“The arrangements haven’t been finalized, of course, but it is anticipated that company-size units from each of the armed forces will participate. Would providing such a unit, to represent the Luftwaffe, pose any problems for you, General Galland?”
“No,” Galland said simply.
“I know the SS unit at Dachau can be counted upon,” Cranz said. “And that leaves the Wehrmacht and the Navy. Boltitz?”
“There’s a Navy Signals school at the air base at Fürstenfeldbruck,” Boltitz said. “I’m not sure how large…”
“Why don’t you call them after lunch and find out?” Cranz said.
Boltitz nodded.
“The Munich military garrison has the troops, obviously,” Cranz said thoughtfully. “And now that I think about it, a quite good band. I’ll get on the telephone to them.”
“When is this going to happen?” Willi Grüner asked.
“Reichsmarschall Göring has made an aircraft available—a Junkers Ju-52. It should be here sometime today. It will take Korvettenkapitän Boltitz, Major von Wachtstein, me, and, if General Galland permits…” Cranz paused and looked at Galland, “…you to Cadiz to meet the Océano Pacífico.”
Galland nodded. “Of course,” he said.
“The remains of your father and Standartenführer Goltz will be flown here,” Cranz went on. “The actual date and time of the interment ceremonies will depend on whether Reichsprotektor Himmler or Admiral Canaris, either or both, feel they can take the time from their duties to participate. Both, Hauptmann Grüner, really wish to do so.”
Grüner nodded.
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein thought: This is insane.
These people are insane.
Hundreds of thousands of German soldiers are in unmarked graves in Russia, hundreds of thousands more are in Russian POW enclosures because Unser Hermann failed on his promise to supply von Paulus by air.
On 19 November 1943, the Soviets had launched pincer movements north and south of Stalingrad. By 23 January they had encircled General Friedrich von Paulus’s 6th Army. German attempts to relieve and resupply von Paulus failed. Under orders from Adolf Hitler, von Paulus continued to fight on, but on 31 January 1943, von Paulus disobeyed Hitler and surrendered the last of his remaining (91,000) troops. The Soviets recovered 250,000 German and Romanian corpses in and around Stalingrad, and total Axis losses (Germans, Romanians, Italians, and Hungarians) were estimated at 800,000 dead.
And here we sit, at a table loaded with food and wine, served by orderlies in white jackets, talking about a funeral parade for two people, whose bodies we are going to fly here in an airplane desperately needed in Russia, so they can be buried in the shadow of a monument of a storm trooper who never heard a shot fired in anger.
These people are insane.
And they are taking Germany down with them.
XVII
[ONE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
0805 May 18, 1943
El Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Don Cletus Frade, had left instructions with the butler, Antonio La Valle, that, following his morning ride, he wished to take breakfast at eight A.M. with Señora Frade in the gazebo in the formal garden. He had also specified, in some detail, what he wished to eat.
Señora Frade had left instructions with her maid that she wished to be awakened at half past seven (which she frankly thought was an obscene hour to rise), in the belief that thirty minutes would give her time to perform her toilette and arrive at the gazebo in time to make sure her husband’s wishes vis-à-vis his breakfast had been met.
At five minutes to eight, Señora Frade arrived at the gazebo, wearing a light blue dressing gown over a pink peignoir, her blond hair perfectly coiffured in a modest bun appropriate to her status as an expectant young matron. At the gazebo, she found everything to her satisfaction.
Two places had been set with silver and crystal on the central round table. There were two large silver pitchers, one containing coffee and the other tea. A smaller silver pitcher held cream. Crystal pitchers contained orange juice, grapefruit juice, and water. Just outside the gazebo, two portable grills had been set up, fueled by coals from the wood fire of the parilla in the kitchen. A cook was prepared to fry eggs, make toast, and broil a bife de chorizo for the master of the house. A housemaid stood by to serve.
It was, she thought, actually rather elegant.
When her husband rode into the formal garden on Julius Caesar, he was not at all elegant. He was wearing a red polo shirt, khaki trousers, a Stetson hat, and battered Western boots he had owned since he was sixteen and his feet had stopped growing, at which point a good pair of boots made by a Mexican boot maker was justified.