He looked for Bradley, saw a cluster of officers, moved that way. There is one more reason I had to be here, he thought, something far more important than anything that would occur to Patton. I was so afraid the newspapers would play this up the wrong way, sensationalize this so it became nothing more than our own brand of propaganda, blowing our own horns. Hey, we’re the good guys. But I was so damn wrong. I want every reporter in this theater to see this, to write about it, to describe every horrible detail. When I go home, if someone, whoever, some congressman, some local reporter asks me if these reports were blown up, were so much bull, I can tell them, dammit, I was there. I saw it. And every horror story, every atrocity you read about is true. And Hitler … God damn that Nazi son of a bitch to hell.
HEADQUARTERS, THIRD ARMY, HERSFELD, GERMANY
APRIL 12, 1945
Patton had insisted they stay, and neither Eisenhower nor Bradley had objected. Dinner had been a subdued affair, no one particularly in the mood to eat anything. Patton had recovered, seemed embarrassed by his show of weakness at the camp, something no one would mention to him at all.
“I’m going to bed. Hell of a day.”
Bradley nodded silently, pulled himself up, made a low wave with one hand.
“Me too. Thanks for the hospitality, George.”
Bradley was gone now, and Eisenhower felt the aching weariness in his legs, saw Patton thumping on his wristwatch.
“Damn thing. Quit on me again.”
Eisenhower had avoided the subject all day, wanted to avoid it now, but he knew there would be no sleep if he didn’t at least ask.
“Why’d you do it, George? Three hundred men, fifty miles into enemy territory. What did you think you’d accomplish?”
Patton seemed relieved to talk about it, his energy increasing.
“I heard about the Hammelburg POW camp. Nine hundred of our guys, a good percentage of them officers. I thought it would be a hell of a thing if we could spring them. I honestly thought we’d catch the enemy completely by surprise, that no one would ever suspect that kind of move. We’d go in, grab our boys, haul our asses back before the Krauts knew what hit ’em.”
“Did you know your son-in-law was there?”
Patton looked down, stared for a long moment.
“No. Not until it was over with.”
“That’s not what the papers are saying. It’s not what some of the officers around you are saying. They’re saying it’s the reason you sent your Major Skinner along, because he knows Colonel Waters, would be able to recognize him.”
Patton seemed to inflate, prepared for an argument, an argument Eisenhower did not want. But as quickly as he bowed up, Patton seemed to change his mind, his expression calming, and he said in a low voice, “What I’m saying, Ike, is that I didn’t know he was there. I just thank God that Colonel Waters is alive now.”
Eisenhower could feel the brew stirring—this could be one more mess that would trap Patton in a ridiculous controversy the army didn’t need. He knew Patton too well, saw the man’s eyes staring at the floor, knew that what Patton was telling him wasn’t entirely true. But the day’s events had sucked every ounce of energy from Eisenhower, and he sat back in the soft chair, thought, dammit, we have bigger priorities than this kind of crap. March someone through Ohrdruf, then tell them how important it is to make a stink about an idiot raid to Hammelburg. Not while I’m in charge.
“Let’s go to bed, George. I’m beat.”
Patton stood quickly, and Eisenhower could see he was grateful.
“Right through there, Ike. Hallway, second room on the right. It’s all set up for you.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Eisenhower moved away, looked back at Patton, saw him thumping the wristwatch again, low curses, and Eisenhower moved into the dark hall, thought, he might be the biggest pain in the ass in this army, but I don’t know how we would have done anything without him.
He lay in the dark, fighting for sleep, the images of the camp slipping through his exhaustion. Damn this, anyway. Shoulda had a good stiff drink. Churchill probably sleeps like a baby. There’s a lesson there.
He heard a tap at the door, Patton’s low voice.
“Ike! Ike!”
Eisenhower sat up, said aloud, “What is it, George? Door’s unlocked.”
Patton opened the door, his shadow filling the doorway, and Eisenhower could see Bradley standing behind him.
“What’s up? Something happen?”
Patton seemed to stumble, soft words, then caught himself.
“I went outside, to check the time. This damn busted watch. Used the radio in my HQ truck, thought I’d get a time signal from the BBC. There’s news, Ike. The president … President Roosevelt is dead.”
Eisenhower sat frozen, saw Roosevelt in his mind, thought, months ago the man was sickly, frail.
“You sure?”
“The BBC was pretty specific. A stroke, at Warm Springs, Georgia.”
Eisenhower lowered his head.
“They wouldn’t get that wrong.”
Patton moved into the room, Bradley in the doorway. Patton said, “What does this mean, Ike? What do we do?”
Bradley eyed a chair in one corner, moved that way, sat. He looked at Eisenhower with the same stoic stare he seemed to carry through every catastrophe. Bradley said, “We don’t do anything except what we’ve been doing, George. We keep fighting until the German is licked.”
Eisenhower shifted to one end of the bed, motioned for Patton to sit down.
“That’s all we can do. Washington will have their own problems, but they can’t be ours, not yet anyway.”
Patton said, “The new president is Truman. What’s he like?”
Eisenhower sagged, leaned back against his pillow.
“God only knows, George. God only knows.”
BERLIN
APRIL 13, 1945
The shouts of the people told him to follow the flow, a quickly organized scramble toward the shelters. He hesitated, stared upward, clear blue skies, no sign of the danger, but someone had seen the bombers, an outpost beyond the city perhaps, and the air raid alerts had been sounded. The civilians were responding as they always responded, people accustomed to the raids and the damage they would do. There was mostly silence from the crowd, no one screaming, a strangely controlled panic, people merging into lines, moving through the doorways that would take them below street level. The children seemed oblivious to any danger, and Speer heard laughing, saw a spontaneous game, two boys chasing each other up and over a debris pile, ignoring the risk from jagged concrete and sharp steel beams. He saw the mother, a stout bear of a woman who spit out a harsh command, an order obeyed with some reluctance, the boys joining the others in one of the lines, the fatherless family quickly disappearing into the shelter. Everyone was on foot, no cars at all, those few among the elite who had gasoline saving it for journeys more important than running errands in the city. There were no military vehicles, a surprise, none of the usual staff cars that roared past the civilians who had learned to ignore them. Speer thought of the officers who had commanded the shelters, the home guard, the men who were charged with protecting the civilians. For the past several days, they had seemed to vanish well before the bombers came, as though their jobs had suddenly become less of a priority. Speer hadn’t given them much thought until now. But he had been in the streets by chance, an unusually long walk from the Chancellery to the home of a friend who had been wounded in one of the raids. He had never been outside during an air raid, found the organized urgency of the people reassuring, the utter lack of chaos, people moving in their predetermined routes to the many shelters, what had been simple basements, now the only protection the civilians had against the increasing numbers of daylight raids from the vast flocks of bombers. The crowds flowed by, but Speer did not move with them, not yet, still stared up, wondered how many, how long the raid would last, how bad it would be. Finally, he gave up, no sign of anything, and he fell into line, fo
llowed the civilians into their shelter.
The room was dark and musty, dampness on the floor, one lightbulb hanging above, a harsh glare on the dull faces who sat quickly and quietly, pushing gently against one another, making room for as many as could fit. Speer stayed by the entrance for a long moment, felt a responsibility, thought, no one is in charge here. I should do something, let them know who I am. But the people were calm, were familiar with their routine, and Speer began to feel faintly ridiculous, as though he could be in charge of anything that was happening. These people were managing for themselves. And who am I, anyway? What authority do I have in a bomb shelter in the middle of a city that has already endured such brutal indignity? What can I say to make any of this better?
There was machine-gun fire, barely audible, and a sudden eruption of thumps, the anti-aircraft batteries going to work. Speer listened intently, no other sounds, the people around him silent, no whimpering fear, no talk at all. He ached to see, if only for a moment, the formations of silver birds, the flashes of black smoke, the lucky hit, the enemy plane falling in fiery pieces. The city was surrounded by enormous batteries of flak guns, a curtain of fire, and more, the eighty-eights hidden in parks, sheltered by walls of sandbags and concrete. The best we have, he thought. That’s what they say, anyway. But they haven’t stopped the bombers, so, clearly, they aren’t as good as they might have been. Perhaps nothing we have done is as good as we have been told.
He thought of the argument, Hitler loudly dismissing the suggestion that all that energy and manpower devoted to the V weapons had been wasted. Speer didn’t know the answers, had not dared to insert his own opinion, but someone else had, a physicist who knew something of rockets and explosives. For all of Hitler’s noisy pride in the weapons, particularly the V-2 rocket, the enemy had seemed completely unaffected. There were casualties to be sure, random devastation across England, but nothing like Hitler had predicted, nothing to drive the British out of the war. The generals had pleaded that the new weapons be targeted toward military targets close at hand, the occupied seaports, Cherbourg and Antwerp, or toward the Allied supply depots and troop assembly points. The argument the scientists had waged was over priorities, that the technology and labor should be devoted first to a land-to-air anti-aircraft missile, specifically targeting the enemy’s bombers. Speer had agreed with both those points of view, had been especially attracted to what the scientists had insisted was a much more effective weapons system. The scientists pleaded their case that the anti-aircraft missiles would be cheaper to build than the V-2, and could be produced in massive quantities. Hitler’s physicists had the technology in hand for precise targeting capabilities, which would devastate any Allied bombing raid. But Hitler had been dismissive, shouting down the men who knew the technology. He loved his V-2, and he never stopped insisting that, in time, the V-2 would win the war. There was no other argument to be made. The helpless anger of the scientists had done nothing to change anything, except to send them back to their manufacturing facilities in a haze of hopelessness. It had been a lesson for Speer. German technology was thought to be far superior to any in the world. But if the Führer was not enthusiastic about a project, that project would simply be ignored, no matter how extraordinary the scientists thought it to be.
The same argument had erupted over the Messerschmitt 262, the jet fighter plane that so excited the air commanders. Even Hermann Göring became the jet’s champion, insisting that a thousand jets could completely turn the air war to Germany’s favor. Göring’s own subordinates had been surprised by his outspoken advocacy of the jets, mainly because Göring had ceased to be actively involved in almost anything to do with the war. Worse, he had fallen completely out of favor with Hitler and the High Command. But Göring persisted, advocating that the jets were a marvel, something that Hitler could surely cling to as one of his precious secret weapons. To the enormous dismay of Göring and his Luftwaffe commanders, Hitler believed the jets should best be used as small-scale bombers. Hitler’s argument was that the jets were unstoppable by enemy fighter planes and could drop bomb loads without any serious threat from enemy anti-aircraft fire. Hitler seemed not to understand, or chose not to hear, that the bomb-carrying capability of the ME-262 was minimal. Göring had been passionate about the advantages of using the jets to attack Allied bombers, since their speed would obliterate the advantages enjoyed by the American fighter escorts. But Hitler tossed that idea away completely, and Speer had to wonder if it was only because Göring favored it.
The rumble of the anti-aircraft guns was growing more intense, and Speer stared at the door that led to the street, tried to sort through the sounds. He had never seen a bomber blown out of the sky, imagined the intense thrill of that for the gunners, the only kind of success they could have. But now there were new thumps, then many more, a heavy rumble, the room vibrating, a low groan rising from several of the old women. Speer felt the concrete beneath him shivering, heard creaking from the beams overhead, thought, bombs. All right, you can stay right here. These people know exactly where they need to be. Pay attention to that.
The rumble grew louder, hard thunder, one woman crying out, another comforting her, hands grasping the woman’s shoulders. Most of the people sat with heads bowed, staring at dark nothing, just enduring, passing the minutes in their own minds. Speer watched them, the lightbulb starting to swing slowly, shadows weaving back and forth, the light suddenly bouncing with a jiggle from a heavy impact close by. He flinched from the sound, but the people around him stayed mostly silent, no movement. He began to be afraid, thought of the building above them, an architect’s mind appraising, the beams old but solid. If there was a direct hit from one of the larger bombs … we wouldn’t even know, probably. It would just be over, a flash. Or worse, the place would collapse on top of us. Some would survive in the rubble, at least for a while. Someone must be in charge of rescue crews, but I saw no one in the streets. He continued his search, examining every foot of the low ceiling for signs of weakness. Dust drifted down into his eyes, and he wiped furiously, felt a tugging at his side. He looked down, saw a small boy, pushing close, seeking the tall man’s coat. Speer put an arm around the boy’s head, pulled him close, wanted to say something comforting, but there was no fear in the boy’s eyes, no panic, no tears. The boy looked up at him with no expression at all, said, “Are you a Nazi?”
Other faces rose, looking at him now, and Speer saw the sharp blue eyes, said, “Yes, I am.”
The boy looked away, his curiosity satisfied, still clung to the heavy coat. The others watched him still, nothing in their faces but silent acceptance. After a long moment, the rumbling faded, the chatter of antiaircraft guns growing quiet. Close to the door, an old man rose, pulled open the door, dusty light flooding the room.
“All clear.”
The people began to rise, the old stretching their stiff joints, the children clamoring up the stairs, pent-up energy launching them out into the daylight. Deep in the shelter, the line formed again, the people keeping their good order, making their way to the steps, and Speer stood aside, let them pass. He began to feel an urgency, imagined the damage, what the bombs might have done, thought, we need to find out if there are casualties. Of course there are casualties. Maybe there’s a fire. Let’s go!
But the line kept its order, the people stepping up through the doorway in single file, and finally Speer was there, impatiently pushed past them, the sunlight shrouded by thick clouds of dust. He scanned the street, saw black smoke rising a block away, more smoke far beyond, the sound of one siren, but around him the people moved away in calm order, returning to their homes or their shops. Speer looked up, the blue sky clearing, still nothing to see, the great flocks of silver planes long gone, or most of them certainly. There were always successes for the anti-aircraft gunners, blasted heaps of wreckage, the fallen bombers drawing the soldiers and civilians both, souvenir seekers, or those who just needed to see some proof that the enemy could be defeated. But Speer saw nothing l
ike that here, thought, the targets must have been to the east, the oil plant perhaps, or the rail yards. I should go there, see what needs to be done. He began to move, feeling the urgency, but there was no car, and the worst of the smoke was many blocks away. He felt helpless, ridiculous, saw the children, the two boys playing again on the rubble, chasing each other through the wreckage of war. He felt a tug on his coat, turned, saw the small boy again, the mother standing back, wary.
The boy said, “Do you know the Führer?”
Speer looked at the mother, saw a hint of anxiousness, but the boy tugged again, perfect innocence, his eyes digging into Speer’s conscience.
“Do you know the Führer?”
“Yes, I do. I will see him …”
“Tell him that we want this to stop.”
Speer looked at the mother, saw the first tears, and she stepped forward, took the boy’s hand, said, “Very sorry. Please, I beg you not to report us. He doesn’t understand.”
The woman pulled the boy away, moved quickly through the people who made their way along the wide street. Speer watched them until they were gone, disappearing around a corner, past more debris, more shattered concrete, more buildings reduced to rubble by the Allied bombers. Around him, the people continued their routine, a car appearing, small, sputtering past him, filled with soldiers, one officer glancing in his direction, no recognition. Speer looked down at his uniform, the sharp gray adornment he had insisted upon. He had wanted so much to feel the importance of that, something to give him an identity among the circle of men who kept Hitler’s company, those men who were in charge. It was arrogance, and he knew that now, felt foolish, thought of the boy, the sharp blue eyes, the innocent demand, the mother who was afraid. We want this to stop. Yes, boy, we all do. But it will not stop until it is over, and it will not be over until all of this … everything you see around you … is gone. And none of us can change that.