by Scott Palter
British Brigadier William Slim gave a disgusted shake of his head, surveying this dump of a small boat harbor at which the RN was attempting to land his division. Tenth Indian Division was a slapped-together force, dispatched to meet the oncoming crisis in Iraq. “We were supposed to land in Basra, gentlemen.” He was talking to his chief engineering officer, the commander of the lead brigade, and the RN commander of this ad hoc convoy. “The Iraqi Army chose not to allow us to use Basra. London, Delhi, and Cairo among them proved incapable of reaching a decision on whether to initiate hostilities at this exact moment over this precise provocation. So here we are in a port mostly suited for pearl fishing and trade with Bombay. Tell me how bad this mess is, please?”
The engineer was an expert in civil construction. Cantonments, barracks, roads and the like. However, the basic mechanics of getting equipment off ships was sort of within his realm. “We can unload a good bit of kit. Give it a week and Bombay can deliver a few medium cranes to get the heavy trucks and field guns offloaded. Meantime I can build the docks to set them up on. It will mean keeping ships in harbor past plan.” He turned and looked at the RN officer.
The Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea were a backwater to navy engaged in a worldwide war. The officer in charge was an overage commodore recalled to active service. His actual naval force was two armed merchant cruisers and a few home-brew gunboats whipped up in Bombay. These were good enough to deter piracy, but not much else. Serious engagements with the enemy were not anticipated in these waters. The twin expected dangers were local pirates and the Sunni officers’ cabal in Iraq, the Golden Square. “Nothing else for it. It will slow down your division’s deployment, but needs must. Bombay port is in chaos anyway. Congress riots. Sabotage from Bose’s chaps. Muslim mobilization for the Afghan intervention. Indeed I’ve got a new signal here. Your division commander is off to Khandahar to lead a force of Muslim League National Guards and tribal Mujahideen. So you’ve been bumped from staff brigadier to divisional command.”
The three men shook their heads at the unfolding escalating chaos, and sent a mess attendant for a bottle of Scotland’s finest and three cups to toast the promotion. On the dock the troops continued to debark and march inland to hasty camps. The war had come to Kuwait. All three military men trusted the British resident agent to smooth this over with the dynasty.
1400 hours CET
6 October 1940
Camp Complex HQ, Palestine Camp Group, near Cracow, General Government
Another day, another distasteful task. Prinz-Albrecht-Straße had delegated the task of explaining the camp system to the would-be Ukrainian Führer Stepan Bandera. Berlin had said the man was important. Therefore Commandant Eichmann took the meeting himself. Bandera’s Abwehr minder was a mere Major. The visit didn’t rate parting with the real coffee Eichmann now had a stock of that, thanks to his Jewish officers. The charity shipments from their US cousins included real coffee, American cigarettes, sugar, chocolate, and other luxuries no longer readily available in blockaded Europe. Some days Eichmann felt guilty that the Yids were trying to bribe him. Most of the time he simply regarded these extras as his due as their ruler. He was sure Berlin had been informed of his good fortune. As no reprimand was sent, he presumed they at least tacitly approved.
The Ukrainian had seemed ill at ease during the tour and the follow-on presentations. Now that the three were alone in Eichmann’s office, the Commandant awaited hearing what this Slav’s problem was.
Bandera seemed both quite intelligent and a fanatic for his cause. Tact was apparently not one of his virtues. “You’ve shown me how Germany handles Jews. Why should Ukrainians be treated this way? And why are you treating the damned Hebrews so well? When Ukraine is independent we want ours gone, not put into workshops and left with their own arms.” Bandera relaxed slightly. It seemed clear he wanted to get this out, and was relieved that the two Germans had not immediately exploded.
The Abwehr officer started to answer, but Eichmann cut in over him. “I personally despise the Jews. I’d be more comfortable exterminating them. Policy is made at a higher level. I am a loyal servant of my state and blood. I will competently execute that policy. What is in store for Ukrainians? Ask your minder. Ask Berlin. But ask yourself this. For now we are allied with Stalin. The vast bulk of your people are under his yoke. For those who can escape, how would camps like this oppress them? The Yids have work, food, and reasonable living conditions. On a day-to-day level they mostly govern themselves. When the war ends and their production is no longer needed, they will be transported to places where they are welcome. All very efficient.”
Before Bandera could reply, the Abwehr man finally got his words in. “We are arming whole Battalions of your followers. We are providing refuge to as many of yours as can escape from Stalin. How do workshops retard your cause?” The Abwehr regarded a Soviet war as inevitable, and saw Bandera as a useful tool.
“Jews are natural town dwellers. Ukrainians are a people who should farm their own land, run they own factories and mines. Not do piecework for German cartels.” Bandera feared this temporary setup would be made permanent. Being cut off from blood and soil was a major part of what made the Hebrews unnatural.
The Abwehr man had experience dealing with this man’s paranoias. “Stalin let how many of yours starve? We welcome you, but don’t have spare land to give you. How do you propose your influx, assuming you can get any real numbers past Stalin’s border guards, will earn their bread? You fear this is their fate forever. Only if Stalin is capable of keeping his word to the Reich. Is he? Is he a man of honor?”
The discussion ran in circles until well into the evening. The following day Camp Ukraine #1 was staked out, beginning the process.
0700 hours CET
7 October 1940
Café Wanda, German encampment at Bari
The café and brothel ran twenty-four-hours a day, seven days a week. That said, the peak traffic times were late night and weekends. The troops in transit were normally kept at least nominally busy during daylight hours. Military philosophy tended to treat idle soldiers as trouble waiting to happen. Inventive Feldwebels can always find excuses for work parties. That said, the café was on base – so men off duty didn’t need a leave pass. They just needed a few hours to their own time … unless their Feldwebel or Officer restricted them to company area. Reward and punishment.
By now, there was an overworked finance staff to count the take, check inventories, and similar. Wanda being Wanda, she always did her own checks on both, usually just before a light breakfast and going to sleep for the day. Her man Adolph had adopted her schedule. She was putting the cash into the safe when she yet-again asked him the obvious question. “Gunter’s a general. Gregor’s an Oberstleutnant. Are you sure you don’t mind getting stuck at Major back here in Bari?”
Adolph shot her a cynical look. “Trying to get rid of me again? I’ve had my fill of being shot at. Of sleeping under open skies in mud and ditches, riddled with lice and drinking water out of shell holes. We have our own shack. I don’t need a mansion. I need walls, a floor, windows with screens, and a mattress with you beside me; plus a couple of rooms for the kids to sleep so they aren’t underfoot. I could live the rest of my life this way with you. We have cooked meals of real food, not rations. I have you next to me when I go to sleep, not a bunch of hairy men. Between their snores and their farts … ”
Wanda was happy with the answer. She kept asking because she knew her man had been competitive with Gregor and Gunter for all the years she knew the three of them. “What about my idea with Gretchen, for a setup directly with Gunter in Africa?” The steady supply of new girls from Germany made this feasible.
Adolph pondered, as he usually did when this came up. “We never exactly told Gunter about all this. Do I fly over and explain? What if he keeps me there?” Adolph trusted his old friend Gunter, but was wary that Gunter’s exalted new rank may have gone to his head. A General? This was an age of wonders.
&nb
sp; “If we send Gretchen over with the unit’s share of the profits, he’ll work it all out. Next time you get a demand from the port authorities for warm bodies to fill out a loading, send Gretchen. Add a dozen girls and a vodka inventory, and he’s in business.”
“Add a couple of doctors. We have more than we need, and clean girls is how we sell this to the bosses.”
The conversation was then interrupted by little Oriana bringing in the manifest from a liquor delivery, to get checked in for payment. The child had proven to be an apt apprentice to Wanda. She was still too small to be a madame. That role needed physical heft as well as knowledge. But she’d learned the mechanics of the business. She was also by now an accomplished photographer. Many soldiers paid her for portrait shots to send home. Seeing business opportunities in everyday life was part of Wanda’s training curriculum. Oriana had heard more than they thought. If there was going to be a detachment of entertainment troops to rejoin her old mates from Tuscany, she was going, whether Wanda approved or not. She had snuck away to here, after all.
1500 hours local; 1400 hours CET
7 October 1940
Brigade Strauss headquarters in rear of Italian XXI Corps positions at the north end of the Alamein lines
The outdoor press conference featured a joint Propaganda Company of Germans and Italians, here to publicize the heroes of the desert battle. Major Klaus Steiner was the main object of attention. The propaganda experts found an 18-year-old field-grade hero fascinating. He wasn’t the sort of fake they would have dreamed up. He was short, looked younger than his age, and had an adolescent voice, a bit high and squeaky, with the occasional stutter or stammer. His looks were at best average. He seemed more than a bit of an everyman. Yet he was a battlefield victor in Romania, Hungary, Malta, and now in the African desert.
“Did you really offer to let any man afraid of the fighting, have a note to be released with honor?”
Klaus tried to look the questioner in the eye, but he wasn’t very good at that sort of contrived body language. He was just himself, a boy learning how to be a man. He had a dab of schooling but it did not include training in public speaking. It also meant analyzing himself, something he was new at. “Yes.” He paused trying to make combat clear to people who hadn’t been there. “We were in an advance position.” He paused again, mentally visualizing both the terrain and the map. “We’d been tasked with holding our position as long as possible.” He paused again, replaying in his mind the situation. “We’d been slowly giving ground to vastly superior forces. We were taking losses. Dead, maimed, equipment. The officers sent out by the Luftwaffe and artillery to aid us as spotters felt the position was too dangerous. They were older than I am. Experienced professionals, experts. It wasn’t my job to waste their lives, their skills. But my seniors had given me the job of maintaining this observation position for as long as possible. I judged it possible.” He gave a laugh. What a changed world where he could have an opinion worth adults taking the time to consider. “We fight out here for our nation and race. I was taught in the HJ to trust that the superiors placed over me knew what they were doing, that they would spend our blood wisely. I was going to perform my mission as long as I was physically able. I knew enough of my men would follow me. They had on Malta. So whoever felt staying to be unwise, could leave. We’d just perform the mission without them, same as if they had been killed in action.” He stopped again, hoping he had made sense at least to Gunter, if not to these high-ranking professionals from a world in Berlin he could barely comprehend existed. “It’s how battle is. All you see is your little piece.”
“So it’s about your personal glory?”
Klaus slowly shook his head. He was failing to be clear. He would have to try to find a way to be clearer, to make sense. “No one sets out to be a hero.” He still found the idea of himself as a hero laughable. “You set out to be a patriot. NL is a new service. I’ve never been through formal recruit training. Learned on the job, sort of like being an apprentice. I was schooled well in HJ and then by Brigadier Strauss. I was recruited by him during the Loyalty Parade in Berlin. That officer is a hero. I just follow behind him and try to keep learning.” He looked to Gunter hopefully, wishing he would step in and take charge.
“But aren’t you afraid? You could be killed.”
Klaus wearily shook his head. “Everyone in a war zone can be killed. You just get used to it. I can be killed standing here if a British plane drops a bomb on my head. I could get run over by a truck tomorrow. So a bit of fear, yes, but mostly it’s fear I’ll be unworthy of the positions entrusted to me. The only time I was truly terrified was in my glider over Malta. First time I’d ever had to do night navigation. Took a deep breath and just did the best I could. It worked.”
“How did you like working with the Italian Arditi?”
“Excellent lads. Brave, eager, wonderful comrades. I’ve no idea how they ended up with us instead of with their own officers.” Klaus shook his head, smiling wistfully. “War is like that. Amazing chaos. You learn to cope. Their officer found us on Malta. He was one of the heroes of the defense of Luqa. The British may had been poorly led, but they were quite brave. Kept attacking. Can’t say I think much of their officers. They seem to waste the courage of their men.”
The press questioning went on for a bit, after which Klaus posed for photos – including several with Greta. The final question for him was, what were his plans with his girl friend? “No time for personal plans. We are on campaign. When that’s over, I’ll have to see about formalizing what we have. My poor Greta is an orphan. Her family died during the Romanian campaign. But her uncles and cousins are officers in the Brigade. I think they approve of me.”
Gunter was amazed that Klaus the Clueless had performed so well. He ended the session before the lad said something shallow and teen-age. The reporters looked content, and so did their Propaganda Ministry minders. He got hit with one final question about serving in combat with women. “It just sort of happened in Romania. A local Volksdeutsche Militia had both sexes. They amalgamated with my NL unit. The entire NL is still somewhat experimental. Berlin will decide if this test case gets expanded. Ask at the Ministry.”
2000 hours Eastern Daylight Time, 7 October 1940
0200 hours CET, 8 October, 1940
Polo Grounds, Harlem, New York City
The press section perked up when Lindy deviated from his usual script. For the working press, covering touring politicians was mostly boring. With minor variations of wording, it was the same speech two or three times a day, seven days a week. The press pool was there in case the candidate was assassinated, or stripped naked to dance to the music of the spheres, or … or anything but minor wording differences on ‘the speech’. Lindy was attacking the US Navy. “The uniformed hacks and traitors Franklin Roosevelt has put in charge of our brave fighting sailors, have again chosen to sabotage the defense of our Republic! Off Hawaii during the Japanese visit, there was a mutual demonstration of naval gunnery and torpedo exercises. Our torpedoes failed completely. The Japanese demonstrated a completely new torpedo technology. It was a brilliant success against the target ships. What did our fool admirals do? They rejected the Japanese offer to license this new technology for US production. They want to waste your hard-earned tax dollars on weapons they know won’t work. We need submarines and torpedo bombers for continental defense. When Britain falls, we must be prepared to defend this hemisphere against the tyrants of Europe. We have the bravest men and the best factories. We must use those factories to equip our forces with the best weapons. The Democrat party cares nothing for defending this nation. With our ships under attack in the Western Pacific, they move ever more of our fleet to aid the British. Why? Because FDR will do in 1941 what Wilson did in 1917. Run as a peace candidate, and then manufacture a cause for war. A war we will enter unprepared, to serve the goals of British Imperialism and a cosmopolitan elite of mostly Jewish bankers. We need new admirals and a new administration, whose goals are Amer
ica First, Last, Always!”
0700 hours local; 0600 hours CET
8 October 1940
Afrika Korps Headquarters, behind Italian XXth Corps lines at the southern end of the Alamein position
It was already hot. Whoever decided to have a war here had not considered the local climate. Then again, Leutnant von Kleist-Konitz’s uncle had spent four years of the Great War in the East, then run a Freikorps there afterwards. Fighting Czarists, various types of Reds, and peasant bandits at the end. Five miserable winters before he came home in the spring of 1919. Uncle Uwe would have loved this place. No ice, no snow, no bottomless mud, no summer swamps. No freezing winds out of Siberia. A few Bedouin instead of the multiple flavors of Eastern partisans. No, even with the heat, bugs, sand and dust, Uncle Uwe would prefer here. Ernst von Kleist-Konitz would rather be fighting in France, or even the Balkans. But the war was here. He had wanted more combat, more active duty. This was what Germany had in October of 1940.
The Junker Leutnant had been working his network of family connections, trying to get a combat assignment instead of being with this absurd Militia unit. He had no wish to be either deputy Ia to some absurd half-Jew, or a spy for his distant cousin General von Manstein’s headquarters, which was what a liaison officer amounted to. All the attempts had gotten the Oberleutnant so far was an invitation for coffee with Corps Commander von Manstein. This did not look promising.
“Please be seated, Leutnant.” Ernst thought this was perhaps not so dire. Von Manstein was acting like a family friend, not an annoyed senior officer. “I thought we might save much time with a little chat.”
Ernst sat down but maintained the position of attention from his waist up. Cousin or not, this was a Corps Commander whose wishes he was attempting to evade. “Yes sir.”
