The Hydra Nemesis: A World War II Commando Novel

By Michael André Ford

WWII 1943: An OSS spy, SAS troops & US Rangers try to seize Hitler's new bioweapon. To stop this, the Abwehr recalls a Colonel & his Brandenburger commandos. More action than Where Eagles Dare, The Eagle Has Landed, The Dirty Dozen or The Guns of Navarone!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781609840761

Book preview

Author

PROLOGUE

NOVEMBER 3, 1942

THE DISASTER AT EL ALAMEIN, EGYPT

ROMMEL’S HEADQUARTERS

     In the extreme heat of the day, a solitary German tank rumbled close.  It slowed as it approached headquarters.  Both it and a lone figure perched in the turret cupola were painted a whitish gray by kilometers of dust.

     The tank halted, rocking slightly.  The ghost-like figure of an officer moved nimbly onto the superstructure’s exterior.  A final, energized leap from the steel crate’s front fender brought the man to the desert floor and before an audience eagerly awaiting his return.

     With a few brisk slaps to his uniform, the Supreme Commander of Panzerarmee Afrika brought miniature clouds of dirt swirling to life.  His gloved fingers lifted up a favorite pair of British goggles to reveal raccoon-like eyes.  His face looked worn.

     The famed Desert Fox, Erwin Johannes Eugen Rommel and the German General the British feared most, watched as a senior staff officer stepped rapidly out of the assembled group and approached.  In his hand lay a telegram.

     Hitler must agree to my request for withdrawal, Rommel thought.  If not, all is lost. 

     With a crisp salute, Lieutenant Colonel Siegfried Westphal arrived.  The aide said little more than a few punctual, emotionless words.  The Führer’s order is here, Sir. 

     Rommel searched his comrade’s face.  A very bad sign, the Desert Fox concluded.  With a sigh, the Field Marshal steeled himself and took the message, knowing the future of an entire Wehrmacht Army was now in his hands:

TO FIELD-MARSHAL ROMMEL:

I, YOUR FÜHRER, ALONG WITH THE ENTIRE PEOPLE OF GERMANY HAVE THE UTMOST FAITH IN YOUR SKILLS AS A MILITARY COMMANDER.  THE BRAVE GERMAN AND ITALIAN SOLDIERS UNDER YOUR LEADERSHIP MUST CONTINUE THE HEROIC DEFENSIVE STRUGGLE IN EGYPT.  EVERY RESOURCE AVAILABLE - EACH SOLDIER, GUN, AND TANK - MUST BE COMMITTED TO VICTORY AND BROUGHT TO BEAR ON THE ENEMY.

CONSIDERABLE AIR FORCE REINFORCEMENTS ARE BEING SENT TO COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF SOUTH TO AID YOU.  THE DUCE AND THE COMMANDO SUPREMO ARE ALSO SPARING NO EFFORTS TO SEND YOU RESOURCES TO SUSTAIN YOUR POSITION.

EVEN THOUGH YOU CONFRONT A NUMERICALLY SUPERIOR ENEMY, YOU WILL SAP THE ENEMY’S STRENGTH TO THE POINT WHERE ARMY GROUP AFRIKA CAN ONCE AGAIN DOMINATE THE BATTLEFIELD.  THE OVERALL STRATEGIC SITUATION DEMANDS THAT THE EL ALAMEIN SECTOR BE HELD TO THE VERY LAST MAN. 

THERE IS TO BE NO RETREAT COUNTENANCED WHATSOEVER, NOT SO MUCH AS ONE METRE! 

NO FATE AWAITS YOUR TROOPS EXCEPT VICTORY OR DEATH!

                                                 -ADOLF HITLER

     Rommel kept his disappointment hidden but his blood began to boil.  The order was ludicrous.  He found himself unconsciously searching the heavens above for an answer.  A thought came like a ray of hope through the dust clouds to preserve the retreat whose preparations he had already put in place.

     Siegfried, I know what we must do, Rommel began… 

     The Führer’s order was immediately circulated to the troops but was neither completely obeyed nor disobeyed.  The confusion was already too great among many commanders, and it was this confusion that Rommel exploited.  What ensued was tacit approval for his officers to continue their planned pullback. 

     On account of Rommel’s disobedience, El Alamein did not mark the final day for Axis troops in Africa.  German forces survived to fight on.  The struggle continued for another bloody six months until the inevitable happened.  There was no more ground to give to the Allies.  Now, the whole of German defenses in Tunisia teetered as British forces, reinforced by the newly-arrived Americans and French, prepared at long last to deal a final death blow, pushing Germany out of Africa…

MAY 11, 1943

THE FINAL HOURS BEFORE THE GERMAN COLLAPSE IN AFRIKA NEAR ST. MARIE DU ZIT, TUNISIA

     As night fell, a thousand stars winked on.  One group of men lay still in absolute silence, waiting and watching a far-off military camp.  Beneath khaki uniforms, tan bodies trembled in the icy cold darkness.  When word finally came to move out, some exhaled noisily with relief for it meant a chance at warmth.

     Two hundred specially handpicked soldiers, with faces greased black, inched forward in unison, not daring to breathe again.  Adrenaline coursed through English veins.  Pulses raced. 

     Stealth was critical.  Crêpe-soled shoes scuffled lightly on the desert sand.  With weapons up and ready, the British stole forward toward the enemy objective.

     Tonight’s deep-penetration raiding force was composed mostly of volunteers from the 51st Highland Division.  A half-dozen, elite commandos from the Long Range Desert Group called the shots.  Just before sunset earlier in the evening, a British spotter plane had chanced upon the makeshift headquarters of what was believed to be the famed German 90th Light Division. 

     The camp was a smattering of forty tents with roughly twice as many vehicles and a few lights flickering faintly within.  Montgomery and the British Command hoped a surprise strike at this tactical nerve center might throw the entire division into disarray.  With luck, the British might possibly even force its surrender.

     All over Tunisia, the war was at a frenzied and final pitch. 

     Weary Axis soldiers from Rommel’s Panzer armies were being beaten into submission or thrown back into a tighter box.  An end to hostilities on the continent was but days away.  That much was clear to all.  In spite of this, most German units fought on stubbornly.  For the common soldier, it was as much a question of simple survival as it was of upholding one’s personal duty to the Fatherland. 

    The large raiding force fanned out, shuffling across the sand towards their objective.  At a hundred meters out, a British LRDG officer with a shoulder holster paused.  He raised a Very pistol skyward but kept his eyes purposefully forward as he pulled the trigger. 

     A white magnesium flare streaked up, shattering the desert night.  For the briefest moment, the flare’s quiet hiss was the only noticeable noise.  An eerie angelic glow settled over the makeshift enemy headquarters. 

     The surprise was complete, and the killing began in earnest. 

     With guns blazing, the British troops swept in, raking the few German sentries on duty unluckily caught off guard.  Muffled cries were drowned out in the sudden one-sided firefight.  The distinctive sound of Tommy guns rattled furiously. 

     A lone, fiery scream erupted clearly above the fray.  "Kamerad! Hilf mir!"  The familiar cry of a wounded German was met by a second British burst that silenced him. 

     Frantic shouts of "Alarmen!" rang out across the camp.  Whistles shrilled.  Candles and lanterns were hastily doused.  A German call to arms ensued. 

Enemy attack!  Everyone to action stations!  Achtung!

     Return fire sounded, but precious seconds had been lost in the camp’s defense.  The Tommies fanned out among tents and vehicles.  English grenades sailed forward.  Explosions began to punctuate the withering chatter of small arms fire that engulfed the defenders. 

    On both sides, soldiers furiously emptied submachine gun magazines or worked rifle bolts.  Tracers stretched into the night.  The battle turned grim for the Germans. 

     Two more flares, this time green, soared up, adding a weird brilliance to the death match below.  The new signal called for British reinforcements just over the hill.  In response, fifteen scout cars mixed with a few Ford 15-cwt V-8 pickups, a favorite of the LRDG, rolled into sight at high speed from the distant dunes. 

     In the new flickering emerald twilight, confusion reigned.  Men dropped like flies, with a few felled accidentally by their own comrades.  The English quickly gained the upper hand.  Panic gripped the divisional field headquarters.     

     The 90th Light’s operational staff was spread across five command tents inside a ring of reconnaissance vehicles.  They were accustomed to combat alerts and seized nearby machine-pistols.  Stumbling outside, a number were caught off guard trying to organize defenses and immediately mowed down. 

     One seasoned group of German veterans briefly managed to stabilize the situation and form a defensive perimeter about the camp’s center.  Heavy machineguns on several Axis scout cars came alive, manned by half-dressed Germans.  Their distinctive-sounding firepower briefly bolstered the resistance and caused a flicker of fear to enter British hearts. 

     A surreal scene unfolded inside the main HQ tent as this staff group calmly tried to ignore the horrific volume of gunfire about them.  Relatively unmolested, the Germans scrambled to destroy maps and other vital papers.  Amid the flurry of activity, one gray-haired senior officer stood impassively as if awaiting an order from the wireless.  The others present occasionally stole glances his way, as if looking for an additional order or some sign of reassurance.  The senior officer had none to offer.

     A tent flap was thrown back.  A burly German sergeant accompanied by two corporals, all heavily tan and armed with freshly fired MP-40 submachine-pistols, quickly approached the division’s temporary commander.  Hasty salutes preceded a brief action report. 

     The senior officer listened, but his eyes remained unmoving and distant.  His brain felt numb.  The desert and the recent months of combat combined with tonight’s shock from the sudden action outside had finally taken their toll.

     "Herr Generalmajor, the sergeant tried again.  We cannot hold out."

     The senior officer gave no response except a slight nod at last. 

     The sergeant wasn’t to be deterred.  "Sir, you cannot remain here.  We’ll escort you and the Oberstleutnant to the Kubelwagon.  All is ready – water, tins and a portable." 

     A lieutenant on the headquarters staff chimed in, "The closest unit is where General Graf is.  Ten kilometers south.  Permission to broadcast now, Sir?"

     The gray-haired officer responded with one word, Proceed.

     A wave of relief swept the three nearest wireless radio operators at the primary communications table.  They hunched over their sets.  Fingers tapped away rapidly, with their respective distinct signature patterns.  The trio repeated their broadcasts to 90th Light elements and other Wehrmacht units spread across the desert. 

     The same invisible message was sent time and again across the ether: 

SOS.  90th HQ overrun.  Fight to the last!

Generalmajor Sauvant spied his assistant and called out, Erwin, time to depart before I change my mind.  Sponeck can run division from where he is.  Grab my machine-pistol.

     Dropping a sheaf of papers, Erwin Specht, a lieutenant colonel and the operations adjutant, seized two weapons from a table and approached.  He cocked one submachine gun and handed it quickly to Sauvant.  The other he fingered expectantly. 

     The group left out the tent’s back, with the sergeant leading the way.  Gunfire was not as heavy now, instead coming in spurts.  There were simply fewer defenders to kill.  Everywhere soldiers lay strewn dead or crying for medical attention.  Pockets of determined German resistance still carried on the fight against Tommy. 

     Shadows darted in the night.  One British soldier approached unseen, dropped to his knee and let loose a quick burst aimed at the German group as they neared the escape vehicle.  A sharp cry rang out, and a cascade of bullets brought the rearmost corporal down.  He died before hitting the sand. 

     Instinctively, the remaining Germans returned fire, and the British soldier grunted.  The Thompson submachine gun tumbled from his grasp, and his hands clutched his abdomen reactively.  It was his turn to crumple to the desert floor writhing.

     "Herr Generalmajor, schnell! the burly sergeant implored.  We’ll give you cover."

     Sauvant tried to meet the man’s gaze but it was too dark where they stood.  The urgency in the non-commissioned officer’s voice betrayed his anxiety for the officers’ welfare.  They had served together through many a battle. 

     The Major General was a practical man.  To flee tonight was extra ordinary.  He knew the fight here and across Afrika was all but lost.  They would try to link up with General Sponeck and the reconnaissance unit but who knew what would happen after that? 

     Their divisional staff expertise was needed to carry on the fight back in Russia and Europe.  Rommel’s parting words to his top officers before his own return to Germany rang in his head: bring yourselves and as many of your men back alive as possible. We will need your knowledge and their experienced hands to defend the Fatherland!

     More British neared, drawn by the exchange of gunfire.  They spread out cautiously.  The German sergeant furiously swapped out his empty magazine.  One British soldier drew near, and the sergeant shot him dead.

     Finally resolved to go, the two officers jumped into the Kubelwagon without bothering to close the doors.  The 90th Light acting commander revved the engine hard and let out the clutch.  The tires spun but finally caught, kicking up a dust cloud.  The doors shut on their own as the small vehicle jumped forward wildly, swerving.  Sauvant instinctively wove his way out of the camp like a daredevil and made for a nearby wadi. 

     The dry riverbed would offer the necessary cover for their escape.

     A British sergeant spotted the odd-shaped vehicle fleeing.  He let off a few bursts before his gun suddenly jammed.  The Tommy let out a vicious curse in disgust. 

Blasted sand!  He fought with the loading mechanism unsuccessfully over and over.  Finally, he gave up.  The British soldier looked up at the fleeing car.  Some escape, he thought, laughing aloud at the very thought, after weeks of battle.  Those Huns won’t make it.  Even the Bedouins have bloody well turned against Jerry. 

     The tiny command car feverishly zigzagged away from the scene and was lost in all the commotion.  It reached the narrow ravine and disappeared, leaving only a grainy dust cloud behind.  Sauvant finally turned on the headlights and kept his foot on the accelerator.  The sounds of battle quickly faded. 

     Behind the wheel, Sauvant tried to recall the emergency wireless code and special call sign and to keep his emotions in check.  He could not ignore the fate of the men he had just abandoned.  He would attempt a link up with the 90th Light’s reconnaissance battalion.  There, the actual division commander, General Theodor Graf von Sponeck, was spending the evening, a fortunate chance visit considering the surprise British attack. 

     Back at headquarters, having lost the stomach to fight on, the hard-pressed Germans finally surrendered en masse, waving white rags and yelling in broken English.  Now, Tommy took pity and plenty of prisoners.  The engagement left the Germans savagely mauled and the entire division’s communications and operational staff in permanent disarray. 

     The bold stroke had born considerable success and booty.  British casualties remained comparatively light.  And while Fortune smiled fiercely on the English that night, it briefly spared a pair of German staff officers of the 90th Light from the looming defeat about to ravage the rest of their comrades across Tunisia in the coming days. 

Afrika was hours away from falling to the Allies and two German staff officers would remain stranded in the desert unable to escape…

*  *  *

MAY 13, 1943

BEFORE THE GERMAN SURRENDER, A FINAL MESSAGE IS SENT TO GERMANY’S SUPREME ARMY HEADQUARTERS IN EUROPE

TO OBERKOMMANDO WEHRMACHT (O.K.W.):

ALL AMMUNITION EXHAUSTED.  EQUIPMENT AND WEAPONS DESTROYED.  IN ACCORDANCE WITH PREVIOUS ORDERS RECEIVED, ARMY GROUP AFRIKA AND AFRIKA KORPS HAVE FOUGHT TO THE LAST BULLET AND MAN. 

THE GERMAN ARMY MUST RISE AGAIN IN AFRIKA!

*  *  *

MAY 13, 1943

A GENERAL IN THE BRITISH HIGH COMMAND IN CAIRO SENDS A SPECIALLY CODED MESSAGE TO PRIME MINISTER CHURCHILL

*For Your Eyes Only*

W.C. - 

It is my privileged duty to report to you tonight that the hard fought Tunisian campaign is finally over.  All enemy resistance has ceased.  We have taken 26 generals and an estimated 131,000 German and 117,000 Italian soldiers prisoner.

The Allies are now masters of the shores of North Africa.

                                                 - General Alexander

*  *  *

THE HYDRA NEMESIS

CHAPTER 1

THE FOX LAIR

     The man crossed the street without checking to see if the way was clear.  At that early hour, traffic was scant.  Upon reaching the other side, he paused suddenly. 

     A stab of searing pain caused him to arch his back and put a hand out.  The man staggered across the sidewalk to a black wrought-iron fence where he quickly steadied himself.  After vigorous massaging, the ache in his right knee and upper thigh finally subsided.  He took a test step.  His leg felt normal again.

     Walter Hoth eased along the old fence until he arrived at a shut gate.  He threw a quick glance at the nearby sign.  A solitary word, weathered by the elements and partially covered by ivy tendrils, adorned a metal plaque. 

TIERGARTEN

     After a slight pause, Hoth let himself into the deserted city park.  The pre-dawn air was cool and still, punctuated only by the awakening chirps of hungry sparrows.  He resumed a forced stride, oblivious to the scented bloom of spring around him.

     The last week had been difficult.  Hoth paid no heed to the park’s scenic pleasantries.  Events a continent away occupied his thoughts. 

     At the moment, an ongoing clandestine mission and the recent Wehrmacht debacle in Afrika were his main mental companions.  Many of his special teams were either disrupted or presumed captured.  Those that managed to escape had done so only in the nick of time.  And the men he had just sent back into Tunisia were not due to make contact until noon at the earliest.

     A seven-hour respite at home had done the man a little good.  Before that, for seven whole days in fact, he had lived at work.  Hoth was worn down.  The car ride to his personal quarters had been his first foray outdoors in over a week. 

     Five hours sleep in his own bed, a lukewarm shower, and a cold ham sandwich on stale bread were as much comfort as Hoth dared take.  His presence was required back at the office in case news broke.  That morning, he had waved off his waiting driver in order to proceed on foot.  His legs thirsted for even the tiniest bit of exercise. 

     In earlier days, he used to stretch out his bad leg with more frequent walks.  But demands on his time had become extreme as of late, with most nights spent on a cot next to his desk.  Since mid-April, it had been like this.  The twenty-minute walk today was a luxury he felt he could ill afford. 

     The morning trek was meant to calm his head.  Instead, Hoth’s worries mounted.  He realized his desk’s message box would likely be crammed with dispatches bearing more disappointing news. 

     He exited the Tiergarten, heading down the Bendlerstrasse before making another turn.  Passing the narrow Landwehrkanal’s calm waters, Hoth followed the stretch of stone embankment that bordered the canal until he arrived at a row of gray townhouses.  72-76 Tirpitz Ufer was a five-story, granite structure and fairly unremarkable considering the activities conducted inside. 

     Before mounting the front steps, he looked up into the pre-dawn dark.  A light still shone on the top floor.  He smiled, shook his head knowingly, and moved up the stairs into the Third Reich’s Fuchsbau, Germany’s central spy center.

*  *  *

     A pair of sentries instantly recognized Hoth and let him pass.  The Fox Lair was the Berlin headquarters for the German Secret Service or "Abwehrabteilung.  It was better known by its shorter name, Abwehr." 

     The date was Tuesday, May 18, 1943.  Germany controlled most of the European continent and had driven its Panzer armies deep into Russia.  But five days earlier, the last Axis forces in Africa surrendered to the Allies and marched into captivity. 

     The Third Reich had lost North Africa.  Allied bombers were over Berlin.  Include the disaster at Stalingrad from February, and the strategic picture seemed grim.

     Colonel Walter Hoth, Deputy Head of Abwehr Section II, ignored the next military guard as he made his way further into the building’s bowels and its divided staircase.  Another uniformed sentry straightened, clicked his heels in attention, and cried out, "Herr Oberst!" as he passed.  Hoth briefly saluted and continued upwards, ignoring two available lifts.

     On each floor, boxes lay stacked along the walls.  The building had earned the nickname of Fox’s Earth, as literally translated, due to the gloomy conditions, numerous doors, and the vast number of twisting underground passages within.  Nowadays the building was becoming less crowded but more chaotic. 

     The Abwehr was in the midst of a major relocation.  Department after department were moving to more secure locations around Berlin or to Camp Zeppelin at Zossen.  The German Secret Service could not afford to be put out of action by a direct hit from an Allied bomber.  In Zossen, the Abwehr was taking over the German Army’s former central headquarters.  The facilities lay within the Maybach II security zone and were essentially underground super bunkers, impervious to air attacks.

     With each step, Hoth tried not to think about his own Department’s upcoming move.  It will be a logistical nightmare, he reminded himself, before shaking off the thought. 

     The Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross dangled around his neck as he moved.  An Eastern Front Ribbon was tucked into the uppermost button on his uniform’s tunic.  On his left breast was the Iron Cross 1st Class.  Beneath it, a gold wound badge and a hand-to-hand combat medal were pinned.  Hoth’s decorations came from his days in the German Army’s 1st Gebirgjäger or Mountain Division. 

     The Colonel’s prematurely graying hair was well-groomed.  He kept his once bright-blond hair short.  The blue-eyed officer’s facial features were handsome, distinct, and fatherly. 

     His most recent combat wound had landed him behind a desk.  It had occurred almost a year earlier to the day in an engagement against the Russians south of Kharkov.  The Colonel suffered leg and shoulder injuries repelling an enemy counterattack.  Out of ammunition, Hoth and his infantry unit had barely beaten off hoards of Russian soldiers in bloody hand-to-hand combat.  His regiment had suffered eighty percent casualties.

     The wounds forced him permanently from the Eastern Front and all future frontline duties.  He swapped service in Generaloberst Kleist’s Army Group for a six-month convalescence in a Berlin military hospital.  And that was exactly where Canaris found him.

     Back then, Hoth was already familiar with the Abwehr and its unique Special Forces unit known as the Brandenburgers.  Before joining 1st Mountain, Hoth was with the 3rd Mountain Division during the 1939 Polish campaign.  At the Jablunkov Pass south of Krakow, he witnessed first hand the results of the Brandenburgers’ death-defying feats.

     Riding on tanks, his mountain company had come to the rescue of the hard-pressed Brandenburgers and helped secure the vital railway tunnel there.  Years later in Russia, his 1st Mountain unit twice provided tactical backup for the Abwehr’s élite Kommandos on missions behind enemy lines.  The German Colonel understood the Brandenburgers’ raw combat potential.

     As Hoth saw it, their efficacy, stealth, and professionalism were underutilized commodities in need of further exploitation.  Consequently, he drew up a report in February 1942 outlining new ways German special forces could be used in conjunction with regular Army formations to seize key objectives along frontlines.  His paper arrived at the German Armed Forces High Command only to be filed away.  Months passed without any response. 

     During his rehabilitation in 1942, one set of seasoned military eyes read the report.  Phone calls were placed, and Admiral Wilhelm Canaris arrived at the Berlin hospital to pay a visit.  The two talked at length in the officers’ ward. 

     An opening existed at the Fuchsbau, the German Secret Service Chief explained.  A unique invitation was extended to the Colonel.  Knowing full well his career was over otherwise, Walter Hoth accepted the posting and quickly excelled at his duties. 

     Besides having separate Foreign and Administrative Sections, the Abwehr was split into three basic groups known as Abwehr I, Abwehr II, and Abwehr III.  Each section was further broken down into Army, Navy, and Air Force Subdivisions. 

Abwehr Section I coordinated the Reich’s espionage activity and collected intelligence information.  Section II oversaw special Kommando and other units.  Section III performed counter-intelligence work, infiltrated foreign spy agencies, and secured coveted industry trade secrets from abroad.

     Hoth quickly assumed the role of deputy commander of Abwehr Section II, managing its day-to-day operations.  In his control was a small but powerful sub-department known as the Army Sub-Section.  Within the Third Reich, Colonel Hoth was now the point man for all clandestine operations involving German Special Forces, sabotage acts, and Kommando training. 

*  *  *

     Upstairs on the third floor, Hoth stopped off at a relatively sparse office.  He flicked on the lights.  His personal effects lay unpacked in a box on the floor next to an Army cot.  He removed his military cap and tossed it onto a side table.  Unlocking his leather briefcase, he removed several paper files before securing the lock again. 

     The Colonel left the case by his wooden desk.  He scooped up a stack of overnight communication dispatches before switching the lights off and resuming the upwards trek.  In the faint stairwell light, he poured over the first few military communiqués. 

     The clack of Hoth’s boots echoed off the fifth floor’s tall ceilings.  At that early hour, the top level was virtually empty.  Double doors lay ahead, marking the start of the main corridor. 

     As the Colonel arrived, an orderly on duty jumped to attention, throwing a conventional salute.  Hoth returned the gesture and headed to the only lit office at the hallway’s very end.  He knocked lightly and, without waiting, entered.

     An older man in German naval uniform sat behind a large, cluttered desk.  The officer looked up.  Any trace of his usual good-natured demeanor was gone. 

     Morning, Walter, the Admiral said tersely.  Close the door.  You just saved me a call to your quarters.

     Germany’s top spymaster was affectionately known inside the Fox Lair as the Old Man.  He rose from his desk and walked over to a gigantic world map pasted on a wall above a black leather sofa.  Canaris said nothing for almost twenty seconds. 

     Hoth remained at attention and studied his boss.  The Chief of German Intelligence and Counter-Intelligence had gray hair, distinguished features, and was of short stature at five feet, three inches.  The Admiral stared at the map a bit longer before catching himself. 

     The Abwehr Chief cleared his throat.  I’m sorry, Walter, have a seat.  Feel free to smoke of course.

     Colonel Hoth sat down in a plush chair next to the desk.  He reached into a pocket for a well-worn cigarette case and lighter.  Early morning smokes had long ago become part of their routine.

     Canaris went quiet and wandered to the room’s other side as if again lost in thought.  The silence stretched on.  Colonel Hoth sat immobile in his seat.  Something big is up, he thought.

     At last, the boss spoke.  "Walter, I’ll get straight to it.  Our esteemed Himmler has invited us to a meeting this morning at Prinz Albrechtstrasse." 

     Hoth winced upon hearing the name of Gestapo headquarters.  When? he asked.

     0800 hours, Canaris replied.

     The Colonel stole a look at his watch.  It was 0520 hours.  His eyes locked onto Canaris, who only briefly glanced back.  There was fear in his boss’s eyes, he noted. 

     Unconsciously, Hoth drew a cigarette and began tapping it against the case. 

     The silver lighter bore an etching of a pickaxe, the 1st Mountain Division symbol.  Hoth’s men had presented it to him for his 34th birthday in 1942.  Ever since, it was his lucky charm.  As he lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminated the expression of worry now on the Colonel’s face.

     Himmler’s staff labeled the request as most urgent and wanted us both in attendance, the Old Man continued.

     What’s this about, sir? asked Hoth, exhaling.  A smoke cloud drifted out. 

     Again silence.  The Admiral came back to the large, black leather sofa and took a seat.  His eyes moved across the room to a sizeable Japanese painting centered on the far wall.  Clearly, his thoughts were troubled.

     I’ve been asking myself the same question, muttered the Admiral, who was by now fixated on the artwork.

     Hoth switched focus to the same picture as he had so many times before.  Anyone who visited the Old Man’s office for any length of time eventually noticed it.  The painting’s subject matter and its detail were startling. 

     The illustration was of The Devil, fiery sword in hand, staring back with an omnipresent gaze, mocking grin, and defiant pose.  No matter where one stood in the office, its piercing eyes seemed to follow.  It was usually the Admiral’s favorite objet d’art but not this morning.

     Could this be about the von Dohnanyi affair? ventured Hoth, referring to the arrest at the Fuchsbau by Himmler’s Secret Police of Abwehr officer Hans von Dohnanyi in early-April.  While the Gestapo had yet to put the pieces together, von Dohnanyi was the one to provide explosives to General Oster, General Henning von Tresckow, and others in their two failed assassination attempts on the Führer of March 13 and 20.  In both cases, bad luck intervened, sparing Hitler’s life.   

     I have no idea.  Absolutely no inkling this time, Canaris said nervously.  And that’s what really worries me. 

     Hoth stayed quiet.  The Old Man got up and returned to his desk seat.  More silence.

     Forcing a semblance of control back into his voice, Canaris changed subjects, Let’s quickly run through the latest developments in Italy and Africa, shall we?  Where are we on the current mission there?

*  *  *

CHAPTER 2

PRINZ ALBRECHTSTRASSE

     At 0740 hours, a black Mercedes Abwehr staff car ground to a halt before the steps of Gestapo headquarters on Prinz Albrechtstrasse.  The ominous looking, gray edifice dwarfed the idling car.  Two youthful Army corporals leapt from the car’s front seats to open the rear doors on either side with a salute.

     On the broad granite steps, four black uniformed SS storm-troops with white gloves stood alert.  Shoulder straps held armed MP-28 machine pistols in place.  The guards snapped to order rigidly as Admiral Canaris and Colonel Hoth emerged from the vehicle with briefcases in hand.  The two senior officers hastily shot up the steps, followed by their adjutant, Corporal Meyer.  An engine growl marked the vehicle’s departure.

     Inside the spacious marble-floored foyer, four more white-gloved guards jumped stiffly to attention, swinging their submachine guns back.  An SS-Untersturmführer emerged from a nearby office, approached Canaris and Hoth, and proclaimed loudly, "Heil Hitler!"  A forceful salute and sharp heel clicking accompanied the oft practiced routine.

     "You are early, Herr Admiral," noted the SS officer, looking at Canaris.  "I will announce your arrival to the Reichsführer’s office.  If you would, come with me." 

     With adjutant in tow, the Abwehr gentlemen followed the black-uniformed officer to an empty waiting room.  Canaris and Hoth chose red leather chairs in one corner while the adjutant remained standing.  Hoth picked a cigarette from his case, lit it, and let his thoughts wander. 

     No words were exchanged.  The walls likely had ears.  Gestapo microphones had even turned up several times at Abwehr headquarters. 

     Minutes later, the SS-Untersturmführer returned to the doorway.  "Herr Admiral, Herr Oberst, bitte, if you will follow, I will take you to the upstairs conference room," said the SS officer, stepping back a bit.  You are expected there. 

     The man returned quickly to the open foyer.  The Abwehr officers rose.  Hoth bent over to jab out the smoke and grab his case, while Canaris followed the SS officer out of the room.

     "Wait here, Unteroffizier Meyer," Colonel Hoth ordered.

     "Jawohl, Herr Oberst," the young adjutant replied.

     The SS officer led the duo up a tremendous central spiral staircase to the next level.  From there, they walked the length of a wide marble hallway until confronted by another immaculately clad SS sentry.  A machine pistol rested across the front of his chest.  He was stationed next to two massive oak doors.  As they neared, the waiting soldier straightened visibly.

     The SS escort waved an arm, announcing, "Herr Admiral.  Herr Oberst.  The conference room.  You will enter please." 

     Canaris nodded. 

     Without another word, the SS-Untersturmführer turned sharply and headed for his post downstairs.  The Abwehr officers watched him depart.  From beyond the double doors, Hoth heard muffled voices.

     The remaining SS guard pushed opened a single formidable oak door and quickly stepped aside.  Canaris and Hoth stepped through the opening.  Inside, a pall of cigarette smoke hung over an enormous twenty-foot long mahogany conference table. 

     Across the table, four black-uniformed senior SS officers and two civilians in suits sat in a row.  On the table’s left end was a solitary vacant seat.  Two more empty seats were off to the right. 

     The six people ceased talking and looked up.

     A stout voice rose up to greet the newcomers.  "Ah, Herr Admiral, it’s been much too long since we have had the pleasure of your company here." 

     The SS officer furthest left stood and approached.  He was tall and athletic-looking.  An energetic stride brought him face-to-face with the Admiral. 

     Dressed in a well-tailored black military uniform, SS-Obergruppenführer Manfred Toepke clicked his heels once and went rigid, declaring curtly, "Heil Hitler." 

     His black hair was carefully combed.  A single gray streak sat like a lightning bolt above his right ear.  A monocle hung over the left eye.  The SS-Obergruppenführer wasn’t one to dispense with formalities. 

     "Heil Hitler," responded Canaris crisply, returning the salute, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

     Toepke smiled charmingly.  Please take the two seats over there, said the SS-Obergruppenführer, motioning to the table’s right side.  I am sorry to have you over on such short notice, but a matter of extreme urgency to the Reich has come to our attention.    

     Canaris and Hoth knew all about SS-Obergruppenführer Manfred Toepke.  The Lieutenant General was one of Himmler’s top henchmen, the one usually called in to tie up loose ends.  And the man relished his widespread reputation as a brutal taskmaster.

     Colonel Hoth’s curiosity about the meeting grew.  With a quick glance, he looked around the huge, smoky conference room.  Heavy fourteen-foot tall crimson curtains ran from ceiling to floor adorning seven windows beyond the six seats. 

     To the left, thirty feet away, lay another set of closed double oak doors.  Two more SS guards stood emotionless with machine pistols perched on their chests.  To the right, an SS stenographer waited, stationed at a small table with collapsible tripod legs. 

     Farther back, a table along the wall held carafes of coffee and water, breakfast cakes, and other refreshments.  An SS orderly in white stood ready to serve.  Next to him were two more orderlies ready to run messages to the communications center upstairs.  A nearby stand held a bulky slide projector.

     "No problem, Herr SS-Obergruppenführer.  Glad the Abwehr can be of service, replied the Old Man in a disarming tone.  I take it you’ve met Oberst Hoth, Deputy Chief of Abwehr II?"

     Hoth tilted his upper body forward and bowed slightly. 

     With a nod, the SS-Obergruppenführer said, We’ve not met.  Pleasure. 

     Toepke returned to his place on the far side but remained standing.  Canaris and Hoth took their seats to the right.  They sat near the SS stenographer and food. 

     "Himmler is delayed.  He’s still speaking with the Führer by telephone, said Toepke matter-of-factly.  Let me make the remaining introductions."    

     The SS-Obergruppenführer turned to those seated.  He motioned at the man immediately next to him.  "Of course, Admiral, you know our exalted SS-Obergrüppenführer Kaltenbrunner." 

     Dr. Ernst Kaltenbrunner refused to do much.  He was in a foul mood, refusing to stand and showing his teeth in a sort of twisted smile that lightened a touch when he saw the Abwehr spy chief.  Canaris gave a familiar nod. 

     At six-foot six inches, Kaltenbrunner did not really need to get up.  He had neatly trimmed hair, a drawn face, and a small but noticeable cheek scar.  As Himmler’s deputy, he ran the Sicherheitsdienst, which literally translated meant Security Service inside the Reich.  It was more commonly known as the "SD."

     The introductions paused for a moment as Toepke found a cigarette and lit it.  He blew out the match and studied the faces in the room.  He took his time, knowing full well he was in charge.

*  *  *

     The Third Reich’s Schutzstaffel or Guard Detachment was comprised of four quite disparate SS sections.  The first, the Allgemeine SS, was a civilian organization composed of diplomats, civil servants, and other government functionaries. 

     Another section was the Waffen-SS, an elite, military-only organization that by 1943 had grown to almost forty infantry divisions, each numbering well over ten thousand soldiers in strength.  Europeans from almost every country participated in their ranks.  Thanks to Nazi Party favoritism, the typical Waffen-SS Division was often better established in terms of modern military equipment, supplies, and reinforcements than its regular Wehrmacht counterparts.

     Separate from both the Allgemeine SS and the Waffen-SS was a third group known as the Totenkopfverbände or Death’s Head Units.  These paramilitary groups primarily acted as concentration camp guards and anti-partisan soldiers.  These contemptible men wore the same SS uniforms, received the same monthly pay, and sullied the reputation of Waffen-SS soldiers that, for the most part, had fought bravely on Germany’s frontlines.

     The most diabolical SS arm was the Reichssicherheitshauptampt or National Central Security Office.  It comprised seven departments, two of which were terribly notorious and exceptionally powerful.  Bureau IV was the Geheimes Staatspolizeiamt or Prussian Secret State Police Office, also known as the Gestapo.  In April 1934, Hitler made Himmler the head of this State Security Police.  Himmler was later promoted to Reichsführer-SS, the highest SS rank in Germany.

     Bureau III was the Sicherheitsdienst or "SD."  Almost a year earlier, on May 27, 1942, Czech agents for the British assassinated its ruthless chief, Reinhard Heydrich.  Anointed his successor, SS-Obergrüppenführer Kaltenbrunner took over the reigns of the SS Security Service, ruling it with a tight fist.  To Canaris’s dismay, the SD was continuing to develop into a rival for his own organization. 

     For years, SS leaders like Himmler and Heydrich had pushed to consolidate their hold on power within Germany.  They viewed the Abwehr, the nation’s only pre-existing intelligence organization for well over twenty years, as a long-term threat to the SS.  Tensions between the two sides simmered.  In 1943, Himmler still plotted on ways to usurp Abwehr power. 

     Canaris was acknowledged by all as a wily opponent, one not easily removed or outfoxed.  Therefore, the SS waged a slow but deliberate campaign to erode the Old Man’s control.  Himmler’s goal was nothing short of taking complete control over the traditional German Secret Service.

*  *  *

SS-Obergruppenführer Toepke continued with the introductions. 

     The next officer was SS-Brigadeführer Adolph Gessler.  He had served with the Waffen SS on the Eastern Front through July 1942 until a Russian mine destroyed his command vehicle.  Gessler was the only survivor, suffering severe head trauma. 

     The Brigadier General was a ghost of a man with extremely pale skin.  Several operations had left his face pulled so tight that his skull seemed about to burst from his head.  Gessler’s black hair was severely slicked back.  A one-inch wide scar ran from his left temple across an entire cheek to his jaw.  The grotesque disfigurement passed underneath a left eye patch covering an empty socket. 

     As Gessler nodded to Canaris and Hoth, the permanent sneer on his jowl could have easily been mistaken for a slight smile.  Like Hoth, Gessler’s injuries made further frontline service with the Waffen-SS impossible.  Back in Germany, SS-Obergruppenführer Toepke had handpicked Adolph Gessler to work for Reichsführer-SS Himmler.  Gessler excelled in the role.

     With a raised arm and warm smile, Toepke introduced the last military officer.  He was SS-Sturmbannführer Herbert Gilhofer, commander of the 21st Panzer Grenadier Regiment from the 10th SS Panzer Division Frundsberg.  The SS-Sturmbannführer stood and bowed slightly upon hearing his name. 

     "Greetings, Herr Admiral.  It is an honor to meet you finally," Gilhofer said.

     "The same, Herr SS-Sturmbannführer," replied Canaris.

     The two exchanged polite smiles before returning to their seats.

     At Himmler’s insistence, the SS-Major had flown in for this meeting.  He would soon be recalled from active duty for a very special assignment for the Reich.  Hitler had given approval for the creation of a Waffen-SS airborne formation, an idea in the works since 1937. 

     When fully established, the new "SS-Fallschirmjäger Battalion 500" would fall under SS-Sturmbannführer Gilhofer’s command.  This was the SS’s response to the Luftwaffe’s long existing paratrooper divisions.  The air mobile unit would be trained to handle any conceivable assignment.

     In February, the Reichsführer-SS handpicked Gilhofer for this post, knowing he would not officially assume command until late September.  That was when the "SS-500" would be brought up to full establishment and begin its fall training.  In the meantime, Hitler demanded a test group be formed to undergo rigorous para instruction. 

SS airborne indoctrination was slated to occur at the same Luftwaffe jump school in Stendhal used by ordinary Luftwaffe paratroopers.  The SS paratroopers would receive the regular training provided by jumpmasters there.  They would be treated as regular recruits, even staying in a special section of the Albert the Bear military barracks. 

     The Führer expected rapid progress.  Never one to disappoint, Himmler obliged that expectation.  The first rifle company of SS-Parachute Battalion 500 had already finished training in late-April.  They had graduated with flying colors under a junior commander named Kurt Rybka. 

     With the preparation phase complete, Hitler considered the first sub-unit of SS-500 battle worthy.  The Führer demanded the first rifle company be given an actual live-combat field test to prove their mettle.  Himmler was still looking for the right opportunity that would satisfy Hitler and ensure the unit’s further development could proceed unmolested.

     Only the fittest volunteers were accepted to fill the one hundred sixty-five SS-500 paratroop slots.  All inductees had already been trained as Wehrmacht or SS infantry soldiers.  Most had previously distinguished themselves on the battlefield. 

     While over half the men were hardened veterans volunteering from existing and established frontline units, an odd twist came with the other half.  In 1943, manpower shortages were being acutely felt everywhere across the Third Reich.  Even filling out a new unit’s ranks, SS or not, was no easy task.  

     This explained how the remaining volunteers came to consist of former SS military prisoners.  Those wishing to step forward, return to former or reduced ranks, and serve the Fatherland loyally were considered.  It was a simple recruiting task. 

     The transgressions that had landed many in SS military prison at Danzig-Matzkau or the penal unit at Dachau varied from simple refusals to obey orders, striking a superior officer to greater criminal or political infractions, such as disparaging the Nazi Party or even the Führer.  Conditions were hard at the camp and in the penal unit.  Men were ready and eager to redeem their reputations via frontline action.

     As a seasoned frontline commander, SS-Sturmbannführer Gilhofer was a soldier who exuded confidence.  He looked forward to the special challenges ahead.  Sitting at seat’s edge and leaning heavily on the table, he gave the impression of an SS officer who had little patience for formal meetings.  He knew a war was still on.

     To Gilhofer’s left and looking quite uncomfortable was a civilian introduced only as Dr. Nehring.  The man was head of one of the Reich’s special scientific research facilities in Austria.  Wearing a rumpled suit, the doctor constantly fidgeted in his seat and looked out-of-place among the pressed uniforms. 

     The ashtray before him had six crushed cigarettes in it.  Dr. Nehring was working on a seventh with a shaky hand.  Toepke offered no explanation about the scientist’s presence.

     The last man at the table also wore civilian clothes and black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses.  His hair was a tangled mess.  A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.  He ignored everyone and constantly scribbled in an open notebook. 

     "And, as you are aware, this is Dr. Gerhard Rantzau, the Reich’s Scientific Advisor to the Führer," concluded Toepke, finally taking a seat. 

     The Reich’s chief scientist heard his name and looked up from his writing.  The glance was just long enough to exchange the quickest of hellos.  Rantzau was considered one of the Reich’s most brilliant scientific minds.

     The SS-Obergruppenführer reached out to a water pitcher on the table.  He refilled his glass.  There was no apparent rush.

     With the introductions complete and Himmler nowhere to be seen, conversation resumed around the table.  Hoth just listened.  The Abwehr Colonel pulled a cigarette from his silver case and examined the attendees.  Canaris interrupted Rantzau, and the two began to speak. 

     Toepke, Kaltenbrunner, and Gessler dropped back into deep discussion.  The SS officers focused on the recent elimination of Axis forces from Africa.  Reverses on the Eastern Front against the Russians were considered old news.

     Speculation varied on where the next Allied invasion might fall.  Would the British and Americans strike Sicily?  Was an attack planned for the Italian mainland?  Would it be an invasion somewhere along Europe’s soft underbelly, possibly on the French Riviera?  Or would the West finally launch the long awaited attack on the Atlantic Wall from England? 

     They argued loudly about whether Italy was teetering politically.

     Then, Hoth heard a reference to Rommel, the world famous German Field Marshall, the one who had so brilliantly commanded Axis forces for most of the African campaign.  Toepke’s tone took on an air of confidentiality.  He noted that the Field Marshall was far too ill and worn out to be of any use in the near term.  The bout of amoebic dysentery was more serious than people realized.  Rommel was recuperating at a spa in Bavaria but would be unable to resume duties for at least three to five months.

     This is interesting, Hoth thought.  The official word on Rommel was that his recovery was progressing rapidly.  So much for what I know.

The Abwehr Colonel shook his head.  Rumors seemed rife these days in Berlin.  There was an air of uncertainty floating about just like the dust from constant Allied bombings. 

SS-Sturmbannführer Gilhofer was content to lean forward in his chair and smoke a thin cigar.  He looked smug as he listened distantly to the SS trio to his right.  He took in the conversation but kept to himself. 

     The soon-to-be paratroop commander was a firm believer in the Reich’s invincibility.  Hoth could identify the type.  Victory was always close at hand, and nothing would shake that faith as long as he had troops to command. 

     Fifteen minutes passed.  Suddenly the great double polished wooden doors opposite Canaris and Hoth swung outwards.  The two black uniformed SS sentries jerked to attention.  Their white gloves shouldered MP-28 submachine guns, and their eyes locked onto the wall above the Old Man and Hoth.

     For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, the Chief of Reich Security, made what could only be labeled a grand entrance.  He swept in confidently.  Two additional black-clad SS bodyguards followed close behind.  Their carbines remained slung on their shoulders.  His personal adjutant was the last to enter the room. 

     The Reichsführer-SS stopped short of the table.  His black uniform was like new.  The air became electrified. 

     "Heil Hitler," barked Himmler quickly, raising a slightly bent arm upwards. 

     The room leapt to its feet and responded in kind.  Canaris and Hoth joined in.  There was no sign of hesitation from either.

     The assistant stepped up behind Himmler, who raised his arms expectantly.  Reaching around the Reichsführer-SS’s waist, the adjutant quickly undid the belt buckle.  The whole belt, complete with pistol, dagger and shoulder strap, deftly slid off.  With gear in hand, the orderly stepped away.  The action took less than three seconds and looked well rehearsed. 

     Himmler’s personal SS bodyguards turned.  The guards positioned themselves at the main double doors.  It was the same entranceway through which the senior Abwehr officers had arrived.

     The Reichsführer-SS took the last available seat at the head of the table and said nothing, instead surveying the room with a cold, beady-eyed stare.  He had rimless eyeglasses with thick-lenses that rested on a quite pallid face.  The gaze was petrifying.

     Dr. Nehring squirmed noticeably in his seat.  For another moment, Himmler sat immobile with his arms crossed.  Like a lizard, only his eyes darted around.  As everyone sat in their seats, anticipation mounted.

     Traces of a sneer pursed Himmler’s lips.

     Hoth was reminded suddenly of the Devil in the Old Man’s painting.  The Colonel resisted the urge to put out his abandoned cigarette.  It balanced precariously in the ashtray before him.  A steady plume of smoke curled into the air like a funnel cloud that begged attention.

     Himmler inhaled slowly and then spoke.

     I trust no one has been waiting too long, he scoffed.  Without warning, he raised his voice shrilly.  Everyone but those seated at this table will leave us immediately!  

     Dr. Nehring jumped in his seat.   

     The same reply rang out across the chamber.  "Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer!" 

     Both sets of doorways opened.  The stenographer and four orderlies quickly exited.  The armed SS soldiers departed, sealing the room.  

     Heinrich Himmler fixed his gaze firmly on Dr. Nehring who froze.

     "You are all here, because the Führer needs you in a most dire hour.  Our February loss of 200,000 soldiers at Stalingrad and last week’s loss of 130,000 Axis troops in Africa due to