Jodl simply shook his head,
“It’s like Poland all over again, but a thousand times worse. Here’s an example: in the Ukraine we are being welcomed as liberators. Our German officers attend church services with the local worthies. But with the 17 July dictat, fucking Koch is in charge—Koch that fucking moron. He’s so fucking stupid.”
Here Milch interrupted,
“In Berlin at dinner one time Koch said to me ‘If I meet a Ukrainian worthy of being seated at my table, I must have him shot.’ I agree with Jodl completely—the man is a complete moron. Koch went on to tell me—in the most emphatic way—that quote, ‘these Ukrainian peasants need to be taught to count to 400, learn the days of the week and the months of the year,’ unquote. What an idiot.”
Jodl said,
“It is people like Koch who will lose this war for us. The Ukraine is huge; it is almost twice the size of Germany. If properly managed, it can become a semi-autonomous pāgus, as the Romans did with Gaul. And the fucking Ukrainians love us and they hate the Russians with a passion. They love us—the fucking Germans—they love us. And so what do we do? The Austrian appoints a horse turd like Koch? The Ukrainians want to fight for us—for us, the fucking Germans—for Christ’s fucking sake. And how do we reward these people? We give them fucking Horse Turd Koch.”
Jodl shook his head. Jodl’s level of irritation was easy to judge by the increase in the level of his profanity.
Jodl fumed and then started to return to his normal analytical calculating engine,
“The first problem is my problem—already, we are spread too thin, just as Albert’s professor said. And why in the name of fuck are we attacking Leningrad? Well, I will tell you why. Solely because it is the birthplace of Bolshevism, for that sole reason, no other. No military significance is attached to it. And we’re running out of time. Today is the 1st of September, and we’re two years into the war. But in northern Russia—like Leningrad—the very first part of winter starts in 30 days’ time. Last night, I was re-reading Napoleon’s diary entries for his campaign in 1812 and it goes like this: 7 September: ‘glorious weather, my troops are happy;’ 14 October: ‘first snow;’ 7 November: ‘freezing cold, my men are dying like flies, and I am losing 100 horses a day.’ I will remind you gentlemen that the seventh of November is 68 days from today and 22 June is 70 days in the past. We are provoking the Fates in a very, very dangerous way.”
Speer looked at the Diplomat, and then back to Jodl.
“So you suggest what?” Albert asked.
“Well, there is a simple solution—move south. Simple. Move south. Stalin’s Achilles heel is oil—just as it is for us. And so we should attack south, protect our Ploesti oil fields and capture or destroy the Baku oil fields in the Caspian. We should collapse the current elephantine front to a line running from Brest-Litovsk to Kiev down to the Crimea and to Baku. I’ve discussed this with Rundstedt and he agrees. This line means we protect and strengthen Ploesti and Romania as a whole. We can also ferry fuel across the Black Sea. And it is warm—no fucking snow. With a line like this means we can have Turkey enter on our side, and if they don’t, then fuck them—we’re in a strong position to take Turkey by force. And with Turkey, we’re in a very strong position to take the Middle East and then…”
Albert finished the sentence,
“The Suez Canal.”
Jodl smiled.
“One of our biggest problems is that the current Chancellor is a political animal who deludes himself that he is a military expert. Lawyers kowtow to local hick politicians who promulgate the laws. Regardless of how bad these laws are, the lawyers take the laws as sacrosanct. Politicians are the same, they kowtow to the perceived leader, and because of the March of ’23 to Rome, the Chancellor is enthralled by the short fat one in Rome. And this strutting Italian is the same as Koch—he is entirely capable of losing the war for us, and in a few months, not years. While the Italians fought well in the Great War, they have decayed into a gutless mob. Just look at last year in the Western Desert—what a fucking joke those dagos are. This insane love affair with Rome will cost us dearly, mark my words. But if we attack overland we do not need these worthless monkeys. I agree with Albert’s professor—oil is the key to this war, not people, not armies, and certainly not cities. When we take or control Baku, Stalin is done for. But this is just a pipe dream in the current political climate.”
From the main house, Jodl’s ADC came running down the stone steps. In his hand was a sheet of pink paper—an urgent wireless message.
The ADC bit his lip and said nothing and passed the flimsy to Jodl.
“Thank you, Schäfer. Keep this strictly to yourself, and put the army on full alert on my authority. Get in contact with all the batons and tell them to expect to get a Category One message from me in 30 minutes.”
The ADC saluted and raced back to the house.
“What is it?” Milch asked with rare curiosity.
Jodl passed the urgent wireless message on pink flimsy to Milch.
Milch jumped to his feet.
“Holy fucking shit.”
The paper was passed to Albert.
The message read:
“Well, this does change the landscape a little. Doesn’t it?”
Without meaning to, Albert laughed at Jodl’s massive understatement.
“Blessing in disguise,” Jodl said.
“Yes, yes it is, it truly is. He did so love using Fatso’s old Ju-52 with the red markings of von Richthofen,” Milch replied.
“Well, gentlemen, this event has changed our country’s destiny; I will tell both of you that Russia is a problem and will be our downfall. I have wanted to make these changes, but I have been overruled. But now, the situation has suddenly changed, or should I say improved?”
As Albert and Milch contemplated Jodl’s comments, a disheveled figure was seen running down the steps.
“The news. The news. The news. It is terrible. It is the end of us all. He’s gone. He’s gone.”
Jodl was the first to speak, “Bormann, whatever do you mean?”
“He is gone. Gone. He is gone.”
“Who is gone?” Jodl asked, teasingly.
“The Chief, the boss, the Chancellor—he’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“He’s dead”
“Who is dead?”
“The boss, our leader—killed.”
“No, not possible; here man, sit down, enjoy this fine sunny Bavarian weather, enjoy yourself.”
“Enjoy, are you mad? Are you living in cloud cuckoo land? He’s gone. Look at this message.”
Bormann passed a garbled telephone message from one of Bormann’s lackeys.
Bormann sat down in the gazebo, making no sound.
Milch stood and quietly walked two steps behind Bormann. Jodl looked up and without changing his expression gave the slightest of nod of agreement. The bullet from Milch’s luger chipped the left incisor of Bormann’s lower jaw as it left his skull and proceeded to nick one of the granite flag stones on the late Bormann’s gazebo. Bormann’s body slumped forward, like a marathon runner exhausted after finishing a grueling race.