Resolute Nazi Read online

  Resolute Nazi

  The Parallel Nazi – Book 5

  Ward Wagher

  Resolute Nazi

  The Parallel Nazi – Book 5

  Ward Wagher

  Copyright © 2020 Paris Mountain Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798637292653

  Cover Photo by Justin Campbell on Unsplash

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Finley and Isaiah, cousins and grandsons who were born during the final stages of the first draft of this novel. Hopefully, they will grow up to enjoy Pop’s fiction.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, thanks to Bob, Ric, Walter, and Don, who provided feedback during the creation of this story. Your free advice and assistance are much appreciated.

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 10, 1943; 7AM

  Factory Number 183

  Kharkiv, Ukraine, USSR

  The Soviet Union was at war. As the newspapers and radio brayed incessantly, the corrupt and greedy Germans had stabbed the motherland in the back with a surprise attack. The country was at war, and the narod or the people rallied to the fight. The workers at Factory Number 183 struggled to recover from their Sunday away from the factory. The time spent with friends and family was pleasant and alcoholic.

  In 1940 the Russian government abandoned its experiment of shift work. Under this scheme, the workers’ five-day workweeks were staggered across the calendar so that Sundays were minimized as a holiday. The government hoped the people would treat one day as another. While the Russian people in the cities were no longer terribly religious, they were quick to return to old habits. While productivity had returned, so had the ancient practice of a workforce struggling to overcome their hangovers on Mondays.

  Sergeant Hans Friedmann and Corporal Uwe Baumann of the German Military Intelligence Service, the Abwehr, were dressed as ordinary Russian workmen as they entered the gates of Factory Number 183, which was the largest tank factory in Russia, and perhaps the whole world. It was here Soviet workers proudly built the T-34 tanks, which had raised such havoc with the German Army.

  The size of the workforce made the anonymity of the two Germans possible. It helped that they both spoke fluent Russian. Another benefit to the mission Friedmann noticed was an announcement in the newspaper that the manager of the maintenance department in Factory Number 183 had been arrested and shot for diverting maintenance funds to build his dacha in the countryside outside of Kharkiv. The new manager had recently arrived from Moscow and would not have had time to familiarize himself with the maintenance crew.

  Friedmann and Baumann conversed idly in Russian as they made their way to the maintenance department.

  “Everybody seems pretty hungover this morning,” Baumann commented. “I wonder how much vodka they consumed yesterday.”

  “Total or per capita?” Friedmann asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  They both chuckled as Friedmann selected a ladder and Baumann a spool of copper cable. They then walked to a windowed area where there was adequate lighting for the shop floor. Mounted along the wall was a bank of circuit breaker cabinets. Friedmann visually tracked the wiring from the overhead lights to one of the enclosures.

  “This one, I think,” Friedmann said, opening the cabinet.

  He briefly studied the cabinet and then donned a pair of heavy leather gloves. “Get your gloves on,” he instructed Baumann.

  “I really hate working on live circuits,” Baumann complained.

  “Where is your sense of adventure, my friend?” Friedmann asked.

  “I believe it left me about three months ago when we started crawling around in the Polish woods.”

  “Is everything all right, Comrades?” came the voice of one of the supervisors, who happened by.

  “The night shift complained about the lights flickering,” Friedman replied without turning around. “Probably a loose connection somewhere.”

  He had his hands in the innards of the fuse box and did not want to make a mistake. Baumann turned and grinned at the supervisor.

  “Just don’t electrocute yourselves,” the Russian said. “I don’t think it would be a pleasant way to die.”

  “And not a good way to die for the revolution,” Baumann commented.

  The Russian laughed. “Just so. I am glad to see you on the job today. Too many are still drunk.”

  “Right,” Friedmann replied. “Thanks, Comrade.”

  Once the supervisor walked away, the two men exchanged glances, then Baumann began unwinding the copper cable from the spool. Friedmann meticulously wound the copper around the lugs of the fuse cartridges, being careful not to touch the sides of the box with the wire, which was now live.

  After clipping the wire, Friedmann studied his work and then nodded. He closed the box and slipped the hasp of the small padlock through the latch.

  “There. That should keep any of our friends from getting curious.”

  They carried the ladder and the wire into the center of the shop floor. Friedmann extended the ladder to lean against one of the roof trusses. He nodded to Baumann, who scampered up the ladder. Once near the ceiling, he carefully unscrewed a lightbulb. He pushed a Russian coin into the socket and then screwed the light bulb against the metal disk.

  Since their work was done in that area, the two made their way to another section of the factory and rewired the lighting circuit in the same manner. The Russian who eventually flipped the switch to turn on the lights that afternoon would unwittingly throw a dead short into the electrical circuit. The wire in the circuit box would prevent the fuses from blowing. The heavy current would either blow a fuse further up the line or cause a fire somewhere. Friedmann was content to eventually slip out of the factory at the shift change and leave the rest in the hands of blind chance.

  As they walked through the plant, Baumann spotted a door with a No Smoking sign affixed to it. He nudged Friedmann, who nodded. There was a padlocked door, so Baumann looked ar
ound briefly, then slid a pry bar into the hasp. The cheap Russian lock snapped open without much effort, and they walked into the room. Stacked along one wall were buckets of chemicals. Along the side were several 55-gallon drums.

  “Looks like Toluene,” Friedmann said. “This suggests possibilities.”

  “I thought it might,” Baumann responded. “Should we just let something leak?”

  “We might help the process along,” the other man said, looking around. “Got a screwdriver?”

  “Ja. Here we go.” He handed the screwdriver to Friedmann.

  He grasped the electrical cable that ran along the wall to the light and pried the staples loose. He then switched the light off and pulled the globe off the fixture, revealing the bare bulb. Swinging the lamp to the floor, he gave the bulb a couple of quick taps with the head of the screwdriver. There was a pop as the glass shattered, leaving the bare filament. He left that lying on the floor.

  “Hammer?” Friedmann asked, holding out his hand.

  Baumann handed him the hammer from his tool belt. Tapping on the screwdriver, he introduced a pin-hole leak in the drum of Toluene.

  “I believe our tasks here are complete,” Friedmann said.

  “We might find an appointment someplace else in the city.”

  “It has been a productive day, I believe. I have always enjoyed factory work.”

  Although they had not been able to spend any time in the main production area of the factory, they had worked their way around many of the ancillary departments. After the shift change, they walked out of the plant into the afternoon twilight. With the onset of the war, many of the boarding houses were empty – the men having left to join the Red Army. The two German soldiers slipped into one of the small apartments where they had hidden their cache of uniforms, food, and weapons. This far behind enemy lines, they were expected to live off the land, and they were resourceful.

  Dressed again in the uniforms of a Red Army captain and lieutenant, the two walked to the train station and boarded a train to Moscow. They would arrive sometime the next day. Friedmann planned to catch up on his sleep during the trip. Baumann thought about what they had accomplished and wondered what the Russian response to their actions would be.

  § § §

  May 10, 1943; 7PM

  Reich Chancellor’s Apartments

  Reich Chancellery

  Berlin, Germany

  “I am glad you were able to be home this evening, Hennie,” Gisela Schloss said. “You have been working much too hard lately.”

  Heinrich Schloss, the Chancellor of the German Reich, as well as the unquestioned master of Western Europe, leaned back on the sofa with a deep sigh.

  “I probably should not have come home so soon, since the rest of the people in the building are still at work, but I am learning there is a price to be paid for all the hours in the office.”

  “I am glad that you know that, Darling,” she said as she slid onto the sofa next to him and drew her legs under her. “You are sometimes hard to convince.”

  “Thank you,” he replied with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  He looked fondly at the red-haired woman who sat beside him and marveled at her beauty. She was tall and willowy, standing above shoulder-height to his six-foot frame. She looked over at the man she had grown to love. He was a lean six-footer with dark brown hair and the appearance of an ascetic.

  He briefly thought about the events that had brought him to Nazi Germany, although those remembrances grew dim as time went on. The Heinrich Schloss, who was a history professor in 1982 Berlin, was somehow bounced into 1941 Berlin in time to witness Hitler’s death in a plane crash. As he later learned, he was the Nazi party leader following his murder of Martin Bormann. He had immediately fallen into a world of intrigue where he schemed for his life against Heinrich Himmler. The eventual outcome resulted in him sitting in the Chancellor’s office and struggling to preserve Germany in a world where the nation had few friends.

  Over the following two years, he had adroitly avoided war with Russia and the United States and had forced Great Britain to the peace table. Schloss was convinced that he had finally bought a measure of peace for the country when Stalin had begun moving his country towards war. Despite Schloss’s best efforts to forestall an invasion from the East, Schloss now faced an existential conflict and one he was terrified of losing.

  “Was today very bad, Darling?” Gisela asked as she slid her fingers through the hair on the back of his head.

  “I am not sure that I am having any good days, My Dear,” he responded. “I wonder if stopping the Russians is somehow like trying to stop the tide. We hurt them badly on the opening day of the war, but they keep coming.”

  “How can Stalin keep advancing?” she asked.

  “I do not know. Guderian and Rommel have proven adept at preserving our forces. But we cannot retreat forever.”

  “Can they make it as far as Berlin, Darling?”

  Schloss shook his head. “It seems Stalin thinks so, obviously. Gehlen’s people had picked up information in Moscow that says Stalin wants to march to the Atlantic.”

  “I wonder if that is even possible,” she said.

  “Hitler managed to do it,” he replied. “So, it has been done once. And for the most part, we must face Stalin alone. We are at peace with the English, but I cannot envision a situation where the Queen would allow herself to be dragged into another war on the continent. The Americans are friendly, but they have their own problems in the Pacific. I told Cerano to stay out of it. I am afraid the Italians would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

  “But Cerano could keep things under control in the Mediterranean.”

  “Right, and that is where the Italians will be most valuable as allies. They are not much as a military power, but they are a solid commercial nation. Plus, they will help us develop the oil fields in Libya.”

  “And we haven’t talked about Judaea,” she commented.

  “True. But the Jews have their challenges in Palestine. If they get a road through to Baghdad and a pipeline, they will see their value increase. I only hope that Stalin doesn’t take it upon himself to invade Persia or Iraq. That would complicate our lives.”

  “Could he do that?” she asked. “It seemed to me like he has found the war with Germany to be much more difficult than he expected.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Frau Marsden rumbled into the sitting room. “Dinner is now served, Herr Reich Chancellor, Frau Schloss.”

  Schloss stood up and helped Gisela to her feet. “I am rather hungry, Frau Marsden. I trust you will not let us down with your cooking.”

  “Hush, Hennie,” Gisela said, slapping his hand. “When has Frau Marsden ever let us down with her cooking?”

  “I suppose there is always a first time,” he said with a smile.

  “I do not think you will be disappointed tonight, Herr Schloss,” the old woman said.

  Frau Marsden was another of the mysteries of this world Schloss now inhabited. One of his early discoveries upon his arrival in June of 1941 was that he was a widower with two children and a fearsome housekeeper. The old lady knew things. It was clear she knew he came from another world. She had abilities that seemed beyond human ken.

  On at least one occasion that he knew of, she had intervened directly to rescue him from a military coup. It seemed she could move around Berlin and the country without anyone else being so much the wiser. Yet she provided scant information to Schloss, obviously preferring to allow him to find out what he needed to know on his own.

  Sitting at the dinner table with Gisela, he was reminded once again of Frau Marsden’s many talents. She could turn the simplest of meals into a superb experience. Both Gisela and his sister Renate Schreiber spent time in the kitchen trying to learn her cooking secrets. They both increased their cooking skills significantly, yet no one could match the old lady’s achievements in the kitchen.

  The stress melted away from Schloss du
ring the meal and the evening with Gisela. He had almost forgotten about the office by the time he went to bed. When he turned the light off and rolled over to sleep, Frau Marsden slipped down the hallway and stood outside the bedroom door for several minutes. Finally, she nodded and returned to her tasks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  May 11, 1943; 9AM

  Governing Council Meeting Room

  Reich Chancellery

  Berlin, Germany

  “Tell me about the war,” Heinrich Schloss commanded.

  Hermann Goering looked at Schloss and then looked over at General Guderian, nodding slightly.

  Guderian cleared his throat and began. “The bad news, Herr Reich Chancellor, is that we have not succeeded in stopping the Russians. They have advanced about fifty kilometers past the border. The good news is that we are bleeding them badly. Our losses have not been significant.”

  Schloss pursed his lips and glanced at the other men. He then studied the map in the center of the massive table. “Please explain the reasons behind your statement, General.”

  “Yes, Sir. Our best estimates are that the Red Army came over the border with something like four times the forces we had at hand. The sack we led them into on the first morning reduced the disparity to something like two to one. They continue to press forward.”

  “What are we doing to stop them?” Schloss asked.

  “First of all, the Luftwaffe owns the air over the battlefield. The Reichsmarshall has crafted a layered arrangement. The Stukas are providing the low-level support of our troops and have only to worry about ground fire. We have fighter support above that, and the Swallows are providing top cover. The Boeing bombers have been decent at interdicting the enemy’s logistics. Their accuracy is not great; however, when fifty or sixty bombers walk their bombs across the roads and rail lines, the result is impressive.”

  Schloss looked up and grinned slightly at Goering, who was looking very proud of himself. It was easy to forget that the pompous windbag was a decent tactician.