Read Online Eagles at War by Walter J. Boyne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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knows do well—secretaries, adjutants, the aides, foremen in the key factories, workmen on the assembly line. The Director remembers them all, and they appreciate it. The Director always says that knowing the right sergeant is sometimes better than knowing the right general."
There was a crackle of static and a husky, familiar voice came over the speaker. "Frau Schroeder, please tell my guests that I'll just be a few more minutes."
Inside the inner office, the Director was stretched out on an operating table, the lower half of his body covered by a sheet. A massage by the Buddha-like Dr. Felix Kersten was an incredible experience. His fingers seemed to be driven by tiny vibrators, demonically delivering an electric yet muscle-soothing pulsation. And that was only part of it. The real pleasure came from knowing that Heinrich Himmler thought enough of you to lend the services of his own personal masseur.
It was legend that in their very first session, Kersten had massaged away Himmler's increasingly troublesome stomach cramps. The Reichsfuehrer had peremptorily taken the doctor from his clientele of wealthy industrialists and royalty, forcing him to stay at home on his farm at Harzwalde, seventy-six kilometers from Berlin. As compensation, Himmler saw to it that the farm was transformed with the resources of the Reich into a magnificent estate.
Kersten knew that he and his family would live very well as long as he soothed Himmler. Yet to his credit he did more than that. The rumors that Kersten was a benevolent Svengali were true. He could hypnotize Himmler with his hands into an occasional act of mercy—the release of a Jewish prisoner from a concentration camp, or an agreement to permit emigration. The greater Himmler's pain, the greater favors he would grant.
Kersten said, "A few more minutes, bitte," and moved the sheet so that he could work on the scarred and twisted legs.
The Director went limp as Kersten's magic fingers lured the pain away. Kersten was a decent fellow, and his ministrations reminded the Director of the massages his wife had given him years ago, after he'd come home from a long flight or a hard day at the factory. Strangely, he rarely thought of her or of his factory in the United States. Any thoughts he had of those times were only of the bastard who had brought him down with a trick over Guernica, the man who had started him on this via dolorosa. He groaned involuntarily.
It was incredible that his own son-in-law, that Griinschnabel, a greenhorn knowing nothing of combat, could have been able to do it. Hafner had outflown him in Peru, and outsold him in the marketplace. Oddly enough, they had many interests in common, might even have become friends if Bandfield had not been so independent, so arrogant.
The Guernica dogfight was always in his mind, an obsession. He'd made a mistake he'd never make again—toying with an enemy. He should have killed Bandfield when he had the chance—then the rest of his life would have been different. The man had been at his mercy; he could easily have shot him down. Instead, he had tried to extend the pleasure of the moment. But Bandfield had tricked him, ramming the propeller of his Russian fighter through the rudder of his Messerschmitt.
Hafner closed his eyes, wincing as he recalled the violence of the wild tailspin that trapped his legs in the cockpit as he struggled to bail out, one of the few times in a danger-filled life that he had been truly frightened. In desperation, just a few hundred feet from the ground, he had pulled his parachute ripcord and let its opening canopy yank him from the cockpit like a cork from a champagne bottle. As he left, the jagged metal of the dying Messerschmitt had knifed great chunks of muscle from his legs and buttocks. The pain had been incredible, yet he had never lost consciousness, not once, until the first operation.
At the field hospital, the doctors told him with casual brutality that he would not live. After the
There was a crackle of static and a husky, familiar voice came over the speaker. "Frau Schroeder, please tell my guests that I'll just be a few more minutes."
Inside the inner office, the Director was stretched out on an operating table, the lower half of his body covered by a sheet. A massage by the Buddha-like Dr. Felix Kersten was an incredible experience. His fingers seemed to be driven by tiny vibrators, demonically delivering an electric yet muscle-soothing pulsation. And that was only part of it. The real pleasure came from knowing that Heinrich Himmler thought enough of you to lend the services of his own personal masseur.
It was legend that in their very first session, Kersten had massaged away Himmler's increasingly troublesome stomach cramps. The Reichsfuehrer had peremptorily taken the doctor from his clientele of wealthy industrialists and royalty, forcing him to stay at home on his farm at Harzwalde, seventy-six kilometers from Berlin. As compensation, Himmler saw to it that the farm was transformed with the resources of the Reich into a magnificent estate.
Kersten knew that he and his family would live very well as long as he soothed Himmler. Yet to his credit he did more than that. The rumors that Kersten was a benevolent Svengali were true. He could hypnotize Himmler with his hands into an occasional act of mercy—the release of a Jewish prisoner from a concentration camp, or an agreement to permit emigration. The greater Himmler's pain, the greater favors he would grant.
Kersten said, "A few more minutes, bitte," and moved the sheet so that he could work on the scarred and twisted legs.
The Director went limp as Kersten's magic fingers lured the pain away. Kersten was a decent fellow, and his ministrations reminded the Director of the massages his wife had given him years ago, after he'd come home from a long flight or a hard day at the factory. Strangely, he rarely thought of her or of his factory in the United States. Any thoughts he had of those times were only of the bastard who had brought him down with a trick over Guernica, the man who had started him on this via dolorosa. He groaned involuntarily.
It was incredible that his own son-in-law, that Griinschnabel, a greenhorn knowing nothing of combat, could have been able to do it. Hafner had outflown him in Peru, and outsold him in the marketplace. Oddly enough, they had many interests in common, might even have become friends if Bandfield had not been so independent, so arrogant.
The Guernica dogfight was always in his mind, an obsession. He'd made a mistake he'd never make again—toying with an enemy. He should have killed Bandfield when he had the chance—then the rest of his life would have been different. The man had been at his mercy; he could easily have shot him down. Instead, he had tried to extend the pleasure of the moment. But Bandfield had tricked him, ramming the propeller of his Russian fighter through the rudder of his Messerschmitt.
Hafner closed his eyes, wincing as he recalled the violence of the wild tailspin that trapped his legs in the cockpit as he struggled to bail out, one of the few times in a danger-filled life that he had been truly frightened. In desperation, just a few hundred feet from the ground, he had pulled his parachute ripcord and let its opening canopy yank him from the cockpit like a cork from a champagne bottle. As he left, the jagged metal of the dying Messerschmitt had knifed great chunks of muscle from his legs and buttocks. The pain had been incredible, yet he had never lost consciousness, not once, until the first operation.
At the field hospital, the doctors told him with casual brutality that he would not live. After the
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