“How long will you be here in Arbon before you have to go and do whatever you’re going to do?” Winnie asked.
“As long as is necessary. Mr. Dulles did not give us a precise schedule. As to what we are going to do, I understand it involves observing the movement of German supplies from Arbon to Bregenz and out to the troops in the field.”
Ernie was puzzled. “No sabotage?”
“Not at this time, although the three of us could certainly accomplish it. I’m sure that we could be supplied with dynamite or nitroglycerine.”
“How did they get you here?” Ernie asked.
Marie answered for the group. Apparently she was the spokesperson. Either that or the other two’s English wasn’t all that good. “We came in the back of a truck. We’d arrived by plane in Zurich two days ago.”
“Are you going to be confined to this building or will you be allowed to go out?” Winnie asked.
Marie laughed. “Are you suggesting that we act like the schoolgirls we once were and go shopping in marvelous Arbon? I can’t imagine that we’ll find anything to match Wanamaker’s in Philadelphia. Sorry, but I think we’ll stay right here and out of sight until Dulles decides when he wants us to move out.”
Winnie was a little chagrined. Of course they could not allow themselves to be seen by any of the Germans wandering Arbon. They could not risk being identified and followed. But it did feel good to have someone she’d actually known from her life as an ordinary person. She wondered if she could ever go back to an ordinary life. She knew that Ernie was thinking much along the same line. How did the old song go? Oh yes, how you gonna keep them down on the farm after they’d seen Paree? Well, Switzerland wasn’t Gay Paree, but being part of the OSS was more thrilling and fulfilling than anything she’d done in her life.
* * *
Joseph Goebbels did not particularly like General Walter Warlimont. Goebbels acknowledged that Warlimont had worked marvels in creating everything that remained of the Third Reich at Bregenz and outlying areas. There was still the nagging feeling that Warlimont simply hadn’t been caught in the July 20, 1944 plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler.
Goebbels slammed the papers down on his desk and spoke harshly. “What do you mean that German soldiers have contracted scurvy? Isn’t that the illness that affects sailors?”
Warlimont was unfazed. Contrary to the rumors, he had been a devout supporter of Hitler and felt that Goebbels was a pale and second-rate imitation of his Fuhrer. “Scurvy will affect anyone who doesn’t get enough Vitamin C. If unchecked, a patient will die. If Vitamin C can be located and given to a patient in sufficient quantities, the patient will recover, possibly fully. Right now we have several thousand soldiers suffering from the extremely painful and debilitating problem. If we cannot get enough Vitamin C to the men, the German Army will cease to exist.”
The blunt answer subdued Goebbels. “Then what do you propose, General?”
Warlimont shrugged. “The answer is obvious, Minister. We must get some Vitamin C. There are vitamin tablets that can be manufactured and perhaps acquired from the Swiss. I very much doubt that we can get much in the way of fruits or vegetables, but apparently eating some meats will help. I suggest that the next shipment of foodstuffs from Switzerland include vitamin tablets and the right meats. We simply cannot have our soldiers existing on field rations for extensive periods of time.”
Goebbels sat down and sagged. He had just received other news from Field Marshal Schoerner, who’d forwarded additionally unwelcome information from Generals Rendulic and von Vietinghoff. The gist of their problems was that ammunition and fuel were being expended at a rate faster than anticipated. Soon, Goebbels thought glumly, what remained of the German Army would be both sick and impotent.
“Marshal Schoerner, what do you propose as a solution?”
“We have enough ammunition for one last major battle. Perhaps we should launch an all-out attack in an attempt to shock the Americans. Perhaps they will think we are stronger than we actually are and begin negotiations.”
Goebbels was not convinced. “That sounds very much what the late Fuhrer hoped would be the results of the attack in the Ardennes. It was a failure and led to the collapse of the Western front. If your attack becomes a suicide attack, everything we have here will be destroyed.”
“Minister, only the stupid and racially inferior Japanese commit suicide attacks. I do not propose anything resembling a kamikaze attack. I would like to hit the Americans hard and drive them back in a limited assault. Our goal would be to show that we cannot be taken easily. There is no possibility of driving them more than a few miles, but even that might shake them. Thanks to the Swiss, we can monitor civilian radio broadcasts and there are apparently growing numbers of civilian protests in the United States, even riots, over the continuation of the war with us. The American people want peace with Germany so they can concentrate on destroying Japan.”
Goebbels leaned back in his chair. What Warlimont proposed made sense. He would have to ask if using the atomic bomb would be an appropriate weapon to support the attack or if it would be better to wait for an American offensive before considering its use.
* * *
Mildred Ruffino was hot and sweaty. Her several layers of clothing, including a heavy girdle, were clinging to her. The fifty-five-year-old grandmother, however, would not be deterred no matter how humid and sticky Washington D.C. was. She had a goal and that was to help bring home the boys home from Europe. She was not totally consumed by the need for peace. She understood fully that the nasty little Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor and needed to be punished severely. She further understood that it would cost additional lives. For Mildred and her family, some of the price had already been paid. One of her nephews was in a hospital in Honolulu getting over the fact that he’d lost much of his left foot on some awful place called Peleliu. Another neighbor had lost a son fighting in France and that was where she thought it should end. Hitler and Mussolini were dead and what was left of Nazi Germany was nothing more than a little corner of that nation. Some people were making noises saying that the country couldn’t trust Joe Stalin, but that was nonsense. For years every American had been told by FDR that we could trust good old Uncle Joe, so who was this little piss-ant imitation of a president, Harry Truman, to tell her otherwise?
Why not just dig a ditch around the place called Germanica and let the Nazi inhabitants all starve to death if they didn’t want to surrender? It would serve them right. It would also bring home her oldest son, who was in the 82nd Airborne Division and God only knew what plans the army had for him. Why the devil he had ever volunteered to be a paratrooper was beyond her. Mildred thanked the lord that one of her other sons was a sophomore in high school and too young to be drafted, while the oldest, Joey, had a bad foot that made him 4F. Of course, rules could be changed and they could start drafting infants if the army needed the manpower.
So here she was, marching around the White House along with a couple thousand other Americans, mainly women. They all carried signs urging Harry Truman to get them out of what they felt was the unnecessary German war. They’d enjoyed being interviewed and photographed by reporters but now the heat of the day was getting to them. Mildred congratulated herself on having had the common sense to bring a canteen filled with water and put it in her oversize purse. Still, she gave herself another hour before she would have to surrender to the oppressive weather. Already she’d had to share some of the water with one of her companions who looked red-faced and terrible. She didn’t want to be told what she looked like.
“There he is,” someone shrieked. Sure enough, there was Harry Truman and he was beginning one of his frequent walks. She had to give the little man credit. He knew that he was going to have to run the gauntlet of angry protesters but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that deter him. The protesters would follow him and dog him and shout at him to stop the war. Truman would wave and smile and continue walking at his usual brisk pace. As always a handful of younger reporters started to walk with him but soon gave up.