and Italian fronts. Provided that the German troops can keep their arms and be moved to the east to protect their homeland against the invading Russians."
"A separate peace with the United States and Great Britain,"
Dulles said.
"Yes."
"And France."
"And the damned French too. Yes."
"Will Hitler accept such a deal?" asked Dulles.
Goering reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out a handful of pills. He popped them into his mouth and reached for his glass of wine. Paracodeine pills, Dulles knew. He swills them by the hundred.
"The Führer's main concern is to protect the German people against the barbaric Russians," Goering said at last.
"That is why he is staying in Berlin, to personally lead the battle against the Bolsheviks."
"Does he know what you're discussing with me?"
Goering seemed to stiffen. "I believe that I can convince him to accept the terms I have just proposed."
"But he doesn't know you're meeting with me."
"Not yet." Goering scowled like a sullen little boy who had just been caught doing something naughty.
"He doesn't know anything about the deal you're proposing."
The Reichsmarschall took a deep breath, then forced a sickly smile. "My dear Mr. Dulles: I am not worried about the Führer. As I have told you, we are old comrades and I can speak to him frankly whenever I wish to. But I am taking a certain amount of risk in meeting with you. If Himmler knew of it, or even his assistant Bormann, I might be placed under house arrest before I could get to the Führer. Isn't that true, Wolff?"
The SS general nodded somberly.
"But you're the number two man in the Reich," Dulles probed.
"Legally, that is true. However, Himmler is in command of the SS, which has become an army of its own. He has power. All I have is legitimacy."
"I see," murmured Dulles. A real nest of snakes, he said to himself. But maybe we can get them fighting each other, if nothing else.
Goering waved a hand and the waiters began to remove the dishes. The door to the kitchen opened and the aroma of roast pork filled the stone-walled dining hall.
Chapter 13
Wurzburg, 6 April
Less than sixty-five miles west of Burg Valdenstein, Major Heinz Renquist stood at the edge of the trees on the hilltop and peered through his binoculars across the River Main. He could see the dark brown humps of American tanks moving on the other side of the river. Shermans. Poor tanks, undergunned and lightly armored. No match for our Tigers, he knew. But there were so many of them! The Americans were like a tidal wave, overwhelming the army and its Panzers like the ocean sweeping everything before it as it rushes up onto a beach.
Two months ago Renquist and his Panzer unit had been at the Saar, near the border with France. The Americans had punched across the river and driven them back across the sacred soil of the Fatherland. Two weeks ago they had crossed the Rhine, a barrier that Renquist thought his Panzers could hold indefinitely. But the Americans had captured a bridge stupidly left intact and had poured across the best natural defense line in the region.
Now they were at the Main. They had taken Frankfurt and were about to assault Wurzburg. Renquist had three tanks left in running condition, no spare parts, and precious little petrol.
And an order from Berlin in his tunic pocket: All available
men and equipment will be moved under cover of darkness
to Berlin. The order was signed by the Führer himself.
Renquist put his field glasses down and rubbed his tired eyes. It had been a week since he'd had a bath; it seemed like years since he'd slept one whole night through.
All available men and equipment, he thought. I have no available men or equipment. I don't even have enough to cover the front I've been assigned. What does Berlin expect me to do, create fresh troops and tanks out of thin air? Or perhaps I should send the burned-out shells of my ruined tanks to them. You see, my Führer, this one was Max's. It was hit by rockets from an American P-47 jabo. And this one, sir: Karl and his entire crew were roasted alive in this one.
Renquist shook his head wearily. It's hopeless. It's all so hopeless. I have nothing to send to Berlin. I have almost nothing to put against the Americans.
"Sir!"
The major turned to see his aide, a teenaged sergeant, blond and pink-cheeked and looking frightened.
"Sir, there are jabos in the air. You should not stand so close to the clearing where they can see you."
Renquist turned and tousled the boy's hair. "Not to worry, sergeant. The Amis haven't taken to strafing individual men yet. They're still looking for tanks and trucks."
And mules and horses, he added silently. Anything that moves and carries supplies or ammunition.
"The men are ready to move, sir. They are waiting for your orders."
Planting his fists on his hips and trying at least to look like the leader of a Panzer fighting unit, Renquist took in a deep breath of the tree-sweetened air. Soon, he knew, this forest would reek of cordite and torn bleeding flesh.
"Send a runner into the nearest town and find someone who knows where are the fords across the river. That is where the Americans will try to cross. That is where we must meet them."
The boy dashed off, leaving Renquist alone once more.
He realized that he had said "meet" the Americans, not "stop" them. Three Tigers against an army. He shook his head and thought, I hope they don't destroy the brewery
when they get to Wurzburg. That would be a shame.
On the western bank of the Main River, Lieutenant General George S. Patton, Jr. put down his field glasses and turned to his aide.
"Is that town over there Wurzburg?"
The aide, a newly minted captain fresh from the States, ran a finger down the map he was holding. He looked up, smiling, "Yessir. Wurzburg."
"They make good beer in Wurzburg. Used to, anyway, before the war. See that none of the men get themselves lost in there when we take the town. Put a cordon of MPs around the brewery."
"Yessir." The captain fumbled awkwardly, trying to write a note on his pad without putting down the map.
Patton stared across the river, the heavy field glasses hanging from the strap around his neck. His eyes were baggy, watery-looking. His mouth turned down at the corners.
The polished steel helmet he wore had the three stars of his rank emblazoned on it, and the pair of ivory-handled pistols buckled around his hips proclaimed that this was truly Old Blood and Guts. He still wore cavalry-style jodhpurs and calf-length boots, caked with mud.
The captain stirred uneasily. "Uh, general . . . you make a mighty good target, sir, for any snipers that might be left in the area."
"Bullshit!" Patton snapped, in his high shrill voice. "If there're any snipers left in this area they're welcome to take a shot at me. How do you expect to instill confidence in your men if you don't show any confidence in them yourself?"
The captain fell silent and the general turned his attention to the river once again. It was a lovely April afternoon, a little warm, but dry and bright. He heard the roar of airplane engines and looked up to see a flight of P^7s thunder by, low enough to shakes leaves off the trees.
"Go get 'em flyboys!" Patton yelled, both fists raised high, his thin voice almost cracking. "Pound the shit out of 'em!"
Then he realized that the captain was flat on his face, map and notepad scattered to the breeze.
"For Chrissake," Patton screeched at him, "there aren't any Kraut planes left! You hear planes, they're ours! Understand? And even if they're not I don't want any officer of mine acting like a damned fool coward. Understand me?"
