by Scott Palter
The brigadier was being quizzed far more closely. This seemed absurd. The man was a retired fossil. Alistare-Smythe had been quite clear on the why’s. Preliminary peace discussions had begun in Lisbon. Maybe. At issue were the bona fides of the alleged crown representatives. The brigadier was scathing, about what an idiot the Nazi ex-Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop had been. As ambassador to London he had fallen in with a set of aristocrats and industrialists who were fawningly pro-Nazi. Saw Hitler as a bulwark against the trade unions, the Labor Party, the Bolsheviks, and, to a large extent, the 20th century. Von Ribbentrop confused the social standing of these fools with their utter lack of political power. They might just have enough clout to get the local council to fix a pothole in a road, but scarcely anything more. The brigadier saw himself as providing the education a proper ambassador would have on who was who and what was what in the factions of the Tories, National Liberals, Liberals, and the more patriotic cliques in Labor. It was easy to say you had the power to oust Churchill and do a deal. It was even possible to do. Churchill had few personal adherents, and many of those who had opted for him in May had done so only because they disliked other possibilities more intensely. That said, the obvious replacements for Churchill – Eden, Lloyd George, Halifax, Atlee, Bevin – all had enemies as well. Britain needed peace. Someday London would see this. However, if some clique had fouled the pool by promising the Axis peace, and then failing to bring the War Cabinet and parliament along, this would be bad for the Empire. Told Duffy that, by all means, report everything you saw me do once we are repatriated. Let higher-ups decide what was treason. Just for now understand the game.
Chapter 5
0800 hours local; 0700 hours CET
7 September 1940
Vicinity of Mersa Matruh, Egypt
Haptsturmführer Max Seela was yet again wondering at the workings of fate. His division, Eicke’s Death’s Head, had been demoted to a field security force. No one knew why, but the betting was, it was because Eicke had been Himmler’s man. Stood to reason he would be out of favor with the new Reichsführer. But then why not cashier the General, instead of demoting the division? It had then been combed over by officers from Hausser’s Reich Division, and SS Headquarters in Berlin, for ‘volunteers’ for transfer to the Reich Division for unspecified ‘overseas service’. His pioneer battalion was transferred over as a unit, and the men in the unit had been asked to ‘volunteer’ to stay with the colors. “Volunteer”. They were in formation at the position of attention in front of a Brigadeführer. The order was that those not wishing to volunteer should fall out to the rear. Of course no one moved. Who wants to appear the coward in front of his friends? So here he was in this oven-hot land of rocks and sand.
The SS Engineering officer had been sent forward by his division commander, General Hausser. A ragtag militia unit, the Strauss Brigade, was tasked with establishing the advance base camp for the German contingent of the Italo-German Panzer Army. Militia, but the official heroes of Malta. Propaganda was making much of how their National Socialist loyalty could more than compensate for lack of formal training. Less than a month ago this NL force had been two battalions (or a company, depending on who you asked). Neither Generals Hausser nor von Manstein had a clue as to whether this Oberst Strauss had an engineering staff. So the SS Hauptführer had been ordered to liaise with Strauss. In plainer terms, to provide such expert advice.
Major Klaus Steiner asserted that the British were mostly some 60 kilometers east of here, in a fortified camp that prisoners said was called the Bagush Box. Up here was a screen of British armored cars. Signals intercept said they were South Africans. This Steiner had provided a prisoner from these units confirming this. To drive them off Oberst Strauss had taken the field himself with an SS light armored company, an SA company of armored cars, a battery of old French 75’s from the Army and another of Luftwaffe 88’s. Combining this with two companies of some Jewish militia from Romania, he had established a forward position. A communications truck was calling down JU-87’s and Me-110’s who were arriving in groups of half a dozen and loitering till assigned targets. Some ex-Habsburg artillery officer, a Major Schwabe, was directing the guns. Three South African armored cars were burning a thousand meters out or so, and the rest were prudently scurrying out of range. The Hauptsturmführer was an SS officer, a member of an elite. He was surprised this rag-tag bunch could fight this well. Rumor with his division was that Oberst Strauss’s brigade was a joke, some special project of the Reichsführer. Perhaps laughter was not in order. There was even a good SS officer, Hauptsturmführer Peiper, commanding the light armor.
A column detached itself from the main force and tore off into the desert. Eight motorcyles with sidecars, and four of the new Kübelwagen. The engineer was in a sidecar, holding on for dear life. His cyclist seemed fearless, but less than totally in control of his machine. The ex-HJ seemed to be maybe 15, and had a look on his face of pure glee as he sent the bike flying over small gullies, and sprinted ahead of the pack to recon forward before looping back. Young men and loud, fast machines seemed a marriage made in some obscure corner of Hell, which was what the morning sun felt like.
For three hours they dodged across the plateau. It wasn’t some flat pan of sand the way the picture books said. It was a wild mix of pebbles, scrub, rock, gullies and gentle rises. The SS officer could see nothing to guide by, yet suddenly the party was stopping at a small flat spot in the middle of nowhere. The two officers, Major Steiner and Hauptmann Schwabe, were out of their vehicles walking the ground. Schwabe was probing the sand and dirt with a long metal stick with a sharp end. He looked nothing like the older artillery Major, but had called the man ‘father’. His German was poor but understandable. Strange people whose children look nothing like them, but then to Seela’s eye, this whole expedition was unusual. This seemed nothing like a proper survey, but neither other officer had asked for his expert advice. The engineer went over to stand with them. Perhaps physical proximity would remind them why he was along. They nodded, but continued to ignore him.
The tall Hauptmann did most of the talking. “Klaus, this place should do. It is flat enough for parking. Surface is hard enough that the heavy stuff shouldn’t bog down badly. Are you sure on the distances?” Peter caught the Hauptsturmführer’s expression. “I’ve been bossing work crews since I was fourteen. I’ve done oil wells, pipelines, roads, parking areas, small buildings, whatever was needed to make a spread-out oil field run. This place is not ideal, but we can make it do – to improve it, I’d like a lot of heavy equipment we don’t have, and my old labor crew from Romania. I might as well ask the British to sail home because it is inconvenient for them to be here opposing us. Life is what it is and you deal with it. You are the official expert. Have you seen a better location?” The SS officer shook his head. He was lost. He was also not about to ask to be allowed to wander around a wilderness for hours, looking for perfection while dreading a probable British counterstroke.
Klaus saw the Hauptsturmführer’s nonverbal response. “I’m sure as I need to be, on this location. Twenty kilometers from the British artillery per your father. Gunter said less, but he’s not a gunner. Ten kilometers for that Italian division to deploy in. I’ve done enough desert navigation so I’m probably within three or four kilometers of where I think we are. Mark it and let’s get out of here. The planes are keeping the British away … for now. Remember Malta. These Brits are slow off the mark, but tough once they start reacting.”
Peter’s shrug said he had his own ideas of who was a hard guy, and so far the British didn’t rate it. But Father said otherwise, and Isaak had never been wrong yet. Peter started hammering three large crosses into the ground.
The SS officer had never seen a position marked like this, and asked. He was quite unsure that this child Major had a firm grip on where he was, where the British were, or much else. The Major smiled and said most people didn’t disturb graves. Asked the engineer if he had a better answer. The big push w
as a few days off. These might hold up. For sure the British would be back to investigate. If worse came to worst, the Major felt he could find the place again if he weren’t dodging South Africans. The formally-trained engineer was nonplussed but went along. Asked if he could ride back in one of the larger vehicles. The two other officers laughed but made it happen.
1000 hours CET
7 September 1940
Air Ministry, Berlin
Air Marshal Wolfram von Richthofen was not amazed that his service head, Führer Göring, had deputized him for this meeting. Reichsmarshall Göring didn’t do mornings, and where at all possible didn’t do meetings. Deputy Chancellor Heydrich and his lapdog Schellenberg had something that supposedly couldn’t keep, and about which they refused to provide an agenda memo.
Heydrich dispensed with the usual coffee service and pleasantries. He asked that the room be cleared, but his minion Schellenberg remained seated as the other Luftwaffe personnel exited. Even at the Air Ministry, Führer Göring’s lair, Heydrich was acting as if he were in charge. Von Richthofen thought this rude but sadly typical. Heydrich waited till the door was firmly shut and began, “We have a major policy issue here and need to reach a decision jointly with you as representative of the Luftwaffe. We have uncovered a significant piece of fraud on the part of some officers of your service, and a major contractor.”
Von Richthofen knew of the Gestapo’s crusade against corruption at senior levels. The SS seemed to be executing a Kreisleiter every few days, and more than one Gauleiter a month. The Heer had yet to allow any of its people to be actually killed, but many were under various levels of investigation or custody. “What’s the problem? We’ll convene a court-martial and put them through the wringer.”
Schellenberg gave him a sardonic look. “That’s the problem. The fraud is real, but they may deserve medals for initiative, for creatively working towards the Führer.”
Von Richthofen looked at this toady of Heydrich’s strangely. “How can fraud be meritorious?”
Heydrich answered. “Remember back in the early spring we ordered the Zeppelin program shut down, and the working machine broken up for its raw materials?” Von Richthofen nodded warily. Heydrich actually smiled. “Well, they didn’t. Faked the paperwork, kept the project alive, and even paid them under the designation of some secret rocket program. With this new French campaign in Africa, we now have use for the damned things.”
Von Richthofen thought for a few seconds. “I can recall us using earlier ones for resupply to our East African colony in the Great War.”
Heydrich was glad the air marshal was getting the point. “Yes. We can use them now to resupply the French, and later when we make our own campaign towards the Congo mineral deposits.”
“Then what is it you want of the air force?”
“If we send the Gestapo to arrest these fools, it will panic the whole program. I need you to call the people in – your officers, and the senior people from the contractors. Threaten them with the Gestapo, then say they can redeem themselves by spinning the whole program back up quickly. Demote someone as a warning. The officers cannot all be indispensable. Transfer the demoted one to someplace unpleasant. You must have some bases that rate as punishment tours. Every service does. Then send a team of your accounting people to make sure no one can run this sort of a scam again. This time it proved useful. Normally it would just be more fraud and waste, something we have far too much of.”
“When do you need the airships operational?”
“Yesterday. Which is of course impossible. Send someone good you trust, to write us both a report on what capacities will be available when. Then get your service’s gossip net going on how you personally saved all these people from the Gestapo. Make clear that you won’t be inclined to work this magic again, so, if someone is going to disobey orders this blatantly, they damned better be right. Working towards the Führer is the equivalent of saddle orders. The results validate the latitude taken. This is extreme disobedience, so the gains must justify it. Also, please find out what this silly rocket program is and why we are wasting resources on it. We wage war on Earth, not the Moon in some Jules Verne or H.G. Wells fantastic novel.”
Once rid of the two SS officials, the air marshal made his first priority getting his senior accounting staff in. This fraud should have been caught internally, regardless of whether outsiders were informed or not. The Luftwaffe needed an accounting system that couldn’t be gamed this easily. He was also curious what this rocket program was. It sounded like waste, but Heydrich wasn’t an engineer.
1200 hours CET
7 September 1940
Comando Supremo delle Forze Armate dello Stato (COMANDO SUPREMO), Palazzo Vidoni-Caffarelli, Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, Rome
Prince Umberto of Savoy and Air Marshal Balbo didn’t enjoy getting yet another request from SS General Wolff for an expedited meeting. Wolff had assured them both that he was a facilitator, not a minder, but kept making these requests. Peremptory requests, however politely they were worded. The subject was blandly listed as armaments. They waited to hear what fresh indignity awaited Italy.
As was typical on such occasions, the better part of an hour was wasted on coffee service and pleasantries before any real business got done. This was after all Italy, not barely-civilized Berlin. Wolff was unusual for an SS general. He had manners and knew how to make the proper small talk. He also could gauge when the Italians were ready to discuss serious things. “The Reichsführer would like to have a discussion about tanks and planes. We have been sending you fifty first-rate tanks a month, Panzer III’s and IV’s. Also a hundred each of our bombers and the Me-109 fighters. We know that delivery has gone smoothly. We have met any requests on technical assistance and spare parts. Berlin wants to know how you propose to use these, especially the tanks. We have starved our own forces of these models so our Italian allies can have proper armored vehicles. Your staff people have been quite evasive on how and where these will be employed.”
The two Italians had wondered about this. Their reports from Libya had the assembled German forces with a weird mix of older German models, Czech designs, and booty AFV’s from everyone Germany had overrun. Only the SS division was getting the modern tanks, roughly a battalion a month. Umberto was the commander-in-chief and answered. “We are working up new battalions with these. They will transition south late this year, and early next year when we bring on a new armored division and a companion mechanized one.”
Wolff took that in. “So they will miss the campaign in Egypt, and probably Palestine as well.” He seemed to be weighing his words carefully. “We’ll have to jointly decide if they are best employed then in Trans-Jordan or Sudan. I’d guess Sudan, and on from there to Kenya.”
Balbo was curious. “You really think Egypt will fall so quickly?” Italian intelligence rated the British Nile Army as of similar size to their own Libyan forces; to which would have to be added, of course, the British garrison troops in Egypt and the British-trained Egyptian Army.
Wolff was at his affable best. “Abwehr was right about the British weakness in Malta. We think they are right again in Egypt. Next to no air force, limited artillery, and under four trained divisions. Your general would have to be incompetent on a French scale to not have you in Cairo for Christmas. Oh, by the way, we’re getting feelers from the Egyptian monarch. We keep directing them back to you. Have your embassies in Lisbon and Madrid contact ours, and we’ll arrange meetings. We ask that you do the same as regards Iraq.”
Balbo knew this was somewhat impolite, but Wolff seemed never to mind such probes. “We are grateful for the weapons. Why are you living up to your promises?” Balbo had unsuccessfully pushed Italy to get licenses to make German equipment for years. He’d been roadblocked by Italian vested interests, but also by pig-headed German refusals. Now licenses were suddenly available on commercially sensible terms, as were direct shipments of German aviation engines for Italy’s aircraft manufactures. Balbo wished to learn
the logic behind these changes.
Wolff gave him a level look and a pleasant smile. His specialty was public relations in various forms. “The Reichsführer is a man of his word. He honors promises and expects others to do the same. The deep strategy isn’t very complex. You are providing most of the men for this war. Most of the blood spilled will be Italian. It would be natural for your troops to see their German allies with better arms, and feel angry at the blood they are spending fighting with obsolete junk. Being able to show off your new tanks and planes voids this dispute before it gets started. In reverse, we need to sell our public that Italy is a serious military power. Most Germans have done military service. They need to see photos of victorious Italians with good German arms. This shows them you are worthy allies, not like the idiots the Kaiser yoked us with. Italian troops who win victories beside us, and have acquired a huge empire. Worthy comrades of a Greater Germany. We used to have a union of two leaders, a personal relationship. The Reichsführer wishes this to be an alliance of entire Völker. This will take years, but this is a crucial first step.”
