by Ward Wagher
“Gasthaus Pomerania,” he told the guard, as he climbed in.
The guard relayed the instructions to the other drivers and then climbed in the front seat next to Rainer’s driver. The entourage smoothly left the curb and merged into the mid-day traffic of Berlin.
He walked into the small restaurant along with two of his guards. This was the result of careful negotiation between Rainer and his guard force. He wanted no guards disturbing the guests of a restaurant, where his people favored ejecting all of the other diners so he could enjoy his meal. They settled on two guards and retaining the other guests.
He settled into his usual table and the owner awaited his order.
“I will have the sausage with peppers and onions. And a lager.”
“Of course, Her Reichsprotektor. At once.”
Rainer leaned back with a sigh. He concluded that he made a good decision to leave the office for lunch. The SS Headquarters could be an oppressive place. This was in spite of the changes he and Schloss had made to the government. The change in venue helped him relax. Perhaps he could fortify himself to survive the rest of the day in that dungeon of an office.
The Gasthaus owner liked to personally serve the VIPs who sometimes visited his establishment. He set a large glass mug of the golden lager on the table. Rainer murmured his thanks and picked up the mug. After taking a large sip, he glanced around the restaurant. Most of the patrons knew, of course, who he was. But, most studiously worked to pay no attention to him – Germans valued their privacy. He grinned internally at the surreptitious glances that came his way when their owners thought he wouldn’t notice.
A familiar face leaped at him as he scanned the place. He set his mug down and stood up. A guard was immediately at his arm.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “I wish to greet one of the other diners.”
“Of course, Herr Reichsprotektor.”
As he walked over the other table, Misty Simpson looked up in surprise and jumped to her feet. A large, big-boned American Officer also stood up.
“Hello, Fraulein Simpson,” Rainer said. “How are you today.”
“Hello, Karl,” She said. Once again, the sound of her voice sent tingles down his back and made his knees slightly week.
“You have met Major Johnson,” she continued.
He then recognized the blond officer as one of the Army Air Corps officers who had accompanied the three B-17s to Berlin. He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly.
“Herr Major, the honor is mine.”
The Major was standing at attention. “Herr Reichsprotektor,” he replied in English, “an honor to see you again.”
“I will not disturb you further,” Rainer said, “but when I saw you here, I thought I would say hello.”
“Of course, Karl,” she said. “Thank you for coming over.”
Rainer nodded, and then spun on a heel and walked back over to his table. He wondered why he was suddenly so angry.
CHAPTER TEN
December 19, 1942; 10:00 AM
Chartwell
Westerham, Kent
United Kingdom
“You are bringing a newspaper reporter to interview me, Desmond?” Winston Churchill asked peevishly.
“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, that is exactly what I am doing,” Desmond Morton replied.
“Perhaps you should explain then.” Churchill looked at the other man. “No offense is intended, of course, Mr. Philby.”
“And none taken, Prime Minister,” Kim Philby said.
“I brought Kim along ostensibly to interview you, Sir. As you know, he is also an employee of MI6. I felt he could unofficially give you a briefing on the state of affairs in Europe generally, and Germany in particular. We will then develop an interview that he can take back to the Times. I felt that would provide cover for his presence here.”
Churchill pursed his lips in thought. “I fully appreciate the thought that went into this meeting, Gentlemen. And I will find a summary of current events on the continent very useful. On the other hand, I do not want my name appearing in the press for the time being. Considering that feelings are still running high following my dismissal, I should do well to emulate the little field mouse.”
Philby appeared amused. “The lion of the Tories is now a meek little mouse?”
“Mr. Philby, my task in this life is to protect and succor the British Empire. There are times when it is wise to maintain a low profile. As much as possible, we need to take advantage of the short memories of the body politic and the public at large.”
“Perhaps so, Sir,” Philby replied, “but I would still like very much to score an interview with you. It would greatly help my position with my editor. And I would personally find it gratifying.”
“I will make an agreement with you then,” Churchill replied. “There will be a point in the future when I will find it advantageous to talk to the Press. At that time, you shall have first refusal.”
“I could ask no more, Prime Minister.”
“I thought we might proceed quickly to the briefing, Sir,” Morton said. “I would like to catch the lunch train back to London. If people do not realize we are gone, fewer questions will be asked.”
“There is that,” Churchill agreed. “Pray, proceed, Mr. Philby.”
Philby pulled a sheaf of papers out of his satchel and handed them to Churchill. The older man looked at them curiously.
“I pulled together some summaries and photographically copied them for you, Sir. I will summarize the high points, and then leave the papers with you to peruse.”
“If someone discovers them here, will that not implicate you, Kim?” Churchill asked.
“I would ask that you burn them after you have completed studying them, Sir.”
“Very well.”
“Now, then,” Philby said, “it appears that Schloss has managed to quell the uprising in the Alsace with a minimum loss of life. The residents of Strasbourg were so disgusted with Wagner that they helped the Wehrmacht identify the partisans of the Gauleiter.”
“Very interesting,” Churchill muttered. “Who led the German Army?”
“Von Rundstedt had overall command. The field commander was Walter Model.”
“Did Six have any involvement?”
Philby shook his head. “We did not have time to insert any agents into the mix. Von Rundstedt had several divisions out of the barracks and on the road in a matter of hours.”
“And what is Stalin doing?” Churchill asked.
“Being very quiet,” Philby observed. “We have had some speculation that Schloss has designs on Russia. We do know with high confidence that Hitler was very close to kicking off an invasion of Russia when he was killed. We think Schloss may see an opportunity there.”
“I would not object to the Germans and the Russians bleeding each other dry. And what of Italy?”
“Italy is trying to rebuild its commerce. They have some promising trade links with Judaea. And, they have resumed doing business with the United States.”
Churchill scanned the report as Philby spoke. “The Vichy regime seems to have cozied up to Schloss.”
“Yes, Sir,” Philby said. “The Germans have largely left them to govern themselves, and their economy is picking up. We are seeing this in the low countries as well.”
“What about Poland?”
“The Germans and the Russians pretty well destroyed the country. It appears that both are importing their people and culture into that land. They have succeeded in stamping out most active resistance.”
Philby continued the lecture and answered Churchill’s questions. Finally, the conversation ran down.
“I suppose we can be thankful that the war is ended,” Churchill said. “But generations will pay a price for that accommodation with Germany.”
“Just so,” Morton commented. “I despair of any of those nations regaining their freedom.”
“Hitler was determined to change the map of Europe,” Churchi
ll said. “It seems Schloss wishes to continue that strategy. Very well, Mr. Philby, Desmond. I shan't keep you. You have my grateful thanks for making the journey out here with this information. I shall destroy the papers after I have studied them.”
It appeared the meeting was over and both Morton and Philby rose and left Churchill’s study. After they left, Churchill splashed a half-inch of whiskey into his glass and filled it the rest of the way with water. He then carefully trimmed a cigar and got it alight. He spent an hour in deep thought as he considered the information his friends had brought to him. He was convinced that he would eventually have an opportunity to return to power, and right the wrongs committed against conquered Europe. But it would require careful planning. Heinrich Schloss was a strategic thinker of the first order and it behooved Winston Churchill to remember that fact.
Sooner or later the two grandmasters of the game of nations would sit across the table from one-another again. When that happened, Churchill planned to sweep the board. Churchill also knew that he could not afford the same kind of errors that had removed him from power so recently. He would be very, very careful.
§ § §
December 19, 1942; 2 PM
near Stuttgart, Germany
“I tell you, I have to go to the toilet,” Robert Wagner said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the corporal said, “I have no instructions on taking care of your needs.”
“Well, you’re going to have to get instructions before I have an accident.”
The Wehrmacht corporal was unsure what to do. He had been given clear instructions to not let the gauleiter out of his sight. He was in the backseat of the auto Union military car as they made all due speed toward the Stuttgart airport. Nobody had apparently given any thought to situations like this. He remembered his sergeant telling him one time that when you don’t know what to do, it’s sometimes advisable to just think. The corporal thought for a few moments then leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
“Driver stop by the road here. The Gauleiter has to go to the toilet.”
The driver rolled his eyes and then shook his head at the actions of the corporal. As far as he was concerned, if the gauleiter chose to befoul himself, it was no skin off his nose. With a squeal of brakes, he brought the big car to a halt at the edge of the ditch.
“Okay, corporal, let the man use the ditch, and for God’s sake don’t let him get away from you.”
“Right,” he said, “all right, Herr Gauleiter, let’s get your business taken care of.”
Robert Wagner was under no illusions about what awaited him in Berlin. Although the major who arrested him explained that he would be taken to Berlin for a trial, he was sure that trial would involve spending his last hours in the basement of the SS headquarters screaming in agony. He did not consider himself a coward, but if there was a way to avoid the unpleasantness he would do so.
The corporal took his arm and led him over to the edge of the ditch and allowed him to unbutton his trousers. Wagner needed the corporal to relax just a little bit more, so he began to take care of business. He had noticed that the corporal kept the flap over his holster unbuttoned, probably to give him quick access to his pistol. This was a clear mistake on the part of the corporal and Wagner took full advantage. Quickly, and before anyone could do anything about it, he reached out and pulled the pistol out of the holster and jammed it into his mouth the corporal had just started to cry out when Wagner pulled the trigger. His body tumbled into the ditch, and even though the brains were gone it completed its business.
Walter Model had heard the saying that an army marched on its stomach. He was convinced that it actually floated on a sea of paper. He rode in the back seat of his command car further back in the procession and worked through the mountains of paper that his adjutant fed him. He was glad they had resolved the situation in the Alsace with a minimum of bloodshed, but he would again miss the action. Managing the Wehrmacht when it was in the barracks was peaceful, but it was also a little boring.
The convoy of vehicles from Strasbourg to Stuttgart moved like a caterpillar. In other words, some pieces of it would be moving while others halted and vice versa. The logistics experts of the German Army had yet to solve the problem of moving a convoy smoothly. So, Model paid no attention as his car halted once again. He continued working until he heard a single gunshot. He looked up quickly but could not see what had happened in the confusion ahead of him.
He concluded that some fool had managed to put a bullet into his foot as a result of wandering around with a cartridge in the chamber and the safety off. The other officers would deal with it and he would eventually receive a report about the incident. He was annoyed when a captain stepped up to his car and spoke.
“General, I think you should come forward,”
Model sighed in disgust and slapped the paperwork down on the seat next to him. He opened the door and stepped down to the ground while peering ahead to see what had happened. He straightened his tunic and adjusted his hat and monocle. He began to march forward, following the captain.
“Now, Captain, what seems to be the problem?”
“It’s the prisoner, Sir.”
The general was more and more frustrated with the behavior of his officers. “What about the prisoner, Captain?” he snapped.
The captain came to a halt where a group of the men was standing looking at the body lying in the ditch.
“That would be the Gauleiter, I presume?
No one said anything. He turned to the captain.
“Very well, Captain, please tell me what happened.”
“Sir, the prisoner was able to grab the corporal’s pistol and he stuck it in his own mouth. I saw it start to happen, and I didn’t have time to even shout.”
“So, I guess we can assume Herr Wagner gave some careful thought to what awaited him in Berlin,” Model said dryly. “Very well, then, get the body bagged. We’ll have to take it to Berlin. I’m sure Herr Schloss will have something to say about it.”
He shook his head as he stomped back to his car. The Reichsmarshall had given him specific instructions to bring Wagner back to Berlin alive and healthy. Goering had an evil temper whenever he was crossed. Model did not look forward to his upcoming meeting. He had been on the receiving end of a screaming disquisition from the Reichsmarshall once before and anticipated this one would be far worse. He supposed, though, he could always offer to resign. That had usually stopped the old boor in the past.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
December 20, 1942; 9 AM
Buckingham Palace
London, England
Margaret Windsor had concluded that she did not like being the Queen. While growing up under the guidance of her parents, the Duke and Duchess of York, she had been envious of the Prince of Wales. Being the next in line to the throne seemed glamorous. Her envy had only grown in 1936 when Edward VIII ascended the throne. Though she thought her world had turned upside down in December of that same year when her uncle abdicated and her father became George VI, she merely changed the focus of her envy to her sister Elizabeth, who was now the crown princess.
The death of her father and sister during the German blitz of 1940 unintentionally fulfilled her dearest wish. She was now the Queen. And she hated it. She had lost her freedom. She could no longer travel as she desired. And her minders constantly cautioned her about what she said. This usually did not stop her from saying what she thought. But, the looks of disappointment and chagrin she received afterward generated guilt. She knew that was the intention, but she felt guilty anyway.
Regardless of how she felt, Margaret had a job to do. And she intended to fulfill her role for the kingdom as well as anybody could. She had stopped an unwinnable war, and also stopped a maniac of a prime minister. Now she had to do what she could to rescue her people in Australia and New Zealand. Being honest with herself, as was her wont, she considered that the more difficult job than beating the Germans.
And now, she had to
endure her weekly meeting with Prime Minister Attlee. The man was a brilliant governmental technician, but she thought he had the personality of a wet paper bag. Although she had no regrets about sacking Churchill, the man was at least interesting.
“It appears the Alsace is quieting down, Your Majesty,” Attlee commented as he took a seat in her office.
“I suppose the Nazis shot every fourth man in Strasbourg,” Margaret replied caustically.
“Oh, no, no, no. It appears the denizens of the city pointed out those who were following the Gauleiter to the Wehrmacht.”
“That is interesting,” she commented. “I had wondered if the French would take this as an opportunity to rise up against their masters.”
Attlee scratched his head and looked up at the queen. “I do not believe the French can summon the will to fight. Oh, they are not deliriously happy, but their economy is improving, and they have bread on the table.”
“And what about our economy, Clement?”
“It is slowly recovering. As you know, the people are impatient.”
“Which comes to the first item on my agenda,” she said. “We are going to have to schedule an election. I am very uncomfortable taking a direct role in the government like this.”
“Everyone is very uncomfortable with it, Your Majesty,” he replied.
“That is exactly what I mean. I do not want to speak ill of the people, but you know they are fickle. The elections serve as a safety valve and bleed off the frustrations. My ancestors never really learned that. They repeatedly had to be taught Parliamentary Supremacy at sword’s point. I do not intend to have the historians comparing my reign with that of Bloody Mary.”
“Please, your Majesty,” Attlee held up his hands. “Things are not that serious.”
“You aren’t listening to me, Clement. You are correct. Things are not that serious. Right now. Your plans for a national health plan are popular. I believe those plans are insane. If I vetoed those plans, the people would be in the streets. No, if you are going to do this, you need a working majority in the house. And then Labour will have to take responsibility for its actions.”
