Germanica

CHAPTER 14

Lieutenant Pfister’s command now consisted of eight men and himself. Nine if you counted Schubert, who was led along by a rope tied around his waist. Pfister thought he looked like a dog that had been trained to walk upright for extended periods of time. It was a cruel comparison but war was cruel, and, if he thought too much about it, he wanted to weep.

Schubert had improved slightly. He now responded to basic orders and was able to feed and clothe himself. He was also able to take care of his personal hygiene, which was good. Not even Hummel looked forward to wiping Schubert’s ass. Hummel talked to him constantly; sometimes, Pfister thought, just to keep himself sane as their world crumbled around them. Constant artillery bombardments and their helplessness under bombing raids had sent most of his platoon either to the hospital or the grave. A couple of his men were simply “missing” and the SS had been justifiably suspicious that that they had deserted.

Having been so thoroughly shredded, the entire regiment had been withdrawn to the rear of Innsbruck and been replaced by thousands of insane anti-Stalin Russians. Neither Hummel nor Pfister had seen any turncoat Reds before, although they had heard of them. Both men thought the Russians were a scruffy, barbaric bunch. They were horrified at the thought of Red Army soldiers like them turned loose on German soil. Neither women nor property would be safe from those vandals, was their opinion. That German soldiers had committed atrocities on Polish and Russian women was unspoken.

All of them carried what they could of their equipment and supplies and left the rest. Hummel was now an infantryman. His machine gun had been bent into improbable angles in the air raid that had damaged Schubert’s mind. He had not been able to replace it. He now carried a simple bolt-action rifle and despised it. He loved the firepower and potential for devastating enemies of the Reich that his machine gun had given him. It had made him feel elite. Now he was nothing more than a humble soldier, and one with a very large pet named Schubert.

“We have orders, Sergeant,” Pfister said.

Hummel laughed sarcastically. “I’m a sergeant now?”

“Yes, and I’m a field marshal. Our orders are to retreat west along the valleys until we somehow reach an area near the capital of Germanica, some little town called Bregenz. I’ve never heard of it and it’s probably because it’s in what used to be Austria and I never gave a shit about Austria.”

Pfister pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They were German, which meant they’d be awful, but beggars can’t be choosers, they’d decided. He offered one to Hummel but not to Schuster, who was staring up at the sky.

Pfister breathed out the noxious weed. “Some days I almost envy Schuster. He is safe in his own little world.”

Hummel corrected his lieutenant. “Except when the Yanks are bombing and shelling us. Then he howls and screams and bites himself and shits himself.”

Pfister shook his head. “I’d tried to forget that part. We will travel at night, of course. It will be slow since there will be no trucks for us. Fortunately, it’s not all that far and the weather is fair. We will also hope for clouds and fog so we can move during the day and away from American planes.”

“And Bregenz is where we’ll make our last stand, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

Pfister looked around nervously to see who else might be listening. No one was near them. “According to Minister Goebbels, it is where we will turn the tide of the war and emerge victorious, which is as unlikely as me fucking Marlene Dietrich.”

Hummel laughed. It felt good. Laughter had become a rare commodity. “Perhaps Herr Goebbels will unleash another one of Hitler’s super-weapons and save all our asses.”

“With our luck, Sergeant Hummel, the Yanks will unleash super-weapons of their own.”

* * *

On July 16, 1945, the night sky over Alamogordo, New Mexico, lit up with a degree of brightness described as coming from a thousand suns. Had anyone been looking directly at it, they would have been blinded. Instead, thick and heavily coated glasses, much like those used by welders, had been issued. Even with them, everyone was told to avoid direct contact for at least the initial explosion.

The blazing light quickly dissipated and the billowing, churning mushroom cloud could be watched by the naked eye as it boiled and roared thousands of feet into the sky. It grew like a living thing, terrifying some who watched.

Hundreds of scientists and hangers-on had cowered in trenches and bunkers to await the explosion that they all feared and hoped for. They simply did not know what to expect. A minority of the scientists thought that unleashing the power of the atom would result in the destruction of the earth, that the planet would simply fall apart and all mankind and mankind’s sometimes dubious achievements would cease to exist.

Others thought that it would merely be an enormous explosion and represent a weapon that would bring Japan to the peace table. How this would occur, they weren’t quite certain. When discussed, many were appalled at the thought of such a bomb being exploded over a Japanese city, incinerating tens of thousands of civilians. That firebombing of Japanese cities had been ongoing for months and had already caused many thousands of casualties was ignored. Others felt that the Japanese deserved what they would get for starting the war in the first place.

Most, however, were convinced that it would shorten the war and bring the suicidal resistance of the Japanese to a halt. Once Japan was finished, then all of the might of the United States, nuclear or not, could be turned against the Nazis who still clung on to life in what used to be Austria and northern Italy.

The news was sent to President Truman, who was in conference with Stalin and the new British Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, in the German city of Potsdam, outside Berlin. During the conversations with Stalin, Truman hinted about the success of the test bomb, code-named Trinity. He would later recall that Stalin appeared singularly unimpressed by the news. Truman at first thought it was because he hadn’t made himself clear to Stalin or that Uncle Joe just didn’t understand enough science to comprehend that a new day had dawned in the history and progress of man. It wouldn’t be until later that Truman and others would realize that Stalin’s spies, most notably Klaus Fuchs, had been keeping him informed on the Manhattan Project’s progress and that the Soviet Union was well on its way to developing its own bomb.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Billy Hill was the first from the division’s headquarters to arrive at the site of the slaughter. A message from his friend, Sergeant Jerome Higgins, had sent him to the site. Higgins met him. His face was pale and it looked like there was vomit on his jacket.

“Right this way,” Higgins said, “and you can see what the bastards have done this time.”

A short trek through the woods took them to a clearing where three long rows of bodies had been laid out with military precision. They were facedown, dressed in rags, and their hands had been tied behind them. From the grayness of their skin, he guessed they’d been lying there for a couple of days. Birds and squirrels had been at them and most were missing their eyes and he wondered what other soft parts as well. They had all been shot in the back of the skull. At least they’d died quickly, he thought, and then wondered what had been going through their minds as the others were executed. Had one person been the executioner, in which case their wait had to have been excruciating, or had there been a number of men blowing their brains out? He decided he didn’t really want to know.

Hill started to count and Higgins interrupted him. “I’ll save you the trouble, Billy. There are two hundred and seven of them.”

“Thanks,” Hill said, again trying to hold down the bile rising in his throat. He had seen death in battle, even caused it, but this was different. This was like Dachau, only on a smaller, more intimate scale. The numbers of dead at the concentration camp were too large to comprehend. But this was different. What made it worse was that the end of the war might just be around the corner. Jesus, how much longer could the Nazis hang on?

“Hey, Sarge.”

Hill wheeled and recognized the private who had argued with him about the merits of continuing the fighting. He was pale and it looked like he had been weeping. “What do you want, Private?” Hill snapped.

“I want to let you know that I changed my mind and want to apologize for what I said earlier. The pricks who did this have to be dug out of the mud and slime where they’re hiding and killed before there can be real peace.”

Hill nodded. The private held out his hand and Hill took it. “I’m really sorry, Sarge.”

“Forget it. I made a mistake once too. I’m just thankful I can’t recall it.”

They heard another jeep pull up and a few minutes later a grim-faced Tanner emerged from the woods along with Doctor Hagerman. After appropriate greetings, Tanner and Hagerman walked down the lines of corpses. “This place is out of the way, Higgins, how did you find them?”

“The birds were a giveaway. That and the stench, of course.”

“Of course.” Tanner had been so transfixed by the site that he had scarcely noticed the smell. Now it was almost overwhelming.

“Look at how emaciated they are,” Hill said. “Either the Nazi shits are deliberately starving their slave laborers or they’re running out of food.”

“Or maybe both,” Tanner said.

“We found someone’s briefcase, sir,” said Higgins. “The Germans are so well organized that they actually listed the names of the people they’d shot.”

He held out his hand. “Let me see the list.” He had told Lena where he was going and why. Thank God she hadn’t insisted on accompanying him. He scanned it and saw no one by the name of Bobek or Bobekova. It was a small blessing.

“What do we do with the bodies?” Higgins asked.

Hill laughed. “Why not bring up a bunch of German prisoners and let them dig a whole lot of graves?”

Higgins nodded and Tanner smiled grimly. “Great, but first let’s find a bunch of correspondents who can record this.” But he wondered if they would bother, he thought. The reporters might just think that one more atrocity was small potatoes and no big deal. Sadly, they’d be right.

Higgins was puzzled. “Doc, how come they ain’t stiff? Shouldn’t they be in rigor mortis?”

“Not necessarily. Bodies get stiffened by rigor after a number of hours and then come out of it and are limp and flexible again. Their condition only proves what we already know, that they were killed a couple of days ago.”

“Any other observations?” Tanner inquired.

“I’m not a pathologist, but I’ll confirm what everyone suspects. These were slave laborers and my bet is that they came from Dachau to work on the German defenses. It’s also apparent that they have been mistreated and poorly fed, if at all. I’d make another bet that they were executed because they were too weak to work.”

Tanner nodded. “And that also confirms that the Nazis don’t have enough food to keep their slaves alive. That’s good to know. By the way, Doctor Hagerman, you’re really good at this battlefield analysis stuff. I never did ask you, but what was your medical specialty?”

Hagerman shrugged. “Pediatrics.”

Two hours later, Tanner and Hagerman arrived back at the division headquarters. Soldiers and civilians were milling around and talking loudly. Cullen ran up to the jeep. “Gentlemen, you seem to know a lot, so please answer a question.”

“Cullen, you have my permission to test both my brain and my patience.”

“Great, now what the hell is a Hiroshima?”

* * *

Josef Goebbels was pale and his hands were shaking. The news broadcast by the Americans was staggering in its implications. Could one bomb have utterly destroyed a city of more than three hundred thousand? It was impossible to comprehend. Or was it? The Reich had killed millions in the camps, so what were a few tens of thousands more?

Now he understood what Doctor Abraham and his cohorts were working on. Until now, it was nothing more than theory. Now, Abraham’s bomb had to work in order for any trace of the Third Reich to survive.

And was it so terrible that the bomb had fallen on the Japanese? They were an inferior race whose military successes had been against third-rate powers like China or an unprepared United States. No. A world with a few hundred thousand fewer Japanese and their stupid code of Bushido and worship of their emperor would be a better place.

What concerned him was the next shoe dropping. Where there was one bomb, there had to be two. Or three. Or possibly many more. The first bomb over Hiroshima had been a message. The Japanese would ultimately surrender even if it took turning the Home Islands into floating cinders. Now it was obvious that the Americans would not have to invade Japan proper, just burn it from a distance. This meant that many of the American troops being sent to Asia could be returned to Germany for a final and massive assault against the Redoubt. It could also mean that future nuclear weapons could be dropped on Bregenz or anywhere else in Germanica. The Americans had promised not to bomb near the Swiss border, but would the Yanks continue to honor that promise if it meant ending the war? He knew precisely what he would do and to hell with the Swiss.

And how many bombs could Abraham develop-one, three, or maybe none. Success had been promised and failure would bring an agonizing death, but what if success was impossible? The Americans had vast resources, while Abraham had a few dozen scientists in a cave. Had he been a fool to believe Abraham?

He now had a mission. He and Magda had once agreed to kill their six children and themselves to keep from falling into the clutches of Stalin and the Red Army. The Americans were not savages like the Russians, and he was confident that they would not harm the children. As for himself, he would hang. Magda might just live, but would likely be imprisoned for a period of time, maybe even for the rest of her life.

It was sad, but so be it. He would speak with Magda and make the necessary arrangements.

* * *

Lena and her tent-mates had gotten a little drunk after hearing the news about the American atomic bomb. One of them got her hands on a couple of cases of real beer and not the heartily despised low alcohol beer issued by the U.S. Army. They kept their find to themselves rather than risk a stampede by GIs who hated what they felt was government-issue junk. The soldier’s rationale was very simple. They were fighting Germans and risking their lives so what the hell if they got a little drunk every now and then? Even though the women weren’t directly in combat, they weren’t about to share their find.

Lena didn’t drink very often or very much and drank beer but rarely. Her preferred drink was wine. The beer was an Austrian brand and must have been in someone’s basement for years. Lena had at least three and possibly four bottles. They all had gotten giggly and it was a good feeling of release. When it was gone, they had gone to bed.

About three in the morning Lena awoke with a headache between her eyes and a bladder that was about to explode.

“Damn it,” she muttered. Her fellow sinners were all snoring and sleeping soundly. She slipped on her army pants and, over her T-shirt, a pink robe that she’d bought from a refugee for just a few pennies. She didn’t feel she’d taken advantage of the woman who was going to throw it away because she no longer had any use for it. Along with covering her when she had to go to the latrine, the pink color made her feel feminine.

She thought for a moment and decided to take the Luger. The robe had baggy pockets and she didn’t think the bulge was too obvious. Besides, even though she and the others were allegedly safe on an army base, there had been incidents where some oversexed and horny GI-was there another kind? — had attempted to assault a woman. Don’t take chances was their motto. And if they were assaulted, it was highly unlikely that the soldier would face severe punishment. The men would stick together. The soldier might lose a stripe or get his butt kicked by an NCO, but doing serious jail time was highly unlikely. It wasn’t fair, but such was life in their corner of the world.

The latrine was primitive but clean since the women took turns caring for it. She relieved herself and splashed some cold water on her face. Engineers had rigged the piping to deliver warm water, but that wasn’t what she wanted. The cooler water refreshed her just a little. She took a couple of aspirins and swore never to drink Austrian beer again, unless, of course, someone wanted to have another party. She could not help but exult in the fact that she was actually, truly free.

As she walked the short distance to the tent, she looked up and saw a million stars. She wished Tanner was there to share it with. So many times when she’d been with the Schneiders she’d done the same thing. Only then she’d been wishing for a way to escape.

She caught motion to her right. She waited and saw it again. Someone was skulking out there. She stood still and put her hand in her pocket, grabbing the pistol.

She wished she wasn’t wearing pink. She must be standing out like a neon sign.

The man suddenly decided to cross the roadway and she saw that he was carrying what looked like a German submachine gun. Luck was with her. The man hadn’t turned in her direction, but then he did and they recognized each other. It was young Hans Gruber.

“Gruber,” she hissed and pulled out the pistol.

“American whore,” he screamed and fired a burst in her direction. She threw herself on the ground and almost felt the bullets whistle over her. She fired twice at Gruber and also missed. “Help!” she screamed. “Germans!”

Gruber looked at her, fired again and missed again. He swore and disappeared. More gunfire had erupted in the distance and a siren finally started screaming. She heard an explosion. Gruber had thrown a hand grenade, but not at her. Thinking it was a bombing attack, hundreds of men and a handful of women spilled out of their tents and into slit trenches. Lena needed no prompting and found a corner of a trench. Mud quickly covered her pink robe, ruining it.

Gunfire was increasing and it seemed to be close to division headquarters. She groaned as she realized that Tanner’s quarters were near the general’s.

She recognized a couple of the men in the trench with her. “This ain’t no air raid, is it?” one commented. “By the way, Miss Lena, nice outfit.”

* * *

The sounds of gunfire had sent Hill out of his bunk and onto the earthen floor of the tent he shared with a number of other sergeants. The others were a little slower on the draw but when bullets stitched the canvas they moved with alacrity, joining him in the dirt. The bullets were joined by the sound of grenades exploding.

“What’s happening, Sarge?” asked a confused buck sergeant.

“We’re under attack, you flaming jackass. What the hell did you think was happening? Where’s your weapon? Everyone, get your goddam weapon!”

There was more scrambling as men moved to comply. Even those with a couple more stripes quickly decided he was their leader. When this was over, he would have to ask for a raise.

He sliced the canvas with a very large knife he’d won from a sailor in a poker game and led them single file out of the back of the tent. The loser had called the knife a Ka-Bar but it looked like a Bowie knife. Just about everyone had complained about having to live in tents, but there weren’t enough undamaged buildings to house them. Now it might just save their lives. Instead of having to use doorways, they could cut their way out anywhere they wished.

Hill had a dozen men, all NCOs. He had them form a defensive line and take what shelter they could find. More gunfire and screams could be heard. He began to wonder if the bullets that had struck the tent had simply been fired wildly or were even spent. He decided that it didn’t matter a helluva lot.

“People coming,” he yelled. “Hold your fire until I tell you. They might just be friendlies.”

The issue was decided when one of the approaching men stopped and hurled a grenade that exploded several feet in front of them. “Open fire,” Hill screamed. There were only four attackers and they quickly fell in a heap. The Americans continued to fire until Hill ordered them to stop. “Enough. They’re dead already.”

Hill’s little group began to approach the pile of bodies. Hill had a terrible thought. “Don’t anybody touch anything. One of them might be playing possum.”

“Screw that, Hill,” said a more senior sergeant named Baker. “I’m gonna get me a souvenir. And just remember, Hill, you don’t give me no orders.” He ran off to the bodies and started moving them around. Suddenly an arm thrust up and grabbed the sergeant by the neck, pulling him down. A couple of seconds later, the grenade the German had been holding exploded. The American sergeant was lifted into the air and dropped back down, but without his head and an arm.

“Son of a bitch,” Hill screamed and started shooting again. The others joined in and the four Germans, along with the unlucky American, were shredded.

When the killing stopped, they made another attempt to look at the corpses, or at least what was left of them. What they saw were the remains of four very young men. These were the legendary Werewolves, Hill concluded, and they didn’t look like much at all. But what kind of damage had they managed to inflict?

Elsewhere, the firing had pretty much ceased. Only sporadic and solitary gunfire was heard and no more grenades. Hill realized that Tanner was beside him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people, Captain. You might get shot.”

“You’re right. The next time the Krauts attack, I’ll announce myself. Other than the foolish and unfortunate Sergeant Baker, did you lose anybody?”

“Nobody that I’m aware of, sir. How about you?”

“There were about twenty of them, including our former guest, Hans Gruber.”

“I hope the little shit got killed.”

“No such luck. No one’s found his body.”

The wind shifted and they smelled something burning. “Aw Christ,” said Tanner. “That’s coming from General Evans’ quarters.”

As a major general, Evans was entitled to one of the few actual buildings in the division area to use as his office and headquarters and it was burning fiercely. “Did the general get out?” Tanner asked anyone. He saw Cullen and waved him over.

* * *

Major General Richard Evans had again been unable to sleep. He appreciated his staff’s concern for him and thanked them for the soft bed and the roof that didn’t leak, but it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t nod off. The war had ground down both his division and himself. He was an exhausted and underweight shell. Since arriving in Germany, the 105th had suffered more than three thousand casualties. Three thousand bright young men killed, wounded, or maimed along with several dozen missing. He didn’t think any of the missing had deserted. More likely, their mortal remains had been obliterated by a shell or buried by some explosion.

Mercifully, he didn’t know very many of them. Their names on the casualty lists jumped out at him, however, and he wondered how many relatives, friends, and lovers were mourning the dead and hoping that the wounded would recover.

Of the three thousand casualties, only two thousand had been replaced. The United States Army was suffering a manpower shortage; thus, the division was understrength as well as unmotivated. The two thousand replacements were poorly trained and indifferently motivated. Even so, many of them had become casualties. Their inexperience led too many of them to believe that they were immortal or that this was some sort of noisy and thrilling game.

He grieved for them all and once more doubted if he was cut out to be a general. How could Eisenhower or Patton or Devers send tens of thousands of men to fight each day knowing that many of them would not come back? At least his division was going to be pulled out of the line. That was the good news. The bad was that they were going to be headed to the German city of Bregenz and be part of the final assault on Germanica.

The chatter of gunfire interrupted his musings. It was close, too close. He hopped out of bed and quickly put on his trousers and boots. Now the shooting was really close and he cursed the fact that all he had to protect himself was his.45 automatic. And where the hell were his guards?

A window crashed below him. Swearing softly, he made it to the head of the stairs. He saw shadows moving. It was just one man. But was it an American or a German? The answer came quickly. The man must have sensed the motion above him. He turned and fired a burst from a submachine gun. Bullets chewed into the wall beside the general. Evans fired back. The German shot again. This time, Evans took the full strength of the bullets in his chest. He gasped and fell forward, slowly sliding down the stairs.

“General!” Evans tried to focus on the sound. It was Cullen. Good boy, he thought as a red haze started to overwhelm him. There was more shooting and he saw the German buckle and fall, his body shredded by bullets from Cullen’s Tommy gun.

He tried to say his thanks, but his body wasn’t functioning and he smelled smoke. Nothing was functioning.

* * *

Cullen’s uniform was scorched and his face was soot-blackened and burned red. “No, the general did not get out. He was shot many times by a German while he was trying to get down the stairs.

“I got the German, but then the place began to burn up and I was barely able to drag him out. In case you’re wondering, General Evans lived for a few minutes but soon was well and truly dead with a bunch of bullets in his chest. If he had any last words, I couldn’t make them out.”

The gunfire had stopped. There were, however, the sounds of people yelling for help or screaming in pain. People were giving orders and trying to get control of the situation.

Cullen borrowed a canteen and dumped some of the contents on his face. “I’d like to know just how the Nazis got through our security. My guess is that the guards were either asleep or not paying attention or were killed by the Germans. For their sake, I hope they are all dead. Letting a general get murdered will put you in the stockade for centuries.”

With a chance to catch his breath, Tanner wondered if Lena had made it to safety. The German attacking force was small; therefore, the odds were well in her favor. Good odds weren’t good enough. He needed facts.

As soon as he could he ran to where the women had their tent. It was still standing, although there were some disconcerting holes in the canvas. He was about to ask about her when she ran up, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around, and hugged him fiercely.

“I was so worried,” she said. Her voice was muffled by the fact that her mouth was against his chest.

“So was I,” he said, reveling in the fact that he could feel her breasts against him and the beat of her heart as he held her tightly. “Their attack was a bust. If they wanted to kill high-ranking officers, the only one they’ve gotten is General Evans. His death is terrible, but we will recover.”

He realized that it was a tacit admission that the late Evans had not inspired confidence. There would be new commanding general for the 105th, but who would it be and, more important, would it make a bit of difference?

* * *

Joey Ruffino had never been to the White House. Most people hadn’t. First, it would have involved a lot of money that most people didn’t have, thanks to the Great Depression. Second, by the time his good job had given him enough money to spend on the trip, wartime restrictions would not permit it to happen easily.

Thus, arranging for many thousands of his mother’s supporters to arrive in Washington at the same time and find lodgings had proven to be a monumental logistical effort. He was pleased that he and his team of volunteers had actually pulled it off. Although much a much smaller crowd then what he’d hoped, several thousand protestors had managed to make it to Washington. A tent city had sprung up across the Potomac and, while watched carefully by the Secret Service, the army, and the District of Columbia police, the protestors were left alone.

Even though it hurt his foot to walk any distance, he insisted on doing it. It was his duty and it thrilled him to honor his mother. He felt that her spirit walked beside him as he circled the White House grounds and carried the placard calling for the troops to be brought home.

He was surprised that the White House, while quite large, wasn’t larger. It was beautiful, but not truly a palace. He’d seen enough pictures in books and magazines to understand what a palace should look like. Nobility did not live in the White House, just an elected president, and now it was Harry Truman’s turn. The view was marred by the sandbag fortifications and the large numbers of heavily armed soldiers along with machine guns on the roofs of many surrounding buildings. While there was little danger at this time in the war from either German or Japanese aircraft, sabotage could not be ruled out. He’d been told that there were real fears that some crazy fanatic would steal a plane and crash it into the White House or the Capitol. This was once considered preposterous, but no longer, since the Japanese kamikaze pilots began sacrificing themselves by flying into American ships.

At ten AM, two men in dark suits exited the White House and approached Joey. He immediately knew them as FBI agents whom he’d seen on duty near the White House. They’d been formal and stern but not in a threatening manner. “Will you please come with us,” one said, “the president wants to talk with you.”

The president? “Sure,” Joey said and followed them. He expected to be taken to the Oval Office but instead went to a smaller office in the West Wing. He was told to have a seat and wait. The president would be along in just a minute.

It was two minutes before a grim Truman entered and Joey nearly fell off his chair. Truman shook his hand and told him to sit down again. Joey noted that Truman was a dapper dresser and was much shorter than he. He also noted that the new president had a strong command presence and a really firm grip.

“Young man, who was the Great Emancipator?”

“Why, Lincoln of course.”

“Yes, and can you imagine Abraham Lincoln arresting people and holding them in prisons without trial or charges?”

“I cannot, sir.”

“Can you imagine Woodrow Wilson doing that either?”

“No, sir,” answered a puzzled Joey. Where was this conversation going? “Woodrow Wilson was a man of peace.”

“Indeed he was and so was Lincoln. Yet both men arrested those who were perceived of as threats to the country and held without bail, charges or trial. Now, do you know why they did that?”

Joey was starting to realize the direction of the questions. “Because we were at war,” he said softly. He wondered if he would be allowed to leave the building.

“Precisely. Because we were fighting the Confederates in Lincoln’s time and the Germans when Wilson was president, Civil liberties were often ignored because it was deemed necessary to protect the country. Were you aware that FDR sent tens of thousands of citizens, both native-born and naturalized, to concentration camps where most of them still remain? Almost all of them are Japanese, but none have been charged with any crime, nor will they be. Do you understand where I am going?”

Joey knew a threat when he heard one and he’d begun to sweat. “If you’re suggesting that I’m a threat to the United States, that’s ridiculous. I just want to save the lives of United States soldiers. I don’t want anyone killed in prosecuting a war that’s already won. I say let the remaining few Nazis stay where they are and grow old, die, and rot in hell.”

“But what about their war crimes?”

“Sir, doesn’t the Bible say something about letting the dead bury the dead? If we can catch them we should punish them, but otherwise let God provide for their punishment. As horrible as it is, nobody can resurrect all the dead Jews.”

“Would you feel that way if the Nazis were still committing those war crimes?”

Before Joey could respond, Truman opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder containing a handful of eight-by-ten photos. “Look at these, Joey,” Truman said in a voice that was taut with anger.

Joey looked at the photos and felt ill. Long rows of dead men lay facedown on the ground. Their hands had been tied behind their backs and they’d been shot in the back of the head.

“Joey, these are slave laborers, mainly Poles and Russians that the Nazis forced to work on their fortifications in the Alps. When they were no longer necessary or got too weak to work, the Nazis, the people you would have us live and let live, murdered them in cold blood.”

“Jesus, I had no idea.”

“I didn’t think you did. These were taken about a week ago and our intelligence estimates that there are at least twenty thousand prisoners remaining in various states of declining health. If we don’t do something, they will all die. I don’t think either one of us has any problems with a couple hundred thousand Nazis starving to death, but I do feel different when it comes to innocent people. I would add that there are a few American prisoners being held in Germanica. What would you have me do with them?”

Joey could feel the force of his arguments slipping away. “What do you want me to do?” he asked in a soft voice.

“I’m under pressure to charge you with either sedition or treason. Attorney General Clark is willing to argue that your wanting our troops out of Germany is giving aid and comfort to our enemy, thus making it treason. J. Edgar Hoover wanted you picked up yesterday and locked up forever, and our previous attorney general, Francis Biddle, agreed with him. You would have spent the rest of the war plus a few decades in prison if they’d had their way.”

Joey was appalled and he began to tremble. He had no idea he could get into trouble simply for doing what he thought was right. The thought of going to prison for possibly the rest of his life horrified him.

“I am not a traitor. If I had known that the Germans were still butchering people I would not have organized this march. My mother wouldn’t have wanted it either.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Mr. President, what do you want me to do?”

Truman handed over the folder with the photos. “These are going to be officially given to the press later this afternoon. Take them now and talk to the others in the group. Let them make their own decisions. However, I think it would be a very good idea for you to literally and figuratively distance yourself from the movement and anyone radical enough to want to continue on.”

Joey took the pictures. He would show them around and tell his new comrades that he was going to bail on them. He had a wry thought. He was going to bail and not go to jail. God, had he gotten himself into water that was way too deep for him.

“There are reporters hanging around our camp. I’ll make sure they understand my change of heart.”

Truman stood. The interview was clearly over. They shook hands. “I knew you’d see reason when you understood what the facts were. I only met your mother for that one tragic moment, but I know she’d be proud of you.”

Joey left with his FBI guardians. Truman was relieved to have solved one crisis, if only a minor one. Now all he had to do was solve the growing problem of Stalin’s Soviet Union, which was beginning to make demands that could not be tolerated. He had to concede that poor Poland was again lost. The Red Army was on her soil and not likely to leave. The same held true for Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia. Czechoslovakia and Hungary also had new masters. Austria and Germany would be partitioned.

Japan had surrendered and millions of GIs were clamoring for what they felt was a long overdue discharge.