Himmler's War

CHAPTER 19

Jessica’s supervisor was a pleasant and plump woman in her forties named Turnbull. She was a formal but friendly Brit and nobody knew her first name. Maybe she didn’t have one, they joked. Another British girl said everything in England was rationed, so maybe first names were as well. They presumed she was married so they all called her Mrs. Turnbull. Turnbull neither commented nor corrected them, simply smiling contentedly.

When Jessica arrived, Mrs. Turnbull waved her into her small and tidy office. “Things are changing, Jessica, I need to ask you some questions regarding your future with us.”

Jessica tried to keep from showing her surprise. Had she done something wrong? She did not want to be sent back in disgrace especially since she couldn’t think of anything she might have done, or anyone she might have offended. Had the situation with Monique and her thieving boyfriend come to haunt her?

Turnbull continued. “Because of all the fighting in and around Paris, it’s been decided that we’re going to break up into smaller parts and get out of here. Tell me, do you have any problems dealing with Germans?”

“Not really,” she said, relieved. “I guess we all knew the time would come when we would have German refugees. I’m just a little surprised that you’re inferring that the time is now. I guess I should have realized it since we conquered the Rhineland.”

“Correct. We are moving a group of our people into the suburbs of the occupied German city of Aachen. The city itself is pretty well ruined, but I’ve been informed that there are suitable places on the outskirts and in suburbs just outside the city. We believe it is far enough from the Rhine to be safe and, incredibly enough, its being in Germany might just render it safer than France. At least we won’t have DeGaulle and the communists fighting each other to contend with.”

“Indeed,” Jessica said.

Turnbull grinned. “And you’ll be several hundred miles closer to your paramour.”

Jessica laughed. “He isn’t my paramour, at least not yet.”

“I realize this will cause some complications, so take the rest of the day off, pay your bills, and get packed. Inform your roommate, Monique, that I’ll help her get situated once you leave, and I’d like you to leave as quickly as possible. By the way, you’ll be heading up a section there, so take one of our cars. You’ll need it in Aachen.”

Jessica took the long way home, electing to visit her uncle, who was also glad she was leaving Paris and then informed her that much of SHAEF was also heading for Aachen instead of Rheims, France, as originally planned. A token office would remain in Paris to keep French honor satisfied, but again there was the irony that it was safer with former Nazi enemies than with French allies as the civil war raged. There had been no serious fighting in Paris for the past several days, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t flare up in an instant. Nor would her Red Cross uniform necessarily protect her. A number of innocent bystanders had been swept up in the fighting and several had been killed.

Tom Granville could tell her little about the progress of the war except the obvious-everything was on hold because of the winter weather. “Not exactly a military secret,” he said.

Nor could he tell her anything about FDR’s health since he didn’t know, a question everyone wanted answered. FDR was alive and apparently improving, but how healthy was he? It was becoming as obvious as the bad weather that his health problems went far beyond his contracting a simple case of the flu.

Her uncle did say that it was possible that GI’s would be given leave time. “Until then,” he said, “I don’t think we can pull that chewing out trick again to bring young Captain Morgan to you.”

Jessica was in good spirits as she arrived at the apartment. Being in charge of a group would be better than just being a clerk. She was confident she could handle the job and the fact that it would bring her closer to Jack was a legitimate bonus. The only difficulty she foresaw was telling Monique that she’d have to find a new place to stay. She hoped Mrs. Turnbull really could help her out, but, if she couldn’t, then there always was the women’s barracks.

Jessica turned the knob and entered. A hand clamped down on her mouth and she was thrown to the floor, knocking the wind out of her. Strong arms grabbed her and tied her hands behind her back, and a cloth was stuffed into her mouth. She was dragged into her bedroom and thrown onto the bed.

Jessica blinked. She thought she might have blacked out for an instant. Her chest hurt from where she’d slammed into the floor, but the pain was receding. She looked around and saw Monique looking down on her. Standing beside her was Monique’s former lover, Charley Boyle.

“You idiot,” Monique said to her. “Why did you have to come home now? Promise you won’t scream and I’ll remove the gag.”

Jessica nodded and her mouth was freed. Monique gave her a glass of water but did not untie her.

“I guess you two are back together again,” Jessica said dryly. “But what about Charley’s status with the army? He’s still a thief and a deserter, isn’t he?”

“Nothing’s changed,” Monique said, “except that I’m going with him.”

“Why?”

Monique shrugged. “Because I love him, and he takes care of me. You should also know that I’ve been his banker regarding all the things he’s taken and sold. We hid twenty thousand dollars in the attic of this building, and now the two of us will take it and disappear. That kind of money will last a long time and give us a good start on a new life.”

Charley laughed harshly. “It’s not like we have a choice. The French cops and the MP’s are looking for me along with some of my associates. Seems that some of the penicillin I sold turned out to have gone bad and now they want their money back. I didn’t know it had to be stored carefully.”

Jessica was stunned. Had bad medicine killed GI’s? She had another thought. “Monique, but what about your son?”

Charley roared. “What son? Did you ever see him? That was all made up by Monique get your sympathy. And don’t worry about my fat wife and her dumb kids back home in the States. They can go screw themselves blind for all I care.”

Jessica sadly admitted to herself that she had never seen Monique’s son. She just assumed he existed because Monique said he did.

Even Monique laughed. “I used that story to make you feel sorry for me and give me a job. I never dreamed it would work out as well as it has. Before I found you and Charley, I was a prostitute, and, yes, I did sleep with Germans. This war has provided me with a lot of opportunities and I’m taking them.”

Jessica sagged. She had been a complete fool. Monique had lied to her from the moment she first opened her mouth. But what would happen to her now? She was tied up and helpless. Where they planning to kill her? After all, she knew all about them. But did she? She had no idea where they were going and what identities they might use.

“Don’t worry,” Monique said. “We’ll leave you here, unharmed. The police probably know more about us than you do, so there’s really nothing you can tell them except the obvious, that we’ve gone away. We’ll disappear, change our names, and move on, right Charley?”

Charley grinned. She felt even more uncomfortable the way he was looking down at her. “That’s right, baby.”

Monique patted her on the cheek. “Killing you is not only unnecessary, but something neither of us wants to do. Stealing is one thing, murder another. Consider yourself lucky, though. By the way, thank you for bringing that car with the Red Cross on it. It’ll solve a lot of problems. We’ll load it up and drive off and then simply disappear. Nobody will stop a Red Cross car.”

With that she took a suitcase and left Charley to watch her. For the first time, she noticed a. 45 automatic in the back of his belt. His expression changed and he glared at her.

“Y’know, I’ve always hated people like you. Rich bitches, officer’s kids, officer’s pussy. People like you don’t even notice enlisted men, no matter how many stripes I have or how much experience I have. We’re just part of the furniture to you.”

“Not true. I’ve always respected you.”

“Bullshit. You tolerated me. You know what else I hate? Teenage lieutenants giving me orders, that’s what. Some of those young pricks are still in diapers, yet they’re in charge. Ain’t right. Used to be the army was for men, not for little kids.”

He stood over her and leered. “Here’s something to remember me by.”

He put the rag back in her mouth and then tore her blouse apart. He pulled her bra over her breasts and she whimpered from the pain.

“Not bad,” he said, fondling them as she tried to pull away.

Charley laughed and pushed her slacks down and pulled her thighs apart. His hand slid inside her panties and began pawing her, hurting her.

Monica returned and pushed him aside. “Damn you, Charley, we don’t have time for that. Take these packages and get down to that car.”

Boyle laughed and did as instructed. Monique took the gag partway from Jessica’s mouth. “You’ll be able to spit it out in a bit. Then you can scream your little heart out and someone will probably find you before dark. Either that or you can crawl out the door and someone’s bound to see you. Sorry it had to end this way, but that’s life.”

Monique disappeared out the door. Jessica lay there, working the gag. A moment later, she heard screams and the sound of popping. What now?

The door opened and an American MP entered, his gun drawn. “Oh shit,” he said on seeing her. He threw a blanket over her and checked the other room, finally holstering his weapon. He took a knife and cut her bonds.

“What is happening?” Jessica asked, anxiously as she rearranged her clothing under the blanket. Another man entered and she recognized him as Major Harmon, one of the Provost Marshal types who’d questioned her before. She heard the unique squeal of Parisian sirens coming from the street below.

“Sorry this had to happen, Miss Granville,” said Harmon, “but we we’ve been watching this place for several weeks and were about ready to rush in when we saw Boyle. But then we saw you go in and wondered what the hell was going on.”

“You thought I was part of it?” she said, clutching the blanket closer.

“Yep. Not anymore though.”

Jessica stood and took a deep breath. She made it down the stairs without help, even though she thought she knew what she would find.

Monique lay on the floor by the door. A medic was treating her for gunshot wounds in her chest and leg. Monique’s face was pale, her eyes unfocused and rolled back in her head.

Jessica felt unsteady and Major Harmon took her arm. “She actually pulled a pistol on us,” he said. “If she lives, she’ll spend a long time in a French jail, maybe forever. Not so for Boyle.”

Charley Boyle lay on his back on the sidewalk. A cloth covered his face. Blood had poured from wounds in his skull and run down the sidewalk and into the gutter.

“He could have surrendered,” said the OPMG officer. “But I guess he couldn’t abide the thought of spending the rest of his life in a federal prison. Tough.”

What a waste, she thought. Charley’s family was destroyed and Monique would spend much, if not all of her life in prison, assuming she recovered.

Harry Truman took the oath of office as Vice President in FDR’s residence in the White House on Saturday, January 20, 1945. Eleanor was present, looking even more somber and gloomy than she usually did. Fewer than a dozen dignitaries were present at the low-key event. All plans for a gala were cancelled. The public was informed that the President was too ill to attend, although he was steadily improving. After the swearing in, Truman wondered if the poor man was alive enough to be cognizant of where he was and what was happening.

Chief Justice Stone administered the oath to the four-term President. FDR did not speak. He merely nodded to questions regarding whether he would preserve and protect the Constitution. His eyes were glassy and his breath was shallow. His cheeks were sunken and his skin was gray. This is a farce, Truman thought.

On the way out of the White House, Truman was intercepted by the departing Vice President, Henry Wallace.

“Best wishes, Harry, and I hope you are better prepared to step in than I was. At least Franklin lived long enough to prevent me from becoming President, which I think was one of his goals. I don’t think he will accomplish that regarding you.”

Nor do I, Truman thought.

“By the way, Harry, I understand there’s a strategy meeting tomorrow morning at ten in the Executive Office Building. Have you been invited?”

Truman bristled. He had not. What the hell had happened to the idea that he would be informed and involved? He would see about that.

Promptly at ten the next morning, the uninvited Truman strode forcefully into the conference room. He loved the look of surprise on everyone’s faces. “What is the problem, gentlemen? Or had you forgotten I existed and, more important, that I am the Vice President who will shortly become President and commander in chief?”

Jim Byrnes responded angrily. “That’s presumptuous, Harry. Franklin’s still alive.”

“Is he?” Truman retorted. “Yesterday, a breathing corpse began his fourth term as President. He was barely present at the occasion. Was he conscious, or was somebody pulling his strings like he was a puppet? And since when did we use a Ouija Board to determine presidential responses?”

Byrnes stood and glared, his face was turning red as his Irish temper showed. “That is disgusting and I demand an apology.”

Truman returned his glare. “And I demand one for being ignored. Who the hell decided not to include me, Franklin or you people?”

Truman looked at those assembled. Along with Byrnes were Marshall, Admiral King, and the secretaries of defense and navy. No one answered, although he thought he detected quiet amusement in the eyes of the unflappable Marshall.

“Gentlemen,” Truman continued, “with the exception of me, no one in this room is elected to public office. Therefore, no one besides me is entitled to run this nation.”

“You’re forgetting that FDR still lives,” Byrnes said softly. His choler was receding.

“Once again, does he? Gentlemen, I’ll give you a most unpleasant choice. You immediately accept the fact that I am the surrogate President, or I will go to federal court tomorrow and file suit alleging that Roosevelt is mentally incompetent and unable to serve as President.”

“Justice Stone will put a stop to that,” Byrnes said, but he was clearly uneasy at the prospect. Just what would the Chief Justice really do? Chief Justice Stone was a law unto himself. Nobody knew for certain what he would decide. Besides, he thought, Truman had a point. Was FDR mentally competent or not? Why the devil was the Constitution so silent on the question of a disabled president?

“If Stone does try to stop me, I guarantee you that I will speak to the press. The Chicago Daily Tribune has always hated FDR and would be glad to assist me.” The Tribune hated Roosevelt enough to have printed military secrets and almost been prosecuted for the fact.

Byrnes looked at Truman with growing respect. “You wouldn’t dare. You would be jeopardizing the war effort.”

“If you don’t believe I’d dare, watch me. And as to the war effort, you are jeopardizing it by the coup you are pulling off, however inadvertent it might be. We are a democracy and that cannot ever be forgotten.”

General Marshall quietly but firmly injected himself into the discussion. “Vice President Truman is totally correct. We have, ah, accidentally overreached ourselves in our desire to protect the President and our country. Presidents have died in office before and doubtless will again. The country will go on regardless of what happens if and when FDR actually does pass on.”

“Then it’s conceded that his death is imminent?” Truman asked.

Byrnes shrugged. Anguish was evident on his face. “Ten minutes, ten days, ten months, Harry. Who the hell knows? And you and the general are right. You have to be here. In fact, the sooner you get totally up to speed, the better off we’ll all be. I suggest that you give us direction as if you were receiving it from Roosevelt. No one here will question it because, you’re right, it’s something we have to do.”

Truman smiled wickedly. “Does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what the hell’s going on in New Mexico?”

“Young Corporal Snyder, what the hell is this thing you’ve just shoved under my nose?” Morgan said in an attempt at humor. He knew exactly what it was. Rumors of their existence had been circulating for some time now.

Snyder was not intimidated, but kept the conversation formal. “Sir, it’s a petition. We’re trying to get everyone in the army to sign it and we’re going to collect them and send them to the White House.”

“And what do you hope will happen?”

“Pardon my French, sir, but we hope to get this fucking war over with. It’s been going on for long enough and there’s no end in sight, and there’s no reason to invade Germany if we can get them to negotiate a peace, just like they did the last time.”

“Snyder, are you aware that the last peace resulted in the next war, the one we’re fighting?”

“Which means that we have to do a better job ending this one, sir, and hopefully we’ve learned something from the past. Look, if we don’t do this, we’ll be confronting the biggest and bloodiest battle in American history and for what? Hitler is dead, and so are a lot of the Nazis who started this thing. It’s time to settle the score and move on.”

“What about the Jews in the concentration camps?” Morgan asked. “All those people are being murdered. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Sir, I hate to sound cruel or bigoted, but aren’t almost all of them dead already and won’t the rest of them die before they can be liberated? Maybe the peace negotiations can result in those who are left being sent to a neutral country. And besides, sir, how many Americans should have to die to liberate a handful of Jews?”

Morgan didn’t have an answer to Snyder’s comments because he was right. It was very likely that all the Jews in German camps would be dead long before they could be liberated. American dead versus living Jews-it was a hell of an equation.

“Are you aware that what you are doing is against military regulations?”

“Captain, there are tens of thousands of us organizing and circulating petitions and hundreds of thousands signing them. Do you really think it’s feasible for the army to punish American citizens for exercising their rights of assembly and free speech?”

Again Morgan admitted that the corporal had a point. Even though many constitutional rights were suspended in the military, they didn’t totally disappear and there was safety in numbers. As long as the signers and organizers did nothing overt, like fomenting mutiny or assaulting officers, they were fairly safe. Word had come from the top that the petitions were to be tolerated, which had outraged some of the officers and noncoms. People like Snyder might never be promoted, but that meant nothing to them. They wanted to go home. Hell, so did he.

The petitions were nothing new. They’d been circulating for a couple of months, although the arrival of Christmas seemed to have accelerated the process. Jack had to admit that Christmas for him in snowy, cold, and lonely Germany was incredibly depressing. So too was the fact that Jessica was closer but so far away.

“You know I’m not going to sign it.”

“Didn’t think you would, sir, but I had to ask. Some officers have, in case you’re curious.”

Jack grinned. “Ike?”

Snyder’s stern facade cracked. “We’re working on him, sir.”

“So what happens when you send these in, assuming the army will let you, and nothing happens. What will you do when the time comes to cross the Rhine?”

Snyder took a deep breath. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, although I have to admit it will probably happen. If we have to fight, everybody I’ve talked to says they will. Nobody’s going to let anybody else down.”

Snyder took the unsigned petition and left Morgan alone in the tent. Jack poured himself a cup of the black tar that passed for coffee in the army. The quiet revolution in the army was yet another item for concern. He sympathized with Snyder and all the others who simply wanted to go home, and he also sympathized with those like Levin who had relatives who’d disappeared into the maniacally evil beast that was Nazi Germany. The thought of the monsters who did that going unpunished and allowed to continue in charge of Germany was repugnant. Jack smiled at the thought of Snyder asking Captain Levin to sign the petition. It wouldn’t happen. Snyder wasn’t that crazy.

To further complicate matters, he’d received another letter from Jessica. She and three others had made it to Aachen where they were setting up a refugee information center. She mentioned that the military police had arrested her friend Monique and that Monique’s friend, Master Sergeant Boyle, had been killed. Reading in-between the lines, Jack had come to the conclusion that Jessica had been involved in the operation and it chilled him. Jessica should not have been in danger. What the hell was this world coming to when soldiers circulate peace petitions and women working for the Red Cross are put in danger?

How many thousand years ago was it when he played football for Michigan State and his primary concerns were wondering which hole to hit, which classes needed more study, and which coeds would go out with him?

Someday he might go back to civilian life, but neither he nor anyone else in the military would ever be the same, especially those who’d killed and seen their comrades killed or maimed.

Nor, he realized, would Jessica. Damn. The world was changing way too fast.

Carter got out of the Jeep and stared at the vast storage depot. Rows of vehicles of all kinds, tracked and wheeled, along with enormous stacks of materiel, seemed to stretch to the horizon. Out of sight but just as huge were stockpiles of gasoline, diesel and other material deemed flammable or explosive; thus requiring special storage facilities away from the other items.

Located a little more than twenty miles from the Rhine, the depot was considered out of the range of German artillery and it was protected by American fighters who maintained patrols overhead and were aided by radar that could usually pick up a German plane from far away.

The depot was surrounded by barbed wire, and grim-faced MP’s patrolled the perimeter. The depot was in occupied Germany and the army was taking no chances with saboteurs. Germany was still hostile territory. Some GI’s had taken to referring to the Rhineland Germans as Apaches and the Rhineland as a reservation.

Carter, Morgan, and the others all had to show ID and their orders at several layers of security before gaining admission to the supply depot that was more of a city than a storage facility.

And it was only one of a number of similar sites filling up with materiel in anticipation of the dreaded Rhine crossing.

“This must’ve been what it was like in England just before D-Day,” Carter said. “I heard jokes that the island almost sank under the weight of all the GI’s and supplies. Now I believe it.”

“You weren’t in England?” Jack asked.

“Nah, most of us came straight over from New Jersey, which is why we didn’t go into combat right away. They didn’t think we were ready. As it turned out, they were right.”

Morgan wondered if there were any landing craft in the depot. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean a thing. The presence of landing craft would confirm the rumor that at least part of the assault on what the krauts called the Rhine Wall would come from their area. What joy, they all thought at the prospect.

“I wonder why the Germans don’t lob their V-rockets at this site. It’s not like they could miss it,” Jeb asked.

“Why don’t you go ask them?” Morgan teased.

Actually, he thought he knew why. The rockets were terribly inaccurate and might not find the depot. Also, the warheads weren’t all that large, which meant any explosion, unless it was a direct hit on a large supply of ammo or fuel, wouldn’t accomplish all that much. And, even if they did hit something that went boom, losses could be made up fairly quickly. The United States, as the Arsenal of Democracy, was going full bore, pouring out an incredible stream of supplies. The air force was also doing a marvelous job of making life miserable for the Germans who had to manufacture and then launch the abominable rockets.

A guide in a lead Jeep turned left and they followed, passing a long line of replacement Sherman tanks. Finally, they stopped and Jeb gazed in wonder.

“Look at that,” he said. “Aren’t they just too beautiful for words?”

Jack laughed. “Tanks are not beautiful. In fact most sane people would think they’re kind of ugly.”

“Okay, asshole, so they’re not beautiful in a Betty Grable sort of way, but they are sinister and beautiful in a sexy life-saving sort of way.”

All the officers and enlisted men left their Jeeps and trucks and gazed in combinations of wonder and delight at the metal behemoths lined up to greet them.

They were all Pershing M26 tanks. A Captain Powell from the depot checked their orders and officiously confirmed everything. He was slightly overweight like most supply soldiers, which this time was not resented by the men of the 74th.

Carter patted the hull of one of the tanks and grinned. “Not quite as big or as fast as a Panther, but, damn, there’s that big, beautiful 90mm main gun that’s badder than a Panther, even a T34 if the rumors that the Germans have some are true.”

The tank also had a. 50 caliber and two. 30 caliber machine guns. It carried a crew of five and had a gas engine. Carter counted twelve of the tanks.

Carter continued to smile. “These are all ours, right?”

“Just be careful with them and don’t scratch them up,” Powell said, proving he had a sense of humor. “They don’t have to be whitewashed or otherwise camouflaged since the krauts already know they’re here. Probably every third German in the area is a spy and has seen them come in by train. After all, they are kind of hard to hide.”

Sirens went off and Powell guided them to a trench, which they entered almost casually. All over the area, soldiers were doing the same thing.

“It’s just a Jerry on a recon flight,” Powell said as he lit a cigarette. “They do that almost every day. If they would be so kind as to make it a scheduled stop, we might be able to ambush the bastard. Otherwise they’re just too damn fast.”

A Nazi jet streaked across the sky and disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. A couple of American planes appeared to give chase, but they lost ground with each passing second. No bombs were dropped.

“What is he up to?” Carter asked.

“I assume he’s taking pictures,” Jack answered before Powell could respond.

They climbed out of the trench. “There’s a school of thought,” Powell said, “that we should let them take all the pictures they want just to show them what they’re up against. However, I don’t think they’ll scare very easily.”

Morgan didn’t think so either. “So, the 74th gets twelve of these. Who gets the rest?”

Powell looked surprised. “What rest? This is it. Didn’t you know?”

“Wait,” said Carter. “You telling me that this is all the 74th gets?”

Powell laughed. “To the best of my knowledge, this is all the entire 1st Army gets. For some reason, Patton’s 3rd Army doesn’t want any, and we aren’t sharing with the frogs, of course. There will be more, but, for the time being, these are all the Pershings in Europe. Congratulations, Captains, but you are it when it comes to taking on German armor.”

Heinrich Himmler did not like to leave Berlin and the perceived safety of the Chancellery building. Even though it had been the target of Allied bombers on several occasions, luck had held and damage was still minimal. Of course, if he wished to, he could retreat to Hitler’s vast underground bunker system. Himmler had considered that option but dismissed it. The place was damp and depressing, and moving underground smacked of cowardice. He would not move there until and if it became absolutely necessary.

Himmler and a small entourage traveled at night and in his private armored train, hiding on sidings during the day. They made it safely to the outskirts of Frankfurt. The city center had been badly bombed; thus, no suitable and secure facilities were available for him. Himmler needed no further reminders that Allied bombers and fighters ruled the skies.

They left the train and traveled by car to an estate once owned by a long ago disappeared Jewish family and now run by the SS as a rest area. Tomorrow, he would take a brief drive to the Rhine Wall. Himmler didn’t want to, but Goebbels had convinced him that pictures of him with soldiers at the front would help with morale. Rundstedt added that viewing the defenses first hand would help him understand just what the military was confronting.

Himmler was very nervous and worked hard to hide it. He didn’t like being so close to the enemy. He felt that men who were very brave often wound up very dead. While he did not think of himself as a coward, he felt that his place was in Berlin, organizing and running the Third Reich and not anywhere near the front lines.

He met with von Rundstedt and his staff, along with the Luftwaffe’s Galland and Canaris the spymaster. They assembled in a dining room that could have doubled as a medieval banquet hall. Himmler thought it was far too nice for a Jew to have ever owned.

“What happened to the people who lived here?” he whispered to an aide.

“Bought their way out before the war and went to Brazil.”

Himmler smiled. They had paid dearly for their lives. Excellent. Their money had helped fund Hitler. Belatedly, Himmler had come to the realization that it would have been far better to have allowed all the Jews to buy their way out, rather than the politically messy results of the Final Solution in places like Auschwitz. Of course, many countries, including the falsely pious United States, had closed their doors to Jewish emigres. Hypocrites all, he thought.

“I would like you to see some of these photos, Reichsfuhrer,” Rundstedt said. “These were just taken by pilots flying over American lines.”

Varner handed them over. Himmler nodded briefly as he tried to identify objects on the ground. “What am I looking at?”

“A number of things,” said Rundstedt. “First, these are pictures of several incredibly vast supply depots that the Americans are building up in anticipation of the invasion of Germany. They are spread up and down the length of the Rhine, which gives us no clue as to their intended target. Still, look at the enormous number of tanks and other armored vehicles, which include a handful of a new and very large tank that we believe is their Pershing. It is designed to counter the Panther.”

Himmler sniffed. “A handful? That is hardly a threat.”

“At one point there were only a handful of their dreadful Shermans,” Rundstedt said acidly, “and now there are tens of thousands, and that will be the case with this new tank within a year from now. And I’m certain it will be better than the Sherman since the Americans almost always learn from their mistakes.”

Himmler nodded. “Then the war must be over sooner. Now, what is this?” he asked as he picked up other photos.

Varner pointed. “These are the American defenses along the Rhine. They aren’t very deep and they aren’t well hidden. They know we can do nothing about them and that we don’t have the capability to counterattack across the river.”

“Which brings us to a point, Herr Himmler,” Rundstedt said, intentionally not using his rank. “There is one important thing missing from all these photos and that is landing craft. The Americans will require hundreds of them to cross the river in force. Either they aren’t there yet, or they are very well hidden. It is also possible that the craft are still in France, or even in England and will be moved to the Rhine at the last minute.”

Himmler turned to Canaris. “Well?”

“Our sources in either country say nothing, although I will push them for more intelligence,” the admiral answered. “However, please recall that on January 9 the Americans landed in the Philippines in force. This must have required a large number of the platoon-sized landing craft called LCVI’s, many of which would have to be transported here if they are going to be used in a crossing.”

“Could they do it without those craft?” Himmler inquired.

“With great difficulty,” Rundstedt answered. “Their only other option would be to use hundreds, perhaps thousands, of truly small boats and we’ve scoured both sides of the Rhine for anything that could float and be used. During our withdrawal, we destroyed any craft we found along all of the rivers. While we can’t totally discount the possibility of them making small craft locally, I don’t think it’s feasible. No, I think they will have to have landing craft.”

“What about paratroops?” Himmler asked.

Rundstedt laughed. “We almost wish they would. Intelligence says they have five airborne divisions, four American and one British. The British division is being rebuilt after the disaster at the Seine. We are well prepared for a paratroop attack, although, again, they would have to have large numbers of transports and gliders to fly such a horde and there are no indications that they exist in such quantities.”

Himmler walked to the stone fireplace where a pile of logs burned. The warmth felt good.

“Who took the pictures?”

Galland smiled. “Some of our brave pilots flying our jet fighters, which were configured to be photographic platforms.”

“If our jets can cross American bases with such impunity, why don’t we drop bombs on them?” Himmler asked.

Galland flushed. “Our jet is not designed to carry bombs. Hitler originally wanted it used as a long-range bomber, but it would have been able to carry only a small bomb load, so the idea was scrapped. In the final analysis, it was not considered feasible or even useful.”

Himmler understood. Once again the military had changed Hitler’s directive after his death, and his field marshals and admirals had all said it was for the good. Still, it galled him to have the finest army in the world and no air force to protect it. Galland had insisted and Rundstedt had concurred, that the Americans and British had such vast fleets of planes that what remained of the Luftwaffe would be overwhelmed. The respite caused by winter would allow for the production of what would have been a large number of planes just a few years earlier, but the Americans’ ability to produce weapons of all kinds and in such huge quantities had been a staggering and unwelcome discovery. For every plane or tank Germany produced, America turned out a half dozen.

Himmler smiled at Galland. The situation wasn’t his fault. “I am certain that all your pilots will do their best.”

Galland accepted the gesture. Yes, they would do their best with too few planes and too few pilots. Now that there was a cease fire on the Eastern Front, pilot training had commenced in German occupied areas of Poland. Hopefully, they were far enough away to keep the Americans from shooting down the trainees, and, as long as the Russians stayed back, the trainees would have time to learn their craft. The Luftwaffe would fly and die for the Reich. They had no other choice.