Robert Conroy - North Reich

A few yards away from them and out of earshot, Grant watched as the last vehicle passed by. The military prisoners had cheered, while the civilians showed a range of emotions. Basically, they were still scared.

“What now?” asked Landry.

Damn good question, Tom thought. He’d always wanted an independent command, and now he had one. But what the hell had he inherited? He had Landry’s small company of Rangers as a core, but the next best unit was Lambert’s detachment of police from Toronto and other local communities. He had several hundred Canadian volunteers from the reserve units in the area and he felt that they might give a good account of themselves when the Germans who had to be chasing the prisoners showed up. Many of them had served in the First World War, which was both a benefit and a curse. They had combat experience, but now, more than twenty years later, many were long in the tooth and out of shape.

What he also didn’t have was weapons and ammunition. The Rangers had what they’d brought, which wasn’t much, maybe six or eight clips per man. The police had revolvers and shotguns and very little extra ammo. The same with the volunteers. They’d broken into several armories and armed themselves with old Enfield rifles and any ammunition they could find. Altogether, they had enough for one quick skirmish and then they’d be out. Nor did they have any artillery and they only had a handful of machine guns. More than one volunteer had nothing more than a shotgun or a hunting rifle.

Landry’s radio operators had been in contact with Truscott’s headquarters, but his men were fighting desperate German units south of Toronto and needed everything they had in the way of air assets for themselves. Yes, they would try to help, but they didn’t know how much they could provide.

Damn it, he thought, he had to delay the Nazis long enough for the caravan of former prisoners to get far enough away to be safe. Oh yeah, Tom thought. It would be nice for him and his men to save their own butts as well.

Field Marshal Guderian was livid. That shithead Neumann had lost his prisoners and now wanted help finding them. He was of a mind to tell Neumann to go fuck himself, but one did not do that to a Gestapo commandant. No, he would provide help for the Gestapo chief even though it was the worst of times — both his military fronts were crumbling.

To the west, Patton’s flanking movement had succeeded in dislodging General Raus’s army which was on the verge of disintegrating. The German retreat towards Toronto was in danger of becoming a rout. North of the Niagara, Steiner’s front was fighting a ferocious battle against Bradley’s army which was steadily pushing him back and causing heavy casualties. Most of the German armor had been committed and almost all of what remained of the Luftwaffe had been destroyed. He had hated to use his remaining tanks as part of a defensive line instead of having them attack and destroy the enemy, but American control of the air prohibited that.

However, he did have an SS regiment that had been mauled in battle and was being re-equipped near Toronto. It was perfect. He gave the order to send them north to help Neumann, but not before stripping them of any artillery and armor they might still possess. He doubted they’d need either against a mob of prisoners and those who’d freed them. He would have it both ways. He’d keep the guts of the regiment in reserve while sending two battalions of infantry to do whatever Neumann wanted.

Well, he thought, almost anything. “Koenig, come here.”

Koenig snapped a salute. Guderian smiled grimly and handed him a piece of paper. “These are your orders. You are to go with Neumann as he recaptures the prisoners. Your job will be so see to it that they are not massacred. Do you understand?”

“I do, sir,” Koenig responded.

Yes, Guderian thought, Koenig understood fully. The German armies in Canada were being destroyed and surrender might just be the next option. There would be enough to answer for and no one wanted to be accused of war crimes resulting from the massacre of American and Canadian prisoners. Whether he liked it or not, Koenig would indeed try to protect the prisoners. Guderian’s only question was how would he do that when surrounded by the Gestapo, the Black Shirts and two battalions of SS?

Canfield was too close to the front lines which made Dubinski and others nervous, but that was where he felt a good commander should be. He was not going to build a fortress and try to control events from behind thick walls like Fredendall had.

He had to admit that the krauts were fighting hard and skillfully and making the Americans pay for every foot, every inch that they wrested from them. Many Germans had crossed the line between fighting hard and into fanaticism. What kind of mad loyalty had Hitler inspired, he wondered? Canfield answered his own question. Hitler had turned an entire civilized nation to madness.

But the Germans were crumbling. Finally. Enemy troops were surrendering more frequently now. This bunch now approaching was typical. Canfield counted seventeen of them led by a German sergeant and guarded by a handful of GIs. The Germans looked beaten. Being bombed and shelled all day and night will do that to a man, Dubinski had said. The Germans were gaunt and dirty. Their uniforms were in tatters and some appeared to be dazed, although a couple looked at their captors with undisguised hatred.

Many of the Germans had the leaflets that had been raining down on them for several days. They were promised food, shelter, and clothing if they quit. They were told they’d be sent to work on farms in places like Kansas, which had led some to approach American lines while gripping the leaflets and yelling out “Kansas,” which amused the GIs.

He and Dubinski and a couple of others were standing on one side of a road while the prisoners walked slowly down the others. Neither prisoners nor guards were in any great hurry to reach their destination. One waved a leaflet and grinned.

He’d seen enough. Dubinski and the others were right. If he could almost brush sleeves with enemy soldiers, even if they were surrendering, he was too damn close to the action. He needed to be where he could command.

“Grenade!”

Canfield had only a quick glimpse of a German potato masher grenade rolling towards him. A shadow passed in front and it was followed by an explosion that threw him to the ground. For an instant he thought he was dead; but then realized that he’d survived. He lurched to his feet and stared down in horror. Dubinski had taken the brunt of the explosion and his shattered and bloody body had been torn to shreds. His eyes were still open and he still seemed to see. Canfield knelt down beside his friend.

“You saved me,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Dubinski tried to respond but the only sound he made was a gurgle. The light then left his eyes.

“Sons of bitches,” someone yelled and gunfire followed. Canfield was unable to stop the guards and other Americans from pouring fire into the Germans who screamed and fell as they were shot. In just a few seconds it was over and the column of German prisoners had been reduced to a bloody heap.

Part of Canfield’s mind said it hadn’t been necessary to kill all of the Germans since it was likely that only one had carried the grenade. But which one, he wondered, and how many of the others knew the soldier had carried it and was planning to use it?

Another thought intruded as he fought for control of his emotions. He was almost shaking from the shock of such close by death. There was blood all over his uniform and it was all Dubinski’s. Had his old friend from what seemed an eternity ago jumped on the grenade to save his and other’s lives, or had he simply stumbled and fallen on it while trying to get away?