Disclaimer & warning: The 90% people mentioned in this piece are/were real; based slightly off real events and real people but fictionalized and changed. Whilst a story it possibly could offend some people as it is about Nazis, Adolf Hitler and World War 2, though it did end 69yrs ago. This is rated MA+ mainly due to the subject.
US President Henry Wallace slammed the phone down and swept his hand across the desk in frustration sending papers flying. All present were taken aback by the outburst. Wallace tapped the desk as he regained his composure. He was finding filling the shoes of Franklin Roosevelt a burdensome task.
“Anything we can do Mr President?” asked Vice President Harry Truman as he broke the awkward silence.
“We’ve got blacks and whites rioting in the streets up in Belle Island,” Wallace said “How in God’s name can we fight to crush Nazi brutality abroad and condone race riots at home? We even have segregated army units for crying out loud!” Nobody spoke. Wallace stood. “We’re fighting monsters overseas and we can’t keep our house in order. Seems pointless if we save the world, yet lose ourselves.”
“We need hope.”
Wallace looked up at Truman, “What?”
“Hope. A symbol.” Truman nodded towards a chair and the President allowed him to sit.
Wallace rubbed his chin “Where are you going with this Harry?”
“The whole war is going to hell in a hand basket. Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin killed by Hitler’s super assassin. Spain and Ireland joining the Axis. And those yellow bastards have pushed us back in the Pacific and loom on the doorstep of Australia! But we need something or someone to do something, heroic.”
“You tell those Manhattan boys to hurry up!” Wallace said pointing at Major General Leslie R Groves Jr.
“Sir we’re working wit…”
“Sorry Leslie,” interrupted Truman as he stood “Sir, we need a hero. A bomb is…you can’t give a bomb a tickertape parade.”
Prime Minister Clement Atlee puffed on his pipe as he circled the table, looking at the figurines on the world map. It was bleak.
“Mr Prime Minister,” a young woman entered the room holding a yellow piece of paper “An alert from the Russians.”
Atlee smiled politely and took the paper, his eyes scanning the message. “They never cease to amaze me.”
“What has gone wrong now?” asked Sir Percy Grigg gruffly. The Secretary of State of War looked over his black rimmed glasses at his superior and crossed his arms awaiting disappointment.
“Quite the contrary Sir Percy,” said Atlee “Seems the Russians have taken back Stalingrad.”
“No!” Sir Percy was amazed.
Clement looked at the woman who had brought in the message “My dear, please ready a message to Chairman Molotov expressing congratulations at this inspirational blow. Now what are we going to do about Ireland?”
Lieutenant General Vasily Chuikov strode down the line of Soviet soldiers as they cheered. He was proud of his men and women who for the last five months had fought tooth and nail to reclaim the city, their city, from the grasp of Nazi horde. He made his way to the town centre to where the remaining Nazi regiment had surrendered to his forces. His breath hung in the air like a cloud as he scanned the group of kneeling men, finally spotting the man he wished to speak to; General Friedrich Paulus, his opposite number during this protracted conflict.
“My German is limited General,” said Vasily to the man on his knees in the snow “I don’t suppose you speak Russian?”
Friedrich shook his head. Vasily sighed drew his Tokarev pistol and blew Paulus’ brains out the back of his skull.
“One of you Prussian bastards speaks my language!” he roared as he pointed his gun at the next soldier.
“WHAT!?!” Hitler screamed as he thumped his desk like a petulant child. “I SAID TO THE DEATH!”
“Yes my Fuhrer,” replied Wolfram von Richthofen as he quietly took half a step back from his leader who was ranting. He had tried to telephone through to Hitler several days ago to advise him on the Stalingrad siege but none of the aides had deemed him worthy enough to be put through. He’d even called through to Luftwaffe Chief Herman Göring with the same information only to have it fall on deaf ears. That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was whether or not he’d leave the room alive as Mörder slipped in behind Hitler.
“THAT STUPID, RETARDED, INSOLENT CHILD! HOW DARE HE DEFY A DIRECT ORDER!” Hitler screamed as spit flew across the desk like a sprinkler. “NO FIELD MARSHAL HAS EVER, EVER SURRENDERED TO THE ENEMY!”
“Yes, my Fuhrer,”
“I HOPE THOSE DAMN BOLSHEVIKS SKIN HIM ALIVE!” snarled Hitler as he sat and fumbled for his glasses. Slowly, deliberately he made Wolfram feel uncomfortable before looking up at him. “Do you have anything to say?”
“I can only ap…”
“DON’T PATRONISE ME!” roared Hitler making Wolfram jump like a startled rabbit. “YOU ARE DISMISSED!”
Wolfram threw up the best salute he could muster before marching promptly out of the room, counting his lucky stars. Adolf scratched his moustache and turned to his personal assassin.
“You will go to your “father” and tell him to hurry up with your brothers.”
To be continued...