The next morning it starts raining while I’m downstairs having
breakfast. I tell myself that once it stops, I’ll go to the station
and just catch the first train out. But the rain doesn’t stop and
I’m up in my room with nothing else to do, so I open the windows
and light up another reefer. And next thing I know, I’m flying high
and next thing I know after that, I’m feeling the fear again. Have
I stayed in Nacogdoches too long? Could Hamer be back on my trail.
Could he be lurking around somewhere one or two blocks away, waiting
for the moment to open up on me again, this time without any benefit
of warning? This rainstorm may be the only cover Imo get. I decide
what I need to do is put as many miles as I can between this place
and myself.
So I pack my bags, carry them downstairs, pay my bill at the front desk,
and then I load them into the back seat of my Ford. At that point, my
plan was to drive to the station, ditch the car and get on the first
train heading out. But instead of going there, I see a sign pointing
south for Lufkin and head that way and I’m mentally slapping myself
on the back at just how dang clever I am.
Two hours into my drive, the rain is still coming down and the road is
mostly empty. I’m feeling so good about everything I decide this
calls for a reefer! It’s my last one and I was intending to save it
for later, but now I’m thinking, what the hell? This in itself is a
perfect moment that needs to be observed. So I take it out from my
pocket, stick it between my lips, grab a strike-anywhere match from
the carton in the glove box and light it. But before I can even bring
it to where I got the reefer stuck in my lips, the car blows a tire,
goes into a spin and goes off the road. And that, dear friends, is
how, two hours ago, me and this dang car ended up stuck in this
ditch.
I’m stuck here, so I turn on the radio to see if there is anything worth
listening to. Once again, it appears the Blood of the Lamb loses to
the Gonad of the Goat.
"Can a man be… re-activated?” asks a husky female voice. “I need him to satisfy me just like he used to. Is there any hope?”
"Yes!” answers the friendly radio announcer. “Write today to the Brinkley Hospital, Del Rio, Texas, and be sure to enclose ten cents. Do it now!”
Absolutely! Do it now! Don’t wait another minute. And make sure the envelope is
postmarked before midnight tonight, because this is a special limited
offer and the supply of goat testicles is liable to give out at any
moment. Meanwhile, my reefer has gone out. I fetch another wooden
strike-anywhere from the glove box and rip it across the dashboard’s
surface. It bursts into flame and I bring it up against the long stub
of a reefer I’ve got in my mouth and start sucking the smoke into
my lungs, where it might do me some good.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah! My mood is definitely improving.
Just doing my job, answers the reefer, now just sit back and relax!
Then I take another good long hit and, oh, man, I am cooked! I’m not
sure if I’ve ever been this high. Maybe it’s a good thing this is
my last reefer.
Doctor Brinkley is once again addressing all his friends out in Radio Land.
"I know right now a lot of you folks are telling yourselves that you
can’t afford it. That you don’t have the money right now. That in
the current economic climate you can’t afford to spend a lordly sum
like eight hundred dollars for something that doesn’t actually put
food on your table. Well, folks, nothing could be more wrong. Because
nothing affects your economic well-being as much as your sexual
health. Ask yourself, how hard-charging can a gelding be? Why, just
today I received a letter that I have in my hand now. It reads, ‘Dear
Doctor Brinkley, I am writing just to let you know that, following
your surgery and recuperation at your fine institution, I have made a
full recovery and my wife and I are once again enjoying sexual joy of
a sort not experienced since our earliest days as a young buck and
doe. What I paid you was a reasonable sum, indeed, but what you have
given me in return has been truly priceless. Thank you, Doctor, and
God bless you!”
I stub the reefer out. Eight hundred smackers? That’s a fortune in
anyone’s book! That’s more than most people make in a year. In
this day and age with a depression going on, how can anyone afford
it? And for what? To con yourself into believing he can make your
Johnson ten hut and stay ten hut!
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle).
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Friday, July 25, 2014
Interview with "Mister MiG" aka Paul Entrekin
MiG-15s are fantastic aircraft. Everyone should own one! Read this article I wrote for The Rotarian about the first man in the world to own his own MiG!
Saturday, July 5, 2014
One Year After the West, TX Fertilizer Plant Explosion, Looking Back on How the Czechs Found Out About Their Cousins in Texas
In April of 2013, I was living in a small town in the Czech Republic. One morning I got up at my usual crack of dawn, got on to Facebook and quickly learned that there had been a catastrophic fertilizer plant explosion in the town of West, Texas. Being from Dallas, I quickly got in touch with a couple of my coffeehouse buddies who had not yet gone to bed and were still on Facebook and got them to tell me the details of what had happened. As I was doing this, I noticed that one of my Czech buddies, a local radio reporter, was also on Facebook as he was doing his morning show.
We started chatting and I told him what had happened in West. He said he'd heard about it but didn't see why it was of any interest to anyone there in the Czech Republic. I explained to him that West was an entirely Czech town, that it was for almost everyone in Texas among their favorite places. And that Texans loved West precisely for its Czech-ness and that they considered it the heart of "real" Texas. This stoked his curiosity.
After that, I told him about the Czech Stop, the famous roadside bakery that sells authentic kolaches on the highway between Dallas and Austin and that everybody traveling between the two cities will stop there. I told him that my guess was that the explosion was something Texans took extremely personally, akin to having their hearts ripped out. My buddy said it was very interesting and that he was going to place a couple of phone calls to Prague to see if anyone was interested in covering the story there for the Czech media.
About twenty minutes later, the first of more than a dozen phone calls started coming in. Since I don't speak Czech, I was asked to get my wife out of bed to tell the nation how Czech the town of West really is. She was on, live, for about ten minutes, talking about the Czechs of Texas and how they love their heritage, her memory of chatting with some of the older residents, who'd grown up speaking the language and still did from time to time.
Then a TV station called and told us they were sending down a crew to film us looking at the news from West and our friends' reactions on Facebook. We met them in a cafe off Masaryk Square. Later in the afternoon, another TV crew came down and they shot us in the square, buying kolaches at a farmer's market and explaining to the viewers what real kolaches mean to Texans and the lengths that they will drive to get them.
That night, West, Texas was the main topic of news in the Czech republic. Viewers all watched clips of the explosion and the Czech Stop and its kolaches and, in the process, something changed in the Czech psyche.
I don't know how it happened, but somewhere in the mid-20th century, the Czechs lost any sense of connectivity with the Czech diaspora in the outside world. In this regard, they are completely unlike the Poles, who have always seen the Polish world as being global in breadth. Maybe it was the Nazi occupation or the four decades of communist rule that followed. But to the Czechs, when you go, you're gone. This goes even more for the Czechs who left in the nineteenth century. They may understand that they are out there but they feel absolutely no connectivity to them, which is something I'm not sure the Czech-Americans every really grasped.
But now, they realized that those people in that town in central Texas that got flattened by a huge explosion were Czechs, just like themselves, even though most of them drove pick-up trucks and watched high school football games on Friday nights.
One thing that had happened was the Czech Rotary Club had immediately started organizing a charity drive to raise money for the victims of West, Texas. As Waco Tribune recently reported, Rotary Clubs around the world have since raised over $100,000 to help them.
We started chatting and I told him what had happened in West. He said he'd heard about it but didn't see why it was of any interest to anyone there in the Czech Republic. I explained to him that West was an entirely Czech town, that it was for almost everyone in Texas among their favorite places. And that Texans loved West precisely for its Czech-ness and that they considered it the heart of "real" Texas. This stoked his curiosity.
After that, I told him about the Czech Stop, the famous roadside bakery that sells authentic kolaches on the highway between Dallas and Austin and that everybody traveling between the two cities will stop there. I told him that my guess was that the explosion was something Texans took extremely personally, akin to having their hearts ripped out. My buddy said it was very interesting and that he was going to place a couple of phone calls to Prague to see if anyone was interested in covering the story there for the Czech media.
About twenty minutes later, the first of more than a dozen phone calls started coming in. Since I don't speak Czech, I was asked to get my wife out of bed to tell the nation how Czech the town of West really is. She was on, live, for about ten minutes, talking about the Czechs of Texas and how they love their heritage, her memory of chatting with some of the older residents, who'd grown up speaking the language and still did from time to time.
Then a TV station called and told us they were sending down a crew to film us looking at the news from West and our friends' reactions on Facebook. We met them in a cafe off Masaryk Square. Later in the afternoon, another TV crew came down and they shot us in the square, buying kolaches at a farmer's market and explaining to the viewers what real kolaches mean to Texans and the lengths that they will drive to get them.
That night, West, Texas was the main topic of news in the Czech republic. Viewers all watched clips of the explosion and the Czech Stop and its kolaches and, in the process, something changed in the Czech psyche.
I don't know how it happened, but somewhere in the mid-20th century, the Czechs lost any sense of connectivity with the Czech diaspora in the outside world. In this regard, they are completely unlike the Poles, who have always seen the Polish world as being global in breadth. Maybe it was the Nazi occupation or the four decades of communist rule that followed. But to the Czechs, when you go, you're gone. This goes even more for the Czechs who left in the nineteenth century. They may understand that they are out there but they feel absolutely no connectivity to them, which is something I'm not sure the Czech-Americans every really grasped.
But now, they realized that those people in that town in central Texas that got flattened by a huge explosion were Czechs, just like themselves, even though most of them drove pick-up trucks and watched high school football games on Friday nights.
One thing that had happened was the Czech Rotary Club had immediately started organizing a charity drive to raise money for the victims of West, Texas. As Waco Tribune recently reported, Rotary Clubs around the world have since raised over $100,000 to help them.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Speer's Rebellion Against Hitler: Consorting with Assassins while Driving through the Ruhr
It happened again the following afternoon, only this time instead
of coming out the front door he emerged from the alley, moving even
quicker than he had the day before. On the third occasion he went
into a regional police prefecture only to reappear a few minutes
later, leading a frightened-looking man by the elbow. The man was
wearing a raincoat which fit him so poorly Speer guessed they’d
nicked it on their way out. Manni opened the rear door and let the
man get in beside Speer. “He’s a friend of mine. I told him we’d
give him a ride,” he said. Then he got behind the wheel, put the
car into gear and they were off again. For the next two hours the man
remained rigid, wild-eyed and trembling, like he thought he was still
under the interrogator’s lamp. Eventually Manni glanced back from
behind the wheel and asked Speer to find him something to eat. Speer
went into his bag, and pulled out a can opener and a tin of mixed
vegetables. He went to work opening it, then pulled back the lid and
handed it to the man, who stared at it warily before taking it in his
hands, and gulping down its contents in a few seconds. Once he
finished, he looked around ravenously, then sank back in embarrassed
silence. Finally, just as it was getting dark, they drove into a
forest and let him out near a logging road. Without saying goodbye or
waving the man hurried up the path and disappeared into the trees.
After that it got even stranger. He’d pull up to different party
offices, and for several minutes would wait, meditatively staring
into the building, never saying anything. And then he would either
get out and go in or simply change his mind and drive off. Either
way, he never explained anything.
During one such time, it occurred to Speer that perhaps the young man was an assassin, whose real mission was killing off Nazi Party officials. But he immediately told himself he was being silly. But then the next time the young man went out, it occurred to him again, and again the next time and the time after. And each time Speer dismissed the idea, until one day, just as he was getting ready to go, the young man took out his pistol and casually screwed a silencer onto the barrel before returning it to his jacket. As they watched him disappear into the building, von Poser suggested they could drive away at that moment. But for some reason Speer said no.
An hour later as they were driving down the road, hidden inside a military convoy, Speer asked himself what it was that actually bothered him about it, other than the prospect of getting caught. Was it that he murdered somebody or that it was someone whose only crime was slavishly obeying the Fuhrer just as he had been only a few days earlier?
When Speer had finally decided to go against Hitler, he never imagined it would suddenly put him in league with murderers and assassins. But then, why should he have such a problem with that? The fact was he’d been consorting with thugs and murderers for twelve years now anyway. Of course the difference was the SS and Stormtroopers were supposed to be the good guys. They’d been on the side of the law. They were following orders. They were supposed to stand for what was right and decent in the world. Manni Loerber was a lone crazy acting on his own, without orders or moderating influence or any kind of official justification. But was that the only real difference? It sure didn’t feel that way.
Or was it the way he operated? Was it knowing that when he put the bullet in their head he had them laughing and reminiscing about the good old days at the Blue Star Cabaret and the Admiralspalast? Was it better to be assassinated when you were happy than when you were scared?
Speer tried to remember what he knew about the Magical Loerber Brothers. Like most Germans he’d seen them perform easily a dozen times and certainly he’d enjoyed their act. It was impossible not to. But at the same time he’d never been part of the Loerber Brothers Mania which went on through the 1920s and ‘30s. He remembered seeing the cover of one particular variety magazine with their four clean-scrubbed, blonde haired, blue-eyed, smiling and utterly indistinguishable faces arranged in a half-moon. Which one is your favorite? it asked. Until then he had never imagined that such a thing as a favorite Loerber Brother could exist. Since he’d never been able to tell any of them apart, it hadn’t occurred to him that they might possess individual personalities. But everyone else apparently could and they obsessed endlessly over the supposed minutia of their lives. Franzi’s Secret Crush! Twenty things you don’t know about Manni! How does somebody like that turn into someone like this? What had happened?
(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).
After that it got even stranger. He’d pull up to different party
offices, and for several minutes would wait, meditatively staring
into the building, never saying anything. And then he would either
get out and go in or simply change his mind and drive off. Either
way, he never explained anything.
During one such time, it occurred to Speer that perhaps the young man was an assassin, whose real mission was killing off Nazi Party officials. But he immediately told himself he was being silly. But then the next time the young man went out, it occurred to him again, and again the next time and the time after. And each time Speer dismissed the idea, until one day, just as he was getting ready to go, the young man took out his pistol and casually screwed a silencer onto the barrel before returning it to his jacket. As they watched him disappear into the building, von Poser suggested they could drive away at that moment. But for some reason Speer said no.
An hour later as they were driving down the road, hidden inside a military convoy, Speer asked himself what it was that actually bothered him about it, other than the prospect of getting caught. Was it that he murdered somebody or that it was someone whose only crime was slavishly obeying the Fuhrer just as he had been only a few days earlier?
When Speer had finally decided to go against Hitler, he never imagined it would suddenly put him in league with murderers and assassins. But then, why should he have such a problem with that? The fact was he’d been consorting with thugs and murderers for twelve years now anyway. Of course the difference was the SS and Stormtroopers were supposed to be the good guys. They’d been on the side of the law. They were following orders. They were supposed to stand for what was right and decent in the world. Manni Loerber was a lone crazy acting on his own, without orders or moderating influence or any kind of official justification. But was that the only real difference? It sure didn’t feel that way.
Or was it the way he operated? Was it knowing that when he put the bullet in their head he had them laughing and reminiscing about the good old days at the Blue Star Cabaret and the Admiralspalast? Was it better to be assassinated when you were happy than when you were scared?
Speer tried to remember what he knew about the Magical Loerber Brothers. Like most Germans he’d seen them perform easily a dozen times and certainly he’d enjoyed their act. It was impossible not to. But at the same time he’d never been part of the Loerber Brothers Mania which went on through the 1920s and ‘30s. He remembered seeing the cover of one particular variety magazine with their four clean-scrubbed, blonde haired, blue-eyed, smiling and utterly indistinguishable faces arranged in a half-moon. Which one is your favorite? it asked. Until then he had never imagined that such a thing as a favorite Loerber Brother could exist. Since he’d never been able to tell any of them apart, it hadn’t occurred to him that they might possess individual personalities. But everyone else apparently could and they obsessed endlessly over the supposed minutia of their lives. Franzi’s Secret Crush! Twenty things you don’t know about Manni! How does somebody like that turn into someone like this? What had happened?
(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).
Friend of the Devil: Bluesman on the Run from the Law Shares His Sandwiches with God
He eats the other sandwich quickly and rather than look sated, he seems
even hungrier than before. He looks at me again with his big mournful
eyes. “I feel terrible asking you this,” he says, “but, seeing
how you’re not going to eat with me, would you terribly mind if I
had the last sandwich?”
“It’s yours,” I say.
He reaches into the back seat and takes the paper bag and then sets it down on his lap and begins unwrapping the last sandwich. He puts the first half up to his mouth, leaving the other sitting in its bed of white paper on his lap. I feel my stomach start to rumble. I could ask for the other half, but I think I’d rather starve.
“Funny you should say, ‘It’s yours,’” he says. “Isn’t that what
you told that woman when she robbed you?”
“Why is it funny?”
“Well, you didn’t have to say it. By telling her those sandwiches were hers, you were giving them to her. Technically speaking, after that she wasn’t stealing them.”
“I’m not really interested in technicalities,” I say.
The young man looks surprised. “You aren’t? Didn’t you get sent to prison on a technicality?”
“Well, what if I did?”
“Well, it’s a lot easier to get a conviction overturned if it’s on just a technicality. It’s just a question of having the right connections; a good lawyer, for example.”
“Good lawyer?” I snort. “I’m not sure such a thing exists, least not in Texas.”
We pass an old church. He stares at it like it’s reminding him of something he’d completely forgotten about.
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle).
“It’s yours,” I say.
He reaches into the back seat and takes the paper bag and then sets it down on his lap and begins unwrapping the last sandwich. He puts the first half up to his mouth, leaving the other sitting in its bed of white paper on his lap. I feel my stomach start to rumble. I could ask for the other half, but I think I’d rather starve.
“Funny you should say, ‘It’s yours,’” he says. “Isn’t that what
you told that woman when she robbed you?”
“Why is it funny?”
“Well, you didn’t have to say it. By telling her those sandwiches were hers, you were giving them to her. Technically speaking, after that she wasn’t stealing them.”
“I’m not really interested in technicalities,” I say.
The young man looks surprised. “You aren’t? Didn’t you get sent to prison on a technicality?”
“Well, what if I did?”
“Well, it’s a lot easier to get a conviction overturned if it’s on just a technicality. It’s just a question of having the right connections; a good lawyer, for example.”
“Good lawyer?” I snort. “I’m not sure such a thing exists, least not in Texas.”
We pass an old church. He stares at it like it’s reminding him of something he’d completely forgotten about.
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle).
Friday, June 20, 2014
Schellenberg Learns Kersten Is Gone, Calls for a Substitute
Normally Schellenberg was wary of letting Himmler veer off on a different
topic, but this was a good sign. It meant the Reichsfuhrer was
solidly thinking about running things after Hitler was gotten rid of.
"Reichsfuhrer,” he began solemnly, “I would say the best thing to do would be bow. Why? Because it shows your gallantry and your readiness to approach Eisenhower as a supplicant. Offering to shake hands right off could create the impression of being too forward. But when you bow, he will feel compelled to put his hand on your shoulder and be gracious.”
Himmler was suddenly a whirl of activity, speaking quickly as he paced back and forth. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll come up to him and I’ll bow.
Schellenberg smiled.
"Now I just need to see about getting the Fuhrer’s permission,” Himmler added almost as an afterthought.
Schellenberg stood dumbfounded.
...Getting the Fuhrer’s permission?
Could he possibly have heard it wrong? The understanding was supposed to be that if Hitler didn’t agree to step down, he should be shot. ... Permission? He stared up at Himmler, who stared back, his watery eyes imperceptible as ever behind the pebble lenses of his glasses.
There is also the matter of my uniform. Should I wear the green one or the black. I think black would be ideal,” he ventured.
Schellenberg tried to keep from exploding. “Reichsfuhrer, you need to tell me, are we still on the same page on this?”
Himmler dabbed at his mouth with his forefinger. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked, absently.
"None of this can happen until you confront the Fuhrer and make him step aside. We’ve already discussed this.”
Himmler twitched.
"Now are you going to do it or not?”
A bigger twitch this time.
"Count Bernadotte is going out on a limb telling Eisenhower you are ready to take over the government. That was the whole point of my flying up to Stockholm. That was what we agreed on, wasn’t it?”
Himmler’s stomach jerked.
"They both expect immediate action from us, Reichsfuhrer. And I’d say they are also definitely starting to lose their patience.”
Another twitch. Himmler’s mouth gaped.
Schellenberg pushed it further. “Reichsfuhrer, the situation is critical. The Russians are going to chew us up and spit us out. They’re going to rape and kill everyone they find. Is this what you want to happen?”
Himmler was all frantic motion now, waving his arms like he was battling an onslaught of flies. “General Schellenberg, you know it’s not as simple as that. You really must understand my situation here. I owe everything to the Fuhrer. Everything! And while yes, I might agree in principle, I just can’t come to him and say ‘Get out of the way, it’s now my turn... It’s just not, it’s just not, it’s unthinkable...I’ve sworn an oath of allegiance, a sacred oath, and I, for one, take that sort of thing very seriously...”
"Reichsfuhrer...,” interjected Schellenberg. But Himmler waved him to silence.
"You must understand the karmic implications of what you are suggesting. It would be much better for everyone if the Fuhrer elected to step down, that would minimize the celestial trauma. I think we should give it a few more days and see if something might alter the forces in our favor. Karmically speaking, it would be the thing to shoot for. And my astrologer assures me there are some major events on the horizon, so who knows?”
Schellenberg cursed himself. The whole trip had been a waste. All of his efforts over the last two years had been a waste.
"We need to be patient, Schellenberg, and not rush anything. It’s the cosmic thing to do.” Beads of sweat were forming on Himmler’s forehead and his left eyebrow was fluttering.
Schellenberg began shouting. “Reichsfuhrer, do you understand the situation we’re in as a nation? We are facing racial extermination. And unless you move immediately, now, today, we will all be destroyed. You must find the strength inside yourself to do what must be done.”
"But you don’t understand,” shot back Himmler in a high- pitched voice. “I owe him everything. I swore an oath to him.” Suddenly Himmler clutched at his stomach and began shrieking in pain. “It’s starting again, Schellenberg! The pain, it’s tearing me up!” he screamed. “Aaahhhh, I can’t take this! It’s killing me, it’s killing me. Call Kersten. Get him in here at once.”
"Reichsfuhrer,” said Schellenberg calmly. “Kersten is still in Stockholm.”
"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Himmler shrieked as he thrashed about on the couch. “Do something, Schellenberg! Do something! I can’t take it.”
Schellenberg went to the door. In the outer office, Himmler’s adjutants, aides and secretaries all waited in hushed terror. “Shouldn’t we send for Kersten?” suggested one of the women.
"Kersten isn’t coming back,” said Schellenberg. “Is there anyone else we can call?”
Everyone looked at each other helplessly. There wasn’t a doctor Himmler would let touch him. There was only Kersten. Nobody could take the pain away like Kersten. Nobody could listen to him and give him advice like Kersten. In the next room Himmler screamed like he was being gutted.
"There has to be somebody,” repeated Schellenberg.
One of the adjutants shifted nervously. “Ummm, there’s Sub-lieutenant Loerber from the Astrology Branch. He’s supposed to be pretty good.”
Himmler shrieked louder.
Then get this Loerber up here on the double!” ordered Schellenberg.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).
"Reichsfuhrer,” he began solemnly, “I would say the best thing to do would be bow. Why? Because it shows your gallantry and your readiness to approach Eisenhower as a supplicant. Offering to shake hands right off could create the impression of being too forward. But when you bow, he will feel compelled to put his hand on your shoulder and be gracious.”
Himmler was suddenly a whirl of activity, speaking quickly as he paced back and forth. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll come up to him and I’ll bow.
Schellenberg smiled.
"Now I just need to see about getting the Fuhrer’s permission,” Himmler added almost as an afterthought.
Schellenberg stood dumbfounded.
...Getting the Fuhrer’s permission?
Could he possibly have heard it wrong? The understanding was supposed to be that if Hitler didn’t agree to step down, he should be shot. ... Permission? He stared up at Himmler, who stared back, his watery eyes imperceptible as ever behind the pebble lenses of his glasses.
There is also the matter of my uniform. Should I wear the green one or the black. I think black would be ideal,” he ventured.
Schellenberg tried to keep from exploding. “Reichsfuhrer, you need to tell me, are we still on the same page on this?”
Himmler dabbed at his mouth with his forefinger. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked, absently.
"None of this can happen until you confront the Fuhrer and make him step aside. We’ve already discussed this.”
Himmler twitched.
"Now are you going to do it or not?”
A bigger twitch this time.
"Count Bernadotte is going out on a limb telling Eisenhower you are ready to take over the government. That was the whole point of my flying up to Stockholm. That was what we agreed on, wasn’t it?”
Himmler’s stomach jerked.
"They both expect immediate action from us, Reichsfuhrer. And I’d say they are also definitely starting to lose their patience.”
Another twitch. Himmler’s mouth gaped.
Schellenberg pushed it further. “Reichsfuhrer, the situation is critical. The Russians are going to chew us up and spit us out. They’re going to rape and kill everyone they find. Is this what you want to happen?”
Himmler was all frantic motion now, waving his arms like he was battling an onslaught of flies. “General Schellenberg, you know it’s not as simple as that. You really must understand my situation here. I owe everything to the Fuhrer. Everything! And while yes, I might agree in principle, I just can’t come to him and say ‘Get out of the way, it’s now my turn... It’s just not, it’s just not, it’s unthinkable...I’ve sworn an oath of allegiance, a sacred oath, and I, for one, take that sort of thing very seriously...”
"Reichsfuhrer...,” interjected Schellenberg. But Himmler waved him to silence.
"You must understand the karmic implications of what you are suggesting. It would be much better for everyone if the Fuhrer elected to step down, that would minimize the celestial trauma. I think we should give it a few more days and see if something might alter the forces in our favor. Karmically speaking, it would be the thing to shoot for. And my astrologer assures me there are some major events on the horizon, so who knows?”
Schellenberg cursed himself. The whole trip had been a waste. All of his efforts over the last two years had been a waste.
"We need to be patient, Schellenberg, and not rush anything. It’s the cosmic thing to do.” Beads of sweat were forming on Himmler’s forehead and his left eyebrow was fluttering.
Schellenberg began shouting. “Reichsfuhrer, do you understand the situation we’re in as a nation? We are facing racial extermination. And unless you move immediately, now, today, we will all be destroyed. You must find the strength inside yourself to do what must be done.”
"But you don’t understand,” shot back Himmler in a high- pitched voice. “I owe him everything. I swore an oath to him.” Suddenly Himmler clutched at his stomach and began shrieking in pain. “It’s starting again, Schellenberg! The pain, it’s tearing me up!” he screamed. “Aaahhhh, I can’t take this! It’s killing me, it’s killing me. Call Kersten. Get him in here at once.”
"Reichsfuhrer,” said Schellenberg calmly. “Kersten is still in Stockholm.”
"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Himmler shrieked as he thrashed about on the couch. “Do something, Schellenberg! Do something! I can’t take it.”
Schellenberg went to the door. In the outer office, Himmler’s adjutants, aides and secretaries all waited in hushed terror. “Shouldn’t we send for Kersten?” suggested one of the women.
"Kersten isn’t coming back,” said Schellenberg. “Is there anyone else we can call?”
Everyone looked at each other helplessly. There wasn’t a doctor Himmler would let touch him. There was only Kersten. Nobody could take the pain away like Kersten. Nobody could listen to him and give him advice like Kersten. In the next room Himmler screamed like he was being gutted.
"There has to be somebody,” repeated Schellenberg.
One of the adjutants shifted nervously. “Ummm, there’s Sub-lieutenant Loerber from the Astrology Branch. He’s supposed to be pretty good.”
Himmler shrieked louder.
Then get this Loerber up here on the double!” ordered Schellenberg.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).
Friday, June 13, 2014
The Sinking of the Battleship Roma and the Dawn of the Age of Precision Guided Munitions
The Sinking of the Battleship Roma and the Dawn of the Age of Precision Guided Munitions
A couple of hours after midnight on the morning of Sept. 9, 1943, a large force of Italian warships – three battleships, three cruisers, and eight destroyers – slipped out of the northern Italian port of La Spezia. Leading them was the Roma, the Italian Navy’s newest and largest battleship, and they were going out to attack a large Allied naval force, which was, at that moment, staging an amphibious invasion further down the coast at Salerno. At least that was what Adm. Carlo Bergamini told a local German commander. But what they were really doing that night was switching sides and joining the Allies.
To read the full article, visit Defense Media Network at http://www.defensemedianetwork.com/stories/the-sinking-of-the-battleship-roma-and-the-dawn-of-the-age-of-precision-guided-munitions/
The Italian battleship Roma
listing after being hit by German Fritz X radio-controlled bombs
launched by Do 217s, Sept. 9, 1943. Italian Navy photo
A couple of hours after midnight on the morning of Sept. 9, 1943, a large force of Italian warships – three battleships, three cruisers, and eight destroyers – slipped out of the northern Italian port of La Spezia. Leading them was the Roma, the Italian Navy’s newest and largest battleship, and they were going out to attack a large Allied naval force, which was, at that moment, staging an amphibious invasion further down the coast at Salerno. At least that was what Adm. Carlo Bergamini told a local German commander. But what they were really doing that night was switching sides and joining the Allies.
To read the full article, visit Defense Media Network at http://www.defensemedianetwork.com/stories/the-sinking-of-the-battleship-roma-and-the-dawn-of-the-age-of-precision-guided-munitions/
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