Himmler's War-ARC Read Online Free PDF Page A

himself, which the medic thought was hilarious. His bruises and scratches were treated and he was assured that his shoulder was fine but would pain him for a while, which was something he’d already figured out.
    He’d recovered his duffle bag, but much of the contents had been ruined by salt water. This meant standing in long lines to get replacement uniforms and equipment. Fortunately, all his personal and official papers, along with his orders, had been in a waterproof envelope. A GI in England had made that suggestion and it turned out to be a damned good one.
    The replacement depot was outside the ruined town of Trevieres, a place that would have been unlovely even if it hadn’t been shelled to pieces during the invasion. Jack found a cot in a tent assigned to officers and settled in to wait. He was told not to unpack. He would be out and on his way the next morning. He lay down and wondered if he’d be able to sleep. It proved to be no problem.
    Early the next day and after a shower and a bland breakfast, he found himself waiting with a bunch of other officers, most of whom were young and fresh-faced second lieutenants. They looked at him with a degree of wonder.
    “Morgan, John C., Captain,” came the call.
    Jack walked over to the table where a staff sergeant named Sweeney awaited. “Here are your orders, Captain. You will report ASAP to the 74th Armored Regiment. Grab your gear and a Jeep will take you to them.”
    “Armor? You sure, Sergeant? I’m a pilot, not a tanker.”
    The sergeant shrugged. “This came directly from the major running this place. He said the 74th requested a captain and you’re the only captain here right now. Congratulations.”
    “I don’t know a thing about tanks,” Jack said and realized he was sounding whiny and foolish.
    Sergeant Sweeney shrugged eloquently. He didn’t care. “If you know what a tank looks like, you’re way ahead of those adolescent virgin second lieutenants who are standing there and wondering what we’re talking about. And welcome to the real army, sir.”
    Sergeant Sweeney was right. Borderline insubordinate, but right. But what the devil would he do in an armored unit? Supply? Probably. Jesus, he didn’t want to spend the war handing out underwear and pillowcases.
    “Thank you, Sergeant Sweeney, and may you someday get reassigned to submarines as a deck hand.” Sweeney laughed.
    * * *
    Varner had never met Heinrich Himmler and had never wanted to. The man’s name was synonymous with terror and death.
    In person he appeared pasty faced, even worse than his pictures. Himmler’s fishy eyes looked coldly at him. Varner willed himself to be calm. This man was even more dangerous than the Soviets had been at Stalingrad. Heinrich Himmler controlled the SS and the Gestapo, and might now be the heir to the late Adolf Hitler. Himmler held the power of life and death in the Third Reich. Many thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands, had disappeared, were tortured, and died without trial at his whim.
    Himmler’s detractors liked to claim that the forty-five-year-old Reichsfuhrer was nothing more than an ignorant chicken farmer, an opportunist, a murderer, and a man who’d ridden Hitler’s coattails to prominence. They were correct, but Heinrich Himmler was now one of the most important men in Germany, if not its most important man thanks to the events at Rastenberg.
    Varner was glad that he wasn’t alone in Himmler’s conference room in the basement of the Reich Chancellery located in the heart of Berlin. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt represented the army and was now its de facto head because of the deaths of Jodl and Keitel. He was the man Varner had immediately notified by radio from Rastenberg. Varner had served under him in Russia and the sixty-nine-year-old field marshal had left his current position in France to fly back to Berlin and take control of the military aspects of the developing situation. The field marshal was terse and