Wolfgang Luth Learns His Number Two Is a Jew

At the edge of the park was a hillside that overlooked Flensburg 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.

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.

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.

So where was Franzi 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.

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.

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.

Back at his desk, there were more supplicants awaiting him. One by one, he sent them away, not bothering to trouble the Grand Admiral about any of them. In the middle of the afternoon, the door opened and in walked Wolfgang Luth. “Hello Number One,” he said.

Ziggy looked at him. The moment he had dreaded had arrived. “Hello, Sir,” he said.

Luth looked surprised. “When did you get so formal? How’ve you been? I heard you went to see Eisenhower. Is he as nice as they say? Come on, Loerber, tell me what you’ve been up to? Seen any of the old gang?”

“Oh,” said Ziggy, “besides Captain Cremer, I haven’t seen much of anybody. I’ve been pretty busy.”

Luth gave a sour, but good-natured look. “Busy? Sitting at a desk? What’s going on with you, Loerber?”

Ziggy shrugged. But somehow he couldn’t come up with anything resembling the usual banter.

Luth looked at him and his expression grew serious. “I sent you congratulations when you got oak leaves on your Knight’s Cross. I wrote you again when you got the diamonds. You never wrote back either time. I told myself you were busy but now you’ve been here a week and you haven’t even dropped by to see me once. What’s going on?”

Ziggy shrugged noncommittally, but his heart was pounding.

Luth continued. “When you didn’t write back, I knew something was wrong. I wrote you again and you didn’t write then either. What is it, Loerber? I’ve done something to offend you, haven’t I?”

Ziggy said nothing.

“You should tell me what it is,” said Luth. “This is the time when we need to stick together. You know I’ve always considered you my brother and if there is something wrong, then for the sake of our brotherhood, you should tell me what it is. This war has been bad enough. We shouldn’t go into peacetime bearing grudges. It’ll poison things.”

Luth was looking at him earnestly and Ziggy knew he was expecting an honest answer. He remembered again the times they’d stood together on a deck, witnessing the death groans of a ship they’d torpedoed as its insides ripped apart. “Yes, I do have something to say to you.”

“Then say it.”

“I’m a Jew.”

Luth stared at him a very long time. “I see,” he said finally. “So I suppose there’s nothing more to say, then.”

Ziggy said nothing.

Luth turned and walked away.
(Excerpt from Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

Schellenberg Does Lunch with Himmler's New Astrologer

“You know Loerber, I think you and I are going to make a great team,” said Schellenberg as he and Franzi walked down the fifth floor corridor. Only a week had passed since he’d joined Himmler’s staff and this was the third time he and Schellenberg had lunched together, sitting off in a corner at the senior SS staff dining room. After seven years lost in the Ahnenerbe’s perpetual mystic twilight, the shine was back on Franzi Loerber. And it felt good.

“Thank you, Herr General,” said Franzi. “I am honored to be working for you.”

“Just bear in mind one thing,” cautioned Schellenberg. “Right now you and I have only one goal.”

Franzi nodded. They’d been over it a dozen times already. Eisenhower had made it clear there would be no peace with the West until Himmler seized power from the faltering Fuhrer. And Franzi, owing to his calming and persuasive abilities, would now act as Schellenberg’s spear point in that effort.

The task was proving to be a challenging one to say the least. Though he had succeeded several times in getting the Reichsfuhrer fired up to the point where he’d storm off to the Fuhrerbunker to “show Hitler what’s what,” each time something conveniently went wrong and his determination fizzled out just short of the breech. Even so, Franzi had brought him far closer to action than Schellenberg ever had, and Schellenberg remained convinced it was now just a question of seizing every opportunity to get Himmler to move.

“Another thing to keep in mind, Loerber. Since you’re now part of the team, I might as well let you in on this little secret. Count Bernadotte is going to be coming down here very soon and he’ll be bringing with him senior representatives of the World Jewish Congress to meet with the Reichsfuhrer. They say they’d be willing to settle things with us because they recognize that what happened to the Jews was not really the SS’ fault.”

“That’s good news, Herr General.”

“Indeed it is, Loerber.”

Franzi didn’t see how this was possible. After all that had happened in the camps, after so many millions brutally murdered, how could anyone believe an offer like that could be anything but a ploy? Maybe this whole thing with Eisenhower was also a ploy. Why wouldn’t it be? It wasn’t like he was under any obligation to play fair with someone like Himmler.

There was muffled rumbling in the distance. The Soviet artillery was finally within earshot. They turned the corner and continued down the corridor back toward the Intelligence staff offices. Several colonels and majors sprang to attention as they passed. They offered salutes which Schellenberg and Franzi returned without comment. Schellenberg was all right, Franzi thought; very collegial and incredibly bright, especially compared to some of the thugs who’d risen high in the SS ranks. He probably didn’t even hate Jews. That’s what made it so difficult to reconcile the crazy things he said with the grim reality around them. There had to be things nobody else knew about; secret deals, behind-the-scenes relationships which allowed Schellenberg to retain his blue-sky optimism. Franzi reminded himself that the man he was talking to was the most informed person in all Germany. He would know it if the Western Allies believed the Russians would turn on them once the victory against Germany was complete.

Schellenberg continued. “I don’t have to explain how important an agreement like this will be to the future of Europe. It is imperative Hitler be already out of power when they arrive, so that the Reichsfuhrer can have a free hand to make deals on behalf of Germany. Use any method you can think of to motivate him. We cannot let this thing fall through!”
(Excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Speer on Hitler's Secret Weapons

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; 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.

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.

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.

Then they became aware of the easy clopping of horses’ hoofs. They peered into the mist to see what it was. The clopping came closer until suddenly he was in front of them; a tall thin figure in a long coat and floppy-brimmed hat, leading a team of four large sputtering farm horses. “Hey there,” he called out. “I see you had an accident. Let’s see if my boys here can’t get you out.” He said his name was Jakob and he was a farmer. He’d been tending his cows in a nearby field when he heard the noise. So he went back to the barn and hitched up his team. It used to be that there were hardly ever any accidents on this stretch of the autobahn, he told them. But now it seemed like barely a night went by without someone smashing up.

It didn’t take five minutes to pull the car back up the embankment and onto the road. Jakob worked his horses with a good-natured firmness that struck Speer as the utter embodiment of German peasant virtue. Speer imagined Germania and the pilgrimages which all the Jakobs of the Greater German Reich would make at least once in their lives so they could see the city and stand inside the Great Hall. Supposedly this war had been for them. Now all it would do was chew them up in its maw.

“Jakob, what will you do when the Americans come?”

Jakob gave a big smile. “It’ll never happen,” he said. “The Fuhrer has those secret weapons of his. And once the Americans have gotten themselves too far in to escape, boom!” Jakob clapped his hands together joyfully. “He’ll fire those secret weapons and then their goose will be cooked!” Jakob smiled guilelessly at them. Von Poser looked away uncomfortably.

“Where did you hear about this?” asked Speer.

“Oh you know, around,” said Jakob. “Everybody agrees about that.”

“They do?”

“Of course,” he said. “The Fuhrer knows what to do. People just need to have faith, that’s all.”

Speer felt sick. They’d really done a good job indoctrinating people. “Jakob, listen to me,” said Speer. “All that stuff they’re telling you. It’s all a lie. There are no secret weapons.”

Jakob stared at them uncomprehendingly. “But I’ve heard them say it,” he insisted. “Over and over... on the radio... that they’re almost ready.” Then he laughed nervously. “You’re joking with me, aren’t you? I know, this is all a test. You’re testing my faith, to see if I’m worthy.”

Von Poser stepped in. “Speer, we need to get going.”

But Speer waved him off. “No, we’re not testing you, Jakob. We’re trying to help you, just like you’ve helped us. When the Americans come, just find a place to hide with your cows and let it all just pass you by. That nonsense they’re telling you will only get you killed. Please Jakob, hide. Save yourself.”

He watched Jakob shifting back and forth on his feet as he stared down at the ground. But then he looked up and his eyes were blazing with anger.

“Traitors!” he spat the words out. “You betray our Fuhrer. You betray Germany! And to think I helped you out. Look at you! You’re betraying your uniforms, your country, your people. You’re worse than Jews! And you,” he said, pointing his finger at von Poser. “Look at you, an army officer, of all people. You should be ashamed of yourself!

“I’m getting my gun,” he shouted. “And if you are still here when I get back, so help me, I’ll kill you both!” Giving a shake of his reins, he put his horses into a brisk trot and left them.

“Speer, are you insane?” shouted Von Poser. “You’re going to get us hanged.”

Speer felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I just couldn’t stand thinking about somebody like that getting killed.”

“Well don’t ever do it again! Things are dangerous enough as it is. I don’t need you screwing it up with some weak-hearted do-gooding. Get in the car. Let’s get out of here.”

For the next half hour, von Poser drove quickly as he could. Speer made several attempts to apologize, but was rebuffed. He sank into an uncomfortable silence. An hour later, outside Dessau, they came to a roadblock where grim-faced Party militiamen came at them with machineguns and yanked them both out of the car.

“How dare you?” roared Speer, feeling their hands at his shoulder. “Do you know who I am?”

That got him a hard punch in the jaw. “Shut up!” the militiaman grunted, knocking him to the ground. Speer rolled on the pavement, hands, elbows and shoulder stinging. He tried to push up onto his knees, only to feel a boot heel coming down hard against his side.

“Stop!” wailed Speer. ”You’re making a mistake. I’m Minister for War Production ...” He waited for the militiaman to step back, but the militiaman didn’t. Speer felt the man’s boot stomp down on his shoulder.

“You think we don’t know what you’ve been doing?” he heard the man hiss. The boot came down again, this time hard into Speer’s ribs. Speer stopped moving. Raising up his hands, he got onto his knees and looked up at the two men standing over him, their machine guns pointing down at him while a third had a pistol pointed at von Poser. He looked angry and tired.
(Excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

The Road to Del Rio XIII: Mommy, Where do Gods Come From? What's a Moonchild?

When atheist doper-bluesman Herbert arrives in Del Rio, he quickly falls into a new life as a singing cowboy on border blaster station XER. He starts to think he may finally be free from both God (the Other Guy) and the Devil (Mr. Stevens). But the fact is, all he's really done is step into a hotbed of alchemy, magic, and, ultimately, god creation.

Friend of the Devil may be set at a time and place where just about everyone is Christian, but the Judeo-Christian sensibility almost never enters into the picture. It doesn't even matter that the characters include two guys who are probably God and the Devil, this story runs completely outside that perspective. Similarly, everything going on in the story with Stevens and the Other Guy is also a couple steps removed from what we know from the Bible. Sure, Mr. Stevens is most certainly Satan himself, but then Old Scratch is always pretty much the same character regardless of whatever name or cultural context he might be inhabiting at that particular moment. What's different about Stevens is how for the Lord of Darkness, he's not exactly on top of his game. When Herbert first picks him up hitchhiking, the first thing he does is begin whining about the bad day he'd been having. He's ten hours late for a midnight meeting with someone at the Crossroads. He's evil, he's crafty, but at this point he's also pretty much of a fuck-up.

By the same token, the Other Guy certainly seems analogous to God, but after you get to know him a little, it becomes obvious that whatever resemblence he might bear with the Christian deity is, at best, circumstantial. Sure, he's not evil, but his essential goodness has largely been watered down by a sense of indifference. By now, just about the only thing that holds his interest is his ongoing good-versus-evil wagering with Stevens. He and Stevens are both some pretty tired gods. Moreover, he tends to get fairly irritated whenever he finds himself being mistaken for the God of Israel. It shouldn't be hard to figure out that while the Other Guy might be a god, he ain't God.

At the radio station, Herbert meets Rose Dawn, one of XER's star personalities. Rose is a clairvoyant with supernatural powers and, in fact, may or may not be a god herself. What Herbert realizes is that she is being used by her husband, the Great Koraan, who is in cahoots with Stevens and Dr Brinkley, to produce a "moonchild;" an alchemical creation; a man-made god.  As much as Herbert refuses to believe in any of it, he also knows it's up to him to stop it.

“The Great Koraan says I’m a big cosmic mistake, that I’m a no-good, worthless bit of celestial trash.”

“Rose, that’s nuts.”

She starts crying again. “But he’s right. The Great Koraan is always right. Oh golly gee, sometimes I wish I’d never been engendered.”

“Why do you always call him that?”

“Call him what?”

“The Great Koraan.”

“Well, that’s his name, isn’t it?”

“It’s not his real name. It’s a stage name, for cats’ sake. His parents didn’t call him that, did they?”

She looks surprised and troubled, like the question had never occurred to her.

“Don’t you have any pet names for him? Korrie? Snookums?”

She shakes her head. “Why, of course not, it would be disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful? Why? He’s just a man, isn’t he?”

“He isn’t just a man. The Great Koraan just happens to be the greatest living entity in the universe.”

“Is he?”

“Well, yes, everybody knows that.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You don’t count,” she snaps. “You’re an atheist. You see all the miracles of existence going on right in front of your eyes and it doesn’t make any difference to you.”

“You got that right, Toots.”

(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle here).

Von Friedeburg and Doenitz Meet on Levensau Bridge to Discuss the Surrender

History tells us that as soon as Grand Admiral Doenitz took over as the "new fuehrer" of the Reich, he sent Admiral von Friedeburg to meet with Field Marshal Montgomery as a first step in convincing the Western Allies to end their war with Germany and join them in a new grand alliance against the Russians.

Of course it didn't go down that way. Once he'd arrived at Montgomery's HQ, Monty tersely informed von Friedeburg that there would be no discussions of any kind. Von Friedeburg was there only for one thing, to sign an unconditional surrender, and if he did not do this, Monty was happy to continue killing every German he could find. Von Friedeburg was crushed. Doenitz had entrusted him with the survival of the German people and he'd failed. History tells us he reacted by suffering a nervous breakdown on the spot and that he had several more over the course of the next few days during which time he was forced to sign not one, but three diffferent surrenders; first to Montgomery, then to Eisenhower, and finally to the Russians in Berlin. After that he returned to Doenitz' headquarters in Flensburg, where he remained in a catatonic state for the next two weeks, before finally committing suicide, shortly after being arrested by the British. Beyond that, very little is known about von Friedeburg or why he committed suicide. In my novel Germania, a large part of the story deals with von Friedeburg's progress through the multiple surrenders. I tried to create a real character out of him, instead of the historical footnote that he is usually reduced to. This excerpt takes place during a meeting he had with Doenitz on Levensau Bridge, just before signing the first surrender.

It had been four days since Ziggy and Cremer had come aboard as heads of Doenitz’ security detail and other than the standoff with Himmler’s men, they hadn’t done much in that time besides salute and present arms a couple dozen times. When the order came for Ziggy to take a detachment of men to accompany the Grand Admiral to Levensau Bridge, he assumed it had to do with Admiral von Friedeburg’s negotiations with the British.

Levensau Bridge was only a mile or two east of the British front lines and in the last day all the fighting seemed to have come to a halt. Though the bridge still stood, it had been too heavily bombed for vehicles to cross over. They parked on the road leading up to it and waited. For the first time in days, the bridge was empty. Presumably everyone on the other side who’d wanted to flee the British had already done so, and anyone who wanted to go west thought better of doing it right there.

On the opposite bank a Navy staff car was driving up. Then it stopped and Admiral von Friedeburg got out and began clambering across the bridge towards them.

For several minutes, Doenitz stood with his aides, silently watching von Friedeburg’s progress through his field glasses. Then he abruptly took them away from his eyes. “Wait here,” he said and started quickly up the bridge to meet him.

Ziggy put his field glasses to his eyes and looked over at von Friedeburg approaching. Something was very wrong, he thought. His footsteps seemed jerky and his face was frozen into a Greek mask of horror. He watched the two men stop and face each other. They began exchanging words back and forth. Doenitz remained stiff and arched while von Friedeburg stood slumped. Then von Friedeburg put his hand over his eyes and Ziggy realized with a shock that he was weeping.

Doenitz started barking something at him, but von Friedeburg kept crying and shaking his head like he was saying, no, I tried but it didn’t work. Hans, get hold of yourself, Doenitz seemed to be saying. Remember what you are! But von Friedeburg only kept pleading. Please don’t make me go back. Please, I can’t take it. I can’t!

Ziggy kept his eyes on the two figures, clearly defined against the grayness of the river and sky. Their gestures seemed to describe what they were saying so completely it made Ziggy wonder if, without even knowing it, he was telepathically reading conversations again.

Whatever the case, there was no question about Doenitz’ answer. You have your orders and you will carry them out! Then Doenitz softened his stance slightly and said something reassuring. Von Friedeburg set his mouth hard into a grimace, and stood rigidly at attention as the rain pelted his face. Doenitz finished speaking, then turned and began angrily marching back. Von Friedeburg stood motionless for a few seconds and then started walking back to his side of the river.

Ziggy lowered his glasses. He wished he hadn’t witnessed any of it. The way von Friedeburg was acting seemed less like head of the Navy than some freshly-minted ensign being dressed down after panicking during his first depth charge attack. What had happened to him?

Twenty yards from the bottom of the bridge, Doenitz stopped and gestured for his adjutant. The adjutant ran up, but before he even got there, Doenitz snapped out a couple words and the adjutant turned again and ran back to the others.

“Korvettenkapitän Loerber,” he barked. “Report to the Grand Admiral on the double!”

“Jawohl,” shouted Ziggy and ran to see what the old man wanted.

Doenitz looked at him cold and hard as iron. “Something has come up,” he said. “I need you to go back with Admiral von Friedeburg to help him negotiate with the British.” Then, softening his voice, he added, “You’re a U-Boat captain. You’ll know how to handle it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ziggy, completely bewildered.

Doenitz went on. “The Admiral is having problems. He has a very difficult job ahead of him. You must help him, be his friend, but if things get out of hand you are to remind him of his duties, as a German Naval officer and as a man.”

Ziggy looked at Doenitz and saw how his eyes blazed with cold anger. “You speak pretty good English, as I recall,” he continued. “That might be helpful. Loerber, you need to make sure he’s able to function. The Navy’s honor is at stake. Do you think you can do that?”

“I’ll do my best, Grand Admiral.”

“No! That won’t do, Loerber. The Admiral just did his best and it wasn’t enough. Whatever it takes, Loerber, you must see to it that he carries out his task. On this I am giving you full leeway. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grand Admiral.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Now get moving.”

Ziggy saluted and started across the bridge. He hadn’t been walking a minute when things started reeling on him. Be his friend? Remind him of his duty? Full leeway? If it hadn’t been Doenitz telling him this, Ziggy would have thought it a joke.

The rain clouds that hung over them, low and heavy, cloaked everything in gray gloom, making the riverbank look more like a forlorn late fall than the middle of springtime. So the war was ending, he thought. Hitler was dead, Doenitz was Head of State and Von Friedeburg was apparently in the middle of negotiating a ceasefire with the British. Peace was finally descending on Europe. Germany was finished. We’d wanted war and gotten it. He tried to imagine what peace would be like, but couldn’t.

Ziggy walked across at a brisk pace. As he approached the Admiral’s Mercedes, the driver got out and came to attention.

“Come on, let’s get going,” said Ziggy, not bothering to salute back.

“Sir?” asked the driver. “Perhaps you might prefer to ride in the front.”

Ignoring his suggestion, Ziggy opened the rear door and leaned inside. Admiral von Friedeburg sat empty-eyed in the back. “Herr Admiral?” asked Ziggy.

Von Friedeburg did not look at him.

“The Grand Admiral has asked me to accompany you, sir.”

Von Friedeburg glanced at Ziggy just long enough to let him know he understood.

“I’ll be sitting in the front, if you need me, sir.”

Von Friedeburg gave a slight nod like he thought it was a good idea. Franzi shut the rear door and took the seat next to the driver.

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

Kriegsmarine and Jewish Underground Fight the SS

“I see one of them coming out now!” whispered one of the sailors, pointing to a shadowy spot at the foot of the castle wall. Peering through his binoculars, Ziggy made out a dark figure coming out of the ground. It was Franzi, creeping along the bank, looking like he had no idea what to do next.

“Signalman, flash your light at him,” ordered Cremer. “Let him know we’re here.” The signalman held out his pocket torch and did as he was told. Franzi seemed to notice it, but still made no attempt to get into the water. “What is he waiting for?” hissed Cremer. “He needs to get moving before they start shooting at him.”

By now, the shooting had been going on for twenty minutes and was at its height. The British were pouring gunfire into the castle entrance, but to little effect. Though they had the forecourt, the SS still had both ends of the bridge and were shooting down from the castle’s high windows.

None of it made any sense, thought Ziggy. If the Allies were so mad to capture Himmler, why had they decided to do it with such a paltry force? They could have easily sent in an entire armored division if they’d wanted to. Instead they’d elected to storm Schloss Glucksburg with a force of barely fifty men, whose shooting and assault skill was hardly equal to that of the much smaller, but determined force inside. The lucky thing was neither side seemed to be aware of Cremer’s group hiding in the tall grass along the bank of the moat.

“Signal him again,” whispered Cremer.

Franzi looked in their direction and lowered himself down the bank, his feet sliding into the water. He pushed away from the bank and began swimming toward them. Almost immediately there was a burst of machinegun fire from one of the castle windows. Franzi submerged into the water and re-appeared a few seconds later back at the bank.

“Covering fire!” shouted Cremer. Several of the sailors began firing their rifles at the man in the window, but he remained where he was, shooting back at them, seemingly unconcerned about the prospect of getting hit.

“Captain,” shouted one of the men. “Here come some Tommies.”

Ziggy turned and saw a group of British soldiers crawling out from the forecourt and working their way along the side of the building toward the moat.


“Cease fire,” shouted Cremer. “Everyone down.”

Still unaware of their presence, the British soldiers came to the corner of the forecourt nearest the moat and started shooting at the castle entrance. The SS returned the fire, forcing the British back behind the edge of the building. Immediately four of the Tommies broke away from the wall and made for the tall grass where Cremer’s group was hiding. Two were lugging a heavy machinegun, the others a tripod and belts of ammunition.

“Everyone stay down. Nobody shoot,” hissed Cremer.

A few seconds later, the four Tommies found themselves surrounded by Germans with rifles. “Get down and not a word from any of you,” said Cremer in English. Startled, the four soldiers dropped to their knees and put their hands up.

“We’re trying to get one of our men out,” he told them. “Don’t interfere with us and we won’t interfere with you. Deal?”

“You are not SS?” asked one of them in oddly accented English.

“No, Navy,” Ziggy answered. Then something occurred to him. “You’re not British, are you?”

None of them said anything.

“You’re Blood of Israel.”

They remained silent.

“Your enemy is across the moat, remember that,” said Ziggy.

They nodded.

“All right then,” said Cremer. “We’re going to be giving covering fire. We won’t shoot at you. Take your position and good luck.”

As quickly as they could, the four ran to their new positions on the bank. A moment later they had the gun set up and were pouring fire into the castle entrance.

Cremer stood up and waved his arms. “Come on!” he shouted to Franzi. “Get moving!”

Franzi let go of the bank again and began swimming toward them with forceful strokes. The men in the windows opened up again with their machine guns, which hit the water only a few yards from Franzi, but he kept swimming.

“More covering fire,” shouted Cremer.

By now the shooting was going on in all directions; from the castle, from inside the forecourt, from the bank next to it, from the windows and the bridge. But the hundred yards of water which separated the opponents prevented any of it from having much effect, other than keeping Franzi pinned down in the middle of it. He would dive under for stretches of twenty or thirty seconds, then come back up at nearly the same spot, and resume swimming erratically before being forced under water again. It was obvious that at the rate he was going, he would never make it across.

Ziggy tried to think. They had to come up with something quick! Something to make the shooting stop. Something to entice Himmler and his group into breaking out. Something to- Lightning over the castle. The words jumped into Ziggy’s head and kept repeating themselves like the lyrics to a music hall song...lightning over the castle...lightning over the castle...lightning over the castle...He tried to push it out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Lightning over the castle.

“Give me the signal pistol,” he said to Cremer.

“What?”

“Give it to me!”

Cremer handed it over. “What are you going to do?”

Ziggy didn’t answer, but raised the pistol high in the air and fired it, sending a white hot meteor blazing into the sky. It exploded in a blinding, molten burst, before drifting slowly to the ground.

Ziggy cracked open the pistol and removed the massive spent shell. “Quick! Give me more rounds,” he told Cremer.

“I’ve only got two,” answered Cremer, handing them to him from inside his coat pocket. Ziggy loaded a fresh round and fired it, then the other one. As they watched them explode, a hush came over the battlefield.

Now what? thought Ziggy. In another second everyone would realize it was all a bluff and start shooting again.

But then they heard Himmler's screeching, excited voice echoing from the castle’s entrance, “It’s the sign! It’s the sign! The prophesy is being fulfilled. Three lightning bolts over the castle. My time has come. Macher, Grothmann, stop what you’re doing. We must leave this moment. Our Karma, Macher! We’re invincible!”

A moment later the two Mercedes and the Horch darted across the bridge and into the forecourt. There was gunfire, but the cars never slowed and a few seconds later they were back outside, roaring down the road and disappearing into the distance.

“I don’t believe any of this,” Ziggy heard one of the men saying.

Over on the lake, he could see the splashes and ripples as Franzi quickly swam towards the shore. He seemed to be doing all right. In another few minutes, he’d be there. The fake Tommies on the bank had already removed the machine gun from its tripod and were carrying it away as quickly as they could, but the ones at the forecourt wall had turned to face Cremer’s group, their rifles at the ready. One of them was running back to the forecourt entrance.

“I’ve got a feeling they are about to declare our little truce over,” Cremer said to Ziggy.

A minute later, the Tommy re-emerged with a man who looked like he might be their leader. He waved for one of them to come over.

“I’ll go,” said Ziggy and began walking towards them. The man came forward, walking quickly and keeping his hands out by his sides, palms open. They stopped a few feet from each other. Back by the forecourt, the soldiers had assembled in a line, looking like they were ready to start fighting again.

“Hello,” said Ziggy in English.

“So what’s this about?” the man asked in German.

“You tell me,” said Ziggy.

“Who’s this person in the water?”

“That’s not your concern,” said Ziggy.

“You’re one of the Loerber Brothers, aren’t you? Then you’re also a Jew. You should be helping us instead of them,” he said.

“I just did help you,” answered Ziggy. “Now I want you to go and leave my men alone.”

“That gold belongs to us.”

“Well go look somewhere else. We don’t have it,” said Ziggy. “Don’t take it out on us just because you screwed up the whole thing.”

“Don’t think the matter is settled yet,” the man said. “We’ll talk again.” And he waved to his men that they were leaving.
(Excerpt from Germania, published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

Hard Luck Outfit: The Story of the 492nd Bombardment Group - Part II

A B-24 Liberator of the 856th Bomb Squadron, 492nd Bomber Group, 8th Air Force, over the the Rhenania-Ossag oil refinery near Hamburg, Germany, Aug. 6, 1944. The 492nd was disbanded due to heavy losses in early August 1944. National Archives photo

By early June, 1944, the 492nd Bombardment Group had flown twenty-four missions. Most had been easy ones, either supporting the Normandy invasion or going after V-1 launching sites in France. But whenever they’d attack targets in Germany, things usually got nasty. On their fifth mission, against the Brunswick marshalling yards, they lost eight aircraft. Bombing the refineries in Politz, 10 days later, they lost three more. Read the full story at Defense Media Network here.