Germanica - eARC

by Robert Conroy

  Devers stood and pointed at a map of Europe on the wall. “Once across, I’m sure I can halt a lot of German traffic, but that still leaves the road from the south via Italy wide open. And then there’s nothing to stop the Krauts from coming up through Yugoslavia. The Reds aren’t there yet.”

  Devers turned a worried look at Ike. “General, am I allowed to speak ill of our allies?”

  Almost from the day he’d taken command, Ike had issued a fiat that no one could insult the British or the French. A few officers had made that mistake and paid for it with their careers.

  Ike smiled. “If it’s just between us, yes. Of course, you could always call General Alexander a bad general who just happens to be British rather than a bad British general.”

  British General Harold Alexander had recently been promoted to Field Marshal and made commander of all operations in the Mediterranean. Ike and others felt that Alexander had been kicked upstairs and out of the way.

  Devers laughed. “Ike, I know that Mark Clark is now in charge of the Fifteenth Army Group and that’s got to be an improvement over Alexander. From what I can tell, it’s been a slow-motion chase for months. And yes, I know the Fifteenth has been climbing northward towards the Alps and I also know that we’ve stripped it of some of his best units, but Clark won’t be able to stop the Germans in Italy from getting to that redoubt. The British Eighth Army is run down and they don’t want to take any more casualties either. Clark’s armies are made up of units from many countries, including Brazil. It’ll take time for Clark to sort things out. I mean, does anybody really think the Brazilians can take on even a weakened Wehrmacht? Hell, we all know FDR’s big on this new United Nations thing, but Clark’s got Canadians, Poles, and South Africans in his army along with those damned Brazilians. I’d like to have the Poles and South Africans but you can keep the others. The Canadians are just as worn out as the British.”

  Ike nodded and dug out another cigarette. Mamie had written him about his chain smoking. He thought he might do something about it after the war. Now it gave him comfort. Ike was confident that Mark Clark was an improvement over Alexander, but by how much was a question. The man had a tendency to act like a prima donna. He had liberated Rome on June 5, 1944, the day before the invasion of Normandy. Rumor had it that he felt that Ike had upstaged him. There was also the question of his liberating Rome in the first place. Clark’s advance had been controversial. By taking Rome instead of cutting across the width of Italy, he had permitted large numbers of Germans to escape to the north where they now confronted the Allies and could be heading for the Redoubt. Jesus, he thought. How many prima donnas could he have? First there was Montgomery, then De Gaulle, add Mark Clark and stir in a dash of George Patton.

  Of course, he thought with a small degree of satisfaction, he didn’t have to deal with that ultimate prima donna, Douglas MacArthur. That legend in his own eyes was Roosevelt’s problem.

  “Have you forgotten the soldiers from India and that regiment of Japanese from Hawaii and California?” Devers added with a smile. The Fifteenth Army Group was indeed a polyglot force.

  “Intelligence says that the German and Italian units facing Clark are mere remnants,” said Ike. He was now regretting the decision to exclude Clark from this meeting. Ike’s staff had talked him out of making a dangerous flight over the Alps to Italy or having Clark make one instead.

  “Even a beheaded and dying snake might have enough venom to kill a victim if given a chance,” answered Devers. “If the Germans in Italy decide to make a run for this redoubt area, I don’t see any way of stopping them. Once they get to some kind of sanctuary, they can rest and reorganize and be a real bear to push off of those mountains. Of course the weather continues to be miserable, which doesn’t help matters one damn bit. By the way, if Clark can’t use the 10th Mountain Division, I’d like to have it. Their skills will come in handy if we have to fight on those peaks.”

  Ike nodded grimly. While Bradley and Devers would ultimately close the route from northern Germany to the Redoubt area, the door from the south was open and would likely remain that way. Maybe it wouldn’t be a huge German army that made it to the mountains, but it wouldn’t have to be to be an effective deterrent. Damn it to hell, he thought as he reached for another cigarette. Realistically also, there was no chance of stopping the Germans from moving to the Alps until the Rhine was crossed.

  “You can have the Tenth,” Ike said. And, he thought, you have convinced me to give you a chance to either stop the Germans from making it to the Redoubt in large numbers, or taking it from those who do make it.

  “Do I have the go-ahead to begin planning to cross the Rhine?”

  Ike winced inwardly. It was a reminder that he’d shot down Devers’ earlier plan. “Just don’t plan too long. I want your men across as soon as feasible.”

  Devers beamed. “Great, Ike. To get started I want to switch the Seventh Army’s location with the French First Army. I want Americans heading east along the Swiss border where they can cut off Germans from the north and east. I just don’t think the French are up to it and you can blame De Gaulle all you want.”

  Ike laughed. Devers enthusiasm was contagious. Now all the man had to do was pull it off. “Jake, I plan on blaming Le Grand Charles for everything.”

  * * *

  Tanner tried not to limp too badly as he reported to Major General Richard Evans of the 105th Infantry Division. His knee had healed and his foot was getting better, but was a long ways from healthy. He wondered if he would ever be able to play touch football or pickup basketball. Hell, or even walk briskly. He had also picked up an intestinal bug that had cost him twenty pounds. This morning he’d noticed that there was a hint of premature grey in his hair. Damn. The last thing he needed was to look old before he was thirty. When he got home after the war, how would he ever find a woman if he looked older than he was? He had laughed at his reflection when he realized that first he had to survive the war in order to get home upright and not in a box.

  Evans commanded the 105th Infantry Division. He was at his headquarters in a farmhouse ten miles west of the still uncrossed Rhine and north of the Swiss border.

  An officious clerk told Tanner to have a seat. He was informed that the general would be with him in a moment. He took the opportunity to look at the numerous maps tacked to the walls. Evans’ division was the closest to the Swiss border. To its left as it faced Germany in the east was the Thirty-Sixth Infantry Division and the other divisions that comprised the U.S. Seventh Army.

  The clerk told Tanner to go in. He saluted the general and reported formally. Evans casually returned the salute, shook his hand, and directed Tanner to a chair. Evans was short, pot-bellied and had thinning red hair. Tanner judged him to be in his fifties. He looked nervous and exhausted but greeted Tanner cordially.

  “I’ve read your record, Captain, and it’s not my policy to make wounded soldiers stand. It’s also not my policy to spend too much time greeting captains, even those who’ve been wounded and decorated. There are just too many of them. However, your story intrigues me. Just how the hell did the 106th get in such a position that two of their three regiments had to surrender?”

  Tanner had told the story so many times that he almost had it memorized. “It’s a sad old tale, General. We saw what we wanted to see and believed what we wanted to believe. The Germans were making a lot of noise putting their armor into position but we thought it was them getting ready to pull their vehicles out of the area, not attack us. They also tried to mask the sounds by flying planes low over the area. Some of us thought otherwise, but we were pretty much shouted down by so-called experts. We believed that they knew more than we did, despite what we were hearing and sensing. We were reminded that the Germans were dead, were on their last legs, and, hell, the war would be over by Christmas and we’d all be home by Easter. Sir, I’m not going to insult you by saying I was a genius and disagreed with those assertions. I did to a point, but then I agreed with their collectiv
e wisdom. I decided that all those experts had to be right and who was I to argue?”

  “How much did the division’s inexperience and the fact that you were spread so thin have to do with the disaster?”

  “A lot, sir. The higher-ups said our area was a quiet zone and we could gain some valuable experience without getting too many people hurt. And then when the Krauts did attack, we were spread so thin that the German infantry and armor came in hordes and punched through us like shit through a goose. That’s when I got wounded and escaped through to our lines.”

  Evans leaned back in his chair and nodded grimly. “Do you feel that you disobeyed a direct order by not surrendering?”

  Tanner answered with barely controlled anger. It was not the first time he had been asked that question. Usually, it had come from men who’d been nowhere near the front. “I never actually got such an order and, besides, sir, I’m not so sure that I’d have to obey an order to surrender when I had an option to escape. I can’t imagine getting court-martialed for wanting to continue on fighting.”

  Evans laughed softly. “I can’t either, son. I just don’t know what to do with an officer who had trench foot and now can’t get his feet wet.”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask, sir.”

  Evans paused thoughtfully. “A couple of days ago, a young lieutenant misunderstood an order and wound up getting his platoon almost wiped out. The platoon sergeant and three others survived. I hate speaking ill of the dead, but the boy made a dumb mistake. As a result, he and a score of others paid with their lives. Now they’re all either dead or wounded prisoners.”

  Evans lit a cigarette. He did not offer one to Tanner. That was fine. Tanner rarely smoked. “The sergeant’s name is Billy Hill and don’t laugh or he’ll skin you alive. He deserved better. He and a couple of his surviving men are hanging around headquarters. I’m going to assign them to you. You’re supposed to be good at intelligence and your report says you’d like to see the Nazi who killed your buddies get justice. You will work for me and you’ll be involved in special projects and, no, you will not be handing out socks and underwear. I will try to make sure that you don’t get your damn feet wet.”

  * * *

  “Magda!” Josef Goebbels yelled happily as he entered their apartment near the Fuhrer Bunker. Until it became too dangerous to travel, she and the children had been estranged and living separately from Josef. “It has been officially decided and I have the orders signed by Hitler himself,” he exulted. “We are all to leave Berlin while we can and get to the Redoubt. When we arrive, I will be in charge until Bormann gets there. He is to leave Berlin at a later time.”

  Goebbels’ wife smiled grimly. “Perhaps we and the Reich will have good fortune and he won’t make it.”

  They embraced almost formally, even coldly, and separated. By conventional standards theirs was a unique marriage. She had an adult child by a first marriage and the two had six more children, the oldest of whom was a girl of twelve. While they might love each other in their own way, neither had been a particularly loyal spouse. Josef Goebbels was a notorious womanizer and Magda had taken a number of lovers. Both were proud that they’d produced six young Nazis to serve the Reich and Adolf Hitler.

  Josef’s most recent infidelities had become public and almost destroyed the remnants of their marriage. For most of the time, they lived apart with Josef only visiting his children with permission. Now, however, the war had forced them to resume living together.

  “Now both we and Germany have a chance,” the Propaganda Minister said proudly and Magda nodded her agreement.

  In the distance bombs were falling, but nothing near the heart of Berlin at this time. They would be ignored. The work of government went on regardless of the enemy attacks. After each bombing, thousands of Berliners would come out of their shelters and holes and begin the process of clearing the streets, moving the rubble, and searching for the dead, the wounded and other survivors. Dust clouds covered portions of the city and the stench of death was pervasive. The inhabitants of Berlin looked gaunt and filthy. Food was rationed and bathing was an unheard-of luxury, except, of course, for the party and military hierarchy, and that did include the Goebbels’ family.

  Goebbels had the unenviable job of telling the people of Berlin and the rest of Germany that all was well and that victory was just around the corner. He considered himself the most loyal servant Adolf Hitler had, but even he no longer believed that they could hold out against the Red Army’s hordes pressing them from the east. Nor were there any more super weapons to launch at the enemy, unless, of course, Heisenberg’s bomb worked. All had been used and the results had been negligible. Defeat was inevitable.

  The two had discussed their options and, until recently, had seen death as the only viable option. It was inevitable that the Russians would take Berlin and the fate of the Goebbels family at the hands of the Red Army was almost too terrible to contemplate. Although in her early forties, the blond Joanna Magdalena Maria Goebbels was still an extremely attractive woman and, since Hitler was a bachelor, she was considered the First Lady of the Reich. She had served as a hostess at a number of events and was a celebrity in her own right. She would be a prized prisoner, ripe for humiliation and degradation.

  If she were captured by the Reds, it was presumed that many vengeful Red Army soldiers would stand in line and take turns raping her and her children before killing them. Perhaps their ordeal would be filmed and viewed by posterity. Or worse, after being abused by the Slavic subhumans, they would be shipped to the Kremlin and put on display in cages where they would exist as starving naked animals living in their own filth and driven mad by the abuse. Their oldest, Helga, was only twelve and that fate for her and the others was too terrible to contemplate. No, they already had the cyanide tablets needed to bring all to a quick death. Death by poison would not be painless but they had seen it as their only option. As captors, the Americans might treat them more decently, but the Americans were far away.

  But now there was a glimmer of hope. Both were torn. Their adoration of Hitler knew no bounds. But they were human and they wanted the two of them and their children to have a chance at survival. They would obey orders and go to the Redoubt. The cyanide pills were always there, always present. Death was inevitable, but now it could be deferred.

  * * *

  Ernie Janek, late of Chicago, swung his muscular legs out of his bed and thought that war was not always hell. He was twenty-three and a captain in the U.S. Army Air Force, and the mighty Eighth Air Force to boot.

  So what the hell was he doing in a cheap hotel in Bern, the capital of Switzerland? Well, he reminded himself, it was because his P51 fighter had a little engine trouble while escorting a flight of B17 bombers. This caused him to drop out of the formation and become easy prey for a pair of German ME109 fighters. He’d fought and danced in the skies and managed to shoot one of them down, but then his engine seized up and the surviving Kraut had poured bullets into Ernie’s plane. Almost miraculously, he hadn’t been scratched while he cowered and whimpered helplessly and waited for the end. He’d been praying for the first time in years when he realized that the remaining German plane had pulled back and was flying away. Ernie had no firm idea where he was, but he decided that south was best since the German plane was headed to the north.

  Ernie had nursed the plane along until the engine started to smoke and flames erupted. He’d then climbed out of his cockpit and launched himself down to the mist-covered ground. He first hoped for a clean landing with no broken bones, and then that the Germans wouldn’t kill him. German civilians had begun taking bloody vengeance on the downed airmen who’d rained death on their homes. He’d been told in lectures that the hardest part of surrendering was getting somebody to accept it instead of shooting you first.

  He’d landed safely after only a couple of bumps and bruises resulting from being scraped along the ground and was getting out of his parachute harness when a truckload of soldiers arrived. He immediately
held up his hands and hoped they would take his surrender. One took his pistol and pushed him into the back of the truck.

  “Where am I?” he asked, hoping that someone understood him.

  One of them laughed. “You are afraid that you are in Germany, aren’t you? Well congratulations, you’ve had the good luck to land in Switzerland.”

  And good luck it was, he thought. Switzerland was neutral and felt compelled to treat combatants from both sides as internees and not prisoners. American internees were treated more as unexpected and somewhat unwelcome guests and their confinement was extremely light. Ernie had been put up at an unused ski lodge for a couple of weeks until being moved to his current abode, an inexpensive but clean hotel in Bern. Of course it would be clean. The Swiss were always clean. Here he would be safe until the war ended. He was encouraged to wear civilian clothes, which was fine since his one and only uniform had been shredded by his parachute landing. The American embassy in Bern even made sure he was paid and that he got his mail.

  Problem was, he didn’t want to spend the war sitting on his ass in Bern. Not only was he supposed to be fighting Nazis, but Bern had to be one of the dullest places in the world. Admittedly, it was a pretty little town of about a hundred and twenty thousand souls, and the medieval city center was a joy to look at. Like his hotel, the place was also immaculately clean, making him think that hordes of cleaning ladies emerged each night and scrubbed down the entire town. It was nice, but it wasn’t the U.S. Army Air Force and he wasn’t fighting the Nazis. Someday, when the war was over, his grandchildren would ask him what he did in the war. He didn’t want to say he spent some or most of it sitting on his ass in a hotel in Switzerland.

  He’d had an idea and today he would try it out. On many days, a middle-aged man would come to a nearby park that overlooked the Aare River that snaked through Bern. He would sit and smoke his pipe, apparently pontificating. Ernie sensed that the man was an American, doubtless a diplomat, although he might be from the Red Cross, which had its headquarters in Bern. It didn’t matter. Maybe the man could get him out of the boring hole that was Bern and back to the war.