Himmler's war

by Robert Conroy

  Molotov smiled icily. “However, we must discuss spheres of influence so there are no, ah, misunderstandings during the truce.”

  “Indeed,” said von Papen. “We are more than willing to cede Finland, Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, and eastern Poland to you.”

  This time Molotov actually laughed. “These are lands we already hold, Comrade von Papen. You can and will do better than that.”

  Von Papen was too much of a professional to be disturbed by the blunt rebuff. “Then we will make no objection if you continue westward into Rumania, Bulgaria, and that part of Yugoslavia known as Serbia. That will unite the Soviet Union with Tito’s partisans, which, I understand, is highly desired by Stalin.”

  Molotov nodded. Did the Germans know how concerned Stalin was about Tito’s independence and lack of solidarity with the Soviet Union? “Albania must also be ours.”

  Von Papen laughed. “Who would want the miserable place?”

  “And we must be permitted freedom in Greece and Turkey.”

  The German ambassador agreed to giving Turkey to Russia but said that the British and Americans would likely protect Greece, which was an ally. Turkey was another matter. She was nominally neutral.

  The stony faced Russian blinked in pleased surprise. Molotov didn’t give a damn about Greece and agreed to leave it alone. He had gotten what he really wanted. Seizing Turkey would give Russia what she’d desired for centuries-unimpeded access to the Mediterranean. No longer would she be dependent on the ice-choked passages of the north for her commerce and sustenance.

  “Germany would keep East Prussia, West Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and, of course, Austria,” von Papen said. “There is one other thing we desire.”

  Molotov sighed. “There always is.”

  “The American and British bombers have severely hampered our production of armor. We would like to trade for five thousand T34 tanks.”

  Molotov was incredulous. The T34 was the finest tank on the face of the earth. Other tanks, like the new Stalin models or the German Tiger and King Tiger, might be larger, but nothing compared with the T34’s all around capabilities. His first instinct was to reject von Papen out of hand. Instead, the diplomat in him took over.

  “Trade for what?” he inquired cautiously.

  “Vlasov.”

  ***

  In order to make Paris by morning, Morgan and Levin had left by Jeep in the middle of the night. They could have flown, following the roads below to Paris, but there was always the possibility that the miserable late September weather would break and the regiment, standing down again for supplies, would have a need for the plane.

  Levin drove like a maniac. Even so, they were frequently stopped by eastbound convoys and MP’s checking for orders and ID. After all, going AWOL in Paris, even for a short while, was hardly an original idea. They’d heard that numbers of American deserters were hiding in the town and managing to elude both the Paris gendarmes and the military police.

  They arrived in the city in the early morning, just as Paris was waking up. Levin continued to drive and he obviously knew his way around.

  Levin grinned. “Didn’t I tell you I lived here once upon a time?”

  “No, although nothing about you would surprise me. What were you doing here?”

  Levin swerved to avoid a horse-drawn milk truck that had emerged from a narrow alley. “I lived here for a year after I graduated from high school. My parents thought it would be a great education and I’d learn all about art and stuff. What I really learned was how to get laid in so many different ways. God, what a place.”

  Jack shook his head. “After I graduated from high school, I got a job in a grocery store to earn some money before football started.”

  “Poor baby. I stayed here with relatives, which is why I volunteered to escort you and why I’m going to dump you and come back for you about five o’clock. I was very fond of those people I lived with, and I want to know how, or if, they made it through four years of living under the bullshit Nazis.” He turned grim. “I somehow doubt that I’ll find all of them. I just hope a few survived.”

  The things we take for granted, Jack thought.

  They crossed the Seine. The address on Jack’s orders was not for Ike’s headquarters at the Trianon Palace, but for a support organization that had something to do with military intelligence. They found it and Levin wished Jack good luck before driving off.

  Literally hundreds of American military personnel bustled about, all of them in freshly starched and pressed Class A uniforms that made Jack’s look dingy. Some looked at him sideways until catching the Purple Heart and the Bronze star, which changed their expressions.

  After a few questions, he found Captain Grayson’s office. He knocked and entered. No point being too timid, especially since Grayson was a captain, too.

  Grayson was short and pudgy and wore thick glasses. To Jack’s surprise, he smiled warmly. “Good to see you, Captain. Have a seat. Like some coffee?”

  “Love it, but aren’t I here to be chewed out? Or is it traditional to give coffee to a condemned man?”

  Grayson laughed. “Oh, that Eiffel Tower thing? Yeah, the froggies are all in a snit, but who gives a shit about them? Most everybody here thinks it was funnier than hell and you’ll probably get your picture in Stars and Stripes. The French can go to hell as far as we’re concerned. No, Captain, you were brought here for other purposes. Wait here.”

  Bemused and relieved, Jack did as he was told. He sipped his coffee, which was a lot better than what he drank in the field. The door opened behind him and he turned. His jaw dropped. It wasn’t Grayson. It was a very lovely young woman who looked very familiar and much prettier in person than in a photograph.

  She smiled timidly. “Good morning, Captain Jack. I’m Jessica Granville.”

  ***

  Jessica drove. She had her Red Cross car and knew where she was going. This gave Jack a chance to look at her more closely, hoping all the while he wasn’t staring. Jeb had been right. Jessica wasn’t a classic beauty. Instead, she was vivacious and bright and altogether enchanting. He might have been conned into coming to Paris thinking he was going to get his butt ripped, but he didn’t care.

  Neither’d had breakfast so she suggested a small restaurant that served good eggs and ham. On the way she told him that the meeting was her uncle’s idea. Tom Granville was a full colonel and on Ike’s staff.

  “He and I had talked about the letters you and I exchanged and how we’d both like to meet and, when he saw the picture of you and the Eiffel Tower, he had the idea of bringing you here for a talking to. By the way, your Colonel Whiteside is a friend of my uncle and he thought the idea was great.”

  “And here I thought I was going to be skinned alive, court-martialed and executed, in that order.”

  They ate and talked, hesitantly at first, and then more comfortably. To their surprise, they found it had been easier to converse in writing than face to face. Soon, however, they worked through it and began to talk as if they’d known each other for years.

  “My big fear,” she admitted, “was that you’d be angry at the trick and storm off. That’s why I got a vehicle. It’s a long walk to my apartment if this didn’t work out.”

  After eating, they sat on a bench that overlooked the Seine along the Quai de Montebello, just across from the Ile de la Cite, which provided them a splendid view of Notre Dame Cathedral. He mentioned that Levin had suggested buzzing it as well, and Jessica broke up into most unladylike guffaws. Other benches were occupied with a variety of people, ranging from young couples to older men and women. Curiously, there were only a few men in American uniforms. Jessica mentioned how thin, gray and drab both the women and the city looked after four years of Nazi occupation. She added that many of the city’s trees had been chopped down for firewood during the occupation. It would be a long time before Paris regained its premier place in the world of art and fashion. She said some previously glamorous spots looked dingier than what she
’d seen in London. Someday, he told her, he would like to visit the cathedral of Notre Dame that was so tantalizingly close. They could go there right now, but neither wanted to be a tourist in the few hours they had. And someday he wanted to see the Louvre, Versailles, Montmartre, and a score of other places that Jessica had already visited. But today all Jack wanted was to spend as much time as he could with the incredibly charming Jessica Granville.

  They spent the morning and afternoon talking and discovering each other. Jack had idle thoughts about suggesting they go to Jessica’s apartment, but he decided any suggestion to that effect would be premature and might spoil the mood.

  The only sour note was a group of several hundred protesters marching in loose order down the Rue de Montebello. They carried red flags emblazoned with the Soviet Union’s hammer and sickle. Placards proclaimed the glory of Stalin and someone named Maurice Thorez. Jessica thought he was the head of the French communist party and a Stalinist.

  “What do these people want?” Jack asked.

  “Communist rule in France. The commies had been quiet and Thorez was pardoned by de Gaulle for whatever he did in the past, but they’re getting active again. Everybody thinks there’s going to be trouble.”

  A large detachment of gendarmes appeared and, with lead-weighted capes flying, halted the protesters and literally beat them back, arresting a number who now had bloody foreheads. Jack and Jessica stood and watched with Jack slightly in front. Jessica thought it was nice that he was symbolically at least trying to shield her. However neither Jack nor Jessica felt in any danger as the brawl receded. The two sides were fixated on each other and unconcerned by the presence of spectators.

  All too soon, the day had to end. They arrived at Grayson’s office about four-thirty. Jessica introduced him to her uncle and they spoke briefly. Tom Granville left them, saying he had a war to run. He’d unintentionally put a damper on the day. Yes, there was a war to run.

  Only a few minutes after five, Levin pulled up. “Get in, Cinderella, the ball is over.”

  “Are you the wicked stepmother?” Jessica laughed.

  “No, the ugly Jewish stepsister,” he said and they were introduced.

  Jessica kissed Jack on the cheek and told him to keep writing and try to figure a way to get back to Paris. He kissed her lightly on the lips and said he would. She grinned and squeezed his arm.

  “Nice girl,” Levin said as they drove off. “Far, far better than you deserve.”

  “Thanks for your ringing vote of confidence, and may your future wife at least come from one of the Twelve Tribes of Israel that walks upright. So how did your search go?”

  “Not so good,” he said sadly. “When the Germans took Paris, I had eleven cousins living here including the nice middle-aged couple I lived with. When the Germans left, there were five and not the couple who cared for me. The survivors spent four years hiding in closets and being fed by neighbors who ran great risks doing so. They should be considered heroes if not saints. Of course, Jews don’t have saints.”

  His voice broke and he hit the steering wheel in anger. “They spent four fucking years hiding out, not talking loudly, not going outside, and fearing that any noise outside their cubbyhole would be the Gestapo or the French police come to take them away. Oh yeah, and don’t get sick while you’re hiding. How do you go to a doctor, or get a doctor to make a house call? Christ, can you believe the French police helped the Gestapo? What the hell kind of world is that?”

  “Is that what happened to the others?”

  “Yeah. They were swept up a few months ago and not heard from since then, and these included the wonderful people I stayed with. Oh, they sent postcards to neighbors saying that they’d arrived at their destination and were doing fine, but we all know that’s a fucking bullshit lie. If their destination was Auschwitz, then they’re likely dead and turned to ashes. If they were sent to some other camp, then it’s just barely possible some might be alive.”

  Jack slumped in his seat. The enormity of what the Nazis had done and were continuing to do to Jews and others was just beginning to sink in. That he now actually knew someone directly affected by it was almost overwhelming. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Levin shrugged. “Then don’t try. There’s nothing you can say. All I want to do right now is get back to the regiment and see how I can kill Germans.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Bill Stover had gotten his promotion to first lieutenant, received a Distinguished Flying Cross for his part in killing Hitler, and, best of all, now had his own B17 and was now flying in formation with a hundred other bombers over Germany.

  At first he’d been annoyed that mousy little Phips had gotten all the glory and the publicity while he, his copilot, the man who’d actually urged him to drop the bombs, was basically forgotten. When the crew went on a bond tour, it was Phips who got the cheers while the rest got polite applause. When women threw themselves at the scrawny pilot, his faithful copilot got the leftovers, which, he’d laughingly decided, wasn’t all that bad a fate. That life, however, quickly bored him.

  Bill Stover, age 24, basically was not a jealous man and, when logic took over, he sincerely wished Phips good luck. All Stover wanted to do was get back in a B17. He’d volunteered for the air force so he could fly and fight, not hustle war bonds from civilians. He’d pestered his superiors and finally gotten his wish. He was back with the Eighth Air Force and flying a B17, the sweetest bomber in the world.

  This was his third mission over Germany and he’d laughingly told his new buddies that it was two and a half more than he’d had in the Mother’s Milk ’s historic one and only bombing run.

  The morning’s briefing had raised a concern. Intelligence had apparently picked up indications that the krauts were going to try something new. As a result, the number of P51 fighter escorts had been increased. Stover felt quite comfortable with that idea, and, regardless what happened, he’d vowed that he would never break formation like the incredibly lucky Phips had. Germany was below him and bombers were arrayed on all sides of his plane.

  He stiffened. Something was happening. He focused his concentration on the increasingly strident radio chatter from the escorting fighters indicating that a small number of German fighters was headed for them. “Holy shit, look at them,” a voice said in a not very military manner.

  “Jets,” another voice said and Stover’s blood ran cold. He’d heard that jets existed and that they could fly at incredible speeds. His own plane’s machine guns started chattering at something he couldn’t see. And then he could, and then it was gone in a shrieking second. At the same time, his plane shuddered. It’d been hit. His outer left engine had been shredded, pieces were flying off as it and his left wing were disintegrating.

  Slowly and with apparent dignity, the wing collapsed and the plane began a slow death spiral. Stover ordered everybody to jump, but it was almost impossible as centrifugal force pinned them to the hull. Finally, Stover clawed his way to a hatch and pushed two of his men out into the wind. He couldn’t see the rest of his crew. He hoped they’d gone. He couldn’t wait. The ground was coming up far too fast.

  Stover jumped and felt the blast of cold air grab him and spin him. He missed the bomber’s tail by a few feet. Seconds later, he opened his parachute and watched as his bomber sped downwards and corkscrewed itself into the ground. The bombs exploded with a mighty blast. He looked around as he descended. The rest of his formation was disappearing and the German jets, if that’s what they were, had also vanished.

  He landed awkwardly and he felt his right leg snap. He screamed and was dragged by his chute until he managed to overcome the agony from his leg and free himself. He lay there for a few minutes fighting off the waves of nauseating pain and trying to compose himself.

  Stover heard voices and, a few moments later, several German civilians were gathered over him. “ Bitte, ” he said. He thought it meant please. “ Kamerad, ” he tried again.

  The civilians glared at him
with undisguised hatred. Here was one of the American murderers who was savaging their cities and massacring innocent family members.

  One of the German men leaned over and spat in his face, and a woman kicked him in his obviously injured leg. Stover screamed and they laughed. A man with a pitchfork stuck it into his other thigh and twisted. Stover writhed and tried to evade further jabs. It was futile and the pain from repeated stabs nearly made him unconscious. He screamed some more and the German civilians cheered. “Now you suffer like we do,” one of them said in English.

  An authoritative voice stopped them. A man in a uniform, probably a cop, Stover thought, looked down on him with contempt. He barked some orders and the men picked him up without care for his injured legs and he screamed again. He continued to scream when they threw him in the back of a truck, and finally he passed out when they drove down the rutted road.

  Miles away and thousands of feet in the sky, Lieutenant General Adolf Galland, “Dolfo” to his friends, flew alongside Major Walter Nowotny who commanded the ME262 squadron. It had been a most worthwhile test run. Of course, some would say that generals should not fly in combat, but Galland was sick and tired of desk duty and he’d flown the ME262 on test runs before.

  This fine day, he’d bagged a P51 fighter and a B17 bomber without any damage to his plane and Nowotny had killed two fighters and damaged a bomber. The jet could go more than twice the speed of the Flying Fortress and a hundred miles an hour faster than the fighter escorts.

  Sadly, it would be a while before the ME262 appeared over Germany in any great numbers. Aircraft manufacture of any kind had been slowed by the damned Allied bombers. The plane was designed to destroy the bombers and obviously could slaughter them in great numbers. There was a shortage of jet fuel, too, although there were more than enough qualified pilots to fly the few jets the Luftwaffe possessed.