tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-342100191009663152024-03-19T03:52:10.811-05:00Brendan McNally, Nazis and DinosaursA blog about Nazi Germany, 1930s, gangsters, and Cold War spies.Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.comBlogger202125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-77560354300094878042022-05-11T11:56:00.003-05:002022-05-11T11:56:39.789-05:00<p> WHAT I'VE BEEN UP TO</p><p><br /></p><p>Hello, friends in Radio-land. I know I've been missing in action, lo, these many months. But I've been doing stuff. Thought I'd pop in and apologize and bring everyone up to date.</p><p><br /></p><p>I've spent the last bunch of years researching and writing a book about an American woman who became a Soviet spy during the 1930s and then led a fairly bizarre life because of it. Her name was Martha Dodd and I first learned about her when I came to Prague to be a 'foreign correspondent' back in 1992. </p><p>I worked at the Prague Post, a now-defunct, briefly legendary weekly newspaper, which endeavored to cover the news coming out of newly-democratic Czechoslovakia. It was manned by an ever-evolving band of American, Canadian, British, and Czech journalists, all young, and most without even half a clue.</p><p>I already had several years experience covering the Pentagon and Capitol Hill for a succession of sleazy defense-industry newsletters. I was also quite a bit older than most of my colleagues who were mostly fresh out of university. Anyway, one day in July or August, when absolutely nothing, besides the country breaking up, I went for an interview with someone from the Agricultural Chamber, a professional organization of farmers. Since he didn't speak English, I brought along a translator. Her name was Dora Slaba and she was a sixty-ish woman, a Sudeten Jew, who spoke with a British accent, something she'd picked up living in London during WWII. After the interview, I took her out to a McDonalds which had just opened up on Wenceslas Square and got Dora her very first Happy Meal. </p><p>We chatted for a few minutes as we ate and then she seemed to get serious and she asked me if I'd ever heard of an American writer named Martha Dodd. I told her didn't and asked who she was.</p><p>"She was a rich American widow who'd been living here for years and years," Dora answered. "I was her secretary for a year or two just before the Revolution. She said she was a writer and a journalist, but nobody I've talked to has ever heard of her."</p><p>I told Dora she sounded like she might be interesting. Was she still around? Dora shook her head and told me she'd died two years earlier. I told her again how I thought it sounded interesting and we moved on to other subjects. I promptly forgot all about it. For the next five years I was extremely busy covering all kinds of crazy stories that were continually breaking.</p><p>It wasn't until about ten years later I ran into that woman. </p><p>I'd been back in the US for several years and was at work on a novel set during the final days of the Third Reich. I was doing research on the internet in a history site probably called something like "Hot Babes of Nazi Germany!" And there she was: Martha Dodd, the woman Dora had worked for!</p><p>It turned out that Martha Dodd was the daughter of William E Dodd, who had been the American Ambassador to Nazi Germany. She had accompanied her parents to Berlin in 1933 and promptly started having sex with amost every Nazi bigwig she came into contact with. And there were a lot of them. At one point she was screwing the head of the Gestapo, a celebrated dive-bomber ace and movie stunt pilot, several generals and Hitler's piano player. Then she met a dashing Russian diplomat and promptly fell head over heels for him, though she was still boffing all those other guys. He recruited her into Soviet intelligence. For a while she was one of Stalin's top agents. She had a fairly amazing run which lasted a couple years until her father's tour of duty ended and the Dodd family went back to America.</p><p>Martha had hoped to continue her spy work in America, and Moscow Center had big plans for her. But almost as soon as she came home, Josef Stalin unleashed a wave of purges that put all the best Soviet intelligence officers in front of firing squads. Martha got forgotten.</p><p>Eventually she got put into a low-level spy ring and her exploits were anything but spectacular. The FBI found out about them and she spent years under surveillance. When they tried to arrest her, she slipped their trap twice and ended up fleeing with all her money to Prague where she lived like something out of Sunset Boulevard for the next thirty years, which was how Dora met her.</p><p>I went back to Prague and found Dora and made her tell me what else she knew. She told me a lot of weird stories. But I have also learned a lot weirder stuff from other people I found that knew her.</p><p>Anyway, I'm currently writing about Martha Dodd's life. I'm at least a year from completing it, but my agent is shopping a package of chapters to various interested editors, so my fingers are crossed.</p><p>Wish me luck, you all.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-16148818739774864732020-11-12T18:02:00.004-06:002020-11-12T18:02:33.969-06:00.....SORT OF LIKE THE TRUMP WHITE HOUSE RIGHT NOW! <p><br /></p><p>..<b>HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEIN FUHRER, SORRY, BUT I GOTTA LEAVE EARLY! HAVE TO SEE A MAN ABOUT A DOG! </b></p><p><br /></p><p>Excerpt from <b><i>Germania, a Novel</i></b> by Brendan McNally</p><p>Copyright, Simon & Schuster, 2012 </p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was April 20, Hitler’s birthday. The day was declared a national feast day and in an effort to make it just like all the earlier ones, the last stocks of flour and sugar and sweets were opened up and distributed to the public. For several hours there was electricity and water again flowed from the pipes. People broke from whatever they were doing and took baths, baked cakes and then went outside to watch the parade and cheer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>As in years past, there was a party at the Chancellery. But instead of the usual long line of limousines pulling up with smiling ambassadors, envoys and high government officials, today the guests arrived in a handful of shared staff cars.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Speer came as he always did, driven in his Porsche, which he had parked in one of the underground garages. He made his way through the wrecked halls, climbing over collapsed beams and shattered walls to the bunker’s entrance. The Chancellery, <i>his </i>Chancellery, was falling apart. For five years it had stood up to the Allied air bombardment, but three days of pounding by Soviet artillery had reduced it to ruins.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Passing through the airlock’s steel doors and going down the steps, it seemed he’d returned to a world of order. Here the concrete corridors were still clean-scrubbed, the lights all worked. But as he got down to the main level, he began noticing the uncollected dirty glasses, plates, and silverware gathering in the corners and beneath end tables. After weeks of endless parties, the housekeeping staff had clearly lost enthusiasm for the job. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">In the corridor outside the conference room, a crowd of aides and adjutants milled around, while liveried waiters swirled among them with silver trays of canapés and drinks. Everyone tried to act festive, though it was obvious that what was really on their minds was getting out of Berlin. The Fuhrer had announced he would be flying out to the Obersalzburg to conduct the war from there. But so far he hadn’t told anyone when he’d be leaving. The Russians were now rumored to be in the outer suburbs, and while it was anyone’s guess when their encirclement of Berlin might be completed, until the Fuhrer officially gave word for them to decamp the city, they were all stuck there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Inside the large room the situation conference was already underway. General Keitel was giving the briefing. Even now, in the midst of the catastrophe, he managed to find morsels of optimism. Whenever the Soviets had elected to withdraw from a sector, Keitel seized upon it as the portent of an upcoming reversal. In each instance, Hitler reacted with glee, rubbing his hands and ordering Keitel to elaborate on how they would exploit it. There seemed so many possible paths to victory, it left scant opportunity to examine those other places where German forces were fleeing in disarray. It went on for another hour. Speer listened to Keitel and Jodl predict how the alliance between the Jewish Bolsheviks and the West was on the verge of disintegrating. Goering talked about the new jet fighter squadrons which were becoming operational that very day. Doenitz chimed in with news that the first of the new miracle U-Boats had finished their testing and were beginning their first war patrols. Hitler loudly praised Doenitz for his indomitable fighting spirit.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Throughout, Hitler ignored Speer. Somehow he had fallen out of favor again, though he had no idea why. It had been weeks since he had committed a single subversive act. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Once the briefing had wrapped up, Hitler surprised everyone by leading them topside to the Chancellery garden, where a large group of twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys stood in ranks, waiting to be decorated for heroism in combat. It was criminal, Speer thought grimly, as he watched Hitler going from boy to boy, exchanging a few words with each, praising their courage and pinning iron crosses on their tiny chests. He doesn’t believe in Victory any more than I do, yet he happily sends children to their deaths. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The sight of Hitler plainly shocked the boys. He wasn’t at all what they’d expected. The hero they’d been taught to revere since the day they were born was this decrepit old man? Those who’d fanatically believed in victory now knew they’d lost. Hitler immediately sensed their unease. His initial good humor and heartiness turned brittle and soon he was handing out the iron crosses without a word. Once he’d finished, the Hitler Youth were dismissed and he led the partygoers back to the bunker entrance. But at the threshold he stopped, turned to face everyone and announced that he was staying in Berlin. Whoever wanted to leave was free to do so, he declared with an angry wave of his hand. Warily, they followed Hitler back down into the bunker for cake.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The rest of the party was a shabby, uncomfortable affair. Relieved as they were to have been given permission to leave Berlin, as long as they were down there in the bunker with him, they were still his captives. Precious minutes were ticking by and he was plainly in no hurry to let them go. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">All this time, Speer had been unable to exchange even a few words with him. At one point he had approached Hitler as he was being beset by Ley and Ribbentrop, carrying on with their customary drunken blandishments, which Hitler looked plainly tired of. Speer approached respectfully, positioning himself a few feet away like a waiter. But rather than avail himself of Speer’s ready presence to get rid of the other two, Hitler shot Speer a dirty look and enmeshed himself even deeper with them. Speer waited awkwardly for several minutes before finally withdrawing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Then Hitler called up Himmler and, hand on his shoulder, began to talk nostalgically about their early days of struggle on the streets of Munich, where day after day, they’d fight it out with the Reds. Hitler lavished praise on his <i>treue Heinrich</i>, who had always stood by him, no matter how tough the going got. For some reason Himmler responded with only an embarrassed smile. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Reichsfuhrer,” urged Hitler, “tell everyone what it was like back then.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Himmler awkwardly shifted on his feet. “Ah yes, those days,” he said with the greatest effort. “If I, ah, live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget.” Himmler paused. “But that is not to say, of course, that the best is still not to come.” Everyone felt compelled to make agreeable noises to that. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Just then one of the Reichsfuhrer’s adjutants came in and handed him a message. Himmler looked at it and grunted, “Five minutes.” The major gave Himmler a hard, nonnegotiable glare and withdrew to the corridor. Himmler stuffed the message in his pocket and continued speaking. “Yes, very soon the tide of this battle will turn and the Russians will be fleeing back across the Oder. All the karmic balances will be restored and our millennia of interrupted peace can resume.” He was now getting into his stride. He began talking about the bright future of the German race, how, freed of negative racial pollutants, their full potentiality would blossom forth unhindered onto the very stars. Everyone was startled at the unabashed magnificence of his pronouncements. Speer noticed the SS major standing at the entrance, glaring significantly at Himmler. The major silently mouthed the word, <i>Now!</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Suddenly, Himmler stood up and announced that he had to be going. The other guests looked at each other in shock. No one had ever done that to Hitler before. Not his closest, most favored underlings, not his most choleric, combative generals. People waited until Hitler dismissed them. That was the rule.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Urgent business, I am afraid,” mumbled Himmler by way of explanation. “The war.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Hitler was fuming. But Himmler paid him no heed. He repeated his birthday greetings and his hope to see him again soon, and then turned on his heel and was gone.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I guess he had to see to the new millennium,” Goering muttered to Speer. Speer thought of the conversation he’d had with Himmler in his office. So apparently he was capable of independent action. He wondered what news had spurred this urgent move. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">For another hour the party went on, more dispiritedly than before. Then, without Speer hearing it, permission to leave was given and all at once everyone was in a hurry to get out. They formed a line to bid the Fuhrer farewell. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-49273738225177817562020-07-13T19:15:00.002-05:002020-07-13T19:15:49.313-05:00ALBERT SPEER WONDERS WHAT TO TELL HITLER <div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">
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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’s 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 the farmer Jacob who still had faith in him, who still believed in victory, maybe then Hitler would be able to see the utter travesty in what he was asking. But the words wouldn’t come 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 know was that he was dead tired. He went back to his quarters and went to bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He woke up a few hours later with a dry mouth and a cold sweat and rather than try to go back to sleep, he put on his robe and went back to his office to work on his response. Faith? Hope? Do I say yes or no? If I say no, I’ll at least get to maintain my integrity. Of course, at this point his integrity had to be about the most useless thing there was. But on the other hand, his reward for discarding it was hardly worth having.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Speer wrote a few sentences, then crumpled the paper and stared out into the darkness. The electricity was out again. The empty window frames either hadn’t been repapers or what they’d put in had already been blown out. Perhaps the papering crews had all been mobilized and were sent off to the front. Faith, Hope? Come on! There was nothing left.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Buy Germania: A Novel, now on Kindle for only $3.99</div>
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https://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Brendan+McNally+Germania&qid=1594685538&sr=8-1</div>
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Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-65325522841683781782020-04-02T18:54:00.000-05:002020-04-02T18:54:17.568-05:00Mexican Border Radio, Fried Chicken, and the Big Beat!But First, a word from our sponsors!<br />
<br />
<i><b>Times like this, what do we all crave? Chicken!</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>"I know you LOVE fried chicken. Everybody does! Now just listen here, babies, because I got a way that you can plenty of lip-smacking good fried chicken on your table, anytime you want it and almost for free!"</b></i><br />
<br />
This was the kind of patter you used to hear on the Mexican X-Stations, that broadcast just across the border from Del Rio, Texas, from the 1930s clear through to the 1960s.<br />
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Click the link below for a recording of some of that choice radio gab! It's not actually from one of the X-Stations, but from WLAC in Nashville, but boss DJ John R worked the same ground as Wolfman Jack and the other Border Blasters. Both of them were white, but they talked they sounded black and "talked the Soul Language."<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5Xr0CRVT6k">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5Xr0CRVT6k</a><br />
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Go ahead a give it a whirl! If you think its Cool n Crazy, maybe you should consider giving my novel, FRIEND OF THE DEVIL a whirl.<br />
Its got dirty blues, Jazz, plenty of reefer, Bonnie and Clyde, God, the Devil, and lots and lots of Mexican Radio! Also Goat Glands!Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-16536867063967983182020-03-26T17:21:00.001-05:002020-03-26T17:27:08.699-05:00ROBERT EDSEL IS THE NAZI TREASURE HUNTER OF DALLAS<b>ROBERT EDSEL IS THE NAZI TREASURE HUNTER</b><br />
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Before his book Monuments Men became a star-packed feature film, author Bob Edsel was a Texas oilman. Once he made his pile, he sold his company and spent the next part of his life hunting down artwork that had been stolen by the Nazis. <br />
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Here is an article I did for D Magazine about him in 2011.<br />
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<a href="https://www.dmagazine.com/publications/d-magazine/2011/march/robert-edsel-is-the-nazi-treasure-hunter/">https://www.dmagazine.com/publications/d-magazine/2011/march/robert-edsel-is-the-nazi-treasure-hunter/</a>Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-39454129029171715362020-03-22T17:59:00.000-05:002020-03-22T17:59:01.986-05:00Who was Hitler's Successor and Why the Heck should you care?<br />
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Why? Because the story of the Flensburg Reich of Grand Admiral Doenitz is a very strange piece of World War II history you probably don't know about!<br />
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Grand Admiral Doenitz unfortunate fate was that Hitler named him his successor right before he blew his brains out in the Fuhrerbunker in Berlin on April 30, 1945. It was Hitler's way of rewarding Doenitz for being the only Nazi leader not seeking a surrender. As a result, Doenitz got stuck with cleaning up Hitler's mess and having to surrender what was left of the Third Reich to the Allies. But then Doenitz got stuck with running a post-Hitler Nazi government for three whole weeks under Allied supervision. During that time all kinds of weird things happened.<br />
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The Flensburg 'Reich' is the setting of GERMANIA, a Novel, published by Simon & Schuster and now available (DIRT CHEAP) as an E-Book.<br />
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To find out more just hit this link:<br />
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<a href="https://artandseek.org/2009/02/11/book-review-germania-by-brendan-mcnally/">https://artandseek.org/2009/02/11/book-review-germania-by-brendan-mcnally/</a>Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-74900135267541768312015-12-28T15:47:00.000-06:002015-12-28T15:47:05.156-06:00The Trinity River Massacre<div class="text-container">
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The Trinity River Massacre</h2>
<span class="sub-head">It spawned the biggest manhunt since Bonnie and Clyde, but few today remember that bloody night in 1971.</span>
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<span class="byline"></span><img alt="trinitiy_river_massacre_newpaper.jpg" class="hero" src="http://assets.dmagazine.com/media/3211992/trinitiy_river_massacre_newpaper.jpg?mode=crop-up&width=747&cropUpAlias=wide" /></div>
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<span class="byline">By Brendan McNally</span>
<span class="issue">From D Magazine January 2016</span>
<span class="credits">Photos courtesy of Doug Mulder</span><br />
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<span class="s1">Rene Guzman and Leonardo</span><span class="s2"> Lopez lived in West Dallas and supported their drug habits with
burglary. Someone in Ellis County had seen them in action and written
down the plate number on Guzman’s car. That’s what brought the sheriff’s
deputies to their door at 2810 Ingersoll Street on February 15, 1971,
the day after Valentine’s.</span><a href="http://www.dmagazine.com/publications/d-magazine/2016/january/trinity-river-massacre-manhunt-1971?ref=hpcarouseltitle">http://www.dmagazine.com/publications/d-magazine/2016/january/trinity-river-massacre-manhunt-1971?ref=hpcarouseltitle</a>Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-25932248544650887392015-02-13T10:15:00.002-06:002016-01-02T18:23:11.521-06:00Valentine's Blues from Texas and the Great BeyondIt’s not even a tone, more like a pulsing; a spot on the dial where one
moment there is a faint sound and the next there isn’t, then there
is, then there isn’t. It could almost be Morse code; something,
nothing, something, nothing, di, di, da. I bend down closer to the
dashboard speaker and try to focus on it. Gradually it becomes a
voice, then I realize it’s a woman’s voice, but still far too
faint for me to understand anything she’s saying. But she’s
saying something and for me. It’s a human voice, and even if I have
no idea what she’s saying, I can hear the sympathy and warmth in
it.
<br />
<br />
Stevens taps on my shoulder. I look up. “You shouldn’t do that,” he
says. “You may need to start driving any second now.”
<br />
<br />
So I sit up and put my hands back on the steering wheel. The minutes
pass and slowly it gets louder until I can start making out her
words.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfldXGCG73jXU9HoiL4Gn398YWWnJn5DgQFhCEnhySLBVi-l-lHKtHPhdKsP_ErnqQn794VTkA4JPsQ9AiVzeo1y9Uh0HynI6_kKGenS3M39a1kGTxrA4yHpADIUGRP-FtfRK3rzs17g/s200/FOD+ebook+cover2.jpg" width="141" /></a><i>"Because we’re all just trying to get back home. Isn’t that all that any
of us are doing? Trying to get home."</i><br />
<br />
And hearing her say that, I’m thinking to myself, well, I can’t speak
for the fellow next to me, darlin, but it’s all I’m trying to do,
I’m just trying to get home.
<br />
<br />
<i>"Home, it’s a word we say all the time, but do we ever really think what
it means? Home isn’t just a place we go to eat and sleep. It’s
really the place where we come from and where we will all ultimately
return. That means it’s not really an actual physical place. It’s
really a spiritual place, because it is where ultimately our body and
soul go to reunite with the rest of the universe. Your little gray
home on the Wabash is simply a temporal representation of that great
final reunion with the Sun!"</i><br />
<br />
"Oh, man,” I say.
<br />
<br />
"What is that?” demands Stevens sharply, his voice teetering on the edge
of disgust.
<br />
<br />
"Some lady on the radio,” I say. I’m about to add, she sounds like a
sweetheart, but I don’t. I’m not going to share that with
Stevens.
<br />
<br />
"Sweetheart? Are you nuts? That spook? That’s Rose Dawn, the clairvoyant.”<br />
<br />
"The what?”
<br />
<br />
"She has a program on that Mexican station. Goddamn spook, she talks to
the Great Beyond and gives answers to listeners’ questions. Rose
Dawn. She’s a crazy bitch. The woman is disgusting.”
<br />
<br />
<i>"We need to have faith that it’ll all work out. We’re all, each of
us, just pieces in a grand celestial mosaic."</i><br />
<br />
"Turn that shit off,” shouts Stevens.
<br />
<br />
"Fuck you,” I say. “It’s my radio.”
<br />
<br />
"It’s not your radio. This is a stolen car.”
<br />
<br />
"Yeah, well, I stole it, so shut up and if you don’t like it, then get
out!”
<br />
<br />
<i>"We’re all of us broken, so it doesn’t matter. Find your strength in
knowing that!"</i><br />
<br />
"I hate that crap!” fumes Stevens. “All that Celestial Hey Diddle
Diddle! She’s the worst.”
<br />
<br />
<i>"We’re all imperfect and that makes us perfect. We’re all damaged and that
makes us strong."</i><br />
<br />
"Unity of opposites, you’d think the crazy bitch invented it,” sneers
Stevens.
<br />
<br />
"Well, I’d rather listen to her than that phony goat gland doctor,” I
say.
<br />
<br />
"Hey, don’t you go disparaging Doctor Brinkley. He’s doing a marvelous
service for mankind.”
<br />
<br />
"What? Transplanting goat scrotums?”
<br />
<br />
"That’s a legitimate business, but, more importantly, he makes folks
understand that their Number One Priority isn’t over the rainbow,
it’s right between their legs.”
<br />
<br />
"Shut up, I’m listening!”
<br />
<br />
<i>"I’m hearing you out there, your voice calling from the other side. I’m
listening, please speak to me. Do you have a message?"</i><br />
<br />
"Yeah,” I laugh. “Get me the hell out of here!”
<br />
<br />
<i>"Did you say you want to get out? Then be free!"</i><br />
<br />
That instant, the marshmallow fog vanishes and, with a giant bump, we land
on an asphalt roadway, right in the path of a blue Plymouth, coming
at us from the opposite direction. We both swerve to keep from
hitting each other. He hits his horn and lets it blast for at least
ten seconds as he heads past us. Up ahead, I see a road sign that
says Tupelo ten miles.
<br />
<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil</a></i>, available on Kindle)<br />
<br />Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-11996727227693082092015-02-12T17:26:00.000-06:002015-02-12T17:26:44.098-06:001930s Desperados in Love and Death"Five minutes,” says Clyde grandly, like it’s the Pledge of Allegiance.
“Five whole minutes!”
<br />
<br />
Then I hear a muffled sobbing sound. Bonnie must be getting all emotional.
<br />
<br />
"What is it, Sis?”
<br />
<br />
"Oh, Daddy,” she squeaks, “what about if when we die, you go to heaven
and I don’t? What’ll happen to us?” She starts to cry.
<br />
<br />
"Oh, Sis,” says Clyde. And I know that they’re in each other’s arms
again.
<br />
<br />
"Oh, Daddy!”
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDh5hmeEPyoECGF2Qj-iFNW_2kQkqtdGAG8sht7OscP5awLSktBI5uAiHVrhKzaEZYiTLSZkDorvRVY3yZl3_prceD1KS3RXsi9FLDH_YzzmpAoWAYxRKOBMT0f4tDcESON3uLaQpkHw/s1600/book-cover.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
"Baby!”
<br />
<br />
"At least we gonna get to go down together. Isn’t that what we always
said we wanted, Sis?”
<br />
<br />
"I know, but, what if…” Before she can finish, Clyde cuts her off.
<br />
<br />
"Reckon we’re just gonna have to explain to old Saint Peter that we’re a
package deal. I’m sure we can get him to understand that.”
<br />
<br />
"Oh, Daddy, I love you! Don’t worry, I ain’t sceered.”
<br />
<br />
"All right!”
<br />
<br />
"Bonnie may not be scared, but I am. I’m so scared I’m shaking like a
leaf. So this is how it ends. Shit. Maybe if I had my twelve-string
in my hands, I could pick out a song that would buck me up a little
for when that light gets turned off. Why’d I leave it behind in
that car? Why, because I knew I was about to die in a hail of goddamn
gunfire and I didn’t want it getting all shot up. I wanted someone
else to have it to play songs on even if it was one of Frank Hamer’s
boys.
<br />
(Excerpt from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil</a>," available on Kindle)<br />
<br />Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-32038671382017172802015-02-09T11:49:00.003-06:002015-02-09T11:49:43.952-06:00Albert Speer, Hiding from Hitler in the Ruhr<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Speer suddenly remembered an incident from ten years earlier when Hitler’s takeover of the government was
still not entirely complete. Speer’s organization had been given
offices in a building whose occupants were at variance with their
orders to immediately vacate. When they didn’t move fast enough,
someone sent in stormtroopers. Speer remembered coming in to look
over his new office and finding a large bloodstain on the oriental
rug on the floor. ‘Don’t worry about that, we’ll take care of
it immediately,’ they told him. Sure enough, the next time he went
in, the blood-stained carpet was replaced by another. The incident
was never mentioned and he hadn’t given it any thought until now.<br />
<br />
But then it’s easy to have no conscience when all you’re is an acceptor, someone who does what
he’s told and leaves it at that.<br />
<br />
That night, sitting around the campfire, Speer decided to try to get Manni Loerber to talk.<br />
<br />
“I have a question,” he said. “Do you mind telling me what all that stuff is you keep talking about at
the factories, which always seems to compel everyone to throw away
all caution? What does it all mean?”<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHI-HXAhud3vMydotzfS1wj8PVbPfmy7pgdd27ZHtcLEO-hh9LVpCtWYrQHRquyNg-w6Shyphenhyphen5enB76cOuoSfcNny-I1h0-VSPSZySwHVpgrULAMi1nBQgpgUq5Zsm-ShU9ZFNhadIGS_g/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a>Manni grinned. “It doesn’t mean anything, Herr Reichsminister. Look, let’s just keep this simple.
You do your job, I’ll do mine. All right?”<br />
<br />
Speer tried another tack. “You know, I saw you and your brothers perform many times back in the old days,” he said. “You seemed like such a fun bunch.”<br />
<br />
Manni sat silently reflecting on it for a while, the light from the fire dancing on his face. “Yeah, well,
it was a long time ago,” he said, like they were talking about someone he’d never met.<br />
<br />
Then von Poser spoke up. “If I remember, Herr Manni, didn’t your brother Ziggy go into the Navy?
He became a U-Boat captain, sank a lot of enemy ships. I don’t recall hearing of his death. Is he still alive?“<br />
<br />
“I wouldn’t know colonel, we haven’t talked since before the war.”<br />
<br />
“And your brother Franzi? What about him? Didn’t he join the SS? Wasn’t he doing some kind of
research?”<br />
<br />
A tiny spark of humor showed in his eyes, causing the curtains of his reserve to part just the slightest.
“Yes, he’s one of the Reichsfuhrer’s seers.”<br />
<br />
“Seer?”<br />
<br />
“Alchemist, actually. That was his training. But mostly they use him for horoscopes.”<br />
<br />
Von Poser laughed. “Heinrich Himmler uses alchemists? That is too funny, Herr Manni.”<br />
<br />
“You might not think it was funny if you were an alchemist having your talents squandered making
horoscopes for people who have no future.”<br />
<br />
“I can see your point,” chuckled von Poser. Everybody feared and hated Himmler and the thought of him
shivering in front of an astrologer seemed particularly rich.<br />
<br />
“What about your brother Sebastian?” asked von Poser. “He disappeared, didn’t he? For all the gossip
the afternoon papers used to print about you boys, when he vanished
no one said anything. Some people thought it might have been
something, political.”<br />
<br />
Manni shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Colonel. Father refused to talk about it.”
<br />
<br />
“And you, Herr Manni, what have you been doing all these years?”<br />
<br />
“Oh? This and that.”<br />
<br />
“Meaning precisely?”<br />
<br />
“Meaning precisely, don’t ask.” But he said it without rancor.<br />
<br />
“And now you’re part of a three-man campaign to save the Ruhr.”<br />
<br />
“That’s right, and if you ask any more questions, it’ll be a two-man campaign in about thirty
seconds.”<br />
<br />
At around ten, they got back on the road heading to Nuremburg, but a couple hours into it, it began
raining so heavily that they finally gave up. They found an abandoned
farmhouse on the side of a hill overlooking Detmold and went to sleep
there. When they awoke, shortly after dawn, it had stopped raining
and the heavy gray cloud cover opened up to blue skies and swarms of
enemy fighters. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere today,”
declared von Poser. They found some dry wood and got a fire going.
They made coffee, sliced some bread and opened their last remaining
cans.<br />
<br />
“What have we got?” asked Manni.<br />
<br />
“Fish, potatoes, and gooseberries,” answered Speer.<br />
<br />
“Sounds perfect,” said Manni.<br />
<br />
“Colonel von Poser tells me that today is your birthday. Allow me
to offer you many happy returns of the day.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” said Speer, a little uncomfortably. They’d been traveling for a week and this was the
first time the young man had directed anything personal towards either of them.<br />
<br />
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “In honor of the occasion, I shall teach you the single most
important skill I know, one that will definitely guarantee your
success in the postwar world.” But then he waved his finger at
Speer. “But you must promise never to ask any more stupid
questions.”<br />
<br />
Speer stared at him, stunned, feeling a mixture of curiosity and fear. He hoped this would not have to
involve making a pact with the devil. As it was he was already trying
to weasel out of an existing one.
</blockquote>
A chapter from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a> (Simon & Schuster, 2008) that didn't make the final edits. Kindle download available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>.Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-31481604390033265502015-02-05T13:29:00.001-06:002016-01-02T18:27:09.289-06:00Deep Ellum Icon: Honest Joe's Pawn Shop<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtKtBWkHM6037YhtrtkdPW8igZS_obUnT1RjgFFJs8hhq-gzfFAdKmj3xg6c8bySlvoEBoImmtJG_JfPqSbUSQ2WLdLTYTWmQpfp5fYpK8Bv2llmbr7Zul0l4BYkOsicPgO64KCRLag/s1600/DSC04253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtKtBWkHM6037YhtrtkdPW8igZS_obUnT1RjgFFJs8hhq-gzfFAdKmj3xg6c8bySlvoEBoImmtJG_JfPqSbUSQ2WLdLTYTWmQpfp5fYpK8Bv2llmbr7Zul0l4BYkOsicPgO64KCRLag/s1600/DSC04253.JPG" width="255" /></a>Here is an original sign (there were hundreds) from Honest Joe's Pawn Shop, for decades a Deep Ellum institution. Here is how I used it in "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil</a>," as a pawn shop in Del Rio:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The tower bell starts ringing, bong, bong, bong, and that’s when I see, a block and a half up the street, a big sign for Honest Joe’s Pawn Shop, which I don’t remember being there before. Bong, bong, bong. So I wrap my arm tight around my guitar case and start running toward it. The whole way up, there’s folks standing there saying, Hey Slim, Hi Slim, Where you running to, Slim? And to each of them I give a nice, friendly how you all, because as anyone in the business will tell you, fans are money in the bank.<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjieOvd6mTQcb17hcZUFXvuyTFKjvmmalXpNlcjGkKdm6fbDoKOfgUU583AVtVy1ntx8_1RIj_cj58xfbSZCuIz5KXKLuTInN1E_LTNsh6cEatHj7YrPnjR5uVOmwgoXot42hacjMjT9w/s200/FOD+ebook+cover2.jpg" width="141" /></a>The bell is still ringing when I force myself to stop and catch my breath for a second before going in, because nothing good ever happens to anyone who comes too fast into a pawnshop. Honest Joe’s is really just a hole in the wall; less an emporium than a vestibule with a couple glass display cases filled with trays of watches, rings, and pocketknives.<br />
Honest Joe is a little bald gnome of a man with green eyeshades, who sits perched on a swiveling metal high chair. He looks up from his racing form and swivels to face me. “Whattaya need?” he drawls.<br />
I set my guitar case on the counter and open it. He tries not to look impressed, but he is. “That’s a Martin, innit?” he asks. I nod.<br />
“I need a gun,” I tell him. </blockquote>
(Excerpt from "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devi</a>l," available on Kindle)<br />
<br />Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-9468492579095611742015-01-21T10:54:00.002-06:002015-02-11T12:18:40.479-06:00Speer at Glucksburg, the Night Before His ArrestManni helped Speer back to his room.
Speer sat down on his bed while Manni rummaged through a dresser and
found a pair of pajamas for him. “Do you need help getting into
them?” he asked.
<br />
<br />
Speer shook his head. “Sit down, Loerber. Let’s have a last drink,” he said pointing to a nearby
chair. Manni sat down while Speer brought out a bottle of schnapps
and two glasses from a bedside table. He poured some into each glass
and handed one to Manni. He raised his glass to Manni. Manni did the
same to him.
<br />
<br />
“Happy Days,” said Manni.
<br />
<br />
“Happy Days,” answered Speer.
<br />
<br />
They drank. Manni drained his glass and set it down. Speer held on to his almost-empty glass and looked hard
at Manni. “Am I a fool, Loerber?” he asked.
<br />
<br />
“Herr Reichsminister?” asked Manni.
<br />
<br />
“I mean it, Loerber. Tell me the
truth. Do you think I am a fool?”
<br />
<br />
Sitting in his chair, Manni brought himself respectfully to attention. “Yes, Herr Reichsminister, I do
think you are a fool.”
<br />
<br />
“Please tell me why?”
<br />
<br />
"Herr Reichsminister, is there any
point?”
<br />
<br />
“Just tell me the truth.”
<br />
<br />
“Because you expect the whole world to see it your way,” said Manni. “You think that all you have to
do is explain it to them, factually, in a helpful, reasonable voice,
and the world will lose track of what you’ve done. Because you act
candid, you assume they’ll accept your explanation that all you
were was just a talented technocrat doing his job, no different from
all the other people just like you who are doing the same thing all
over the world. You think your reason and your irony is enough to
keep the shit from touching you when the fact is you’re already up
to your ears in it.”
<br />
<br />
Manni thought for a second, then added, “But beyond that, of course, I think you’re a great guy to work
for.”
<br />
<br />
“And that’s why you’re still here?” Speer asked.
<br />
<br />
“That’s right.”
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRJkTFwEVq4Am9uiAkPuuPPnXtYBxmKCvV8KqxEfw6RMle6q2blQ2nA6gaQG-PD_rhOPF-XJfLNssGmzLm3fSYyDob5T5LCGIuXagh4DFfEO7LGeBn6mRMzOHywoyVvBX9UZ7lWFm8w/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a>“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” said Speer.
<br />
<br />
Manni Loerber smiled like he’d just been paid a compliment. “And when did you come to that conclusion?”
he asked.
<br />
<br />
Speer slowly shook his head. “In the Ruhr,” he said.
<br />
<br />
“You knew back in March and you haven’t done anything about it until now? I feel good about that.”
<br />
<br />
“You are a spy,” said Speer again. “Who are you working for?”
<br />
<br />
Manni answered proudly. “Herr Reichsminister, it was my honor to serve His Majesty, the King of
England.”
<br />
<br />
Speer didn’t say anything for a while. Then he quietly muttered, “I guess I ought to be relieved it
wasn’t the Russians.”
<br />
<br />
“Well I wouldn’t be too relieved,” said Manni. “It is my unfortunate understanding that all the best
information got siphoned off by Soviet counter-spies and sent to Moscow.”
<br />
<br />
Speer thought about it. “Either way, Germany died.”
<br />
<br />
“I gather the Allied prognosis was that it was necessary to kill Germany in order to save it,”
answered Manni.
<br />
<br />
“And your prognosis, Herr Loerber?”
<br />
<br />
“I don’t have one,” answered Manni. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
<br />
<br />
Speer smiled bitterly. “And I thought you were my friend. You betrayed me.”
<br />
<br />
Manni shook his head. “No Herr Reichsminister, it wasn’t betrayal.”
<br />
<br />
“It wasn’t? What was it?”
<br />
<br />
“It was serving two masters, Herr Reichsminister. And if I hadn’t served you well, we might have had
this conversation sooner.”
<br />
<br />
Speer looked away, fuming with anger and humiliation.
<br />
<br />
Manni remained standing at attention. “Do you know what this is now?” he asked. “Herr Reichsminister,
it is the end of the line. We are at the moment before the axe comes
down. I heartily recommend you get some sleep. If you get up early
enough, maybe you’ll get to eat breakfast before they come for you.”
<br />
<br />
Speer looked back up at Manni. “So what did the British pay you?” he asked bitterly.
<br />
<br />
“Thirty pieces of silver, what do you think? Listen, I’m a Jew, I’d have done it for free.”
<br />
<br />
“Suddenly everyone’s a Jew,” said Speer.
<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” offered Manni.
<br />
<br />
“Don’t be,” said Speer. “I’m sure I’m going to hell anyway.”
<br />
<br />
“Goodnight, Herr Reichsminister.” Manni turned to leave.
<br />
<br />
“So you’re a Jew?” asked Speer.
<br />
<br />
Facing Speer again, Manni smiled and gave a curt bow.
<br />
<br />
Speer shook his head angrily.
<br />
<br />
“If it’s any consolation, Herr Reichsminister, you almost succeeded in killing us off,” said
Manni.
<br />
<br />
“So that’s what it is now?” said Speer. “You’re blaming me for that? You know I didn’t have
anything to do with that.”
<br />
<br />
“Please, Herr Reichsminister,” said Manni. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”
<br />
<br />
“So what will become of me?” asked Speer.
<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” said Manni. “I doubt they even know what they’re going to do. Ultimately these
things tend to take on a life of their own.”
<br />
<br />
“Unless of course they just decide to kill me on the spot,” suggested Speer.
<br />
<br />
“That is always a possibility,” accepted Manni. “I don’t know anything other than it’s the
Kibosh.”
<br />
<br />
“Kibosh?” asked Speer.
<br />
<br />
“It’s one of those American words,” said Manni.
<br />
<br />
“Ah,” said Speer.
<br />
<br />
“So what will become of you, Loerber?” asked Speer. “Will you go to London?”
<br />
<br />
Manni let out a short laugh. “I hope not,” he said. “I’d like to return to Berlin.”
<br />
<br />
“There’s not a lot there, you know,” Speer pointed out.
<br />
<br />
“Oh, I know,” answered Manni. “I’m not in that big a hurry. I’ve still got lots of friends in Hamburg.
Some of them must be alive. I’m sure I’ll find something there.”
<br />
<br />
“So you’ve got it all figured,” said Speer.
<br />
<br />
“Only for the next day or so,” said Manni.
<br />
<br />
“I guess I should sleep,” said Speer.
<br />
<br />
“You’ll thank me in the morning, Herr Reichsminister.”
<br />
<br />
“I’m sure I won’t,” said Speer. “Do something for me, will you?”
<br />
<br />
“What?”
<br />
<br />
“There’s some reports on my desk on the left-hand pile. Bring them to Galbraith. I’d like him to see
them. Do this for me, Loerber.”
<br />
(Another chapter left out of the published version of<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ"> <i>Germania</i>,</a> Simon & Schuster, 2008; Kindle copy available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-32235705152185829252015-01-09T11:53:00.001-06:002016-01-02T18:28:31.686-06:00Texas Bluesman Explains Why He Won't Gun Down Everyone Who Pisses Him Off <blockquote class="tr_bq">
I walk straight through the house without looking at anything, past the
dining room all set up for supper, and the living room with all the
golden chairs and couches and lamps and all the historical paintings
of Brinkley and his dick. I can hear the Mexican servants hurrying to
catch up. One of them runs past me to get the door open before I get
to it. As he pulls it open for me, a glass door opens in one of the
ante-rooms next to the circular staircase. Two heads cautiously peek
out. It’s Rose Dawn and The Great Koraan. The moment he recognizes
me, his face reddens. Then I hear Rose Dawn cry out, “Herbert?”
But I don’t stop.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjieOvd6mTQcb17hcZUFXvuyTFKjvmmalXpNlcjGkKdm6fbDoKOfgUU583AVtVy1ntx8_1RIj_cj58xfbSZCuIz5KXKLuTInN1E_LTNsh6cEatHj7YrPnjR5uVOmwgoXot42hacjMjT9w/s200/FOD+ebook+cover2.jpg" width="141" /></a>Outside, the night air is cool and sweet. The dark sky is bright with a sliver
of moon and thousands of stars. My mind goes back to all those
ancient-pretending paintings of Brinkley and it almost feels like
what I just walked out of was Babylon itself. For a moment, I think
about Hamer and find myself wondering if it was a mistake to have
left him with those people. But that thought only lasts a moment and
then I’m just glad to be away from them.<br />
<br />
She called me Herbert in front of her husband and the Mexican servants.
No telling who else knows it now. Great. This thing is starting to
happen even faster than I’d expected. As I walk along the road
toward town, I notice someone walking towards me from the opposite
way. Even before I can make him out, I guess who it is. It’s that
other guy. He sure does have a way of showing up.<br />
<br />
I try to walk past him, but he keeps trying to block my path. For some
reason he’s boiling angry. “You fucking asshole,” he shouts in
a high-pitched voice. “What’d you have to do that for? I hand it
to you on a fucking silver platter. Couldn’t you just let it
happen? We’d have won. You’d have walked free. But you couldn’t
do it. Why? Didn’t you see his pain? Don’t you see how the man
was suffering? Why couldn’t you just let him do himself? Why do you
have to play God.”<br />
<br />
Fuck you,” I say. “I don’t believe in God.” That gets me so
ticked off, for a second I actually consider taking out Old Lucky and
going back and shooting him. But I don’t. If I shot everybody that
pissed me off, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of people left. I
don’t really hear what he says after that, except that I shouldn’t
expect the next round to be any walk in the park.<br />
<br />
By the time I finally get home to the rooming house, Jack is asleep on
the rocking chair out front. As gently as I can, I pick him and carry
him inside and put him down on his bed. Then I sneak into the kitchen
to see if Mrs. Gruner might have put anything aside I could eat.
</blockquote>
(Excerpt from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK"><i>Friend of the Devil</i>,</a> available on Kindle)Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-65687192368995609592015-01-06T10:41:00.001-06:002015-02-11T12:21:08.208-06:00German Navy Rusts in Flensburg HarborAt the edge of the park was a hillside that overlooked the harbor. Ziggy
lit a cigarette and stared out at the ships anchored there. Apart
from all the U-Boats, there were destroyers, corvettes, minesweepers,
patrol craft, and even a cruiser. And in all of them, probably not
more than a few dozen crew still aboard. They were dead ships, the
German Kriegsmarine was a dead navy. The victors would divide them
among themselves. A few ships might live on a few years as workhorses
or testing vessels. The rest would be broken up for scrap, used for
targets or just sunk.
<br />
<br />
Then he realized the flying boats were gone. Cremer must have already got
them towed up to the cove. Manni definitely had a clever idea. Had
the flying boats remained there in plain view, they’d quickly stop
seeming special and simply fade into the mosaic of rusting, derelict
warships. But now, having been revealed and then promptly hidden,
their mystique would exert itself deeper into the imagination, making
the prospect of flying away in one all the more tantalizing. And that
is precisely how they wanted Himmler to react. He wondered when he’d
hear again from Manni or Westerby.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyZOdK56CzX3oCsZ73IBhz1-X2xiKSrRVuMkCD8536WfW_fcQrEf6Fm2N6aEqfnNX6Q73HWJimEPoyZmqr9DXGYZ8epMSMwCUQ4SEnUlMKacwG7dQU87xUzKetwPJx-N6oR01abFIXA/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="200" width="141" /></a>Ziggy remembered Franzi’s face in the car window. He looked a lot worse
than that night in Ploen. Since then, the SS had completely
disappeared. There were reports of large numbers of them still hiding
in nearby forests and the British were wary of spreading themselves
too thin to go on any extensive searches.
<br />
<br />
So where was he right now? Could he feel his way toward him? Once it had
been easy to do, but he hadn’t done any of it in so long that he no
longer even knew where to start. Ziggy kept trying to imagine Franzi
somewhere, in a forest or a house or inside a vehicle, but each time
he did, the idea failed to grow into anything real. He knew he was
going about it the wrong way.
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5a2Kptahu7NyX32fWLN31cgMzUw8JT40Dr1lLq3LD-dUMxm6IgNfkIyxOx1q8Bwb-va_FcQqy9HQ3-vf6ifip_yUmcvCT41pP6nEpwne-V-EGxw9kuyQQxLIAgJxZWj9mpNZzCG-Rg/s1600/DSC04139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5a2Kptahu7NyX32fWLN31cgMzUw8JT40Dr1lLq3LD-dUMxm6IgNfkIyxOx1q8Bwb-va_FcQqy9HQ3-vf6ifip_yUmcvCT41pP6nEpwne-V-EGxw9kuyQQxLIAgJxZWj9mpNZzCG-Rg/s1600/DSC04139.JPG" height="233" width="320" /></a>Was it possible he’d lost his ability? And what was that ability
anyway? What were the mechanics of perception? Perhaps if he just
focused on one thing, Franzi, was he far or near? What were his eyes
seeing? What was he thinking? What did his skin feel? Warmth or cold?
Cold or warmth? Cold. Dry or damp? Dry. What was he smelling? Cooked
cabbage and tinned beef, cold and greasy on a plate. Cigarette smoke,
open window and a night breeze, smell of pine. Pine trees outside the
window, the wind blowing through them. They were in a farmhouse,
inland, but still close enough to smell the sea. They were keeping
within reach of Flensburg. There was a forest nearby, men hiding
inside it. Lines of kubelwagens hidden under camouflaged tarps. They
were staying put, waiting for something to come. Inside everyone was
tense.<br />
<br />
<br />
Ziggy opened his eyes. A bluebird was looking at him from a nearby branch.
It chirped and then flew away. Ziggy went back to the office.<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a></i>, Simon & Schuster 2008, Kindle download available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-37748389271684587672014-12-26T20:59:00.003-06:002014-12-26T20:59:55.509-06:00The Last Place Clyde Barrow Was Seen in Dallas<blockquote class="tr_bq">
While one of the troopers runs off, this man Hamer continues staring at me the same way folks do when they think they recognize someone, but can’t quite place them. I stare back like it don’t bother me none, though, truth to tell, my knees like to buckle right under me. But I just keep on my poker face and act like I could stand there under his gaze all the doodah day.<br />The trooper trots back with a dark brown folder. He opens it and takes out some photographs which he offers to the big man. The big man gives his head a tiny shake, like he wants him to show them to me and that he’ll just watch me doing it.<br />The first picture he shows me is the girl, only this time she’s got on a long black dress and she’s posing before the front grill of a Ford. “That’s her, all right,” I say, tapping her image with my finger. The next picture shows her with two young men in suits. One I recognize immediately as my cousin Clyde, the other is a kid I’ve never seen before but he’s got that same hungry West Dallas look of a dog finally getting to have his day. I tap Clyde’s face. “I think this is the guy who was outside, but I can’t say for sure cause I saw him through the screen door.”<br />Hamer listens to what I’m saying like it’s from a long ways away. He stands stock still, but, even so, I can feel the wheels furiously turning inside his head.<br />“I didn’t see this other guy, is he the cousin?”<br />Hamer gives his head another imperceptible shake, like this time he’s just a little annoyed by the question. He gestures the trooper to continue. The trooper hands me another photograph. It’s a mugshot of myself.<br />“You seen him?”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLW8BBZV4Id25-SkERq9gO3u67He6clpLXVycw3OnLJWzJrR64iO_ft2WqJSsomjFULVSIqihVTQ3is1mLiDq5Tt8JyVxFKDOTORqkH1TkVqZJK-tjzI-uC8uQmRU0gsnViIYLVayNQ/s1600/book-cover.jpg" height="200" width="154" /></a></div>
<br />I stare at my picture. My face is swollen from a beating I’d just taken, but still it’s me. I look up from the picture directly into Hamer’s inquiring eyes. “No, sir,” I say.<br />“Look again,” he orders. “You’re from Dallas. You look like a man who gets around town. You should have seen him.”I stare helpless back down at the photograph of myself staring sullenly back. And I remember the moment, because at that moment I was staring into the eyes of one of the cops who’d just beaten the crap out of me. What’s going on with Hamer? Doesn’t he recognize me? Is this some game he’s playing with me? He’s got to know that the guy in the picture is myself. But I just look up back into his eyes and say, “Sorry, sir, I don’t recognize him at all.” (Excerpt from "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil,</a>" available on Kindle)</blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcgg0fQR5mJld4efHnHPzYFd2i0Quy5QbDJT7ojivBeHmx-4rrwti6c1DP4nqFyWeq6gwgiSlegDXcMEml1S8XPRLTX-xqHltfseXNieWio9B-A6fCYol0ChtzJMz7K5yFuqQZcoGcg/s1600/DSC04113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcgg0fQR5mJld4efHnHPzYFd2i0Quy5QbDJT7ojivBeHmx-4rrwti6c1DP4nqFyWeq6gwgiSlegDXcMEml1S8XPRLTX-xqHltfseXNieWio9B-A6fCYol0ChtzJMz7K5yFuqQZcoGcg/s1600/DSC04113.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>Point of historical interest here. The view is of the Dallas skyline from the north eastern side of White Rock Lake. The Coca Cola truck is on Buckner Blvd AKA Loop 12. It is also right around the spot where Clyde Barrow was last spotted by the police. My source here is Ted Hinton, of the Dallas Sheriff's office, who knew Clyde growing up and knew Bonnie as a waitress at Marco's cafe. Ted Hinton was also part of the shooting party led by Capt Frank Hamer, which ultimately bushwacked Bonnie and Clyde on May 23, 1934.Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-20618093141161611272014-12-17T12:01:00.002-06:002015-02-11T12:22:03.158-06:00Doenitz Decides to SurrenderAlone, 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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvERXJbMrhRjij7Py_YZOFMyJf2a08d87mzfIWAoUd-ge4aSA3sRhiDY8VHl0V3kLEFzH2iKIMooR4TeD5N2M6h4UmQQFrf7UoQAydnaBKf4cLCOOWOiWK4PW4jEQ-eRL4NN1DSIzKA/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
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.
<br />
<br />
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?
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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!
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a></i>, Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle download available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-84746517082059668462014-12-04T13:11:00.001-06:002015-02-11T12:24:28.197-06:00Two Jewish GIs Make First Contact with Albert Speer in FlensburgA half hour later, the GI returned with a middle-aged man, short and
heavyset, bespectacled with a big nose, looking every bit the Jew
from all the old anti-Semitic posters, only instead of wearing a
black banker’s suit and a bowler hat, he was in US Army combat
fatigues with a .45 strapped on his hip.
<br />
<br />
The GI said, “Major Spivak, I present to you, Reichsminister Albert
Speer.”
<br />
<br />
Speechless, Major Spivak stared at Speer. Finally he muttered, “Holy Cow!”
<br />
<br />
Speer stood up from his desk. “Good afternoon, Major,” he said,
pleasantly as he could. He thought about extending his hand in
greeting, but realized he shouldn’t.
<br />
<br />
Major Spivak didn’t return his greeting but continued to look at him with
nervous distaste. He was thinking the same thing as everyone else;
<i>this man I’m talking to is Hitler’s...best ...friend!
</i><br />
<br />
Finally he recovered enough to say, “Sergeant Fassberg says you’d be
willing to be interviewed.”
<br />
<br />
"Yes, whatever you’d like to know,” answered Speer. “It’s about
strategic bombing you say?”
<br />
<br />
"Yes, the economic and other effects of daytime strategic bombing on the
German war economy.”
<br />
<br />
"Please, have a seat,” said Speer. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you any
coffee or other refreshment.”
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3nrRcXpHPuZFvy7G9Fleq26_if4j-LIqMPtmpw4pcvWOZo3dw4FLd64N86KBH0J8_L6kTWTam3nTu7b3lEtqSV_BIlPlLpsuREzWGFehAhPvFYPUvjf1-6QeIqLUbZ78escGfeawAA/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
<br />
Brusquely Major Spivak shook his head, like it was neither expected nor
desired. They sat down and both men began undoing the snaps of their
shoulder bags and took out notebooks and manila file folders.
“Sergeant, do you have the file on the abrasives industry?” asked
Major Spivak.
<br />
<br />
"Right here,” answered Sergeant Fassberg, handing him a sheaf of papers.
<br />
<br />
"All right, let’s start,” said Major Spivak.
<br />
<br />
He spent the next three hours asking Speer very detailed questions,
first about abrasives and oil baths and then about specialty steels
and problems with machine tools and manufacturing different kinds of
screws and fasteners, nearly all of which Speer was able to answer
easily from the top of his head.
<br />
<br />
Though it was obvious Major Spivak continued to regard Speer with extreme
discomfort, he nevertheless conducted the interview with complete
professional detachment. He’d ask questions, write down the
answers, ask follow ups and write those down as well. In the end, as
he sat looking over all his pages of notes, he turned to Speer, and,
shaking his head with amazement, declared, “Well, Sergeant Fassberg
was certainly right, Herr Speer. You’re definitely the mother
lode.”
<br />
<br />
Then, for one very long moment, Major Spivak stared blankly ahead, while
inside him the angels of light and darkness battled each other.
Finally he looked at Speer and with the tiniest hint of cordiality
asked if he’d be willing to undergo a more detailed debriefing by
senior members of the Survey team.
<br />
<br />
"Why certainly,” said Speer. “I’d be happy to cooperate in any way I
can.”
<br />
<br />
"Good,” said Major Spivak. “I’ll let the guys know. We’ll be in touch.”
<br />
<br />
They left without shaking hands or thanking him.
<br />
<br />
Speer went back to the castle feeling strangely let down. The Americans had
come to him like heavenly messengers, only to vanish with the same
abruptness with which they’d appeared. It had been the first time
in months anyone had come seeking his expertise and even if Major
Spivak had not been terribly courteous, he had at least acknowledged
that Speer had something no one else had. He wondered what he’d
meant when he said his colleagues would be “in touch.”
<br />
<br />
Baumbach, on the other hand, saw it as a clear sign that his friend’s bad
fortune had reversed. “Well congratulations, Albert. Now they’ll
have no choice but to bring you into their new administration. It’s
just like what they’re doing with those rocket scientists from
Peenemunde. You’ll probably get flown out to Okinawa to join
Curtis LeMay’s intelligence staff.”
<br />
<br />
"We’ll see,” said Speer.
<br />
<br />
"I’d say this calls for a drink, Albert.” They settled into another
night of drinking and storytelling and by the end of it, the whole
episode became just a half-remembered jumble in Speer’s mind.
<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a></i>, Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle version available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).<br />
<br />Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-83783003697361857372014-11-11T12:37:00.001-06:002015-11-28T10:41:43.748-06:00Herbert T. Barrow Remembers the War in FranceAnd I turn around to look at the two guys who’d popped out in front of
me and they’re both now frozen in mid-leap, their weapons hovering
in the air a few inches from where they tumbled out of their hands.
<br />
<br />
What in the shit is going on?” I ask aloud. What I get for an answer is
the complete silence around me. Everything, everything is frozen
still, not even a hint of movement anywhere. I could be walking
around inside a photograph. I walk back and stare at Hamer firing his
BAR at where I’d been standing, and apparently not even caring
about the two plainclothesmen facing me. Look at that hateful scowl
he’s got on his mug. I had my hands up and he still tried to shoot
me in the back and with a BAR. What a dog! What a complete fucking
beast! Makes me wonder how many of them notches he got on his gun was
from shooting unarmed guys with their hands up and then lying about
it?
<br />
<br />
I yank the BAR from his hands, then point it back at him, curling my
finger around the trigger, and telling myself I’d be completely
within my rights if I killed Hamer right now.
<br />
<br />
But I don’t kill him. Because I already killed my last man. That’s
what I told myself back in France, that I’d done killed all the
people I was ever gonna kill and that even a murderous bastard like
Hamer ain’t changing it.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpU6rITWr9t8Zn_ulR4yAkRNVUeKAKGsFZKM4Of4C05Trqoga7ma9891Y_N2wX_KGizVNKDhvmeeLQoW9fxxKQRjy13L79ML1rU4RmIva3jLBbAO8S2ujJ0kpjSWllB5w-aPJS2k-qQ/s200/book-cover.jpg" width="154" /></a>Still, I’d like to take the rifle butt and smash in his face a little, but
I don’t. That’s not how we do it in West Dallas. Instead, I try
taking my anger out on the bullets, batting them with the rifle butt,
but to my surprise, hard as I swat them, they hardly budge at all. So
instead I rip the clip out, empty the magazine and then, holding it
by the barrel, I smash it hard against the ground, shattering the
stock, the receiver and the bolt. Then I toss it aside, and go over
to the two guys who are leaping aside and pluck their rifles from the
air, but instead of smashing them against the ground, I just spend
the next few minutes going completely crazy, attacking their cars;
smashing the windshields, the headlights, radiators, carburetors,
slashing the tires.
<br />
<br />
Finally, I’ve had enough. I toss the broken rifles aside and just stand
there trying to catch my breath. That’s when I hear the music
playing. It’s coming from a radio inside the store; one of those
hillbilly family quartets they have singing on the border blaster:
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Just a few more weary days and then,
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’ll fly away, fly away
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>To the land where joys will never end,
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’ll fly away, fly away.
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’ll fly away, O Glory,
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’ll fly away.
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When I die, halleluiah by and by,
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’ll fly away, fly away.”
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
It makes me happy that while time might be standing still here,
somewhere down in sunny Mexico reality goes on just like it always
does.
<br />
<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil</a></i>, available on Kindle <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">here</a>).
Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-32606858878667492752014-10-31T11:50:00.002-05:002016-01-03T09:02:36.108-06:00News of Bonnie & Clyde's Death Spreads Through a Del Rio DinerI stumble up the street, feeling like my eyes just been ripped out, and
the whole time I got that dang song going through my head:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Death don’t take a vacation in this land </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Death don’t take a vacation in this land </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>He’ll come to your house, he won’t stay long </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Look into the bed, somebody in your family will be gone</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Oh, Death don’t have no mercy in this land.
</i></div>
<br />
So they got ‘em. Poor Clyde, poor Bonnie, poor stupid bastards. It’s
not that I’m in the least bit surprised, or that I’m not
massively relieved it was them that got killed and not me, but even
so, I’ve now got an emptiness bellowing inside me that don’t want
to let go. For a while I just wander the streets, like I got them
alive in front of my eyes, so alive, so crazy, like they was gods
from the old times. But now they’re dead, dead, dead, and poor dumb
mortal me is still alive.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9RtLE0EZSHw4nxSC-QfvLRt7GXn4pw4JIqhQ-1o-UEhIRTW8D6kFMe4b1mMtR1fiRomni0Ayq16BQ8bkavYMhNaCoCqwZJi0HTxL0xIoElvyaHbsb5Y1VM9hiezvGE9TULdx9zSlDQ/s320/FOD+ebook+cover2.jpg" width="226" /></a>Knowing I can’t wander the streets forever, I go into the Tastee Diner and
order a blue plate special. They got the radio on with the usual
worked-up preacher endlessly going on about Salvation and the Blood
of the Lamb and his address, Box-435-Del-Rio-Texas. I keep waiting
for someone to cut in and make an announcement, but twenty minutes
and seven or eight Box 435s later, he gets replaced by another
screaming preacher and I actually start half-believing it might all
have been just crazy-girl talk. But then it dawns on me that, this
being Dr. Brinkley’s station, they simply don’t broadcast news.
So I stay on my stool, not really thinking about much of anything,
just waiting for word to come, knowing it’s just a matter of time
before it does. The counterman comes by and refills my coffee; I’m
about halfway through it when the door opens and someone comes in
shouting, “Did you all hear? The Barrow Gang’s been killed in an
ambush!”
<br />
<br />
For the next few seconds it’s like this deep quiet sets in, as if, for
that one moment, none of them actually believes it. But then the
vacuum breaks and as the air rushes back in, I see their faces going
off like they’re fireworks, some of them angry, some disappointed
or glad, followed by a rumbling of voices, like we’re standing at
their graves, with them already laid deep into the ground, and it’s
time to offer final words, before the earth gets covered on them and
we all walk away and get on with other things.
<br />
<br />
"Well, they had a good long run. Nobody expected them to last long as they
did,” says one.
<br />
<br />
"They must’ve knowed they wasn’t going to get away forever,” says
somebody else.
<br />
<br />
"Mean as snakes, both of them!”
<br />
<br />
"Couple of two-bit punks.”<br />
<br />
After another minute or two, the topic has moved on to something else. I
finish my coffee, pay my bill and go. A half hour later, I find
Hector, ride the Tijuana Taxi across the border, do my show, collect
my five dollars and then head back to Del Rio.<br />
(Excerpt from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil</a>," available on Kindle)Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-67966083763466378952014-10-29T10:43:00.002-05:002015-02-11T12:25:11.796-06:00Don't Lose the Monocle! Nazi War Criminals Get Social Security and Jobs in Hollywood.Outside in the corridor, someone was approaching. The door opened and General
Strong stepped in. “General, we’re ready to begin,” he said.
<br />
<br />
Jodl nodded. He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and took out
something which he then fixed into his eye. A monocle! Jodl now
looked like a Prussian played by Erich von Stroheim. What was he
thinking? Did he somehow consider it vital that Germany be
represented in her darkest hour by a walking caricature? Perhaps he
was angling for a post-war career in Hollywood. From what Ziggy had
heard, plenty of German and Austrian Jewish refugees had found
lucrative careers playing Nazis in films. Jodl was the real thing.
Why shouldn’t he get some of it?
<br />
<br />
"Ready?” asked Jodl. Seeing everyone nod, he said to them: “Gentlemen, this
is a black day for Germany, but I promise you, we will survive!”
<br />
<br />
I wonder if Eisenhower will be there,” von Friedeburg mumbled aloud
to himself.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLnVS1fe3Oa3lnqrGaUCnzolYx3CfiSSrKhfE5PVe__Q_4FAwplqxqZW1r9Uuhk-cMHMRinOvqAOSMNPyxqbJ1JbW4fej_WIouKRhj1SVzT3eJ5JxHhnWKZTBFSTZyHyx4HLo8p1IjqQ/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
They walked down the corridor in single file, past the staring soldiers,
General Jodl first, followed by Major Oxenius, then Admiral von
Friedeburg, then Ziggy.
<br />
<br />
They were brought into a crowded, map-filled room, at the far end of
which, under the glaring light from a bank of movie-studio
floodlights, was a large rectangular table. Sitting there facing them
were nearly a dozen British, American, and Russian generals with
Bedell Smith at the center. Ziggy examined the faces of the other
Allied generals, but none of them looked anything like Eisenhower. On
the other hand, he noticed Suslaparov glaring at him, this time not
as though they were best friends.
<br />
<br />
They took chairs on the near side of the table. Bedell Smith gestured to
an aide, who brought Jodl a document. Scowling, Jodl examined it
perfunctorily and then scribbled his signature onto it before passing
it to von Friedeburg, who did the same. The document then went to
Bedell Smith, then to a British general, a French general, an
American, and then Suslaparov, all of whom added their signatures to
it. Then another copy of the surrender made the rounds, followed by
another and another and another.
<br />
<br />
When all the copies had been signed, Jodl raised his hand. “General, I
would like to say a word,” he said.
<br />
<br />
"Yes, of course,” said Bedell Smith, sounding nicer than he had in any of
their previous encounters.
<br />
<br />
Jodl stood up and began addressing everyone in the room. “General, with
this signature the German people and the German armed forces are, for
better or worse, delivered into the victor’s hands. In this war,
which has lasted more than five years, both have achieved and
suffered perhaps more than any other people in the world. In this
hour I can only express the hope that the victor will treat them with
generosity.”
<br />
<br />
Then they were marched out. The war was over.
<br />
<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a></i>, Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle version available<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ"> here)</a>.Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-50748049362458988792014-09-18T12:13:00.004-05:002014-09-18T12:13:59.707-05:00Where Bonnie and Clyde Longed to BelongBonnie and Clyde were two grit kids from hardscrabble West Dallas. Across the river was glittering Downtown Dallas. Color film from the 1930s: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fO9J91V_ETE">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fO9J91V_ETE</a><br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK">Friend of the Devil</a></i> is a novel about people from the wrong side of Dallas. But in 1939, the right side sure looked like smart, sophisticated heaven.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Devil-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B004VXK1LK"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9E24MjapduVro6j4StGZ3u1bJWhD8INPMbDyhcOauktK2ilLlUJ-ES4TQdhdZ_cKt36dYxh1kFLT5UbyxDx4Qxoq497Snho3t7ZEfE4ONE7cUlbGi1IbX3eG8UHaYPMJHWF0D-Sl5Kg/s1600/book-cover.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-23421963791639291692014-09-17T10:56:00.001-05:002015-02-11T12:26:46.620-06:00Americans Cross the Rhine and Speer's Ruhr Rebellion Goes NowhereAt first, a war is a cause, a crusade. But ultimately it becomes nothing
more than an intersection of x and y axes; a cost-benefit analysis, a
calculus of conditions and circumstances. In this particular war, the
lines had been crossed a long time ago and there was no longer any
benefit, just cost. It wasn’t a question of belief or will, only
numbers. And the numbers had said only one thing: the was is lost.
<br />
<br />
While the Western Allies stayed to the Western bank of the Rhine, people
kept hoping it might somehow stay that way, as it had been two
thousand years earlier when the Rhine had marked the Roman Empire’s
northernmost border. They wondered what it might take to ultimately
convince the British and Americans to stay put. The French could keep
Strasbourg and the Alsace, the Russians the eastern bank of the
Vistula. As far as fallback positions went, it almost bordered on the
agreeable, Not that the Fuhrer would have seen it that way. But then
again the Fuhrer wouldn’t be around for ever.
<br />
<br />
But of course now the Rhine was breached and the Americans were racing
the Russians to Berlin. Now it was a question of trying to limit the
destruction so that there might be something left for the future. It
should be something everyone could agree to.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6uiUdn00K5_j-SWz4OpmZMfEbnUbjgz_IBIHg0xHaNgh-PYdljKeT5EtnDlDF1t-QRGctn_ymU9rzL7FLZsYCP2FRJsdRV1JtlCwb6ZGHPiOwKlX4bBLYwg5dA3JG2Higm_9rxtGcGg/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a>He and von Poser had gone in thinking it would be easy, since by then,
Speer was on a personal basis with nearly every factory director in
the Ruhr. Despite his youth, they all looked to him as a guiding
light, someone who understood their needs and concerns, who respected
their expertise and knew what could and could not be done. And he was
someone they could speak frankly to about the suicidal course the war
had taken. They’d all been acutely aware of what Hitler had done to
the industrial areas in the east and were adamant the same thing not
happen to their beloved Ruhr. Some had even dropped broad hints about
their willingness to go against the regime should Speer elect to
break with Hitler and lead a revolt. But now that Speer had come to
do just that, they were suddenly overcome with reticence.
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Had I said that, Herr Reichsminister? You must be mistaken.”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Don’t say these things, Herr Reichsminister. It’s treason.”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Perhaps we should stop the conversation right here, Herr Reichsminister.”
</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Herr Reichsminister, what you are suggesting is quite impossible.”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Herr Reichsminister, you must not ask this thing!”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Herr Reichsminister, I’ve always had the utmost respect for you, but if
you do not leave at once, it will be my duty to inform the local
Party militia of your subversion.”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Now please, you must leave, immediately.”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Get out.”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Leave now!”
</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Go!”
</i><br />
<br />
Not that it was surprising that everyone was now so scared. With
everything in complete disarray and communication with Berlin
hopelessly tangled, the local Nazi Party chiefs, the gauleiters, now
held absolute power. Their “flying squads” seemed to be
everywhere, examining travel documents, searching vehicles,
questioning people about what they were doing away from the front
lines, and then acting as judge, jury and executioner against anyone
whose enthusiasm for the war they found wanting. Their victims were
either taken away for torture interrogations or simply strung up from
the nearest lamppost where they remained for weeks as a reminder to
everyone else.
<br />
<br />
By the end of the first day, Speer was ready to throw in the towel and
head back, and he would have except that von Poser’s steely
determination showed no hint of flagging. So they went on, day after
day, visiting chemical plants, steel mills, coal mines, electrical
generating stations, ammunition works. Most of the distance driving
they did at night, since during the day the sky teemed with enemy
aircraft. Sometimes they traveled with military convoys, but more
often alone. The roads were always kept dark and with their
headlights masked down to tiny illuminated squares, they had to
proceed slowly, since the roads were full of bomb craters and debris.
<br />
<br />
It was always a big guess where the roads would take them, since
everything was rerouted and changed. Where the front actually was,
was kept secret and more than once they ended up at the front lines
with less than half a kilometer between themselves and the nearest
enemy tank. Even more confusing was the fact that nothing looked
familiar anymore. In his years as armaments minister, Speer had
visited every factory town there countless times and knew the region
like the back of his hand. But with half the buildings flattened and
the sprawling industrial plants transformed into forests of twisted
metal girders, frames and broken pipes, Speer and von Poser often
found themselves disoriented. But as wrecked as everything looked,
Speer knew that a surprising amount was repairable. Factories were
often up and running again in a matter of days, machine tool works
sometimes within hours. Of course if the militiamen really tried,
they could render everything completely unfixable. And that was
Speer’s biggest worry.
<br />
<br />
They drove around, visiting the factories that came their way. They’d
talk to whoever was around, sound them out, listen to their excuses,
nod sympathetically and then move on to the next location, hoping
they’d get lucky. They’d knock off late in the afternoon, sleep a
little, then drive through the night. Usually toward the dawn they’d
find a command post where there were cots or they’d simply pull
over and rest for a few hours. Sometimes they ate from their stock of
canned food, but mostly they tried to eat whatever was being spooned
out for the troops.
<br />
<br />
Then one night they were driving between Ludenscheid and Dessau on a
particularly badly bombed stretch of autobahn. Speer sat beside von
Poser in the front seat, an air defense map spread on his lap, while
the radio alternated between piano concertos and a lifeless voice
reading out positions of enemy aircraft; <i>fighters reported in Grid E-6 heading westward, enemy fighters in Grid F-12
bearing east. Enemy fighters in Grid D-9 heading east, enemy bombers
in Grid C-7, C-8 and C-10, high overhead heading west.
</i><br />
<br />
Then suddenly they heard the metallic scream of aircraft engines as
machinegun fire ripped up the ground in front of them. Von Poser
slammed on the brakes and before they knew it, the car was plummeting
down the embankment. They pushed open the doors and jumped out onto
the ground. A twin-engine Heinkel roared over them, with a smaller
American fighter tight on its tail, firing away. The Heinkel’s
starboard engine was aflame. Then its wing crumpled and it turned
over, plunging into the darkness. A second later they heard the dull
explosion and saw the flash of fire in a distant field.
<br />
<br />
They tried getting their car out of the ditch, but the mud was too thick
and the four back wheels only spun uselessly. They stood around in
the darkness unsure of what to do next. In another hour it would be
light enough for the American Mustangs and Thunderbolts to return and
begin strafing anything that wasn’t already blown up.
<br />
<br />
(Excerpt from<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ"> Germania,</a> Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle ebook version now available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-11906237758915225932014-09-12T10:50:00.001-05:002015-02-11T12:29:14.647-06:00Albert Speer Insists He Was Never Hitler's FriendWith still an hour to kill, Speer lit a cigarette and went over to the
couch and sat down.
<br />
<br />
<i>You know what your friend will do if he finds out? </i>They always referred to Hitler that way. Speer had always hated that.
Hitler wasn’t his friend. Perhaps Speer was Hitler’s friend,
perhaps even his only friend. But that wasn’t the same thing, was
it? Besides, Speer knew what Hitler would do when he found out.<br />
<br />
Reasonably speaking, all they could hope for now was to keep as much of
Germany’s industrial base together so that some level of civilized
life could continue after it was all over. He’d carefully broached
that matter with Hitler during the winter, but Hitler dismissed it.
“There is no need to preserve anything for the survivors, Speer,”
he told him. “They will have proven themselves unworthy.”
<br />
<br />
Speer went over to the window and stared out. By now the bombing had taken
out most of the city’s landmarks, leaving him without his usual
points of reference. Locating Alexanderplatz had always been a matter
of simply finding the old Town Hall’s clock tower and then going a
little bit left. But now the tower was gone. So was the Karstadt
department store, the Columbus building on Potsdamerplatz, the twin
steeples of Saint Nicholas church. He tried to remember what they
looked like, but they were already excised from his memory.
<br />
<br />
Instead what blazed unforgettably was the skyline of a city which had only
existed on paper and tabletop scale models. He saw the dome,
stretched out before him, larger than a sunrise, with its dozens of
gigantic columns and a massive bronze eagle perched ominously atop
its cupola.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjty-9O0xxC0V4xJL95IV_zaOjmVRjnBtUoZ9rYMOroKIDy6l14-z_xOsAo-R3IkWAkhyfi5dvAhegp3VRcwzOrWfLPAUXcmVghjHbwNsA7Cf_oSmQucsmwS8_XMrnVQy-eWS8cvl12Xg/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="200" width="141" /></a>And he heard Hitler’s voice reciting the numbers to onlookers, <i>Sixteen
times the size of Saint Peter’s in Rome</i>! And he saw the rest of the imaginary city, the broad avenues, the
monuments, the palaces and plazas, the gigantic ministry buildings,
cinemas, concert halls, hotels and storefronts, miles and miles of
it. The two of them had spent years dreaming it up; a city greater
than Rome, a light among nations, a capital fit to rule the world for
a thousand years; <i>Germania!
</i><br />
<br />
Speer had actually believed in it back when Germany’s future still loomed
bright, enough so that he went ahead with demolition orders for whole
neighborhoods in order to make way for it. Berlin’s destruction
hadn’t started with the first British bombing raids, but with the
bulldozing he had himself engineered.
<br />
<br />
Once the war had started the whole thing should have been shelved, but the
war only stoked Hitler’s enthusiasm. And when the enemy bombing did
come, Hitler acted gleeful.
<br />
<br />
“They’re only doing our work for us, Speer,” he’d say. And Speer accepted it without question. Even after things
went bad in Russia, Hitler insisted it be kept on as a top priority,
summoning Speer to the studio in the middle of the night so they
could discuss the changes which still kept occurring to him on a
daily basis. They’d spend endless hours bent down at eyelevel to
the miniature streets and buildings, peering under archways,
discussing each gallery and staircase.
<br />
<br />
Even now, with the enemy at their door, Hitler still wouldn’t let it go.
In his mind, Germania was still every bit as real as the miracle
weapons, Inevitable Victory and all the other shabby fantasies which
he insisted everyone believe in. And it was all Speer’s fault for
wanting a thousand years of glory.
<br />
<br />
Going to pick up his bags, he paused for a moment to look at himself in the
mirror. Was this the face of a future world leader? Except for some
rings under his eyes and a receding hairline, there was still far too
much boyishness in it. He was neither handsome nor ugly, his face was
round, his chin soft. It was only the face of a technocrat. No,
that’s not completely true, he told himself. His eyes had it. Dark,
brooding, even without a night’s sleep, they had a sharpness to
them, inquisitiveness, too, and sardonic humor. The face of a man who
could put things into perspectice.
<br />
<br />
Speer went downstairs to the garage where Colonel von Poser was waiting
beside a supercharged, six-wheeled Mercedes. They drove out after
nightfall, heading west.
<br />
(Excerpt from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania,</a> Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle version available for download<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ"> here</a>).Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-54029614247383993442014-09-08T11:42:00.001-05:002015-02-11T12:27:44.279-06:00Hipster Nazi Albert Speer<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
Speer looked up from his desk and saw a young American GI standing in the
doorway. “Are you Albert Speer?” he asked in strangely accented
German. He was wearing combat gear; helmet, a bandolier of
ammunition, and a carbine slung on his shoulder. What could he want?
He was the first American soldier Speer had seen so far. Had he come
to arrest him?<br />
<br />
Speer decided to answer him in English. “Yes, I am Speer,” he said.
“Please, how may I help you?”<br />
<br />
More than a little taken aback, the GI started to explain to Speer about
something called the “United States Strategic Bombing Survey”
which wanted to interview him on the effects of strategic bombing on
the German war economy."<br />
<br />
"Why certainly,” said Speer. “What precisely would you like to know?”<br />
<br />
The GI looked confused. “Um, look, if you don’t mind, could you just
not go anywhere for a few minutes? Let me get Major Spivak up here.”<br />
<br />
The GI turned and left and Speer went back to the report he’d been
reading. But he was too excited to concentrate. The Americans wanted
to interview him about managing the armaments industry. He tried to
repeat in his mind what the young soldier had rattled off, <i>United
States Strategic Bombing Survey</i>. What could that possibly mean?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGNQcsJrrrsQmeZFjdrg445LEM1j_nnzriCuyru0py4F_QfiFLWTp6UCc5mOnzyEwfO35cxg7_ukT1bSe-oE9p4YMnAbIriuI9JKmV4JXcNMRv34anCceLv4j9C32lgPh8NXVKq-7ZA/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a>It only took Speer a second to guess the reason. The American air war
against Germany had been long, bloody, and until its last six months,
largely ineffective. Now their campaign against Japan was underway
and they must have figured that whatever lessons there were to be
learned from bombing Germany better be learned quickly. Well then, he
thought, if that was the case, they’d come to the right man. Nobody
knew more about the effects of strategic bombing than Albert Speer.<br />
<br />
A half hour later, the GI returned with a middle-aged man, short and
heavyset, bespectacled with a big nose, looking every bit the Jew
from all the old anti-Semitic posters, only instead of wearing a
black banker’s suit and a bowler hat, he was in US Army combat
fatigues with a .45 strapped on his hip.<br />
<br />
The GI said, “Major Spivak, I present to you, Reichsminister Albert
Speer.”
Speechless, Major Spivak stared at Speer. Finally he muttered, “Holy Cow!”<br />
<br />
Speer stood up from his desk. “Good afternoon, Major,” he said,
pleasantly as he could. He thought about extending his hand in
greeting, but realized he shouldn’t.<br />
<br />
Major Spivak didn’t return his greeting but continued to look at him with
nervous distaste. He was thinking the same thing as everyone else;
this man I’m talking to is <i>Hitler’s...best ...friend</i>! Finally
he recovered enough to say, “Sergeant Fassberg says you’d be
willing to be interviewed.”<br />
<br />
"Yes, whatever you’d like to know,” answered Speer. “It’s about
strategic bombing you say?”<br />
<br />
"Yes, the economic and other effects of daytime strategic bombing on the
German war economy.”<br />
<br />
"Please, have a seat,” said Speer. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you any
coffee or other refreshment.”<br />
<br />
Brusquely Major Spivak shook his head, like it was neither expected nor
desired. They sat down and both men began undoing the snaps of their
shoulder bags and took out notebooks and manila file folders.
“Sergeant, do you have the file on the abrasives industry?” asked
Major Spivak.<br />
<br />
"Right here,” answered Sergeant Fassberg, handing him a sheaf of papers.<br />
<br />
"All right, let’s start,” said Major Spivak.<br />
<br />
He spent the next three hours asking Speer very detailed questions,
first about abrasives and oil baths and then about specialty steels
and problems with machine tools and manufacturing different kinds of
screws and fasteners, nearly all of which Speer was able to answer
easily from the top of his head.<br />
<br />
Though it was obvious Major Spivak continued to regard Speer with extreme
discomfort, he nevertheless conducted the interview with complete
professional detachment. He’d ask questions, write down the
answers, ask follow ups and write those down as well. In the end, as
he sat looking over all his pages of notes, he turned to Speer, and,
shaking his head with amazement, declared, “Well, Sergeant Fassberg
was certainly right, Herr Speer. You’re definitely the mother
lode.”<br />
<br />
Then, for one very long moment, Major Spivak stared blankly ahead, while
inside him the angels of light and darkness battled each other.
Finally he looked at Speer and with the tiniest hint of cordiality
asked if he’d be willing to undergo a more detailed debriefing by
senior members of the Survey team.<br />
<br />
"Why certainly,” said Speer. “I’d be happy to cooperate in any way I
can.”<br />
<br />
"Good,” said Major Spivak. “I’ll let the guys know. We’ll be in touch.”<br />
<br />
They left without shaking hands or thanking him.<br />
<br />
Speer went back to the castle feeling strangely let down. The Americans had
come to him like heavenly messengers, only to vanish with the same
abruptness with which they’d appeared. It had been the first time
in months anyone had come seeking his expertise and even if Major
Spivak had not been terribly courteous, he had at least acknowledged
that Speer had something no one else had. He wondered what he’d
meant when he said his colleagues would be “in touch.”<br />
<br />
Baumbach, on the other hand, saw it as a clear sign that his friend’s bad
fortune had reversed. “Well, congratulations, Albert. Now they’ll
have no choice but to bring you into their new administration. It’s
just like what they’re doing with those rocket scientists from
Peenemunde. You’ll probably get flown out to Okinawa to join
Curtis LeMay’s intelligence staff.”<br />
<br />
"We’ll see,” said Speer.<br />
<br />
"I’d say this calls for a drink, Albert.” They settled into another
night of drinking and storytelling and by the end of it, the whole
episode became just a half-remembered jumble in Speer’s mind.<br />
<br />
He awoke late in the morning with a terrible hangover. Staggering
through the hall down to the kitchens he debated whether he should
call in sick or just show up the way he was, since it seemed that was
the way everyone else was half the time.<br />
<br />
As he was working his way through a cup of tea, he heard agitated
footsteps running up the corridor toward him. He started to feel a
sense of dread. It was the captain of the honor guard, which had been
assigned to him for security.<br />
<br />
"Herr Reichsminister, we have an emergency!”<br />
<br />
"What is it?"<br />
<br />
"The American Army is here, demanding to see you.”<br />
<br />
"What?”
"The Americans, your Excellency! There must be twenty of them. They’ve
come in Jeeps.”<br />
<br />
"In Jeeps? But what do they want? Are you sure they’re not looking for
Himmler?”<br />
<br />
"No, your Excellency. They say they want you. Reichsminister for War
Production Albert Speer. Do you want my men to shoot at them?”<br />
<br />
"No, absolutely not. Tell them to wait. I must get dressed first.”<br />
<br />
He went back to his room and found his best gray suit. Then he selected
a French tie and put it on. He took a glimpse in the mirror and
thought to himself that he looked pretty good.
</blockquote>
<br />
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a>,</i> Simon & Schuster, 2008, ebook version available <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).
Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210019100966315.post-77203609696203481452014-09-05T10:37:00.003-05:002015-02-11T12:30:01.693-06:00Reich Government Finally Meets to Discuss Minister Appointments<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Doenitz sat at the head of the table, correct and steely-eyed as always. Schwerin von Krosikg, the chancellor and foreign minister, sat to his left, while Speer, in charge of the economic portfolio, at at his right. The other ministers and advisors sat around the table, all of them looking very serious. Doenitz's government was now ten days old. At its inception, it had consisted of Doenitz, Speer, and von Krosigk, and a geographical realm that, besides northern Germany, included all of Denmark, Norway, Bohemia, and 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.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
They convened each day to have meetings, explore problems, issue orders, and attempt to establish some coherence 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 that 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. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrCWyysE3YkSW1BM_oMnRYkzGHCC9fVoBArYj3gWvEf9GgJ5-LSt-P3EojAfGu5RnWiiS_dLsFbkCsnNvx6sTKvJSHhnumhwlEqv05F31NHNcUBwt-YMMkz0xwLDkS2OTmkplyPUpXw/s1600/Germania+ebook+cover.JPG" height="320" width="226" /></a>The discussion on fertilizers went on for 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 had just gone through, indeed it was necessary, that a Christian moral culture be reinstituted in the state.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"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 the contemporary Christian theology of human dignity."</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Do you have anyone in mind?" asked Doenitz.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Yes, I do, Grand Admiral. I think Dietrich Bonhoeffer would be a perfect candidate. Last I heard he was still alive. We should see if we can locate him."</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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 and Portugal. The question boiled down to asking the Allies permission to print an emergency issue of reichsmarks. They were discussing it when an aide returned to inform them that Pastor Bonhoeffer had been executed by the Gestapo two weeks before.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The afternoon meeting wound down and Speer trudged back to his office to find a young Luftwaffe colonel waiting for him. It took Speer a second to realize it was Werner Baumbach, whom he'd often run into while kayaking on the Havel back before the war.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
By the look of him, Baumbach was the happiest man in the world. He'd just arrived in Flensburg and only now had it occurred to him that he'd survived the war in one piece. And on top of it, it was May and everything was in blossom and he'd seen his first women in several months and they were even more beautiful than he'd remembered them. He'd billeted himself at <a href="http://brendanmcnallynazisanddinosaurs.blogspot.com/2013/02/settling-accounts-with-speer.html">Schloss Glucksburg</a>, a nearby castle owned by his friend the Duke of Mecklenburg-Holstein, and it was great!</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"You Luftwaffe buys have all the luck," said Speer, trying to sound upbeat. "I just got kicked out of my quarters by the British." He told Baumbach how he and the rest of the government had been living aboard the <a href="https://wolfsonianfiulibrary.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/xc1991-358_000.jpg"><i>Patria</i>, an old Hamburg-Amerika liner</a> docked in the harbor. But that morning they had been told to vacate it and were now crammed into the cadets' dormitories. He gave a sour look.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Baumbach laughed. "Well, that's great, then, Albert. You can stay with me! There's plenty of room, plenty of food, plenty to drink. Get your stuff together. Let's go!"</blockquote>
(Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">Germania</a></i>, Simon & Schuster, 2008, ebook version available on Kindle <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Germania-Brendan-McNally-ebook/dp/B00BROR8RQ">here</a>).<br />
<br />
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Brendan McNally, author of "Friend of the Devil," and "Germania"http://www.blogger.com/profile/13242966803017023128noreply@blogger.com0