The next Seanery Chronicles issue. Maybe.

[Conn Seanery]

Got the bug again, started writing and this came out. This may or may not tie into that JSTF: No More thing I wrote a while back. Or then again, this might be as far as I go. Who knows? Either way, I won't be posting this on the NEB until I get at least a handful of chapters down (if I get it up and running, I want to make sure I finish it).

Anyway, here's the beginning teaser. The first part is ripped from the kid's (grown up) account of what happened in 1944, and butchered by me for the sake of the story.

[Conn Seanery]

Herrlingen, Germany
October 14th, 1944

“At twelve o’clock, certain Generals representing the Fuehrer will be joining us,” he began suddenly. “My future is to be discussed.”

They were walking in the garden off to the side of the house, where they had just breakfasted. The weather was warm for the time of year, but the brisk wind reminded them that winter was approaching. His son followed him; a frail fifteen-year-old boy who barely fit into his auxiliary soldier’s uniform, on leave from his anti-aircraft unit stationed near their home. The other who followed was a Captain with the army, aide to the man whom they trailed behind.

The aide kept a slow pace, matching his superior. “Perhaps a new command in the east.”

“Would you accept such a command?” the boy asked, excited.

“Our enemy in the east is terrible…so terrible that every other consideration must give way before it,” the man replied, turning to put a hand on his son’s shoulder. He was in his fifties, clad in a brown civilian jacket, black hair starting to recede with signs of grey sneaking in. He had a commanding presence that put aside any doubts that he was anything but a military man. Recovering from harsh wounds received a few months prior; he barely showed any sign he’d been wounded at all.

“Should he succeed in overrunning Europe, even only temporarily, it will be the end of everything that has made life worth living,” the man continued. He revealed a small, tired smile. “Yes Manfred, of course I would go.”

The boy smiled in return as his father patted him on the back. “Now go, see to your mother. She was worried for you this morning.”

The man’s smile faded as he watched his son enter the house. “A command in the east? I think not.”

The aide grimaced. “I said that for the boy’s benefit.”

“I know,” the man replied, his smile returning. “Hitler is paranoid, jumping at shadows. He’s eliminating anyone he thinks may be plotting against him, proven or otherwise. Am I outspoken in my criticism of the leadership? Absolutely. But a traitor? Absolutely not.”

“Herr Field Marshall…”

“Erwin,” the man interrupted, turning to gaze out past the garden into the fields. “I have told you many times that you may address me by name when we are alone, Aldinger. Besides, I have a feeling rank will have little value for me quite soon…”

“Dying men, traitors no less, whisper my name in desperate hope of gaining a few more minutes of life, and are believed without question,” he continued, shaking his head. “I wanted nothing to do with the attempt on Hitler in July, nothing. The risk of failure was great, and I would not make a martyr of the man. A bombing…how absurd. How does that serve the people? Let them see him in court; a public trial would put to rest any doubts or fears! The fools.”

The Captain said nothing, betraying no emotion.

“I’ve spoken to many officers in the east, officers that have witnessed horrific mass executions. This…this business with the Jews has got to stop.” He sighed wistfully. “Hitler has gone mad, and I truly believe he intends to take the German people to the grave with him. This war must end.”

Aldinger was clearly uncomfortable. “Erwin, what will you do?”

“I have considered surrendering,” he said, turning to stare at his aide hard for a moment. “I should have…what is it?”

His aide was looking toward the fields in the north, to the hills. He casually turned to look southward, over more fields and into the tree line at the edge of the property. “Soldiers.”

“The Gestapo,” the man said plainly, turning an admiring eye to his aide. “Your eyes never fail to astound me, Aldinger. I had no inkling, save for the time.” He held up his watch, the time showing that it was almost noon. “I’d best go in and change. The Generals will be expecting a Field Marshall, and I see no reason to disappoint them.”

[Conn Seanery]

As his superior disappeared into the house, the Captain watched as two cars came rumbling down the road, one black and the other dark green. Manfred returned to stand by the Aldinger’s side as the cars neared, and came to a stop before the garden gate. Two men exited from the dark green car, from the rear doors on either side, both in uniform.

The pair that approached the house were quite opposite in terms of girth. General Burgdorf, a large, powerful man walked alongside General Maisel, small and slender. Salutes were exchanged all around, and even some pleasantries exchanged with the boy, casual inquiries of his time spent with his anti-aircraft division.

The Field Marshall appeared at the doorway wearing the tunic he came to appreciate during his time in Africa, mostly due to the open collar. After salutes were exchanged, he invited the generals into his home.

The Generals appeared a bit skittish, Burgdorf in particular. “Field Marshall Rommel, may we speak in private?”

The tone was respectful and courteous, which put their hosts somewhat at ease. With a nod from his superior, Aldinger led the boy upstairs.

“So, they are not going to arrest him,” Manfred whispered, a mask of relief crossing his face.

If Captain Aldinger was taken aback that the Field Marshall’s son knew more than he let on, he hid it well. He simply nodded, and waved the boy toward his room.

Only minutes had passed as the aide was just about to settle down on a chair himself, Manfred perusing the books on his shelf, when they both heard the sound of the Field Marshall’s steps come up the stairs and into the room he shared with his wife. The boy was anxious to know what had occurred and left to follow, as did Aldinger.

They found the Field Marshall in the middle of the room, somewhat pale in complexion, holding the boy’s mother as she tried to fight back her tears. When Manfred came into view, she could hold back no longer.

Rommel led his wife to their bed and forced her to sit, kneeling to kiss her forehead. “Come outside with me,” he said in a tight voice to the pair, turning and exiting the room. He closed the door, and led his son and aide back into the boy’s room.

“I have just had to tell your mother,” he began slowly, “and now I tell you that I shall be dead within a quarter of an hour.”

Manfred seemed about to speak, but his father silenced him with a gesture. “To die by the hand of my own people is difficult, but the house is surrounded and Hitler is charging me with high treason. In view of my services in Africa,” he took on a sarcastic tone suddenly, as if quoting, “I have been given the choice of dying by a poison brought by the Generals below. I am told it is fatal within seconds of ingestion.”

Again, Manfred seemed about to speak but Aldinger held him back, anticipating his superior’s need. “By accepting these terms, no harm will come to my family. You and your mother will be safe, Manfred.”

Sensing he was permitted to speak, the boy fought back his urge to cry out. He kept his voice low. “You believe them?”

“Yes, I do,” Rommel replied. He looked up at his aide and nodded, assuring him with that glance that he was not spinning tales to comfort his son. “It is in their interest to keep this…affair quiet. Germany would not react well to the brutal execution of one of their most distinguished Field Marshals,” he said modestly and without ego. “I must have your promise of absolute silence on this matter. Not a word, or they will no longer feel themselves bound by the agreement.”

“Can’t we defend ourselves?” Manfred pleaded.

“There is no point. Better for one of us to die rather than all of us,” he insisted, straightening. He almost laughed suddenly, though no smile crossed his lips. “Besides, we’ve practically no ammunition.”

“It’s all been prepared, every last detail. I’m to be given a state funeral, I asked that it should take place in Ulm, near my hometown,” the Field Marshall continued, turning to his aide. “Aldinger, in a quarter of an hour you will receive a telephone call from the Wagnerschule hospital in Ulm telling you that I’ve had a brain seizure on the way to a conference.”

Manfred was visibly shaken. He shot forward into his father’s arms, and held him tight.

“I must go,” Rommel said, taking a look at his watch. “They’ve only given me ten minutes.” He spared his son another quick hug and separated, smoothening out his tunic.

Returning downstairs, he nodded to the waiting Generals, who in turn motioned toward the door as they exited the house. Aldinger grabbed his superior’s leather coat, helping him put it on. Rommel suddenly reached back and pulled out his wallet. “There’s a hundred a fifty marks in here, should I take it with me?”

“That doesn’t matter now, Herr Field Marshall,” Aldinger said soberly, straightening the jacket collar.

“Erwin,” the Field Marshall whispered, sparing a slight smile for his aide.

Rommel stuffed the wallet back into his pocket as Manfred handed him his baton. Walking toward the door, a little dachshund puppy he had been given in France a few months prior jumped up at him, whining with joy. He ordered his son to shut the dog in the other room, waiting for him to return before all three walked out the door and into the garden.

The Generals waited by the garden gate. Rommel, his aide, and son walked slowly down the gravel path. As they approached, the generals raised their right hands in salute. Passing through the gate, past the cars, they could see a group of villagers gathered on the edge of the drive.

Field Marshall Erwin Rommel walked toward the black car, the SS officer swiftly opening the door and then standing at rigid attention. Rommel pushed his Marshall’s baton under arm and turned, giving his hand to Manfred and Captain Aldinger one final time before entering the car.

General Burgdorf entered on the opposite side, taking a seat in the back beside the Field Marshall. General Maisel remained behind with the driver of the dark green car. Erwin Rommel did not turn as the car drove off quickly, the villagers parting and dispersing as it made its way up the hill and away into the distance.

Maisel turned to face the Captain and began to walk back toward him by the garden gate. “Your mother,” Aldinger said to Manfred, his somber visage of no comfort to the boy. “She’ll be very upset, go to her.”

The boy disappeared into the house as Maisel came to stand in front of Captain Aldinger, forced to look up at him. He seemed oddly confident for such a diminutive man, and looking into his eyes, Aldinger knew that the Gestapo hidden in the field would remain until word had arrived that Field Marshall Rommel was dead.

“His family will be protected,” General Maisel said suddenly. “You are not his family.”

The shot was loud but quick, barely echoing across the fields surrounding the house. Aldinger jolted backward slightly, looking down at his stomach, a trickle of blood escaping his lips as he raised his head once more, just before he sunk to the ground.

General Maisel calmly replaced his pistol and turned, signalling to his driver to start the car. Entering into the backseat, the car rumbled to life and followed the path out of sight.

Aldinger lay on the ground, his mouth opening and closing, clutching the growing red stain on his midsection. Despite the circumstances, his mind racing, vision blurring, he thought he heard a voice speaking to him.

“Cato…”
~
J STREET

“Sir? Sir, can you talk?”

He could make out shapes to side of him, mostly white, and bright lights passing by fast behind them. Up, down, up down. It was noisy, and there was a lot of shouting. He could feel people touching him, but he couldn’t respond.

“Diminished breath sounds on the right,” another voice said. “Status?”

“Heart rate’s up to 120. Chest out. Put some blood, 500 ccs!”

“Who is he?”

“He’s bleeding out through his chest, spike a unit of O-neg.”

“His wallet…oh god, do you realize who this is?”

“BP is down to 70 palp. C’mon people, let’s move!”

“Someone contact…Nope Callahan at Callahan Incorporated, tell him Conn Seanery has been shot.”

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