Inconsequential Nazi

by Ward Wagher

  Schloss had received a number of strange looks during his two visits to Lisbon over the previous several months. Apparently, the other Schloss had never spoken English, so his fluency was unexpected. This was another of the inconsistencies in his life that encouraged several officers to attempt a coup against him earlier in the year. Since he had been incautious enough to let the secret of his proficiency in English to slip, there was no point in hiding it now.

  The tall, blond-haired American shook Schloss’s hand. “An honor, Sir.”

  “And do you speak German, Major?” Schloss asked with a smile.

  “Just a smattering, Sir. From my grandmother. So, I am now immersing myself in the language. It is a challenge, but I enjoy it.”

  “Good, good,” Schloss said.

  “He does better than he admits,” Goering interjected. “He has surprised me how quickly he is picking up the language.”

  And, fat Hermann hates to be left out of any conversation, Schloss thought. I wonder what little surprises he will contribute to this one?

  “Is that so?” Schloss said, looking at Johnson.

  “And hello to the ambassador,” he said looking at Smoke. “Miss Simpson.”

  “Good morning, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Gordon Smoke said. “As always, it’s an honor to see you.”

  Misty Simpson nodded to Schloss. “Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “Generous of you to come out in the cold, this morning, Fraulein.”

  “This is an important meeting,” she replied. “I needed to be here.”

  Schloss took a few minutes to greet the representatives of the aircraft manufacturers. In the drawdown after the war with England, they were anxious to find projects that would keep the factories open. While Schloss was certain they were mainly concerned about profits, he did not want to throw any more workers out of their jobs then absolutely necessary.

  The Nazis had always utilized pork barrel spending to keep the working class loyal. This was something he was prepared to live with, even though he did not like it. He wondered how much money Goering had managed to siphon off the aircraft contracts over the previous ten years.

  “So, who is going to give me a tour of the aircraft?” Schloss asked, turning back to the Americans

  Carlsen replied. “I would be delighted to do so.”

  Schloss decided that anyone who worked in a B-17 Flying Fortress had to be a contortionist. The rear part of the fuselage was not too bad, except that the tail gunner had to crawl through a tunnel to get to his position. The ball turret gunner had to curl up in a fetal position to man his weapons. And this was while wearing heavily insulated garments and dragging an air hose around to breathe.

  The radio compartment was not bad. Some enterprising fellow had cut and fit a series of planks so that the Reich Chancellor could make his way through the bomb bay without falling. Then there was the twist and turn through the upper turret into the cockpit.

  “As large as the aircraft is,” Schloss commented, “it is certainly cramped inside.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Carlsen replied. “It’s a bomber and they weren’t designed for comfort. The airliner version of this plane is much roomier.”

  “I think I saw one in Lisbon,” Schloss said. “The Americans we were meeting with flew one in for a meeting.”

  “There are not very many of them,” Carlsen replied. “Boeing was focused on fulfilling the bomber contract with the Army Air Corps and did not have the capacity for more. And the airlines felt like it really did not have the range they wanted.”

  Schloss maneuvered himself into the pilot’s seat and studied the controls. “I understand the range of this aircraft is inadequate for American needs. I believe it to be suited for our needs, however.”

  Schloss was something of an airplane nut. While he had never learned to fly in his other world, he avidly read many of the aviation periodicals and was familiar with the planes. Goering, in particular, had been impressed with his ability to speak knowledgeably about the aircraft. So, after spending too much time chatting with Carlsen, he remembered that everyone else was still standing on the tarmac in the cold wind. After clambering out of the aircraft, he apologized to the people outside.

  “You must forgive me,” he said to Smoke and Simpson. “When I get a chance to be around aircraft, I lose track of time.”

  “Not a problem, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Smoke said. “We are delighted you are so impressed with our airplanes.”

  Schloss turned to Misty Simpson. “Fraulein Simpson, I am very sorry to keep you out here in the cold. I hope you will not catch anything after you got so chilled.”

  “That is not a problem, Herr Reich Chancellor,” she replied, attempting to still her chattering teeth.

  Schloss chuckled and looked at Smoke. “Herr Ambassador, please see that the Fraulein gets warmed up.”

  “Of course, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “Perhaps, Herr Reichsmarshall, we could find a room in the terminal for a short meeting,” Schloss said. “I would like to talk with the Colonel about his plan for transporting one-hundred aircraft to Germany.”

  “Of course,” Goering replied. “I will see to it immediately.”

  Goering pointed to a Luftwaffe major, who immediately trotted into the terminal. The Reichsmarshall then turned to follow, and as he swung around, he noticed the Luftwaffe airmen still standing near the aircraft. He then marched over to the sergeant.

  “I apologize for keeping you and the men standing out here in the cold. I think you can safely dismiss the men back to the barracks. I will so inform the Major.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Reichsmarshall.”

  The sergeant spun around and issued the necessary orders and the airmen marched over to the bus which brought them to the airport. Goering watched them head to the bus and then walked to the terminal. Several of Schloss’s guards trotted into the terminal to inspect the meeting room. Schloss waited until Wacha nodded.

  “Very well, Gentlemen, shall we get in from the cold?”

  There was general agreement, and the group walked quickly towards the terminal. As they headed in, Gordon Smoke and Misty Simpson walked to the embassy Buick to return to Blucher Palace. Their marine corporal driver had waited in the car, and the heater had kept it comfortably warm.

  Once in the car, Smoke looked over at Misty. “Miss Simpson, please make sure the colonel and his adjutant receive every cooperation from the embassy.”

  “Of course, Gordy,” she replied. “I shall be happy to.”

  He looked at her suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He really did not want to have to deal with the Army Air Corps personnel and had been looking for a chance to shuffle the job off to Misty. But, when dealing with Misty Simpson, he had learned to expect a knife hidden in her responses. She said nothing further, and he relaxed fractionally. It was very clear she knew what he was doing, but she didn’t complain about it, and he wondered why.

  In the small meeting room in the airport terminal, Schloss looked at the Americans.

  “I don’t have a lot of time, and I’ve already blown up my schedule for the morning. I just wanted to see what your plans were for moving one-hundred bombers to Germany.”

  Goering said nothing as he observed. He had learned not to interrupt Schloss needlessly. The colonel looked uncomfortable and turned to Major Johnson.

  “One of the items for investigation,” Major Johnson said, “is to spend some time with the Luftwaffe and determine whether it would be a good idea to send the flight crews to the United States for training and then have them fly the bombers over. Otherwise, it might be better to have American flight crews ferry the planes to Germany, and we can set up a training regimen here.”

  “That is a good question,” Schloss commented. “Hermann, have you given this any thought?”

  “My staff has been working on this, Herr Reich Chancellor. I am sure we will quickly pull a plan together.”

  In other words, you haven’t given it any thought, you fa
t tub of lard, Schloss thought. I’m glad I decided to have this conversation. This should get Hermann off the pfennig.

  “I know I should probably leave this to others,” Schloss said, “but, I am very interested in this project and will probably meddle more than I should.”

  Goering suddenly laughed. “What he is saying, is that he wants to help with the project to keep the Reichsmarshall out of trouble.”

  The American colonel and major looked uncomfortable. They did not quite know how to respond. Schloss decided to let them off the hook.

  “One of the more admirable qualities of Herr Goering is that he does not mind being the object of humor.”

  Goering laughed again. “That is correct. However, if you encounter any difficulties with my staff, you are entirely free to bring the problems to me. As well as Herr Schloss, I badly want this project to go forward smoothly.”

  Well, I have to give the porcine slob credit for retrieving that one. I just wonder how long I can continue picking up after him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  December 12, 1942; 9:00 PM

  Nevskii Prospekt

  Moscow, USSR

  Valery Sokolov was proud to serve the Soviet Union. Growing up in Moscow, his parents had made sure that he attended the schools catering to the Soviet leadership. His earliest memories were of hearing stories about Comrade Lenin and Comrade Stalin. He had served in the youth corps during his teenage years and now was a lieutenant in the Red Army.

  His enthusiasm was somewhat tempered because the army had discovered his talent as a typist. And so, he spent his days transcribing the notes made by Field Marshall Semyon Budyonny. Sokolov had not only distinguished himself for his quick, accurate typing, but also for being able to decipher the almost impenetrable notes made by the marshall.

  Despite his disappointment at not being in the field, he was satisfied with his current assignment. Budyonny liked him and treated him well. And, at an early age he had learned how the system worked. By serving his time in these menial tasks, the marshall would see to it that more exciting and important opportunities would come his way.

  Sokolov was not sure when the rot had set in, though. Perhaps it was having friends and acquaintances disappear during the nighttime visits from the NKVD. Perhaps it was the fear shown by his parents when each new purge was announced. He had no real fear for his own position, in fact, Budyonny had told him he did not need to worry. But there was that lingering fear that his father would be denounced as an enemy of the people; or, even his mother. They were both doctors and treated the party leadership. As such they were privileged. But, others from their hospital had disappeared. Sokolov, in his deepest thoughts, wondered about a system that would subject its people to such terror.

  He had a friend, Egor Katolsky, who contributed to the ferment. The lieutenant worked in the next office over, and they shared the same interests away from work. They drank vodka; they chased skirts. They often combined the two, and they were good at both. Katolsky exhibited a startling cynicism in private. While he spoke highly of Stalin, he was contemptuous of Beria, whom he described as a monster. And the private conversations slowly infected Sokolov with a deep distrust of socialism in general and the Soviet state in particular.

  “Tell me, Val, what had Marshall Budyonny’s knickers all twisted this afternoon?”

  Sokolov took another sip of his drink and looked around the room. “Ah, Comrade Stalin decreed a big increase in readiness levels. It’s like he thinks we’re going to war or something.”

  Katolsky snorted. “Who are we going to attack? The Laplanders?”

  “Ha! The marshall said little, but he mentioned we were worried about Germany.”

  “There were rumors flying around that Hitler was getting ready to attack us,” the other lieutenant said. “Then he was killed, and nothing came of it. This Schloss is a different kind of critter.”

  “All I know is what I heard, Egor. I spent the afternoon typing up orders to the field commanders to increase the training tempos. I think Marshall Budyonny decided it wasn’t a bad thing. He commented that the readiness levels were terrible. Everybody spends their off-duty time drinking and wenching.”

  Katolsky laughed aloud. “Of course, Val, that’s what we’re doing. Everyone else in the country does this too.”

  “The pickings are slim tonight,” Sokolov commented. “And the booze is substandard.”

  “No argument about that, my friend,” Katolsky replied. “We might as well call it a night. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  The two friends parted ways for the evening. Sokolov returned to the apartment where his parents lived, and he had a small room. Katolsky made his way to the military barracks. Once in his small room, he sat down and began writing everything he could remember from the evening on a notepad. He was observant, and Sokolov’s comments about the field marshal were an important datum. For him, the risk was terrifying. He had a vivid imagination and could well understand what awaited him in the dungeons of Lubyanka Prison. But he had trained himself to ignore the fear.

  After completing the report, he slid a one-time cipher from his copy of the officer’s field manual. Working quickly, he encoded the report. After reviewing his work, he tore the original into small pieces. Making his way to the latrine, he took care of business and flushed the pieces of paper into the sewer. He had been honest with his friend: tomorrow was going to be an early day, so he carefully folded the encoded message into a small square and put it in his sock. Then he went to bed. The next morning, he would pause on his way to work and sit on a bench alongside the sidewalk to tie his shoe. Placing the encoded message under the bench would be easy.

  Katolsky concluded his life was truly an adventure. That was the only way to view things without going insane from the fear.

  § § §

  December 15, 1942, 10 AM

  Reich Chancellor’s Office

  Reich Chancellery

  Berlin, Germany

  Schloss looked at the mounds of paper on his desk and despaired. In spite of his best efforts, the level of menial tasks kept increasing. Between him, Willem and Renate, they could not train new employees fast enough to handle the work. And for every new employee they found that was competent to work in the Reich Chancellor’s offices, there were three or four who either froze up at the thought of making a decision, or exhibited execrable judgment.

  At least the German bureaucracy seemed to function as it had for hundreds of years. He was not sure who originally came up with the phrase, but it was surely true: Kings and Prime Ministers come and go, but the bureaucracy is forever. Under the enlightened leadership of Heinrich Schloss, the government workers in the various ministries had succeeded in neutralizing the incompetents that the Nazi party had foisted upon them. The government seemed to be working about as well as it ever had, and Schloss was not convinced that was necessarily a good thing.

  He looked up to see Willem Kirche standing in front of his desk. The man had become adept at sneaking in unnoticed. He usually managed to startle the Reich Chancellor at least twice each day.

  “What is it, Willem?” he snapped.

  “Herr Reich Chancellor, Frau Schloss wished me to remind you about the planning for the Yuletide dinner over the New Year’s weekend.”

  “And why are you asking me about this?” Schloss asked. “Between you and my wife, we should have an entirely adequate planning staff for the event.”

  “Yes, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Kirche replied obsequiously. “A question has arisen because the Reichsmarshall has scheduled his dinner for the same evening. This requires a decision.”

  “And who scheduled this dinner on top of Goering’s party? You know I need to go to Karinhall for his dinner.”

  “I believe you did, Sir.”

  “I see that smile, Willem. Okay, so you caught me. Since you are so good at finding these problems in my calendar, I think I will assign you the job of solving the problem. I will anxiously await your return with a brilliant p
iece of improvisation.”

  The incipient smirk disappeared from the secretary’s face.

  “Will there be anything else, Willem?”

  “Not for the moment, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “Fine. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  And Schloss bent over his desk and retrieved the next piece of paper form his Urgent pile. He looked up again and Willem still stood before his desk.

  “Was there something else, Willem?”

  “The Reichsmarshall asked if you could call him when you reached a stopping point.”

  Schloss swore under his breath. Yet another inept German who couldn’t tie his shoes without asking whether it was better to do the left or the right first.

  He sighed and stood up. “Very well. Since I am well and truly interrupted, I shall visit the toilet and will take the call from the Reichsmarshall when I return.”

  “Very well, Sir,” Kirche said. “I will have the Reichsmarshall on the phone for you.”

  As he stepped into the small water closet adjacent to his office, Schloss wondered what Kirche’s game was. The secretary was unfailingly efficient and polite. And he also could instantly bring the Reich Chancellor to the boiling point with just a little effort. Schloss was honest enough to admit that he was unable to resist pushing the secretary’s buttons as well. But, there ought to be at least a modicum of respect from the people in the office. After taking care of business he returned to his desk. Kirche had refilled his coffee cup and placed a piece of Danish on the desk. As he sat down, the phone tinkled.

  “Schloss,” he said when he picked up the receiver.

  “Goering, Herr Schloss.”

  “And how may I help the defense establishment today?” he asked expansively.

  “The Americans,” Goering stated in his muddled voice.

  “And what about the Americans?” Schloss asked.

  “They are formally asking for a license to construct our new-build U-Boats in America.”