Doenitz was looking at Speer in complete seriousness, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that everything they’d been discussing existed purely within the realm of fantasy. The reality was that all the nitrogen works and electrical power plants were in Allied hands and the Allies had so far shown not the slightest inclination to listen to any suggestions the Doenitz government might make about getting Germany’s industries back in operation.
Doenitz sat at the head of the table, correct and steely-eyed as always. Schwerin von Krosigk, the Chancellor and Foreign Minister, sat to his left while Speer, in charge of the economic portfolio, sat at his right. The other ministers and advisors sat around the table, all of them looking very serious. Doenitz’ government was now ten days old. At its inception, it consisted of the three of them and a geographical realm which, besides northern Germany, included all of Denmark, Norway, Bohemia, Crete, plus fragments of Russia, Latvia, Belgium, France, Greece, Italy, and even the British Channel Islands. Now, there were more than a dozen ministries, several special departments and more than sixty typists, clerks and other staff members. The government’s territorial jurisdiction, on the other hand, barely extended beyond the gates of the Marineschule.
They’d go in each day and have meetings, explore problems, issue orders and try to establish some coherency amid the chaos. But what effect any of it had was hard to say. Whether their orders would be carried out, or, for that matter, even delivered, was largely beyond their control. The all-powerful Allied Control Commission was a bureaucratic hydra which stood in their way, without having any clear plan of its own. From time to time, its members would show up and nose around and issue orders and directives, whose meaning they usually seemed at a loss to explain.
The discussion on fertilizers went on another twenty minutes and then they moved to the next topic on the agenda; churches. The question was whether a portfolio should be added for religious affairs. Dorpmuller the Transportation Minister suggested it might be a good idea, given everything the German people has just gone through, it was necessary that a Christian moral culture be re-instituted in the state.
People bristled at the idea. “Are you suggesting that just because National Socialists weren’t Christian, they weren’t moral?” one of the ministers countered.
“All I’m saying is we need to go back to old, traditional values. For more than a thousand years the Germans have been a Christian people. We need to emphasize that point both to ourselves and to the world. I think it would also be a good idea to embrace contemporary Christian theology of human dignity.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?” asked Doenitz.
“Yes, I do, Grand Admiral. I think Dietrich Bonhoffer would be a perfect candidate. Last I heard he was still alive. We should see if we can locate him.”
While an aide was dispatched to make some calls, the topic changed to banking issues. There wasn’t enough money on hand to pay state employees or to fund purchases of emergency foodstuffs from Sweden. The question boiled down to asking the Allies permission to print an emergency issue of Reichsmarks. They were discussing it when the aide returned to inform them that Pastor Bonhoffer had been executed by the Gestapo two weeks before.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Hitler's Dead; Nazi Government Finally Holds First Meeting
The German government never met even a single time under Hitler. But under his successor, Grand Admiral Doenitz, the government convened every day during its entire three-week existence. The following is an excerpt from Germania (Simon & Schuster, 2008).
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Keeping the Sailor Out of the Minefield
An article I did for Defense Media Network about the future of mine warfare countermeasures. http://www.defensemedianetwork.com/stories/keeping-the-sailor-out-of-the-minefield/
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Long, Dark First Night as Fuhrer: Doenitz Finally Thinks the Unthinkable.
Alone finally, Doenitz let his eyes close for a moment. It had been nearly six hours
since the telegram had arrived from the Fuhrerbunker naming him Hitler’s
successor and only now, with Himmler out of the way, was the weight of this new
job beginning to sink in. Head of State, Reichspräsident, Fuhrer, Heil Doenitz!
The last thought made him shudder.
He went back to his pile of reports and for two hours his attention remained focused only on paperwork. After thirty five years in the Navy, it had become second nature and now it provided him with a sense of reassurance that things were not as utterly chaotic as they appeared. Armies, even on their last legs, continued to generate reports, requests, tallies, statistics, strategic assessments. They kept streaming in and Doenitz continued reading them. But then somewhere around four thirty he looked up, rubbed his eyes, and realized nothing he was reading addressed the real heart of the matter; that the war was lost and as Head of State, the only choice left to him was deciding how large the funeral pyre should be.
He picked up a report from the Admiral Kummetz, in charge of the Baltic
evacuation. Twenty more ships had come into different German ports with
refugees and soldiers. Estimated numbers, thirty five thousand men, women and
children. Tomorrow they hoped to get out fifty thousand. Every freighter,
barge, and fishing boat they could get their hands on was now going to and from
the Latvian ports of Lepaya and Memel, where upwards of a million Germans were
still holding off the Russians. He knew as well as anyone what the Russians
would do to them when they got them. He had to continue the evacuation. He
couldn’t give up on them.
He needed to put together a government. But how was he supposed to do that? He didn’t know the first thing about government or diplomacy. He wondered if what Himmler had said about the Americans and British considering an alliance with Germany against the Russians could be true. It seemed crazy. But then didn’t he have all those spies and that whiz-kid Schellenberg with all his foreign contacts?
Besides, forming a new government is still only a means to an end. So what end was he seeking? What was left? A surrender? A few hours ago, the idea had still been completely unthinkable. But now it seemed to be the only thing that made any sense. The irony was that the Fuhrer had given the job to him because he knew he would never surrender.
So what should I do? Am I supposed to continue following the path of someone who has abdicated his responsibility and leadership? If Hitler wanted the war to continue, he should have stuck to his job. Where was he anyway? Was he dead? Or had he gone out to the streets to join the fighting? What difference does it make? he asked himself.
He remembered driving back from Luebeck that day telling himself that Himmler would be the next Fuhrer - the thought of serving under a liar like that seemed more than he could take. He found himself wishing he’d had the guts to arrest Himmler on the spot. Himmler’s men would have gunned him down immediately, but at least he could have died honorably, and remained true to all those young men he’d sent to their deaths.
Or, instead of returning to Ploen, he should have gone to the nearest airstrip, commandeered a plane and flown up to Oslo and gotten aboard one of the Type XXI boats and gone out to the North Atlantic to raise hell. The first enemy warship they’d find, they’d sink. Then they’d find another and sink it too and then the one after that and the one after that, until they’d finally get sunk themselves. He had the right to do that. He was a soldier and a soldier’s last bullet is always for himself. But it seemed Hitler had taken that privilege from him so he could go out fighting on the streets of Berlin. So why had he done it? It wasn’t right. Damn it, it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t. It was selfish!
So what do I do? What is the interest of the State? The interest of the State is survival. And at all costs, Germany must survive! Surrender, then? That’s not why I was appointed by the Fuhrer. But then he’s not Fuhrer any more. I am. I’m the Fuhrer. Don’t say that! Don’t use that word. I’m head of state. I’m in charge.
Doenitz got up from his chair and opened the door to the outer office. Ludde-Neurath was staring at the war log. “Sir?” he asked, looking up.
“Captain, I need to ask you a question and I want a completely honest answer,” said Doenitz. “Do you ever get into conversations where during the course of it people say to each other or to you, “This war has to end.” Do you ever get into these conversations?”
For one very long, uncomfortable moment, Ludde-Neurath stared back hard at him like he wasn’t sure it was a trick question or something else. Then he answered, “Sure, all the time.”
“All the time?”
“Sir, what do you think people talk about?”
Doenitz nodded and went back into his office. He finished off the coffee, set the cup back down and rubbed his eyes. Then he switched off the desk lamp and in the darkness swiveled his chair around toward the window. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw the first light was beginning to gather in the Eastern sky. In another hour, the first allied air attacks would commence. They would hardly discriminate between refugees and military traffic.
Today was May first, May Day. A funny time to start.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2008; Kindle download now also available here).
He went back to his pile of reports and for two hours his attention remained focused only on paperwork. After thirty five years in the Navy, it had become second nature and now it provided him with a sense of reassurance that things were not as utterly chaotic as they appeared. Armies, even on their last legs, continued to generate reports, requests, tallies, statistics, strategic assessments. They kept streaming in and Doenitz continued reading them. But then somewhere around four thirty he looked up, rubbed his eyes, and realized nothing he was reading addressed the real heart of the matter; that the war was lost and as Head of State, the only choice left to him was deciding how large the funeral pyre should be.
He needed to put together a government. But how was he supposed to do that? He didn’t know the first thing about government or diplomacy. He wondered if what Himmler had said about the Americans and British considering an alliance with Germany against the Russians could be true. It seemed crazy. But then didn’t he have all those spies and that whiz-kid Schellenberg with all his foreign contacts?
Besides, forming a new government is still only a means to an end. So what end was he seeking? What was left? A surrender? A few hours ago, the idea had still been completely unthinkable. But now it seemed to be the only thing that made any sense. The irony was that the Fuhrer had given the job to him because he knew he would never surrender.
So what should I do? Am I supposed to continue following the path of someone who has abdicated his responsibility and leadership? If Hitler wanted the war to continue, he should have stuck to his job. Where was he anyway? Was he dead? Or had he gone out to the streets to join the fighting? What difference does it make? he asked himself.
He remembered driving back from Luebeck that day telling himself that Himmler would be the next Fuhrer - the thought of serving under a liar like that seemed more than he could take. He found himself wishing he’d had the guts to arrest Himmler on the spot. Himmler’s men would have gunned him down immediately, but at least he could have died honorably, and remained true to all those young men he’d sent to their deaths.
Or, instead of returning to Ploen, he should have gone to the nearest airstrip, commandeered a plane and flown up to Oslo and gotten aboard one of the Type XXI boats and gone out to the North Atlantic to raise hell. The first enemy warship they’d find, they’d sink. Then they’d find another and sink it too and then the one after that and the one after that, until they’d finally get sunk themselves. He had the right to do that. He was a soldier and a soldier’s last bullet is always for himself. But it seemed Hitler had taken that privilege from him so he could go out fighting on the streets of Berlin. So why had he done it? It wasn’t right. Damn it, it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t. It was selfish!
So what do I do? What is the interest of the State? The interest of the State is survival. And at all costs, Germany must survive! Surrender, then? That’s not why I was appointed by the Fuhrer. But then he’s not Fuhrer any more. I am. I’m the Fuhrer. Don’t say that! Don’t use that word. I’m head of state. I’m in charge.
Doenitz got up from his chair and opened the door to the outer office. Ludde-Neurath was staring at the war log. “Sir?” he asked, looking up.
“Captain, I need to ask you a question and I want a completely honest answer,” said Doenitz. “Do you ever get into conversations where during the course of it people say to each other or to you, “This war has to end.” Do you ever get into these conversations?”
For one very long, uncomfortable moment, Ludde-Neurath stared back hard at him like he wasn’t sure it was a trick question or something else. Then he answered, “Sure, all the time.”
“All the time?”
“Sir, what do you think people talk about?”
Doenitz nodded and went back into his office. He finished off the coffee, set the cup back down and rubbed his eyes. Then he switched off the desk lamp and in the darkness swiveled his chair around toward the window. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw the first light was beginning to gather in the Eastern sky. In another hour, the first allied air attacks would commence. They would hardly discriminate between refugees and military traffic.
Today was May first, May Day. A funny time to start.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2008; Kindle download now also available here).
Friday, June 14, 2013
Speer, Galbraith and the United States Strategic Bombing Survey
Today, following his second session with the Strategic Bombing Survey, Speer was again
walking on air. Suddenly the future was rising before him in Technicolor and it
looked so tantalizing that even though he knew it might be an illusion, he had
to drink deep of it.
Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, Captive Greece captured Rome. It was a phrase Speer had struggled with as a young student first learning Latin. How, he wondered, could a captive capture its conqueror? But now he understood. So charmed were his American interrogators by him, that they had decided, by unanimous assent, to rededicate their inquisition, “The University of Bombing,” with Albert Speer their honored professor.
And maybe the Americans were as much in love with him as they acted. For all he knew they were already sending the word back to their people in Washington that Albert Speer is one of us.
They’d spent the day discussing machine tools and the mixture of alloys for steelmaking. In Speer’s experience, unless the person was an engineer or technocrat, any discussion about such things would inevitably put them to sleep. But these Americans weren’t engineers. They were lawyers and economists and intellectuals and their passion for the ephemera of industry came from a different place. Like himself, they were driven to know the greater dynamics between machinery and human endeavor. These men understood that wars are not won merely by brave men with guns and force of will, but by production and logistics and unfettered supplies of oil, chromium, ball bearings and tungsten carbide.
“John Kenneth Galbraith;” Speer pronounced it slowly, savoring the sound of the words and then repeating it again, like an incantation which conjured up a shimmering of policy-level meetings and advisory groups. “John Kenneth Galbraith.”
“I tell you, Baumbach, this is a man who is going to matter in the post-war world. You wouldn’t believe how bright the guy is. He tried to nail my hide to the wall when I explained how we dealt with the shortages of tungsten carbide. He never imagined we’d rather cut out production of heavier caliber anti-tank ammunition in order to keep producing tungsten carbide machine tool bits. He thought I was lying. But I showed him. I had the numbers right there in my head. And when he saw that he’d been wrong and I was right, he said, ‘Well then, I take off my hat to you, Professor Speer!”
By now, of course, they were both quite drunk. Baumbach laughed and with a wide swoop of his arm snagged hold of the whiskey bottle from the table. Holding the bottle aloft, he proclaimed, “Let’s drink to your John Kenneth Galbraith!” He refilled Speer’s glass and then his own. Then, settling back onto the couch he clinked his glass against Speer’s. “Down the hatch!”
Speer drank the whiskey and leaned back in his chair. “I’m telling you, Baumbach, they ask such great questions.”
Instead of answering, Baumbach pushed himself backwards against the couch, snaking over the top until his head and shoulders pointed downward and his outstretched hands were touching the carpet. Apparently excited at seeing the world from upside down, he began waving his arms and addressing its inhabitants. “Well hello!” he called out. “So nice of you to join us. I guess the fact that you’re walking upside down must mean you’re from Australia. I suppose this means you are also a marsupial. Be that as it may, sir, you are welcome just the same. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink and come join us!”
At first Speer assumed Baumbach was speaking to imaginary guests. But then he looked over in the direction where Baumbach was waving and realized they weren’t alone. In the doorway stood a dumpy little man in a gray suit and ridiculous-looking square-frame glasses.
Placing his feet on the table, Baumbach pushed himself even further backward to get a fuller view of their visitor. The man just stood there looking so comically angry that it made Speer giggle. Then suddenly he realized the man was Himmler and in an instant the drunkenness dried up in him. He struggled to his feet. “Reichsfuhrer, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you!” he said.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2009, now also available on Kindle)
Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, Captive Greece captured Rome. It was a phrase Speer had struggled with as a young student first learning Latin. How, he wondered, could a captive capture its conqueror? But now he understood. So charmed were his American interrogators by him, that they had decided, by unanimous assent, to rededicate their inquisition, “The University of Bombing,” with Albert Speer their honored professor.
And maybe the Americans were as much in love with him as they acted. For all he knew they were already sending the word back to their people in Washington that Albert Speer is one of us.
They’d spent the day discussing machine tools and the mixture of alloys for steelmaking. In Speer’s experience, unless the person was an engineer or technocrat, any discussion about such things would inevitably put them to sleep. But these Americans weren’t engineers. They were lawyers and economists and intellectuals and their passion for the ephemera of industry came from a different place. Like himself, they were driven to know the greater dynamics between machinery and human endeavor. These men understood that wars are not won merely by brave men with guns and force of will, but by production and logistics and unfettered supplies of oil, chromium, ball bearings and tungsten carbide.
“John Kenneth Galbraith;” Speer pronounced it slowly, savoring the sound of the words and then repeating it again, like an incantation which conjured up a shimmering of policy-level meetings and advisory groups. “John Kenneth Galbraith.”
“I tell you, Baumbach, this is a man who is going to matter in the post-war world. You wouldn’t believe how bright the guy is. He tried to nail my hide to the wall when I explained how we dealt with the shortages of tungsten carbide. He never imagined we’d rather cut out production of heavier caliber anti-tank ammunition in order to keep producing tungsten carbide machine tool bits. He thought I was lying. But I showed him. I had the numbers right there in my head. And when he saw that he’d been wrong and I was right, he said, ‘Well then, I take off my hat to you, Professor Speer!”
By now, of course, they were both quite drunk. Baumbach laughed and with a wide swoop of his arm snagged hold of the whiskey bottle from the table. Holding the bottle aloft, he proclaimed, “Let’s drink to your John Kenneth Galbraith!” He refilled Speer’s glass and then his own. Then, settling back onto the couch he clinked his glass against Speer’s. “Down the hatch!”
Speer drank the whiskey and leaned back in his chair. “I’m telling you, Baumbach, they ask such great questions.”
Instead of answering, Baumbach pushed himself backwards against the couch, snaking over the top until his head and shoulders pointed downward and his outstretched hands were touching the carpet. Apparently excited at seeing the world from upside down, he began waving his arms and addressing its inhabitants. “Well hello!” he called out. “So nice of you to join us. I guess the fact that you’re walking upside down must mean you’re from Australia. I suppose this means you are also a marsupial. Be that as it may, sir, you are welcome just the same. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink and come join us!”
At first Speer assumed Baumbach was speaking to imaginary guests. But then he looked over in the direction where Baumbach was waving and realized they weren’t alone. In the doorway stood a dumpy little man in a gray suit and ridiculous-looking square-frame glasses.
Placing his feet on the table, Baumbach pushed himself even further backward to get a fuller view of their visitor. The man just stood there looking so comically angry that it made Speer giggle. Then suddenly he realized the man was Himmler and in an instant the drunkenness dried up in him. He struggled to his feet. “Reichsfuhrer, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you!” he said.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2009, now also available on Kindle)
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Bonnie and Clyde, Herbert T., and the Devil's Pocketwatch
“I don’t have it,” I tell them in a low voice.
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil)
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Von Friedeburg Signs Unconditional Surrender to Montgomery
It had been four days since Ziggy and Cremer had come aboard as heads of Doenitz’ security detail and other than the
standoff with Himmler’s men, they hadn’t done much in that time besides salute
and present arms a couple dozen times. When the order came for Ziggy to take a
detachment of men to accompany the Grand Admiral to Levensau Bridge, he assumed it had to do with Admiral
von Friedeburg’s negotiations with the British.
Levensau Bridge was only a mile or two east of the British front lines and in the last day all the fighting seemed to have come to a halt. Though the bridge still stood, it had been too heavily bombed for vehicles to cross over. They parked on the road leading up to it and waited. For the first time in days, the bridge was empty. Presumably everyone on the other side who’d wanted to flee the British had already done so, and anyone who wanted to go west thought better of doing it right there.
On the opposite bank a Navy staff car was driving up. Then it stopped and Admiral von Friedeburg got out and began clambering across the bridge towards them. For several minutes, Doenitz stood with his aides, silently watching von Friedeburg’s progress through his field glasses. Then he abruptly took them away from his eyes. “Wait here,” he said and started quickly up the bridge to meet him.
Ziggy put his field glasses to his eyes and looked over at von Friedeburg approaching. Something was very wrong, he
thought. His footsteps seemed jerky and his face was frozen into a Greek mask of
horror. He watched the two men stop and face each other. They began exchanging
words back and forth. Doenitz remained stiff and arched while von Friedeburg
stood slumped. Then von Friedeburg put his hand over his eyes and Ziggy
realized with a shock that he was weeping.
Doenitz started barking something at him, but von Friedeburg kept crying and shaking his head like he was saying, no, I tried but it didn’t work. Hans, get hold of yourself, Doenitz seemed to be saying. Remember what you are! But von Friedeburg only kept pleading. Please don’t make me go back. Please, I can’t take it. I can’t!
Ziggy kept his eyes on the two figures, clearly defined against the grayness of the river and sky. Their gestures seemed to describe what they were saying so completely it made Ziggy wonder if, without even knowing it, he was telepathically reading conversations again.
Whatever the case, there was no question about Doenitz’ answer. You have your orders and you will carry them out! Then Doenitz softened his stance slightly and said something reassuring. Von Friedeburg set his mouth hard into a grimace, and stood rigidly at attention as the rain pelted his face. Doenitz finished speaking, then turned and began angrily marching back. Von Friedeburg stood motionless for a few seconds and then started walking back to his side of the river.
Ziggy lowered his glasses. He wished he hadn’t witnessed any of it. The way von Friedeburg was acting seemed less like head of the Navy than some freshly-minted ensign being dressed down after panicking during his first depth charge attack. What had happened to him?
Twenty yards from the bottom of the bridge, Doenitz stopped and gestured for his adjutant. The adjutant ran up, but before he even got there, Doenitz snapped out a couple words and the adjutant turned again and ran back to the others.
“Korvettenkapitän Loerber,” he barked. “Report to the Grand Admiral on the double!”
“Jawohl,” shouted Ziggy and ran to see what the old man wanted.
Doenitz looked at him cold and hard as iron. “Something has come up,” he said. “I need you to go back with Admiral von Friedeburg to help him negotiate with the British.” Then, softening his voice, he added, “You’re a U-Boat captain. You’ll know how to handle it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ziggy, completely bewildered.
Doenitz went on. “The Admiral is having problems. He has a very difficult job ahead of him. You must help him, be his friend, but if things get out of hand you are to remind him of his duties, as a German Naval officer and as a man.”
Ziggy looked at Doenitz and saw how his eyes blazed with cold anger. “You speak pretty good English, as I recall,” he continued. “That might be helpful. Loerber, you need to make sure he’s able to function. The Navy’s honor is at stake. Do you think you can do that?”
“I’ll do my best, Grand Admiral.”
“No! That won’t do, Loerber. The Admiral just did his best and it wasn’t enough. Whatever it takes, Loerber, you must see to it that he carries out his task. On this I am giving you full leeway. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grand Admiral.”
“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Now get moving.”
Ziggy saluted and started across the bridge. He hadn’t been walking a minute when things started reeling on him. Be his friend? Remind him of his duty? Full leeway? If it hadn’t been Doenitz telling him this, Ziggy would have thought it a joke.
The rain clouds that hung over them, low and heavy, cloaked everything in gray gloom, making the riverbank look more like a forlorn late fall than the middle of springtime. So the war was ending, he thought. Hitler was dead, Doenitz was Head of State and Von Friedeburg was apparently in the middle of negotiating a ceasefire with the British. Peace was finally descending on Europe. Germany was finished. We’d wanted war and gotten it. He tried to imagine what peace would be like, but couldn’t.
Ziggy walked across at a brisk pace. As he approached the Admiral’s Mercedes, the driver got out and came to attention.
“Come on, let’s get going,” said Ziggy, not bothering to salute back.
“Sir?” asked the driver. “Perhaps you might prefer to ride in the front.”
Ignoring his suggestion, Ziggy opened the rear door and leaned inside. Admiral von Friedeburg sat empty-eyed in the back. “Herr Admiral?” asked Ziggy.
Von Friedeburg did not look at him.
“The Grand Admiral has asked me to accompany you, sir.”
Von Friedeburg glanced at Ziggy just long enough to let him know he understood.
“I’ll be sitting in the front, if you need me, sir.”
Von Friedeburg gave a slight nod like he thought it was a good idea. Franzi shut the rear door and took the seat next to the driver.
Two minutes down the road, a pair of British Army motorcyclists picked them up and with their sirens blaring, escorted them past miles of parked tanks and milling British soldiers to a large encampment out on the Luneberg heath where a British flag snapped arrogantly from a hastily erected flagpole. A hand-lettered white sign proclaimed, “TAC HQ 21st Army Group.” Hearing them come, soldiers in mud-colored uniforms streamed out of the tents to get a look at them. The car stopped outside a tent where a group of unpleasant looking sergeants stood waiting to receive them, rifles in hand. One of them opened the car’s door and they got out. Inside the tent the rest of the German delegation was waiting. Ziggy immediately recognized Admiral Wagner. The others were a Wehrmacht general and a major who carried a leather satchel, which Ziggy assumed belonged to the general. They all seemed embarrassed by von Friedeburg’s reappearance. As von Friedeburg stood silently with Wagner, the general took Ziggy aside and murmured to him, “We’d hoped the Grand Admiral would send a replacement. Did he not get my note?”
Ziggy looked directly into the general’s eyes. “Well, I guess he didn’t, Herr General,” he said.
The general obviously didn’t like Ziggy’s answer, but before he could say anything, a heavyset British officer appeared in the entrance. “Admiral von Friedeburg, General Kinzl, if you’re ready, the Field Marshal would like to proceed.”
Von Friedeburg nodded emptily. The British officer gestured for everyone to get in line and then led them outside to another, larger tent crammed with officers and men with newsreel cameras. They were brought up to a large table where a short, prissy, but domineering man dressed causally in a field jacket and beret stood glaring at them in irritation, like he’d already had quite enough of them, thank you.
“Gentlemen, we shall begin,” he told them in a shrill, accusing voice.
A soldier came up and set down four large documents in a row on the table. Next to them were pens set into tiny round jars of ink. The prissy little man, who Ziggy surmised was Field Marshall Montgomery, gestured to von Friedeburg to come forward. As he did, glaring lights came on and a battery of newsreel cameras began loudly whirring. Von Friedeburg took a pen and bent over to the first paper, scratching his name onto it. Then, returning the pen to its well, he went to the next document, where another pen was waiting. He put his name to that second copy and proceeded to the third and then the fourth. As he did, Montgomery signaled General Kinzl to come forward and sign, then Admiral Wagner. One after another they worked their way signing their names to the copies. When they were done, they stood in a group while Montgomery and two of his officers did the same.
Once they’d finished, Montgomery brusquely signaled for them to be taken away. As they stood outside in the rain, Ziggy approached von Friedeburg. “Admiral, what about the negotiations? Wasn’t I supposed to help you with them?”
For the first time, Von Friedeburg looked directly at Ziggy. “Negotiations?” he exploded. “There aren’t any negotiations, you fool! This is an unconditional surrender!” (Excerpt from my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).
Levensau Bridge was only a mile or two east of the British front lines and in the last day all the fighting seemed to have come to a halt. Though the bridge still stood, it had been too heavily bombed for vehicles to cross over. They parked on the road leading up to it and waited. For the first time in days, the bridge was empty. Presumably everyone on the other side who’d wanted to flee the British had already done so, and anyone who wanted to go west thought better of doing it right there.
On the opposite bank a Navy staff car was driving up. Then it stopped and Admiral von Friedeburg got out and began clambering across the bridge towards them. For several minutes, Doenitz stood with his aides, silently watching von Friedeburg’s progress through his field glasses. Then he abruptly took them away from his eyes. “Wait here,” he said and started quickly up the bridge to meet him.
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Doenitz started barking something at him, but von Friedeburg kept crying and shaking his head like he was saying, no, I tried but it didn’t work. Hans, get hold of yourself, Doenitz seemed to be saying. Remember what you are! But von Friedeburg only kept pleading. Please don’t make me go back. Please, I can’t take it. I can’t!
Ziggy kept his eyes on the two figures, clearly defined against the grayness of the river and sky. Their gestures seemed to describe what they were saying so completely it made Ziggy wonder if, without even knowing it, he was telepathically reading conversations again.
Whatever the case, there was no question about Doenitz’ answer. You have your orders and you will carry them out! Then Doenitz softened his stance slightly and said something reassuring. Von Friedeburg set his mouth hard into a grimace, and stood rigidly at attention as the rain pelted his face. Doenitz finished speaking, then turned and began angrily marching back. Von Friedeburg stood motionless for a few seconds and then started walking back to his side of the river.
Ziggy lowered his glasses. He wished he hadn’t witnessed any of it. The way von Friedeburg was acting seemed less like head of the Navy than some freshly-minted ensign being dressed down after panicking during his first depth charge attack. What had happened to him?
Twenty yards from the bottom of the bridge, Doenitz stopped and gestured for his adjutant. The adjutant ran up, but before he even got there, Doenitz snapped out a couple words and the adjutant turned again and ran back to the others.
“Korvettenkapitän Loerber,” he barked. “Report to the Grand Admiral on the double!”
“Jawohl,” shouted Ziggy and ran to see what the old man wanted.
Doenitz looked at him cold and hard as iron. “Something has come up,” he said. “I need you to go back with Admiral von Friedeburg to help him negotiate with the British.” Then, softening his voice, he added, “You’re a U-Boat captain. You’ll know how to handle it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ziggy, completely bewildered.
Doenitz went on. “The Admiral is having problems. He has a very difficult job ahead of him. You must help him, be his friend, but if things get out of hand you are to remind him of his duties, as a German Naval officer and as a man.”
Ziggy looked at Doenitz and saw how his eyes blazed with cold anger. “You speak pretty good English, as I recall,” he continued. “That might be helpful. Loerber, you need to make sure he’s able to function. The Navy’s honor is at stake. Do you think you can do that?”
“I’ll do my best, Grand Admiral.”
“No! That won’t do, Loerber. The Admiral just did his best and it wasn’t enough. Whatever it takes, Loerber, you must see to it that he carries out his task. On this I am giving you full leeway. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grand Admiral.”
“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Now get moving.”
Ziggy saluted and started across the bridge. He hadn’t been walking a minute when things started reeling on him. Be his friend? Remind him of his duty? Full leeway? If it hadn’t been Doenitz telling him this, Ziggy would have thought it a joke.
The rain clouds that hung over them, low and heavy, cloaked everything in gray gloom, making the riverbank look more like a forlorn late fall than the middle of springtime. So the war was ending, he thought. Hitler was dead, Doenitz was Head of State and Von Friedeburg was apparently in the middle of negotiating a ceasefire with the British. Peace was finally descending on Europe. Germany was finished. We’d wanted war and gotten it. He tried to imagine what peace would be like, but couldn’t.
Ziggy walked across at a brisk pace. As he approached the Admiral’s Mercedes, the driver got out and came to attention.
“Come on, let’s get going,” said Ziggy, not bothering to salute back.
“Sir?” asked the driver. “Perhaps you might prefer to ride in the front.”
Ignoring his suggestion, Ziggy opened the rear door and leaned inside. Admiral von Friedeburg sat empty-eyed in the back. “Herr Admiral?” asked Ziggy.
Von Friedeburg did not look at him.
“The Grand Admiral has asked me to accompany you, sir.”
Von Friedeburg glanced at Ziggy just long enough to let him know he understood.
“I’ll be sitting in the front, if you need me, sir.”
Von Friedeburg gave a slight nod like he thought it was a good idea. Franzi shut the rear door and took the seat next to the driver.
Two minutes down the road, a pair of British Army motorcyclists picked them up and with their sirens blaring, escorted them past miles of parked tanks and milling British soldiers to a large encampment out on the Luneberg heath where a British flag snapped arrogantly from a hastily erected flagpole. A hand-lettered white sign proclaimed, “TAC HQ 21st Army Group.” Hearing them come, soldiers in mud-colored uniforms streamed out of the tents to get a look at them. The car stopped outside a tent where a group of unpleasant looking sergeants stood waiting to receive them, rifles in hand. One of them opened the car’s door and they got out. Inside the tent the rest of the German delegation was waiting. Ziggy immediately recognized Admiral Wagner. The others were a Wehrmacht general and a major who carried a leather satchel, which Ziggy assumed belonged to the general. They all seemed embarrassed by von Friedeburg’s reappearance. As von Friedeburg stood silently with Wagner, the general took Ziggy aside and murmured to him, “We’d hoped the Grand Admiral would send a replacement. Did he not get my note?”
Ziggy looked directly into the general’s eyes. “Well, I guess he didn’t, Herr General,” he said.
The general obviously didn’t like Ziggy’s answer, but before he could say anything, a heavyset British officer appeared in the entrance. “Admiral von Friedeburg, General Kinzl, if you’re ready, the Field Marshal would like to proceed.”
Von Friedeburg nodded emptily. The British officer gestured for everyone to get in line and then led them outside to another, larger tent crammed with officers and men with newsreel cameras. They were brought up to a large table where a short, prissy, but domineering man dressed causally in a field jacket and beret stood glaring at them in irritation, like he’d already had quite enough of them, thank you.
“Gentlemen, we shall begin,” he told them in a shrill, accusing voice.
A soldier came up and set down four large documents in a row on the table. Next to them were pens set into tiny round jars of ink. The prissy little man, who Ziggy surmised was Field Marshall Montgomery, gestured to von Friedeburg to come forward. As he did, glaring lights came on and a battery of newsreel cameras began loudly whirring. Von Friedeburg took a pen and bent over to the first paper, scratching his name onto it. Then, returning the pen to its well, he went to the next document, where another pen was waiting. He put his name to that second copy and proceeded to the third and then the fourth. As he did, Montgomery signaled General Kinzl to come forward and sign, then Admiral Wagner. One after another they worked their way signing their names to the copies. When they were done, they stood in a group while Montgomery and two of his officers did the same.
Once they’d finished, Montgomery brusquely signaled for them to be taken away. As they stood outside in the rain, Ziggy approached von Friedeburg. “Admiral, what about the negotiations? Wasn’t I supposed to help you with them?”
For the first time, Von Friedeburg looked directly at Ziggy. “Negotiations?” he exploded. “There aren’t any negotiations, you fool! This is an unconditional surrender!” (Excerpt from my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
The Road to Del Rio IV - Eastern Oklahoma Hills, Edge of the Ozarks
After leaving Maw at Captain Hamer's roadblock, Herbert heads into eastern Oklahoma, a forested, hilly area right on the edge of the Ozarks. Here he finds a jazz station out of Tulsa and spends a couple of blissful hours listening to bands such as Fletcher Henderson and a "Hillbilly Boogie outfit out of Fort Worth, that can only be Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys.
Bolb Wills' band played something called "Western Swing," a jazzed-up mixture of country two-steps, bluegrass, and blues, spiced with mexican and central European polka, along with whatever else happened to be hot at the moment. In the early 1950s, when the Rock-n-Roll craze was just starting, Bob Wills insisted they'd been "playing it for years!" They were probably right.
But in the 1930s, the music they played featured guitars, fiddles, a stand-up bass and a horn section that went between ragtime and Mexican music to reflect its Texas Western roots.
Listening to it while driving through the hickory forests of eastern Oklahoma must have felt heavenly. But then
Herbert picks up a hitchhiker, this time not a hairy country preacher, but a chestnut-eyed young man, who seems to carry the weight of the world on his sad shoulders. He is also very, very hungry. Luckily, Herbert had just bought a bag full of chicken-salad sandwiches....
Excerpt from Friend of the Devil:
"It’s the middle of the afternoon a day later and I’m somewhere in eastern Oklahoma, driving through a hickory forest so dense, there’s not even a hope of any breeze ever finding its way in; cops, either, for that matter. From what I’ve been hearing on the radio, they got roadblocks on all the main roads. But not this old logging road, which, a friendly farmer told me, goes all the way to Coushatta Springs and ain’t hardly used by anyone anymore, except the occasional bootlegger. So right now, it seems like everything is going okay. I really wouldn’t mind it being the start of a trend."
But in the 1930s, the music they played featured guitars, fiddles, a stand-up bass and a horn section that went between ragtime and Mexican music to reflect its Texas Western roots.
Listening to it while driving through the hickory forests of eastern Oklahoma must have felt heavenly. But then
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Excerpt from Friend of the Devil:
"It’s the middle of the afternoon a day later and I’m somewhere in eastern Oklahoma, driving through a hickory forest so dense, there’s not even a hope of any breeze ever finding its way in; cops, either, for that matter. From what I’ve been hearing on the radio, they got roadblocks on all the main roads. But not this old logging road, which, a friendly farmer told me, goes all the way to Coushatta Springs and ain’t hardly used by anyone anymore, except the occasional bootlegger. So right now, it seems like everything is going okay. I really wouldn’t mind it being the start of a trend."
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