He met with von Rundstedt and his staff, along with the Luftwaffe’s Galland and Canaris the spymaster. They assembled in a dining room that could have doubled as a medieval banquet hall. Himmler thought it was far too nice for a Jew to have ever owned.
“What happened to the people who lived here?” he whispered to an aide.
“Bought their way out before the war and went to Brazil.”
Himmler smiled. They had paid dearly for their lives. Excellent. Their money had helped fund Hitler. Belatedly, Himmler had come to the realization that it would have been far better to have allowed all the Jews to buy their way out, rather than the politically messy results of the Final Solution in places like Auschwitz. Of course, many countries, including the falsely pious United States, had closed their doors to Jewish emigres. Hypocrites all, he thought.
“I would like you to see some of these photos, Reichsfuhrer,” Rundstedt said. “These were just taken by pilots flying over American lines.”
Varner handed them over. Himmler nodded briefly as he tried to identify objects on the ground. “What am I looking at?”
“A number of things,” said Rundstedt. “First, these are pictures of several incredibly vast supply depots that the Americans are building up in anticipation of the invasion of Germany. They are spread up and down the length of the Rhine, which gives us no clue as to their intended target. Still, look at the enormous number of tanks and other armored vehicles, which include a handful of a new and very large tank that we believe is their Pershing. It is designed to counter the Panther.”
Himmler sniffed. “A handful? That is hardly a threat.”
“At one point there were only a handful of their dreadful Shermans,” Rundstedt said acidly, “and now there are tens of thousands, and that will be the case with this new tank within a year from now. And I’m certain it will be better than the Sherman since the Americans almost always learn from their mistakes.”
Himmler nodded. “Then the war must be over sooner. Now, what is this?” he asked as he picked up other photos.
Varner pointed. “These are the American defenses along the Rhine. They aren’t very deep and they aren’t well hidden. They know we can do nothing about them and that we don’t have the capability to counterattack across the river.”
“Which brings us to a point, Herr Himmler,” Rundstedt said, intentionally not using his rank. “There is one important thing missing from all these photos and that is landing craft. The Americans will require hundreds of them to cross the river in force. Either they aren’t there yet, or they are very well hidden. It is also possible that the craft are still in France, or even in England and will be moved to the Rhine at the last minute.”
Himmler turned to Canaris. “Well?”
“Our sources in either country say nothing, although I will push them for more intelligence,” the admiral answered. “However, please recall that on January 9 the Americans landed in the Philippines in force. This must have required a large number of the platoon-sized landing craft called LCVI’s, many of which would have to be transported here if they are going to be used in a crossing.”
“Could they do it without those craft?” Himmler inquired.
“With great difficulty,” Rundstedt answered. “Their only other option would be to use hundreds, perhaps thousands, of truly small boats and we’ve scoured both sides of the Rhine for anything that could float and be used. During our withdrawal, we destroyed any craft we found along all of the rivers. While we can’t totally discount the possibility of them making small craft locally, I don’t think it’s feasible. No, I think they will have to have landing craft.”
“What about paratroops?” Himmler asked.
Rundstedt laughed. “We almost wish they would. Intelligence says they have five airborne divisions, four American and one British. The British division is being rebuilt after the disaster at the Seine. We are well prepared for a paratroop attack, although, again, they would have to have large numbers of transports and gliders to fly such a horde and there are no indications that they exist in such quantities.”
Himmler walked to the stone fireplace where a pile of logs burned. The warmth felt good.
“Who took the pictures?”
Galland smiled. “Some of our brave pilots flying our jet fighters, which were configured to be photographic platforms.”
“If our jets can cross American bases with such impunity, why don’t we drop bombs on them?” Himmler asked.
Galland flushed. “Our jet is not designed to carry bombs. Hitler originally wanted it used as a long-range bomber, but it would have been able to carry only a small bomb load, so the idea was scrapped. In the final analysis, it was not considered feasible or even useful.”
Himmler understood. Once again the military had changed Hitler’s directive after his death, and his field marshals and admirals had all said it was for the good. Still, it galled him to have the finest army in the world and no air force to protect it. Galland had insisted and Rundstedt had concurred, that the Americans and British had such vast fleets of planes that what remained of the Luftwaffe would be overwhelmed. The respite caused by winter would allow for the production of what would have been a large number of planes just a few years earlier, but the Americans’ ability to produce weapons of all kinds and in such huge quantities had been a staggering and unwelcome discovery. For every plane or tank Germany produced, America turned out a half dozen.
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
