Early the next day and after a shower and a bland breakfast, he found himself waiting with a bunch of other officers, most of whom were young and fresh-faced second lieutenants. They looked at him with a degree of wonder.
“Morgan, John C., Captain,” came the call.
Jack walked over to the table where a staff sergeant named Sweeney awaited. “Here are your orders, Captain. You will report ASAP to the 74th Armored Regiment. Grab your gear and a Jeep will take you to them.”
“Armor? You sure, Sergeant? I’m a pilot, not a tanker.”
The sergeant shrugged. “This came directly from the major running this place. He said the 74th requested a captain and you’re the only captain here right now. Congratulations.”
“I don’t know a thing about tanks,” Jack said and realized he was sounding whiny and foolish.
Sergeant Sweeney shrugged eloquently. He didn’t care. “If you know what a tank looks like, you’re way ahead of those adolescent virgin second lieutenants who are standing there and wondering what we’re talking about. And welcome to the real army, sir.”
Sergeant Sweeney was right. Borderline insubordinate, but right. But what the devil would he do in an armored unit? Supply? Probably. Jesus, he didn’t want to spend the war handing out underwear and pillowcases.
“Thank you, Sergeant Sweeney, and may you someday get reassigned to submarines as a deck hand.” Sweeney laughed.
Varner had never met Heinrich Himmler and had never wanted to. The man’s name was synonymous with terror and death.
In person he appeared pasty faced, even worse than his pictures. Himmler’s fishy eyes looked coldly at him. Varner willed himself to be calm. This man was even more dangerous than the Soviets had been at Stalingrad. Heinrich Himmler controlled the SS and the Gestapo, and might now be the heir to the late Adolf Hitler. Himmler held the power of life and death in the Third Reich. Many thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands, had disappeared, were tortured, and died without trial at his whim.
Himmler’s detractors liked to claim that the forty-five-year-old Reichsfuhrer was nothing more than an ignorant chicken farmer, an opportunist, a murderer, and a man who’d ridden Hitler’s coattails to prominence. They were correct, but Heinrich Himmler was now one of the most important men in Germany, if not its most important man thanks to the events at Rastenberg.
Varner was glad that he wasn’t alone in Himmler’s conference room in the basement of the Reich Chancellery located in the heart of Berlin. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt represented the army and was now its de facto head because of the deaths of Jodl and Keitel. He was the man Varner had immediately notified by radio from Rastenberg. Varner had served under him in Russia and the sixty-nine-year-old field marshal had left his current position in France to fly back to Berlin and take control of the military aspects of the developing situation. The field marshal was terse and unlikeable, but thoroughly professional. He was bringing order back from the chaos that was the decapitated OKW.
Himmler bit his lower lip and glared at Varner. “You did extraordinarily well, Colonel Varner. The world still thinks Hitler is recovering from his wounds instead of lying in an ice-filled coffin in his train en route to Berlin. It might have been better if you had notified me first, but you are a soldier and contacting von Rundstedt must have made sense.”
“It did, sir, and I apologize if I should have done differently.”
“I’m quite certain he had no way of contacting you, Reichsfuhrer,” von Rundstedt said.
Himmler blinked and waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. Everything is going well and you are to be commended for your presence of mind in both sealing off the compound and convincing those around that the Fuhrer was alive. Everything is under control and Goebbels is going to end the rumors and formally announce that Hitler is injured. We will announce his demise in the very near future when the time is appropriate. There remains some fear that dissident elements, traitors, remnant Jews, and communists, will attempt to take advantage of any chaos and confusion.
“However, that is not my main concern. Tell me, Colonel, do you have any idea just how the Americans came to know that the Fuhrer was going to be at that particular place and at that particular time?”
The question stunned Varner. He had thought the bombing a tragic accident of war, but could it be that it was assassination, and not an accident? “Sir, I have no idea.”
“You were with von Stauffenberg. Did he say anything suspicious?”
“No sir. We had just managed lighting our cigarettes, no small feat when our wounds are considered, when the bomber suddenly appeared quite low overhead. We both jumped into a slit trench and tried to make ourselves very small. Otherwise, we had not spoken.”
Himmler leaned back in his chair. “And how did you know each other?”
Varner felt himself beginning to sweat. He caught von Rundstedt out of the corner of his eye. The old general was expressionless, a flinty statue.
“We first met at the hospital. We were both there for therapy on our wounds. Prior to that I did not know him personally, although I had heard of him. Most people in the army had, of course.”
Himmler nodded and Varner forced himself to exhale. Was it possible that von Stauffenberg had been part of a plot to assassinate Hitler, and, if so, had he somehow managed to carry it out?
There was a pause as Josepf Goebbels, the clubfooted and diminutive Minister of Information and Propaganda limped in and took a seat. The most important people in the Nazi hierarchy were now together, with the exception of Hermann Goering and Martin Bormann. Varner thought Goering’s absence was particularly curious. It was commonly suspected that the obese air marshal was the heir to Hitler’s Germany, and not Himmler. It was also rumored that he spent most of his time in a narcotic haze.
Himmler nodded to Goebbels to speak. “Thank you, Reichsfuhrer Himmler,” he said formally. “We are just now announcing confirmation of the rumors that Adolf Hitler was wounded in an air raid. We shall issue medical updates as needed until the Fuhrer recovers enough to be interviewed.”
Himmler turned towards Varner. “Tell him, Colonel.”
Varner took a deep breath. “Adolf Hitler is dead. I helped pull his body from the rubble in Rastenberg and planted the tale that he was merely wounded.”
Goebbels reacted as if he’d been punched in the gut. He paled and hunched over. “God in heaven, no.”
“There is no God and there is no heaven.” Himmler sneered. “Colonel Varner acted heroically by hiding the fact of Hitler’s death, and may have saved the Reich from forces that wish to destroy it.”
“I understand,” Goebbels said. Grief was etched on his face. “Thank you, Colonel.”
Himmler continued. He was clearly in charge. “Along with that announcement, there are other steps to be taken. First, all of Stauffenberg’s friends and family will be rounded up and interrogated. Gently, at first, until and if we find a conspiracy, and then more harshly. Tell me, General von Rundstedt, is possible that the Allies have radio controlled weapons like we do?”
Field Marshal von Rundstedt was a proud man and he bristled at being referred to as a mere general. However, he did not correct Himmler. “Indeed it is possible. We sank a ship in Naples harbor with one and there is no reason to assume the Allies don’t have them either.”
Himmler nodded. “Which might explain the fact that Stauffenberg’s briefcase was empty. Perhaps he had a signaling device in it which he used to guide the bomber.”
Or, Varner thought, had the contents of the briefcase merely blown away, or had he left whatever papers he’d brought with Jodl or Keitel?