In the background, other pilots were making similar comments. They did not like endangering themselves in a propaganda run of dubious merit. Normally, their squadron leaders would be carping at them to shut up the idle chatter, but even they were silent. Let the troops bitch all they want. The next time it might not be so easy.
* * *
Leaflets covered the ground several sheets thick in some places. Wolfgang Hummel and Martin Schubert clambered out of their two man foxhole and ran towards a pile of papers. They scooped them up with both hands and ran back to their dugout and then returned for more.
“What the devil are you doing?” screamed Lieutenant Pfister. “If the Gestapo sees you reading that American propaganda, you’ll get a bullet in the back of the head.”
“They’re probably picking up their own,” laughed Schubert. “Just feel how soft this is.”
The lieutenant grabbed a couple of sheets and squeezed. “By God, you’re right.”
“Not even the Gestapo can complain if we wipe our asses with American reading material,” added Hummel. “Let’s face it, Lieutenant, Germany has been short of so many things and toilet paper has been one of them. My ass is raw from using whatever sandpaper they send us or whatever we can find.”
“Good point,” said Pfister as he reached for some himself. “If anybody asks, tell them that I gave you orders to keep the area clean and to keep this sick propaganda from contaminating younger soldiers.”
The men returned to their little fort where they divided the paper into two scrupulously equal piles. How much each man used each time would be up to him. They jokingly reminded each other to wipe with the inked side out so it wouldn’t run. When they were done, they sat down and read the sheets of paper.
Hummel spoke first. “This one says we’ll get plenty of good food, clothing, and shelter, and we’ll be sent back to our families within a few weeks. Do you believe it?”
“The Americans always have enough food, more than enough if you ask me. So yes, I believe we’ll get better food than we’re getting now. Of course,” he laughed harshly, “I’m not too sure how it could get any worse.”
“But what about getting us back to our families?” asked Hummel. He could not keep a sense of longing from his voice. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We have no idea where our families are or even if they’re still alive. We may never see our families again. The cities have been destroyed and the roads are no longer there. How would we even make the trip?”
Schubert agreed. “True, but how much chance of finding out do we have while we’re sitting on our asses in a dirty hole in what used to be Austria?”
“Then we will continue to try to surrender without getting shot by either the Americans or some Nazi fanatic like Pfister.”
Schubert shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder about Pfister. He has to make a lot of Nazi noises because he’s an officer, but I wonder just how sincere and devout he is.”
“Are you confident enough to let him help us try to surrender?”
“Hell no,” exclaimed Schubert. “I think it’s more likely that we’ll have to kill him than it is that he will help us.”
“A shame,” said Hummel, “but we’re much more important than he is.”
There was more than one version of the leaflets. A second one was titled “Are These Your Leaders?” and showed photos of various high-ranking Nazis either dead or in captivity. They laughed at the picture of Goering in a chair with an American MP beside him. “I wonder if he knew where he was?” laughed Hummel. Goering’s problems with drugs and alcohol were common knowledge. Additional photos showed Admirals Doenitz and Raeder and Field Marshals Jodl and Keitel. The most shocking photo was of a very dead Heinrich Himmler.
“But no pictures of the Fuhrer’s body,” said Schubert. He spoke softly. Even in a foxhole he did not want to be overheard. “Does that mean he might not be truly dead or is it that no one would recognize his body?”
Hummel shook his head. “Once upon a time I worshipped the ground he walked on. Now I don’t know. And I don’t think it matters if he is alive or not. Germany has been well and truly defeated, and I just want to get out of here and go home.”
“Wolfgang, don’t you wonder how many others feel like we do?”
“Are you thinking of planning a mutiny, then go someplace else. I trust you and you trust me, but we can’t possibly talk to anyone else about our feelings. The SS or the Gestapo would be on to us in an instant.”
* * *
SS Colonel Hahn had been unable to discover any Jews in Germanica. Indeed, as he told Goebbels, he would have been astounded to find any. “Any Jew fortunate to remain alive in Germany and with even a fraction of a brain would have headed across the Swiss border and sanctuary.”
“But the Swiss did not always admit Jews,” said Goebbels. “Although I think they would have in this instance. Once again the Swiss are caught between two powers. If they toady to us and turn back or return Jews, then the Americans will be outraged. Open up their borders and we will be angry. Frankly, I would let them take any Jew who wants to leave. After all we’ve done to chase them and capture them, there just can’t be that many Hebrews still remaining within a hundred miles of Germanica.”
“I totally agree, sir, which is why I am focusing on this kind of danger to the new Reich,” he said as he handed over several sheets of paper. “Our soldiers are being bombarded, literally, with this kind of filth. American planes fly overhead with impunity and drop these pieces of propaganda on our soldiers.”
Goebbels examined them carefully. “As propaganda minister, I must admit that they could be fairly effective. Has there been any indication that the men are reading these?”
Hahn laughed and told him that many soldiers were using them as toilet paper, which Goebbels thought was hilarious. “Perhaps, Colonel, we should issue toilet paper with the pictures of Truman, Stalin, and Churchill on them. But first, of course, we have to start production of toilet paper. It is just one item in the very long list of things that are either in short supply or not available at all. More important is whether or not any of our soldiers are taking these inducements to surrender seriously.”
“Indeed, Minister, which is why I wish authorization to suspend any searches for Jews in the Redoubt area. If there are any left, and I doubt that there are more than a handful remaining, I believe they should be ignored and our efforts focused on searching out malcontents in the army.”
Goebbels stood and paced his office. Once again he was annoyed that it was so small. He made a mental note to get Speer’s people to create something more suitable for the head of the state of Germanica.
“Hahn, you are absolutely correct. Instead of searching for phantom Jews, we must totally and ruthlessly suppress any signs of discontent. Our situation here is very fragile and I am well aware that most of our army does not consist of people who would die for us. Therefore, you must show no mercy. Don’t let anything distract you from that goal, not even your wish to punish the spy who escaped from you in Bregenz.”
Hahn winced. “I didn’t know that you were aware of that little incident.”
Goebbels could not help but smile. “I believe just about everyone in Germanica has heard about it, Colonel.”
Hahn smiled tightly. This would be all the more reason to make the little bitch suffer.
“Minister, I do anticipate soldiers either trying to surrender to the Americans or trying to cross the border into Switzerland. I request permission to greatly strengthen the border fence and send some small boats of our own out on the lake to stop soldiers from either trying to get to Switzerland or to the Americans who are also on the lake.”
“Do it. And make sure our ships are armed and that the crews have permission to shoot to kill.”
* * *
Since shooting that sick old Jew, Werewolf Hans Gruber hadn’t had the opportunity to kill anyone. He didn’t even like to think of that Jew with his brains splattered all over the floor of the cave. What he had done sickened him. He understood what the SS officer who was now a brigadier general was trying to do. He’d been trying to toughen young Hans Gruber and mold him into the kind of fighting man who would bring pride to the Werewolves. The more he thought about it, the more Gruber still didn’t like killing the man even though he had been a Jew. He was proud to be a German soldier and even prouder to be a Werewolf, but he wanted to kill real enemies, not sickly scrawny kikes. His parents were proud that he was a Nazi but he wondered if they would have approved of the murder-and that’s exactly what it was, a murder. He wanted to go after the Reich’s real enemies, the Americans.