Chapter II: Part XIII
Chapter II: The Gambit of the West
Part XIII
April 7, 1936
By four in the morning, the huge fireplace in the Berghof’s great room had burned down to crackling embers. Admiral Canaris had come alone to Berchtesgaden the evening before in a desperate attempt to convince the Führer of the threat from France. Hitler had summoned Cristoph Scholl, instructing him to take faithful notes of the admiral’s comments. The Spymaster had presented more than seven hundred pages of documents, fourteen reconnaissance photographs and a small canister of poison gas stolen from a forward depot along the Maginot Line. The Führer had proven maddening in outright rejection of everything Canaris had said or shown him. He had, though, proven willing to listen to the entire presentation, many hours past his normal retiring. As the dead hours of the night advanced, Hitler had grown weary -- yawning frequently, rubbing his eyes and losing track of the conversation.
Aerial reconnaissance showed troubling military and industrial buildup in France, and to a lesser extent Britain.
Scholl found his pen drifting downwards across the page in a long streak. He shook his head. His right hand throbbed dully. They had been going in circles for hours, it seemed. Each of the admiral’s points was refuted by Hitler’s confident assurance that France would never attack, phrased slightly differently with each iteration. The difference was beginning to tell, though. While Hitler’s head swayed sleepily, Canaris’ was still firm and upright.
The man’s stamina is incredible.
Canaris doggedly made his case late into the night.
At last, Canaris seemed to see an opening as his Führer buried his face in his hands. “Only one more piece of intelligence, and then we shall retire. I am holding in my hands now a telegram sent to General Condé that was decrypted by the Abwehr. It reads: ‘Most Secret, eleven thirty, March twenty-second, 1936. General, your request is utterly refused. Operational authority continues to rest with the High Command, which forbids independent action of any kind whatsoever. Any orders will come from High Command. Signed Gamelin.’”
The Führer stared listlessly at the paper in Canaris’ hands. “Signed Gamelin, signed Gamelin,” he repeated quietly to himself.
“Mein Führer, rather than giving you my interpretation of this message, I would like it if you gave me your own. What do you think?”
“I think,” Hitler said, breathing deeply, “I think that Britain’s loyalty is too uncertain at the moment for France to attack.”
“Perhaps that is so, but I am asking why Gamelin would write such a thing to the General in command of the armies which as I have already told you, appear to be preparing an offensive against Germany.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters because there is currently a ninety kilometer gap between the only two divisions along the Franco-Belgian frontier, and because the divisions that are supposed to be guarding Germany’s border with France have had much of their heavy weaponry shipped back to Berlin! Mein Führer, do you remember what the twenty-second of March was?”
“It was, uhm, Heldengedenktag, no?”
“It was. Do you remember personally summoning each of the divisional commanders to the ceremonies, along with the entire staffs of most of the army corps in the West?”
“Yes, so?”
Canaris’ eyes flashed. “Mein Führer, the French were well aware that the vast majority of our leadership was in Berlin watching you play Napoleon while --”
“Enough. Speak quietly or get out, admiral.”
There were several seconds of silence in which Scholl could again hear the faint crackling in the fireplace.
“My apologies. What I am trying to say is that the Abwehr believes that the French are planning military action of some sort. From the fact that the High Command forbids independent action, it can be inferred that some other kind of action is permitted. Because of the date, I would infer that perhaps Condé sought to push up the date of this action to coincide with the vulnerability of the Wehrmacht on that particular day.”
“If it comes, it comes.”
“What?”
“The attack. If you are all so sure that France is about to wipe Germany off the map again, why trouble ourselves?”
The Spymaster clenched his small fists until they turned white. “I realize that you have been up very late, as have I. All I ask is that Germany takes reasonable steps to defend its frontier. If you authorize this, the Abwehr believes the attack will not come.”
“I will consider what you have said.”
“It is not yet too late, Mein Führer. There are probably several days to a week to act, in which time, it will be possible to merely shift enough men to the border to discourage attack. In that time, you can begin a propaganda offensive of your own.”
“As I have said, I shall consider it.”
Sharp footfalls announced the approach of Standartenführer Junge, who emerged into the faint firelight still wearing his crisp black uniform. “Heil! There is an urgent telephone call for the Führer. The caller insists that it is of a most sensitive nature.”
Hitler nodded. “Thank you, Admiral. You may go. Scholl, see him off, please.” Waving them off, the groggy Führer followed the SS officer into his private study to take the call.
Scholl gathered his three filled notebooks and followed Canaris out of the great room and into the foyer. Donning his overcoat, the admiral turned to face Hitler’s young adjutant. “Have I at least convinced you, Herr Scholl?”
“You have, Admiral. I will speak to the Führer again in private if you like. As you said, it is probably not too late if he can at least resolve himself.”
“Yes, goodnight --”
An unhinged roar came from deep within the Berghof.
Canaris winced. “Whatever that is, it cannot be good. I’ll leave you to it, then, Herr Scholl.”
With that, the Spymaster turned, and passed through the chalet’s front doors and onto the driveway where his staff car waited. Scholl heard the engine start and then fade away down the long mountain road.