The Diplomat replaced his luger in its holster, puffed his cigar and said,
“Of all of the many, many cunts in this Reich, this cunt has to have been the cuntiest cunt of the worst fucking cunts, a total cunt of cunts.”
Jodl smiled, “Not a fan?”
Slightly nervous and nonplussed, Albert asked,
“But what if it is not true—we’re all in deep horse shit?”
“Why? He is just a casualty of war. Come on, dump him over the cliff. I am sure my flimsy was correct. If it isn’t, we’ve done the country a service. If the flimsy is false, just deny it when asked.”
“He’s right, dump the cunt,” Milch added.
With that, the three men manhandled Bormann’s body over the cliff. For a brief second they could see it cartwheeling as it fell. A small sound a few seconds later was heard indicating Bormann had reached his final resting place.
“It’s over 900 meters down there and the foxes will clean up the body and it will be weeks before it is discovered,” Jodl said with without a modicum of emotion.
Jodl was wrong. It was not until ’47 that the body was eventually discovered. As luck would have it, the body fell into the high branches of a pine and lay tightly wedged there for six years. And the body was discovered by—of all people—an American photographer on assignment for the National Geographic magazine hired to photograph the birds of southern Bavaria. The photographer climbed the tree in question and thought first he had come upon an elaborate nest. Only when he saw the bleached bones did he realize this had once been a man. The photographer almost fell out of the tree. The entire affair was by then ancient history.
“Let us assume the gods are not playing a trick on us, what do you gentlemen suggest are our next steps?” Albert asked.
“A list,” was Milch’s instant reply, withdrawing his ever-present small note pad from the left chest pocket of his uniform. (Milch was famous for his note taking—most photographs show him with ever-present cigar, scribbling away like a Teutonic Edward Gibbon.)
“Yes, I agree,” said Jodl.
Albert’s frown was addressed by Jodl.
“Actually we need two lists. First, a list of the political changes needed. Second, a list of the military changes needed. For the first, we need to stabilize the country—at the moment the country is more like 1748 than 1941—cabals of half-mad princes all struggling for power and influence. This must change. And this crazy and hare-brained campaign in Russia must be corrected today, now, this afternoon, not tomorrow.”
“Until one hour ago our problem was a very simple one—Emil’s luck was that of a beginner, or more specifically, amateur’s luck. In 1940 in France we were weaker along the entire front line except for the Ardennes. We did have the benefit of fighting the Poilus. You know, the ‘hairy ones’ as the French populi called the undisciplined, unwashed and filthy French soldiers who were so often drunk on cheap wine. But the Ardennes attack was a huge gamble, a massive gamble, and a breathtakingly dangerous gamble. I am still amazed we got away with it. It was only the army’s superb leadership that pulled it off.”
At this last comment, Milch added,
“Albert, this is completely and absolutely true. I spoke to my pilots of the so-called Storks—the very light observation aircraft that can land on the top of a tobacco tin, and they were universal in their praise of our army. Of course, this was against the decadent French, who always prefer surrender to honor.”
Jodl continued,
“In the Ardennes, a single column of our armor, end-to-end, would have stretched 1,600 kilometers. The foreign press created this mad word called ‘blitzkrieg’—lightening war they called it. A better word would have been ‘Lucky-German-And-Badly-Led-French.’ And in France we just got through by the skin of our teeth—the French had more tanks, bigger tanks, better tanks, more powerful tanks. But the French were so gutless and so weak, we would send four, or six, or even eight of our little baby tanks to attack one of their behemoth Char B monsters. With this tactical superiority, we won, but it was a damn close run thing. Of course, we were more than happy to take the laurels, and the French used it as an excuse for their breathtakingly incompetent generals. Do you know that the French commander-in-chief Gamelin did not even have a telephone at his headquarters; all messages arrived by motor-bicyclists, and no messages could be delivered for two hours at noon—they were having lunch?”
“Shit,” was Milch’s succinct comment.
Jodl continued,
“So after the May ’40 campaign in France, all of our political leadership caught that most dangerous of diseases—Victory Disease. A rank amateur gains the confidence of the people and bombasts the armed forces, and aided by his shit heads—like that wingless eagle we just tossed over the cliff—he took control of the nation and dominated all military planning. There is a difference between the actor—which all good politicians are—and an actual leader. Albert, you know as well as I do how the late Austrian had four departments in Berlin all doing the same work, just so he could set one against the other. This is no way to manage a country. And remember, the flashier the leader, the more completely full of horse shit he is—Stalin is boring, the short, fat dago is pure show and nothing else. And who are we attacking?”
Jodl’s comments were ended by his ADC, this time walking, making his way to the huge gazebo.
“General Jodl, all Field Marshals have been notified.”
“Good, we shall be up to the house shortly.”
The ADC left.
Pensively Jodl said,
“Life is so odd—moments ago we were talking about the correct but unattainable goal for Russia, then suddenly it is now completely attainable. I suggest the following steps: First, the Army occupies all the towns. Second, the Gestapo leaders are arrested and all Gestapo offices are sealed by the Army. Third, after these first two steps, we tell the poison dwarf to broadcast to the nation, from here. Before his defenestration, Bormann mentioned to me that little Paul was coming here today to do his typical brown-nosing of his beloved master. Now, the small matter of the new chancellor. I suggest the three of us are announced as the interim committee. This way the Army will be assured, the Air Force will be assured, and the foreign press always liked Albert.”
Jodl was rewarded with one of Albert’s rare smiles.
“I can tell you, gentlemen, that I feel a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders,” Jodl said.
The three men made their way back to the main house.
It was a pleasure to watch Jodl working in a crisis—it was as though it was just a weekend chess game in the park; no emotion, just clear and concise instructions. But for Jodl—with the superb training of a senior Wehrmacht officer—it was not a crisis. Just a change in plans. First, he spoke by radio to the commanders at the front. As expected, all were cautious—the Röhm purge was still a recent memory. But to a brother senior officer, they were also frank in their relief; they all hated the little Austrian with false teeth, bad breath and chronic flatulence; the quiet, conspiratorial jokes about his endless farting and terrible odors were legion. Then, Jodl spoke to all the regional commanders and told all to secure their cities, but as a first step they were to seize the local Gestapo offices and lock up everyone they found inside; this scum would be dealt with later.