Questions That Require Answers
Kommando Spezialkräfte Temporary Operations Headquarters
Saint Helena, German Military District SA1
December 31, 1947
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Recap:
Prelude
The Yorktown Briefing
Merry Christmas, General
The Good of the Many
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If you were looking for an isolated place to leave behind the trappings of humanity, you would list Saint Helena as your first choice. Or at least in the top three. About one thousand kilometers from the nearest large land mass – or at least land masses larger than a postage stamp, the hunk of volcanic rocks that comprised Saint Helena were the perfect place to get in touch with one’s pre-civilization roots.
No wonder the British chose it as the best place to exile the French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. If you wanted someone to be out of your hair and really never want to worry about them again, shipping them off to Helena was the way to go. First discovered by the Portuguese navigator João da Nova and named after Flavia Iulia Helena, the mother of Roman Emperor Constantine the First, the island had originally been a port of call and rendezvous point for ships homebound from Asia. Since its capture from the British in 1944, the island had been an important U-Boat pen, creating havoc for South Atlantic shipping.
For those stationed on the island though, it was a dismal existence. Unless you liked fish or flax or were a budding botanist and loved the idea of getting up close and personal with the wholly remarkable cabbage tree. The Germans figured this out quickly, and that’s why the number one import to Helena from Capetown, the South African port who serviced Helena, was Russian vodka. Since the former Soviet lands were incorporated into the Greater Reich, “Russian Water” was the cheapest and most popular drink among the working class of Germany, and particularly loved by the soldiers who spent many years slogging it out through the Russian countryside.
Oberführer Johann Schmidt was one of those soldiers.
Alcohol had little actual effect on him - thanks to the quirk of nature that was his birth, he had an abnormally high tolerance for such things, but he did enjoy the taste. He also found that the partaking on a regular basis made him a little more human in the eyes of his men, lessening that whole "face of death" persona he had going for him.
There were times, though, when he felt he just needed a damn drink. Reading Sturmhauptführer Fransisco Millán-Astray‘s operational debriefing was one of those moments.
“So, Guderian never showed in Buenos Aires,” Schmidt asks.
“No, Herr Oberst. We had every available entry point covered round the clock – if he came in, it was dressed as an old peasant woman.”
“Somehow, Fransisco, I just don’t think that is The Iron Fist’s style.”
“No, Herr Oberst.”
“This rotational route system the Americans incorporated – this was completely new to you?”
“Yes,” Millán-Astray answers. “It was not present in Santiago or La Paz. The only problem it really presented was a logistical one, as we had all the routes covered anyways.”
Schmidt continues to read the report.
“The security around the secondary and even the tertiary targets was very tight, Herr Oberst. Patton and Stillwell didn’t take a leak without two of those M38s there to hold their hand.”
“But the M38s were consistent with security patterns established previously,” Schmidt asks.
“Within an acceptable range. A slight variance, but nothing that could be considered out of the norm,” Millán-Astray replies.
“As I have indicated in the report, Herr Oberst, without the primary target available, or without the possibility of a primary extraction, I shifted priority to the most viable secondary target and proceeded along that avenue.”
“The American OSS liaison,” Millán-Astray continues, “actually helped us out by sending the M38s home. While we factored in the fact that security would be lax around Christmas, we didn’t anticipate a present that substantial.”
“Well, Fransisco, fortune always favors the bold.”
Schmidt stands up and grabs three glasses – for himself, Millán-Astray and his second in command, Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny, and pours drinks for everyone.
“Commendations all around, Fransisco. A brilliantly achieved extraction. All those involved will be recommended for the War Service Cross.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberst,” Millán-Astray replies as he accepts his drink.
“I will also recommend that you be given the German Cross.”
“That is very generous, Herr Oberst.”
“You always wanted the Party emblem for the near sighted,” Skorzeny chips in, “haven’t you Fransisco?”
“It is an honor just to serve,” Millán-Astray humbly replies.
“Go and enjoy the festivities with the men. There are a dozen or so extra cases of vodka that the quartermaster in Capetown accidentally sent us. Make sure to tell the men that I want it all drank before we ship out tomorrow. No sense leaving it behind.”
“Of course, Herr Oberst,” Millán-Astray replies, grinning from ear to ear.
Schmidt smiles as well, and the smile stays on his face until Millán-Astray exits the room.
“The Reichsführer will want to award you as well, Herr Oberst,” Skorzeny breaks the silence.
“For what, Otto? Failure?”
“Herr Oberst – while we didn’t grab Guderian, the man we did grab is more than just a consolation prize.”
Schmidt listens to Skorzeny as he drinks.
“His head will go magnificently on the mantle alongside Montgomery and Bogdanov.”
“But now the Americans will tighten their security making the next attempt at Guderian that much more difficult. You only get a first chance once.”
Schmidt thinks for a moment.
“Where the hell was Guderian? That’s the first question I want answered, Otto. I want to know where the hell Guderian was and why he wasn’t in Buenos Aires.”
“Do you suspect that he was warned?”
“Of course I suspect that.”
“Every single person,” Schmidt continues, “who had access to VerschwenderischerSohn, Otto, I want them accounted for.”
“Of course, Herr Oberst – I will see to it immediately when we return to Brest.”
“If we did get burnt by someone, if there is a traitor in Berlin who warned the Americans, I want their damn testicles stapled to my wall.”
“Of course, Herr Oberst.”
Schmidt smiles at his long-time friend.
“Go and enjoy the vodka, Otto. Enjoy the day. I will see to our guest.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberst,” Otto replies and then leaves the room.
Schmidt sits alone in his office.
Could Guderian be dead already, Schmidt asks himself. I
s that why he didn’t show up in Buenos Aires?
No – the Americans wouldn’t be able to keep that kind of a bombshell under wraps.
Perhaps our friend knows something.
Schmidt walks down the hallway to a looping set of stairs. Originally designed as trap door leading down to a smuggler’s alcove, the stairway now worked its way down to a holding cell. Dank, cold, with a constant drip from the rock, it was a chillingly depressing place meant to convey to a prisoner that hope had fully abandoned them.
Schmidt descends the stairs and comes to the holding cell. Motioning to the hulking KSK guard, the prisoner’s hood is taken off.
Schmidt and the prisoner study each other for a moment.
“Good afternoon. My name is Oberführer Johann Schmidt of the Kommando Spezialkräfte. You are to accompany me to Berlin where I am sure your presence will cause quote a commotion.”
“Until then, Schmidt continues, “however, you are to my guest. I have questions that require answers. Cooperate fully, and your time with me will be – well, not pleasant, but bearable. However, and I must stress this point, if I feel that you are withholding even the slightest bit of information - then I can assure you that you will feel pain beyond recognition.”
“So, General Bradley, shall we begin?”
