Harry Turtledove - Alternate Generals

He’d known what he was going to say as he left the Eastern front. Here, now, in front of this 2800-room showpiece of the Reich, he had to wonder if he wasn’t being headstrong and stupid. So hot he’d been to get here, the possibility of a charge of desertion hadn’t occurred to him.

Brutal weather had closed behind him an icy door.

He couldn’t run now if he wanted.

Well, he thought cheerfully, that won’t be a problem if they shoot me right here for leaving my command without orders.

He squared his angular shoulders and marched in.

Immediately he was ushered through layers of security without question, as if everyone knew where he wanted to go.

They all knew him on sight. The most decorated man in the Luftwaffe, his picture was in every paper, every magazine, on picture postcards. Handsome. Aryan.

Cameras loved him. He was the man who first broke the Red Baron’s record. The Knight’s Cross at his throat bore oak leaves, swords, and diamonds.

They sent him up the grand stairs through the kind of security gantlet one only passed through to see the Fuhrer.

Oh hell.

Hitler was here. Hadn’t expected this.

May as well be ordered shot from the top.

He touched his hat tucked under his arm. It was flat.

He’d forgotten to put the spring back in. Fighter pilots regularly pulled the damn thing out. Now he was going to look sloppy for the Fuhrer.

Never fear. The trusty adjutant was always good for making pilots presentable. Had dealt with worse. Was relieved that Moelders was sober. Produced a spring.

Hat looks sharp. Back under the arm. All’s well.

Except what was he to say to the Fuhrer?

Before he could rethink, the doors burst open from within. An aide started out, saw Moelders. Eyes big as wall clocks. Turned abruptly back into the room, clicked heels. Announced: “Oberst Werner Moelders.”

A perplexed Moelders advanced to his fate. Quick glance round the room. Hitler not here at the moment.

Absolutely everyone else was. Tin ties all around. The room was top heavy with Luftwaffe commanders who, like himself, ought to be on the front.

And all gawking at him as if seeing a ghost.

Galland, pretending to cough, growled the explanation in his ear, “The last words spoken in this room were:

Get Werner Moelders back here right now!”

A vast expanse of uniform full of the Reichsmarschall advanced to meet him. Ice blue eyes raked up and down the young ace. Goering missed only a beat before he told Moelders flatly, “Faster next time.”

Nobody laughed. It ought to have been funny, and no one laughed. Something grim was afoot.

Porcine eyes stayed fixed hard on Moelders. Goering knew full well that Moelders wasn’t here in answer to any summons. That he’d left the Russian front without orders. Goering prodded with silken menace.

“Apparently you have a report for me.”

Moelders’ speech, rehearsed all the way here on the HE 111 from Tscheplinka airport scattered and blundered out in one lament, “Herr Reichsmarschall, why have you abandoned me?”

Pupils shrank to pinpoints within the ice chips of irises.

Blue Max quivered under his chins. Goering hissed, “Udet talked to you!”

Moelders blinked, adrift.

“Udet?” That was who was missing here. Moelders had an earful prepared for Udet too, the Director General of Equipment. Aircraft production was a singular joke.

“Where is Udet?”

A leaden pause. Someone finally answered, “Dead.”

A hitch. A cough. Sorrow muffled in shock. Heard himself bleat, “How?”

An exchange of eyes. A hesitation.

“It was an accident,” said Goering, pointedly.

“Test flying an experimental aircraft.”

And there was the reason behind the sudden recall of everyone to Berlin—to serve as honor guard at the State funeral for Udet.

Moelders wouldn’t let go of it. All anger, confusion, and demands: How had it happened? What kind of aircraft? Who was the Erk? Had sabotage been ruled out? Where was the SS when you actually wanted them?

He wanted a thorough investigation-Finally catching furtive desperate wave-offs from the other pilots as if he were coming in for a wheels-up landing.

He shut up.

A door opened. Heels rapped together. Hells. Nothing more to be said now. Only listen to Hitler talk of the fallen ace Udet, of the Great War, of sacrifice, duty, honor, destiny.

Once outside among his own land, Moelders took up his questions again. Where had Udet crashed? How?

“Let it go, Moelders.” Galland cupped his hand against the wind to light his cigar.

“Just let it lie.” Wagged out the match. Turned up his leather collar.

“And stay clear of the Fat One. You drilled him whether you know it or not.”

“I don’t like operating without complete information.”

“You’ll just have to.” Galland clamped his teeth on his cigar.

“There are no answers to those questions.”

“Someone must know—” Galland wrenched the cigar from his mouth, spelled it out for him, “There aren’t any answers, because they haven’t made up that part of the story yet, you dickhead!”

Moelders blinked great eyes like a deer in the crosshairs.

Let Galland yell at him:

“It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t even in an airplane. It was a free death.”

Moelders murmured hollowly, bewildered, “They didn’t say.”

“And they’re not going to. Can’t tell the German people the second highest scoring ace of the Great War was so depressed he took his own life.”

Blinked quickly. Turned his large eyes up to keep tears trapped. Felt his face crinkle, lips twitch. Meant to sound calm, official. Ought to be used to losing friends by now.

Voice betrayed him, bobbled all over, “Did he say why?”

“No one’s admitting it even happened. But rumor has it there was a note scrawled on his bed board ...”

Dark eyes gleamed black humor. Smoke jetted from his nostrils.

Dark mustache spread with the wry twisting of his lips.

“It said something like: Reichsmarschall, why have you abandoned me?”

They carried the Old Eagle to rest next to Richthofen in the Invaliden Cemetery under a somber November sky. It was a long procession. Nazi salutes lined the streets on either side, and Moelders and Galland, mismatched bookends, marched a slow goose step alongside the flag-draped coffin on its horse-drawn caisson. Goering brought up the rear.

At the gravesite the Reichsmarschall bid Udet arise to Valhalla. Moelders crossed himself. Knew he’d hear about that one later. And did.

Felt as if he’d just walked over his own grave.

Moelders was taking off his black arm band when he had a visitor. Filled the entire doorway. His shadow fell across everything.

Which Hermann is this? Moelders had to wonder. The jolly, magnanimous ace of the first war who wants to be my buddy? Or the demanding, small, tantrum-throwing dictator? And how angry is he?

“I thought I grounded you, Moelders.”

It’s my buddy. Moelders relaxed.

“I haven’t been flying fighters,” he hedged.

“I’m told every morning you fly over the front in a Feisler Storch.”

This had been reported with gushing admiration-how Moelders carried his own radio right up to the front, dove into a fox hole, and directed the fighter attack from where he could provide up-to-the-second information.

Moelders was always a lead-from-the-front sort of man.

Greyhound slender, with a deceptively delicate look, he was easy to underestimate. Got airsick. Flew anyway.

Always thinking of better ways to do things.

He had been the one to break up the tight, showy, ridiculous, Italian air show triads that had once been the prescribed formation for fighters in combat. You spent more effort keeping formation than you did watching for the enemy. Moelders spread his fighters out and sent them up in pairs: One to hunt, one to watch both your tails. Fighter and wingman. You didn’t even think of flying any other way now. It became the basic fighting unit in the Luftwaffe—and of every other air force that ran up against its deadly-efficient simplicity.