Robert Conroy - Germanica

Vietinghoff sipped some very bad and cold black coffee and looked at the reports chronicling the litany of disasters. The gas attack that had been no gas attack had sown panic and confusion among much of the army. As a result, the Americans were in Bregenz and tens of thousands of German soldiers were now prisoners of war. All he had left were a few understrength divisions situated east of Bregenz.

The Americans had announced that Schoerner was dead and that Goebbels was a prisoner. Vietinghoff thought that it should have happened sooner. An aide had unctuously informed him that he was now the ranking person in the Third Reich, the new Fuhrer. The aide had the good sense not to suggest that he would likely be the last Fuhrer. What, therefore, were his plans?

Vietinghoff stood and glared at his staff, as if daring them to argue with him. They looked so defeated he didn’t think was likely. “Gentlemen, we have a choice. We can choose either life or death. I choose life and I order you to choose it as well. I wish to be connected with General Truscott.”

A few moments later and the raspy-voiced Texan was on the radio. There was an interpreter, but he wasn’t needed. The German general’s English was up to the very basic task before them.

“General Truscott, I wish to surrender what remains of the German army. I am in the process of ordering all units to cease fire and lay down their arms. I sincerely hope that you will command your units to accept my army’s surrender and that it occurs both quickly and without incident. I wish to bring an end to this foolish extension of a war that should never have been fought. We can arrange a formal signing of a surrender document at any time and place of your choosing. In the meantime, I wish to stop the killing.”

“My orders are going out as we speak,” said Truscott. To Vietinghoff it sounded like the American’s voice was heavy with emotion. Well, his was too. Perhaps someday he would be able to go home.

* * *

Archie Dixon’s Sherman tank plowed through the knee-deep water and onto dry land just outside Bregenz. As instructed, their hatches were closed. Even though the white cloud might not have been deadly, it was, they were told, uncomfortable and could incapacitate Driver and play hell with Gunner’s vision. That meant closed hatches, even though that might make them targets for fanatics with Panzerfausts or Molotov cocktails. As it was, a few bullets had pinged off their hull and turret. No harm had been done to men or tank, but it had been unsettling.

Dixon was pleased that Gunner had fired on seeing the flashes and hit the target with the first round. The building hiding the shooter had already been badly damaged and the rest of it flew to pieces when their 76mm shell hit and exploded. Dixon had trained them all well.

At first they’d thought it annoying that they had to wear gas masks. But now, as they drove slowly through throngs of choking, gasping and terrified German soldiers and gaunt, frightened civilians, they changed their minds.

Dixon stopped his tank in the charred mess that had been the town square of Bregenz. He was amazed. He had just seen Josef Goebbels being hustled onto the back of a truck. Even better, he and his new crew had survived the war. He climbed out of the tank and his crew followed. They looked at him with apprehension and a little bit of fear. He had been a monstrous and cold taskmaster. But he had won. They had all survived. He could be a human being again.

Dixon slipped off his mask and took a quick breath. The tear gas was almost gone, dissipated and blown away. He took a deeper one and signaled for the crew to do the same. They did and looked around in amazement. Several German soldiers came up, lay down their rifles and stood with their hands up. Some grinned sheepishly like this whole thing had been a silly mistake and could we all go home now?

For the first time in a long while, he grinned and turned to his crew. They had climbed out and stood beside him. “Guys, what say we go find a bar and get a beer or six?”

* * *

Lena found Tanner in Doc Hagerman’s clinic. He was sitting on a table while a medic swathed his feet in ointment and wrapped them in white bandages. Hagerman looked at her. “I told the foolish little boy not to get his feet wet, so what does he go and do? Why he spends all day playing soldier in cold mud and water. So now he has a flare-up that was caused by his initial trench foot incident. This has to stop.”

“So what are you going to do?” she asked timidly.

“Why, after I’m through curing him again, I am going to sign papers that will have his worthless ass thrown out of the army. You two might as well book passage on a ship back to the U.S., unless you’d like to fly. I’ve got some friends in the air force who can arrange it.”

She slid easily into Tanner’s arms. Neither cared who saw. “I think flying is a great idea,” Tanner said, and Lena nodded. “I’ve had enough of Europe.”

* * *

Swiss soldiers had moved several hundred yards inside what had been the German border. It was necessary in order to control the large numbers of people who wanted to leave the remnants of Germany. The Swiss were meticulous. They would ultimately admit everyone, but they wanted to know who each person was. That some of the more odious Nazis would disappear was obvious and none of their business.

Ernie Janek was getting used to life on crutches and enjoying the scene. The curtain on the final act of the Third Reich had fallen. The Twilight of the Gods part of the Wagnerian opera had ended with a ludicrous whimper and not in flames of glory. An entire army had run from a terror weapon that wasn’t. The German army might never recover from the embarrassment. Good.

Winnie slipped her hand in his. “I’ve arranged for us to go and see Vietinghoff formally surrender. It’s going to be across the lake in Constance. You’ll have to be careful of your leg.”

“I was planning on it.”

“I’ve also arranged an elegant suite for us in a hotel overlooking the lake. With all those American warships out there, the view won’t be as lovely as it could be, but who plans on looking out a window? I just want to learn how to make love to a man with a broken leg.”

“Carefully,” Ernie said, “very, very carefully.”

* * *

In the White House, Werner Heisenberg was well on his way to being drunk. He was being toasted for the failure of Germany’s atomic bomb. He’d almost passed out when word that the warhead on the rocket had been a dud. Heisenberg wondered if there had even been a warhead on the V1. Esau had likely been working in a secure area and could have filled the warhead with sand.

He’d even been hugged by Harry Truman, who clearly had been crying. He’d been informed that his incarceration would cease immediately. He could go wherever he wanted, but with one exception. General Groves said he would not be able to work with the American scientists in what was called the Manhattan Project. So be it. He’d had enough of nuclear weapons. He would go back to Germany-the American zone, of course-and try to pick up the pieces of his life.

The newspaper said it was the Fourth of July, 1960. In the United States they would be celebrating their independence with fireworks, picnics, baseball and beer. Not so Alfonse Hahn, former general in the SS. The war in Europe had been over for almost fifteen years. The world had changed and not for the better. Hahn still could not fathom a world where the Jews had their own nation and had defeated other countries in order to keep it. Who knew that Jews could and would fight? And now they had their own secret police force, the Mossad. Like the worms they were, the Mossad slithered all over the world and part of their job was to seek out and either kill or capture what they referred to as Nazi war criminals.