Himmler's War

CHAPTER 20

Privates Feeney and Gomez walked slowly through the 74th’s motor pool. The ground was slushy and churned up from a multitude of trucks and tanks. Care had to be taken to not trip and fall into the mess. A light wet snow was falling, barely covering the ground.

They were on guard duty, protecting the trucks and tanks of the 74th, but neither man was taking things all that seriously. It was, after all, the dead of winter and they were well away from the Rhine which the krauts couldn’t cross in the first place. Even so, their weapons were loaded and they kept an eye out. There might not be any krauts around, but there were officers who might try to catch them goofing off.

Captain Morgan had warned them to be on the lookout for saboteurs or spies, but neither man thought it was likely a Nazi could get this far. To keep themselves alert and pass the time, they teased each other.

“How many more rosaries, Feeney?”

“Maybe six hundred, damn it. Hey, don’t you Mexies say one each day? Maybe you and your Mexican buddies could say some for me.”

“Feeney, how many times I gotta tell you, we ain’t Mexican any more than you’re an Irishman. I’m from California and you’re from Boston. In fact, my ancestors were in California long before your people came over from Ireland, and they were literate long before your people knew what writing was about.”

“Screw you,” Feeney said genially, happy that he’d gotten to his friend. If you had to walk around a lonely motor pool in the cold and snow, then it was good to be with a buddy.

Gomez grabbed Feeney’s arm. “What the hell, tracks.”

The only tracks they’d seen in the new snow while on their rounds were their own. This fresh set of tracks was clearly somebody new. It was either saboteurs or some prick of an officer trying to trap them. The two men looked at each other and began to follow the tracks. As one, they shifted their rifles off their shoulders so they could be fired.

They turned a corner and were confronted by a row of the new M26 tanks. The footprints disappeared in between them. They could hear muffled sounds of someone working on a tank. Maybe it was a mechanic with a job to do, or maybe it was something else, something sinister. They walked farther and saw a man on the hull and crouching behind a turret.

“Watcha doin’ there, buddy,” Feeney said. He was supposed to say “halt” and “who goes there,” but that sounded dumb. After all, the guy wasn’t moving.

“Maintenance,” came the answer.

“Now?” said Gomez. “In the middle of the fucking night? Maybe you should come down here so we can see you.”

“Hey, don’t get your horses in an uproar.”

Feeney stared at Gomez. Horses in an uproar? Fuck. They pointed their rifles at the shape. “Get your ass down now!” Feeney snarled.

“Coming,” the man said, and then slipped and fell off the tank. He rolled and came to his feet, a pistol in his hand. He snapped off a couple of shots. Gomez screamed and grabbed his face. Blood was gushing over his hand and, just then, Feeney felt something smash into his leg.

The son of a bitch is going to kill me, Feeney realized. He swung his rifle and pulled the trigger again and again. The attacker stumbled backwards and fell to the ground just as waves of pain reached Feeney’s brain. As the world turned black, he wondered if he was dead.

He came to in a tent with Captain Morgan standing over him. “Welcome back, Feeney.”

“How’s Gomez?” Feeney asked. It was difficult to talk. His mouth felt fuzzy.

“Not good. He took a bullet in the face. He’ll probably live, but he lost part of his jaw and one eye.”

“Aw, Christ, Feeney said, then brightened. “Hey, it does mean he’ll go home, doesn’t it? Helluva price to pay, though. Jesus, he’ll be going home with half a face.”

“The man you shot is dead. No surprise, he was a German, complete with an SS tattoo. We found it a little above the inside of his left elbow. It also said gave us his blood type, which was useless information since he was already dead. I guess the rumors are true. They are trying to infiltrate English speaking people behind our lines. This guy’s job was to sabotage our tanks. He damaged a couple before you nailed him, but the tanks can all be repaired. And don’t worry about your leg. You took a ricochet and you’re just badly bruised.”

“Good to hear, sir. But how the hell is Gomez going to live with half a face? Who would want to look at him? And, yeah sir, I can’t help but think that it could have been me who got shot.”

Morgan had no real answer. “Couple of days’ rest and you’ll be as good as you ever were, which, some days, wasn’t much,” he teased and Feeney laughed. “Seriously, you did well, Feeney, I’ll tell Father Serra I’ve suspended the remainder of your sentence.”

Admiral Canaris sat nervously in front of Himmler. “Reichsfuhrer, Harry Truman is a complete nonentity. Our files on him are limited to nothing more than his age, sixty-one, and the fact that he is a farmer and a failed businessman from Missouri who somehow wound up as a United States senator and, even more improbably, as Vice President of the United States.”

“Incredible,” Himmler said, staring at a picture of a bespectacled Truman smiling vapidly at the camera. “Yet this is the man who will be succeeding Roosevelt if he dies.”

“When Roosevelt dies, Reichsfuhrer. We believe his death is imminent. A few more things about Truman. He is married to a frumpy woman named Bess and they have and equally frumpy daughter named Margaret. On the other hand, this Truman did serve in the First World War with some distinction as an artillery captain.”

“What type of business?”

“We think it was men’s clothing.”

Himmler laughed. “A two-paragraph resume. Well then, can you tell me what he will do as a war leader?”

Canaris shrugged. “So little is known about him that we have no idea how he will react under stressful circumstances. However, his rise in American politics indicates willingness to compromise and his experience in combat might show that he understands what it is like to send men out to die.”

Himmler shook his head. “In short, Admiral, you know absolutely nothing about the man.”

“Correct, Reichsfuhrer. It is as if the postmaster of Potsdam is about to suddenly become Fuhrer of Germany. The situation is incredible, preposterous.”

“Then he will be too inexperienced to be his own man. Will he be led by Churchill or someone in the American government, Marshall for instance? And what about his future relations with Stalin? We must know these things and much more.”

Canaris picked up his briefcase. “We are working on all of these matters. It is entirely possible that Stalin is as puzzled as we are. Churchill, however, must be salivating at the thought of dominating Truman.”

Canaris departed. Himmler sat behind his desk and rubbed his eyes. Only the Americans could make such a mess of their politics. They were almost as bad as the French. But what the devil did all this mean for the future of the Third Reich? How would this Harry Truman react when the Rhine ran red with the blood of American soldiers, and how would he react when Moscow was wiped off the face of the earth by Heisenberg’s bomb and the world realized that Germany had the power to destroy anyone and everything. A rational man would crumble at the prospect. But was Harry Truman rational?

And where would the Americans attack? Luftwaffe reconnaissance flights had not found any landing craft, nor had there been evidence of extraordinary troop buildups. Von Rundstedt had to know these things and Himmler shared that sense of urgency. And now they were confronted with the likelihood that a gray cipher named Harry Truman would shortly lead the armed forces of the mighty United States of America.

Himmler stared at the bad photo that showed a thin little man with a silly grin and cheap wire-rimmed glasses. The Postmaster from Potsdam indeed, Himmler thought and allowed himself a rare laugh. After all, hadn’t he been a chicken farmer?

Jessica was called to the scene of the outburst by the military police. By the time she got there, just a couple of miles from the Red Cross’s new offices, the violence had ceased, at least for a moment. An angry group of German women and old men confronted an equally old man and woman in terribly worn clothing who were clearly refugees. The couple stood bruised and bloodied, while the others glared at them.

Jessica found an American sergeant named Haney who appeared to be in charge. A pair of German policemen glared sullenly at the battered couple. “What’s happened and why was I called here?”

“What we have, ma’am, is a property dispute. Do you speak German?”

“Only a little.”

“Okay, I do and here’s what’s going on as much as I can tell. These two people said they lived in this house and that the house was theirs up until just before the war started. This other group represents a kraut family that says they bought the house from the German government; therefore, they say it belongs to them and they have a deed for it.”

Jessica understood the house’s current desirability. It was almost undamaged. A couple of bullet holes in the outer wall were all that showed that a war had passed it by.

The sergeant laughed and gestured towards a belligerent couple in the crowd of Germans. “They say they’ve been paying taxes to Hitler on it for years so we can’t take it from them. Maybe they can apply for a refund.”

With the sergeant translating what she couldn’t pick up, Jessica was able to ascertain that the German government had forced the couple, Jews named Strauss, to sell at a very low price and that the new owners did indeed actually buy the property from the Nazis. They said they had no idea who the previous owners were and had never seen them before. Haney said the story was believable.

The Strausses said they’d been in hiding in France since Hitler invaded and now wanted their home back. They insisted that the Nazis had stolen it from them and had forced them, literally at gunpoint, to sell.

The couple did speak passable French which made it easier for Jessica to understand them. They’d been living in a cubbyhole in a farmhouse outside Marseille and had avoided being swept up by the Gestapo, because the family that had harbored them was able to keep their presence a secret.

“We are realistic,” the old Jewish man said. “Now we know we can never come back here and live safely and peacefully. No one could protect us. You Americans would have to provide around the clock protection for the rest of our lives. No, all we want is some of our possessions that we managed to hide. When the Nazis forced us to sell, they gave us only an hour to pack and then searched us to make sure we weren’t taking anything we shouldn’t. Perhaps we will someday get proper compensation from a new German government, but I am not confident.”

“How long will it take you to search for your property?”

“An hour at most and we will have to crack open a wall.”

When Sergeant Haney explained this to the current owners, they became irate and exclaimed that anything in the house was theirs since they’d bought it legally. Jessica then sweetly asked them what it was they had bought and they, puzzled, couldn’t respond.

“If you don’t know what it is, you can’t claim it as yours,” she said.

Jessica had no idea if that would hold up in any court, but it sounded good and the Germans bought it. After all, she was the representative of the United States of America, wasn’t she?

Haney told the Jewish couple to go in and sent two of his men to protect them and watch them. He told the Strausses to take as much time as they needed. The German owners again complained loudly until Haney stuck a submachine gun under their noses and spoke harshly. Jessica turned and stifled a grin. She knew enough German words to know he’d told them to shut their fucking mouths. Haney then went inside the house.

The sound of smashing wood lasted only a couple of moments. The Jewish couple emerged smiling and carrying a suitcase.

Haney grinned. “They had it hidden inside a wall and plastered it over before they had to leave. Some furniture hid it while it dried. Amazing nobody found it.”

Jessica laughed. “Nobody ever claimed the Nazis were very smart.”

Haney thought it would be fair play to confiscate the house, but decided not to. It was too far away from American facilities to be useful. Then he suggested taking a bulldozer and destroying the place, but again decided against it. Jessica thought it would be decades before all the legal squabbles about forced purchases would be settled and, even then, doubtless to nobody’s satisfaction.

The Germans who’d bought the house could keep it, the Jewish couple told her. It was part of a hateful past and all they wanted now was a new future and the contents of the suitcase would start them on that road. They took her aside and opened the suitcase. Jessica gasped. It was full of paintings. She was no expert but she could read the signatures and recognized the styles. The top two were by Van Gogh. The couple said the others were by older masters and were even more valuable. They said they’d hidden it months before the house was taken from them so the paintings couldn’t be plundered by looters.

Mr. and Mrs. Strauss were put in a Jeep and would be taken to a safe place. “It’s going to take the wisdom of Solomon to settle some of these disputes,” Jessica said.

Haney chortled. “In that case, the krauts are truly screwed.”

“Why?”

“Wasn’t Solomon Jewish?”

The Episcopal minister carefully and gently closed the eyes of the gray-skinned man who lay on the bed. He was so frail that he barely made a dent in the mattress. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was dead. Finally. His once strong body had given up a struggle it couldn’t win.

Harry Truman trembled but nobody noticed. All eyes were on the body of the man who’d been President since 1932.

“The stress was too much,” Jim Byrnes said.

Yes, Truman thought, and he was only beginning to feel the start of it. He was finally starting to comprehend the complexity and enormity of the worldwide war operation that FDR was running. Had been running, he corrected.

Truman left the bedroom and the grieving widow. Roosevelt’s other relations, including his sons, would be arriving shortly. After seeming to reach a physical plateau, FDR had suddenly taken a sharp turn for the worse. Truman thought it was a blessing for the family and the nation. How long could they and it have endured with FDR in a coma?

Truman stepped outside and walked briskly, the only way he knew how to walk, to the Oval Office. In the past few weeks, he’d avoided using it lest it seem like he was grasping for power. Now he needed to be there to show everyone that he was the man in charge.

He was aware of the eyes that were on him, ranging from marine guards to secret service to White House staffers and servants. The news had spread like wildfire and news bulletins, already prepared, were going out. The waiting and wondering were over. Harry Truman was the President of the United States and, he thought, the hell with Churchill and Himmler and Hirohito and Stalin and all the others. He would be his own man. They knew nothing about him and he thought it would give him a leg up on the opposition, both foreign and domestic.

He didn’t want the job, hadn’t asked for it, but, damn it, he would do it to the best of his ability.