Operation 'Werwolf': The Mission to Assassinate Roosevelt In the Waning Days of World War I I Engineered By Hitler and Goebbels

By Leon Smith

Merriam Press Historical Fiction HF2 (Fifth Edition, 2014). This is a fictionalized account, based on factual information supplied to the author by a former member of the OSS, of a mission which was engineered by Hitler and Goebbels to assassinate Roosevelt in the waning days of the war. From the introduction of the various characters on both sides of the Atlantic, to the planning of the operation, to its final conclusion, a fascinating "what-if" of World War II. Many of the incidents described in this book were related to the author by a former member of the OSS (Office of Strategic Services)—now the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency)—who served that organization honorably throughout World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312468610

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Operation 'Werwolf': The Mission to Assassinate Roosevelt In the Waning Days of World War I I Engineered By Hitler and Goebbels

Operation ‘Werwolf’: The Mission to Assassinate Roosevelt in the Waning Days of World War II Engineered by Hitler and Goebbels

Leon Smith

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Historical Fiction HF2

Bennington, Vermont

2014

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Fifth Edition

First Edition published in 1997 by the Merriam Press

Copyright © 1997 by Leon Smith

Additional material copyright of named contributors.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The views expressed are solely those of the author.

ISBN 9781312468610

This work was designed, produced, and published in the United States of America by the Merriam Press, 133 Elm Street, Suite 3R, Bennington VT 05201.

Book design by Ray Merriam

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WARNING

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

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Author’s Note

Many incidents described in this book were related to the author by a former member of the O.S.S. (Office of Strategic Services)—now the C.I.A. (Central Intelligence Agency—who served that organization honorably throughout World War II.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of

Katherine Marie.

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Chapter 1: 12 April 1945

The driver of the coroner’s van pushed the speed up higher. The long, shiny black vehicle roared through the village onto a road that opened out into a long valley heavy with the multicolors of spring, dominated by the glistening blue of the rippling creek that uncoiled toward the hill on the eastern horizon. The afternoon air was stifling, void of breeze, the yellow sun dominant in the cloudless sky.

The van slowed at the crest of the hill, veered from the hot asphalt onto a dirt road, then stopped at the big wire gate where a stocky man holding a sawed-off shotgun stood. The driver and the man talked briefly, then the van surged forward, waved on by the man who lowered the weapon and quickly pulled the wire barrier aside.

The van followed a narrow gravel road that cut through heavy woods, a large meadow, then ended at a ridge where three white clapboard houses with dark green window shutters stood. The van rolled to a stop there. A thin cloud of red Georgia dust followed, settled on the irregular row of ambulances, the sheriff’s mud-splattered black-and-white and the Chevrolet sedan parked near the towering, canopying magnolia tree heavy with ivory flowers. In this strange quiet, the only sound was the van’s motor ticking loud as it began to cool.

The scrawny, hatchet-faced man wearing a gold colored coroner’s badge over the left pocket of his wrinkled denim shirt slid from behind the steering wheel. Across the leather seat, a freckled, young-looking man dressed in a white tee shirt and white trousers fumbled with the door handle until a click sounded, then jumped onto the ground and hurried to the rear of the van.

The coroner jerked the double doors open with a grunt. Together the two men pulled the big chrome gurney out, eased its large wire wheels down, then pushed it across fifty feet of the gravel covered yard to where the white lattice framed patio began. Along the walkway that twisted toward a porch, scores of bare rosebushes pruned short for the coming summer dominated large rectangular flower beds lined by grapefruit-size rocks.

The porch began with three wide wood steps that led to a big door standing ajar. The coroner was first to it. He hesitated for a moment as though fearful of the unknown, then pushed it open. The light in the large room was dim and he waited in the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to it. Slowly things came into focus; the great stone fireplace centered on the far wall, its mantle cluttered with porcelain and wood knickknacks of the sea—a dutiful centerpiece for the large model ship of full white sail suspended by wires from the high ceiling; the husky man crumpled on the floor with thick-looking red blood spores on his forehead beginning at two small holes just below the hairline; and the rotund man in the khaki sheriff’s uniform sweating heavy, his shirt stuck soggily to beefy shoulders, his flabby belly protruding above the wide leather belt. The stench of burned gunpowder was in the air.

What the hell happened, Harry? the coroner asked in a voice that cracked with a tinge of fright. We weren’t told a damned thing over the phone, just ordered to get out here as fast as we could.

The sheriff’s eyes, made small by fat puffs, stared down. His fleshy, unshaven jowls wobbled as he shook his head negatively. A mess, Oscar, a mess.

No one else spoke. After a moment the room’s silence was interrupted when the coroner snapped a wheel lock lever at the side of the gurney.

As though the noise was intended to be a signal, a tall, thin man with mussed light brown hair eased through the long slit in the yellow drape pulled across the opening to the adjoining room. The left shoulder of his well-cut light gray suit coat was torn and saturated with blood that looked rust colored on the fabric. He flashed a FBI badge. I’m agent Nichols, he began in a deep tone. Dark brown eyes that looked weary found the coroner’s sweaty face. I’ve already told everyone who’s set foot in this house today to keep quiet about what’s happened. He paused, placed a cigarette to his thin lips, lit it, inhaled deeply, then blew a column of smoke down across his chest.

The coroner glanced at the swaying drape, then his eyes settled back on Nichols.

Nichols moved his hand to the wound. Bony fingers probed the torn fabric of the coat. He grimaced. You’re going to see something you won’t believe, something you’ll have to live with the rest of your life. The cigarette joggled up and down with his words.

The coroner’s eyes followed the glowing tip like two small black balls. W–What? he stammered.

Smoke billowed from Nichols’ mouth and nostrils as he spoke. Neither you or your helper are to say a damned thing, not a single word about what you’re going to see in the next room unless you get a personal okay from me, understand?

The countless sweat beads that had gathered on ruddy skin dropped from the coroner’s pointed chin as he nodded and mumbled a Yes.

Good, Nichols snapped, then turned, grabbed the drape and pulled it open with a trembling hand.

Jesus Christ, the coroner breathed, bug-eyed.

Chapter 2: The Plan Takes Shape

Ernst Fromm

led a squadron of Messerschmitt Bf 109K-4s toward the grass airstrip south of Berlin after hammering Russian ground positions near the Oder River this last sortie

of the day. His Gertie, ragged, riddled by flak and bullet holes with hardly a square centimeter of the camouflage painted aluminum body undamaged, roared low across plowed fields and farmhouses, missing treetops by only a few meters.

One of Germany’s top air aces with one hundred and fifty-two recorded kills, Fromm scanned the darkening sky. A modest, quiet, at times moody man, his tall body hunched in the tight cockpit. Thin, with sharp features, dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes, his face wore the exhaustion of the few experienced pilots physically able to fly combat missions.

Although his right hand gripped the control column tight, thumb near the machine gun trigger, his left hand rested on a short aluminum rod painted bright red, an escape device pieced together by his ground crew chief mechanic to detonate four shotgun cartridges, wired to immediately blast off the hinges of the cockpit in case of an emergency. Uneasily he remembered the fiery crash near Paris in the winter of 1943; the bright orange flames; the choking black smoke creeping into his nostrils; cut, blood smeared hands and the smoldering uniform—his life barely saved by the deep snowdrift after clawing and kicking free of the twisted metal.

Now he signaled and the squadron touched down. Wide black tires began a spin that kicked back rooster tail streams of light brown dust the propeller wind caught and quickly dissipated into rows of scraggly hedges lining the field. The ground crews stirred about for a moment, then regimentally separated into seven four-man groups.

Gertie’s prop whined down to a stop. Fromm eased out of the cockpit, slid from the wing and hurried toward the huge rope net covered with tree branches, a canopy erected to shield himself and Gertie from the eyes of the enemy.

He dropped onto the soiled canvas cot and let his head settle on the pillow. Through a wide space in the ragged net he found a patch of sky faded to twilight and a handful of twinkling stars. He knew this wisp of beauty could change with scant warning. Enemy bombers, fighters or both could appear there in a moment and rain bombs, bullets, death down to the scorched earth. He felt the images of his wife, father, mother and sister, all killed during the horrible summer of 1944 less than five miles from where he now rested. He felt empty, void of emotion. They should all be alive, away from Berlin, in the countryside where he’d begged them to go, but they remained in the city, stayed in their home, huddled in the basement when the sky filled with enemy bombers and the earth exploded. Nothing left now but memories of those loved ones easing in and out of the ugly shadows of war.

Now dozing, he thought of morning, the scheduled flights to the Oder River and the pleasure of killing Russian invaders. He heard the crew rolling Gertie under the net, then felt the warmth of the engine. The airstrip here was much like the one near Dunkirk that happy, exciting time of the war when defeat was unknown. His mind settled on the grueling missions he’d made from France to England, crossing the English Channel repeatedly day after day. Then, quite unexpectedly, an understanding commanding officer offered him a few hours to spend alone as a reward for a job well-done. He immediately decided to cycle the few kilometers to Dunkirk.

Even though the city was still ablaze, it was safe; the legions of his comrades finally resting after soundly defeating the French and the English.

Fromm worked up a sweat pumping so hard to the top of a hill overlooking the channel. He stopped at the edge of a field alive with red, yellow and purple wild flowers. Beyond, guilded by a bright morning sun, a grove of pine trees. A soft sea breeze rolled up to him this hot day, the salt air so refreshing to smell. Facing the breeze he noticed countless small boats bobbing in the water that at first glance looked like schools of sea bass swarming to the distant shore. He knew the enemy wounded and the weary who’d escaped the onslaught were going home and didn’t care. His eyes then followed the coastline past the chalky cliffs of Dover to North Foreland, the land’s end. There, snuggled in the dark green rolling hills, veiled in a gray haze, the multicolored buildings of Broadstairs and Ramsgate. He wondered if people there watched Dunkirk, waited for the inevitable.

He sat on a narrow log. How many more days, weeks or even months would pass before England surrendered? Then maybe a little time like this on the English coast to find a similar location and see the beaches and cliffs of France.

A flash of lightning. Dark clouds rolled on the north horizon. He glanced at his wristwatch. The noon meal would soon be ready at the airfield. He stood, took a last look at the sea and