CHAPTER 4
VARNER ARRIVED at his Berlin apartment dirty and late for dinner. He didn’t bother to change. He sat and ate slowly and without enthusiasm. He endured their stares because Magda insisted that he needed to eat to keep up his strength. Margarete, little Magpie, gazed at him, wide-eyed. She had never seen him in a filthy uniform before. She was a bright little girl and both he and Magda loved her deeply. Although, at fourteen and with her figure ripening, perhaps she wasn’t so little anymore. Regardless, she knew when to keep still. The only question she asked was whether Hitler was dead. Rumors, she said were flying. He told her he didn’t know. He hated lying to his daughter, but he couldn’t take the chance that she might say something to a schoolmate that could get back to the damned Gestapo.
When she was done eating, Margarete kissed him on the forehead and announced that she had studying to do. Magda then informed her husband that he was filthy and it was time for him to clean up.
Varner grunted and went to the bathroom where he filled a tub with hot water, stripped, and lay down in it, letting its warmth cleanse him in more ways than one.
He toweled down and walked naked into the bedroom. He was mildly annoyed that Magda hadn’t brought any underclothing to the bathroom. His annoyance ceased when he saw her lying naked on the bed, her long blond hair undone and strewn across her pillow. He grinned wickedly. “Is it Christmas?”
She smiled and beckoned to him. “No, but you can open your present anyhow.”
They made love with an intensity that had been lacking in the last few weeks as his job had overwhelmed and exhausted him. Magda was no longer the slender student he’d married almost two decades ago, but he thought the slight plumpness she’d gained in certain areas of her body was highly desirable. He proved the point by caressing her intimately, in preparation for a second time. She moaned and sighed. “Magpie will hear us,” he said.
“I think she understands.” They caressed each other with their lips, fingers, and tongues until he again entered her and they climaxed, totally spent.
Later, they lay side by side, sweaty and sated. Varner felt it was time to bring up an unpleasant decision he’d made. “You and Magpie must leave Berlin. When the bombs were falling and I was cowering in some filthy stinking basement and trying not to shit myself, all I could think of was the two of you and what danger you were in. And when I helped pull that boy out of the rubble, I thought I would weep in despair. We have no defense against the Allied bombers, and the next raid, or the one after that, could easily kill you.”
Magda was not surprised. In fact, part of her welcomed it. She wanted to be by Ernst’s side in Berlin, but she also wanted to protect their daughter. And she was not too proud to admit that the bombings, an almost daily ritual now, terrified and horrified her. She counted it a blessing that, so far, the sirens hadn’t sounded this night.
“Now that I’m assigned to von Rundstedt’s staff, I can get authorization for you to go to your sister’s place.”
Magda’s sister Bertha and her husband Eric Muller lived in a village near Hachenburg, many miles farther west and near the Rhine. To her knowledge no bombs had fallen there, although Hachenburg itself had been hit.
“Agreed,” she said, “and there is another problem that would be solved. Do you remember Volkmar Detloff?”
“Of course. Pure Aryan from a totally Nazi family, he’s a fanatically Nazi Youth, and thinks he’s a new god even though he’s only, what? Sixteen?”
“Well, he told Margarete that if she wanted to be a good young Nazi, she should let him fuck her. For the glory of the Reich, of course.”
Varner lit a forbidden cigarette. He’d borrowed a couple at the Chancellery. “Did he actually use those words?”
“Yes, but don’t think our precious Margarete hasn’t heard them before.”
“I don’t care. Young Volkmar certainly has a way with words. A shame he is going to die violently at such a young age.”
Magda giggled. “She told me she told him she’d rather lose her virginity to a frog.”
Varner’s anger faded. He knew he would do nothing about Detloff. The boy’s father was a fairly high ranking member of the Nazi Party and the SS, and a minor aide to Himmler. “I think an immediate move to your sister’s at Hachenburg would be good. How do you think Magpie will feel about this?”
“She’ll go. She’ll miss some of her schoolmates, but she comprehends quite a lot. She even asked me too if Hitler was dead.”
“What did you tell her?” He had told Magda the truth, knowing she could and would keep the secret.
“Just like you said, I told her I didn’t know. She told me that meant he was dead. She said that if I knew he was alive, I would have said so. She’s very smart, don’t you think?”
Colonel Ernst Varner declined to respond. He was sound asleep.
* * *
Military, political, and economic were the three problems confronting Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler as he assumed control of what remained of Hitler’s empire. The political situation was somewhat stable, so that left military and economic. Albert Speer had proven himself to be as knowledgeable about the economy as anyone in the Reich and, at the tender age of forty, was Minister for Armaments and Production. If the Reich was to survive, it was imperative that Speer provide the sinews of war.
Himmler had just concluded a predictably unsatisfactory discussion with von Ribbentrop in which the very undiplomatic foreign secretary stated the obvious. The neutral nations most sympathetic to Germany—Sweden, Spain, and Switzerland—were confused. Just who was in charge in the Third Reich, was Hitler gone for good or just for a little while? Who gave Heinrich Himmler the right to appoint von Ribbentrop as a go-between, or to even think of commencing negotiations that would end the war? The Americans, British, and Russians had all previously issued statements stating that they would fight on until Germany surrendered unconditionally, which was totally unacceptable to the Nazi hierarchy. They understood fully that their heads would roll.
So what was going on, the neutrals wondered, and why did Germany think the Allies would change their stance on negotiations?
Ribbentrop had argued that an announcement regarding Hitler’s death must be made soon, almost immediately. Rumors of his demise were already swirling. Some of the people who had seen his broken body couldn’t resist blabbing.
Himmler agreed and said that steps were underway by Goebbels to prepare Germany for the terrible announcement that would shock all of Germany and the world. Himmler was also taking other steps which he kept to himself. Ribbentrop would be pushed aside as chief negotiator and Franz von Papen, the sixty-six-year-old relic of the First World War’s failed diplomacy, would be recalled from his ambassadorial post in Turkey. The Turks were also neutral and Himmler wondered if they might function as a conduit to the Allies. At any rate, von Papen was a more subtle diplomat and not rough edged like Ribbentrop, who had gotten his position because of his slavish devotion to the late Fuhrer.
His secretary announced that Rundstedt and Speer had arrived. He told her to send them in and they seated themselves. The young Speer looked uncomfortable, and why not? However competent, and he was indeed that, he was Hitler’s creature and he’d just been told that there was a new regime.
“Let me blunt,” Himmler said to von Rundstedt. “I asked you how we could win the war, and you said we could not in the traditional sense. You said we must shorten our lines and give up many of our conquered territories. Is this still your plan?”
“Indeed, and to do that I need at least a million more men, Reichsfuhrer, and I need them as quickly as possible. However, they do exist. Four hundred thousand men are languishing in the Courland peninsula in Latvia. Hitler refused to withdraw them as such retreats were unacceptable to him. He consistently refused to give up conquered territory. Hitler is dead and I need those men. If I don’t get those and others, we are doomed. Right now there is a corridor available for them to use and they must take it before the Soviets cut them off. Even though many of them are far from the best men, they will do well in the defensive. Kindly recall that too many of our very best soldiers are dead.”
Himmler nodded. “Do it.” Again he had the nightmare vision of himself as a prisoner of the British or the Americans, or even the French with their damned guillotine.
“Then, I want every available man from Norway. Another four hundred thousand men are doing nothing there but wait for an Allied invasion we now know will never come. Hold onto Oslo if we must, but send me at least another two hundred thousand men from a country that isn’t fighting.”
Again Himmler agreed, albeit with more reluctance. If the Allies realized that German forces were exiting Norway, they would invade and Norway was next to “neutral” Sweden which supplied so much of Germany’s war-fighting materiel. The army would have to figure out a way to pull its troops out secretly.
“And as to Italy,” Rundstedt continued, “several hundred thousand of our best and most seasoned combat troops are tied up fighting the Allies in the mountains north of Rome. I propose that we withdraw most of those men to Germany and leave a rear guard to defend the mountain passes. I’ve heard it said that Churchill feels it is the soft underbelly of Europe and that the Allies should attack up that route.” He laughed harshly. “Let them try. Even a small force defending a mountain pass can ruin Churchill’s hopes.”
“Anything else?” asked Himmler. He was clearly unhappy but not arguing.
“Yes, Reichsfuhrer. Yugoslavia, Hungary, Bulgaria, and Rumania must also be stripped of German soldiers. Let the Croats and the Serbs kill each other like they’ve been doing for centuries. I don’t care.”
Himmler chuckled. “I don’t either. What more do you want?”
“I want control of your SS forces. They are not very good as an army but they can be used to slow down the Reds.”
Himmler glared but did not respond. He had a higher rating of the fighting qualities of the SS divisions than did the regular army’s generals. Also, the thought of giving up his personal army was repugnant.
Rundstedt continued. “If you are concerned that I will make myself the new Fuhrer, don’t be. I am nearly seventy years old and a soldier, not a politician or a governor. I want to save Germany, not rule her.”
Himmler nodded weakly. It would be done as the field marshal wanted. “Are you finally through?”
Rundstedt laughed. “In a way I’m just beginning. In both France and Russia our armies must be allowed to fight a defensive war, and a fluid war at that. There must be no proclamation of fortresses that must be held to the last man when armies can be saved and used again. In other words, no last stands as at Stalingrad, and no North Africas. Those debacles cost a half million of our best men. I would like to have them today, wouldn’t you, Reichsfuhrer?”
Himmler writhed internally. Everything the hateful old general was saying was true.
“In addition,” Rundstedt continued, “I want at least two million men culled from the workforce and drafted into the army. How they will be replaced in the factories is Herr Speer’s dilemma. The men drafted will construct and man defensive positions. We will also use civilians from occupied lands along with prisoners of war we hold. Can you do that, Herr Speer?”
Speer spoke for the first time and to Himmler. “If you will permit me to draft women, boys, and older men to work in factories and in other war efforts, yes.” Using women had been anathema to Hitler. They were supposed to stay home and produce new little Nazis.
“And if you will also permit it,” added Speer, “I recommend increasing the food rations of foreign workers so they don’t die in such numbers that they always need to be replaced. And that includes the Jews.”
“But only for a while,” snapped Himmler. Ultimately the Jews would have to be disposed of. Their inevitable fate could be deferred, but not cancelled. He wondered just where Speer would get the additional food since almost everyone in Germany was on short rations. He didn’t enquire further. If Speer said he could get more rations, then he could get more rations.
“Two last things,” said Rundstedt. He was clearly pleased at the concessions made by Himmler.
“Only two?” Himmler responded with resigned humor. The steps so far proposed were vile, but he could see their necessity.
“First, there are U-boats in the Mediterranean and elsewhere that are doing absolutely nothing. They should be attacking shipping in the Atlantic and even in the Channel.” Himmler nodded agreement. It had been Hitler’s decision to maintain submarines in the Mediterranean where they had been effectively neutralized.
“And lastly, the Jews. The shipments of Jews to Auschwitz and elsewhere is tying up many scores of trains that are and will be needed to transfer armies to defend the Reich. I wish you to suspend the collection of Jews until the crises is over.”
Himmler nodded again. “But not a moment longer.”
* * *
Lieutenant General Walter Bedell Smith, called Beetle by his friends and general by everyone else, was Dwight Eisenhower’s chief of staff at SHAEF, Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, but was a position he’d ably held for several years. He was brusque and a taskmaster, and he was poring over reports when Colonel Tom Granville knocked and entered.
Smith glared at him. “I am too goddamned busy to give you even a second, Colonel, so get the hell out of here.”
“Hitler’s dead,” Granville said, stifling a grin.
Smith blinked and looked up; a smile split his face. “Sit down and take a load off, Tom. Let’s talk for a spell, perhaps have some tea. Now what the hell’s your source and I sincerely hope it’s good?”
“Berlin radio has commenced playing dirges and funeral marches.”
“That’s it? From sad music you extrapolate that the fucking little paper-hanger is dead?”
“That’s enough, General. The Nazis only do that when something sad and significant has happened. I believe the last time they played dirges was for their surrender at Stalingrad. And, since nothing in the way of military disasters is occurring, it can only be that someone important is dead.”
Smith was not convinced. “What about Goering? He’s been out of the picture for a while. And how about Himmler? Goebbels?”
“Possible but not likely. We’ve picked up nothing being wrong with Goering other than the usual drugs and booze and, barring assassination, we’ve heard nothing about his health. Himmler, of course, is just fine and so is Goebbels. Ergo, it’s Hitler who has just died from his injuries.”
Smith grinned wickedly. “Damn, it would be a terrible shame if Hitler died. Did any of this come from our British friends?”
“No sir.”
“What music are the Germans playing?”
“Mainly recorded symphonies of Wagner’s more somber music. He is, was, Hitler’s favorite composer. If the Nazis limited behavioral pattern holds, in about an hour or so, a deep voice will say that a major announcement will follow shortly. The whole process is designed by Goebbels to warn the German people that something bad has happened.”
“But the Brits know about this too, right?”
“They have to, sir. They’ve got their own people monitoring German radio stations and they have doubtless reached the same conclusion. I wouldn’t doubt that Churchill’s already been informed.”
Smith stood. Information about Hitler’s death would go to Washington and FDR, but would come from Ike and not Churchill. “Okay, that’s enough to interrupt Ike. The plans to move SHAEF to France and kick Montgomery out of his command chair will have to wait for a few minutes. If Ike concurs, and I think he will, we will be informing General Marshall pronto. He can take the info to Roosevelt.” He laughed wryly. “At least FDR won’t hear it first from Churchill if I can help it.”
Granville decided to take it one step farther. “Maybe it’ll help us decide what to do about Phips, the little man who killed him.”
Smith rolled his eyes. “If only all our problems were that simple.”
* * *
Fourteen-year-old Margarete Varner sat on her favorite chair in her bedroom. Her knees were tucked under her chin as she listened intently to what the man on the radio was saying. It was impossible. It could not be so. Adolf Hitler could not be dead. Yet, the strident voice of Josepf Goebbels cried out that it was indeed so.
Goebbels said that the Fuhrer had died of his massive wounds after fighting heroically for his life and for the Reich. Germany, he said, would mourn privately. There was a war to be won. The Fuhrer would be interred in secret so that Allied bombers could not desecrate either the ceremony or his final resting place. When the war was over and the enemies of the Reich had been defeated, then would be the time for a public ceremony and a mausoleum of epic proportions, a shrine to the life and dreams of Adolf Hitler.
According to Hitler’s will, Heinrich Himmler was the new Fuhrer and Gerd von Rundstedt now commanded the armed forces of the Reich. Nothing was said about Hermann Goering, which puzzled Margarete. Nor was anything said about Martin Bormann, a shadowy figure her father had mentioned was becoming the éminence grise behind Hitler.
She could not quite shake the feeling of profound shock. She was fourteen and Adolf Hitler had been the Fuhrer for twelve of those years. All her conscious life was wrapped around Hitler. His picture was everywhere and his salute was a normal way of greeting friends and associates. Her teachers in school praised him just as they condemned the Jews who conspired against Germany.
She imagined an American girl’s feelings if Roosevelt had died, or an English girl’s if either Churchill or King George was dead. She sometimes wished she didn’t imagine so much.
And Goebbels had said that it had been the Jews who had killed him. He said that Roosevelt, the Jew, had conspired with Morgenthau, the Jew who was in charge of America’s money, to kill him, murder him.
Yet, Margarete was puzzled. She was a very bright girl and understood that the war was going against Germany. After all, weren’t the Russians pushing into Poland and weren’t the Americans, assisted by the British, crossing France? Italy’s fascist government had surrendered and that pompous fool, Mussolini, was on the run. German soldiers were fighting the Americans and British in Italy and not the Italians who, her father said, were surrendering in droves to the Allies, and that was just so wrong.
She also knew that Roosevelt wasn’t a Jew. Her father had let that slip one night.
She understood that her parents said things they didn’t want her to hear and she understood they involved the conduct of the war and Germany’s future. They didn’t want her blurting out something to her schoolmates that might result in questioning by the Gestapo. She shuddered. People were arrested and turned over to the Gestapo and, so many times, were never heard from again. Or if they did somehow surface, they were never the same, either physically or emotionally. She knew better than to ask what had happened to them. A friend whose cousin had been arrested had whispered to her that the beatings were the easy part. It was terrible to contemplate, but what else should be done to enemies of the Reich? But if the Reich was so perfect, she asked herself, why did it have enemies?
So what would be her family’s future? She had positive emotions about moving to a farm near Hachenburg, even though it would mean leaving her friends. It would be a great adventure, and it would be safer for her and her mother. Her father wouldn’t have to worry about them during the bombings. No more cringing and hiding when the sirens went off and no more crying when the bombs fell. And better, no more staring sadly at empty desks at school the morning after the bombings.
That she would also escape the odious Volkmar Detloff was another benefit. She had first been flattered by his attentions. After all, she was a plump adolescent who considered herself far from being a beauty, and he was an older boy and a Hitler Youth to boot. She had ignored his pimples and his loud and pompous manner. He had brought to the surface her first stirring of womanhood.
She deeply regretted letting him kiss her since the first thing he’d done after that was to jam his hand inside her blouse, ripping off a button, and painfully squeezing her small breast. When she demanded that he stop, he’d called her a tease and a bitch. Then he’d told all his friends that he’d stopped since she was a fat little thing and didn’t really have any tits yet.
Her mother entered the room. “Finished packing, Magpie?”
“Mother, I am just a little too old to be referred to as an annoying little bird.”
Magda sighed. Her daughter was growing up far too fast. “I know. I just can’t help it.”
Magda hoped that Ernst’s logic in sending them to a place near Hachenburg and nearer to the western front would render them safe. Hachenburg itself had nearly been obliterated by Allied bombers; thus it was presumed that there was little or no interest in further bombings. Besides, they would be at least twenty miles south of Hachenburg proper, and living in a large and even luxurious farmhouse. They would actually be eating real food and not the ersatz nonsense that was available in Berlin. Perhaps with good food Magpie—no, Margarete—would actually begin to develop properly. Certainly, walks in the countryside and work on the farm would help her.
A tear rolled down Margarete’s cheek. “Crying for Hitler?” her mother asked cautiously.
“No. I’m crying because I can’t take all my clothes.”
* * *
Who was the consummate idiot who thought it would be a good idea for Jack Morgan to learn all about a Sherman tank? Oh yeah, Jack remembered, it was Jack Morgan. Damn.
Whiteside had also thought it an excellent idea. Thus, Jack had badgered one of his new friends, First Lieutenant Jeb Carter, into teaching him all about the giant metal beast. Since the campaign had entered another lull with the regiment again behind the lines, the timing was good. The U.S. Army had broken out of the Normandy perimeter and was slowly approaching Paris on a broad front. The British under Montgomery were in the north and against the coast, while Omar Bradley’s Twelfth Army Group was south of the British. Patton’s Third Army, which was part of Bradley’s Twelfth, had originally broken out to the east, but then had turned east and was also approaching the south of Paris.
The entire enterprise was now under the direction of Eisenhower, who had established his headquarters in France, replacing Montgomery as ground forces commander.
Jeb Carter was a southerner through and through, and he mockingly referred to the U.S. Army as the Union army and called the Civil War the War of Northern Aggression. He commanded a company of tanks and was delighted at the thought of training Jack. Nor did Carter concern himself about the small difference in rank. He’d confidently announced that he was going to be promoted to captain momentarily; ergo there was no rank issue.
“The Sherman,” Carter explained, “weighs in at thirty-four and a half tons and has a crew of five. The main weapon is a seventy-five millimeter gun. This is a short barreled version and it’s going to be upgraded to a longer barreled 76mm one sometime down the road. That’ll increase velocity and hitting power, which is a problem. In addition, she carries two machine guns. The tank’ll go twenty-five miles an hour on a road and seventeen off road, although a good mechanic, and we have a lot of them, can goose that up five or ten miles an hour more.”
There was neither the time nor the intention to make Jack an expert. He found the tank to be cramped and stifling hot. Carter explained it was always that way except when it was cold. Then you froze your ass off. Jack decided that bombers had been absolutely spacious in comparison. Carter had laughed at his complaint, telling Jack that the Sherman had a lot more room than other tanks.
Jack spent several hours learning all five jobs, even driving the tank a few miles and not damaging anything more significant than a few small trees. To Jack’s mock dismay, he was not permitted to fire the seventy-five. Carter’s tank was named the Rebel Yell, an inevitability, Jack thought.
Later, they discussed basic tactics as they sampled some cognac one of Levin’s French speaking men had scrounged up. Another virtue of static warfare was that they also had a hot meal instead of C and D rations. Of course, Colonel Stoddard wanted the fortifications around his headquarters improved. More barb wire was strung and more sandbags piled strategically.
“If attacking, you should always keep your tank facing the enemy,” Carter said. “That’s where the Sherman’s armor is thickest, just a hair over four inches. Other spots are a lot less, so the beast is vulnerable from the flanks and rear, as are most tanks.”
“Why not add armor?” Levin asked.
Carter smiled knowingly. “Then, my friend, the tank would be too heavy to move, which would mean adding a bigger engine, which would require a larger tank, and the cycle goes on. Don’t worry, the krauts have the same problem with weight and armor. Also, a Sherman’s seventy-five won’t penetrate many parts of the hull of a Panther. Apparently not enough velocity, which we all hope will be fixed with the new gun. But the flanks and rear of a Panther are vulnerable. The Panther is about fifteen tons heavier than a Sherman and is designated a ‘heavy’ tank, while our tee-tiny little Sherman is considered a ‘medium.’ We don’t have any heavies in this man’s army. I guess the Pentagon said it was too expensive.”
“And when you’re on the defensive?” Jack asked.
“Hopefully, Bomber, that doesn’t mean the Panthers are attacking.”
Jack interrupted him. “Bomber?”
Carter laughed. “Hell, man, didn’t you know your nickname? Jesus, Levin, tell the man what he needs to know.”
Levin poured some more brandy into Jack’s glass. “I was waiting until he was ready. Seriously, Jack, Bomber is a helluva lot better than Stockade Stoddard and you don’t want to know what the men call me except that it is an insult to my beloved Jewish faith. Has something to do with being circumcised. Carter, big surprise, is called Rebel. Don’t worry, nicknames change more often than the men change their socks. Next week it’ll be something else.”
“Getting back to the defensive,” Carter went on, “always try to dig in. Use the tank to swivel and do a lot of the earth-moving work for you. Fire a few rounds at the enemy, then pull back to another prepared position if you can. If you don’t, their artillery and the German tanks will target you and hit you, dug in or not.”
Jack had had enough. The cognac was working. “Carter, you really as rich and important as rumors say?”
“Probably not, but I ain’t poor and my family does have a lot of connections. We lived in Virginia two hundred years before the Civil War and had a lot of property before you northerners stole it in 1865. But we recovered until the Depression came and we lost it all again, and we’re now are getting back on our feet. I’ve got relatives married to important people in business and some others in government. And you, did you really play football for Michigan State?”
“Third string quarterback. Despite my splendid efforts, our 1942 record was 4-3-2, and my big day came against Wayne University in Detroit. We won 47–7, and I carried the ball four times. Our coach, Charley Bachman, said I had potential. Unfortunately that was the second game of the season and I got drafted right after.”
Levin grinned wickedly. “Didn’t quarterbacks get to screw the cheerleaders?”
Carter shook his head. He’d played halfback for the University of Virginia. “Only the first stringers get the cheerleaders. Third stringers had to settle for fucking the ordinary students. And what did New York University accounting majors do for action?”
“We managed,” Levin said. “There were a lot of young Jewish girls at NYU who thought I was going to grow up rich and I encouraged that belief. First, of course, I have to survive this war.”
They heard the sound of cheering. “What the hell?” Jack said.
Sergeant Major Rolfe came up, grinning hugely. “Gentlemen, they just announced that the little fucker Hitler is dead.”
* * *
President Roosevelt wheeled around the Oval Office. He was perturbed and it showed. The pronouncement that Hitler was well and truly dead was wonderful, but it had potentially thrown a monkeywrench into plans to win the war in Europe first, and then concentrate on Japan.
“Our strategy will not change,” he said firmly.
General Marshall nodded his agreement while Admiral Ernie King showed his displeasure. King felt that America’s focus should be on the Pacific where much fighting remained to be done. In particular, the Philippines were still in Japanese hands, although plans for its liberation by MacArthur were well underway. In the meantime, the Philippine people were being brutalized and American POWs treated even worse. Reports said they were dying in large numbers from beatings, overwork, and starvation. Despite his personal feelings, King would do his best to support the policies of his President. Still, he could not help but feel that more men and more resources in the Pacific would make the task of defeating Japan that much easier and save American lives.
FDR continued. “With that monster Himmler in charge, we can assume that the atrocities in those lands under German control will continue. We can also assume that there will be peace overtures that must be dealt with. Secretary Hull has already informed me that representatives of Sweden and Switzerland wish to talk with us. About what is obvious. Herr Himmler wants a separate peace. Well, he shan’t have one.”
“Will the British hold firm, sir?” asked Marshall. “And what about the Soviets?”
Roosevelt took a deep breath. “I’ve been on the phone with Winston and he is in agreement with me. There will be opposition in his Parliament to his refusal to negotiate, but he feels he can bring it under control.”
“Are you certain, sir?” Marshall prodded. “England has suffered terribly. Food rationing has left her people malnourished and her cities have been bombed, and now they are under an ongoing barrage of V1 and V2 missiles. Her people are exhausted and her army is only a shadow of what it has been in the past, while her navy is now a distant second to ours. How long do you really think England can last?”
FDR winced. He respected General Marshall’s opinions. Would Churchill be able to hold his country together, or would there be peace negotiations with the new German regime? And if Churchill resisted too hard, might he lose his position as prime minister? Another thought chilled him. Presidential elections were coming up. What if angry and frustrated American voters decided to elect a Republican who promised to end the war? Tom Dewey, governor of New York, was the likely Republican candidate and nobody knew what his thoughts on the matter were. Or maybe Eisenhower would run? Or even MacArthur? Anything but MacArthur, Roosevelt thought and shuddered.
“And if you don’t mind my saying, sir,” Marshall persisted, “Stalin’s Russia is in even worse shape than England. The Russians are beyond exhaustion. They’ve lost millions of people and millions more may be dying of exposure and starvation. We don’t really know how many since it is such a closed society, but things have to be truly awful in the Soviet Union. They might just like a breathing space.”
Admiral King jumped in. “A breathing space would give us a chance to squash the Japs.”
“Are you aware what the Nazis are doing to the Jews and others?” Roosevelt asked quietly.
“We’ve all heard the rumors and accusations, but they are very hard to believe,” King said. “Concentration camps and prisons and people unjustly held, yes, but death camps, death factories? Assembly line mass murder of a people simply because they exist? It is beyond comprehension. We all know there are camps throughout Germany and a large complex near the town of Auschwitz, but to send people to the camps for the sole and entire purpose of killing them is both monstrous and illogical.”
Roosevelt shook his head sadly. “But I’m afraid we must believe. More and more information is arriving and a few brave souls have actually escaped from those places. We must put a stop to these exterminations.”
King shook his head angrily. “Sir, are you saying we should give priority to rescuing a few thousand European Jews who might or might not be in mortal danger, while American soldiers are languishing and being brutalized in Japanese prison camps? Sir, our first duty is to our boys, not other people. The Jews and other inmates must wait, especially if the British and the Russians decide to leave us to fight this war alone.”
“In that regard, the admiral is correct,” said Marshall. “If England and Russia leave the alliance, we cannot go it alone and, if that occurs, we must give our own people first priority.”
“It’s well more than a few thousand Jews in peril,” FDR said sadly. “The death toll will easily reach the hundreds of thousands, if not the millions.”
Both men were shaken, stunned. King found his voice first. “It’s impossible, sir, absolutely impossible. No man, no government, no civilized nation would ever even contemplate such a thing.”
Roosevelt continued. “Admiral King, I am afraid we must contemplate the fact that the Nazis are barbarians, perhaps worse. The word civilized does not apply to them.”
It was clear to the President that his logic and his decision were not totally accepted by his two senior military leaders. The idea of trading in American blood was repugnant and FDR accepted that there was no right decision, only a series of bad ones forced on them by Japan and Germany.
King and Marshall stood, gathered their papers, and departed solemnly. Roosevelt understood their logic, even agreed with a lot of it. More than ten thousand American soldiers, sailors, and marines were starving as prisoners of Japan, while millions of Philippine peoples, America’s responsibility, were held in brutal slavery. The Japanese also held thousands of American civilians in prison camps in the Philippines and elsewhere.
Yet, to negotiate a peace with Hitler’s heirs was repugnant. Himmler was a monster, the head of the SS and the Gestapo and the architect of the concentration camps. He was in charge of the mass killing of the Jews and other people deemed undesirable by the Nazis. Negotiating with him would leave the German people and much of Nazi-occupied Europe still in his control. But the idea of a breathing space was tempting. A lull in Europe would permit a fairly quick and decisive victory over the Japanese. However, breathing spaces had a way of ending, and that meant the fighting would begin anew, perhaps not a month later, or even a year. Maybe it would be more like the twenty-year lull between the First World and Second World Wars, but fighting would begin again and with renewed savagery.
So what to do? Negotiations with America’s allies was a paramount need. A shame that Secretary of State Cordell Hull was such a sick and weak reed. A fine man, but, Roosevelt thought wryly, Hull was in worse health than he.
Perhaps a weapon like the one the scientists were trying to develop in New Mexico would be the answer.