Berghof, Gau München-Oberbayern, Grossdeutschen Reich, Dienstag, 11. Juli 1944
The Führer was in a less than perfect mood.
Last month had not been good. Rome had fallen; then the Anglo-Saxons had dared to cross the Channel. Even though these successes were illusory, the new rockets would smash British morale and the new submarines would send all their ships to the bottom, there was still the reports of moves in Russia. He was bayed about with distractions.
More and more, the Führer realized that he was essential, the only man who could stave off Bolshevism, defeat the decadent Anglo-Saxons, bring to heel the deluded bandits, crush world Jewry, the guiding principle of it all.
So many were failing. Just the other day, Rommel had wavered, weakened. If that damned V-1 hadn’t gone off course, and scared him like a wet hen . . . that was it. Perhaps Rommel needed a good reliable SS officer to put some steel into him.
He had to prepare, though. Russia would be the Schwerpunkt. They would have to be put in order, a more ruthless procedure put to work. Speed up the cleansing behind the lines. More troops on anti-bandit sweeps. Then send some of those master hunters to France, clean up there.
All this would depend on crushing this pitiful lodgment on the coast of France. If that were wiped out, the second invasion would have to be called off. Then, perhaps, the Aryan remnants in those countries would rise and wipe out the Jews and their decadent supporters.
The vision glimmered in the summer heat, over the pines of the Berghof. In the morning — his morning, the hours after he had arisen from sleep — it was so real and so beautiful. For a moment he wished for some of the old days, for the leisure to get his paints and reproduce this splendid sight for the future.
Such burdens.
“I shall have my breakfast in the Teehaus. Ring down and have them prepare it.”
The staff watched the Führer go. Destiny lay on his shoulders, every man knew. This was his lone opportunity for solitude. In these walks, the Great Aryan Vision of the Future would be nurtured and formulated, its depths and wonders shaped from mere ideas into solid, powerful policies.
The pock echoed from hillside to mountain slope.