by Ward Wagher
“Damn Winston Churchill!” she shouted suddenly. “He was on his way to being the greatest prime minister of the century, if not for all time. And he threw it all away on a couple of bad decisions. His judgment was always shaky, and it appeared no one was around to nudge him in the right direction when it was critical to do so.”
Sometimes it was best to let Margaret expound upon her frustrations, Attlee thought. And he did not want to be the one to remind her that her judgment was sometimes suspect. And if she made some bad calls, the consequences would be far worse for Britain than Churchill’s faux pas.
“Your Majesty, before we bring out the clubs, allow me to have some conversations with the money behind the press. If I appeal to their patriotism, maybe we can keep things quiet.”
“In other words, it would be in their best interests to keep things quiet?”
“Exactly. There will be a quid pro quo in the future, I am sure.”
“That is something I am willing to pay,” she said. “We just need time to get Six back together again.”
“Is that even possible?”
The queen looked down at the floor and for a moment he saw an exhausted and dejected monarch, who was coming close to the end of her options. He felt a cold wind down his back and saw the United Kingdom in ruins. Everyone knew that the empire was finished. But would the homeland follow?
She thought for a while and then spoke. “Very well, Clement. You speak to Fleet Street and remind them of my forbearance. Do not explicitly threaten them, but make sure they understand that if they cannot control their people, the gloves will come off. I will really have no other choice. If they manage to drive a wedge between us and the United States, then Hell will let out for lunch.”
“I understand, Your Majesty and will do my best.”
“You must do better than that, Clement. I am frankly praying for a miracle.”
“Is the Almighty even interested in us?”
She shook her head with a sigh. “I cannot answer that question, of course. Now, allow me to slip out before anyone realizes that I have been here.”
He stood up. “Of course, Your Majesty. Might I ask how you were able to get in here?”
She grinned at him, and he saw the impish girl that in another lifetime had driven her parents and sister to distraction. But that was now another world. With that, she turned and walked out of his office, head held high.
§ § §
April 12, 1943; 8:30 AM
SS Headquarters
Berlin, Germany
Karl Rainer stared bleary-eyed into his coffee cup. He was convinced he was silly for not sleeping well, but that did not change the fact that he was not sleeping. And this did not help him to maintain a civil demeanor to the people in his office. What was the worst was the knowing smiles he caught glimpses of when people thought he wasn’t watching. He was certain the number-one topic of conversation around the headquarters was Karl Rainer and Misty Simpson. They attributed his foul temper to a lovers’ quarrel and were all the more entertained.
There was an undercurrent of nervousness as well. It was common knowledge that Stalin was very likely to attack, and nobody wanted to be at war again. While Gehlen’s string of agents in Russia was superior to anything the SS had, Karl had worked hard to develop his own information sources in that dark land. He had also succumbed to the temptation to have some of those resources keep an eye on Misty Simpson and report back to him. Being very honest with himself, he knew that if she managed to get herself into trouble in Moscow, something which approached virtual certainty in his mind, there would be not a thing anybody could do about it.
Rainer’s secretary brought in the morning intelligence digest, and Karl quickly scanned it. The thin mimeographed digest did nothing to assuage his fears. Stalin was really getting ready to do this, and he was terrified that Misty would be caught in the middle when the balloon went up. He was now convinced that Misty was not serious about the American major. He was doubly convinced he could not live without her.
As he sat at his desk and pondered his life, he was tempted to start throwing things in a fit of frustration. He had learned in the past that this did not make him feel any better, and it gave the office people something else to giggle about. He finally threw the digest down in disgust. He stood up and belted on his coat and walked quickly to the outer office.
“Yes, Herr Reichsprotektor?” his secretary asked as he scurried across the room to him.
“Have the car brought around.”
“At once, Herr Reichsprotektor. May I ask where the Reichsprotektor will be traveling?”
“I’m going to the Reich Air Ministry,” he snapped. “I need to talk to that fat barrel of lard, Goering.”
Mouths dropped open in the office. Rainer’s dislike of the Reichsmarshall was common knowledge as well, but the senior members of the government never spoke ill of one another in public. Karl Rainer was mightily peeved about something.
Without another word, Karl walked quickly out of the office, his boots clicking on the polished granite floor. By the time the elevator had taken him to the ground floor, his car had pulled out front. Two other SS cars swung in front and behind his Mercedes 770. An SS captain held the door for him as he walked toward the car to climb in.
“To the RLM,” he ordered the driver.
The parade pulled away from the curb and moved across Berlin in the early morning traffic. Karl stared straight ahead without observing the details of the route. Subconsciously he was aware his people were doing everything by the book, and that part of him was pleased. The SS was becoming efficient. They were also becoming very loyal – not just to him, but also to Heinrich Schloss.
Hermann Goering jumped to his feet as Rainer walked into his office unannounced.
“Herr Reichsprotektor, I did not know you were coming to my office.”
“I didn’t know myself until about fifteen minutes ago, Herr Goering,” Rainer said with a smile. “I had to get out of my office for a while.”
“Sit down, sit down,” the rotund marshal said. “Might I get you some coffee and pastries?”
“Some coffee would be very good,” Rainer replied, pointedly not accepting the pastries.
Everyone knew of Goering’s fondness for sweets, and Rainer was part of the plot to keep the man on his diet. Goering turned to his helpless-looking secretary.
“Don’t just stand there, Man! Get the Reichsprotektor some coffee.”
Rainer spoke without preamble. “We’re not going to be able to stop this war, are we?”
Goering frowned. “It is funny, really. In 1939 we all held our breath because of what the Führer was going to do. We weren’t ready for war and wouldn’t be for another ten years. Yet the man succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. And he was getting ready to lose everything for Germany. Now we are all terrified for what Stalin is going to do.”
“Some Englishman once said that the prospect of being hanged in a fortnight concentrated one’s mind wonderfully. I find that to be true, Hermann.”
Goering chuckled. “I have heard that saying as well, Karl. And it is very true. We are fortunate to have some very good generals like Schneller Heinz and Rommel. They have some absolutely evil plans for Stalin if his armies come across the frontier.”
“But will they succeed?” Rainer asked.
“There is another saying, from the Americans, I think. No plan survives first contact with the enemy. I think, though, that Comrade Stalin is getting ready to stick his hand into a buzz saw. Yet, Herr Schloss is very worried. And I have learned to pay attention to Herr Schloss. He has been right every single time. You have heard him, Karl. He says that war with Russia will be an existential exercise. I must believe that.”
Rainer reminded himself that for all his crude boisterousness, Goering was nobody’s fool. He and the Oberkommando were preparing for a brutal war. And that was a good thing in Karl’s thinking.
“And, if Herr Schloss turns out to have been wrong,” Go
ering continued, “Guderian has a plan to punch through the Russian lines and march directly to Moscow. He thinks our armies can get there before Stalin has an opportunity to react. It would make for a quick end to the war.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Rainer admitted. “What do you think will really happen?”
Goering sat still for about ten seconds before he spoke. “I think it is wishful thinking on Schneller Heinz’s part. I fear Herr Schloss is correct.”
“Next question,” Rainer continued. “When is this going to happen?”
“Anytime,” Goering muttered. “The fields are dry; the weather is good. If I were them, I would have attacked by now. I think their logistics are messed up. Our forces are as ready as we can make them.”
“Should we be getting our people out of Moscow?”
“That is a question for Peter, I believe. If it were me, I would have pulled them out. Maybe it would cause Stalin to pause if he realized we understood what he was doing. He has got to know we are aware of it.”
“Is he miscalculating, then?” Rainer asked.
“Stalin has always been very cagey. I think he knows exactly what he is doing. That’s another reason why I tend to believe Herr Schloss.”
“One more question, Herr Goering,” Rainer softened his voice. “How much longer have you got?”
“Excuse me, Herr Reichprotektor?”
“You are very ill, Hermann. That much I have concluded.”
The Reichsmarshall suddenly looked very old and tired. He sagged back in his chair and stared at Rainer.
“The doctors tell me I have six months if that. I would, of course, send them all packing except that I feel so ill.”
“Cancer?”
Goering nodded. “Please do not talk about this. I do not want to worry the Reich Chancellor further.”
“I think Herr Schloss already suspects you are quite ill, Hermann. But I will speak no more of this.”
“I worry about Emmy and my little Etta.” There were tears in Goering’s eyes. “I have tried to be a good husband and father. But who will watch over them?”
“Must you ask?” Rainer said. “Herr and Frau Schloss will see that they are cared for. I will do so, also. And you have hundreds of friends in the Luftwaffe for support.”
“I suppose that is true,” Goering shook his head. “Worst of all, I am letting Herr Schloss down.”
“This is no fault of yours. These things sometimes happen.”
“I have said enough,” Goering said. “Please leave me now.”
Rainer stood up. “Okay, Herr Reichsmarshall. I will say a prayer for you.”
Before Goering could respond, Rainer spun on his heal and walked quickly from the office.
CHAPTER FIFTY
April 13, 1943; 11:00 AM
Along the Reich / Soviet border
Superficially the aircraft looked like a Junkers JU-88. When it was parked on the ground, an observer might have noted the paddle-bladed propellers and the larger control surfaces. What that individual would not see was the advanced turbo-superchargers on the engines and the pressurized cabin. The airplane was a prototype or a one-off experiment in high-altitude flight.
Major Helmut Wohlke carefully managed the controls of the aircraft. At 18,000 meters, even with the larger control surfaces, the plane still wanted to skid all over the sky. He navigated an imaginary line that roughly followed the border between the Reich and Russia over what was once Poland. Along with the copilot, a photo technician was also crammed into the cabin and was tending the cameras that faced to the east into Russia.
Captain Erich Felter was in the copilot’s position today and was watching the instruments carefully.
“This thing flies like a pig, Erich,” Wohlke muttered over the intercom.
“The amazing thing is that we are flying at all,” Felter commented back.
“The air is so thin that it wouldn’t take much for us to stop flying.”
“At least no one can touch us up here,” the copilot added. “We ought to be flying deeper into Russia to see what they’re really doing. I suppose Herr Goering doesn’t want to cause an incident, though.”
“I don’t think Herr Goering is worried about that. Nobody can touch us up here. I doubt the Russians would even see us. No, Erich, the worry is that if your heroic pilot loses it, Herr Goering doesn’t want the Russians looking at the wreckage and scratching their heads.”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t want to be scattered over a hundred hectares of Russian countryside. I’m rather attached to my skin.”
“How is it going, Otto?” Wohlke called to the camera operator.
“The equipment is functioning as designed, Herr Major,” Otto Putin replied. “Of course, we cannot see the results right now. But these are good cameras and it is a very clear day.”
“Then there is the question of what do we not want to see,” Felter said.
“As always, Erich,” Wohlke replied, “your grammar leaves something to be desired.”
“That’s why I fly airplanes for a living.”
“Somehow that does not reassure me,” Wohlke groaned. “How did you ever get through flight school?”
“Right.”
Felter picked up his Leitz binoculars and scanned out the Perspex at the ground below.
“Otto, I hope those are really good cameras because I can’t see a thing down there.”
“I think you would be amazed at what my cameras can see,” the camera operator said. “I can’t see a gnat on that Russian officer’s butt, but I can see the crack very clearly.”
“You will pardon me if I don’t go around looking at officers’ butts,” Felter said, rolling his tongue around in his cheek. “The High Command frowns on that sort of thing.”
“You just have to stay outside of your chain of command,” Putin said dryly.
He laughed when Felter choked.
“Let’s pay attention to our jobs,” Wohlke warned. We have another thirty minutes up here before we can head for home.”
“Along with a refueling stop along the way,” Felter said, eyeing the gauges. “We used a lot of it climbing up here.”
“It does drink like a sailor,” Wohlke replied. “But it’s the perfect plane for this job. I just wish we didn’t have to do this.”
“Stalin must be verruckt,” Felter said sadly. “What can he be thinking? We don’t want a war with Russia. Why should he want one with us?”
“That’s the 64,000 Reichsmark question,”
“I wish we had bombers that could fly this high,” Felter pondered. “It would have been nice to fly this high over London when we were bombing the Inselaffe.”
“I don’t think we could hit anything from this altitude, Erich.”
“There is that, Major. But you have to admit the idea is attractive.”
Wohlke made a minute adjustment to the rudder and immediately had to counter it when the aircraft started to swing the other direction.
“Please keep the aircraft steady, Herr Major,” the technician called. “I do not want pictures of the sky.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Wohlke grunted as he struggled to maintain the Junkers inside the control envelope.
The engineers had told him that if he lost control, he probably wouldn’t be able to recover the airplane until they got down to about 6,000 meters. But there was also a risk that the plane would break up when it hit the heavier air. So, he tried very hard to fly smoothly and not tempt fate.
He was happy the Reich was so inventive. This aircraft was a marvelous device for getting a good look at the enemy while remaining untouchable above his interceptors. While the Russians probably knew about the Messerschmidt Swallow, he thought that they would seriously underestimate the lethality of the German jet fighter. Most fervently of all, he hoped they would never have to test those assumptions.
§ § §
April 14, 1943; 9 AM
OKW Headquarters
Berlin, Germany
> Heinz Guderian looked at the mosaic of photographs taped to the heavy paper and displayed on the big table in his meeting room. The intelligence operatives had lined up the pictures and taped them together so that they presented a complete view of the entire border in Poland between the Reich and Russia. Circles in red crayon highlighted areas given special attention.
“Explain these locations to me,” Guderian ordered.
“Each of these areas is the kasernes where they have been massing troops. Notice the long caravans leaving.”
Guderian swung the magnifier over the picture and bent over to look. “These are panzers moving out of the encampments, right?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“Do we have a count?”
“All across the front?”
Guderian straightened up and gave him an old-fashioned look. “Of course, all across the front.”
The intelligence officer visibly shivered. “The number is certainly over a thousand. Probably more. We are still analyzing the pictures.”
“Forgive me,” Guderian interrupted. “You have not had these pictures very long, either. But, can you confirm that they are moving out?”
“Correct, Herr General,” the analyst replied. “That is very clear.”
Guderian pointed to his adjutant. “Call the frontier units and put them on high alert. And ask, no, demand a meeting for me with the Reichsmarshall. I must see him this morning.”
“At once, Herr General.”
“And you have a friend in the Reich Chancellor’s office, correct?”
“That is correct Herr General.”
“Give him a call and let him know that the game is afoot. The Reichsmarshall will probably be taking me to see the Chancellor as well.”
“Of course, Herr General.”
As it happened, Goering was making an unannounced visit to the OKW headquarters that morning. Before Guderian's adjutant had moved very far towards a telephone, a lieutenant scurried in.
