Robert Conroy - Germanica

Sibre’s hands began to shake. “Jesus, I hope that isn’t what I think it is.”

* * *

Tanner heard the roar of the rocket’s engine through the sound of battle. He looked up and saw the odd-looking craft streak over him. He could clearly see the stove-pipe design. “What the hell?” he wondered as did everyone else who could see the evil thing.

Then the rocket’s engine cut out and there was a brief moment of silence. They all knew what that meant from reports of the attacks on London. It was through flying and was about to strike. The rocket’s nose tipped forward and it knifed into the water only a couple hundred yards away. Everyone froze and waited for an explosion.

None came.

“I wonder what that was all about,” Cullen gasped. They were all breathing heavily.

“If the army wants us to know, I’m sure they’ll tell us.”

* * *

Goebbels screamed in impotent fury as he got the report of the rocket’s failure. “Schoerner, find those bastard Jew scientists and kill them immediately. Don’t worry about hanging them, just shoot them. They lied to me. They lied to Germany. They are traitors.”

Schoerner tried to calm him. “I will send some soldiers to their bunker. That is, if I can find any. Esau and his assistants have doubtless run away and we don’t have time to chase them now. We have more important things to worry about. Our survival must be our first goal.”

Goebbels shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Of course. We must escape and begin again to build another Reich. We will catch those swine some other time.”

* * *

“Where the devil is Sergeant Hill?” Tanner yelled.

A very nervous PFC responded. “Sir, Sergeant Hill said to tell you that he’s gone snipe hunting and that he’ll be back shortly.”

“He said that, did he?”

“Yes sir. He also said to remind you that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If it matters, he was heavily armed.”

“Private, just where was he headed when you last saw him?”

“Sir, he was headed for Bregenz and, oh yeah, he was carrying a German officer’s tunic. I have no idea where he got it.”

And it doesn’t much matter, Tanner thought. Sergeant Billy Hill had been chafing at being idle. Being attached to division headquarters didn’t leave much time for excitement. Hill’s skills as a sniper were becoming legendary, and so was his wanting to go hunting for kills. Was that what he was going to do, kill more Germans before the war came to a halt? That seemed plausible. And what difference was there between a snipe and a sniper? He wished the sergeant well. It would be a tragedy for him to get his ass blown away this late in the game. Of course, the same held true for himself.

Tanner dismissed the private, but not before telling the man to let him know the moment Hill returned. If he returned, that is.

* * *

Josef Goebbels and Field Marshal Ferdinand Schoerner decided that whatever happened, they would look the part of world leaders. Schoerner dressed in an immaculate field marshal’s uniform complete with baton, while Goebbels wore an expensive blue suit made for him an eternity ago by an exclusive tailor in Berlin. They would cross into Switzerland and claim sanctuary, confident that there were enough German sympathizers in the Swiss government to protect them. From Switzerland there was the probability that money would talk and that they could be sent secretly to South America. Argentina would be their ultimate destinations and a new Reich was their goal.

Only the gas masks they were wearing marred the effect. As they approached the door that led outside they could hear the sounds of chaos. Schoerner drew his pistol and suggested that Goebbels do the same.

“Some panic-stricken soldiers could try to take our masks from us in order to save themselves,” he said. “And it wouldn’t matter if they recognized us or not. Terrified men will not obey orders or be impressed by rank.”

Goebbels nodded agreement and pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. They opened the door and stepped out. They had not actually seen the gas clouds when they blew in, but what was left did not appear too thick. Could these wisps be lethal? Or was the wind causing them to diminish? It occurred to him that the German soldiers he did see were running around aimlessly and not lying dead in the streets. In fact, there were no bodies in the streets.

“Schoerner, either there is no gas or it has dissipated. I think we can remove our masks. We might even be safer that way.”

“If it’s all the same with you, Reichminister, I’ll keep mine on for a while longer. Although,” he said thoughtfully, “it does look like you might be correct. Was this a huge charade to cause our army to panic? If it was, it worked marvelously.”

“Halt!” A soldier had worked his way behind them. He had a Thompson submachine gun pointed at them. Curiously, he was wearing the tunic of a German officer, a captain. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. This was no German. It was an American who’d gotten this far in the panic.

“ Scheisse !” howled Schoerner. He pulled out his pistol and fired. He missed. The American ducked and fired his Tommy gun. A dozen bullets struck Schoerner in the head and chest. He collapsed like a bloody wet rag. Something slammed into Goebbels’ shoulder and dropped him as well. It was over. He had to get the cyanide capsule into his mouth.

“No you don’t,” said the American. He pinned Goebbels’ good arm and ignored the screams as he tied it to his wounded one. He ripped off Goebbels’ gas mask and flung it away. In the back of his mind, Goebbels realized that he could indeed breathe. Calloused hands pushed his mouth open and fingers probed for a capsule disguised as a tooth filling. Through his agony, Goebbels regretted never having had that done. He hated dentists and he’d constantly put off having one inserted.

The American took off the German tunic and threw it away. He searched Goebbels’ pockets until he found the jewelry box. He opened it and laughed. Then he continued to search, convinced that where there was one poison cache there might be two.

Satisfied, the American pulled Goebbels to his feet. More American soldiers had arrived and, on seeing that it was Goebbels, began to cheer.

A grinning medic slapped a bandage over Goebbels’ wound and pronounced that it wasn’t serious. “The fucker’ll live long enough to hang. You want me to take him to the hospital or you got plans for him?”

Staff Sergeant Billy Hill grabbed Goebbels by his good elbow and began to propel him towards the shore and through crowds of Americans who were pushing other Germans towards prison pens that were being hastily thrown together.

Hill laughed. Captain Tanner would be pleased rather than pissed by his running off. Damned if he hadn’t caught the biggest snipe of all. The publicity he’d get from this would almost guarantee his getting elected to sheriff. Hell, maybe even to Congress.

Damnation, but this was a good war.

* * *

General Heinrich von Vietinghoff sat behind his desk and drummed his fingers on the highly polished surface while he listened to the reports. Every one of them said that what was left of the German Army was being destroyed. What fools. He tried to tell them that so many months ago. There was no way what remained of the army could withstand the overwhelming might of the Americans, even without their British and French allies. How many lives had been lost or changed because people like Goebbels wanted to save a thousand-year legacy that would last only a little more than a decade?

He had long since seen the light when he was commander of German forces in Italy. He had initiated contact with the Americans through Allen Dulles and tried to negotiate a surrender of German forces under his command. His plans had fallen apart when the now abortive attempt to create an Alpine Redoubt and call it Germanica had begun.