Germanica

CHAPTER 11

The sight of German soldiers marching down a street might not have shocked many people in Nazi-occupied Europe, but this was Arbon, Switzerland, not Poland or what had been Vichy France.

Ernie had been told to sit tight in Arbon, do nothing to aggravate anyone, especially the Nazis so close across the border, and observe. This morning he was sitting with Winnie and enjoying a coffee. She had just returned from another junket to Bern where she had met with Allen Dulles. He knew better than to ask why. Someday, he thought wryly, he’d have secrets to hold tightly as well.

She had also given up wearing her fat outfit, at least for this day, and was stylishly dressed in very modern slacks and a jacket, and Ernie greatly appreciated the fact. It was she who first saw the column of soldiers approaching.

“Ernie, look. Are they Swiss? They don’t quite look Swiss.”

Ernie turned and saw the coal-scuttle helmets. He tried to remember if the Swiss wore them as well. After a moment, it didn’t matter as the swastikas on the sides of their helmets became obvious. All he and Winnie could do was sit and stare in disbelief as the column marched by. The residents of Arbon were just as shocked. A few Germans tried to look stern but most of them were clearly enjoying themselves.

“Should we follow them?” Winnie asked. Ernie nodded and they let the column lead them to the very small train station that serviced Arbon. In recent weeks, a couple of spurs had been added and these led to fields just outside of town.

Along with a number of other people, they tried to get closer to where a locomotive pulling a number of freight cars had pulled up on one of the spur lines. Swiss police and German soldiers kept them at bay. Whoever or whatever was on the train was not for public view. The two of them pushed to the front of the crowd and presented their credentials proclaiming them as accredited diplomats. The Swiss police were adamant.

“Those documents will keep you from getting arrested, but not from being detained if I feel you are disobeying my lawful instructions,” a police corporal said. When Winnie tried to say something, the policeman silenced her with a steely glance and a reminder that women in Switzerland were third-class citizens, and had not even risen to the level of second class. They could not vote and many jobs were closed to them.

“Will you stop me from taking pictures?” she asked.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said the Swiss cop, “but I suppose I can’t stop everyone.” A number of Arbon’s residents were taking their own photos of the incredible sight.

Ernie looked over the column of Germans and estimated their number at at least two hundred. “Is Switzerland being invaded?” he facetiously asked.

The policeman actually smiled. “I like to think it would take more than this to conquer my country.”

A column of trucks was heard approaching. They arrived and pulled alongside the parked train. The doors on the freight cars were opened and the soldiers began unloading crates. Ernie always carried his binoculars and used them to see what was being moved. He also tried to see if any of the Krauts at the train were the ones who’d beaten him. He looked for any senior officers. When he thought he saw one, he pointed the person out to Winnie who snapped him with her telephoto lens.

The crates appeared to be carrying canned food and nothing more suspicious. Another freight car contained reasonably fresh produce and that was thrown into trucks.

“I have a question,” Winnie asked. “Why did they make the soldiers walk here instead of letting them ride on the trucks?”

The police corporal paused for a moment and then laughed. “Because they’re Germans, that’s why. Germans always do things the difficult way.”

* * *

The meeting between Allen Dulles and Alain Burkholter, the unofficial representative of the Swiss government, took place in a house in Arbon the next day. As usual, Burkholter was urbane and poised while Dulles was clearly agitated. They had before them a number of the photographs that Winnie had taken.

“We have nothing to hide,” Burkholter said. “We said all along that we would support the Germanica government with those supplies needed to maintain their basic needs. We said that we would send them food and that is exactly what we are doing. Your photos show nothing in the way of military supplies. There were no rifles, no machine guns, no ammunition, and certainly no tanks. You would find, if we were to permit you to inspect these shipments, quantities of medical supplies as well.”

Dulles smiled. “Are you saying that you would let us inspect the shipments?”

“Absolutely not. You read too much into my comment.”

“But what if we were to somehow find that weapons and such were being shipped in? What would your government’s stance be then, Mr. Burkholter?”

Burkholter simply shrugged. “I believe that I already stated the dilemma the Swiss government finds itself in. We dare not enrage the savage animal that is just outside our door. We have only a few planes and absolutely no tanks, so we cannot give the Germans any. But if they were to forcibly demand ammunition and small arms to include antitank and antiaircraft weapons, we would be hard-pressed to deny them.”

“That and the fact that many citizens of Switzerland support the Nazis would also make it difficult to say no, wouldn’t it?”

“I won’t argue the point. By the way, if you are thinking of having your OSS people use their considerable skills at sabotage to stop or delay the shipments, please don’t. We would be exceedingly angry, especially if Swiss citizens were either killed or injured. We would protest vigorously and consider taking very harsh action against the perpetrators.”

With that and after traditional insincere pleasantries, the meeting ended. Burkholter departed by car and, after he was gone, Dulles signaled for Ernie and Winnie to join him.

Dulles lit up his pipe and puffed for a moment. It appeared to calm him. “I presume you heard everything.”

“Clear as a bell,” Ernie said. “The microphones were well placed.”

“Good. We will make a copy here and send both separately to Washington. Now, I understand you heard what he said. But did you hear what he didn’t say?”

“I don’t understand,” said a puzzled Winnie.

Dulles smiled tolerantly. He was very fond of Winnie. “Think. What are the rules of the game? What did he say about sabotage?”

Ernie understood first. “The rules are simple. Don’t hurt anybody who’s Swiss. Other than that, all options are open.”

* * *

Tanner looked at the score or so of bedraggled and filthy men huddled in a classroom of what had been a school. They weren’t particularly cold, but they were concerned about their immediate safety and their futures, which made some of them shiver. A couple of them tried to smile, signifying that they wanted to be friends despite the fact that they’d been shooting at Americans earlier this day.

“Are these today’s trickles?” he asked Cullen, who nodded solemnly. The press had taken to saying that surrendering Germans were trickling in and the term had caught on.

Cullen was not happy. Responsibility for the loss of the young Werewolf and the wounding and mutilating of his guard had fallen on him. He had been the one to assign the job of guarding Gruber to the inept Oster and it had been he who had ordered the prisoner’s handcuffs loosened. He’d actually believed Gruber’s lament that they were so tight that they hurt. He’d had his tail reamed by General Evans along with having a formal reprimand in his file. If he’d been planning on making the army a career, those opportunities had gone. Fortunately, he too wanted nothing more than to go home.

Tanner counted heads. Twenty-three former enemy soldiers were looking at him. “Are they all Germans or are there any from elsewhere in the Reich?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Are you asking me if there are any Czechs in this small mob so you can bring Lena in here, the answer is yes, there is one and I’ve already sent for her.”

Tanner felt himself flushing. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only when you speak. And, along with our one Czech, we have two Poles, a Frenchie and one lone Wop. God only knows how he wound up in Germanica, but we’ll ask him and find out. A nickel says he got lost. And are you aware that several turncoat Russians have tried to surrender? We’ve gotten messages that, if we promise not to turn them over to the Reds, they will surrender. Otherwise, they will fight to the death and take as many of us as they can with them.”

“How jolly,” Tanner said. He understood the current policy was to turn over any captured Russians to the Reds. That they would execute them was not America’s concern, he’d been told. He didn’t agree. In fact, it sickened him, but he didn’t have a voice in the matter.

The prisoners were all staring at him. They understood that their fate largely lay in his hands. They’d been told that the Americans usually respected the Geneva Convention regarding prisoners, but usually is not the same as always. There had been cases where Americans had considered prisoners a nuisance and had murdered them. This batch was terrified. The Americans could still kill them outright, or turn them back to the Nazis where they would be brutally executed, or worse, given to the Soviets even though they weren’t turncoat Russians. Rumors of the horrors of Soviet captivity were beginning to circulate. It was highly unlikely that any German soldier taken by the Reds would ever see his home again. And even if he did, he would be old and crippled and mentally broken.

Lena arrived in her almost military outfit. She could have passed for someone from the Women’s Army Corps. Tanner smiled and gestured to the man Cullen had identified as Czech. Lena took him by the arm and they walked away. Lucky Czech, thought Tanner. Lena had gained some much needed weight and it had affected her personality, which was now much more outgoing and even happy.

Tanner talked to the German POWs. They were all infantrymen and all enlisted. They looked gaunt. When asked how often they were getting fed, they’d laughed derisively. Not very often, was the response, and what food they did get was bad.

“We get to eat shit, while the fucking officers get the good stuff,” said one German sergeant named Gunther. He stopped abruptly when he realized he was talking to one of the fucking officers he’d just disparaged. What Gunther had to say, however, was typical of the responses Tanner had been getting.

Tanner laughed and told him not to worry about rank and insulting German officers. This sergeant was particularly loquacious. He said that food deliveries were irregular and that they’d received no mail since arriving near the Alps. He said that many more would surrender if they had half the opportunity, but the diehards and SS fanatics were watching the men like hawks. A number of deserters had been hanged along with men who’d simply complained about their circumstances.

“The SS are fucking monsters. There might not be too many real Gestapo agents, but there are more than enough SS and that prick, Hahn, keeps them sniffing for the slightest hint of defeatism.”

Another reference to Hahn, Tanner noted. He would really like to get his hands on that guy.

“You sound like you were a prisoner,” Tanner said.

“Pretty much.” Tanner had given the man an American cigarette and he was puffing on it with almost sexual pleasure. “But prisoners are not sent out with inadequate weapons and ammunition to get killed.”

Tanner was intrigued. “You don’t have enough ammo?”

“We were told not to waste it. Bullets don’t grow on trees, you know. The same holds with rifles, machine guns, and anything else. We do have tanks. I’ve seen some of them dug in, but what we don’t have is the fuel to run them. I could show you where a dozen Panzer IVs are dug in and immovable because their fuel tanks are practically dry. Petrol is almost nonexistent. I talked to one crew leader and he said he could go about twenty miles on what his tank has. He was told not to expect any more. Not exactly the army that raced across France and Poland, is it?”

“Do you think those tanks are still there now?”

Gunther shrugged. “They were yesterday. And I’ve never seen any Panthers or Tigers, just Panzer IVs. I guess the good tanks are all shot up and gone. Is that worth another cigarette?”

It was, and Gunther took it eagerly. “Gunther, how about their trucks? How do they get the gasoline to get whatever supplies that do get to you?”

“In many cases, they don’t use trucks. Human mules are used instead. But that won’t last long, because the fools in the SS won’t feed the slave laborers enough to keep them going. When all the slaves are either dead or too weak to work, I don’t know how the front line soldiers will get anything. Of course, the bigwigs don’t think of practical matters like that. I give it a couple of weeks before the slaves start dropping like flies.”

“Gunther, did you always feel this way?”

Gunther was in his late thirties and looked wily. “Of course not, Captain. Your American phrase is ‘bullshit,’ so I will not bullshit you. When we were running all over Europe, we had anything we wanted. We had food, liquor, women, and warm beds, and most of the women were even willing. Life was good and Hitler was our God. Then we began fighting the Russians and then you people and it all went to hell. This war is over. Germany has lost and why can’t idiots like Goebbels and Schoerner realize that? And oh yes, don’t get me started on medical supplies. We may have invented aspirin but I haven’t seen anything with the Bayer label on it in months.”

Tanner smiled in a reassuring manner. “Gunther, I am now going to get you a map of the area and you are going to pinpoint the location of those tanks. Does it bother you that they are going to get bombed and that some of the men in those soon to be burning hulls were your friends?”

Gunther’s expression was impassive. “A little, but this is war and I want to survive it. I think I deserve a bonus, don’t you?”

Tanner handed him a full pack of Chesterfields, which Gunther grabbed and stuck into a pocket after making sure that none of his erstwhile comrades could see. Tanner walked away. There was nothing more to be gotten from the prisoners. Lena met him outside the interrogation center. “Did your Czech prisoner know anything?” he asked.

“About the German Army and its local dispositions, a little. About my father, nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, but I have no plans to stop looking. I will talk to every Czech I can find. I will either find that he is dead and at peace, or I will find him alive in some slave camp and get him out.”

Her body shook and Tanner put his hands on her shoulders. She slipped against him and rested against his chest. “Sorry,” she said softly after a few seconds. He slipped his arm around her and she did not resist.

“I’m not sorry at all. If you’re hungry, we can get something to eat.”

She looked at him in surprise and backed off.

“Did I say something wrong? If I did, I’m sorry.”

She smiled at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m still not used to people being nice to me. I think I’ll get over it, and yes, you can find some place for us to eat even if it’s just another mess hall. I’ve developed a taste for Spam or even that delicious dish called shit on a shingle.”

* * *

Schafer and Sibre flew their heavily armed planes low down the valley that led to Innsbruck. Low and fast was one way to avoid the numerous antiaircraft guns that had been emplaced and were extremely well hidden. This morning, their target was a line of haystacks. Their orders were to kill those haystacks. Six other planes followed them and all were armed with semi-armor piercing rockets. To the best of their knowledge, theirs were the only P51s with rockets, although a number of P47s carried the weapons. They’d had a chance to practice with them and thought they were pretty damn good at hitting their targets.

“There,” Schafer said. The line of haystacks was coming up quickly as was flak from antiaircraft guns. The various pilots peeled off and chose their targets. Sibre fired first and a pair of rockets streaked away. One missed by a few feet, but the second hit, sending hay and debris skyward. The explosion exposed a dug-in German tank and men were running away from it even though the tank didn’t look badly damaged. A second pass and another hit. The tank blew up. Other tanks were dying as well. Napalm was dropped, turning wrecks into charnel houses. Both men later swore that they had flown so low that they could smell human flesh burning.

Their work done, they turned and headed for base. They counted noses. One P51 was smoking and the pilot would land first if he made it that far. Otherwise, he would have to jump. They teased him about having to jump like Sibre did and got an obscenity in return.

They had destroyed a number of Nazi tanks and word was that the tanks were irreplaceable. If they lost one plane it would still be a good day. If the pilot and plane got back safely, it would be a great day.

“I wonder how the intelligence guys found out about those tanks,” Sibre mused.

“Maybe a little bird told them.”

“A bird?”

Schafer couldn’t help himself. He started giggling. “Yeah, a stool pigeon.”

* * *

SS General Hahn was in a good mood. A sweep by some of his elite SS soldiers had resulted in the capture of four men who were not only planning to desert, but inciting others to desert as well. He watched as the men were interrogated. They were stubborn but they would soon break. Everyone did. Sometimes just the threat of torture would cause a man to collapse, while others had to endure some pain in order to prove to themselves and others that they’d done what they could. Hahn did not like to wait. Experience had taught him that sending currents of electricity from a car battery through prisoner’s bodies via clamps attached to very sensitive parts of their bodies generally resulted in a quick reaction. His favorite places were the nipples and the genitals of both men and women. The anus was another excellent alternative.

Two of the four men were naked and strapped to chairs. They had already lost control of their bowels and bladders and were screaming and babbling incoherently. In a very short while they would confess and implicate others. Those too would be interrogated and still others would be named. He knew that some of the prisoners would lie through their teeth to put a halt to the agony. Therefore, he had to be very judicious. As Field Marshal Schoerner had said, if soldiers keep ratting on other soldiers, soon there won’t be an army left. Hahn had thought that the field marshal was kidding, but there was a distinct message. Don’t arrest everyone.

As Hahn watched, the third man began to howl and then the fourth. It was a very nice serenade.

The would-be deserters were asked if they were ready to talk. Three of them said yes while the fourth shook his head. “More power,” Hahn ordered and the juice was turned up. The man screamed like he was on fire, which, in a way, he was. His body spasmed and then stopped. His head hung low on his chest.

“Shit,” said Hahn and signaled that the power should be cut off. A quick check proved what he’d suspected. The man had died. His heart had likely given out. Well, it had happened before and it would doubtless happen again. He had no way of knowing who could stand what level of agony before falling apart. It was a nuisance when it happened after all his good work.

He enjoyed torturing men, but he truly enjoyed making women howl in agony. Sadly, there were very few women in Germanica and none were part of the military. He hoped there would be other times.

When the remaining three men were finished spilling their guts, they would be hanged or garroted. By order of the field marshal, no bullets were to be used in executions. It was a grim reminder that their existence in the Alps was fragile.

On the positive side, the deaths of the four men meant that their food rations would not be squandered keeping traitors alive. The thought made his stomach grumble. He tried to remember the last time he had a full meal.

His aide, Captain Eppler, approached and saluted crisply. Hahn returned it and wondered if he could get the man a promotion. A general should have at least a major for an aide.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Sir, I believe a prodigal has returned.”

“And what the devil do you mean by that?”

“Sir, the young Werewolf, Private Gruber, has returned from the Americans’ clutches. He was wearing an American soldier’s uniform and carrying an American rifle. He says he’s fine but quite hungry.”

Hahn paused and then laughed hugely. “I wonder just how the hell he managed to pull off that feat. Get him fed and into a decent German uniform. I will talk with him then.”