by Scott Palter
After he had bid his ‘guest’ farewell, he left a note for Schellenberg to set up an appointment with the Ukrainian exile leader Bandera. Certain possibilities were beginning to present themselves.
1500 hours CET
9 September 1940
Dockside headquarters of the Hoover Relief Commission, American extraterritorial zone, Danzig
Special Representative Gerald Ford had not been looking forward to this appointment. Juggling the twin relief efforts for the Jews and Poles was trying enough. The two nationalities hated each other, and the Germans despised them both. There were a few sensible people like Commandant Eichmann, but mostly it was endless backbiting. Almost like dealing with Southerners and blacks back home.
Working with the actual US zone was easier. The US Marine Force guarding the enclave was nominally the 2nd battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment. In fact, what came over was only half the strength of a proper battalion. The Marines were rapidly expanding back home, and simply didn’t prioritize this mission. Such administrative sloth was typical of Roosevelt’s minions. Grand announcements in the press and then half-assed follow through. The Marine colonel in command solved this by recruiting locally. He’d signed up every volunteer who presented himself and shown a knowledge of even a few dozen words of English. The ‘battalion’ now had twelve companies. No new heavy weapons, but more than enough men to keep order as a gendarmerie. Even obsolete rifles, hunting shotguns, and pistols were enough to combat pilferage and break up the endless fights between Jewish, Polish, and Balt workers. Turned out the Marine cadres had had decades of experience solving the language problems in various Carib garrisons.
The German response to discovering he had representatives from the Polish exile government, had been ‘interesting’. Nominally these were two Polish-Americans, a former Indiana State Senator from East Chicago and a thirty-year veteran National Guard colonel from outside Pittsburgh. It took the Gestapo under a week to figure out that they were the liaisons from the London Polish Government and Polish Home Army, respectively. What surprised Ford was the reaction of Heydrich’s point man. He slapped down the local Gestapo head and the German Army commandant. It took one phone call to Berlin to bring both to heel. Heydrich’s man was a former resident of Milwaukee who had been active in the brewery trade. From his years in the US, it was obvious that the man had operated all through Prohibition, only returning to Germany in 1932. The brewer didn’t even pretend this was a matter of patriotism. There had been some outstanding warrants necessitating a quick departure. The SS officer had introduced himself to the two Poles, laid down some ground rules, and allowed them to go about their business. Ford had asked why. The answer surprised him – Berlin expected such a subterfuge. Felt that two known personages would be less trouble than searching for their replacements.
The SS officer and the former Indiana politician had jointly come to Ford with this problem. There was a new Catholic relief program for unfortunates being started. The first location was to be a currently closed nunnery outside Warsaw. Warsaw meant dealing with Police General Eicke. Eicke was a most unpleasant individual. He opened the meeting having a tantrum at the entire project. “These are useless eaters. Better to liquidate them. This is the second time we have been blocked by the damned Papists!”
The German clergyman also at the meeting started to reply, but was motioned to silence by the former adult-beverage businessman. “We can call Berlin if you want to disturb the Reichsführer.” He said this in a pleasant tone. His expression was predatory mixed with mocking. Eicke opened and closed his mouth a few times. No actual words came out, but rather a low sound almost like a dog growling. The clergyman smiled but said nothing.
The Pole took this as his cue. “We know it will take maybe 10 weeks for the Church’s new food drive to result in cargo dockside. I have orders to make do, and deduct this from Polish stocks here. I’m asking you, Director Ford, to allow some of this to come from Jewish stocks as well.”
Gerald Ford thought 10 weeks was optimistic, extremely so. He had no doubt food could be bought in a few days, but organizing ships took longer; and nationwide efforts took more time than spot purchases near the docks in Brooklyn. Ford was not a rabid anti-Catholic like many of his class and religion. He merely found the Church of Rome distasteful and reactionary. His people were Episcopalian, the religion of the Midwest Upper Middle Class. Catholic neighborhoods were where the saloons were. So he was not inclined to do any favors for a Catholic quarrel with the SS. “Jewish food stays Jewish, unless I receive a cable from the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee in New York.” Ford had no doubt that the New York Catholic Archdiocese could twist the right arms. Let them do so. His organization under Herbert Hoover was neutral. Neutral as they all devoutly hoped America would stay. Europe’s tribal conflicts were not worth the blood of a single American boy.
2000 hours local; 1900 hours CET
9 September 1940
Camp Gorlov, Italian Colony of Libya
Erwin Rommel had ‘improved’ on his orders from von Manstein. He had been told four battalions. He had improved this to four Kampfgruppen. He’d brought along a company each of engineers, 88mm antiaircraft, artillery, and 37mm antitank guns. He’d also rebuilt his two shattered companies from the original Malta force, into a small headquarters guard via drafts on his line battalions. He then indented higher command for replacements for his ‘missing men’. Then there were the two weapons companies he’d acquired on Malta and managed to neglect to return.
He could see von Manstein’s assigned watchdog was taking notes. He’d gotten the man’s name but had paid no attention. Like most military aristocrats, von Manstein’s headquarters ‘family’ included minor relations of his via all four of his parents and his wife. The young Leutnant was a von something or other. To Rommel such minders were simply part of the furniture. Rommel would willingly take the reprimand later, in return for having the extra combat power up front where he needed it.
Rommel wasn’t a staff officer. His battle sense was intuitive, rather than the product of years of doctrinal training. His gut was telling him this plan was going to go badly wrong. Rommel remembered Arras all too well. It was the only time he’d ever been near to defeat in battle. The British did things that made no sense from a General Staff point of view. But they were hard fighters, and those big, slow, heavy tanks were frightening. So he’d eat the reprimand, even a formal, written one forwarded back to Berlin.
He was pleased to see that Strauss had his brigade in hand. He knew the man lacked the administrative training to make a formation this size ready for a movement order. Rommel was pleased to see that Strauss had handled this by finding subordinates with the proper experience. That was how Rommel did things. He let his Ia (chief of staff and operations officer), Oberst von Thoma, run his division. The commander was needed up at the sharp edge. By the time information reached a headquarters, it was often out of date and frequently garbled in the retelling. You had to be up with the lead platoons and companies. Opportunities were fleeting. He’d breached the Meuse this way.
The part that truly amazed Rommel was the technician Bats. He was roaming back into the tracks of Rommel’s arriving column, rescuing broken-down vehicles. This American seemed even to have recruited some young girls for his operation. They were out with lanterns, waving different vehicles into the proper parking areas. The girls were being bombarded with ribald comments from his men. These were no blushing schoolgirls. They gave back as much bravado as they were subjected to, while doing their jobs competently. Strauss was a subordinate worth keeping. How he had gotten German girls into a combat zone was a mystery. When Rommel asked later, he found the answer perplexing – this was another special project of the Reichsführer. Heydrich’s influence was everywhere.
Bats had done another miracle, ‘finding’ two dozen motorcycles for his new ranks of officer cadets. Rommel smiled to himself. Likely Bats had stolen the vehicles. A very enterprising fellow to have along. The new dispa
tch riders had been eager to meet their general. Some of them looked a bit young. The young are often the bravest. They lack the knowledge to be properly terrified. Tomorrow at dawn they set off. His Italians were supposed to start before dawn to arrive on time here, but either way Rommel wasn’t waiting for a missing battalion.
Rommel’s last task for the night was an inspection of Mohnke’s SS battalion. The men seemed good. Their morale was high. The same could not be said of their commander. He seemed out of sorts and quite distracted. Rommel made a mental note that he might have to relieve the man. Strauss had mentioned that he had an experienced SS officer with Steiner if needs be.
0500 hours local; 0400 hours CET
10 September 1940
Camp Gorlov, Italian Libya
Leutnant John Smith finished his last radio message back to Rome for his boss. He then retransmitted a copy to Berlin for the attention of Special Deputy to the Reichsführer Schellenberg. He signed all those as Johann Schmidt. Serving with Bats and Strauss, his American name was just fine. Smith thought of himself as John, not Johann. He only had a few minutes to break down the equipment and get it on the truck. The one-time pads he kept in a briefcase chained to his wrist. If he lost these, he’d been told he’d be shot. He believed it.
Everyone and everything was leaving this camp, except for a small guard on the reserve food stores. Rommel’s new plan had scrambled the old concept of leaving a proper garrison behind. Smith was learning the iron law of armies: by the time you have mastered the plan, it has already been modified. Rommel was determined to bull right through the British outposts, dragging both forces behind him, whatever the rest of the army did.
He’d never really seen himself as a soldier back in Oregon. He took comfort that at least he wasn’t fighting Americans. He had nothing against these British, but from grade school he had learned that they were the hereditary enemy of America.
0600 hours local; 0500 hours CET
10 September 1940
6,000 meters over Alexandria Harbor, Egypt
The Ju-86 had taken off in the dark. The flight plan had them over Alexandria at first light. They were running a few minutes late. The harbor was still deserted. They would take a few photos to confirm this to the various higher commands, but this was old news. So was the chaotic hive of activity in the city. It was the main forward supply base for the British. Most of the truck traffic was at night. Daytime, the Axis air forces had made the coast road too expensive to use. However, Alexandria worked every hour of the day. The second stop would be the British defensive position being constructed at the chokepoint around El Alamein. Each Ju-86 sortie brought back photos of more entrenchments, and work on what were obviously minefields.
Tomorrow’s sortie would be Cairo, where the main British air bases were. Agent reports were consistent. The British were not yet reinforcing with large numbers of modern aircraft. The four-time-a-week Ju-86 recon flights confirmed this. The arrival of Hurricanes or Spitfires would be a major change in the correlation of forces. So far these superior British planes had only been seen over the Channel and the adjacent French coast. They were nasty opponents, as the surviving Luftwaffe fighter pilots who faced them could attest. The easy-kill days had ended at Dunkirk. The RAF with modern planes was a worthy foe, the first Germany had faced.
Against modern fighters the Ju-86 was helpless. Its one defense was to stay higher than the interceptors could reach. To date these recon sorties had been milk runs. When they ceased to be, higher command would have learned something important. The crew understood the logic, but preferred that the knowledge was not bought with their lives. Far better another boring day.
0900 hours local; 0800 hours CET
10 September 1940
Camp Gorlov, Libya
Army Oberleutnant Ernst von Kleist-Konitz was sipping a mess kit cup of coffee, watching the forces of what he thought of as Kampfgruppe Rommel roll out of the cantonment and down the coast road. He was waiting for his dispatch rider to return from von Manstein’s headquarters. The rider attached to him, had taken the motorcycle which was to be his transportation forward.
Ernst had refused recuperation leave for his wound from the French campaign. He was 23 and, in his mind, indestructible. The wound would heal just fine as a supernumerary on von Manstein’s staff, as well it would wasting time in Berlin or on the family estates in Pomerania. There was a war on, and this was the only active theater. Ernst wanted to be doing things, not getting fluttering eyelashes from young Aryan maidens. Women bored him. When it was time to perpetuate the family name, his mother would present him with a brood mare from a proper family. His brothers already had male offspring, so his would just be spares anyway.
Von Manstein’s staff had offered him a car and driver. Ernst instead requested a motorcycle dispatch rider, along with a machine with a sidecar, for them to use as his transportation. The official reasoning was that he could better communicate via such a courier. The truth was that at 23 he thought motorcycles were fascinating. He planned to have his rider teach him the use of the vehicle. After that they could alternate who drove. This was in some ways a breach of class decorum, but it fit the populist ethos of a National Socialist people’s state.
His family despised the Nazis as trash. This was true of most of the aristocracy. But Germany was at war. His class were the arms-bearers of the nation. So it was his duty to serve, and be seen to do so. The Junker class had duties as well as privileges.
Ernst’s message to von Manstein had dwelled on General Rommel, not Oberst Strauss. He’d been assigned to observe Strauss. He was using the initiative expected of someone with his lineage, to focus on the more important matter of Rommel’s conduct. It was clear Rommel was exceeding his orders. Ernst felt it best that higher command be aware of this. Rommel had hidden nothing from him. It was clear that Rommel regarded orders as suggestions. Typical of a mountain Jäger with the Blue Max. Success justified deviation from instructions, in all cases, to such storm officers. Von Kleist-Konitz decided that observations on Rommel’s developing battle were of more interest to corps headquarters, than the details of how Strauss ran his brigade – which so far had consisted of letting his chief subordinates command their respective units. Ernst had grown up around senior officers, and thought this traditional and sensible. It was Rommel’s actions he found worrisome. The man seemed to have no consciousness of how his unit fit into higher command’s scheme of maneuver. This could be dangerous. Even a young Oberleutnant could see this. Or at least a junior officer descended from generals and senior Obersts.
1300 hours local; 1200 hours CET
10 September 1940
South of Sidi Barrani, Egypt
Rommel knew he was supposed to halt here for the day. It was an order he never had any intention of obeying. The Axis covering force, a mixed battlegroup of German reconnaissance troops from his division and Italian mobile troops, had spent the morning chasing back the British screening force of similarly-equipped troops. Supported by relays of Ju-87’s and Me-110’s, it had been a one-sided if lively affair. Half a dozen wrecked vehicles of all three nationalities dotted the landscape. A few dozen Empire prisoners, most wounded, sat quietly under Italian guard. Reports said they were a mixed lot of British, South Africans, Rhodesians, and New Zealanders. They seemed a collection of fit young men in good spirits. Rommel could not understand why Italy, a nation noted for making fast, high-quality automobiles and motorcycles, had managed not to field either armored cars or motorcycles. He simply instructed this von Kleist-Konitz, as his assigned minder, to query higher commands on why such could not be provided to the Italians. The truck-mounted Italians had fought quite well. Better than the attached Germans, despite the Italians having inferior equipment.
Rommel’s own spearhead from 7th Panzer Division was with him. It was a mixed battlegroup, centered on a battalion of motorcyclists and the one Panzer battalion von Manstein had allowed him, plus a company each of motorized engineers and the ever-so-useful mu
ltipurpose 88mm guns. Sadly, the eight-eight’s were towed by halftracks. He had strongly suggested after the French campaign that some way be found to put this weapon on its own carrier. A turret would be nice but was not a necessity. The key was not needing the time to go into battery. At some point those huge British heavy tanks would appear, and only the eight eight’s could cope with them.
He wrote a quick note to corps headquarters asserting that the fluid combat situation made a halt impossible. This he sent directly rather than through von Kleist-Konitz. It would take the dispatch rider hours to reach von Manstein’s location, by which time countermanding orders would obviously be out of date. Rommel sent radio messages back urging his follow-on troops to push forward fast while he himself chased the retreating British back towards their lair at Bagush.
1600 hours local; 1500 hours CET
10 September 1940
Track on the lower plateau, in the Brigade Strauss column
Abdul Collins was a most happy young man. As a war captive he had expected ill treatment, possibly torture. The best he thought he could hope for was life as a slave servant of the infidels. Instead the young man who had interrogated him, had claimed him as a prize of war. His mother was a clan head in this camp of soldiers. Abdul discovered he had been adopted rather than possessed. His new clan worked him hard; but he ate with the free men and was treated as a clan member, not an outcaste enemy. The British prisoner was sent away. Abdul had food and a bed roll.
