Himmler's War

CHAPTER 15

FDR was livid. The photographs on his desk were damning beyond belief. One showed emaciated dead bodies stacked like cordwood, while another displayed the decomposing bodies of inmates hung on barbed wire, shot while trying to escape. Others were equally horrible. He glanced at them all, overwhelmed by the agony and inhumanity they showed.

As the camps near the French border were overrun, the depth of the accumulated horror was becoming apparent, and no one had yet gotten near the most terrible places of all, a series of camps near the city of Auschwitz.

“First, I want these pictures released to the troops and the American public. We must show them what we’re fighting for and what’ll happen if we lose. Above all, show these to our so-called allies, Great Britain and France. They most definitely need their spines stiffened.”

Churchill had lost a vote in Parliament, which would almost certainly require a new election. Winston might be a hero to much of the British public, but he was not well loved even by his own party. The English people were exhausted by the long and bloody war and wanted it to end. They had been fighting since 1939 and had endured bombings and catastrophic battles. As long as victory was achievable, they were on board, but the increasing German resistance was demoralizing them. It reminded so many of the stalemate of World War I. All that was needed to cause England’s collapse was the sight of trench lines snaking along the Rhine.

A growing number of people in England were clamoring for a negotiated peace, and the same clamoring was beginning to be heard from America’s citizens. So what if a Nazi stayed in power was the increasingly strident cry? Hitler was the monster responsible for the war, and Hitler was dead. Wouldn’t his successors be more reasonable? After all, wasn’t the little dictator insane? They couldn’t all be crazy, could they?

Yet how could he negotiate with the authors of these atrocities? But so many wanted him to, and they included congressional members of his own party. Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter and Treasury Secretary Rosenthal as well as a number of Jewish-Americans had screamed their anguish at what was happening to their fellow Jews. Frankfurter, a man who at first disbelieved the atrocities, now wondered if many of his faith remained alive in Europe. It was a good question.

FDR and Churchill had had a number of disagreements and Churchill was fighting the fact that Great Britain was now a bit player in the global conflict. Still, Churchill was a cut above whoever would replace him, in particular the colorless and, in FDR’s opinion spineless, socialist, Clement Atlee.

Ultra intercepts said that the Nazis were slowing or stopping the shipment of Jews to death camps, but would that truly save the remaining Jews and other concentration and death camp inmates? Or did it make sense to negotiate an end to the war that included getting the Jews and others out of the clutches of the likes of Himmler. FDR rubbed his forehead. He had a miserable headache. He had won his fourth term, and, God willing, another four years in office. But at what price? Christ, his head hurt and it felt like his heart was racing to get out of his chest. He needed a rest, but had no idea when he would get one.

Heinrich Himmler mentally worked on his list of people to be eliminated once he consolidated power and a working peace had been achieved. It was a pleasant diversion. Once he’d seen a Shakespeare play in which characters dressed as Romans decided who would live and who would die. He appreciated it now that he was in a position to do something.

Von Rundstedt headed the list. The arrogant field marshal was choice number one. He and a number of others in the military hierarchy were proclaiming themselves saviors of Germany for their efforts in slowing down the Americans and knocking Russia out of the war. For all intents and purposes, England was also no longer a factor, while France was on the verge of tearing herself in two.

Ribbentrop would go as well, although Himmler thought the fool might be allowed to retire. The same held with the aging von Papen. The navy’s Admiral Doenitz seemed loyal, but the Kriegsmarine had always followed an independent line. His case would be reviewed. Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr and the font of all military intelligence, was also considered a candidate for purging. As yet unverifiable rumors had him supporting those who would have murdered Hitler. The Gestapo was working hard to confirm those rumors. While Himmler now firmly believed the bombing that killed the Fuhrer was a tragic coincidence, he did wonder just when the plotters would have made their move. Canaris would be carefully watched.

And what to do about Rommel? The former golden boy from North Africa was still recovering from his wounds. Rommel had served as commander of Hitler’s bodyguard and had appeared to worship him. However, there were rumors that his devotion had soured as defeats mounted. Rommel was a popular war hero and would not be touched as long as he behaved himself. Himmler thought it was strange that Rundstedt hadn’t actually said that he would give a command to Rommel once he was better. Perhaps their personal animosity could be put to good use.

Josepf Goebbels still served a purpose. The club-footed propaganda minister had once been very ambitious, perhaps even coveting ultimate leadership as Hitler’s heir, but the Fuhrer’s unexpected death had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he would make Goebbels an ambassador to an irrelevant country.

Himmler was greatly concerned about what was happening to his SS army. Once it had consisted of thirty-nine divisions, but now it had been mauled to less than half its strength by the Russians. It would have to be rebuilt, which should not be a difficulty. Only finding the time to do it would be a problem. He had held back two divisions from being sent to the Eastern Front and they now constituted a personal security force in Berlin.

It occurred to him that the entire regular army, the Heer, should become part of the SS instead of the arrogant and far too independent force it was now. He thought that the same should happen with the Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe. Yes, make them all swear allegiance to the Nazi Party and Germany, but in that order.

But first he had to win the damn war. Or at least not lose it.

The intensity and fury of the rioting caught Jessica by surprise. There had been many disturbances in the previous few days as the French communists fought the police and some of the French troops who had been brought into Paris to maintain order, but nothing like this day’s fighting. Other demonstrations had been fairly restrained while this one had quickly turned savage.

Several thousand communists had suddenly emerged from the side streets and taken over the area around the Arc de Triomphe, the sacred monument whose arches rose over the First World War’s tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier. Their banners and shouts proclaimed their goal to make Paris a communist-run soviet, and further said that de Gaulle was a fascist dictator. So far this was nothing new, except for the size of the crowd and the quickness with which they’d shown up. Jessica concluded that they’d been waiting in nearby buildings and alleys for a signal.

Noncommunist demonstrators showed up only a few minutes later, which led Jessica to conclude that much of this had been choreographed. These held signs that said that the communists were Moscow inspired traitors deserving of death. Within seconds, the two groups were at each other’s throats. Clubs and blackjacks cracked heads and men and women fell, screaming or unconscious, or even dead, Jessica thought grimly. She realized that she was getting used to sights like these. What had happened to the sheltered college girl, she wondered.

Whistles and sirens screamed as the police made a belated entry. Again, more brawling and more people were lying injured on the pavement. A horrified Jessica saw knives flashing and tear at flesh. A young man ran past where she’d taken shelter in a store doorway. The skin of his cheek hung down like a piece of bloody meat. He howled in pain as the flesh of his cheek flapped.

Jessica had merely thought to take some time off and see the Arc and the tomb. She’d seen them before, but their quiet dignity always gave her a sense of purpose. But now her goal was to stay out of the fighting. Regular army troops began arriving by truck and forming into battle lines. They had rifles and bayonets. The communist rioters were badly outnumbered and outgunned. It would all end in a few minutes.

The communists fired first. They had pistols or small submachine guns hidden in their coats and they shot into the advancing soldiers and police or the de Gaulle supporters. More scores of people fell to the ground, lifeless or writhing. Blood poured from hundreds of wounds.

Jessica had thrown herself on her belly and was watching the slaughter. It was ghoulishly fascinating, horrifying. She couldn’t turn away. The soldiers, enraged, opened fire and dropped a large number of the communists into bloody heaps. The communists broke and ran in a score of different directions while the police and soldiers chased them. A young French army private ran up to her and pointed his rifle at her. His face was contorted with anger. Some of his friends had just been killed or wounded and he wanted revenge. He saw her Red Cross uniform and nodded grimly, then he laughed and trotted away.

What was so funny, she thought? Then she realized that her skirt was up at her waist and she’d just given the soldier a look at her long legs and her panties. She got up, dusted herself off and looked around. Ambulances were already carting away the injured, while trucks took away the dead, and there were many of both, perhaps hundreds.

Women had come out from the alleys and were screaming at the soldiers, calling them murderers. It didn’t matter that the rioters had opened fire first, the soldiers were the killers. Jessica realized that the whole massacre had indeed been staged. It didn’t matter who’d fired first or who was right or wrong. The dead and injured communists had just become martyrs. France, she decided, was going to hell.

She also decided she would begin wearing slacks.

The sight of long columns of refugees coming east from the Rhineland delighted Victor Mastny and his two fellow slaves. It was good to see the supermen and women from Germany looking so bedraggled and forlorn. Even better, their presence was an opportunity for Victor to advance himself financially and have some measure of revenge on the people who’d caused him so much misery.

The two Latvians were a little slow to agree with him, but he bullied and threatened them into following his orders. He didn’t think they’d protested overlong. The idea of striking back at their tormentors was just too pleasant.

The first couple of raids had been quite simple. Rush in during the middle of the night, take something they’d spotted as valuable, and rush out under the cover of darkness before either resistance or a chase could get organized. They’d gotten some loot, but nothing of real value. Mastny didn’t care that little money, jewelry, or watches had made it into their pockets. As far as he was concerned, these were practice runs. He was convinced that something major would turn up and he wanted to be ready.

Mastny had the feeling that many of the refugees were so confused and bewildered by the turn of events that had destroyed their nice little German lives, that they were psychologically incapable of defending themselves. Also, most of the refugees were women, children, and older men. The army had taken all the young men and even many of the older ones. The long and bedraggled columns of pathetic people were indeed quite helpless.

It was the middle of the night and the three slave laborers were a couple of miles from the Mullers’ farm, and there were several score refugees sleeping alongside the road. Many were huddled together for warmth as the nights got progressively colder. Mastny wondered just where they intended to go and how they would be housed once they got to their destinations. He concluded that he didn’t care. Some of them, he noted, had moved a ways off the road. Perhaps losing your home, your status, and your possessions makes you antisocial, he thought.

One particular little group of neat little Germans had moved well into a stand of trees and had set up blankets for privacy. An older woman had actually dug a trench for a latrine, and a small fire burned. Victor didn’t think burning a fire in a forest was a bright idea and concluded that these Germans must be city dwellers. The group consisted of two older men along with three women. One of the women was also old, but there was a younger one in her mid-twenties and a girl about twelve. Now Mastny thought he would really take revenge as well as initiating his companions into his world.

They reached the sleeping refugees at three in the morning. There would be plenty of time for them to do what they wanted and return to the barn before dawn. The ground was hard and no snow had fallen, which meant they would leave no tracks. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for others to follow them. The three men carried clubs and homemade knives made from scrap metal. They hadn’t yet gotten their hands on any guns. They wore caps and their faces were blackened with soot.

The Germans slept soundly. At least two of them were snoring. Mastny gave the signal and they rushed in, clubs flailing. The two men and the older woman were hit and clubbed unconscious before they could even move. Victor jumped on the young woman and held a cloth to her mouth and a knife to her throat while the others grabbed the girl. The two were bound and gagged before they were even fully awake. So too were the three others, although Mastny wasn’t certain they were still alive.

“Don’t make a noise and you won’t get hurt,” he hissed at both of the women. “The others are only stunned. Cooperate and they’ll be all right. Don’t and we’ll slice their throats and then yours. Understand?” The woman and the girl nodded, their eyes wide and frantic with terror.

It was cold and the idea of sex in that kind of weather would normally have been off-putting, but it had been so long and the idea of fucking the helpless Germans was just too exquisite. They stripped the two women and enjoyed the sight of their pale bodies shaking from both cold and fright. Both of them were stout, like good German frauleins, and they writhed in terror as Victor touched them. Victor took the youngest one first, while the Latvians took the older. Then they traded places. The Latvians had been brutal with the woman. She was bleeding heavily and unconscious. Victor laughed and rolled her over on her belly. Victor had just finished taking the woman anally while the Latvians did what they wanted to the girl when a sudden scream pierced the air.

“Help! Murderers!”

The old woman had not only regained consciousness, but had slipped out of her bonds while the three men had been violating her daughters. She ran towards the road, screaming and howling.

Sounds came from other refugees and the column was stirring itself. To further complicate matters, the young girl now managed to get up and get away from the astonished Latvians with her screams adding to the din.

Shit, Victor thought. “Get their bags.” He had a thought and groped through the women’s clothing. He laughed as he found a bulge sewn into a coat. He grabbed it and other coats and ran off with the Latvians.

They did not go directly to the Mullers’ barn. Instead, they zigzagged. As far as they could see, the refugee column was awake, but no one was looking for them. When they were a mile or so away, they opened the luggage. There was money, lots of money, and not only Deutschmarks, but British pounds and even a few hundred dollars in American money. It seemed the family was hoarders and speculators who couldn’t possibly complain to anyone about losing their illegal stash. Even better, there were several items of jewelry that Victor thought were gold. More money was found in the lining of the young woman’s jacket, but these were all Deutsche Marks which would be valueless if the Nazis lost.

They threw away the luggage and the clothing and headed to the barn where they would bury their valuables. They weren’t rich, but it was a start, especially since Victor had no intention of sharing it with the stupid Latvian twins.

Colonel Whiteside grimaced as he looked at the score of officers and senior noncoms in front of him. They had a rough idea what he was going to say and weren’t terribly happy. They’d heard plenty of rumors and, if they were correct, the world according to Eisenhower had gone nuts.

“Gentlemen,” Whiteside began, “the word has come down from Eisenhower that we are to treat the Germans as a conquered nation, and not a liberated people like the French. We are not to go easy on them and we are most certainly not to fraternize with them. You will doubtless hear protests from civilians that they weren’t Nazis, or they quit when they found out what the Nazi swine were doing, or they were afraid not to be Nazis because of repercussions, but it is all bullshit. You are to disregard all protests as the lies they are and consider all Germans as the enemy.”

There was shifting as the men didn’t quite look at each other. “That means,” Whiteside continued, “that you may not do any business of any kind with a kraut. You may not buy anything with our money because it’s illegal for Germans to have American money, and you most certainly may not sell anything for kraut money with Hitler’s picture on it.”

Levin raised his hand. “How do we buy local stuff like food if we can’t pay for it, or is looting now sanctioned by Ike?”

Whiteside glared at him. “Someday, Levin, I am going to kill you. If you have to requisition something, you give the ex-Nazis a receipt.”

“Does that go for sex?” Carter asked impishly. “A lot of these hungry little ex-Nazi fraus and frauleins will happily fuck for food? Is that okay?”

Whiteside was normally a calm man, but his face was turning red. “The word for the policy is a long one, Carter, its nonfraternization. It means that not only may you not buy or sell anything, you also may not have any sexual contact with the conquered Germans, or any other social contact with them, and that includes being invited to dinner by a bunch of ancient nuns. Now, I know that a lot of kraut women will go down for food, but it is against Ike’s policy of nonfraternization and there will be punishments if someone is caught.”

Twenty heads nodded. The word “if” was the key. As with anything else, if you don’t get caught you can’t get punished. Enforcing this was going to be fun, Morgan thought.

“Any idea how long this policy is going to be in effect, and what will happen to anyone who violates it?” Jack asked.

Whiteside managed a smile. “Got anybody in mind?”

Morgan laughed along with everyone else. “Probably half the regiment. Sir, it’s common knowledge that we’re going to halt for the winter on this side of the Rhine and that there’ll be a lot of guys with a lot of time on their hands and a lot of women who’d do just about anything for a good meal, even if that includes C-rations. So what’s going to happen to the poor klutz who gets caught?”

“First off,” Whiteside answered, “we have to get to the Rhine before we can discuss a halt for the winter. As to the rest of it, I think we all recognize that we can’t totally stop three thousand horny guys from taking advantage of many thousands of willing, hungry, and maybe equally horny German women. Use your discretion when something happens. Threaten to drop them in rank, give them extra duty, and, if that doesn’t work, say you’re going to write their wives and mothers if you have to. If all else fails, tell them if they catch the clap, they won’t get penicillin and they’ll have to suffer until their dicks fall off.”

Jeb grabbed his crotch and moaned. “It hurts, it hurts.”

Whiteside shook his head. “I have no idea why anybody thinks we are winning this war. Dismissed.”

“Cigarettes will become money,” Levin said as they walked back to their tents. “Each GI gets two packs a day. Just cut down on smoking, which is probably good for you, and you can use the money to buy happiness.”

“Buy it?” Jack said.

“I believe he’s talking about a short-term rent, not even a lease.” Carter grinned. “I hear the going rate is two cigarettes for a suck and four for a genuine fuck. At twenty fags a pack, you do the math. Give up the smoking for fucking and you’ll not only live longer but you’ll be a lot happier.”

“What’s the German word for fuck?” Carter asked.

“Hitler,” Levin answered. “And the German words for sucking cock is Himmler. So you tell a kraut broad you want a Himmler and she’ll understand and start working your fly.”

Jack chuckled and shook his head. “How the hell can we make fun of this and laugh when a war is going on?”

“Do we have a choice?” Levin responded. “If we don’t laugh we’ll all go nuts. Don’t you recall something about the gods first making mad those they will destroy?”

Carter shook his head. “Levin, you are a cheerful fuck.”

“I just wonder what I can get for only one cigarette?” Jack wondered. “Probably just a titty-grab.”

Schurmer turned and waved proudly. “Ernst my friend, we are now fifty or so feet underground in what will likely be Kesselring’s Army Group B headquarters in the Rhine Wall. Unless, of course, the command lines change, in which case Monteuffel will be the first tenant,”

Varner grinned. “And not Model himself?

“No, no, we would be far too close to the front for that senior a commander.”

It was indeed impressive. Thick reinforced concrete walls, floors, and ceilings surrounded them, while bare light bulbs provided stark illumination. Numerous phone lines and radios were set up, while wires carrying electricity were attached to the walls. It was a grim and utterly functional dungeon as well as a thoroughly modern communications hub capable of supporting the efforts of a very large army. Varner felt it was also extremely claustrophobic. The walls were drab and water stained from leakage, and there was the pervading smell of moisture. Even though there were food storage areas, kitchens, and lavatories, how long could large numbers of men exist like troglodytes before they went mad?

They had to laugh, however, over a bit of Teutonic thoroughness. Restrooms had been provided for both men and women. “Just what women would ever grace this pleasure palace?” Schurmer asked.

Varner shuddered. “The hell with toilets. Other than the main entrance, how many exits are there?”

“Two main ones that branch out into three exits each. They start shortly after leaving this area. I know what you’re thinking and it’s extremely unlikely that all six widely separated exit points could be blocked by artillery or bombs. We could also exit via ladders up the ventilation shafts if necessary, and not all of those are directly above the command bunker.”

“Wonderful,” Varner said. “Given a choice I’d still rather be in a tank. At least they can move away from danger rather than waiting out a bombardment. I had enough of that in Berlin when the bombs were falling.”

They stepped into an elevator that took them to the surface and welcome winter sunshine. They breathed deeply of the fresh air. “There are a number of senior command bunkers like this and countless other bunkers for lesser commanders and literally thousands for the rank and file who will comprise the Rhine Wall’s garrison. The Yanks and the Brits are in for an unpleasant surprise.”

“My dear friend,” said Varner, “I don’t think what you’re doing will be much of a surprise. Their planes have been overhead every day and they must have countless photographs of the construction of these structures in every stage of development. Seriously, I am most pleasantly surprised and gratified that they haven’t been able to disrupt your works and stop them while in development.”

“Oh they’ve tried, Ernst, they have indeed tried. We lost many good men along with a large number of foreign prisoners, mainly French and Poles, as the Ami bombers got better at their job. Still, they were only able to delay us a little.”

“Are you impregnable?”

Schurmer snorted. “You know there’s no such thing.”

Varner laughed. “I just wanted to hear you admit it. Actually, I’m going to tell Himmler that the Rhine Wall is so strong that not even the combined forces of God and man could take it. And, should the Wall be breached, it’s all the fault of one Colonel Hans Schurmer.”

“It’s good to have friends like you,” Schurmer said, happily returning the sarcasm. “Now you can play devil’s advocate. Tell me how you would breach the wall. I’ve been so wrapped up in building the damned thing I haven’t been able to look at it objectively.”

Varner thought for a moment. “Giant blockbuster bombs like the RAF uses would cause considerable damage if they hit on or close enough to surface bunkers, but I doubt they’d do more than shake the dust in the command bunker you just showed me.”

Schurmer nodded. Blockbusters could weigh from four thousand pounds to more than eleven tons and, like the name indicated, could destroy an entire city block. However, their destructive strength had been factored into his calculations. There was only so much destructive capacity that a bomber could carry.

American artillery would be used to clear out the smaller bunkers and would ultimately cause great damage once the Americans figured out which works were real and which were dummies. Still, well-embedded and strongly constructed defenses would stand a great number of American shells.

“I would be concerned with fire,” Varner added softly. “Flamethrowers shooting down the vents would incinerate or suffocate the inhabitants by drawing out the oxygen.”

Schurmer sniffed. “That presumes the Amis would be on top of us, like we were when we took Eben Emael.”

In the early days of the war, German gliders had landed fewer than a hundred men on the top of the massive Belgium fortress of Eben Emael. They had hurled explosives into the vents and forced the almost immediate surrender of a fort that was supposed to halt the German advance for weeks.

Schurmer dropped his voice to a whisper. “And what about the bomb Heisenberg is working on?”

“Are there no secrets in the Wehrmacht?”

Schurmer laughed. “All right, rumored to be working on.”

“Since the bomb has not yet been built, much less dropped, I have no real idea what the impact will be, no pun intended. Nor does Heisenberg. However, if it is anywhere near as powerful as what the little physicist thinks, then I believe anyone in your command bunker will be in a terrible mess if the Yanks should have one of their own.”

“And we will have the bomb before the Yanks make one?”

“Hans, who the devil knows what the Yanks will have.”

Sporadic rifle and machine gun fire came from the German village. German guns had found a home in the rubble and it would be a tough nut to crack. The 74th’s artillery and armor pounded away, making dust out of the ruins.

Morgan’s air force was on the ground getting refueled from their limited supply. Word had it that V Corps was running out of gas and that future flights would be curtailed. It was frustrating. Carter had complained that the U.S. produced more oil than anyone in the world, so why couldn’t they get it to the front lines? Of course, he knew his argument was irrelevant. Cherbourg and the other Channel ports were finally working, but the massive and growing American and British Armies sucked up immense quantities of supplies that all had to be sent to France by ship. It had become irrelevant where the tankers made port. The fuel had to be off-loaded onto trains and trucks and then driven to the front lines.

“White flags!”

Several white flags could be seen in the ruins. “Cease fire,” Stoddard radioed his units, and the shooting slowly stopped. Not everyone heard the order and some didn’t want to quit when there were Germans to kill. Finally, however, a strange calm prevailed.

A man emerged carrying a sheet attached to a pole. He moved forward cautiously, fully aware that hundreds of weapons were trained on him.

“I’ll handle it,” said Levin. He walked forward a few paces and waited for the German who was clearly and professionally surveying the American men and weapons arrayed against him. Well, let him look, Levin thought. Hell, he probably already knew all about them.

The German was tall, lean and late middle-aged, and carried himself with a dignity that said he’d been in the army before. He needed a shave, wore dirty and ragged civilian clothes, and an armband said he was an officer. Volkssturm had their own ranks and Levin was unsure exactly what the man was. Regardless, he wasn’t going to salute.

“Are you surrendering?” Levin asked in German.

“Yes. I am Major Otto Kuehn and I now command this Volkssturm regiment,” the German responded in English.

Regiment? Holy shit, thought Levin. How many men were in that damned village? “Tell your men to lay down their arms and march out with their hands on their heads. I’m sure you know the routine.”

Kuehn smiled tightly. “I remember issuing the same orders to British Tommies in the early days of the last war.”

The German wheeled and returned to the village. A short while later, the ruins began to disgorge large numbers of his fellow Volkssturm. They obeyed orders and were unarmed, some were even laughing. Their hands were clasped neatly on their heads. Many were wounded, but even they managed to smile at the Americans. Their war was over and they appeared damned glad to be out of it.

“Surrender becomes you,” Levin said. “Your men seem pleased.”

Kuehn shrugged. “Better you than the Russians and better surrendering than fighting to the death for no reason whatsoever. It was the only sensible thing to do. Other than old rifles and Panzerfausts, we had nothing to fight you with. The swine who command us also forgot food and water, and medical facilities. We are here as cannon fodder to try to delay you and I will not have my men slaughtered. It may make sense militarily, but the war is over and our deaths would only delay the inevitable.”

“Good to hear,” said Morgan who had reached the two men.

The long column of German prisoners had begun to wind its way to the rear. At least none of these would be murdered. There were just too damn many of them. There really is safety in numbers, Jack thought. The farther they walked through the American lines, the more relaxed the Germans became, smiling, nodding and even trying out their English on their captors. Whiteside gave orders to collect their weapons, especially the panzerfausts. He thought they might just come in handy.

“Do other Volkssturm units feel as you do?” Jack asked the German major.

Kuehn happily lit a cigarette offered by Levin. “I would say so, although it might depend on each one’s unique situation. Most of the soldiers you are facing here on the west of the Rhine are either miserably armed Volkssturm like us or fanatic SS assholes. The regular army has pretty well departed across the river to man the Rhine Wall.”

Jack nodded. The Germans were gone? This information will go upwards real fast, he thought. “Were you a Nazi?”

Kuehn smiled. “Of course, and I still am. Did you expect me to be a lying hypocrite like so many of my countrymen have become? After the disaster of the First World War and the Weimar Republic, I thought Hitler was great man who would bring Germany back to life and her rightful place in the world. I never thought he would bring us so much death and so many murders. Had he stopped with Austria and Czechoslovakia, or even Norway and Poland, Germany and the world would be a better place.”

“And what about the Jews?” Levin asked quietly.

“I truly thought they’d be deported, not murdered.”

Was this an honest man, Morgan thought, or just another lying kraut trying to rationalize what he’d done? And did it matter? He’d just surrendered a regiment and saved a number of American lives by doing so. “And what did you do in civilian life?”

“For whatever it’s worth, I was a baker. My shop was destroyed by bombers. My family was in it at the time. My wife and two children were killed. There’s been enough killing, Captain, enough. I’ve had enough war. I surrender.”

Stoddard heard the last part and asked Levin if Kuehn thought other Volkssturm units were as disgusted as his, and whether he could get them to surrender as well.

Kuehn blinked in surprise. “I suppose I could. My God, it would save lives wouldn’t it? Yes, tell your superiors I will do my best.”