Himmler's war

by Robert Conroy

“Are there no secrets in the Wehrmacht?”

  Schurmer laughed. “All right, rumored to be working on.”

  “Since the bomb has not yet been built, much less dropped, I have no real idea what the impact will be, no pun intended. Nor does Heisenberg. However, if it is anywhere near as powerful as what the little physicist thinks, then I believe anyone in your command bunker will be in a terrible mess if the Yanks should have one of their own.”

  “And we will have the bomb before the Yanks make one?”

  “Hans, who the devil knows what the Yanks will have.”

  ***

  Sporadic rifle and machine gun fire came from the German village. German guns had found a home in the rubble and it would be a tough nut to crack. The 74th’s artillery and armor pounded away, making dust out of the ruins.

  Morgan’s air force was on the ground getting refueled from their limited supply. Word had it that V Corps was running out of gas and that future flights would be curtailed. It was frustrating. Carter had complained that the U.S. produced more oil than anyone in the world, so why couldn’t they get it to the front lines? Of course, he knew his argument was irrelevant. Cherbourg and the other Channel ports were finally working, but the massive and growing American and British Armies sucked up immense quantities of supplies that all had to be sent to France by ship. It had become irrelevant where the tankers made port. The fuel had to be off-loaded onto trains and trucks and then driven to the front lines.

  “White flags!”

  Several white flags could be seen in the ruins. “Cease fire,” Stoddard radioed his units, and the shooting slowly stopped. Not everyone heard the order and some didn’t want to quit when there were Germans to kill. Finally, however, a strange calm prevailed.

  A man emerged carrying a sheet attached to a pole. He moved forward cautiously, fully aware that hundreds of weapons were trained on him.

  “I’ll handle it,” said Levin. He walked forward a few paces and waited for the German who was clearly and professionally surveying the American men and weapons arrayed against him. Well, let him look, Levin thought. Hell, he probably already knew all about them.

  The German was tall, lean and late middle-aged, and carried himself with a dignity that said he’d been in the army before. He needed a shave, wore dirty and ragged civilian clothes, and an armband said he was an officer. Volkssturm had their own ranks and Levin was unsure exactly what the man was. Regardless, he wasn’t going to salute.

  “Are you surrendering?” Levin asked in German.

  “Yes. I am Major Otto Kuehn and I now command this Volkssturm regiment,” the German responded in English.

  Regiment? Holy shit, thought Levin. How many men were in that damned village? “Tell your men to lay down their arms and march out with their hands on their heads. I’m sure you know the routine.”

  Kuehn smiled tightly. “I remember issuing the same orders to British Tommies in the early days of the last war.”

  The German wheeled and returned to the village. A short while later, the ruins began to disgorge large numbers of his fellow Volkssturm. They obeyed orders and were unarmed, some were even laughing. Their hands were clasped neatly on their heads. Many were wounded, but even they managed to smile at the Americans. Their war was over and they appeared damned glad to be out of it.

  “Surrender becomes you,” Levin said. “Your men seem pleased.”

  Kuehn shrugged. “Better you than the Russians and better surrendering than fighting to the death for no reason whatsoever. It was the only sensible thing to do. Other than old rifles and Panzerfausts, we had nothing to fight you with. The swine who command us also forgot food and water, and medical facilities. We are here as cannon fodder to try to delay you and I will not have my men slaughtered. It may make sense militarily, but the war is over and our deaths would only delay the inevitable.”

  “Good to hear,” said Morgan who had reached the two men.

  The long column of German prisoners had begun to wind its way to the rear. At least none of these would be murdered. There were just too damn many of them. There really is safety in numbers, Jack thought. The farther they walked through the American lines, the more relaxed the Germans became, smiling, nodding and even trying out their English on their captors. Whiteside gave orders to collect their weapons, especially the panzerfausts. He thought they might just come in handy.

  “Do other Volkssturm units feel as you do?” Jack asked the German major.

  Kuehn happily lit a cigarette offered by Levin. “I would say so, although it might depend on each one’s unique situation. Most of the soldiers you are facing here on the west of the Rhine are either miserably armed Volkssturm like us or fanatic SS assholes. The regular army has pretty well departed across the river to man the Rhine Wall.”

  Jack nodded. The Germans were gone? This information will go upwards real fast, he thought. “Were you a Nazi?”

  Kuehn smiled. “Of course, and I still am. Did you expect me to be a lying hypocrite like so many of my countrymen have become? After the disaster of the First World War and the Weimar Republic, I thought Hitler was great man who would bring Germany back to life and her rightful place in the world. I never thought he would bring us so much death and so many murders. Had he stopped with Austria and Czechoslovakia, or even Norway and Poland, Germany and the world would be a better place.”

  “And what about the Jews?” Levin asked quietly.

  “I truly thought they’d be deported, not murdered.”

  Was this an honest man, Morgan thought, or just another lying kraut trying to rationalize what he’d done? And did it matter? He’d just surrendered a regiment and saved a number of American lives by doing so. “And what did you do in civilian life?”

  “For whatever it’s worth, I was a baker. My shop was destroyed by bombers. My family was in it at the time. My wife and two children were killed. There’s been enough killing, Captain, enough. I’ve had enough war. I surrender.”

  Stoddard heard the last part and asked Levin if Kuehn thought other Volkssturm units were as disgusted as his, and whether he could get them to surrender as well.

  Kuehn blinked in surprise. “I suppose I could. My God, it would save lives wouldn’t it? Yes, tell your superiors I will do my best.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Alfie Swann thought it would be hard enough for one man to survive a German winter, especially if that one man wore a British uniform and didn’t speak German. His only hope had been to find a place where he would be out of the wind and cold and then steal food from wherever he could. As plans went, it truly stank, but he couldn’t think of another one.

  But then he met the two Jews and his troubles had more than tripled. There was no way in hell he could simply turn them loose to be picked up by the Gestapo and sent to a death camp. After talking with the two men, he now firmly believed in the Reich’s horrors. No, the two Jews were now his responsibility, and he would do his best for them.

  The trick, he decided, was to look inconspicuous. Thus, he had to steal clothes to replace both their rags and his uniform. Then he had to acquire enough food so they didn’t look like death warmed over. All right, he thought, it could all be done, but where would they stay and not freeze to death in the coming months? There was no reason to think that the Americans or his own savaged British army would be coming by to save them anytime soon. Nor was there any real likelihood of their getting to the west bank of the Rhine under the guns of both sides. Ergo, they would plan for the long haul. Bloody hell, he’d never had to plan anything before. He was in the army and the army did all the thinking and planning he’d ever needed. What was the saying? Yeah, if the army wanted you to think they would have issued you brains.

  “A cave would be nice,” Aaron said. “With enough insulation from trees, grass, and even rags, we can keep the place reasonably snug. With only a little luck, we’d survive.”

  “Are there caves in Germany?” Alfie asked.

  Saul laughed. “The land here is hilly a
nd sometimes rocky. I rather think we could find a niche in some escarpment and keep ourselves alive.”

  Alfie shook his head. What the hell was a niche and what the bloody hell was an escarpment, and who the hell said these two guys couldn’t speak English very well? But maybe they could find something livable in a land that was surprisingly heavily forested.

  “Can you find us something like that?”

  Saul answered. “We used to explore caves for amusement and sometimes we actually found ones that nobody knew existed. It was great adventure. I know we don’t look like much, Alfie, but we always liked to go camping and what some people called roughing it. We may even know more than you do about survival in the wilderness.”

  Indeed, Alfie thought. “Then let’s go find ourselves a fucking cave. Jesus Christ, does this make me a cave man?”

  ***

  Eisenhower riffled through the stack of glossy photographs. He was impressed by their detail and clarity. They all pointed out that what they’d suspected was the dismal truth. The German army was indeed evacuating the Rhineland and moving into the massive fortifications they’d built in depth on the east bank of the Rhine. Lieutenant General James Doolittle, commanding the Eighth Air Force, was present as was Lieutenant General Omar Bradley. The Royal Air Force’s bomber command was not represented, nor were the Allies’ navies.

  Any crossing of the Rhine would be made by Bradley’s massive 12th Army Group and by either Hodges’ First Army or Patton’s Third Army. The demoralized British to the north would have the very wide Rhine delta to cross, while Devers’ 6th Army was too small and, being south, was in rugged terrain that more resembled the Swiss Alps than anything German.

  Ike turned to Doolittle and pointed to the pictures of the forts. “These things have to be destroyed. These fortifications are a hundred times more formidable then what we faced at Normandy.”

  Doolittle was clearly uncomfortable. “Sir, you know that both America’s and England’s bomber command’s priorities are Germany’s factories and war-making potential. It’s the opinion of both commands that every bomber taken from attacking those targets will prolong the war. If we can stop their ability to produce weapons and fuel, the German military machine will grind to a halt.”

  “Indeed,” Ike said dryly, “but it will grind to a halt with us on one side of the Rhine and the Germans safely on the other. Jimmy, the only way to do it is the old fashioned one-we have to dig them out because, no matter what, we will still have to cross that damned river in order to end this war. Unless your bombers pay greater attention to these defenses, our casualties will be horrendous.”

  “Ike, we’ve been bombing them off and on since we crossed the Seine. And before that we bombed the Seine works. We have a lot of planes and crews, but not enough to do both things.”

  “Then why is bomber command implying that they don’t need as many pilots as they are getting and that they are running out of viable targets? If my bluntness offends anyone, so be it,” said Ike, “but I don’t think strategic bombing has been all that effective. The Germans have successfully repaired much of what has been bombed, and they’ve dispersed their factories to hidden and underground locations. They have been able to fix their railroads overnight. While we’ve certainly made life inconvenient for them, they are continuing to produce weapons, including their damned tanks and that jet fighter. In my opinion, continued massive bombing of factories and rail facilities would be redundant.”

  Ike lit another cigarette and puffed angrily. “We need to confuse Rundstedt and Himmler as to where we will finally cross. We need confusion like we did with Normandy. Everybody in the German high command was uncertain as to whether the real attack would come at Pas de Calais or Normandy. We need them confused as to whether Patton’s or Hodges’ boys will be in those landing craft and that means two major areas east of the Rhine have to be isolated and bombed to hell and back.”

  Doolittle smiled wanly. “You don’t want much do you?”

  Ike flashed his famous grin. Doolittle was one of his favorites and a past member of his staff. Ike was angry, but not with his old friend. “And I want it yesterday. Look, everybody’s convinced that we’re going into winter quarters and they are largely correct. When we clean out the west bank of the Rhine there really won’t be much of anything for our forces to do until the spring and we do fight our way across.”

  “Forgive me for being an idiot, Ike,” said Doolittle, “but why not cross in the winter?”

  Bradley answered. “Because planes can’t fly and bomb accurately in bad weather, because it’s too cold and muddy for our vehicles to operate effectively, and because the Rhine will be so cold that our men won’t be able to wade in like they did at Normandy. Even worse, any poor soldier spilled into the river will likely freeze to death before he makes shore or is rescued. At least the waters off Normandy and the Seine were reasonably warm. We can and will try to send isolated swimmers across, probably navy SEALS, for reconnaissance purposes, again like Normandy, but not in any numbers large enough to affect anything.”

  “In a very large way,” added Ike, “this will be like D-Day all over again. We will rest and refit, and we will train, and train. Hopefully, we will get enough landing craft, the LCVI which carry a platoon and can be brought to the river by train, or even the DUKW that can carry a squad, or maybe something else. Our reconnaissance shows that the Germans are stripping the west bank of the Rhine of anything that floats, which will stop us from using local boats for the crossing.”

  “Nor can we bring ships up the Rhine,” Bradley added, stating the obvious and enjoying Doolittle’s discomfort. “First, any ships would be within point blank range of German guns, and, second, the Nazis will doubtless destroy all the Rhine bridges, which means that the resultant rubble will halt any river traffic.”

  Doolittle shook his head. “Jesus, anybody here got any good news?”

  Ike smiled. “We do have a few surprises up our sleeves. The Germans are good, but we’re pretty good, too, and we’re getting better. Regardless Jimmy, I need those bombers and I need them over targets soon and for a very long time.”

  “And if the air force balks?”

  “If they balk, then tell them that Germany wins the war.”

  ***

  The forests of Germany to the west of the Rhine came as a shock to the men of the 74th. They were dense, the trees were tall, and the roads primitive to nonexistent. The American forces to the north of them were having an even tougher time navigating woodlands that reminded them more of the forests of Pennsylvania or northern Michigan than what they thought Germany would be.

  The Germans were retreating as usual-slowly, tenaciously, and fighting hard to inflict as many casualties as they could on the advancing Americans. One of their new favorite tactics was to fire artillery timed to explode in the tree covering thus showering the exposed troops below with splinters that ripped into soft flesh. The men in the tanks were fairly safe, but those on foot or in Jeeps or trucks or those roofless tank destroyers or half-tracks were vulnerable.

  Morgan’s Jeep was covered by a couple of pieces of sheet metal patched together from wrecked trucks. It wasn’t armor, but he hoped the metal would deflect the lion’s share of the deadly debris that rained from the sky. So far he’d been lucky. Nothing major had tested their improvised defenses, although some shells exploding nearby had sent twigs clattering onto their roof. Many of the drivers of other exposed vehicles had make similar armor out of anything they thought might protect them, including wood. Still, casualties had been severe and bloody.

  As usual, the 74th was crawling, slipping and sliding over the muddy and narrow roads, while a light snowfall made their lives even more miserable. Jake was on the ground while two other pilots took the planes on their excursions. Their reports were dismal. The forest hid much of what the Germans were up to. Enemy machine gun nests were well hidden and well sited, and their artillery was invisible. German big guns would fire a few rounds and then move. A
merican mortars were ineffective because no one could see the fall of shot. It was galling to know that very small numbers of Nazis could cause such disproportionate casualties and halt the advance of a much larger and more powerful American force.

  German machine gun fire ripped insanely a few hundred yards ahead of him. Morgan was too tired and too cold to wince. He almost agreed with the philosophy that if a bullet had your name on it, there wasn’t much you could do about it.

  Fortunately, the Germans were only fighting a series of delaying actions as they moved men and equipment east and over the Rhine, and not making a major stand. More and more Volkssturm outfits were surrendering, including several that seemed to have somehow “lost” their officers. The consensus was that the enlisted men had killed them because the officers wanted to continue suicidal resistance. The only units that were now really fighting were the SS. Jack assumed that was who they were now up against.

  “Morgan, can your pilots pinpoint the krauts?”

  It was Whiteside and he looked angry and frustrated. “In a general sense, sir,” said Morgan.

  “Could you give a fighter pilot a rough perimeter using smoke?”

  Morgan said they could and Whiteside told him to have his pilots drop smoke and flares around the German strongpoint that was holding them up. Troops on the ground would do the same thing to identify their own lines. Whiteside informed them that the fighter bombers had a new weapon they wanted to test.

  “And that means we pull out when the perimeter is outlined,” Whiteside said. “No insult to your past calling, Captain, but I don’t trust anybody else’s aim.”

  “Sounds like a prudent idea to me, sir.”

  Half an hour later, an area several hundred yards in diameter had been outlined by a circle of smoke and, hopefully, was visible from the sky. Just as important, the 74th had pulled back nearly a mile. Jack was wondering just what the hell was going to happen when a pair of P47’s flew over, turned, and began another run. This time, what looked like bombs dropped from them.