Himmler's Bungled Escape

There was a British checkpoint in the middle of a bridge half a kilometer up, reported Grothmann. Nothing to it, just two very bored Tommies with enfields and a field telephone. Even so, they all traded looks with other. It was, after all, their first enemy checkpoint.

They’d go through one at a time, Macher told Franzi and Himmler. “It’ll be easy,” he said. “Keep twenty yards apart. When you get there, go right past the sentry. Don’t look him in the eye, but if you’re challenged, don’t avoid them.” He gave Himmler and Franzi each a tap on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, you’ll be fine. I’ll be right behind you.”

Then he took Franzi aside. “All right, Loerber. This is where it starts. Once we cross that bridge, we’ll be in enemy territory. I assume you know how to act. We don’t start anything, but we’ll finish it when it comes to that. You understand?”

He waited for Franzi to nod that, yes, he understood. He went on. “Now listen, there’s no reason we can’t walk through every British checkpoint we come across. There’s too many people out there. As long as you don’t call attention to yourself, they’ll never see you.

"We can walk to Munich in two weeks,” said Macher. “Once we get there, the networks will take over and everything will be easy. Once we get to South America and have the chief settled into some hacienda somewhere, I’ll cut you loose with a nice fat share for you to disappear with. Sounds good, doesn’t it, Loerber?” Again Macher paused and waited for Franzi to nod, then he went in for the kill.

"Now I have to know I can count on you. I have to know that if I go off somewhere to check something out for ten minutes you’re not going to be sneaking off somewhere. Because if you do that, you know what I am going to do?”

Franzi nodded that yes, he knew the answer to that. Macher nodded for him to say it aloud.

"You’re going to hunt me down and kill me,” he said.

Macher nodded. “That’s exactly right. Now can I count on you as a brother-in-arms?”

Franzi nodded effusively. “Yes, Colonel, yes! You can count on me!” Franzi said it with complete earnestness and sincerity. Franzi Loerber was ready to follow Macher to the ends of the earth, which was roughly what Macher had in mind.

Macher was incredible. Never in his life had Franzi seen anyone who came close to him. No one had his awareness or his instincts. Nobody moved like him, like a shadow or a panther. And the casual way he killed put even Manni to shame. No one, except perhaps Grothmann.

"You can count on me, Colonel,” Franzi said again and then added, “I swear, sir.”

Macher nodded solemnly. “All right,” he said, giving Franzi’s shoulder a punch. “Now go get the Reichsfuhrer ready.”

Franzi walked back to the other end of the clearing where Himmler was sitting on a tree stump. Macher made it sound so easy. To get to Munich all they had to do was keep walking and not attract any attention to themselves. But of course there was a problem: Himmler. For twenty years the spotlight had been on him. He was someone the whole world had looked at and pointed out and now he was completely incapable of blending in, of becoming just one in the mass of humanity. He stood out like a sore thumb and now it was Franzi’s job to teach him otherwise.

Himmler was sitting against a stump, sourly examining his new set of identity documents.

What is it, Reichsfuhrer?” Franzi asked wearily.

"I don’t see how this is going to work,” Himmler said, his voice tinged with hysteria. “Here, look at it.” He thrust the papers into Franzi’s hands. Franzi looked. The name on them didn’t say Himmler, but Hitzinger, Heinrich, a sergeant in the Special Field Police, demobilized a week earlier. The face in the photograph wasn’t Himmler’s either, but the resemblance was good enough to get through any cursory inspection.

"Honestly, Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi. “It’s just fine.”

"But look at this,” said Himmler, tapping his finger on the demobilization certificate. “It looks like it was run off on a mimeograph machine.”

Franzi tried not to sound exasperated. “I’m sure it was run off on a mimeograph machine, Reichsfuhrer,” he said. “But that’s how it’s being done these days.”

Himmler shuddered. “But it’s all so cheap, so unconvincing.”

"Jesus, thought Franzi, what does he want? An engraved, watermarked parchment? Even now, when Himmler’s empire was down to five people walking on foot, the man’s expectations flourished on a grand scale.

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi. “Forget about the documents. They don’t matter. What matters is you.”

He stopped and waited for Himmler to say something or to look him in the eye. Finally he did.

"You have to learn to make yourself invisible.”

"Invisible?” asked Himmler, cringing at the idea.

"You have to carry yourself like you’re nobody. The way you’re walking now tells the world, you’re a king in disguise. And that will get you caught. Tell yourself I’m nobody, I’m nobody, I’m the same as everyone else here. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m scared, I’m nobody. Nobody.”

Himmler grimaced unhappily.

"Reichsfuhrer, think of King Alfred and the cakes.”

"He was English.”

"He was Saxon, just like Henry the Fowler.”

"Well, Henry the Fowler never had to,” grumbled Himmler.

"He didn’t have to because it wasn’t his destiny,” said Franzi. “But it is your destiny, Reichsfuhrer. It is what the stars demand.”

Himmler let out a bitter laugh. “The stars? Sometimes I think my stars have abandoned me. Why else would things have gone so badly?”

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi. ”Things are not going that badly at all. We’ll be in Argentina soon. And never think that your stars have abandoned you. The stars always know who they belong to.”

At this, Himmler seemed to brighten. “Really?” he asked.

"Absolutely,” answered Franzi.

"Well, then they have an odd way of showing it,” sniffed Himmler. “Look, Loerber, I just don’t know how to act like I’m nobody. All this time I’ve been somebody people look at and pay attention to. Anything else just doesn’t seem right. I wouldn’t know the first thing about being just a nobody. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Franzi had an idea. “Reichsfuhrer, you know the song Harlem Rhapsody, don’t you?”

Himmler sniffed. “Well of course I do,” he muttered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

"Well, you know the words, don’t you?”

Himmler looked confused. “I didn’t know it had words,” he said. “I thought it was just a tune.”

"You don’t know the words to Harlem Rhapsody? Franzi rolled his eyes like it was hilarious. “Not even how it begins? Honestly, Reichsfuhrer!”

Franzi wiggled his finger and made sure he had Himmler’s attention. “Reichsfuhrer, it starts like this.” He began singing the opening bars, the ones everyone would always whistle or hum, Doo dah dah doo - doo doo, sing it with me. Doo dah dah doo – doo doo!” And Himmler sang it with him in his whimpering voice. “Doo dah dah doo, do do! Doo dah dah doo, do do!”

And then Franzi added the words. "Nobody knows - my name." And Himmler sang it with him. “Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name.”

And then it dawned on Himmler. “Nobody knows my name,” he sang. “Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name.”

"You’ve got it?”

Himmler nodded.

"Good.”

"Is he ready, Loerber?” asked Macher.

"He’s ready.”

"Let’s go!”

They joined up with Kiermaier and Grothmann, who were waiting for them at the edge of the woods, looking down on the crowded roadway. They moved in a group down the embankment to the road and stepped into the mass of people making their way toward the checkpoint.

Argentina would be nice, Franzi told himself. Once he got there, maybe he’d even change his name to Ramon! Of course in order to get there, he’d have to hold Himmler’s hand all the whole way to Munich and then across the Appenines to Italy or Spain. He’d prefer not having to do it, but he didn’t want Macher to kill him either. Franzi wanted Macher to like him and Franzi could tell Macher almost did.

Franzi looked over at Himmler trudging up the road flanked by women and two old people wheeling bicycles. He paid them little notice, he just kept singing to himself as he walked along.

Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name.

And sure enough, Himmler’s fledgling waddle had already started to even out. He wasn’t quite the sore thumb he’d been earlier. Perhaps they just might make it to Munich.

They came around the bend and there was the bridge and the two Tommies with their enfields. Just as Grothmann had said, they weren’t showing any interest in any of the hundreds of people who were passing by. They seemed to be there purely as signposts, to indicate that this was now British territory.

A hundred yards from the bridge, Macher had them stop and then started sending them across one at a time. Grothmann went first. He situated himself alongside a woman with her family, carrying one of the children. After that Kiermaier went, also without any problem. Once he saw them both on the other side of the bridge, Macher clapped his hand on Himmler’s shoulder.

"See you on the other side. We’re right behind you.”

Himmler put up his hand. “Just one thing before I go,” he said, turning to Franzi. “I would like to ask you something, Loerber.”

Franzi stared at him. “Reichsfuhrer?” he asked.

"You are a homosexual, aren’t you?”

Franzi felt his mouth drop open.

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Macher. “I don’t think this is the time-“

Himmler put up his hand. “Answer my question, Loerber, and don’t lie!”

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi, trying to contain his rage. “I don’t know what to say.”

"Well you do know it’s wrong, don’t you?”

"Lots of things are wrong,” muttered Franzi.

"Don’t change the subject, Loerber,” said Himmler. “It’s one thing to have to do bad things because of operational necessity. But it’s another thing to do it because of weakness of character.”

"I’ve always tried to do the right thing, Reichsfuhrer, but it’s difficult,” said Franzi, pretending he wasn’t boiling on the inside.

"I know that, Loerber,” Himmler answered, sounding suddenly paternal. “I just want you to promise me that when we get to the Argentine, you’ll stop and find a nice Aryan girl and settle down. It’s easier than you think.”

"I promise I will, Reichsfuhrer.”

"All right. That’s all I have to say,” said Himmler. He reached out to shake their hands. “Colonel Macher, Professor Loerber. I’ll see you men on the other side.”

Himmler walked up the road, humming quietly as he did.

They watched him approach the bridge. He walked easily, like he’d been walking for weeks and had the hang of the road.

"It’s working,” said Macher. “Good work, Loerber!”

"Thank you, sir,” said Franzi.

"Cut out the ‘sir,’” grunted Macher.

Franzi thought about Buenos Aires for a moment, then changed his mind.

He had to get the sentry to notice Himmler. He had to make the sentry wake up and see that the meek little demobbed field police sergeant was the one they were supposed to be keeping an eye out for. And at the same time he had to make Himmler start calling attention to himself again. And he only had about twenty seconds left to pull it off!

He focused on the Tommy. The Tommy’s gaze was leaden. He’d been there since morning and his brain was barely functioning.

Franzi started hitting him with little mind-bursts on the right and then left hemispheres, that got his eyes opening and shutting in mild spasms. The sentry shook his head and started examining the people going past him. But it only lasted a few seconds and his awareness began to deaden again. Franzi hit him with a stronger burst. Wake Up! The sentry shook his head again. He was awake. Good. Now Franzi focused on Himmler, ambling comfortably toward the sentry. "Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name,” he hummed, moving with the notes. Franzi decided it needed an extra beat.

"Come on, Reichsfuhrer. Just thirty more feet,” whispered Macher. “Just twenty more feet, just ten more feet. That’s it.”

"Nobody knows my name,” hummed Himmler, to which Franzi added Cha-cha-cha!

"Nobody knows my name, Cha-cha-cha sang Himmler, twitching to the left. "Nobody knows my name, Cha-cha-cha,” and a twitch to the right.”

"What the hell is he doing?” gasped Macher.

"Nobody knows my name, Cha-cha-cha! Nobody knows my name!”

Franzi jumped back inside the sentry. Look over there! Look at him! That’s the one! Him! That’s the guy! Look! See!

And seeing through the man’s eyes, Franzi saw him fixing on the half-dancing figure coming up to him. But even though the man’s movements were starting to register, the sentry’s brain slipped back to half sleep.

Himmler walked right past him, quietly humming as he did. Himmler was clear! Macher nudged Franzi.

But then Himmler did something strange. He stopped and turned and then walked back to the Tommy and once he had the man’s attention, he showed him his papers. They could hear him saying, “Are these good?”

The Tommy, now thoroughly awake, put his hand up to stop the line and began politely thumbing through Himmler’s documents.

"What the hell?” whispered Macher.

They could hear the British soldier saying to Himmler, “It says here you’re discharged from the Geheim Feld Polizei. That’s SS! I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you in for questioning.” He put his hand firmly on Himmler’s shoulder and said something in English to the other soldier. Himmler looked back at Macher helplessly.

"Wait here,” Macher said to Franzi and began pushing his way through the crowd to the checkpoint. As he approached them, the two Tommies brought up their rifles and pointed them at Macher. Macher reluctantly put up his hands. One of the soldiers began searching him and pulled out his pistol and knife. Next thing he knew, both he and Himmler had handcuffs on.

Franzi stood there for a little while, frozen with disbelief. Then it suddenly occurred to him that he was free and he turned around and began walking back to Flensburg.

It was nearly nightfall when a Red Cross lorry pulled up and the driver leaned out and asked if he wanted a lift into town. “There’s something very big going on there,” he said.

(A slightly different version of the "Himmler's Arrest" chapter from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

May Day 1945, Hamburg

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.

###

Later that morning, Doenitz convened his first government meeting. He announced to his staff that he was now the Head of State and would be seeking an immediate cessation of hostilities with the West while continuing military operations to support the evacuation of the Baltic.

But it was May Day; Day of Revolt. And in Hamburg, the surviving residents declared a Socialist Revolution. In keeping with a century-old tradition, they hung red flags from lampposts, buildings, windows, anywhere they could. Of course the only red flags anybody could find had big circles with swastikas at their centers. But once those were cut out and discarded, everyone agreed they served their historic function quite sufficiently. Kaufmann, the Hamburg gauleiter, sent Doenitz an ultimatum: if he did not allow them to declare Hamburg an open city, they would turn against the city’s defenders in order to avoid further British attacks. Doenitz was furious, but there was nothing he could do. He radioed a request to the British for a truce.

By now his government was seven hours old. It consisted of himself, Speer and two advisors. Speer pointed out that they needed someone to handle diplomatic affairs. They spent the better part of the morning searching for someone to fill the combined post of chancellor and foreign minister. Within hours, candidates began to show up. The first was von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s old foreign minister. As usual, he was drunk. He loudly demanded Doenitz restore him to his post, citing his close friendship with the current British Prime Minister, “Mr. Vincent Churchill.” He was promptly ejected from the premises. Himmler arrived next with Count Schwerin von Krosigk, the old finance minister and a onetime Rhodes Scholar, upon whose coattails Himmler hoped to ride back into power. Doenitz ejected Himmler and kept von Krosigk, if for no other reason than to prevent the Reichsfuhrer from forming a shadow government.

They held another government meeting. Von Krosigk conceded that at this point their diplomatic options were few. He too had heard the rumor about Schellenberg’s negotiations with Eisenhower but after having spent the morning with the Reichsfuhrer, he had no reason to believe it had any basis in fact. “One thing is certain, Grand Admiral,” he said to Doenitz. “We’ve only got one card we can play; the Russian card. If we can convince them that without our help, they too will be swallowed up by the Red Tide, we might have something.”

Then someone pointed out that the question of whether Hitler was alive or not still remained and not knowing might hamper any negotiations. That glaring fact had slipped their minds. Not long after that, a final telegram came from the bunker informing Doenitz that Hitler had died the previous day, several hours, in fact, before Doenitz received word of his appointment. The Fuhrerbunker and all of Berlin went silent. That night, Doenitz went on the radio and announced Hitler was dead.

The next morning Doenitz summoned Admiral von Friedeburg, his longtime deputy and new head of the Navy. “I want you to go to Field Marshal Montgomery and negotiate an end to the fighting,” he told him. “Try to get him to agree to a partial surrender in the Northern Sector, but above all, persuade him to give safe conduct to civilian refugees and to retreating military personnel. I know we are in no position to bargain. We are beaten. Nevertheless you must do this for the sake of our people. You must get him to agree.”

Watching von Friedeburg leave, Doenitz felt a momentary surge of hope. Von Friedeburg was the best man he had; tough, courageous, forthright and professional. His presence made Doenitz feel, at least in that instant, that his government might rise above all the prevailing depravity and opportunism and make something of it that was decent and good.

(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Juggling Through the Capitulation: The Four Magical Loerber Brothers, May 1945

THE FABULOUS FLYING MAGICAL LOERBER BROTHERS RENDERED IN PAPER

The Loerber Brothers: Which One Is Your Favorite?

He remembered seeing the words in white lettering inside a black circle on a magazine page. And a crooked headline snaking across it asking Which One is Your Favorite?

And suddenly the names started hitting him like waves: Ziggy, Franzi, Sebastian and suddenly Speer knew exactly which one he was.

Yes?” asked the young man.

"You’re Manni of the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers.”

The young man turned back and dazzled them with his smile. Then he turned back to keep his eyes on the road.

That first day they visited ten different factories and at each of them, whoever was running it; the owner, the general director, the workers’ committee, or in one case, an elderly, one-armed, ex-infantry general, all immediately agreed to join Speer’s campaign. It was as if everyone’s fear suddenly evaporated. The day after that, they visited two mines, a railroad roundhouse, an electrical generation station and the Bayer Pharmaceutical Works, which was now host to an artillery battery. There too, everyone agreed not to obey the scorched-earth orders when they came in. “Let ‘em come here and try to tell us what to do,” shouted a bunch of electrical workers waving machine pistols in defiance. “We’ll show those Nazi pigs what for!” And even the artillery battery commander, under strict orders not to move an inch, readily agreed to relocate his guns away to a less sensitive spot. “They don’t have to know anything,” he told Speer. “None of it makes any difference anyway. Let’s keep the chemical works intact.”

And in each case, Speer and von Poser hadn’t done anything any different than what they’d done in previous visits. The only difference was that at some point, Manni would step in and say something completely unremarkable like, “I can understand your misgivings on this, but if you’d just let me explain something to you...” And then he’d say something that, on the face of it, wasn’t that different from what Speer had tried himself. But this time it worked. Whatever they asked for, they got.

Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here.

Hitler Tells Albert Speer to Have a Little Faith

He paced back and forth in front of his desk, not looking at Speer. “Sit down!” he ordered.

"Mein Fuhrer, I prefer to stand.”

"Sit down.”

Speer lowered himself into the chair.

"After all I’ve done for you and you repay me like this. You were nothing, Speer. Do you remember? An unemployed graduate without a pot to piss in.

"Do you know what I do to people who betray me? What makes you think you’re any different?”

Speer looked up at him. “The answer is yes, Mein Fuhrer, I know what happens to people who go against you. And I am no different.”

Hitler didn’t like that one bit. His head started twitching. He pulled his bad hand out to claw at the air. Everything was behind him now. His years of victory, of moving from strength to strength, were all gone. His charm, his wit, his animal vitality had deserted him. All that was left was this quavering shell. But even now, his determination and will, the two things that defined him, were undiminished. He sat down at the desk and studied its surface for a long time. What comes next, Speer wondered. Will he declare me apostate? Throw me to the lions, the SS? Is Himmler going to get to smile at me? So Speer, we were never good enough for you, were we? But now we’ll just see how much better you really are.

It might have been better to have been shot by the gauleiter’s deputy that time. For the first time he remembered his wife and children and how he’d loved being called Uncle Hitler by them. He hoped they wouldn’t be included.

Hitler looked up from the table. Suddenly he looked forgiving. “Speer, you think I don’t know things look bad? I’ve been a soldier for thirty years and I’ve seen more bad times than you’ll ever know.” The angry tone was gone. He sounded more like someone offering encouragement to a wayward friend. ”But I’ll tell you something else, bad times never last. Things turn around, sometimes very quickly. But the only way you can be there to take advantage of them is to have faith. Faith, Speer! Faith in yourself, faith in your volk, faith in your leader, faith in me!”

Faith, thought Speer. Faith doesn’t matter when you’re out of fuel, out of bullets and out of everybody but seventy-year-old Volkssturmers.

"Mein Fuhrer, what I saw in the Ruhr...”

Hitler quickly waved him to silence. “None of that matters, Speer. What matters is inside you. Don’t you see?” Hitler stood up from his desk, leaning forward so that he was close to Speer, his face a kindly grimace. “Now tell me, Speer, tell me you have faith.”

"I’d be lying, Mein Fuhrer,” answered Speer, making no attempt to sound contrite.

"Then tell me you have hope. Don’t you at least hope everything will work out?” He looked imploringly at Speer.

Say yes. His eyes looked so sad, as if every other tragedy, every other turn of fortune he could bear. But not this. How could you do this to me? After all our dreams? Your hoping means more to me than anything, Speer. Hope. How could you not hope for a turnaround? Please say yes.

Speer saw the eyes, the trembling frame. He thought of how vigorous he’d been then, how full of life and joy. And now he was just a sad old man asking for a tiny favor from his only friend; a favor only a complete unfeeling bastard could say no to.

"I’m sorry, Mein Fuhrer,” said Speer. “But the facts do not lie.” He wanted to add, “The war is lost,” but somehow he couldn’t bring himself.

Hitler’s face darkened and once again he grew cold. “I’m giving you twenty four hours to think about what I’ve just said to you,” he said brusquely. “I want you here tomorrow telling me you have faith in victory.”

Back in his office at the ministry, Speer tried to write down what he wanted to tell Hitler. He thought about all the things he’d seen in the Ruhr that he wanted to describe to him. If he could have seen the elderly volkssturmers or the disorganized, fragmentary divisions. If he could have seen people like Jakob who still had faith in him, who still believed in victory, maybe then Hitler would see the utter travesty in what he was asking. But the words wouldn’t come to him and he knew Hitler wouldn’t listen anyway. It was impossible to write it down just as it was impossible to tell him to his face. What was he going to do? Speer didn’t know. All he knew was that he was dead tired. He went back to his quarters and went to bed.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

An Old Bank in My Neighborhood that Clyde Barrow Robbed

If you go around Dallas looking for places that still resonate with the memory of Bonnie and Clyde, you'll find them and, quite often, in places that have changed remarkably little since the time that the Barrow Gang came through, raising their unique hell.

Reinhardt, Texas is one such place.  A hundred years ago Reinhardt was a little settlement  outside of Dallas, built along the tracks of the Atcheson, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad tracks. At the turn of the century, Reinhardt had a train station, a hotel, several stores, a bank, a post office, a race track, and two schools; one for white students, the other for the "coloreds."  In its day it was a bustling place.  In 1928 or 29,  Clyde and a couple confederates robbed the bank there. A year later, it went out of business.

Just as East Dallas remained its own jurisdiction during the first half of the 20th Century, Reinhardt also stayed its own town during the 1920s, 30s, and even halfway through the 1940s. But the city of Dallas,  Big D, was growing by leaps and bounds and in 1945 annexed East Dallas, and Reinhardt pretty much stopped being its own town.  But you can still find it, if you go up along the railroad tracks that run parallel to Garland Road, a half mile east.  The old warehouses next to the depot got subdivided into a couple dozen mini warehouses and are working space and storage to countless wordworking shops, roof repair and auto body concerns, and businesses where the proprietors as a rule aren't particularly inclined to discussing how exactly they make their money.

The bank building still stands there, but it's either a warehouse or a workshop.  We went by this afternoon and could see that the lights were on inside and that somebody was doing something. But somehow we knew better than to knock on the door and ask if they knew the building's particular history.  People in Reinhardt, as a rule, don't care for idle chatter.

Here is what Clyde Barrow says about his hometown of Eagle Ford (in West Dallas) in my novel Friend of the Devil:

Sure, I may dress and act like a big- city sophisticate, but when all is said and done, what I am, sir, is a man of West Dallas.

West Dallas isn’t the same as Dallas proper. In fact, they’re about as different as you can get. Dallas has skyscrapers with elevators, hot and cold running water and an avenue downtown lined with air-conditioned movie houses. You want water in West Dallas, you best dig yourself a well or pay fifty cents a barrel when the city truck comes by every other week. Yes, West Dallas is its white trash underbelly at the other side of the Trinity River Aqueduct. We aren’t rich or modern or respectable, but damn it, we got our code. We don’t squeal, we don’t steal from each other, and we don’t betray our kin to the laws, no matter what.

If you'd like to read more about Bonnie & Clyde, check out Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle.

Crew 713: Rescuing from Oblivion the Memory of the Ill-fated 492nd Bomber Group

The other day I met with Alex Mena, a Dallas filmmaker whose documentary, Crew 713, is bringing to life the long-buried story of the heroic and ill-fated 492nd Bombardment Group, of which his father had been member. Early in the Spring of 1944, they flew their brand-new, unpainted B-24 bombers from New Mexico to Florida, then down to Brazil across the Atlantic to Africa and ultimately up to East Anglia in England, where, a few days later, they launched their first raids against the Third Reich. Even though the Luftwaffe at that point was considered already on the verge of defeat, the truth was that, under the right circumstances, they still could deliver a very nasty bite against whoever was attacking them.

Discussing the Crew 713 documentary with filmmaker Alex Mena (right)

Although most of the missions that the 492nd flew were milk runs, occasionally they had to go against heavily defended industrial sites in Germany and Poland, during which time they'd suffer heavy casualties; often ten or twelve aircraft. In the course of a combat tour that lasted just under three month, they suffered such staggering losses, that ultimately Bomber Command decided to stand them down and then disband them. Rather than having to publicly admit what had happened, the 492nd unit designation was handed over to a OSS-run Special Operations unit, allowing the Air Force to preserve the fiction that nothing had happened.

As a result of all this, the story of the 492nd's tragic and heroic sacrifice never made it into any of the official histories, and as a result of that, it was also left out of the hundreds of histories of the air war over Europe which got written in the half century after World War II. It was only in recent years that a handful of intrepid amateur historians and film makers like Alex discovered their amazing and still untold story. By now, of course, only a handful of 492nd crewmen remain alive, and Alex is in a race against time to make sure their story gets told.

Alex is now about 80% done with his filming, but he still has a lot left to do.  He could definitely use more than just moral support.  So come on, people, send him some money today!

Here is a link to a story I wrote about them a few months ago for  Defense Media Network.
 

Himmler's Astrologer Having Doubts About the Upcoming Himmler-Eisenhower Alliance

Mostly they sat in chairs set up along the corridor facing the line of windows that looked down into the courtyard; the higher ranks at the far end, Franzi and the other junior officers down closer to the doors leading to the stairway. The Reichsfuhrer had taken the large corner office with the double doors while the three smaller offices were used by what was left of the command and operations staffs. Near the entrance, across from the lavatories, a hotplate was set up where they’d boil water for coffee and tea. If they wanted to smoke they could step outside to the top floor landing, but beyond that, they couldn’t leave. They didn’t want them talking to anybody on the lower floors or out in the yard.

This, they were told, was to be their new headquarters. After a week of moving from place to place, the SS had taken over the large gray building of the regional police presidium in the north German city of Luebeck. The small courtyard was crammed with half-tracks and open-roofed Volkswagens while dozens of heavily armed Waffen SS troopers milled around. For the most part, discipline was being maintained, but even so, cracks were starting to appear. For the first time everyone had stopped pretending about victory being inevitable. The war was lost and they all knew it. Their one shred of hope lay in the Reichsfuhrer’s completing his deal with Eisenhower, and from what Franzi could tell, things were progressing nicely.

Each day a fresh stream of supplicants came in to confer with Himmler and assure him of their support. There were party officials, gauleiters, generals, ministers, deputy ministers, all eager to ingratiate themselves.

Out on the landing, there was endless, unhindered speculation. They’d moved a wireless there to listen to the news reports coming out of Berlin, which weren’t actually good for much since about all they ever said was how the Fuhrer was continuing to lead the defenses of the city and that fresh relief spearheads were expected to arrive at any time. Franzi told himself that sooner or later, the Fuhrer continues to personally lead the defense of Fortress Berlin, was going to get replaced by something more ambiguous, yet more telling. The Fuhrer has gone out to join the fighting. The Fuhrer has left the Bunker. But then Radio Berlin stopped broadcasting, so they tried the Hamburg station, which turned out didn’t have any news, though the music was nice. Hearing two colonels complaining, Franzi took the bold step of suggesting they try Radio Atlantik.

At first, the two stared at each other, wide-eyed, wondering if they should. Radio Atlantik was an enemy propaganda station and listening to it was verboten. Finally one of them said, “Can you find it?” Franzi started twisting the dial and ten seconds later, he had it tuned in.

"Turn it up!” urged one of the colonels. Immediately they heard a young man’s friendly voice reading reports of air strikes and armored thrusts and about British and American bombers now being used to drop food into parts of Holland where the civilian population was on the verge of starvation. Apparently without a ceasefire being declared, the German military authority there had agreed not to hinder the relief effort. Now that was real news.

Berlin was now almost completely overrun with Russian troops in the center of the city, they said, with only a few scattered pockets remaining in German hands. Meanwhile in San Francisco, a large conference was being held for something called the United Nations.

They continued listening to it for a while when a voice behind them said sharply, “What are you doing?” They looked up and saw an SD major staring hard at them. Neither of the colonels acted like they cared what some pipsqueak major thought about anything. “What do you think?” one said, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"That’s Radio Atlantik, isn’t it? You know that’s strictly forbidden,” said the major.

"Oh stuff it,” said the colonel.

"You’re listening to Radio Atlantik, the voice of Free Germany,” announced a young woman with a pronounced Schwabian twang. There were three notes played on a chime, their call sign, and then the young woman said, "And now for some happy music, here’s Cab Calloway’s Jumpin’ Jive!”

The major nearly exploded. “How dare you? And right here outside the Reichsfuhrer’s offices?” His face shook with anger and disgust. “You’re all under arrest,” he said. “So help me, I’ll have you all hanged.” Then he turned to a captain having a cigarette alone in a corner. “Don’t let any of them leave,” he barked and turned to go downstairs.

In a searing instant of alertness, Franzi pitched himself into the major’s mind just enough so that when he started down the stairs, he misjudged the second step by an inch, while the third turned to butter beneath his feet. He went flying downward, head over heels, hitting the middle landing with a loud thud and a crack. He was dead, his neck broken.

The three stared down at him dumbfounded. Franzi reached over and turned the radio off. Word of the accident ran through the corridor, but nobody bothered getting up to see. A few minutes later the body was taken away and the radio was back on. Franzi staggered back inside the office corridor and slumped into the first empty chair he could find. For a long time he stared at the wall calendar, before the words and numbers began to make any sense to him. Today was April 30, Walpurgisnacht, the last night for resident witches to get out of town. Franzi wished there was some way he could use the occasion to justify doing the same.

He was no longer needed there. It had been more than a week since he had given Himmler a massage. His panic attacks had ended once Bernadotte went to Eisenhower. Having thus broken with the past, Himmler was a changed man. Himmler the icy interpreter of orders had become Himmler the personable, Himmler the decisive and calm, Himmler the man of destiny. When Franzi got called in now it was simply as an advisor.

Not that Himmler had stopped dithering entirely, but it was now focused on less pressing matters. He couldn’t decide what form his new government should take. One day he’d want a two-chamber parliamentary system, the next he’d talk about reviving the old Nordic ‘Volksthing.’ Then he’d dither over who to include in his cabinet. But one thing he never wavered on: whatever its form, there would not be a place in it for Albert Speer. Once he announced to Franzi and the others; “Gentlemen, I do not anticipate having any need in my administration for a Reichsminister for Mechanical Drawing. Nor do I expect to rebuild Berlin as some Twentieth Century version of Rome.”

There was also no dithering when Himmler talked about running Eisenhower’s security apparatus; how their common vision of a new Europe would combine the universality of Charlemagne and the mystical grandeur of the early German monarch Henry the Fowler; how the Soviets would quickly collapse under their combined power; how great the future of Europe was going to be now that Hitler was out of the way.

It was all very encouraging, except for one nagging little detail. Hitler wasn’t dead yet. He was still in his bunker sending out radio messages hourly and ordering non-existent armies about. Another nagging detail was that even though the peace discussions seemed to be at an advanced state, Eisenhower still had yet to call off his armies. The speculation out on the landing was that he had to wait until the Russians finished off Hitler before moving ahead with the ceasefire. That made sense, everyone agreed. If Schellenberg’s boundless optimism was any indicator, then the Himmler-Eisenhower alliance was a done deal.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).