Germanica - eARC

by Robert Conroy

  “Hey, Bud, try not to lose another plane.”

  “Go to hell, Georgie.”

  Bud had managed to nurse his wounded P51 until he was less than ten miles from their airfield. He’d bailed out and landed in a farmer’s field. The farmer and his wife had confronted him with a pitchfork and an ax. He had returned the favor by covering them with his .45 caliber pistol. The standoff had continued for about two hours until a truck with American soldiers in it showed up. The farmer and his wife had then become cordial and pro-American, professing that they had only tolerated Hitler because it was necessary to survive.

  Bullshit, Bud thought.

  At any rate, he’d been driven back to his base where he’d been subjected to some serious questioning. The fact that so many well-hidden guns were in the area was a problem. The German 88mm antiaircraft could hit high-flying bombers while the high-flying bombers could not hit small targets with precision unless they flew much lower. Flying lower, however, could prove fatal.

  He’d been given a new plane with instructions that he was to take better care of this one. He’d endured too much ribbing from his so-called friends, although he understood that they were glad he’d made it.

  This bombing run would involve no bombs. To the disgust of most of the pilots, they were to escort the bombers who would drop tons of leaflets on suspected German positions. The Allied command had even informed the Germans that this would be a paper run and not a bombing run. It was hoped that this would keep their superb 88s from killing them. The fighters were along to keep the Germans honest. Germans honest? They’d all laughed at that.

  As they approached the scenic resort town of Innsbruck, bomb bay doors opened and a flood of papers fell out, falling downward like millions of white feathers, or snowflakes.

  “Wow,” said George. “That’ll show the Krauts we’re serious about ending this war.”

  “I am just stupendously impressed,” Bud said sarcastically. “It just kind of makes me want to surrender myself. With all that paper, they must know how desperate we are to go home.”

  In the background, other pilots were making similar comments. They did not like endangering themselves in a propaganda run of dubious merit. Normally, their squadron leaders would be carping at them to shut up the idle chatter, but even they were silent. Let the troops bitch all they want. The next time it might not be so easy.

  * * *

  Leaflets covered the ground several sheets thick in some places. Wolfgang Hummel and Martin Schubert clambered out of their two man foxhole and ran towards a pile of papers. They scooped them up with both hands and ran back to their dugout and then returned for more.

  “What the devil are you doing?” screamed Lieutenant Pfister. “If the Gestapo sees you reading that American propaganda, you’ll get a bullet in the back of the head.”

  “They’re probably picking up their own,” laughed Schubert. “Just feel how soft this is.”

  The lieutenant grabbed a couple of sheets and squeezed. “By God, you’re right.”

  “Not even the Gestapo can complain if we wipe our asses with American reading material,” added Hummel. “Let’s face it, Lieutenant, Germany has been short of so many things and toilet paper has been one of them. My ass is raw from using whatever sandpaper they send us or whatever we can find.”

  “Good point,” said Pfister as he reached for some himself. “If anybody asks, tell them that I gave you orders to keep the area clean and to keep this sick propaganda from contaminating younger soldiers.”

  The men returned to their little fort where they divided the paper into two scrupulously equal piles. How much each man used each time would be up to him. They jokingly reminded each other to wipe with the inked side out so it wouldn’t run. When they were done, they sat down and read the sheets of paper.

  Hummel spoke first. “This one says we’ll get plenty of good food, clothing, and shelter, and we’ll be sent back to our families within a few weeks. Do you believe it?”

  “The Americans always have enough food, more than enough if you ask me. So yes, I believe we’ll get better food than we’re getting now. Of course,” he laughed harshly, “I’m not too sure how it could get any worse.”

  “But what about getting us back to our families?” asked Hummel. He could not keep a sense of longing from his voice. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We have no idea where our families are or even if they’re still alive. We may never see our families again. The cities have been destroyed and the roads are no longer there. How would we even make the trip?”

  Schubert agreed. “True, but how much chance of finding out do we have while we’re sitting on our asses in a dirty hole in what used to be Austria?”

  “Then we will continue to try to surrender without getting shot by either the Americans or some Nazi fanatic like Pfister.”

  Schubert shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder about Pfister. He has to make a lot of Nazi noises because he’s an officer, but I wonder just how sincere and devout he is.”

  “Are you confident enough to let him help us try to surrender?”

  “Hell no,” exclaimed Schubert. “I think it’s more likely that we’ll have to kill him than it is that he will help us.”

  “A shame,” said Hummel, “but we’re much more important than he is.”

  There was more than one version of the leaflets. A second one was titled “Are These Your Leaders?” and showed photos of various high-ranking Nazis either dead or in captivity. They laughed at the picture of Goering in a chair with an American MP beside him. “I wonder if he knew where he was?” laughed Hummel. Goering’s problems with drugs and alcohol were common knowledge. Additional photos showed Admirals Donitz and Raeder and Field Marshals Jodl and Keitel. The most shocking photo was of a very dead Heinrich Himmler.

  “But no pictures of the Fuhrer’s body,” said Schubert. He spoke softly. Even in a foxhole he did not want to be overheard. “Does that mean he might not be truly dead or is it that no one would recognize his body?”

  Hummel shook his head. “Once upon a time I worshipped the ground he walked on. Now I don’t know. And I don’t think it matters if he is alive or not. Germany has been well and truly defeated, and I just want to get out of here and go home.”

  “Wolfgang, don’t you wonder how many others feel like we do?”

  “Are you thinking of planning a mutiny, then go someplace else. I trust you and you trust me, but we can’t possibly talk to anyone else about our feelings. The SS or the Gestapo would be on to us in an instant.”

  * * *

  SS Colonel Hahn had been unable to discover any Jews in Germanica. Indeed, as he told Goebbels, he would have been astounded to find any. “Any Jew fortunate to remain alive in Germany and with even a fraction of a brain would have headed across the Swiss border and sanctuary.”

  “But the Swiss did not always admit Jews,” said Goebbels. “Although I think they would have in this instance. Once again the Swiss are caught between two powers. If they toady to us and turn back or return Jews, then the Americans will be outraged. Open up their borders and we will be angry. Frankly, I would let them take any Jew who wants to leave. After all we’ve done to chase them and capture them, there just can’t be that many Hebrews still remaining within a hundred miles of Germanica.”

  “I totally agree, sir, which is why I am focusing on this kind of danger to the new Reich,” he said as he handed over several sheets of paper. “Our soldiers are being bombarded, literally, with this kind of filth. American planes fly overhead with impunity and drop these pieces of propaganda on our soldiers.”

  Goebbels examined them carefully. “As propaganda minister, I must admit that they could be fairly effective. Has there been any indication that the men are reading these?”

  Hahn laughed and told him that many soldiers were using them as toilet paper, which Goebbels thought was hilarious. “Perhaps, Colonel, we should issue toilet paper with the pictures of Truman, Stalin, and Churchill on them. But fir
st, of course, we have to start production of toilet paper. It is just one item in the very long list of things that are either in short supply or not available at all. More important is whether or not any of our soldiers are taking these inducements to surrender seriously.”

  “Indeed, Minister, which is why I wish authorization to suspend any searches for Jews in the Redoubt area. If there are any left, and I doubt that there are more than a handful remaining, I believe they should be ignored and our efforts focused on searching out malcontents in the army.”

  Goebbels stood and paced his office. Once again he was annoyed that it was so small. He made a mental note to get Speer’s people to create something more suitable for the head of the state of Germanica.

  “Hahn, you are absolutely correct. Instead of searching for phantom Jews, we must totally and ruthlessly suppress any signs of discontent. Our situation here is very fragile and I am well aware that most of our army does not consist of people who would die for us. Therefore, you must show no mercy. Don’t let anything distract you from that goal, not even your wish to punish the spy who escaped from you in Bregenz.”

  Hahn winced. “I didn’t know that you were aware of that little incident.”

  Goebbels could not help but smile. “I believe just about everyone in Germanica has heard about it, Colonel.”

  Hahn smiled tightly. This would be all the more reason to make the little bitch suffer.

  “Minister, I do anticipate soldiers either trying to surrender to the Americans or trying to cross the border into Switzerland. I request permission to greatly strengthen the border fence and send some small boats of our own out on the lake to stop soldiers from either trying to get to Switzerland or to the Americans who are also on the lake.”

  “Do it. And make sure our ships are armed and that the crews have permission to shoot to kill.”

  * * *

  Since shooting that sick old Jew, Werewolf Hans Gruber hadn’t had the opportunity to kill anyone. He didn’t even like to think of that Jew with his brains splattered all over the floor of the cave. What he had done sickened him. He understood what the SS officer who was now a brigadier general was trying to do. He’d been trying to toughen young Hans Gruber and mold him into the kind of fighting man who would bring pride to the Werewolves. The more he thought about it, the more Gruber still didn’t like killing the man even though he had been a Jew. He was proud to be a German soldier and even prouder to be a Werewolf, but he wanted to kill real enemies, not sickly scrawny kikes. His parents were proud that he was a Nazi but he wondered if they would have approved of the murder—and that’s exactly what it was, a murder. He wanted to go after the Reich’s real enemies, the Americans.

  One of his problems was that he just wasn’t a very good shot. He’d had several chances but none had panned out. He’d twice fired at Yanks and missed. For his troubles he’d had to run for his life. Now he was in a clump of small trees near a road the Americans frequently used. He wanted to find a solitary vehicle, and preferably one with only a driver and no passengers. He wanted to fight for the Reich but he was not suicidal. He would die if he had to, he thought nobly, but he didn’t want to rush things.

  Gruber heard vehicles moving down the road. He would not attempt a kill. There were doubtless too many Americans to do so safely. Still, he wanted to take a peek. He had made a wise decision. At least a dozen trucks were headed towards him and they were filled with soldiers.

  He had to pee. One of the less glamorous sides of being a Werewolf was finding a place to relieve one’s self. He stepped a few paces deeper into the woods and laid his Mauser against a tree. He opened his fly and, with a contented sigh, solved his problem.

  Suddenly it was dark and he was on the ground. There was a bag or something on his head. He couldn’t see and he could only breathe dust. He felt helpless and had wet himself. Strong arms pinned his hands behind his back and he was tied up. The bag on his head was quickly replaced by a blindfold. He felt himself being thrown into the back of what he assumed was an American jeep and felt the jeep driven down a road. He had been captured. He was a prisoner of war and no longer a Werewolf. Hans Gruber was ashamed. He had been an utter failure as a warrior for the Reich. His only kill had been that old Jew and he now deeply regretted that.

  Worse, he heard people laughing, laughing at him.

  * * *

  Neither Bud nor George liked hospitals and couldn’t think of anyone who did. Part of it was the medicinal smell and part was the sight of people in distress. They hated the apparent impersonality of hospitals but knew it had to be.

  This evening, however, they had to go. Angelo Morelli was in there and he was one of them. He was a young lieutenant who’d only been in their unit for a couple of weeks before getting badly wounded. They’d had a couple of beers to strengthen their resolve, but it hadn’t worked very well and the medicinal smell almost made them nauseous.

  Morelli had landed his plane early that morning, if you could call what happened a landing. He’d radioed that he was in trouble. His landing gear wasn’t functioning and there was a fire in the cockpit. He’d been hit by some flak. When he was told to get out he said that he couldn’t get the canopy to move. Bud and George had listened in horror as he got closer and closer to the ground. The fire spread and his last few seconds were spent screaming that he was burning, burning and howling for help and for his mother.

  In what was either superb piloting or dumb luck, he’d landed the plane and it had skid down the runway, finally coming to a stop only a short ways from the emergency vehicles that were trying desperately to catch him. By the time they got to him, the screaming had stopped but precious seconds were lost trying to pry open the canopy. When they finally succeeded, they used extinguishers, and got Morelli out. Bud and George were close enough to see that his flight suit was smoldering.

  Later they got word that he was alive and in a hospital only a few miles from where they were based. They borrowed a jeep and drove to the collection of tents that housed the facility.

  Bud glared at the middle-aged nurse who was assigned to guide them. “How come our boys are in tents while the krauts are in real hospitals?”

  The nurse was not fazed. “Because there are so damn many injured, both civilian and military, that no amount of so-called real hospitals exist that can hold everyone. Actually, we are under capacity right now since there is not that much real fighting going on. Don’t worry, we’re taking good care of your friend, at least as good as we can possibly do under the circumstances.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Bud.

  “I’m saying that he was terribly, horribly burned. So badly so that it’s a miracle of sorts that he’s still alive.”

  “Is he going to make it?” George asked.

  She gazed at them firmly but with compassion. “It is highly unlikely that he will survive the night. And even if he should survive and begin to recover, he may not wish to live.”

  The comment stunned them. If you were hurt and got to a hospital, you got well, didn’t you? Now they knew better. She led them down rows of cots to a separate section. Many were empty but enough held casualties who were swathed in bandages. It was unnerving the way that they followed the two pilots with their eyes. Even more unnerving was the fact that some of the wounded had their eyes covered. They couldn’t help but wonder if the men were blind.

  “This is where we put the burn patients. Lieutenant Morelli is the first one who is a pilot. Most pilots don’t survive what he’s gone through. He gets his own area, not only for privacy but so that his screams don’t terrify the others.”

  Bud thought that he would again be ill. “Tell us what to expect.”

  “Have you seen anybody who’d been burned to death?” They nodded. They had seen violent death. She continued, “In many cases the body looks like a very large overcooked steak or roast. Well, that’s what he looks like. The only difference is that he is still alive. His feet are gone and he might have a couple of fingers left.
When the nerve endings in his body try to repair themselves his pain will be even more intolerable than it is right now. He is heavily sedated, but the pain still gets through after a while. If we give him too much, it might kill him, although that might not be a bad thing. His eyes are intact, but much of his face simply doesn’t exist. Now, do you still want to see him?”

  “Can he hear us?” Bud asked.

  “We doubt it, but don’t take a chance and talk about his condition. And don’t even think of touching him.”

  They didn’t. They approached the thing on the bed. They had never seen a mummy before and now wished they hadn’t. The rise and fall of Morelli’s chest was the only indication that he was alive.

  They leaned over him and told them who they were and that they were so glad he’d made it. They said that others would be visiting him as well and that he should stay tough. They added that the government was going to bill him for ruining the plane, but not even that got a rise out of him.

  They left, but not before thanking the nurse who had turned away and was sobbing. “What would happen if he got far too much morphine?” George asked.

  She smiled knowingly. “He would go to sleep peacefully and never wake up. He would never have to go through the unendurable agonies that would be his future.”

  The two pilots shook her hand and went back to the officers club where they ordered more beers for themselves. Nobody joined them. It was obvious that they wanted to be alone.

  “I guess there’s no good way to die,” said Bud. “The life of a pilot is glamorous until you get shot out of the sky or burned like Morelli. Of course we could have joined the bloody infantry and run the risk of being shot, bayonetted, or blown to atoms by artillery or by pilots just like us.”