Sebastian P. Breit's Blog, page 5
August 28, 2012
Soldiers, Marines punished for misconduct
Six Army soldiers and three Marines escaped criminal charges, but received administrative punishments for their involvement in two incidents of misconduct in Afghanistan that roiled relations with Afghans, U.S. military officials said Monday.
The soldiers were disciplined for the mistaken burning of Qurans earlier this year at a U.S. base in Afghanistan, and the Marines were punished for their participation in a video that showed them urinating on the corpses of Taliban insurgents.
Discipline against a Navy sailor in the Quran burnings was dismissed, and the Marine Corps said that it will announce discipline against additional Marines in the urination case at a later date.
U.S. military leaders widely condemned the incidents, which were both revealed earlier this year. The Quran burning triggered riots in the street and retribution killings, including two U.S. troops who were shot by an Afghan soldier and two U.S. military advisers who were gunned down at their desks at the Interior Ministry.
* * *
Uh, the whole Qu'ran thing is blatant hypocrisy anyway: they burned Qu'rans which had already
been desecrated by the prisoners by scribbling messages into them. You
don't scribble secret messages into the Qu'ran. Secondly, thousands of
Qu'rans are thrown into dumpsters every day, and yet I don't see
Afghanis constantly rioting over it. As for pissing on dead Taleban...
really? You're going to punish guys for pissing on the bodies of vicious
insurgents that ambush the fuck out of them and their comrades, maim
them with IEDs, and whose favorite non-combat past time is beheading people
and subjugating women? Did you also court marshall half the US ground
troops fighting in the Pacific for not exactly being gentlemanly towards
the Japanese?
This case, in a nutshell, is why every Islamist in the world thinks of you as "the weak horse" and why you have not a snowball's chance in hell to succeed in any way or form in Afghanistan. Nobody in a partriarchical society like Afghanistan will respect you if you grovel around, publically punish your own soldiers and apologize to the mob for every Tom, Dick and Harry's single move. No Islamist truly fears you because they can see how easily you will give in whenever the opposition isn't purely military in nature.
Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't discipline these cases. But for the love of god, do it quietly, and do it after the war's fought!
Afghans respect strength. They respect backbone and committment. The only way to control Afghanistan is through its clan leaders, and not that puppet president installed in Kabul. And these men aren't interested in how tolerant and diversive you are or how respectful you act. No Afghan leader worth his salt would ever have apologized for his troops' actions. Doing so in public would've shamed him and his whole clan and would have undermined his powerbase and his followers' trust in him to a probably irreperable degree. The reason these local leaders aren't exactly forthcoming with their support for you is that they don't believe you can get the job done because in their eyes you're more concerned with publically humiliating yourselves for actions an Afghan warlord wouldn't bat an eyelash at than fighting and beating the Taleban.
The Afghans hated the Russian for what they did to their country, but there's no denial that they also knew the Russians weren't kidding around. They were there to walk the walk. And they don't believe you are, and as long as you publically "humiliate" your soldiers (because that's how they see it) in a society were honor and loyalty trumps everything, you're losing.
Oh, they fear your drone strikes and your occasional commando raid, but to them you are a sprinter while they are running a marathon. To them you lack the stamina and the will to go all the way. And if I'm honest I don't see any indicators that their assessment is wrong.
August 27, 2012
Confirmation: Egypt 'Deployed U.S.-Made Tanks, SAMs in Sinai'
Egypt has deployed U.S.-made surface-to-air missiles and tanks near the border with Israel, in a breach of the 1979 peace treaty, reports the World Tribune.
Western defense sources said the Egyptian Army has deployed "a range of assets supplied by the United States." They cited main battle tanks (MBTs) and surface-to-air missiles (SAMs), particularly in the northeastern Sinai area, between the coastal city of El Arish and the border with Israel and Gaza.
“Right now, all of the [Egyptian] heavy weapons have been deployed along the Israeli border,” a defense source said.
The U.S.-made MBTs were identified as the M-60A3, which was exported to Egypt in the 1980s. The sources told the Tribune that the Egyptian Army has deployed between 20 and 30 of these in eastern Sinai.
The Boeing-produced Avenger air defense system, also deployed near the Israeli border, contains the Stinger surface-to-air missile and was supplied to Egypt over the last five years.
The sources said Egypt has also deployed Dutch-produced YPR-765 armored personnel carriers which contain 30 mm automatic gun turrets. The Egyptian Army is believed to have about 430 such APCs.
Israel has demanded that Egypt withdraw the American MBTs and missiles from eastern Sinai. The United States has acknowledged discussions with Cairo and Jerusalem over the Egyptian military deployment in Sinai. On Aug. 23, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton telephoned her Egyptian counterpart to review Israeli complaints over violations of the demilitarization of the peninsula.
“This call was in keeping with a series of contacts that we’ve had in recent days with both Egyptians and Israelis,” State Department spokeswoman Victoria Nuland said, “encouraging both sides to keep the lines of communication open between them, to talk directly about any issues of concern, and the importance of working through the security challenges in the Sinai in a way that, first and foremost, strengthens Egypt’s security, but also has a positive impact on the security of neighbors and the region as a whole.”
Meanwhile, the United States Department of Defense has awarded an $8.7 million contract to United Technologies for support of F100-PW-229 engines for Egypt’s order of 20 F-16 Block 52 multi-role fighters. The Tribune said that the Egyptian Air Force has flown at least two F-16s near the Israeli border in August.
* * *
Well, let's see, the Egyptians have:
A: Just suffered a destabilizing political changeover.
B: Broken several Treaties with Israel designed to keep the Peace
C: Pointed a gun at the border of a nation that knows how precarious of a position it's in and that has been attacked without warning multiple times in the past.
It's like walking up to someone's front door with a shotgun in hand after having been subjected to a restraining order against you. If the person in the house comes out intending to shoot you because they're worried you're out to kill them, it's a rather reasonable response under the circumstances. The Egyptians KNOW BETTER than to pull this kind of petty-ante provocation, and hopefully they don't go any farther and keep the forces far enough away from the border to prevent a threat response behavior from their neighbor, but I rather doubt they're that smart at the moment.
Western defense sources said the Egyptian Army has deployed "a range of assets supplied by the United States." They cited main battle tanks (MBTs) and surface-to-air missiles (SAMs), particularly in the northeastern Sinai area, between the coastal city of El Arish and the border with Israel and Gaza.
“Right now, all of the [Egyptian] heavy weapons have been deployed along the Israeli border,” a defense source said.
The U.S.-made MBTs were identified as the M-60A3, which was exported to Egypt in the 1980s. The sources told the Tribune that the Egyptian Army has deployed between 20 and 30 of these in eastern Sinai.
The Boeing-produced Avenger air defense system, also deployed near the Israeli border, contains the Stinger surface-to-air missile and was supplied to Egypt over the last five years.
The sources said Egypt has also deployed Dutch-produced YPR-765 armored personnel carriers which contain 30 mm automatic gun turrets. The Egyptian Army is believed to have about 430 such APCs.
Israel has demanded that Egypt withdraw the American MBTs and missiles from eastern Sinai. The United States has acknowledged discussions with Cairo and Jerusalem over the Egyptian military deployment in Sinai. On Aug. 23, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton telephoned her Egyptian counterpart to review Israeli complaints over violations of the demilitarization of the peninsula.
“This call was in keeping with a series of contacts that we’ve had in recent days with both Egyptians and Israelis,” State Department spokeswoman Victoria Nuland said, “encouraging both sides to keep the lines of communication open between them, to talk directly about any issues of concern, and the importance of working through the security challenges in the Sinai in a way that, first and foremost, strengthens Egypt’s security, but also has a positive impact on the security of neighbors and the region as a whole.”
Meanwhile, the United States Department of Defense has awarded an $8.7 million contract to United Technologies for support of F100-PW-229 engines for Egypt’s order of 20 F-16 Block 52 multi-role fighters. The Tribune said that the Egyptian Air Force has flown at least two F-16s near the Israeli border in August.
* * *
Well, let's see, the Egyptians have:
A: Just suffered a destabilizing political changeover.
B: Broken several Treaties with Israel designed to keep the Peace
C: Pointed a gun at the border of a nation that knows how precarious of a position it's in and that has been attacked without warning multiple times in the past.
It's like walking up to someone's front door with a shotgun in hand after having been subjected to a restraining order against you. If the person in the house comes out intending to shoot you because they're worried you're out to kill them, it's a rather reasonable response under the circumstances. The Egyptians KNOW BETTER than to pull this kind of petty-ante provocation, and hopefully they don't go any farther and keep the forces far enough away from the border to prevent a threat response behavior from their neighbor, but I rather doubt they're that smart at the moment.
August 25, 2012
Geopolitics, Gas Price Hikes, and Supply and Demand
Some interesting tidbits from Bomberg TV.
August 23, 2012
Axis and Allies?
Okay, fellow War Blog readers, today I've got a question for you. I've played Axis and Allies - the boardgame - a couple of times, each time a different edition. For a short time I knew a guy who owned almost all the editions that are out there so the two or three times we played we always played a different edition.
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Now I'd like to buy a game for me, but before I do so I'd like to ask whether some of you have some experience with the boardgame series and which of the many editions out there you could recommend to me?
[image error]
Now I'd like to buy a game for me, but before I do so I'd like to ask whether some of you have some experience with the boardgame series and which of the many editions out there you could recommend to me?
August 22, 2012
Reality Check on India's Rise
Stratfor Vice President of Global Analysis Reva Bhalla discusses how
power grid failures in India are symptomatic of its struggle to become
an industrial giant despite a weak government and bloated bureaucracy.
power grid failures in India are symptomatic of its struggle to become
an industrial giant despite a weak government and bloated bureaucracy.
August 20, 2012
Review - Prometheus
Review - Prometheus (2012)
Okay, yes. You're not on the wrong blog. This is indeed the War Blog, and this is a review of Ridley Scott's Prometheus. I realize I could have just as well posted this on my personal webpage, but I chose to upload it here. Because it fits the "War" theme.
Let me tell you why: Prometheus is part of the bloody war on my intelligence!
Prometheus - which, despite all evasive maneuvers of its director clearly is an Alien prequel - opens with "scientists" (and I'll use this term very loosely with these people) finding clues all over the world that our ancestors throughout the times were fascinated with a particular star system. The painted/scratched/baked/pillow-laced signs are said to be the Zeta-Reticuli system and, just like that, the Weyland-Yutani corporation sends out a trillion dollar mission to check out the the potential destination on the M-class moon LV-223. There they enter a realm of horror.
I had actually been looking forward to Prometheus. If nothing else Ridley Scott's movies usually have extremely great production values and impressive optics, and since it was more than obvious this was to be an Alien prequel I was looking forward to experiencing a similar atmosphere (James Cameron's Aliens also did a good job of replicating the dark and claustophobic atmosphere). That being said, I'd be hard pressed to point out another director who so wantonly demolishes the legacy of his own classic. Aside from stunning visuals and a competent score this movie is a complete mess.
This starts with the setup. We have a privately funded mission to another star system with the explicit objective of contacting an alien race believed to be powerful enough to have bioengineered mankind. There are no diplomats on this first contact mission. There is no military security detachment to simulate even the pretense of being able to defend themselves. And the starship they travel on - probably the single most expensive piece of equipment in the history of humankind - is completely unarmed. It flies through real space - things like the Oort Cloud and the Kuiper Belt and the uncharted void between stars - and it doesn't even have something like lasers to defend against micro-asteroids! For a universe often lauded for its "realistic" outlook on space travel and technology this is a serious hickup. Even the interstellar starship Von Braun in the classic videogame System Shock 2 had a military destroyer ride piggyback on it - just in case. And these were the same people who created and set loose homicidal AI's. Twice! If you're outsmarted by these guys in the security department you do kinda have a problem.The plot itself is a mess. Asked the rather important question "Why do you think this moon is the origin of our creators and what proof do you have that we had creators in the first place?" our main character, the archeologist Shaw (played by Noomi Rapace) blithely answers that she has no empirical data to back up her thesis and simply choses to believe that. Yes, you heard that right. That's the motivation for the trillion dollar trip. I remember leaning over to a buddy of mine in the movie theater and commeting "That's not how science works!"
In fact, that should have been the catch phrase for the whole movie. The whole science crew acts in such an amateurish and utterly dumb fashion that not only do you very quickly wish a gruesome death upon each and every one of them, you also have to wonder how a bunch of morons of that caliber a) got degrees and b) got aboard an interstellar mission like Prometheus' one in the first place. One might kinda have thought that after spending a trillion on the ship Weyland-Yutani would spend a few bucks more to get trained and responsible specialists and not a bunch of lobotomized hobos from the academic bargain bin.
As a matter of fact, they all should've died within the first hour of the movie. No, I've got an even better idea. This should've been the movie: after an hour Michael Fassbender's "David" (one of only three characters who act like there's actually neurons doing their thing in their heads out of a cast of eighteen) goes through the ship and shoots everybody except the captain with a shotgun. The second hour of the movie would then feature Idris Elba (the captain) and Charlize Theron (the corporate representative) have hot, steamy sex while Michael Fassbender perfects his "Lawrence of Arabia" routine. Much better movie. Okay, joking aside, Idris Elba, Charlize Theron and Michael Fassbender are the only remotely intelligent characters of the movie - and Fassbender is playing a sociopathic robot. Now that I think about it, he'd make a great T-1000 for a Terninator movie...
Hi. I'm David. Could you stupid meatbags please die?
"Lawrence of Arabia" is on the TV right now. Thanks.
The stupidities include but are by far not limited to:
Taking off your suits' helmets in an alien environment just because the air is breathable. Because there's no way there could be bacteria, viruses or funghi just waiting to kill the crap out of you.
You bring pistols and short-range flamethrowers on a mission where the only expected quantity you plan to meet is a race of dudes twice the size of a human who are all buit like The Rock. God forbid you bring something that, you know, actually could reasonably kill such a mountain of a man.
The whole movie's "spiritual" question (Where do we come from and why?) is succinctly answered by David during the first half of the movie: man created him simply because he could. Why should the reasoning of another, technologically more advanced race - who clearly aren't the metaphysical "God" - be any different?
It's more than stretching my disbelief that the one guy out of all the people possibly to get lost in the Alien compound is the friggin' CARTOGRAPHER. He's the one who has mapped the place. He should have a way better idea than anybody else where to go!
And that doesn't even touch the monumentally stupid "C-section for an alien squid" part of the movie which Shaw goes through. Or when the alien starship crashes in the end and starts rolling towards the survivors like a giant donut of death none of them, you know, step to the side!
The only thing that fit in this movie aside from the visuals is the ship's name: Prometheus. In the end, it did bring the fire. Other than that the movie is mess full of pseudoreligious kitsch and deplorable/totally forgettable characters and a plot so stupid MST3K would be hard-pressed to do a riff on it. For me Prometheus so far is the disappointment of the year. Ridley Scott seems to have lost his mojo. I already dread the inevitable sequel. If you want to know what else is wrong with the movie, watch Spoony's exhaustive review below.
August 19, 2012
The New Great Game in Central Asia
In the last decade, the world has started taking more notice of Central Asia. For the United States and its allies, the region is a valuable supply hub for the Afghanistan war effort. For Russia, it is an arena in which to exert political influence. For China, it is a source of energy and a critical partner for stabilizing and developing the restive Xinjiang province in the Middle Kingdom's west. Some commentators have referred to Washington, Moscow, and Beijing's renewed activity in the region as a modern iteration of the Great Game. But unlike the British and Russian empires in their era of competition and conquest, the Central Asian governments are working to use renewed external involvement to their sovereign advantage, fending off disruptive demands and reinforcing their political control at home. Accordingly, the Central Asian case today is not a throwback to the past but a guide to what is to come: the rise of new players and the decline of Western influence in a multipolar world.
The first lesson to take from China, Russia, and the United States' involvement in Central Asia is that it has strengthened the hand of rulers, who have been able to play the suitors off one another to extract economic benefits and political support where possible. Most dramatically, in 2009, President Kurmanbek Bakiyev of Kyrgyzstan, host to the Manas Transit Center, initiated a bidding war between the United States and Russia by threatening to close the base. He extracted hundreds of millions of dollars from both sides, in the form of a Russian assistance package and a renewed lease at a higher rent with the United States. Since 2008, the United States also has paid transit fees, about $500 million annually, to the Uzbek and other Central Asian governments to ship equipment bound for Afghanistan through the Northern Distribution Network.
The same dynamic is playing out elsewhere. The availability of alternative patrons has made U.S. strategic engagement more expensive everywhere, both in terms of dollars and politics. In 2008, Ecuadorian President Rafael Correa refused to extend a ten-year lease of the U.S. base at Manta, after having been offered $500 million to upgrade the facility by a Hong Kong port operator. Steven Cook, a fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations, has observed that in post-revolutionary Egypt the United States has continued to provide assistance in return for overflight rights and access to the Suez Canal, even as U.S. leverage over the country diminishes. And during Pakistan's seven-month fallout with Washington, in which it closed Afghanistan-bound supply lanes, Islamabad publicly demanded an increase in transit fees and courted China. Eventually, U.S. officials reportedly agreed to release $1.1 billion for the Pakistani military from the Coalition Support Fund to get the route back open.
Central Asian elites have grown increasingly hostile to the West's values agenda -- promoting democracy and human rights -- and are now able to push back against criticism.
The second lesson is that regional multipolarity has eroded Western economic influence. Over the last decade, China has emerged as the leading economic power in Central Asia. Chinese assistance there, as in Africa and other developing regions, is not easy to categorize; it is usually a hybrid of foreign aid, investment, and emergency standby loans. Beijing has skillfully relied on a unique mix of these economic instruments with each of its Central Asian neighbors. In 2009, it signed loans-for-energy packages with energy-rich Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. These loans secured supplies of oil and gas or equity in local producers. Meanwhile, Beijing has undertaken major new oil and gas pipelines to take the Central Asian energy eastward. These packages mirror similar loans-for-energy deals with Angola, Brazil, Ecuador, Russia, South Sudan, Sudan, and Venezuela.
In the poorer countries of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, Beijing has become a major investor and development assistance provider, focusing on power generation, transmission, and transport, including roads and railways. Prior to the 2012 SCO Summit in Beijing, the Export-Import Bank of China was already Tajikistan's leading single creditor. Its holdings of the country's overall foreign debt are now projected to reach 70 percent. Most Western commentaries have welcomed Beijing's regional assistance and investment, since Central Asian infrastructure remains in a state of chronic disrepair and Chinese upgrades should improve cross-border regional links and spur regional development.
continue reading at Foreign Affairs.
The first lesson to take from China, Russia, and the United States' involvement in Central Asia is that it has strengthened the hand of rulers, who have been able to play the suitors off one another to extract economic benefits and political support where possible. Most dramatically, in 2009, President Kurmanbek Bakiyev of Kyrgyzstan, host to the Manas Transit Center, initiated a bidding war between the United States and Russia by threatening to close the base. He extracted hundreds of millions of dollars from both sides, in the form of a Russian assistance package and a renewed lease at a higher rent with the United States. Since 2008, the United States also has paid transit fees, about $500 million annually, to the Uzbek and other Central Asian governments to ship equipment bound for Afghanistan through the Northern Distribution Network.
The same dynamic is playing out elsewhere. The availability of alternative patrons has made U.S. strategic engagement more expensive everywhere, both in terms of dollars and politics. In 2008, Ecuadorian President Rafael Correa refused to extend a ten-year lease of the U.S. base at Manta, after having been offered $500 million to upgrade the facility by a Hong Kong port operator. Steven Cook, a fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations, has observed that in post-revolutionary Egypt the United States has continued to provide assistance in return for overflight rights and access to the Suez Canal, even as U.S. leverage over the country diminishes. And during Pakistan's seven-month fallout with Washington, in which it closed Afghanistan-bound supply lanes, Islamabad publicly demanded an increase in transit fees and courted China. Eventually, U.S. officials reportedly agreed to release $1.1 billion for the Pakistani military from the Coalition Support Fund to get the route back open.
Central Asian elites have grown increasingly hostile to the West's values agenda -- promoting democracy and human rights -- and are now able to push back against criticism.
The second lesson is that regional multipolarity has eroded Western economic influence. Over the last decade, China has emerged as the leading economic power in Central Asia. Chinese assistance there, as in Africa and other developing regions, is not easy to categorize; it is usually a hybrid of foreign aid, investment, and emergency standby loans. Beijing has skillfully relied on a unique mix of these economic instruments with each of its Central Asian neighbors. In 2009, it signed loans-for-energy packages with energy-rich Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. These loans secured supplies of oil and gas or equity in local producers. Meanwhile, Beijing has undertaken major new oil and gas pipelines to take the Central Asian energy eastward. These packages mirror similar loans-for-energy deals with Angola, Brazil, Ecuador, Russia, South Sudan, Sudan, and Venezuela.
In the poorer countries of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, Beijing has become a major investor and development assistance provider, focusing on power generation, transmission, and transport, including roads and railways. Prior to the 2012 SCO Summit in Beijing, the Export-Import Bank of China was already Tajikistan's leading single creditor. Its holdings of the country's overall foreign debt are now projected to reach 70 percent. Most Western commentaries have welcomed Beijing's regional assistance and investment, since Central Asian infrastructure remains in a state of chronic disrepair and Chinese upgrades should improve cross-border regional links and spur regional development.
continue reading at Foreign Affairs.
August 17, 2012
CLASH of EAGLES Preview
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Well, slowly but surely we're getting there. CLASH OF EAGLES, the sequel to my well-received debut novel WOLF HUNT is getting closer to completion. Picking up the European storyline right were we left off in September 1940 after an assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler, the Second World War and history in general are poised to take a very different turn.
Check out the exclusive Prologue chapter below the break. If you like what you see, please do also check out my first novel, WOLF HUNT. It's available as an ebook and in paperback format on Amazon. Thanks.
Prologue
Northeastern Germany. September 1940.
Geese waddled across the Brandenburgian dirt road,
plucking at grass and worms here and there. An old peasant, his beard
long and white, sat on a nearby bench beneath an oak as old and
gnarled as himself, watching the birds on the puddle-strewn path. It
had rained the other day, but the September sun was still warm.
He knew something was going on in Germany, and more so,
in the nearby mansion, but since he had passed the age of eighty he
had no longer followed politics. Chancellors and Kaisers and Führers
came and went; the only constant was the land he and his family had
worked for generations.
A screech and a howl shook him from his thoughts.
Incomprehension stood written over his face as the column of gray
trucks, led by a low, gray car roared around a corner down the road
at a breakneck speed. His eyes widened as they came closer. The
leading car honked a few times, then, without slowing down, plowed
through the remaining geese.
Water from the puddles splashed, and the air filled with
white feathers, but as soon as the chimeara had appeared it was gone
again, leaving the old coot sitting on his bench, his heart pounding
so hard it seemed to want to jump out of his chest.
The captain in the leading car stared ahead intently,
brushing a feather aside. With Berlin finally secured, they had taken
the first opportunity to make their move. He hoped they would be
there in time.
“Can't we go faster?” he yelled over the sound of
the engines under the car's long snout.
The driver beside him kept his eyes focuses on the
street as he answered him through clenched teeth: “Not on this
road. It's a miracle I haven't killed us all yet!”
“There!” the officer pointed out. “The gate
houses!”
The column raced through the opening in the wall,
drawing dust clouds behind it. The two small gate houses lay
deserted. A wide driveway led to the huge manor that had been built
in the style of an oversized hunting lodge.
The trucks came to a slithering halt as their drivers in
unison hit the brakes. As if a valve had been opened, soldiers with
automatic weapons began to pour from their backs.
“Find him!” the captain commanded. “Search
everywhere! I don't care if you have to take this whole toy house
apart, but find him.”
Platoons broke into squads, each one accompanied by a
radio operator, and they vanished into the house. Two more platoons
secured all exits of the huge house, while more soldiers set up
machine guns on the perimeter.
The captain waited impatiently.
“Clear!” came the first reply over the radio. The
next one also read “Clear!”, as did the next, and the one
thereafter. Clear was bad. Clear meant he was not there any longer.
One by one, the squads reappeared again. A young
lieutenant – as a matter of fact, they were probably of an age –
approached him, his MP-40 leisurely slung over a shoulder.
“The house is empty. It's possible there are hiding
places in there we don't know off, but right now I'd say the bird's
flown out.”
In the distance, the engines of an airplane roared, and
shortly thereafter the familiar shape of a Junkers Ju 52, an Auntie
Ju, rose from behind the cover of the nearby woods, heading
north. Newly promoted Captain David Weissbaum drew his lips back in a
silent snarl. “As if on cue,” he muttered, then looked at the
lieutenant. “Send a message to Berlin, Baumer. We failed. Göring's
gone.”
London. October.
The Cabinet War Rooms
at Storey's Gate were abuzz with activity, but General Alan Brooke,
the head of the Great Britain's GHQ Home Forces – and therefore the
man directly responsible for preparing the islands against a German
invasion – noticed early on that it was no longer the tense, nearly
panicked atmosphere he had experienced there earlier this autumn.
There was still a war going on. Nobody needed to be reminded of that
little fact, he the least of all people. However, the looks he caught
on the faces of officers and WAAFs
when he moved through the underground anthill under its massive
protective layer of armored concrete were busy and filled with a
blossoming, calm confidence. It was a good omen.
An armed sentry stood at attention when he approached,
then ushered him into the room. He paused there for a moment, taking
in the scene.
The walls of the comparably tiny room where covered with
a plethora of maps, and the smoke of pipes and cigars hung heavy in
the air, giving the ventilation system a run for its money.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff had their heads together in
one corner of the room, but Field Marshal John Dill caught the sight
of him and winked him closer. The Chief of the Imperial General Staff
- and Brooke's direct superior – listened with one ear to what the
First Sea Lord, Sir Dudley Pound, was telling him, the stem of a pipe
clutched in the corner of his mouth. He drew his attention off the
navy man and welcomed Brooke.
“Good to see you, Alan. You know Air Chief Marshall
Portal?”
Brooke nodded his
greetings, receiving curt nods in return. The Chief of the Air Staff
had replaced Cyrill Newall only two weeks prior after the latter had
had one heated exchange too many with the prime minister. He was not
exactly sure where he and Charles Portal stood vis-a-vis
one another.
Dill produced a silver-framed pocket watch from his
coat. “Well, gentlemen, since we're all here now, I say it's time
to go and meet Winston.”
The CIGS made the start, and Brooke and the others
followed him through the adjacent offices, map rooms and concrete
corridors. The group stopped in front of a door that looked no
different from all the others down here, but the deep, rumbling voice
that answered Dill's knock from within was unmistakable.
“Come in.”
The air in Winston Spencer Churchill's office was
impregnated with an irritating amount of cigar smoke. The Prime
Minister studied the newcomers' faces with dark, searching eyes from
under that heavy and deep-set, bulldog-like brows of his. A lonely
cigar fumed from within an ashtray, and Churchill waited until Brooke
and the others had seated themselves, remaining completely still as
he sat there, dressed in his blue, air force-like battle dress he so
liked to wear.
Two more men occupied the room with him, and they had
turned to welcome the newcomers as they entered. General 'Pug' Ismay
was the prime minister's personal military attache, and quite
probably the Joint Chiefs' biggest ally in dealing with Churchill's
often eccentric and impatient nature.
The second man was the only one in civilian attire. Lord
Halifax, the Foreign Minister, had seated himself on the opposite end
of Churchill's massive desk, sitting cross-legged and patient,
wearing a gray suit and tie. He looked up from a pile of papers and
nodded appreciatively at Brooke, Dill and the others.
“Gentlemen, let's begin, shall we?” rumbled the
prime minister's deep, rich voice. “What news do you have for
Britain and me?”
Dill exchanged glances with his colleagues to decide who
would begin, but Halifax took the decision out of their hands.
“'Utter turmoil'
would probably best describe it.” He took one quick, final look at
his papers before he continued. “As far as we know, there's a
shooting war going on inside Germany, and there are at least three
governments claiming to be the legitimate ones: one in Berlin, one in
Prague, and then there's Göring in Sweden as well. Our embassies
have gotten half a dozen peace feelers extended into their general
direction during the past three weeks. Göring has sent Dahlerus to
negotiate again,” Churchill groaned, “and he seems to be exerting
some limited influence on the Swedish government. But overall, I am
afraid we know very little of what's going on inside Germany, except
that it's apparently serious. The only thing that we know for sure is
that Hitler and much of his inner circle are, indeed, dead. That much
has been corroborated by the Spanish and the Swiss.”
“I don't mind the Hun tearing himself apart, but like
old Shylock I'd rather have him leave me a pound of flesh to cut from
his bones myself,” Churchill rumbled.
Brooke never really knew if the man was jesting. Most
the time, he was not.
The Prime Minister took up his cigar and deeply inhaled
its smoke. “There will be no talk of peace; not until we know who
we are talking with, and most certainly not unless Germany provides
us with something tangible. In the meantime, let them butcher each
other, and the more, the merrier,” he scoffed, raising his eyebrows
as if to underline his point. “Still, I am of the opinion that
retribution for their bombing campaign should come from British
hands.”
That was apparently Portal's cue.
“Prime Minister,
Luftwaffe
air raids are decreasing in number and size, and the ones still
attacking are increasingly disorganized. The only force still
attacking in good order is the Air Fleet from Norway, but 13th
Group is handling them on their own. With the enemy in disarray,
we've been able to shoot down an ever growing number of him. There
has not been a raid against southern England with more than fifty
airplanes during the past ten days.” Portal shook his head. “It
seems almost as if it's largely individual commanders acting on their
own, without central control. Air Marshal Dowding claims that at this
rate, he will have all groups of Fighter Command at full strength and
fully reconstituted by the end of the month.”
“And what do you think, Mr. Portal?” Churchill
leaned forward.
“I think, Prime Minister, that the worst is over. We
have inflicted high losses on the enemy. He has been unable to
achieve his objectives, and the breakdown of his government and his
line of control has left him in utter disarray. And there is this.”
With a knowing smile he produced a number of aerial photographs from
a folder he had carried under his arm.
“The Channel ports,” Churchill murmured as he
inspected them, then shot Portal a glance over the rim of his
glasses. “They're empty?”
Brooke involuntarily leaned forward to take a look
himself. The P.M. was correct. Even from the height those photographs
had been taken it was clear that the invasion barges which had
crowded every harbor between Antwerp and Cherbourg were gone.
“Yes, Prime Minister, they're empty. The recon flights
over the other harbors along the northern French coast support the
picture: the Germans have called off the invasion.”
Churchill's look was skeptical. “Are you certain,
Chief of the Air Staff? Couldn't the Germans simply have taken them
inland, along the French rivers, to fool us?”
Portal shook his head. “Several recon flights recorded
long rows of barges being towed back along the Dutch coast and into
the Rhine during the past week. I wanted confirmation first before
breaking the news, but I sent out a couple of our Blenheims to harass
them.”
“Hah!” Churchill's hand slammed onto his desk.
“That's more how I like it. Give them something to think about!”
He drummed his fingertips on the desk in a fast rhythm. “When can
you give them more, Chief Air? I think it is time to repay the Hun
for his savage attacks against our cities. When can you give me a
raid of a hundred, two hundred, three hundred RAF bombers against his
cities?” he looked at Portal apprehensively.
“Not this month,
Prime Minister. And most likely not the coming month, either,” he
exchanged quick glances with his colleagues. “Our industry's still
geared towards fighter production. Changing that will need some time,
and I and Air Marshal Dowding agree that our first priority should be
learning the lessons the battle so far has provided us with.” He
could see Churchill's impatience growing and held up one hand as if
to stop the P.M.'s reply before he even had time to utter it.
“However, with the threat of an invasion waning, I certainly will
be able to muster a suitable force of our Whitleys,
Wellingtons
and Hampdens
– maybe even a few of the new, four-engined Halifaxes
– sometime around, say, December?”
“At least for the
rest of October, I'd say some of those bombers will serve Britain's
security better if they remain attached to Coastal Command and the
sector commands,” CIGS John Dill interjected thoughtfully. “Even
though from what Air Chief Marshal Portal has reported it seems that
'Case Cromwell'
is no longer imminent, I'd advise to err on the side of caution here.
If the Germans have shown us one thing during the past twelve months,
it's that they are a tricky and resourceful lot.”
Portal tilted his head to one side under the prime
minister 's piercing gaze. “Bomber Command should be able to handle
this either way. And yes, it is my assessment of the situation
that 'Case Cromwell' has come and passed. The weather is already too
bad as it is, and it'll only get worse from now on. Just as
important, the Germans haven't been able to gain air superiority over
Kent and Sussex, and going by their recent performance, they never
will.”
Churchill harrumphed.
“Well, for once it is good news in these four walls. Keep it up. I
want it so that every
plane the German sends across the Channel is shot down!”
“I'll relay that order to Air Marshal Dowding,”
Portal answered evenly, and 'Pug' Ismay, who stood behind Churchill,
could not hide his smile. As if the very statement had not been
exactly what Dowding had built the British Air Defense System and
Fighter Command for!
“Fine then. If indeed the dreaded moment has passed
on, what else is there to say? First Sea Lord?”
Dudley Pound cleared his throat. “What the Navy knows
supports the findings of both the Chief of the Air Staff and Lord
Halifax. Enemy uboat activity has dried up during the past twenty
days. Uboats are returning to their bases after their hunts, but no
new boats are putting to sea. They've either been put on hold, or
there simply isn't anybody to command operations. Either way, as a
result our shipping losses are the fourth lowest since the beginning
of the war. The enemy's surface units are also all accounted for.”
General
Alan Brooke was conflicted. He had focused
on developing a mobile reserve which was to swiftly counter attack
the enemy forces before they were established. Standing down from
'Case Cromwell' would allow him to further train the forces of the
Home Guard and the regular units under his command. He explained as
much. “Sir,
in position as they are right now, GHQ forces are well-poised to
defeat the enemy's attack, but ill-equipped to be turned into the
fighting force I intend them to become. And I also mean that
literally. We lack munitions and arms. A squad of English country
boys in a trench, lead by a man with experience in the Great War;
that may very well be a formidable defense. But men sitting in
trenches cannot be properly trained.”
Dunkirk had cost the British Army most of its heavy
gear, down to machine guns and mortars. Brooke knew only too well
that the Home Guard lacked in everything but fighting spirit.
“What do you suggest, General?”
“I think it's time to stand down most of the Home
Guard except the ones directly on the beach sectors, Prime Minister.
That way, we still have those defenses manned and strong. At the same
time, we can get back to training the rest of them.”
Churchill looked each of his Chiefs of Staff in the
eyes. When he met no resistance, he nodded. “Good, make it so.
Gentlemen, what else is there? News from the East and the
Mediterranean?”
“I'm afraid, 't is so. The Greek government reports
Italian units massing in Albania, and General Wavell has signaled
about probing attacks in Egypt,” Dill stated somberly.
Churchill clapped his hands like an eager schoolboy.
“Then let's focus our attention there...”
Prague.
October.
The glass in the high
windows of what had once been the seat of kings and emperors shivered
softly, the roar of the engines outside momentarily threatening to
drown all conversations inside the gold and marble-filled rooms of
the largest castle of the world. A pair of two-engined Messerschmidt
fighters swooped down low over the seemingly infinite towers of
Prague Castle, waggling their wings as if to salute the men below,
before their path left his field of vision again. Werner Best
irritatedly watched them as they vanished into the overcast sky above
the provisional capital of Germany – true
Germany – before he returned his attention back to the scene
unfolding around him.
Reinhardt Heydrich was pacing the room; not quite like a
caged tiger, no. More like a predator eager to make his move. His
boots echoed hollow as he walked up and down the huge, lavish
chamber. From the walls, the still eyes in life-sized portraits of
long dead monarchs seemed to watch him with cold disapproval.
Going by his face, for
Konstantin von Neurath the new Reichsführer's
steps could just as well have been whip cracks. The old career
diplomat sat in a high-backed chair to the left side of the huge map
of Germany and central Europe that so far had served as the
background the Heydrich's musings. Werner Best thought the old weasel
really did look his age today. Not that this was any surprise,
really. In a time of less than two weeks, the old party apparatchik
had been completely marginalized. It was a pure courtesy of Heydrich
that he was even allowed to take part in this meeting.
He forced his thoughts back to the ongoing conversation.
“...no, the traitors
now occupying Berlin have not tried to get in contact with me or my
government. But if they do, I assure you we'll have only one answer
for them!” The hand of the heavyweight man in the long black robes
slammed flat on the long polished table. He nodded as if to convince
himself of his words before he continued in a gruff voice. “And
that answer is no! Thrice-damned no, I say!” The man's double chin
quivered as he spoke. “The Slovakian people owe their independence
to Germany and its late Führer, requieascat
in pacem.
I would dishonor his legacy, no, I would dishonor my own country
did I not help you!” Jozef Tizo's fleshy, pink face contrasted
sharply with his short, military haircut as the President of Slovakia
vehemently shook his head. A big, boorish man with a booming voice,
the catholic priest looked out of place, both in his own clothes and
in this meeting. Going by his mannerisms and appearance, one had few
problems imagining him on a construction site or in a butcher's shop,
chopping up meat.
“I'm glad to hear
that, Father.” Heydrich's voice – in contrast to his blazing eyes
- was impassive as the tall, hawk-faced man stopped his steps and
focused on the Slovakian leader. “But I take it the Slovakian
people will do more to help than give me words of support once the
day of reckoning comes?” A thin smile crept onto the new
Reichsführer's
face.
The others in the room carefully avoided the ice-gray
eyes' stare, pretending not to have heard the implicit threat in the
man's question. If he had heard it, Jozef Tiso seemed unfazed by it.
Folding his thick hands over his stomach, he leaned back in his
high-backed chair and produced a broad, generous grin.
“We Slovaks are
people who stick to our word. General Pilfousek has promised that two
divisions of Slovakia's finest soldiers are ready to move. All you
have to do, Reichsführer,
is give the command, and forty-thousand Slovakians will march into
battle to fulfill our pledge.”
A brief nod was all the answer Tiso received for his
boastful claims, but Heydrich seemed content for the moment. He
turned on his heels, diverting his attention back to the huge map. It
was dotted with small swastika flags.
“With every passing
hours, gentlemen, I receive more and more cables from city after
city, district after district,” Heydrich spoke without facing the
men his words were addressed to. “Pledges of allegiance,
congratulations to my ascension as the new leader of the one, true
Germany, reports and inquiries as to how the traitors shall and will
be dealt with.” His voice had taken on the form of an even
sing-sang. “And dealt with they will be. They struck hard, but now
they're sitting in the ruins of their own making, and
there, I will bury
them in the rubble.”
The sudden change of tone and pace took everyone but Best aback. “We
know who they are. We know who their supporters are. We will hunt
them down to the last man. Treason knows only one punishment.”
That he had made clear
to the handful of men gathered in this ornate hall in more way than
one. Even before they had arrived to meet Reinhardt Heydrich, the
former head of the Nazi party's security service and now
self-appointed Reichsführer
of the German Reich, their cars had driven up the Hradschin, the
mountain on whose back the palace had been erected. The road had been
flanked by a long row of gallows. Posters reading Verräter
had been pinned to the swaying bodies of dead men and women. The
experience had set the mood for their meeting.
“It is just a matter of time until I will be in full
control and the National Socialists are restored to power. Resistance
will not be tolerated, gentlemen, and the wheel of progress cannot be
turned back. This is the time of national socialism. There comes a
point when we all have to chose sides. For the true Germany and I,
the choice has already been made: for the Aryan people, against the
Bolsheviks and their Jewish masters.”
If you did not
chose my side, your were the enemy.
There was no need to speak the words as the sentiment was plain to
see for Jozef Tiso and the other two men who had, in effect, been
summoned here.
For a moment, all eyes in the hall stared silently at
the large map. Then, a cough broke the spell.
István Csaky's hands trembled as he pressed a
handkerchief against his lips. His whole body shook in a spasm of
coughing, the endeavor covering his face with glistening sweat.
Best shot his superior a worried glance, but Heydrich
watched in silence as the man's body slowly calmed down again.
When he finally began
to talk, the man's voice was weak and wheezing. “The Regent has
been approached by the new,” he stopped and shook his head, “by
the traitors
in Berlin. However, Hungary right now is more interested,” he
coughed again, “is more interested in hearing from you what you
intend to do. After all, you claim the succession of Germany's legal
leadership.” István Csaky looked nothing like his age of forty-six
years. The Hungarian foreign minister of two years was a withered,
gray-skinned shell, but his mind – whatever the condition of his
body – was still sharp.
“What I plan to do, Mr. Csaky, is to march into
Germany and restore order and the rule of nationalsocialist creed,”
Heydrich responded with the level conviction of a man who had spoken
the very same words a thousand times already in his mind. “My
question is: will your government fulfill its obligations and help me
to do so? Already, I have half a million men armed and ready to march
on Berlin.”
Best's head rocked up
and shot Heydrich a quizzical glance at the mention of that number.
However, the new Reichsführer's
former deputy held his tongue.
The Hungarian minister took a deep, rattling breath
before he pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the
wall-sized map, the hand with the handkerchief half-raised just in
case. For a few seconds his thin frame remained motionlessly in front
of it while Csaky's reddened eyes studied its features.
“With all due
respect,” his thin, weak voice nonetheless lacked just that, “your
claims of control are not mirrored in your own map, right?” He shot
Heydrich a thin-smiled glance over his hunched shoulders. “Oh, yes,
Austria is yours, as is everything below a line...,” he readjusted
his glasses, “from Trier in the west to Posen in the East, it
seems. But these,” the diplomat plucked a small swastika flag from
the map, “are far and few between in the north, and in the occupied
territories. I don't question your confidence, Reichsführer.
However, as a representative of my country, I am obliged to ask
questions before I recommend the Regent to make a decision. I hope
you understand that.”
Admiral Miklós Horthy had taken up the position of
regent for the Hungarian throne in the absence of a monarch. He was
fiercely nationalistic and in support of a 'Greater Hungary', but he
bore no great love for national socialism.
Werner Best watched his superior intently.
Heydrich was a
perfectionist. Some had even gone so far and called him the
prototypical Aryan Übermensch,
for he excelled in almost everything he did.
But Best knew the man
better than most. Behind the polished facade lay a character eaten up
by envy and vanity. The Reichsführer
was no diplomat, and his vain strain left little if any tolerance for
criticism.
Clasping his hands behind his back, his jaw tightened,
and Heydrich's mind was working behind those merciless eyes. The
moment took less than a blink of an eye, but Best had noticed it
nonetheless. The stress of the past weeks was taking its toll on his
commander. When Heydrich spoke, his face was again a still and stern
mask.
“True enough,” he allowed himself a mirthless smile.
“The Ruhr area, Berlin, and most of the territory north of the line
you mentioned elude my grasp at the moment, and the Wehrmacht units
in the west apparently have decided to stick their heads into the
sand, like one of these strange birds... like an ostrich.”
Best noted silently
that Heydrich had also chosen to withhold the fact that those units
had very well moved: they had taken out the local SS and SD
units within a matter of hours after the coup had taken place,
detaining most of the security apparatus. At least to Best, they
could just as well have yelled their allegiance from the top of their
lungs. Still, true enough, they had not moved ever since.
“I'm still waiting for news from Denmark, but Norway
is loyal, as is the General Government: Poland.”
Csaky's eyes curiously wandered to the north of the
nation whose resistance had started all this. He blinked. “What
about Danzig?”
Heydrich scowled. “Wehrmacht troops entered the city
several days ago. We've lost contact with local SS and loyalist
forces around nightfall. A minor setback, really. We've got forces
all around them.”
A new spasm of coughs caught the Hungarian off guard as
he tried to respond. His whole body wavered back and forth, and Best
– and it seemed, old von Neurath as well – was close to jumping
to catch the man. But the spasm subsided, and so did the traces of
resistance in Csaky. He nodded weakly.
“I will advise the
Regent to recognize your government as the successor to that of Adolf
Hitler, and you as his de
facto heir. Hungary
signed an alliance with the German Reich. That would be you.” He
smiled weakly and carefully walked back to his chair.
Best had to hide a
satisfied smile. Better
the devil you know, he
thought. Hungary's lack of... enthusiasm for the party's policies was
no secret, but half a million loyalist
troops were as convincing as the best argument.
The last remaining person to speak up was as different
from Csaky as the night from the day.
Mihail Sturdza, the Romanian foreign minister, sat the
furthest away from his Hungarian colleague, as if to underline the
strained relationship between their two nations. Earlier this summer,
the Hungarians had used German pressure to cut a slice of land off
Romania.
Were Csaky was small
and sickly, the tall Sturdza carried with him an air of arrogance
representative of his long aristocratic lineage. He was older than
his Hungarian counterpart, but compared to him, he looked alive and
attentive, and there was one more thing that set the two men apart:
Mihail Sturdza was a fascist, an anti-Semite, and a high-ranking
member of the equally disposed Iron
Guards, the ruling
faction of Romania. They were eager to please their German role
models.
Sturdza was no
exception, even if he hid it behind the calm demeanor of a
professional poker player. “Pacta
servanda sunt,”
he stated calmly before rising from his seat. “Romania's position
is one of unconditional support for Germany. It has been, and will
always be that way. You will get all the oil and fuel you need to
bring this,” his lips curled upwards in a cold smile, “internal
affair to a swift end.
Nonetheless, we are allies, not vassals, yes?”
The Romanian diplomat did not wait for an answer, but
the hidden sharpness in his tone made his position on the matter
nonetheless clear. He positioned himself in front of the map, with
his back turned to the rest of the attending politicians and
diplomats.
“Earlier this year,
my country not only had to agree on a 'readjustment' of its borders
with Hungary.” Sturdza put as much scorn into this sentence as the
present company allowed him to. And there was still the matter with
Bulgaria, but that would have gone too far. “But far more
detrimental was the loss of Bessarabia to the Bolsheviks. It deprived
us of a substantial part of our harvest. Worse, we've lost good
defensive terrain, the Bolsheviks simply went in and killed 45,000 of
our soldiers, and now they are standing six hours off the fields of
Ploesti.” Spinning around on his heels, he focused his eyes on
Heydrich.
The new Reichsführer
met his gaze with a level stare. “What do you want? A guarantee of
security?”
“Paper is patient,
Reichsführer.”
Sturdza's voice was a cool baritone. “Romania needs German troops,
German weapons, German advisers,” he stated matter-of-fact.
“Conditions?” Heydrich sounded anything but pleased.
Sturdza apparently was not fazed by man's reactions.
“You're asking a man to somersault while his neighbor is holding a
blade to his throat. Is it any wonder such a man would be reluctant
to do the deed?” he chuckled. “It's simple: we need your help.
Otherwise, we won't be able to help you. The oil of Ploesti is of no
use to you if it's in the hands of the Soviets.”
Admittedly, that
statement carried with it an undeniable logic, Best thought glumly.
Irregardless of the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact of 1939: how likely was
it that Judeo-Bolshevism – as the late Führer
had called it – would support the very creed which had written its
destruction onto its banners?
Heydrich had seen it, too. With a start, he nodded his
agreement in almost simultaneously closed the meeting. Feet shuffled,
chairs were pushed back, and a flurry of farewells were spoken that
all had one thing in common: the feeling of relief about getting out
of there.
Old von Neurath remained on his seat, uncertain what to
do until a cold stare from Heydrich made it unambiguous that he would
have to leave, too. Miserable and relieved at the same time, the
career diplomat was the last to leave the room.
Heydrich waited a couple of seconds after the two-winged
doors had closed before he addressed Best. “Your impressions?”
Best weighed his words carefully. “Tiso was in our
pocket all along. He knows which side his bread is buttered on. We'll
get his troops, though I'll leave an assessment of their quality to
the Waffen-SS. Csaky... well, we knew the Hungarians aren't too
thrilled about anything that doesn't serve their goal of a Greater
Hungary, but I'd say the meeting left enough of an impression on him
to get things done.”
“And the Romanian?”
“Sturdza believes
that the Jews had a hand in the loss of Bessarabia. So does his
government. As long as we encourage them to do whatever they wants in
this regard, the Iron
Guard will back us up,
sir. As for their demands: do we fulfill them?”
Heydrich ran a hand across his face. He suddenly looked
very tired. “Talk with the SS and get everything organized. Give
the Romanians what they want. I don't give a damn about their dead,
but we need that oil. As long as they help me crush the traitors,
they'll get their support.” He sighed.
Best made a note, then turned to leave. Halfway across
the room, he stopped to face Heydrich again. “'Half a million men',
sir? We don't even have half that many.” His voice mirrored his
concerns.
“Not yet, Best. But very soon, we will. And then, I
will unleash hell.”
WAAF
= Women's Auxiliary Air Force.
Case
Cromwell was the British code term for the expected German
invasion.
Latin
for rest in peace.
Verräter
= traitor.
Übermensch
= super-human.
SD
= Sicherheitsdienst, the Nazi party spy organization.
When
Best talks of loyalist troops, he means loyal to the Nazi
cause.
Pacta
servanda sunt; Latin, roughly translates as: treaties must be
adhered to.
Well, slowly but surely we're getting there. CLASH OF EAGLES, the sequel to my well-received debut novel WOLF HUNT is getting closer to completion. Picking up the European storyline right were we left off in September 1940 after an assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler, the Second World War and history in general are poised to take a very different turn.
Check out the exclusive Prologue chapter below the break. If you like what you see, please do also check out my first novel, WOLF HUNT. It's available as an ebook and in paperback format on Amazon. Thanks.
Prologue
Northeastern Germany. September 1940.
Geese waddled across the Brandenburgian dirt road,
plucking at grass and worms here and there. An old peasant, his beard
long and white, sat on a nearby bench beneath an oak as old and
gnarled as himself, watching the birds on the puddle-strewn path. It
had rained the other day, but the September sun was still warm.
He knew something was going on in Germany, and more so,
in the nearby mansion, but since he had passed the age of eighty he
had no longer followed politics. Chancellors and Kaisers and Führers
came and went; the only constant was the land he and his family had
worked for generations.
A screech and a howl shook him from his thoughts.
Incomprehension stood written over his face as the column of gray
trucks, led by a low, gray car roared around a corner down the road
at a breakneck speed. His eyes widened as they came closer. The
leading car honked a few times, then, without slowing down, plowed
through the remaining geese.
Water from the puddles splashed, and the air filled with
white feathers, but as soon as the chimeara had appeared it was gone
again, leaving the old coot sitting on his bench, his heart pounding
so hard it seemed to want to jump out of his chest.
The captain in the leading car stared ahead intently,
brushing a feather aside. With Berlin finally secured, they had taken
the first opportunity to make their move. He hoped they would be
there in time.
“Can't we go faster?” he yelled over the sound of
the engines under the car's long snout.
The driver beside him kept his eyes focuses on the
street as he answered him through clenched teeth: “Not on this
road. It's a miracle I haven't killed us all yet!”
“There!” the officer pointed out. “The gate
houses!”
The column raced through the opening in the wall,
drawing dust clouds behind it. The two small gate houses lay
deserted. A wide driveway led to the huge manor that had been built
in the style of an oversized hunting lodge.
The trucks came to a slithering halt as their drivers in
unison hit the brakes. As if a valve had been opened, soldiers with
automatic weapons began to pour from their backs.
“Find him!” the captain commanded. “Search
everywhere! I don't care if you have to take this whole toy house
apart, but find him.”
Platoons broke into squads, each one accompanied by a
radio operator, and they vanished into the house. Two more platoons
secured all exits of the huge house, while more soldiers set up
machine guns on the perimeter.
The captain waited impatiently.
“Clear!” came the first reply over the radio. The
next one also read “Clear!”, as did the next, and the one
thereafter. Clear was bad. Clear meant he was not there any longer.
One by one, the squads reappeared again. A young
lieutenant – as a matter of fact, they were probably of an age –
approached him, his MP-40 leisurely slung over a shoulder.
“The house is empty. It's possible there are hiding
places in there we don't know off, but right now I'd say the bird's
flown out.”
In the distance, the engines of an airplane roared, and
shortly thereafter the familiar shape of a Junkers Ju 52, an Auntie
Ju, rose from behind the cover of the nearby woods, heading
north. Newly promoted Captain David Weissbaum drew his lips back in a
silent snarl. “As if on cue,” he muttered, then looked at the
lieutenant. “Send a message to Berlin, Baumer. We failed. Göring's
gone.”
London. October.
The Cabinet War Rooms
at Storey's Gate were abuzz with activity, but General Alan Brooke,
the head of the Great Britain's GHQ Home Forces – and therefore the
man directly responsible for preparing the islands against a German
invasion – noticed early on that it was no longer the tense, nearly
panicked atmosphere he had experienced there earlier this autumn.
There was still a war going on. Nobody needed to be reminded of that
little fact, he the least of all people. However, the looks he caught
on the faces of officers and WAAFs
when he moved through the underground anthill under its massive
protective layer of armored concrete were busy and filled with a
blossoming, calm confidence. It was a good omen.
An armed sentry stood at attention when he approached,
then ushered him into the room. He paused there for a moment, taking
in the scene.
The walls of the comparably tiny room where covered with
a plethora of maps, and the smoke of pipes and cigars hung heavy in
the air, giving the ventilation system a run for its money.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff had their heads together in
one corner of the room, but Field Marshal John Dill caught the sight
of him and winked him closer. The Chief of the Imperial General Staff
- and Brooke's direct superior – listened with one ear to what the
First Sea Lord, Sir Dudley Pound, was telling him, the stem of a pipe
clutched in the corner of his mouth. He drew his attention off the
navy man and welcomed Brooke.
“Good to see you, Alan. You know Air Chief Marshall
Portal?”
Brooke nodded his
greetings, receiving curt nods in return. The Chief of the Air Staff
had replaced Cyrill Newall only two weeks prior after the latter had
had one heated exchange too many with the prime minister. He was not
exactly sure where he and Charles Portal stood vis-a-vis
one another.
Dill produced a silver-framed pocket watch from his
coat. “Well, gentlemen, since we're all here now, I say it's time
to go and meet Winston.”
The CIGS made the start, and Brooke and the others
followed him through the adjacent offices, map rooms and concrete
corridors. The group stopped in front of a door that looked no
different from all the others down here, but the deep, rumbling voice
that answered Dill's knock from within was unmistakable.
“Come in.”
The air in Winston Spencer Churchill's office was
impregnated with an irritating amount of cigar smoke. The Prime
Minister studied the newcomers' faces with dark, searching eyes from
under that heavy and deep-set, bulldog-like brows of his. A lonely
cigar fumed from within an ashtray, and Churchill waited until Brooke
and the others had seated themselves, remaining completely still as
he sat there, dressed in his blue, air force-like battle dress he so
liked to wear.
Two more men occupied the room with him, and they had
turned to welcome the newcomers as they entered. General 'Pug' Ismay
was the prime minister's personal military attache, and quite
probably the Joint Chiefs' biggest ally in dealing with Churchill's
often eccentric and impatient nature.
The second man was the only one in civilian attire. Lord
Halifax, the Foreign Minister, had seated himself on the opposite end
of Churchill's massive desk, sitting cross-legged and patient,
wearing a gray suit and tie. He looked up from a pile of papers and
nodded appreciatively at Brooke, Dill and the others.
“Gentlemen, let's begin, shall we?” rumbled the
prime minister's deep, rich voice. “What news do you have for
Britain and me?”
Dill exchanged glances with his colleagues to decide who
would begin, but Halifax took the decision out of their hands.
“'Utter turmoil'
would probably best describe it.” He took one quick, final look at
his papers before he continued. “As far as we know, there's a
shooting war going on inside Germany, and there are at least three
governments claiming to be the legitimate ones: one in Berlin, one in
Prague, and then there's Göring in Sweden as well. Our embassies
have gotten half a dozen peace feelers extended into their general
direction during the past three weeks. Göring has sent Dahlerus to
negotiate again,” Churchill groaned, “and he seems to be exerting
some limited influence on the Swedish government. But overall, I am
afraid we know very little of what's going on inside Germany, except
that it's apparently serious. The only thing that we know for sure is
that Hitler and much of his inner circle are, indeed, dead. That much
has been corroborated by the Spanish and the Swiss.”
“I don't mind the Hun tearing himself apart, but like
old Shylock I'd rather have him leave me a pound of flesh to cut from
his bones myself,” Churchill rumbled.
Brooke never really knew if the man was jesting. Most
the time, he was not.
The Prime Minister took up his cigar and deeply inhaled
its smoke. “There will be no talk of peace; not until we know who
we are talking with, and most certainly not unless Germany provides
us with something tangible. In the meantime, let them butcher each
other, and the more, the merrier,” he scoffed, raising his eyebrows
as if to underline his point. “Still, I am of the opinion that
retribution for their bombing campaign should come from British
hands.”
That was apparently Portal's cue.
“Prime Minister,
Luftwaffe
air raids are decreasing in number and size, and the ones still
attacking are increasingly disorganized. The only force still
attacking in good order is the Air Fleet from Norway, but 13th
Group is handling them on their own. With the enemy in disarray,
we've been able to shoot down an ever growing number of him. There
has not been a raid against southern England with more than fifty
airplanes during the past ten days.” Portal shook his head. “It
seems almost as if it's largely individual commanders acting on their
own, without central control. Air Marshal Dowding claims that at this
rate, he will have all groups of Fighter Command at full strength and
fully reconstituted by the end of the month.”
“And what do you think, Mr. Portal?” Churchill
leaned forward.
“I think, Prime Minister, that the worst is over. We
have inflicted high losses on the enemy. He has been unable to
achieve his objectives, and the breakdown of his government and his
line of control has left him in utter disarray. And there is this.”
With a knowing smile he produced a number of aerial photographs from
a folder he had carried under his arm.
“The Channel ports,” Churchill murmured as he
inspected them, then shot Portal a glance over the rim of his
glasses. “They're empty?”
Brooke involuntarily leaned forward to take a look
himself. The P.M. was correct. Even from the height those photographs
had been taken it was clear that the invasion barges which had
crowded every harbor between Antwerp and Cherbourg were gone.
“Yes, Prime Minister, they're empty. The recon flights
over the other harbors along the northern French coast support the
picture: the Germans have called off the invasion.”
Churchill's look was skeptical. “Are you certain,
Chief of the Air Staff? Couldn't the Germans simply have taken them
inland, along the French rivers, to fool us?”
Portal shook his head. “Several recon flights recorded
long rows of barges being towed back along the Dutch coast and into
the Rhine during the past week. I wanted confirmation first before
breaking the news, but I sent out a couple of our Blenheims to harass
them.”
“Hah!” Churchill's hand slammed onto his desk.
“That's more how I like it. Give them something to think about!”
He drummed his fingertips on the desk in a fast rhythm. “When can
you give them more, Chief Air? I think it is time to repay the Hun
for his savage attacks against our cities. When can you give me a
raid of a hundred, two hundred, three hundred RAF bombers against his
cities?” he looked at Portal apprehensively.
“Not this month,
Prime Minister. And most likely not the coming month, either,” he
exchanged quick glances with his colleagues. “Our industry's still
geared towards fighter production. Changing that will need some time,
and I and Air Marshal Dowding agree that our first priority should be
learning the lessons the battle so far has provided us with.” He
could see Churchill's impatience growing and held up one hand as if
to stop the P.M.'s reply before he even had time to utter it.
“However, with the threat of an invasion waning, I certainly will
be able to muster a suitable force of our Whitleys,
Wellingtons
and Hampdens
– maybe even a few of the new, four-engined Halifaxes
– sometime around, say, December?”
“At least for the
rest of October, I'd say some of those bombers will serve Britain's
security better if they remain attached to Coastal Command and the
sector commands,” CIGS John Dill interjected thoughtfully. “Even
though from what Air Chief Marshal Portal has reported it seems that
'Case Cromwell'
is no longer imminent, I'd advise to err on the side of caution here.
If the Germans have shown us one thing during the past twelve months,
it's that they are a tricky and resourceful lot.”
Portal tilted his head to one side under the prime
minister 's piercing gaze. “Bomber Command should be able to handle
this either way. And yes, it is my assessment of the situation
that 'Case Cromwell' has come and passed. The weather is already too
bad as it is, and it'll only get worse from now on. Just as
important, the Germans haven't been able to gain air superiority over
Kent and Sussex, and going by their recent performance, they never
will.”
Churchill harrumphed.
“Well, for once it is good news in these four walls. Keep it up. I
want it so that every
plane the German sends across the Channel is shot down!”
“I'll relay that order to Air Marshal Dowding,”
Portal answered evenly, and 'Pug' Ismay, who stood behind Churchill,
could not hide his smile. As if the very statement had not been
exactly what Dowding had built the British Air Defense System and
Fighter Command for!
“Fine then. If indeed the dreaded moment has passed
on, what else is there to say? First Sea Lord?”
Dudley Pound cleared his throat. “What the Navy knows
supports the findings of both the Chief of the Air Staff and Lord
Halifax. Enemy uboat activity has dried up during the past twenty
days. Uboats are returning to their bases after their hunts, but no
new boats are putting to sea. They've either been put on hold, or
there simply isn't anybody to command operations. Either way, as a
result our shipping losses are the fourth lowest since the beginning
of the war. The enemy's surface units are also all accounted for.”
General
Alan Brooke was conflicted. He had focused
on developing a mobile reserve which was to swiftly counter attack
the enemy forces before they were established. Standing down from
'Case Cromwell' would allow him to further train the forces of the
Home Guard and the regular units under his command. He explained as
much. “Sir,
in position as they are right now, GHQ forces are well-poised to
defeat the enemy's attack, but ill-equipped to be turned into the
fighting force I intend them to become. And I also mean that
literally. We lack munitions and arms. A squad of English country
boys in a trench, lead by a man with experience in the Great War;
that may very well be a formidable defense. But men sitting in
trenches cannot be properly trained.”
Dunkirk had cost the British Army most of its heavy
gear, down to machine guns and mortars. Brooke knew only too well
that the Home Guard lacked in everything but fighting spirit.
“What do you suggest, General?”
“I think it's time to stand down most of the Home
Guard except the ones directly on the beach sectors, Prime Minister.
That way, we still have those defenses manned and strong. At the same
time, we can get back to training the rest of them.”
Churchill looked each of his Chiefs of Staff in the
eyes. When he met no resistance, he nodded. “Good, make it so.
Gentlemen, what else is there? News from the East and the
Mediterranean?”
“I'm afraid, 't is so. The Greek government reports
Italian units massing in Albania, and General Wavell has signaled
about probing attacks in Egypt,” Dill stated somberly.
Churchill clapped his hands like an eager schoolboy.
“Then let's focus our attention there...”
Prague.
October.
The glass in the high
windows of what had once been the seat of kings and emperors shivered
softly, the roar of the engines outside momentarily threatening to
drown all conversations inside the gold and marble-filled rooms of
the largest castle of the world. A pair of two-engined Messerschmidt
fighters swooped down low over the seemingly infinite towers of
Prague Castle, waggling their wings as if to salute the men below,
before their path left his field of vision again. Werner Best
irritatedly watched them as they vanished into the overcast sky above
the provisional capital of Germany – true
Germany – before he returned his attention back to the scene
unfolding around him.
Reinhardt Heydrich was pacing the room; not quite like a
caged tiger, no. More like a predator eager to make his move. His
boots echoed hollow as he walked up and down the huge, lavish
chamber. From the walls, the still eyes in life-sized portraits of
long dead monarchs seemed to watch him with cold disapproval.
Going by his face, for
Konstantin von Neurath the new Reichsführer's
steps could just as well have been whip cracks. The old career
diplomat sat in a high-backed chair to the left side of the huge map
of Germany and central Europe that so far had served as the
background the Heydrich's musings. Werner Best thought the old weasel
really did look his age today. Not that this was any surprise,
really. In a time of less than two weeks, the old party apparatchik
had been completely marginalized. It was a pure courtesy of Heydrich
that he was even allowed to take part in this meeting.
He forced his thoughts back to the ongoing conversation.
“...no, the traitors
now occupying Berlin have not tried to get in contact with me or my
government. But if they do, I assure you we'll have only one answer
for them!” The hand of the heavyweight man in the long black robes
slammed flat on the long polished table. He nodded as if to convince
himself of his words before he continued in a gruff voice. “And
that answer is no! Thrice-damned no, I say!” The man's double chin
quivered as he spoke. “The Slovakian people owe their independence
to Germany and its late Führer, requieascat
in pacem.
I would dishonor his legacy, no, I would dishonor my own country
did I not help you!” Jozef Tizo's fleshy, pink face contrasted
sharply with his short, military haircut as the President of Slovakia
vehemently shook his head. A big, boorish man with a booming voice,
the catholic priest looked out of place, both in his own clothes and
in this meeting. Going by his mannerisms and appearance, one had few
problems imagining him on a construction site or in a butcher's shop,
chopping up meat.
“I'm glad to hear
that, Father.” Heydrich's voice – in contrast to his blazing eyes
- was impassive as the tall, hawk-faced man stopped his steps and
focused on the Slovakian leader. “But I take it the Slovakian
people will do more to help than give me words of support once the
day of reckoning comes?” A thin smile crept onto the new
Reichsführer's
face.
The others in the room carefully avoided the ice-gray
eyes' stare, pretending not to have heard the implicit threat in the
man's question. If he had heard it, Jozef Tiso seemed unfazed by it.
Folding his thick hands over his stomach, he leaned back in his
high-backed chair and produced a broad, generous grin.
“We Slovaks are
people who stick to our word. General Pilfousek has promised that two
divisions of Slovakia's finest soldiers are ready to move. All you
have to do, Reichsführer,
is give the command, and forty-thousand Slovakians will march into
battle to fulfill our pledge.”
A brief nod was all the answer Tiso received for his
boastful claims, but Heydrich seemed content for the moment. He
turned on his heels, diverting his attention back to the huge map. It
was dotted with small swastika flags.
“With every passing
hours, gentlemen, I receive more and more cables from city after
city, district after district,” Heydrich spoke without facing the
men his words were addressed to. “Pledges of allegiance,
congratulations to my ascension as the new leader of the one, true
Germany, reports and inquiries as to how the traitors shall and will
be dealt with.” His voice had taken on the form of an even
sing-sang. “And dealt with they will be. They struck hard, but now
they're sitting in the ruins of their own making, and
there, I will bury
them in the rubble.”
The sudden change of tone and pace took everyone but Best aback. “We
know who they are. We know who their supporters are. We will hunt
them down to the last man. Treason knows only one punishment.”
That he had made clear
to the handful of men gathered in this ornate hall in more way than
one. Even before they had arrived to meet Reinhardt Heydrich, the
former head of the Nazi party's security service and now
self-appointed Reichsführer
of the German Reich, their cars had driven up the Hradschin, the
mountain on whose back the palace had been erected. The road had been
flanked by a long row of gallows. Posters reading Verräter
had been pinned to the swaying bodies of dead men and women. The
experience had set the mood for their meeting.
“It is just a matter of time until I will be in full
control and the National Socialists are restored to power. Resistance
will not be tolerated, gentlemen, and the wheel of progress cannot be
turned back. This is the time of national socialism. There comes a
point when we all have to chose sides. For the true Germany and I,
the choice has already been made: for the Aryan people, against the
Bolsheviks and their Jewish masters.”
If you did not
chose my side, your were the enemy.
There was no need to speak the words as the sentiment was plain to
see for Jozef Tiso and the other two men who had, in effect, been
summoned here.
For a moment, all eyes in the hall stared silently at
the large map. Then, a cough broke the spell.
István Csaky's hands trembled as he pressed a
handkerchief against his lips. His whole body shook in a spasm of
coughing, the endeavor covering his face with glistening sweat.
Best shot his superior a worried glance, but Heydrich
watched in silence as the man's body slowly calmed down again.
When he finally began
to talk, the man's voice was weak and wheezing. “The Regent has
been approached by the new,” he stopped and shook his head, “by
the traitors
in Berlin. However, Hungary right now is more interested,” he
coughed again, “is more interested in hearing from you what you
intend to do. After all, you claim the succession of Germany's legal
leadership.” István Csaky looked nothing like his age of forty-six
years. The Hungarian foreign minister of two years was a withered,
gray-skinned shell, but his mind – whatever the condition of his
body – was still sharp.
“What I plan to do, Mr. Csaky, is to march into
Germany and restore order and the rule of nationalsocialist creed,”
Heydrich responded with the level conviction of a man who had spoken
the very same words a thousand times already in his mind. “My
question is: will your government fulfill its obligations and help me
to do so? Already, I have half a million men armed and ready to march
on Berlin.”
Best's head rocked up
and shot Heydrich a quizzical glance at the mention of that number.
However, the new Reichsführer's
former deputy held his tongue.
The Hungarian minister took a deep, rattling breath
before he pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the
wall-sized map, the hand with the handkerchief half-raised just in
case. For a few seconds his thin frame remained motionlessly in front
of it while Csaky's reddened eyes studied its features.
“With all due
respect,” his thin, weak voice nonetheless lacked just that, “your
claims of control are not mirrored in your own map, right?” He shot
Heydrich a thin-smiled glance over his hunched shoulders. “Oh, yes,
Austria is yours, as is everything below a line...,” he readjusted
his glasses, “from Trier in the west to Posen in the East, it
seems. But these,” the diplomat plucked a small swastika flag from
the map, “are far and few between in the north, and in the occupied
territories. I don't question your confidence, Reichsführer.
However, as a representative of my country, I am obliged to ask
questions before I recommend the Regent to make a decision. I hope
you understand that.”
Admiral Miklós Horthy had taken up the position of
regent for the Hungarian throne in the absence of a monarch. He was
fiercely nationalistic and in support of a 'Greater Hungary', but he
bore no great love for national socialism.
Werner Best watched his superior intently.
Heydrich was a
perfectionist. Some had even gone so far and called him the
prototypical Aryan Übermensch,
for he excelled in almost everything he did.
But Best knew the man
better than most. Behind the polished facade lay a character eaten up
by envy and vanity. The Reichsführer
was no diplomat, and his vain strain left little if any tolerance for
criticism.
Clasping his hands behind his back, his jaw tightened,
and Heydrich's mind was working behind those merciless eyes. The
moment took less than a blink of an eye, but Best had noticed it
nonetheless. The stress of the past weeks was taking its toll on his
commander. When Heydrich spoke, his face was again a still and stern
mask.
“True enough,” he allowed himself a mirthless smile.
“The Ruhr area, Berlin, and most of the territory north of the line
you mentioned elude my grasp at the moment, and the Wehrmacht units
in the west apparently have decided to stick their heads into the
sand, like one of these strange birds... like an ostrich.”
Best noted silently
that Heydrich had also chosen to withhold the fact that those units
had very well moved: they had taken out the local SS and SD
units within a matter of hours after the coup had taken place,
detaining most of the security apparatus. At least to Best, they
could just as well have yelled their allegiance from the top of their
lungs. Still, true enough, they had not moved ever since.
“I'm still waiting for news from Denmark, but Norway
is loyal, as is the General Government: Poland.”
Csaky's eyes curiously wandered to the north of the
nation whose resistance had started all this. He blinked. “What
about Danzig?”
Heydrich scowled. “Wehrmacht troops entered the city
several days ago. We've lost contact with local SS and loyalist
forces around nightfall. A minor setback, really. We've got forces
all around them.”
A new spasm of coughs caught the Hungarian off guard as
he tried to respond. His whole body wavered back and forth, and Best
– and it seemed, old von Neurath as well – was close to jumping
to catch the man. But the spasm subsided, and so did the traces of
resistance in Csaky. He nodded weakly.
“I will advise the
Regent to recognize your government as the successor to that of Adolf
Hitler, and you as his de
facto heir. Hungary
signed an alliance with the German Reich. That would be you.” He
smiled weakly and carefully walked back to his chair.
Best had to hide a
satisfied smile. Better
the devil you know, he
thought. Hungary's lack of... enthusiasm for the party's policies was
no secret, but half a million loyalist
troops were as convincing as the best argument.
The last remaining person to speak up was as different
from Csaky as the night from the day.
Mihail Sturdza, the Romanian foreign minister, sat the
furthest away from his Hungarian colleague, as if to underline the
strained relationship between their two nations. Earlier this summer,
the Hungarians had used German pressure to cut a slice of land off
Romania.
Were Csaky was small
and sickly, the tall Sturdza carried with him an air of arrogance
representative of his long aristocratic lineage. He was older than
his Hungarian counterpart, but compared to him, he looked alive and
attentive, and there was one more thing that set the two men apart:
Mihail Sturdza was a fascist, an anti-Semite, and a high-ranking
member of the equally disposed Iron
Guards, the ruling
faction of Romania. They were eager to please their German role
models.
Sturdza was no
exception, even if he hid it behind the calm demeanor of a
professional poker player. “Pacta
servanda sunt,”
he stated calmly before rising from his seat. “Romania's position
is one of unconditional support for Germany. It has been, and will
always be that way. You will get all the oil and fuel you need to
bring this,” his lips curled upwards in a cold smile, “internal
affair to a swift end.
Nonetheless, we are allies, not vassals, yes?”
The Romanian diplomat did not wait for an answer, but
the hidden sharpness in his tone made his position on the matter
nonetheless clear. He positioned himself in front of the map, with
his back turned to the rest of the attending politicians and
diplomats.
“Earlier this year,
my country not only had to agree on a 'readjustment' of its borders
with Hungary.” Sturdza put as much scorn into this sentence as the
present company allowed him to. And there was still the matter with
Bulgaria, but that would have gone too far. “But far more
detrimental was the loss of Bessarabia to the Bolsheviks. It deprived
us of a substantial part of our harvest. Worse, we've lost good
defensive terrain, the Bolsheviks simply went in and killed 45,000 of
our soldiers, and now they are standing six hours off the fields of
Ploesti.” Spinning around on his heels, he focused his eyes on
Heydrich.
The new Reichsführer
met his gaze with a level stare. “What do you want? A guarantee of
security?”
“Paper is patient,
Reichsführer.”
Sturdza's voice was a cool baritone. “Romania needs German troops,
German weapons, German advisers,” he stated matter-of-fact.
“Conditions?” Heydrich sounded anything but pleased.
Sturdza apparently was not fazed by man's reactions.
“You're asking a man to somersault while his neighbor is holding a
blade to his throat. Is it any wonder such a man would be reluctant
to do the deed?” he chuckled. “It's simple: we need your help.
Otherwise, we won't be able to help you. The oil of Ploesti is of no
use to you if it's in the hands of the Soviets.”
Admittedly, that
statement carried with it an undeniable logic, Best thought glumly.
Irregardless of the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact of 1939: how likely was
it that Judeo-Bolshevism – as the late Führer
had called it – would support the very creed which had written its
destruction onto its banners?
Heydrich had seen it, too. With a start, he nodded his
agreement in almost simultaneously closed the meeting. Feet shuffled,
chairs were pushed back, and a flurry of farewells were spoken that
all had one thing in common: the feeling of relief about getting out
of there.
Old von Neurath remained on his seat, uncertain what to
do until a cold stare from Heydrich made it unambiguous that he would
have to leave, too. Miserable and relieved at the same time, the
career diplomat was the last to leave the room.
Heydrich waited a couple of seconds after the two-winged
doors had closed before he addressed Best. “Your impressions?”
Best weighed his words carefully. “Tiso was in our
pocket all along. He knows which side his bread is buttered on. We'll
get his troops, though I'll leave an assessment of their quality to
the Waffen-SS. Csaky... well, we knew the Hungarians aren't too
thrilled about anything that doesn't serve their goal of a Greater
Hungary, but I'd say the meeting left enough of an impression on him
to get things done.”
“And the Romanian?”
“Sturdza believes
that the Jews had a hand in the loss of Bessarabia. So does his
government. As long as we encourage them to do whatever they wants in
this regard, the Iron
Guard will back us up,
sir. As for their demands: do we fulfill them?”
Heydrich ran a hand across his face. He suddenly looked
very tired. “Talk with the SS and get everything organized. Give
the Romanians what they want. I don't give a damn about their dead,
but we need that oil. As long as they help me crush the traitors,
they'll get their support.” He sighed.
Best made a note, then turned to leave. Halfway across
the room, he stopped to face Heydrich again. “'Half a million men',
sir? We don't even have half that many.” His voice mirrored his
concerns.
“Not yet, Best. But very soon, we will. And then, I
will unleash hell.”
WAAF
= Women's Auxiliary Air Force.
Case
Cromwell was the British code term for the expected German
invasion.
Latin
for rest in peace.
Verräter
= traitor.
Übermensch
= super-human.
SD
= Sicherheitsdienst, the Nazi party spy organization.
When
Best talks of loyalist troops, he means loyal to the Nazi
cause.
Pacta
servanda sunt; Latin, roughly translates as: treaties must be
adhered to.
August 16, 2012
And now for something completely different...
"Lola Lamour" is a singer & entertainer that specialises in music from the 1920's to the 1950's. 
August 15, 2012
Review - Outpost (2008)
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There are really only few things better than drinking an excellent Scottish single malt whiskey while talking about a film with an undead Waffen-SS killer commando unit...
The Plot - There By Spoilers (you've been warned)
In a seedy bar in a town ravaged by war, scientist and businessman Hunt (Julian Wadham) hires mercenary and former Royal Marine D.C. (Ray Stevenson) to assemble a crack team of ex-soldiers, Prior (Richard Brake), Jordan (Paul Blair), Cotter (Enoch Frost), Voytech (Julian Rivett), McKay (Michael Smiley) and Taktarov (Brett Fancy), to protect him on a dangerous journey into no-man's land. Their mission is to scope out an old military bunker in Eastern Europe. It should be easy – 48 hours at the most. Lots of cash for little risk. Or so he says...
Once at the outpost, the men make a horrific discovery that turns their mission on its head – the scene of a bloody and gruesome series of experiments, carried out by the SS, in reality shifting and reanimation during World War II to create invincible soldiers. Amidst the carnage, they find a survivor (Johnny Meres).
At night, the clearing around the bunker is suddenly lit up, and silhouettes of people are seen amongst the light. Soon after, a member of their team called Tak goes missing and is gruesomely killed by an unseen foe. Later the same night Voyteche is killed by two Nazis. The next morning his and Tak's dead bodies are found linked together by the head, and Tak's containing a spent round in his skull. D.C. receives answers regarding the assignment from Hunt, which was that an unnamed corporation wanted Hunt to find and recover a large generator-like device which was responsible for the SS's reality-shifting experiments. D.C. orders Cotter to retrieve Hunt from the generator room. However, while trying to convince Hunt to come with him, an SS soldier with a pickaxe kills Cotter. It is revealed that the survivor the mercenaries recovered was actually a surviving SS brigadier general, with Prior killing the officer, the "breather" comes back to life and MacKay speaks his last words of "You're hummin' my balls!", and is killed. The mercenaries and Hunt attempt to evacuate the outpost only to be killed by the undead German army.
A second corporate team arrives 72 hours later to carry out the same assignment, only to "find a breather" among the piles of naked corpses and face the illuminated soldiers surrounding the bunker, in the distance stands the brigadier general who gives the SS soldiers a nod and they begin their assault on the team before the credits roll.
* * *
Jordan, D.C., Hunt and Prior in the bunker.
OUTPOST is a low budget movie in the best sense of the word. The producers and the director had about 200,000 GBP at their disposal for shooting a feature length movie and the result is astonishing, to say the least. Making good use of scarce exterior shots in a Scottish industrial park while centering much of the narrative around a set of only a handful of adaptable rooms and corridors and the very effective use of lighting and darkness never make it obvious that OUTPOST was essentially done on a Hollywood set's weekly catering budget.
There is a real sense of mystery and a certain realistic harshness in the movie's portrayal of what is supposed to be a wartorn unnamed eastern European country, and when they enter the bunker in that strangely deserted hollow for the first time you're not certain what to expect of it.
Atmospherically, OUTPOST reminded me of Dog Soldiers in a good way. It's about men usually good at what they do confronted by an outside context problem.
Surprisingly, it's neither the action nor the gore that carry the movie but the great chemistry and interaction between the diverse set of characters. I swear to you, each of these guys has a different accent, different take on events, different philosophy. Granted, some don't get to explain there's in detail due to premature cases of death, but Michael Smiley, Ray Stevenson and the others make up for it. They aren't all exactly likeable, but they are actual characters.
Lastly there are the movie's antagonists, and I find myself a bit enarmored by OUTPOST's take on the "undead Nazi" trope. The Waffen-SS commando unit that slowly kills D.C.'s mercs are not your regular undead. They are no mindless, flesh-eating zombies or "Wolfenstein"-like mutations. In fact, the best way to describe them would be as, well, soldiers. Soldiers from whom any shred of humanity and compassion and much of what defined them as individuals was ripped, but still soldiers. These are no mindless killing machine. Heartless, yes. Inhuman, sure. But not mindless. They work as a team, they use weapons (mostly of the stabby sort since, well, ammo degradation I guess) and they are utterly without mercy.
Is the movie perfect? Of course not. It has its share of problems. Ironically, despite OUTPOST's meager budget the production design and the equipment isn't among them. The main problem is the inconsistency in the undead Nazis' abilities (mental capacity-wise and supernatural). If you watch the movie and compare the scene in which Cotter gets killed in a one-on-one fight compared to how the undead act later you'll understand what I mean. All in all we're looking at a couple of logical gaps. They are no game breakers, but they are there.
Final Verdict: B+. OUTPOST is a nice little movie with a great, if largely noname, cast, good production values and a fresh menace. It should certainly be worth 90 minutes of your time and the few dollars it'll take you to fish it out of the bargain bin.
I feel obliged to mention that a sequel called OUTPOST: BLACK SUN exists. Don't watch it. Despite a much higher budget compared to OUTPOST it has all its flaws and none of its merits.
There are really only few things better than drinking an excellent Scottish single malt whiskey while talking about a film with an undead Waffen-SS killer commando unit...
The Plot - There By Spoilers (you've been warned)
In a seedy bar in a town ravaged by war, scientist and businessman Hunt (Julian Wadham) hires mercenary and former Royal Marine D.C. (Ray Stevenson) to assemble a crack team of ex-soldiers, Prior (Richard Brake), Jordan (Paul Blair), Cotter (Enoch Frost), Voytech (Julian Rivett), McKay (Michael Smiley) and Taktarov (Brett Fancy), to protect him on a dangerous journey into no-man's land. Their mission is to scope out an old military bunker in Eastern Europe. It should be easy – 48 hours at the most. Lots of cash for little risk. Or so he says...
Once at the outpost, the men make a horrific discovery that turns their mission on its head – the scene of a bloody and gruesome series of experiments, carried out by the SS, in reality shifting and reanimation during World War II to create invincible soldiers. Amidst the carnage, they find a survivor (Johnny Meres).
At night, the clearing around the bunker is suddenly lit up, and silhouettes of people are seen amongst the light. Soon after, a member of their team called Tak goes missing and is gruesomely killed by an unseen foe. Later the same night Voyteche is killed by two Nazis. The next morning his and Tak's dead bodies are found linked together by the head, and Tak's containing a spent round in his skull. D.C. receives answers regarding the assignment from Hunt, which was that an unnamed corporation wanted Hunt to find and recover a large generator-like device which was responsible for the SS's reality-shifting experiments. D.C. orders Cotter to retrieve Hunt from the generator room. However, while trying to convince Hunt to come with him, an SS soldier with a pickaxe kills Cotter. It is revealed that the survivor the mercenaries recovered was actually a surviving SS brigadier general, with Prior killing the officer, the "breather" comes back to life and MacKay speaks his last words of "You're hummin' my balls!", and is killed. The mercenaries and Hunt attempt to evacuate the outpost only to be killed by the undead German army.
A second corporate team arrives 72 hours later to carry out the same assignment, only to "find a breather" among the piles of naked corpses and face the illuminated soldiers surrounding the bunker, in the distance stands the brigadier general who gives the SS soldiers a nod and they begin their assault on the team before the credits roll.
* * *
Jordan, D.C., Hunt and Prior in the bunker.
OUTPOST is a low budget movie in the best sense of the word. The producers and the director had about 200,000 GBP at their disposal for shooting a feature length movie and the result is astonishing, to say the least. Making good use of scarce exterior shots in a Scottish industrial park while centering much of the narrative around a set of only a handful of adaptable rooms and corridors and the very effective use of lighting and darkness never make it obvious that OUTPOST was essentially done on a Hollywood set's weekly catering budget.
There is a real sense of mystery and a certain realistic harshness in the movie's portrayal of what is supposed to be a wartorn unnamed eastern European country, and when they enter the bunker in that strangely deserted hollow for the first time you're not certain what to expect of it.
Atmospherically, OUTPOST reminded me of Dog Soldiers in a good way. It's about men usually good at what they do confronted by an outside context problem.
Surprisingly, it's neither the action nor the gore that carry the movie but the great chemistry and interaction between the diverse set of characters. I swear to you, each of these guys has a different accent, different take on events, different philosophy. Granted, some don't get to explain there's in detail due to premature cases of death, but Michael Smiley, Ray Stevenson and the others make up for it. They aren't all exactly likeable, but they are actual characters.
Lastly there are the movie's antagonists, and I find myself a bit enarmored by OUTPOST's take on the "undead Nazi" trope. The Waffen-SS commando unit that slowly kills D.C.'s mercs are not your regular undead. They are no mindless, flesh-eating zombies or "Wolfenstein"-like mutations. In fact, the best way to describe them would be as, well, soldiers. Soldiers from whom any shred of humanity and compassion and much of what defined them as individuals was ripped, but still soldiers. These are no mindless killing machine. Heartless, yes. Inhuman, sure. But not mindless. They work as a team, they use weapons (mostly of the stabby sort since, well, ammo degradation I guess) and they are utterly without mercy.
Is the movie perfect? Of course not. It has its share of problems. Ironically, despite OUTPOST's meager budget the production design and the equipment isn't among them. The main problem is the inconsistency in the undead Nazis' abilities (mental capacity-wise and supernatural). If you watch the movie and compare the scene in which Cotter gets killed in a one-on-one fight compared to how the undead act later you'll understand what I mean. All in all we're looking at a couple of logical gaps. They are no game breakers, but they are there.
Final Verdict: B+. OUTPOST is a nice little movie with a great, if largely noname, cast, good production values and a fresh menace. It should certainly be worth 90 minutes of your time and the few dollars it'll take you to fish it out of the bargain bin.
I feel obliged to mention that a sequel called OUTPOST: BLACK SUN exists. Don't watch it. Despite a much higher budget compared to OUTPOST it has all its flaws and none of its merits.
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