uncertain terms that it might just be a cold day in hell before he ever saw the inside of a plane from the pilot’s seat again. It was further implied that his crew would be broken up and that saddened him. They would pay for his fuckup and that wasn’t right.
Thus, he wasn’t really surprised when the trucks containing his crew went one way and he the other. He’d tried discussing matters with the sergeant driving him, but the sergeant tersely said he was not allowed to talk to him, which further depressed Phips.
After several hours of slow driving through the English countryside, they pulled up in front of a guard post where their papers were scrutinized and the car searched before being sent on. There was a splendid looking country manor house that might have been several hundred years old and it was surrounded by a several dozen large army tents and Quonset huts. To his surprise, they went to the main old building where Phips was hustled down an ornately furnished corridor lined with portraits of distinguished looking people in historic costumes, and finally into a room containing only a couple of chairs. His duffle bag arrived a few moments later and was deposited with a thud by his feet.
A little while later, a full colonel entered and glared at him. Phips snapped to attention and was told to sit down. The colonel was maybe forty and was powerfully built. Phips quickly noted combat ribbons on his chest.
“I’m Colonel Tom Granville with army intelligence and I’ve got a few questions for you. For the record, confirm that three days ago you flew a B17 named the Mother’s Milk over Germany, East Prussia to be precise. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“Was your plane alone?”
“To the best of my knowledge, yes sir. At least after we shot down that ME that’d been chasing us all over the place.”
“Good job doing that, by the way. And after killing the ME, you knowingly and intentionally dropped a load of bombs on some buildings you spotted at the last second?”
Oh Jesus, Phips thought. Despite the antiaircraft fire they had hit a school, or a convent. He visualized dead and maimed children. He swallowed. “Yes, sir. We dropped the bombs to save on fuel and the buildings were the first things we saw.”
“Any idea just what the hell you hit, Lieutenant?”
“No sir. One of my crew said it was Germany so it didn’t much matter and I agreed. We just had to lighten our load so we could get home.”
The colonel’s grim-set mouth flickered. Was that a smile? Maybe he hadn’t hit a school. Granville continued. “Well you certainly did hit Germany and you did make your way back, and you did shoot down that ME, and now we don’t quite know what to do with you.”
“Sir?”
“Without divulging our sources, let me say that we now know that Adolf Hitler was at one of his secret headquarters in Rastenberg, Prussia, when a lone American B17 bomber flew low over the compound and dropped a load of bombs on his ugly fucking head.”
Phips jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah, Lieutenant, oh my God. Germany has just announced that he was injured in a one-plane bombing attack. However, we are getting subtle hints that his Fuhrer ass is dead and that his unlamented demise will be announced in a few days. This delay will give the new Nazi regime a chance to get settled. The krauts are saying it was a Jewish-American conspiracy to murder Hitler. However, we know better, don’t we? It was just one dumb, lucky son of a bitch in a lost B17 who dumped a load of bombs to save fuel and hit the jackpot.”
“And you’re sure I did it?”
“Yes we are and, until this all gets sorted out, you and your crew are going to be kept incommunicado. We don’t know whether to give you a medal for maybe killing der Fuhrer or court-martial your ass for breaking formation and maybe for losing a crewman. Maybe we’ll do both. A medal would look good on prison fatigues, don’t you think?”
Granville rose and Phips did as well. “In the meantime, you will stay here in utter squalor in this sixteenth- century building that might have housed Queen Elizabeth at some time. Try not to break anything. Sleep in, eat all you want, drink all you can find, and keep your mouth shut.”
“And my crew, sir?”
“I will be debriefing them shortly and you will all be reunited, hopefully to live happily ever after.”
CHAPTER 3
Heinrich Himmler had always been a loyal supporter of Adolf Hitler. He had joined the Nazi party in its early days and had worshipped. The Fuhrer had given the former fertilizer salesman and chicken farmer’s life a sense of meaning. Himmler had flourished as head of the SS and the Gestapo and now he was one of the most important men in the Nazi hierarchy.
But Adolf Hitler was dead and there was much for Himmler to do if he wished to live to a ripe old age in a Nazi cult that didn’t mind killing off rivals. First, the Fuhrer’s legacy must be sustained, even improved on, despite the difficult times ahead, and that called for strong leadership. Hermann Goering was not capable of such strength. The First World War fighter ace and one-time confidante of Hitler was in virtual disgrace as a result of his incompetence as commander of the Luftwaffe, his ineptitude as an administrator, and his looting of museums to provide art work for his disgusting and decadent pleasure palace at Carinhall. Goering was addicted to drugs and alcohol, further impairing his limited abilities. Still, the obese fool considered himself a major participant in the Reich and the heir to Hitler.
Himmler had sent SS troops to Carinhall ostensibly to protect Goering from a possible coup. Instead, they’d taken him prisoner and had him sent to a small private hospital outside Berlin where he was under heavy guard. Goering, of course, was too far gone in a narcotic fog to realize what was happening to him. He would stay in the hospital and in a drugged stupor until a decision was made regarding his future.
Martin Bormann, Hitler’s secretary and party chancellor, held power only while Hitler lived. Himmler had taken steps to isolate Bormann. He was held in protective custody by another SS detachment. Himmler was exacting sweet revenge against the man who’d plotted against him and tried to humiliate him in front of Adolf Hitler. Sadly for Bormann, Bormann had forgotten that while he had great influence with Hitler, it was Heinrich Himmler who had a private army.
As further security, Himmler had brought in one of his favorites, SS General Sepp Dietrich, who had raced to Berlin with several thousand SS soldiers. Berlin was secure. Whether Hitler’s death was an accident of war or an assassination from within, no one but he would take advantage of the situation.
His secretary tapped on his door and informed him that Field Marshal von Rundstedt and Foreign Secretary Joachim von Ribbentrop were ready. Himmler preferred small meetings. Large groups, in particular during these uncertain times, drew attention and could lead to panic among the people.
The field marshal and the diplomat seated themselves and stared at Himmler with differing degrees of expectation and deference. Von Rundstedt was an aristocrat, while Ribbentrop presumed to be one. Like most aristocrats they looked down on Himmler and ignored the fact that Himmler’s godfather had been the prince of Bavaria, a fact that was important only to Himmler.
Himmler began. “Gentlemen, let me begin with the obvious. Our beloved Fuhrer has been brutally murdered by an American-British-Jewish conspiracy. Steps are being taken to track down and destroy the perpetrators and they will succeed. Several diplomats and even some generals are involved and will be dealt with severely. However, we have a tremendous duty ahead of us. We must win the war.”
Rundstedt nodded. “It is also an opportunity.”
“How so?”
Himmler could see the older man choosing his words with care. Hitler might be dead but it was still dangerous, possibly even fatal, to criticize him. Many generals, Rundstedt included, had been critical in the past. Rundstedt had criticized Hitler openly, mocking him as a “Little Corporal” in reference to Hitler’s First World War
