Ballard's War

"Bormann right? About me? Can't trust my judgment?" Göring said, the look of incredulity slowly replaced by one of fear. God, if he could only pop a morphine tablet into his mouth. They were in his breast, pocket, just inches from his mouth. But he knew Hitler strongly disapproved of this little indulgence, and he was watching him, like a hawk. "That odious creature hasn't earned the right to cast any judgment about me. Where was he when you and I were being shot at on the streets of Munich? Where was he during the Great War while you and I were on the front lines, risking our lives and earning our Iron Crosses? The only medal that creature ever got was his Blutorden-and even that was done retroactively just like his backdated party membership. Number 555! How he hoodwinked you to permit that, mein Führer, I'll never know, but every one of us who fought with his bare hands in the streets resent it when that little orangutan sports one of our most honored decoration ...."

"I'll thank you not to libel the Deputy Secretary, Herr Reichsmarshall," Hitler said, his voice rising. "He may not be a war hero, but he is a tireless worker who helps me at every turn. He solves my problems instead of enlarging them, as your crazy new rocket bomb to America scheme proposes, and your inadequate defense of the Fatherland--no matter how much money I shower on you."

"A tireless worker, yes, mein Führer," Göring replied, his own voice rising. "But just who he is working for--you, or himself--is another question...."

"Stop blaspheming the Deputy ...."

"Blaspheme that little toad," Göring shot back. He broke out into a profuse cold sweat. He was trembling and hardly knew what he was saying. "Nothing I can do will be blasphemy enough for that little coward. You know he's doing everything in his power to take over your position when..."

Hitler's eyes sparkled as if ignited from within. "When what?" he snorted. “When who attempts what? Is that what's on your mind...?"

"Mein Führer, of course I have no intention of taking over--unless you are completely incapacitated. As written in the codicil of June 29, 1941 ...."

"Taking over? You can sit here and tell me to my face you intend to take over?" Hitler sprang to his feet. "This display of brazen arrogance is outright treachery, Herman. You would have failed completely to protect us from Allied bombers: Only the American's suggestions pulled your coals out the fire on that one with his push for the Messerschmidt jet fighter. And having failed to protect the Fatherland, you have the nerve to come in her with another crackpot scheme to spend millions of Reichsmarks to drop a few kilos of bombs on New York city in 1948. Then, in the same breath you tell me you're going to take over as soon as I'm ‘incapacitated.’"

Hitler was shaking all over. "You know, Herman, I have been extremely patient with you, in spite of your vile habits and the advice of many other generals. But I can tell you one thing: you are not going to take over for me now, in the future or ever. I'm changing my will at this instant. I'm writing you out of the will, out of the succession. I'll, put Doenitz in your place. He knows about loyalty and keeping his nose to the grindstone. Doenitz doesn't come in here whining about how little support he gets, or how much money he needs for uranium-powered U-boats for the year 1950! And as far as your leadership of the Luftwaffe..."

“‘Out of the line of succession?’” Göring couldn't believe his ears. That was impossible. He had worked so hard, put in so many years, accepted countless humiliations without complaint.

"Mein Führer, you can't do that. Please reconsider what you're saying...."

"And now you have the gall to tell me what I can do," Hitler raged. "Oh, such perfidious treason. And from you of all people. You, my old friend, telling me to my face that you're going to take over."

Hitler moved toward the door. "I'm getting a stenographer this instant. I want you to sit here and witness me cutting you out ...."

Göring sprang to his feet. "Mein Führer, please don't be so hasty. Consider what you are doing ...." He clutched at Hitler's arm to hold him back. Hitler sprang aside, shocked at being seized. Göring reached down and unsheathed his ceremonial dagger. "I swore an oath and dedicated my life to you on this dagger, mein Führer," Göring bellowed. "Don't take that away from me."

His face was red with hysterical tension, his eyes bugged with fear. He was waving the dagger aimlessly.

"You dare threaten me like that, you disgusting drug-sopping Schweinehund." Hitler screamed. "Bormann is right: you don't know what you're doing anymore. You'll be lucky if I don't have you shot for this affront." Hitler pulled his arm, trying to break Göring 's frantic grip.

"Nein, mein Führer," Göring shouted. "I can't let you do that." He drew his arm back and spun the Fuhrer around to face him. For a split second the two faced each other like boxers squaring off for a fight. With powerful upward stroke Göring plunged his golden dagger straight into Hitler's solar plexus, lifting his victim off the floor. A horrible groan escaped from Hitler's lips.

"Hermann," Hitler gasped, grimacing at the incredible pain. "You betray me …thus?" His mouth continued to move, but no sound came out. He fell on his knees, clutching feebly at the ivory handle sticking out of his body, driven in up to the golden hilt, but to weak to pull it out. There was no blood. Then he fell forward, catching himself by his hands. His face was purple and horribly twisted. He huffed and gulped in small gasps, even breathing was intensifying the acute agony.

Hitler fell on his side, moaning loudly and thrashing around on the floor. Göring 's face had gone pale with the enormity of what he had just done. What had come over him? His mind had completely blanked out. Taken out of the succession? That was what did it. After all he had done for the Führer--no one had suffered more humiliation and returned a more loyal service, time and time again. All to maintain the right of succession. Now Hitler was going to strike him off the list! All because of the constant whispering of that poisonous toad.

Göring kneeled down and put a meaty hand on his old comrade's quivering shoulder. He knocked the Fuhrer's trembling hands aside and jerked the dagger out. A spurt of blood squirted onto the oriental carpet. Göring got down on his knees and rolled Hitler on to his back. He stabbed him again, in the same vulnerable spot just below the sternum, this time angling the blade upward, searching for the heart. But the blade refused to find the vital organ. Impaled by the dagger, speechless in the most terrible agony, Hitler began to writhe and squirm on the rug, trying to free himself from the Fat One's iron grip. Göring held onto the dagger, searching upward with the blade.

"Help!" Hitler shouted weakly. His diaphragm was severed so he could not expel enough air to shout loudly.

"Shhhh. Don't cry out, mein Führer," Göring crooned. Göring pulled the writhing Hitler to an upright sitting position and brought the knife to his throat. It all made sense now. This was his destiny, to rule Germany and rule it correctly; to remove all the doubt and equivocation that had plagued the Fuhrer's office ever since that swine Bormann and his counterfeit medal had got control over him.

"I do this for the good of the Reich," Göring said animatedly. "Heil Hitler." In a single maniacal stroke Göring pulled the knife blade across Hitler's throat. Released from Göring 's bearhug, Hitler lunged forward, butting Göring 's hand--the knife only severed his esophagus. Blood gushing from his throat, Hitler pitched forward, gasping air out though his gaping wound--air no longer able to reach his vocal cords which made a sloshing sound