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Ah, caught up at last. Loved the Deighton-esque spy post. Looking forward to the next installment.

Vann
 
Vann the Red said:
Ah, caught up at last. Loved the Deighton-esque spy post. Looking forward to the next installment.

Vann
Deighton has more sex. ;)
 
Originally Posted By dublish
Deighton has more sex.

True, but I suppose our beloved author doesn't want to get himself banned and/or the AAR deleted, so we'll just make do with violence. We Americans are strange sometimes.
 
Commander-DK - It would indeed be a twist. Don't think that's not a worry that will keep the Abwehr up at night. And thank you. In case there is any uncertainty (not that there has been so far), the AAR is a narrative.

I really appreciate the support of everyone who's voted for Weltkriegschaft so far! It's quite an honor, and I am thankful for the time each and every person took to vote.

trekaddict - Both fine guesses, my friend.

Vann the Red (1) - Thank you! About the behavior of the Allies, try to picture to the gullibility and foolishness of the historical Allies through 1940, and imagine how they would have acted had they not had the four years of warning signs that they did even then. All in all, I'd say they're not doing all that badly ;) . In all seriousness, though, do expect further information on why -- or whether -- they fell for the Abwehr's tricks throughout the ensuing chapters :) .

Kurt_Steiner - Good guesses! On the other hand, forum rules being what they are, we won't ever see the inside of Flossenburg. At worst, Canaris would go off to "That Happy Place" :rofl:

Vann the Red (2) - Glad you liked it. Next installment tonight.

dublish - That he does. This is Weltkriegschaft, after all -- not Geschlechtschaft.

Ironhewer - Well put, Ironhewer :D .

Vann the Red (3) - Actually, we've already seen her in a previous installment, although her real name isn't Emma. Iron Cross 2nd Class to the reader who can figure out where "Emma" first appeared!
 
Perhaps the overall shortage of female characters was a help to you, but you're right nonetheless. Well done, diziziz!

*pins honorary Iron Cross 2nd Class to diziziz's chest*
 
Chapter II: Part II

Chapter II: The Gambit of the West

Part II


February 8, 1936

The morning had been a rainy one, but thirty thousand people had flooded the Konradshöhe neighborhood which would be the scene of the public execution of the anti-Hitler conspirators. The Führer had directed that the executions be carried out in front of the house which had headquartered the Reinickendorf Circle conspiracy. The vast majority of those in attendance would not even have a view of the executions themselves, but packed themselves together nonetheless -- feeding on the feverish energy of the crowd.

Six stakes had been driven into the ground in front of the stately old house, one for each of the condemned: Lössner, Arcadeldt, Kastner, Tapp, Neumann and the Baroness von Leysen. The Führer had specified that the conspirators be shot -- seemingly judging hanging, beheading and impalement all too gruesome for the foreign journalists whom he had invited.

large_house.jpg

The large house in Konradshöhe that was the scene of the February 8th executions.


Victor Reinert and a heavily-disguised fellow Abwehr agent stood at the front of the crowd, warily watching the house’s front door. The executions were scheduled for nine in the morning exactly, and it was eight fifty-six. Reinert had slept little in recent weeks, exhaustively preparing the operation to save the life of Walther Neumann, fully aware that exposure at any time could cost him his life.

It was treason. Canaris had appealed to Hitler on Neumann’s behalf, and was flatly denied. If the plan was ever uncovered, there would be no chance to claim ignorance. Reinert swallowed. As an intelligence man, he knew whom the odds favored. “Any secret,” the Abwehr chief had once told him, “will be discovered sooner or later. Spies merely expedite this process, and counterspies merely delay it.”

Reinert and his team had pored over dozens of possible methods to hoodwink the executioners and the thousands of onlookers, but each had eventually proven unworkable. Initially, Reinert had hoped to switch the bullets of the men firing at Neumann for harmless blanks, but soon learned that a single firing squad would dispatch each person in turn. In the Abwehr’s basement, he had experimented with theatrical blood in hopes of finding a way to smuggle it onto Neumann’s person, but this too was ruled out when the Abwehr learned that a medical examiner would examine the bodies in situ, leaving no opportunity for post-execution tampering. All the other options -- armor, drugs, distractions, bribes and poison, to name a few -- proved unfeasible for one reason or another. Reinert’s final idea had been the riskiest of all.

The front doors opened. Twelve SS men descended the front steps and took up positions directly in front of Reinert. They were followed by a man in Party uniform whom Reinert recognized to be “Pipi” Glaubretz, one of the Old Guard Nazi thugs from the Munich days, and Hitler’s onetime herald. The paunchy Glaubretz stood at attention in the doorway and bellowed the litany of crimes that the condemned had been convicted of. Reinert was not listening.

When Glaubretz had finished his recitation, he stepped down and hurried through the crowd to the side of Rudolf Hess, who was perhaps the only one of the higher-ups to still maintain a friendship with him. The Führer himself would not be in attendance.

More SS men followed, leading the manacled prisoners. They were not hooded. Lössner appeared first, walking slowly and calmly to the first of the stakes, allowing himself to be tied to it without a struggle. He was followed by the violinist, Heinrich Tapp, sporting a broken nose and lacerated face. The two Belgians eyed their guards defiantly but like the others allowed themselves to be bound to the stakes. Soon, a woman’s screams echoed from within the house, and von Leysen came into view. Even at seventy-six, the Baroness kicked and struggled so badly that her guards had to physically carry her to the stake.

A sixth person emerged, but he was unrecognizable. Where Walther Neumann had once been proud and handsome, the man now dragged to the stake had been savagely beaten, his face swollen to garish proportions. Reinert could see that he had been cleaned up considerably, but blood still caked the sides of his bruised face. Hitler would not be pleased. Watching the reactions of the party officials and SS officer in charge, Reinert allowed himself a smile.

A priest was already moving down the line administering Last Rites, doing his best to shield the condemned from the flashbulbs that were now going off every second or so. The British and American journalists would stop at nothing to get dramatic photographs, Reinert mused. One attempted to cross the police cordon holding the crowd at bay, but was seized immediately by security officers.

Glaubretz had been sent back up to the doorway. “Before being executed, the condemned will now offer last words, by permission of the Führer!”

Reinert stared. Hitler is making himself out to be quite the chivalrous gentleman lately.

Lössner was given the first opportunity to speak. As he began, Reinert immediately realized that he had been drugged, probably to prevent him from launching into a coherent condemnation of the Führer, as well as to buttress the claim that the conspiracy was composed of lunatics and fanatics. Most interesting that they have done this.

Lössner seemed to slur his words, and spoke with the lilting quality of a man deranged. “M-may God have! Mercy! M-m-m-mercy. Mercy on, mercy on, mercy on.” Lössner’s voice fell to a whisper. Reinert could see how hard he was fighting the chemicals that clouded his mind. “God have mercy on Germany!”

The SS officer ordered the firing squad to aim. “Fire!”

Albert Lössner slumped, dead.

A shock went through the crowd. Those far away were merely startled by the noise. Those who witnessed the execution itself were horrified at the sudden pathos of what had unfolded. Reinert sensed that even some of the hardened Nazis were now ashamed by how gleefully they had watched the man’s last moments.

Heinrich Tapp was sobbing. Reinert saw the priest clasp him by the shoulders one last time before withdrawing. He was too distraught to say anything. As the firing squad took aim, he wailed above the officer’s orders. “I beg forgiveness, friends. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

His cries died in his throat as he slumped forward.

Arcadeldt was next. His matted hair hung down over his eyes. “Long live Belgium!”

He too went limp under a hail of bullets. Kastner followed him in death after shouting a similar sentiment.

The crowd was clearly uneasy now. This is not Bedlam or Newgate or an American lynching. Germans have never been used to seeing this sort of thing.

Baroness von Leysen was heckling the SS firing squad. “Look at you! Playing soldier with the pop-guns your little Corporal gave you. If one of you is man enough to shoot at a bound old woman, let him do it!”

The men hesitated, looking to their officer for guidance.

“At least untie me so it can be a fair fight, you cowards! Or are you afraid even to do that?”

Glaubretz was angrily pointing at the bewildered Hauptsturmführer and using his other hand to mime a pistol shot.

“The true Germany would never allow such men as you as it’s soldiers! Go home to your mothers!”

The officer drew his sidearm reluctantly.

“You! Over-thug! Don’t wave that thing around carelessly. You’ll hurt yourself.”

The firing squad had recovered its courage and now joined its officer in aiming at the defiant Baroness von Leysen. The Hauptsturmführer’s pistol discharged, hitting her in the shoulder. She convulsed, but was soon fighting at her restraints again.

“It takes more than that to kill a Prussian baroness, my boys!”

The rest of the men fired their weapons. This time it was enough, and Anna Freifrau von Leysen lay still at last.

Finally, the man whom Glaubretz had labeled “The Judas of Honest Germans” in his opening diatribe was given an opportunity to speak. The Abwehr agent at Reinert’s side seemed to tremble.

Reinert clenched his fists. The plan must succeed in seconds.

Out of the battered mouth there came a soft moan, unheard by most of the crowd. He was trying to form words, but they were slurred hopelessly. It must work. It must work.

“I…” He seemed to be fighting for coherence, just as Lössner had done. “I am not…” Let there be no delay.

Glaubretz was getting impatient. Again he gestured irritably to the officer in command of the firing squad. He nodded, and ordered weapons at the ready.

In the crowd, Heinrich Himmler was whispering something to a Standartenführer next to him. He pointed at the man tied to the stake and then to a group of nearby soldiers.

Hurry! Hurry!

With a clatter, twelve rifle-stocks hit the pavement. “Aim!”

As the Hauptsturmführer lifted his arm to give the order to fire, the agent next to Reinert began to run forward, shouting for them to stop. Reinert was on his guard, though, and grabbed him from behind, just as twelve bullets smashed their target’s head and chest.

Reinert felt a lurch in his stomach. Glaubretz had resumed his position and was launching into a closing harangue.

Reinert and his sobbing colleague slipped, numb, through the crowd. They walked in silence to the small park in Neustadt that they had once frequented before the war. Reinert tearfully embraced the other man before looking him in the eyes. “I need you to understand what I have done for you, Walther. Do not waste the second life you have today.”
 
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The baroness... what a lady.... It's odd that she wasn't under the effects of drugs.
 
I am confused. I can figure out that the man with the beaten face was not Neumann but a patsy (my, Abwehr are ruthless when they want to) but the sentense about riffles falling to the ground really threw me off. Whose riffles? The soldiers that Himler was pointing at?

Nice operation though. Great suspence.

:) Jesper
 
Commander-DK said:
I am confused. I can figure out that the man with the beaten face was not Neumann but a patsy (my, Abwehr are ruthless when they want to) but the sentense about riffles falling to the ground really threw me off. Whose riffles? The soldiers that Himler was pointing at?

Nice operation though. Great suspence.

:) Jesper
Agreed.

I suspect Himmler may have been at least partly aware that something was wrong... Could Reinert have begged a favor from the SS in order to pull this off?
 
Pipi Glaubretz! the name is perfect for someone like that!
 
I'll get to the other comments shortly, but a quick note based on Commander-DK's observation.

In reviewing what Commander-DK pointed out, I realized that that sentence was worded rather vaguely. Sorry. What was intended was that the rifle stocks hit the pavement in first ready position. This has now been clarified in the text. Apologies again :eek:o .
 
Commander-DK said:
I am confused. I can figure out that the man with the beaten face was not Neumann but a patsy (my, Abwehr are ruthless when they want to) but the sentense about riffles falling to the ground really threw me off. Whose riffles? The soldiers that Himler was pointing at?

Nice operation though. Great suspence.

:) Jesper

Call me a fool! Now I understand the "I am not..." The beaten face... I thought it could be saying "I am not a traitor", but it could also be "I am not the one you think", "I'm not Neumann", whatever.

How silly of me... For a moment I thought they have killed Neumann.

Have they done it? :confused:
 
Kurt_Steiner said:
How silly of me... For a moment I thought they have killed Neumann.

Have they done it? :confused:
Killed Neumann? It'd be rather silly of Reinart to address his companion as Walther then, wouldn't it?
 
dublish said:
Killed Neumann? It'd be rather silly of Reinart to address his companion as Walther then, wouldn't it?

Cover me with grease and then fill me with pink feathers... I've missed completely the last paragraph. Gosh. :eek:o
 
Kurt_Steiner (1), Pinkspider (1) - They were mainly concerned with drugging Loessner. Being an older woman, she would have had a rather serious risk of being accidentally killed if they tried to drug her.

Pinkspider (2) - Thank you :D

Commander-DK - Thank you as well! I took care of the rifles thing so it should now read more clearly.

dublish (1) - Perhaps ;) . That will certainly keep Reinert awake many nights.

SeleucidRex - Indeed. Glad you think so too!

Kurt_Steiner (2), dublish (2), Kurt_Steiner (3) - Better grease and feathers than tar and feathers ;) .
 
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Chapter II: Part III

Chapter II: The Gambit of the West

Part III


February 8, 1936

At his desk in the Berlin offices of the Völkischer Beobachter, Ernst Trommler sifted through newly-developed photographs from the executions in Konradshöhe. There was one of Pipi Glaubretz raising both arms like a conductor during his closing condemnation of the conspirators. In another, he was pointing indignantly at Heinrich Tapp. Trommler liked that one, but was disappointed to notice that the Gauleiter of Hamburg could be seen picking his nose -- just below Glaubretz’s outstretched arm, too, making it impossible to crop out the embarrassing gesture. The photograph went into the reject pile on the left side of Trommler’s desk.

Trommler caught sight of another -- this one showing one of the corpses after being cut down from its stake. The left side of the head had been blown off, revealing brain matter within. He wondered whether the photograph would be considered inappropriate. Trommler called into the next office. “Over-editor! I have something to ask you. Are you busy?”

There was no reply.

“Fritz, what do you think?” Craning his head to look at the picture, fellow under-editor Fritz Hansen shook his head.

“I don’t know. You should ask Sassen.”

Trommler took the questionable photograph in hand and made his way to the partially-open office door of the over-editor. He knocked. “Over-editor?”

Still no reply. Trommler peered in.

Over-editor Sassen sat his desk listening ashen-faced into his telephone. “Yes… Yes, of course.”

From across the room, Trommler could now hear someone fiercely yelling at Sassen on the other end. “Yes. Yes. I suppose you can if really -- yes. I’ll see you in a minute, then. Yes. Goodbye.” Sassen hung up the telephone.

“Is everything alright, sir?”

“Remember the piece about the American who is trying to export National Socialism to America?” Trommler nodded. “Well, now he says that that is not his intent at all, and he starts heaping destroying criticism on me by phone!”

“Where is he?”

“Probably on the stairs right now.”

“What?”

With a bang, the doors leading to the stairwell flew open, and CBS Berlin correspondent William L. Shirer stormed into the office. He pointed at Trommler accusatorily. “Are you Sassen?”

“I --”

Sassen appeared in the doorway. “I am Sassen.”

“How do you explain this?” Shirer brandished the January 22nd issue of the Beobachter at Sassen.

Sassen gestured for Hansen and Trommler to enter his office. “Mr. Shirer, I do not know what it is that has gotten you angry, but I am sure that we can resolve it in a sensible manner in my office.”

WilliamShirer3.jpg

William Shirer, as a correspondent for Columbia Broadcasting Service.


Beet-red, Shirer tromped into Sassen’s office behind the two under-editors. When they had all taken seats, Sassen ran a hand through his greased hair and leafed through the offending article. “So. You gave an interview, and now you are recanting the things you said in it. Why have your views changed?”

“They haven’t changed! You warped what I said!”

“Let’s take this line-by-line, Mr. Shirer, to see where you are concerned.”

“I’ll tell you where I am concerned!” He snatched the paper from Sassen’s hands at tapped his finger furiously on the headline. “‘Shirer and CBS for National Socialism’! That is what has me concerned you little --” Shirer swore in English.

Sassen tried to calm him. “Now, please let me read to you some of your own quotes and then tell me whether what we printed was unfair.”

Sassen scanned the article quickly. “Alright. Here. ‘America will one day go fascist democratically, by popular vote.’ Or here: “‘Adolf Hitler is a man whose ideology … ought be brought to America.’”

“This is absurd! In that dot-dot-dot I said that his ideology is so central to world events that word of it ought be brought to America.”

“I do not recall that.”

“Well I do!” Shirer’s moustache gleamed with perspiration. He swore again.

“Under-editor Hansen, please go to your file and retrieve the stenographic notes from the interview with Mr. Shirer.”

Fritz Hansen dutifully slipped out of the room to find the notes. Shirer jabbed a finger at Sassen. “And another thing -- you keep calling this an interview. I was stopped on the street to give these remarks.”

“Many interviews happen on the street. Some of your own reporting is thus.”

“But you said you were working for an Austrian newspaper!”

“Again, sir, I have no record of that. Ah!” Hansen had returned with the notes taken by the interviewer. Sassen thumbed through the pad. “Mr. Shirer, you can hardly accuse us of selectively using unfavorable quotations. I see here that you made some favorable remarks about National Socialism which we did not even use. Here: ‘It is the only way for America to rid itself of the clique of --’”

“I was quoting Fritz Kuhn you dolt!”

Sassen continued reading from the article. “Or here: ‘I hope that my reporting will show all Americans the promise of National Socialism’.”

“I never said that!” Shirer rose to his feet, shaking with rage. “That’s a damnable lie and you know it!”

Sassen seemed to have become hardened against the bluster, and would have no more of it. “Mr. Shirer, if you have any further concern, please have an actual CBS representative contact our offices. In the meanwhile, I’m sorry to hear that you are disappointed with the story.” Sassen held out his hand.

Declining to shake it, Shirer roared, snatching the newspaper from Sassen’s hand -- and thundered out of the office.

The door to the stairwell slammed in the distance. It was silent in Sassen’s office for some time. “Hansen, did you manage to take down any of Mr. Shirer’s parting comments?”

The under-editor beamed, holding up a second stenography pad. “Every word.”