rank, but had carefully not crossed the line into treason.
Rundstedt smiled slightly. “Hitler is dead; thus, we will no longer have his brilliant intuition and inspiration to guide and inspire us. Instead, we must depend on our more pedestrian intellects to get us through the growing crises.”
Well said, Himmler thought, even if it was a bald-faced lie. “I am aware that the professional military disagreed with the Fuhrer on many occasions,” Himmler responded, “but had always acquiesced in the end. And look what it got us-France, Poland, and much of the Soviet Union.”
Rundstedt laughed harshly, more confident that his comments hadn’t been rebuffed. “It got us lands that the Soviets and the Americans are rapidly taking back from us. If we are not careful and if we do not act quickly, the Third Reich will become a footnote in history, and we will all be dead or prisoners.”
Himmler flinched, but he could not disagree. It was exactly what was preying on his mind and the field marshal was correct. On the other hand, Ribbentrop’s face showed shock.
“Then what should we do, Field Marshal?” Himmler asked. “How can we attain victory?”
“It may depend on how you define victory, Reichsfuhrer. If you mean forcing Russia, the United States, and Britain to the surrender table, such is not likely. If you define victory as the survival of Germany, the Nazi Party, and we here, then yes, that definition of victory is attainable. However, in order to do that, I am afraid that we will have to take some steps that are repugnant and even go against what our late Fuhrer has directed.”
Ribbentrop, attempting to be the diplomat, regained control of himself and kept his face expressionless. This was what Himmler expected. “Go on,” Himmler said.
“In order to defend Germany, I need men and supplies. It is that simple. Right now, many tens of thousands of trained German soldiers are languishing away, far from the field of battle because the Fuhrer declined to give up any ground we’d taken, especially against the Soviets. I suggest that the circumstances have changed and that we must act with decisiveness and haste while there is still time. Our scattered armies must be retrieved and our extended defensive lines shortened.”
Finally Ribbentrop spoke. “You would have us give up our conquered territories?”
“Quite frankly, yes.”
“Other than that, do you have a plan?” Himmler asked.
“In theory and development, yes. However, I am not ready to divulge it without input from Speer.”
Himmler concurred. The young Albert Speer was the Minister for Armaments and Munitions. The capabilities and limitations of the economy were paramount to their plans. “He will attend here tomorrow.”
“And what about me?” Ribbentrop asked, almost plaintively.
“With Hitler dead,” Himmler said, “you might find it easier to negotiate with our enemies. Sound them out. See who really wants this war to end and what their true terms are.”
In Himmler’s opinion, Ribbentrop was useless and his attempts to bring peace would prove futile. He’d failed miserably as a negotiator in the past, often insulting those with whom he was supposed to be negotiating. Would anyone ever forget the time the man greeted the king of England with the Nazi salute? And in London no less. He’d become the laughingstock of England and the diplomatic community. For the time being, however, Ribbentrop was the best he had.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt looked up from his stamp collection and smiled genially. “Well, is the fucking little paper hanger dead or not?”
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General George Catlett Marshall, no longer winced at his President’s obscenities. He sometimes wondered whether FDR swore to be one of the boys, or to aggravate his senior general, or because that was just the way he talked. Marshall thought the latter. Many people had canonized the President as the perfect man, but the truth was that he was a cripple who couldn’t walk a step, and a man who drank and swore. And womanized. Jokesters in the know laughed about his womanizing and some wondered who wouldn’t stray if a cold and stern Eleanor Roosevelt was all he had to come home to?
“Sadly, sir, we aren’t sure what his condition is,” Marshall said. “The Germans have admitted that he’s badly wounded, although they’re saying he’s recovering. They’re also saying it was nothing more than as a despicable assassination attempt and a Jewish-American conspiracy. They are again cracking down on dissidents, although I wonder how many are left after all these years. Whoever they are, I feel sorry for them.”
“And what do you think, General?”
“I think he’s dead.”
Roosevelt leaned over the desk in the Oval Office and stared through his glasses at the array of brightly colored stamps, some of which were quite rare. “And why?”
“A very ambitious Heinrich Himmler is in charge and several of those associated with Hitler have, well, disappeared from the scene and perhaps forever. I believe Himmler and Goebbels are setting the stage for an announcement of Hitler’s heroic demise, after which, Himmler will be proclaimed the new Fuhrer.”
“And if Hitler really is dead, how will that affect the war?” Roosevelt asked.
Marshall was surprised. “I believe that’s your call, sir.”
“Indeed,” FDR said softly. “I am afraid there will be pressures from many quarters to work with the new German government to end the war. If nothing else, so that we can focus on destroying the little yellow bastards who bombed Pearl Harbor.”
Marshall nodded. Many senior military men, including Admiral Ernie King and General Douglas MacArthur, felt that America’s war efforts should have been focused on the despicable Japs and not Germany. Many in Congress, particularly those from western states, also wanted America’s focus on defeating Japan. Instead, Roosevelt had insisted on adherence to pre-war plans that called for defeating Germany first while containing Japanese aggression. Allied plans also called for Germany’s unconditional surrender and, if Hitler was indeed dead, would that affect it?
“Enough speculating over that,” Roosevelt said. “Now, what about this Phips person. A medal or what?”
“A medal at least, but I suggest waiting until Hitler’s death is confirmed.”
“And Ultra says nothing?”
Marshall instinctively looked around. Ultra was the name of the super-secret British code-reading activity at Bletchley Park in England. The Germans were unaware that England had broken their most secret and sacred codes and were now sharing the information, albeit reluctantly, with their American cousins. Very few Americans were in on the secret, and most key members of Roosevelt’s staff were unaware of it. They were also unaware of what was being developed in New Mexico under the name of the Manhattan Project.
FDR sighed. “And this Phips person is such a nebbish, a fucking clerk. Why couldn’t it have been the copilot who’d been in charge? He looks a helluva lot more heroic than Phips.”
Marshall permitted himself a small smile. “That might work in our favor. The German supermen would be humiliated to find that Hitler’d been killed by a scrawny little nothing like Phips.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “Perhaps it might. At any rate, do something about the plane. Mother’s Milk, my ass. That name and the caricature have got to go. The tits on that farm girl are larger than several states and are an insult to every woman voter.”
“Roy Levin’s my name and yes I’m Jewish, why would you even ask?”
Morgan grinned. “I didn’t ask and you don’t look Jewish.”
Captain Roy Levin was short and stocky, and had an olive complexion topped by short curly hair. He looked more Sicilian than anything else. Morgan decided he was an easy man to like. Levin sat on the bunk opposite Morgan’s in their four-man tent.
“Welcome to Stockade Stoddard’s rolling armored circus. And by the way, don’t let the colonel ever hear you refer to him by that name. He knows we all do, but not to his face. Could be fatal. You might bleed to death after getting your ass chewed.”
“Understood, but how did he get the name?”
Levin sat on his bunk and lit a cigarette. Jack declined his offer. “The good colonel’s regimental
