Robert Conroy - Germanica

They were in the rear of the suite of offices that were the United States consulate in Arbon. Normally, a small town like Arbon wouldn’t rate a consul, perhaps just a local person authorized to dispense with routine affairs on a part-time basis, but her proximity to the German border and the newly ordained capital at Bregenz made an exception to the rule a necessity.

“Winnie, people are leaving this one-chalet town. They know the war’s going to come and they know that mistakes always happen, sometimes even accidentally.”

She released him. “What are you implying?”

“Only that we’re pawns in this giant thing called World War II, and that maybe the U.S. would like to smack Switzerland across the head for being so helpful to the Germans. Rumor has it that some priests in the Vatican are now helping Nazis escape. I’m not accusing Pius XII of anything wrong, but some in the Church’s hierarchy certainly are. While we can’t bomb St. Peter’s, maybe we can hit a small town in Switzerland and let it serve as a warning to those who would help the Nazis.”

Winnie was shocked. “Are you saying that the President of the United States is that devious?”

“Show me a politician who isn’t devious and I’ll show you someone who died several years ago. Don’t you ever wonder just what Dulles is really up to? Here we are planning to fight a final battle with the Nazis and the Russians are expanding their reign over much of Europe. What do you think Truman and Dulles think about that? What do you think they might do to slow down the Reds?”

“Are you saying there might be another war, only this time with the commies?”

“Winnie, I think you can almost count on it.”

Winnie was about to reply when air raid sirens began to wail.

* * *

“Once more into the breach,” said Sibre. He and Schafer headed a flight of almost a hundred P51 and P47 fighters as they escorted a miles long stream of several hundred American bombers. Most were B17s, but there were B24s and B25s as well. They were headed for Bregenz and most of the men were delighted. It meant an end to the German’s sanctuary and hopefully an end to a war that seemed to have gone on forever-with America starring in it.

Deep down they knew that was an untrue and unkind statement. Both Great Britain and the Soviet Union had been fighting for far longer and, in the case of the Soviets, had suffered appalling losses.

Their target was the center of the capital of Germany. They would fly, drop their bombs and then leave by flying over Lake Constance. The stream of planes would turn north and head for their home fields. It was understood that this would involve flying over Swiss territory. It was also understood that they could return the fire of anyone who shot at them, regardless of where the firing was coming from. Nor were they to concern themselves about the likely killing of innocent civilians. If those deaths could help save Americans, then their deaths would not be in vain.

Puffs of black smoke appeared around their planes. Flak. “Can you see the guns?” Sibre asked. A moment later Schafer said he could and dived for the ground. Sibre swore and followed, along with several others.

As they got lower, more and more German guns sent shells up to meet them. “Where the hell are they getting the guns?” Schafer yelled. “They must have been saving them for a rainy day.”

They dropped their bombs and strafed what they hoped was a gun emplacement. There was no secondary explosion, which made them doubt it. Regaining altitude, they saw that the Germans were targeting the bomber stream and that several had been hit. One B24 blew up, sending debris and bodies all over the sky. Others were either burning or had chunks bitten out of their wings or tails. A surprising number were either cripples or had turned around. They wondered how many casualties were inside the planes and whether or not the wounded would live. Their buddy Morelli had died of his injuries a few hours after they’d visited him. They convinced themselves that it was for the best but that was a hard sell. Morelli had been a human being, not a dog that needed to be put down.

“Once more and this time with feeling,” said Sibre. The raid was becoming a disaster. During their briefing, the intelligence officer had minimized the German antiaircraft defenses. Now they’d like to get the dumb bastard up in a plane so he could see what was really happening.

They strafed another possible site and pulled up. They were out of ammunition. Now all they could do was try to distract the Germans. As if to mock them, a B17 flew nose-first into the ground and exploded in an enormous ball of fire. Neither man said a word, but each wondered if anyone had gotten out before it hit.

The bomber stream had begun to disintegrate. Cohesion was lost and planes were flying in numerous directions.

“Where the hell are those idiots going?” Schafer yelled. A dozen bombers were following another one that was on fire. Their route was taking them over the border and towards a number of small towns in Switzerland.

“This is going to be bad,” said Sibre, and Schafer concurred. The lead plane’s left wing suddenly broke off and the bomber began a death spiral to the ground. They didn’t want to, but they couldn’t help but watch. Hatches opened and several men jumped out. They counted four, but there were ten in the crew. Four chutes opened, but where would they land? Both agreed that it would be Switzerland, which meant that the Americans would be safe.

“Oh no,” said Sibre. The other planes’ bomb bay doors were open and bombs began to fall out and downward. They were bombing Switzerland. Had the commanding officer made a mistake, gotten lost, or was he pissed at the dense German antiaircraft fire? They would never know. The new lead plane took a hit and fell apart. This time there were no chutes.

* * *

Winnie and Ernie huddled in a shelter along with several dozen other people. As the explosions drew nearer, an elderly Swiss gentleman with a well-trimmed white beard glared at Ernie. “Can’t you bloody people be trusted to tell Germany from Switzerland?”

“It ain’t all that easy from maybe twenty thousand feet and with a few score antiaircraft guns blazing away at you. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

The gentleman was about to respond when more bombs hit and caused the shelter to vibrate. Ernie was going to add to his comments when the old man simply disappeared in a rain of flesh and bone.

Ernie managed to cover his and Winnie’s heads with his jacket with one hand and cup his balls with the other as the shelter fell apart. “Winnie!” he yelled as consciousness faded and then disappeared.

* * *

Werner Heisenberg had been given American fatigues and been flown to New York in a DC3. He was accompanied by two MPs and others on the flight assumed he was a prisoner. If they were puzzled by the fact that he wasn’t in irons, nobody said anything. From there it was time to refuel and change pilots. Then it was another hop to Washington. He was tired and frightened. Were they taking him to America to be shot, hanged, or put on display as a war criminal? He was a scientist, not a criminal. How could he convince them of that?

The major in Bonn had quickly found his name on a list and he had been interviewed by an Alsos team, primarily to make sure he was who he claimed to be. From there he had been flown to an American air base in England where he figured he’d be interned for the duration. He’d been there only a couple of days when he was put on a plane and sent across the Atlantic.

After landing in Washington, he’d been put in a staff car and he’d promptly fallen asleep. When he was awakened, he was astonished to find that he was at the White House and would be meeting with President Truman in a few minutes. That and a cup of excellent coffee had perked him up. Perhaps they weren’t going to try him as a criminal after all.