The Hour of the Inevitable

By Michael Pace

“Oh, come on! Grow up.” Werner Bergen looked at his friend with contempt. “This will be over soon. History will forget about it. We will be nothing, even to ourselves. The next generation behind us will forget the war even happened, and if they remember, they won’t care because it doesn’t affect them. Don’t yo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael In Print Publishing Co.
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734057911

Book preview

PROLOGUE

D ieter Krupp was not a religious man but he was about to make an exception.

He was crawling on his belly along with two other German infantrymen. They were somewhere in France, and it was September, 1943. That was about all he could say for sure. The three had been ordered out on a reconnaissance mission. German radio trackers had discovered that the building a few meters ahead of them was most likely, a communication station run by the Allies.

Both sides knew that communication was the key to any successful maneuver. The three were sternly admonished to bring back troop numbers, specifically, how many men were guarding the building, how many were operating the equipment, and any evidence of armaments. Take photographs if the situation presented itself as this information would be vital. The High Command was concerned about any new technology available to the Allies they should be aware of. They had express orders not to get themselves captured or killed.

Krupp was the senior enlisted. He was sent out, armed only with a camera…or so his superiors were led to believe. But he had always taught his soldiers, Keep one eye out for the needs of the Reich. Keep the other eye out for the needs of yourself. Focusing on the latter, Krupp had tucked inside a canvas pack and out of sight, was the new and very effective MP-40 paratroop rifle, so new it was not yet in general use. The price for borrowing it had been two cartons of confiscated American cigarettes and two pairs of American combat boots, in good condition. ‘Borrowing it,’ fat chance, he muttered to himself. He had long since vowed to keep it. Getting ammo for it, however, would be another problem he would solve at a future time.

He was glad there would be no officers present for this mission.

He whispered to the man closest to him. Hey. I am tired of waiting. The best way to count those on the inside is to get them to come to the outside, don’t you think?

The youth went ashen. This was his first assignment. Knowing he would not have to be on the offensive had made him almost confident that he would survive this first foray into the enemy camp. Now some crazy Oberfeldwebel, master sergeant, was about to offer him up as a sacrificial lamb. He gulped hard. As you wish. What are your orders?

Krupp grinned. He knew what was on the young soldier’s mind but gave him credit for having guts.

In a few moments I have very little doubt that you will know what to do. At this point Krupp sent up a silent prayer that he hoped would placate all the gods who were listening. Please don’t let me die today.

He took out the small camera and snapped a picture, then thought, To the Devil with this. What the Kommandant wants is on the inside. He looped the strap around his neck so the camera was dangling from his back, and forgot about it.

Krupp repeated the plan for the benefit of the other man. He could see the small tremors of anxiety begin in the man’s hands and arms, but the boy managed a grin.

Krupp unbuckled a bulky hand grenade from his belt, dubbed the potato masher by the Allies due to its awkward looks. He crawled forward a few meters and at the moment when he reached a clearing, he released it in a high arc and immediately hit the dirt. The blast kicked up quite a bit of dirt and killed one of the sentries who had been casually leaning against the structure, smoking.

For a moment, there was a stunned silence in the camp. Krupp took advantage of this and ran into the clearing, brandishing the small rifle. It carried only about twenty-five rounds in its bulky magazine and he heard reports that the feeding mechanism was unreliable. He would soon put the rumors to the test. He fired at a man; he went down. The two men accompanying Krupp jumped up and followed his lead. The shots seemed to signal the little post to action. There was no fortification, nowhere to take cover except inside the building.

Finally, answering fire began and the three Germans took cover in the loose dirt and foliage beyond the clearing. They were now too far away for accuracy, but at least they had succeeded in drawing out the soldiers. The youngsters on Krupp’s flanks fired indiscriminately.

Don’t fire for the sake of firing! You will only give away your positions. But only the best and seasoned troops could exercise restraint once the battle started. Krupp motioned them to spread out. Fire two rounds, then move. Keep firing and moving. They will think there are more out here than there really are.

Krupp chuckled to himself. Those guarding the building were reluctant to spread out. They were good soldiers in that they did not leave their posts, but the setup would prove costly, because such an important installation was poorly guarded. If there had been infantry attached to the post that could leave the perimeter during a skirmish, well, that would have been a different matter.

Two shots rang out and Krupp watched as another soldier went down. More shots came from a different direction. Too far away to hit their mark, but instead, it seemed like the Amerikaner was finally dug in and trying to mount an adequate defense. About a dozen troops entered the clearing and began to fan out, laying down a bed of machine gun fire. Krupp motioned for his men to return but it was too late; they had been bitten by blood lust. The three men had formed somewhat of a triangle around the open field and the enemy was a sitting duck. More men fell, but Krupp knew they could not hold off machine guns with their paltry 9mm handguns for long.

When the three Germans finally formed up and huddled, all they could do was wait. Some of the braver Allied troops were edging tentatively forward, supported by cover fire. Krupp motioned the two to wait. What was in the building was precious and the men assigned to it would guard it closely, even with their lives…he hoped. He hastily snapped another picture of the building from a different angle.

Now grenades came, but they only served to blow up big chunks of underbrush. Krupp motioned the others to not return fire.

Soon the shooting ceased and the men in the compound tended to the six dead and as many wounded. It was dangerous now. The men inside the building would certainly call for reinforcements and medical aid. Krupp and his men had no choice but to lay almost motionless until dusk to move back to their lines. Krupp had no pictures of the inside, but information on the dimensions, roof antennae, and troop strength would be invaluable.

Upon hearing their report, Krupp’s Kommandant was speechless. He was enraged at the apparent disregard Krupp had for orders for reconnaissance only, yet he knew full well the value of the information the three brought back. He was almost bursting with the thoughts of how this could be a crucial blow to the enemy; not to mention a promotion for himself, perhaps. He waited a few moments before he spoke, trying to conceal his excitement from Krupp, and at the same time attempting to assume a stern air.

Finally he settled down and dismissed Krupp by saying, There is a story told about Napoleon. A colonel disobeyed his orders but won a major victory with minimal losses. Napoleon came to him and said ‘I present you with the highest honor, the Croix de Guerre.’ He placed the medal around the man’s neck, then ordered him to be taken out and shot for disobeying orders. I must keep you in suspense, Krupp. An Iron Cross, or watch you bleed to death slowly after I slit your throat? Now get out of my sight!

1

It was February in the year 1943 and a young Erwin Gutenauer scrambled up to the balcony surrounding much of the third floor of his house. It would afford the best view of the street on this, an absolutely stunningly clear day. Indeed, the birds-eye view of the upcoming military display about to begin on Grosse Strasse promised to be magnificent, and even the weather must have known. The street cut through the heart of Germany’s industrial complex and from Erwin’s vantage point he could see for miles up and down its length.

He was near to bursting with anticipation. The pageantry was about to begin.

Years earlier, his father, Heinrich Gutenauer, had bet heavily on Germany, despite her woes after World War I. He gambled that she would rebuild herself into one of the region’s premier providers of raw materials sorely needed by Europe and the overseas markets. He gambled on what he and much of the world saw as the weakness of the western hemisphere. The Treaty at Versailles signified the end of hostilities between Germany and the Allies, but it had no teeth. Citing worries about the need for regional stability or some such casual reasoning, they, the victors, felt sorry for the vanquished, and were only too happy to provide provisions for the rebuilding of the ravished country. Oh sure, they insisted there would be watchdog organizations that would curb the building of munitions, but Herr Gutenauer reasoned correctly that even munitions buildup would not be too closely monitored.

You’re wasting your time and money, his acquaintances and advisers warned him. The Western powers will not sit still while we stockpile steel. They will soon become suspicious.

Ah, he said as he waved off their criticisms. They are busy like us, licking their wounds. They will not notice, especially if we sell enough to our Western European friends so as not to arouse concerns.

Now a retired major, Herr Gutenauer’s keen sense of timing had served him well. The military had presented him with a substantial pension, which he invested shrewdly and (as it turned out) wisely in aluminum and steel mills yet to be built. He knew that the up-and-coming leaders of the new Germany, young and head strong, would not sit idly in defeat. The West, unwittingly or otherwise, would help them rebuild. Well intentioned but utterly clueless as to how human nature worked, the U.S. and the passive nations of Europe would agree to give Germany plenty of resources to rebuild their towns. After all, a stable community with homes, cafés, and businesses was a contented community, was it not?

Herr Gutenauer had his finger on the pulse of a battered German political and military machine. A proud people caught up in desperation, frustration, and embarrassment, even now eager for action. He knew he would be a wealthy man, if only Germany could raise up a dynamic, charismatic leader. As for his investing in the mills, the whole country was littered with cheap scrap metal, ripe for the picking.

A mere seven years later, he was a rich man. His scoffers shrank away into the cold German night, not even having enough strength of character to come to him and admit he had been correct in his assessments.

Now Germany was armed and tooled. Her armies had cut like a hot knife through Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Greece, France, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. Its leadership was bold and ruthless and itching for more. But Herr Gutenauer was on edge. England and the United States were not small European countries. Would this march to world domination last? Already Germany was committing massive forces to many fronts. A trail of broken treaties lay strewn throughout Europe like corpses after a barbarian invasion. What if shipping lanes became impassable? What if the European countries were too strapped by the war to buy steel? Would Hitler be foolish enough to commit diminishing resources and man power and open yet another front to the east? In Gutenauer’s mind, that would surely spell his country’s doom.

He hosted numerous parties at his spacious home, inviting military strategists and mid-level politicians from Germany’s parliament. They assumed he was currying favor, when in fact, he was listening to their candid chatter in the face of the New World Order, trying to calculate his next move in a worldwide chess game.

This war would make him millions more for he could not know that even the Allied bombings yet to come would not slow down the German output of planes and ammo, which actually peaked in late 1944.

. . .

A feminine voice cascaded up the spiral staircase and reached Erwin. Erwin! You’ve got company!

The boy took the stairs two at a time. His visitor was sure to be his best friend, Werner Bergen.

It was the winter of 1943. Werner and Erwin were both sixteen. Chronologically, Werner was the younger, but he looked a few years older than his friend. Herr Bergen owned a booming restaurant supply business, and in addition, owned and ran a fine restaurant of his own. He insisted that Werner work and learn the discipline of running a business.

Werner was dead set against this at first. Although he saw the hours and the labor his father put in every day, he had no desire to do the same. Yet he saw no other way to receive a steady income at his age. He attended high school and was active in several politically oriented youth organizations, but still found time to work, and ironically, to buy things his father found frivolous.

Herr Bergen had served in the first war, as all able-bodied men had been expected to do. He had been promoted to the top enlisted rank and was offered an officer’s commission that he refused.

I am a worker, he insisted. I will not tell others what to do when I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.

Werner was proud of his family and proud of what he had become. His hair and skin were slightly lighter than the classic features of the Aryan race; and he looked older than his sixteen years. He made no secret that he was ready to shed his youth, and he was concerned that his feeble attempts at spending long hours in the sun produced nothing but an annoying red glow. Worse, when it faded his skin remained just as white.

Erwin was himself a star athlete and proud of his abilities, in spite of his father’s belief that pursuing athletics was nonsense. Herr Gutenauer had tried on numerous occasions to convince his son that the future was in business and was ready to give his son all the training he needed for a rich, successful life. Each time his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Yet Erwin looked up to the slightly younger Werner because he knew that Werner saw the future, the bigger picture, and like his own father, was a shrewd gambler. He carried himself with a sense of maturity beyond his years and when he offered an opinion, boys like Erwin stopped to listen.

Erwin’s father could not reason with his high spirited son. There is no need for you to do what you don’t have to do, Herr Gutenauer implored. I have set all this aside for you. I have friends who will help you. I worked hard so you would have a comfortable life.

Erwin loved his father, but he had for some time set a purpose for himself that he would complete all the rites of passage on his way to becoming a fighting man. He would excel, and owe no one anything, not even to Herr Gutenauer.

The two boys met in the entry way and embraced. They talked excitedly, neither really taking time to hear what the other was saying.

Hurry! The parade is about to begin.

Werner was carefully juggling a few packages. I brought bratwurst and streusel from my father for your parents, but I bet there will be enough for all of us!

Erwin’s mother appeared from the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron. She smiled and offered her hand. Werner shifted his packages to one arm, took her hand, and gave a smile. Thank you for having me…

Enough small talk, Erwin blurted out, tugging at Werner’s sleeve. We’ll miss the first entries. Frau Gutenauer dismissed them with a small chuckle. Half way up the stairs Werner shouted out. I’ll meet you up there. He ran back down and thrust the delicacies into Frau Gutenauer’s hands. For you, he panted, from my father.

"Danke," she said, but it fell on deaf ears. He was already out of sight, sprinting back up the stairs.

That day in February 1943 marked the sixth year in a row that a rebuilt Germany would show off its armamentarium to her citizens. Each year at this time a sample of her war machines would rumble through the largest of the streets, preceded and followed by hundreds of polished troops on foot, passing in review for dignitaries that sat on specially built stages along the route. It would end at the Wilhelmstrasse where the old ministry and Chancellor’s offices once stood.

Herr Gutenauer was content to gaze at the processional with a casual but contented interest. For now. Many of these leaders who positioned themselves in the places of honor had been his house guests. Would this new Thousand-Year Reich even survive the decade? He kept his thoughts to himself.

As for the boys, almost on cue their excited chatter ceased as banners announcing the beginning of the parade came into view.

Roughly three and a half years earlier the upstart German army, led and inflamed by a man who could have been categorized as either brilliant or maniacal, took Poland with ease. The battle for world supremacy had begun and Germany vowed it would not fail.

These shows of German military might taking place in its own cities and many of the conquered countries served several purposes. It kept patriotism at a fever pitch and its people were only too happy to give its leaders an endless, blank check. Its display of awesome strength put others on notice: Resistance is futile.

But it also captured the hearts and spirits of the cream of the youth who would willingly walk away from all they held dear to become part of this magnificent machine. The minds of the youth were manipulated early. Text books had been rewritten, and history skewed. Boys were expected to join the Hitler youth movement by the time they were eleven. Girls joined the League of German Maidens. School curriculum was altered to teach vocational classes that would be beneficial to the war effort and also to feed impressionable minds and keep patriotism at a fever pitch. Team work and physical fitness were stressed and practiced daily.

In 1943 the Hitler Jungen were five million strong and growing.

Werner and Erwin were classic examples of the youth that Germany was raising for its harvest, prime examples of boys who could not leave behind their youth quickly enough. The constant young soldiers meetings and participation in select parades were never enough for them. In an audience of thousands, listening to their Fuehrer, his speeches had only heightened their patriotic lust and deepened their longing to be a part of the New Order. The Fuehrer’s words, Before us lies Germany, in us marches Germany, behind us follows Germany, moved the boys to tears and for many youths those were the first words they spoke upon arising and the last words they spoke before sleep. They wanted to fight. To struggle for the most noble of causes. Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles, Germany over all! They would fight with conviction. They would need no provocation.

The German recruiters had it easy for now. They visited schools and churches, reaching out to the impressionable youth. The parliament, such as it was, had made provisions for boys sixteen years of age to enter the armed services with their parent’s consent. The recruiters preyed on the youth’s sense of national pride and if that didn’t get them to sign, the promise of adulation from the young ladies seemed to do the trick.

Werner and Erwin had begged their parents soon after their sixteenth birthdays for permission to enter the military and were both denied.

Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, they were told.

Herr Gutenauer argued and pleaded with Erwin. I have worked and saved for you, my son. Why would you squander it all on something so risky? Can’t you be an integral part of the war effort forging munitions? But as usual, his pleas fell on deaf ears, as he knew it would. He could deny his son permission now, but he was sixteen and could sign even without his father’s concession. After secondary school, the war would still be raging. Secretly, Herr Gutenauer began to reach out to friends and mid-level politicians to protect his boy. Give him plum assignments. Send him back home when all this madness died down, back to him in one piece.

Werner’s father heard much the same pleas, but the two boys were inseparable. What one did, the other would do. What one did well, he who followed did it better.

The only concession the boys made was trite, and without their parent’s blessing. Erwin, being a few months older, agreed not to go to the enlistment center until a day after graduation, a few months shy of his seventeenth birthday.

. . .

The boys waited expectantly, noses pressed to the upstairs picture window. Finally, the first foot soldiers came into view. They heard them before they saw them. This was the Wehrmacht, or Defense Force. Boots clicking on cobblestone roads. Hard and uncomfortable boots that the boys knew well, having marched in similar parades in the high-stepping manner. Oh! This was so familiar to the boys! The sore feet , the marching, produced was a common bond and they bore their discomfort with pride. Bruised feet became almost numb under the proud, uplifted chin, the outstretched arms, the adulation of the women as they threw bits of bread and flower petals in the ranks. Ordered that at any parade, goods, and vehicular traffic were to take second place, the city police scurried frantically to move barriers or erect them as necessary to divert traffic. There would be no distraction away from the fanfare!

Following the infantry, trucks rolled by, showing off MG 42 machine guns that fired 1200 rounds a minute. Comparable Aallied guns fired less than half that.

The Nebelwerfers, smoke mortars, followed. These huge multi-barreled guns that the Americans dubbed moaning Minnies launched bombs designed to produce a wail when they flew, sometimes as many as sixty or seventy at a time. The Germans called them Stutkas auf Radern, or Stutkas on wheels.

A truck followed, blaring music through two large speakers. When the music stopped a speech from the Fuehrer played.

Jeeps with junior officers passed. The officers stood rigidly, right armarm stiff snf outstretched in a salute to the unseen leader that for the military man was more than just a salute, it showed devotion, love, and the willingness to obey to the death, to serve a cause and a man without question or thought.

Motorized flatbed trailers on which were mounted 75mm and 88mm field artillery guns and anti-aircraft guns passed in review. These were followed by the larger 238 kanone.

And finally the spectacle that would take the boys’ breath away. In front of massive panzer tanks, a half-dozen soldiers marched, each carrying what appeared to be a large rifle with a small missile protruding from the barrel. These were the panzerfausts, a recoilless anti-tank weapon. Far superior than the American bazooka, its added bonus was that no training was necessary, and its use required only one man where most American bazookas were operated by two-man teams. The panzerfaust launched a bomb that was bigger and better than the bazooka as well. Behind them rumbled the huge armored tanks, or panzers themselves, the hatch up, a soldier offering the infamous salute.

Until now there had not been a word spoken by either of the boys. Now, almost in a whisper, Werner said, "There I am. Just wait. I will be a Panzer Komandant."

The two tanks rumbled past, followed by hundreds more foot soldiers, and the parade ended, leaving the municipality to repair the streets yet again in the wake of the destruction the tank treads had created.

The boys continued to stare out the window while chatting eagerly about their dreams. Werner could not stop repeating that he had found his future niche. He would be a tank commander. Erwin saw himself as the leader of men, an officer, proudly leading his troops to great conquests, wearing a uniform arrayed with distinguished medals from campaigns fought all over Europe.

The two might have been content to spend the remainder of their visit lost in their daydreams but they were interrupted by Mrs. Gutenauer telling them to come down for lunch. They charged down the stairs and ate, planning their exploits between mouthfuls.

The parade was over but its excitement was still alive in the boys. At last Werner reluctantly said goodbye to Erwin and his family, remarking he would see him at school. Like most boys his age, Werner had a bicycle and he pedaled across town to home.

Herr Gutenauer knew that he had lost. Distressed, it seemed inevitable that his son would be swept up in the war machine, and the war machine was very, very hungry.

. . .

At the Bergen household, Werner and his family were entangled in much the same rhetoric. It was dinner time and Werner had not stopped talking about the parade since he had returned home that afternoon. Werner used the occasion to once again bring up a delicate subject.

Although not yet mandatory, many of the youth were encouraged to wear the fine quality brown shirt of the party, replete with the black swastika. Herr Bergen forbade it, referring to the Nazi Party as The brown pest. The family was quite well off and Mr. Bergen preferred to live in relative anonymity. Taking a firm political stand in the politics of war was against his better judgment. Besides, he had argued, it’s my money and you have plenty of shirts.

Werner knew how his father felt, and indeed, this was the first time he could remember not backing down to his father’s wishes.

What was Herr Bergen to say, then, when Werner had come home a few evenings later wearing the brown shirt of the Party and claiming he had saved money by doing odd jobs in addition to his work at the restaurant?

And besides, my father, haven’t you always taught us that something has much more value if one works for it and spends their own money on the purchase?

In reality, wearing the shirts was always encouraged, but there were only two times a year they were required. They were to be worn on the April 29, Fuhrer’s birthday, and on the commemoration of the Beer Hall Putsch, November 8 and 9.

Herr Bergen insisted Werner not wear the shirt to school or in his sight – yet he knew almost as soon as he spoke the words that somehow the shirt would show up at Werner’s school.

. . .

Since the times of the ancients, boys were adept at figuring out much better ways of wiling away the daylight hours other than attending classes. Erwin and Werner were no different. And as their ancient ancestors rationalized, they too could not see the need to sit through hours of history, languages, and math.

We live in such times, Erwin was fond of saying, we need to learn stealth and craft. Strength and endurance. We have little need for numbers and grammar.

The boys’ attendance was sketchy, at best, but they knew they had to keep their grades adequate, considering their lofty career goals.

But Monday came and this day was different. Off they went to school because they would not play hooky today. Nothing would overshadow this day when they would show off their brown shirts for the first time. Even though Werner remembered his father’s admonition, he snuck his shirt out of the house the night before and hid it in some bushes where it could be easily retrieved the following day. Erwin wore his and told Werner his father had said nothing.

The boys attended Gymnasium, or secondary school, and the German high school curriculum was very practical. They were fortunate, in that their parents could afford to send them to what was considered higher education. Those children who did not have affluent parents, or whose families were simply not interested in education, had eight years of Volksschule. or people’s school, instead.

If the students were outstanding Hitler Youth, and showed scholastic or mechanical aptitude and scored well on exams, they were at times granted a state scholarship to the secondary schools. Erwin and Werner’s parents paid for their son’s education, and Herr Bergen monitored Werner’s course contents closely. He understood there was a time for politics and grooming the youth to serve the homeland, but his money was paying for a concrete education; not the idealism of the Nazi Socialists.

Be that as it may, after 1933 most schools were controlled by the Nazi Party, anyway. and education centered on military history and physical education. Once considered some of the best education in Europe, the quality of German schools plummeted and many teachers who had seen action in the First World War were fired for refusing to teach the new history, which amounted to not much more than Nazi propaganda.

Werner’s and Erwin’s day started when the teacher arrived for their first class. The class stood as one and offered the high salute, right arm outstretched. Should they meet the teacher on a public street, exchanging the salute was required. Due to the high volume of young teachers drafted for the war effort, the classes had thirty to forty students all sitting on long benches. The first order of business was to mark the progress of the war on a large map displayed in every classroom. Pins marked the front lines. Initially this was fun and exciting. Moving the pins was usually marked with cheers, but now in the spring of 1943 the movement of the pins stalled. The teachers were warned by government officials that it was up to them to put a good spin on the sputtering progress of the German armies.

The German propaganda machine was near perfect, as it knew it must be to keep the army ranks filled with brazen, idealistic recruits willing to fight and die without question. Its distortions became more fantastic as the war raged on; the basic premise being that if a lie was told often enough, even those who knew it was a lie would eventually regard it as the truth.

After almost three hours studying history, geography and math, the class broke for lunch and the remainder of the day was devoted to physical training. It was what all the boys in the class waited for. The teachers would not admit it, but they did not take the training seriously. They didn’t have to, the students would see to that.

The boys began by lining up in disciplined rank and file. A few students were called forward to lead the calisthenics. But soon, a joke would break out at the expense of any one of the boys who were perceived as weak, overweight, or just different. The teacher would make a pretense of trying to maintain order, but a free-for-all-fight soon erupted.

Once the pile was separated, the two instigators, guilty or not, were set apart. The command was given form a ring. The teacher disappeared for a moment and returned with two pugil sticks. These were wooden poles, perhaps three centimeters thick by about a meter in length. What amounted to boxing gloves were taped securely on either end.

The two offenders faced off. Not too many rules were in place, or if they were, they were not enforced. The object: to bash the other boy’s brains out. Blood sport. The ring of boys burst into cheers and jeers as the two went at it. The contest was over when one boy hit the mat or the teacher stepped in stop the fight.

Although this type of activity was officially frowned upon, the teachers would make mental note of those who had a natural fighting spirit. It was a perfect way to channel the rebelliousness of youth to an organized life. And the organized life was the Party.

Werner and Erwin enjoyed, or rather cherished, their fair share of this activity. Scars and black eyes were a badge of honor, but terrified many mothers. The victors were applauded and the bout was relived for a few days, then was just as quickly forgotten, as the anticipation built for the next one.

Teachers came and went, but the classes did not vary by much. Patriotism and classes on racial hygiene were the order of the day. The youth were constantly praised for their abilities and were continually being made aware that theirs was the master race.

Mathematics took on a seemingly frightening twist, but at the least, it kept the class interested. The geometry of arcs and angles was taught by having students plot the arcs of falling bombs and the paths traveled by projectiles shot from panzers. Numbers were taught by calculating how much money the state would save by not needing to care for undesirables. Students were encouraged to report the offenses of other students such as cheating on tests or stealing. Rarely did a teacher try to prove innocence or guilt; they were more interested in fanning the accused youth’s anger and adding to the intensity of the physical activities. The boy being turned in would turn on his accusers with gusto.

Occasionally they would go on field trips, more a holiday for the teachers than anything else, but one day it was announced the class would go on a biological field trip. Since the city had not yet been scarred by Allied bombing, the class would walk. When they arrived at a wooded area, the teacher dismissed them to go find mushrooms. In response to some boys asking how they could tell which mushrooms were poisonous the teacher would reply, Take a very small bite. If it makes you sick, spit it out. It is probably poisonous. The boys went home and relayed their adventures to their parents. The mothers were horrified, the fathers just snickered.

The days sped by. The boys were racing inexorably towards the goal—the Notabitur, a diploma recognized only by the armed services as proof they had met basic educational requirements and they were eligible for service. Unfortunately, after the war it would prove to be worthless credentials no German college or university would recognize.

The churches provided no sanctuary to study the Word of God. Instead the state suggested the clergy include a healthy dose teaching Nazi superiority as a divine precept.

One Sunday the family went to service and the boys were pleasantly surprised to find several youths their age wearing the brown shirt. They pulled Werner and Erwin aside. With little encouragement needed, they convinced the boys to join the Jungens. Although both sets of parents raised feeble objections, their values had by now become second rate to the state-run educational scheme to indoctrinate Germany’s youth to social idealism.

Yet the youth corps did provide excellent training and even funded overnight trips. The boys learned to maintain bicycles, basic language skills, including basic English, ironically boxing and hand-to-hand combat, and tearing apart machines to see how they worked. Team work was taught by building trust—blanket tossing and learning to ride a bicycle blind-folded by listening to instructions from other boys were just two of the methods used.

Most of all, marching and the philosophy of the German Reich were constantly emphasized along with how the Aryan race was the premiere genetic perfection of humanity. They were superior; all others were weak and inferior.

Herr Gutenauer, the ex-soldier, would ask Erwin, Son, do you think bullets and bombs care about ethnic equality? You and the Allied soldiers will be just as dead. Your teaching includes reading and mechanics. Does it teach about the wounded and dying? Duty to country is strong, but the agony of a slow death is stronger. I am not trying to dissuade you, but even in war, its soldiers must be informed consumers. Yet his efforts to convince Erwin to have himself placed in a rear area supply