Himmler smiled at Galland. The situation wasn’t his fault. “I am certain that all your pilots will do their best.”
Galland accepted the gesture. Yes, they would do their best with too few planes and too few pilots. Now that there was a cease fire on the Eastern Front, pilot training had commenced in German occupied areas of Poland. Hopefully, they were far enough away to keep the Americans from shooting down the trainees, and, as long as the Russians stayed back, the trainees would have time to learn their craft. The Luftwaffe would fly and die for the Reich. They had no other choice.
CHAPTER 20
Privates Feeney and Gomez walked slowly through the 74th’s motor pool. The ground was slushy and churned up from a multitude of trucks and tanks. Care had to be taken to not trip and fall into the mess. A light wet snow was falling, barely covering the ground.
They were on guard duty, protecting the trucks and tanks of the 74th, but neither man was taking things all that seriously. It was, after all, the dead of winter and they were well away from the Rhine which the krauts couldn’t cross in the first place. Even so, their weapons were loaded and they kept an eye out. There might not be any krauts around, but there were officers who might try to catch them goofing off.
Captain Morgan had warned them to be on the lookout for saboteurs or spies, but neither man thought it was likely a Nazi could get this far. To keep themselves alert and pass the time, they teased each other.
“How many more rosaries, Feeney?”
“Maybe six hundred, damn it. Hey, don’t you Mexies say one each day? Maybe you and your Mexican buddies could say some for me.”
“Feeney, how many times I gotta tell you, we ain’t Mexican any more than you’re an Irishman. I’m from California and you’re from Boston. In fact, my ancestors were in California long before your people came over from Ireland, and they were literate long before your people knew what writing was about.”
“Screw you,” Feeney said genially, happy that he’d gotten to his friend. If you had to walk around a lonely motor pool in the cold and snow, then it was good to be with a buddy.
Gomez grabbed Feeney’s arm. “What the hell, tracks.”
The only tracks they’d seen in the new snow while on their rounds were their own. This fresh set of tracks was clearly somebody new. It was either saboteurs or some prick of an officer trying to trap them. The two men looked at each other and began to follow the tracks. As one, they shifted their rifles off their shoulders so they could be fired.
They turned a corner and were confronted by a row of the new M26 tanks. The footprints disappeared in between them. They could hear muffled sounds of someone working on a tank. Maybe it was a mechanic with a job to do, or maybe it was something else, something sinister. They walked farther and saw a man on the hull and crouching behind a turret.
“Watcha doin’ there, buddy,” Feeney said. He was supposed to say “halt” and “who goes there,” but that sounded dumb. After all, the guy wasn’t moving.
“Maintenance,” came the answer.
“Now?” said Gomez. “In the middle of the fucking night? Maybe you should come down here so we can see you.”
“Hey, don’t get your horses in an uproar.”
Feeney stared at Gomez. Horses in an uproar? Fuck. They pointed their rifles at the shape. “Get your ass down now!” Feeney snarled.
“Coming,” the man said, and then slipped and fell off the tank. He rolled and came to his feet, a pistol in his hand. He snapped off a couple of shots. Gomez screamed and grabbed his face. Blood was gushing over his hand and, just then, Feeney felt something smash into his leg.
The son of a bitch is going to kill me, Feeney realized. He swung his rifle and pulled the trigger again and again. The attacker stumbled backwards and fell to the ground just as waves of pain reached Feeney’s brain. As the world turned black, he wondered if he was dead.
He came to in a tent with Captain Morgan standing over him. “Welcome back, Feeney.”
“How’s Gomez?” Feeney asked. It was difficult to talk. His mouth felt fuzzy.
“Not good. He took a bullet in the face. He’ll probably live, but he lost part of his jaw and one eye.”
“Aw, Christ, Feeney said, then brightened. “Hey, it does mean he’ll go home, doesn’t it? Helluva price to pay, though. Jesus, he’ll be going home with half a face.”
“The man you shot is dead. No surprise, he was a German, complete with an SS tattoo. We found it a little above the inside of his left elbow. It also said gave us his blood type, which was useless information since he was already dead. I guess the rumors are true. They are trying to infiltrate English speaking people behind our lines. This guy’s job was to sabotage our tanks. He damaged a couple before you nailed him, but the tanks can all be repaired. And don’t worry about your leg. You took a ricochet and you’re just badly bruised.”
“Good to hear, sir. But how the hell is Gomez going to live with half a face? Who would want to look at him? And, yeah sir, I can’t help but think that it could have been me who got shot.”
Morgan had no real answer. “Couple of days’ rest and you’ll be as good as you ever were, which, some days, wasn’t much,” he teased and Feeney laughed. “Seriously, you did well, Feeney, I’ll tell Father Serra I’ve suspended the remainder of your sentence.”
Admiral Canaris sat nervously in front of Himmler. “Reichsfuhrer, Harry Truman is a complete nonentity. Our files on him are limited to nothing more than his age, sixty-one, and the fact that he is a farmer and a failed businessman from Missouri who somehow wound up as a United States senator and, even more improbably, as Vice President of the United States.”
“Incredible,” Himmler said, staring at a picture of a bespectacled Truman smiling vapidly at the camera. “Yet this is the man who will be succeeding Roosevelt if he dies.”
“When Roosevelt dies, Reichsfuhrer. We believe his death is imminent. A few more things about Truman. He is married to a frumpy woman named Bess and they have and equally frumpy daughter named Margaret. On the other hand, this Truman did serve in the First World War with some distinction as an artillery captain.”
“What type of business?”
“We think it was men’s clothing.”
Himmler laughed. “A two-paragraph resume. Well then, can you tell me what he will do as a war leader?”
Canaris shrugged. “So little is known about him that we have no idea how he will react under stressful circumstances. However, his rise in American politics indicates willingness to compromise and his experience in combat might show that he understands what it is like to send men out to die.”
Himmler shook his head. “In short, Admiral, you know absolutely nothing about the man.”
“Correct, Reichsfuhrer. It is as if the postmaster of Potsdam is about to suddenly become Fuhrer of Germany. The situation is incredible, preposterous.”
“Then he will be too inexperienced to be his own man. Will he be led by Churchill or someone in the American government, Marshall for instance? And what about his future relations with Stalin? We must know these things and much more.”
Canaris picked up his briefcase. “We are working on all of these matters. It is entirely possible that Stalin is as puzzled as we are. Churchill, however, must be salivating at the thought of dominating Truman.”