That means light and medium mortars, and antitank guns there as well. We'll need better command control and coordination. The planes will have to hit their drop areas with pinpoint accuracy. The only way to ensure that is to strike from treetop level, which in turn will require intensive low-level night training. I'll want more of the bombers—"
"Quite a mess you have here tonight Skorzeny," a new voice broke in from the surrounding darkness.
Skorzeny turned and stiffened as from out of the flickering shadows emerged SS Colonel Hoffbrauer, Himmler's personal secretary and informer. Hoffbrauer surveyed the entire scene with obvious disdain, and then turned back to Skorzeny, who barely acknowledged his presence.
"I have a suggestion," Hoffbrauer finally said, breaking the silence.
"And that is?" Skorzeny said grudgingly.
"Tour men need blooding."
"I lost half a dozen here tonight," Skorzeny replied coldly.
"Oh no, I don't mean in that way. They need to be reminded of what it is to kill. All this foolishness of running around in the dark, firing blanks at each other: it's like playing at 'Cowboys and Indians.' I could get you several hundred residents of one of our camps. You could dress them up as you desire, American, British, soldiers, civilians . . . even some women and children to add verisimilitude. Give your men live ammunition and get the real feel of a kill. I assure you, it would work wonders for their training. We do it all the time with some of our special units."
"Get the hell off this exercise field," Skorzeny growled.
Taken aback, Hoffbrauer said nothing.
"Get out of here before I break your neck. You make me want to vomit."
Göring chuckled softly as the SS officer bowed stiffly and withdrew with a look of haughty disdain, trying his best to mask his entirely justifiable fear that Skorzeny might follow word with deed.
"You made another enemy tonight."
"An enemy like that is a badge of honor. I am a soldier, not a butcher. I will do my assignment as the Führer orders. The Totenkopf units can play their murderous games; my men don't need it. They are professionals, not murdering thugs."
"Yet you are training to cold-bloodedly kill at the very least hundreds of American civilians. I can certainly conceive of no other way to be sure you have eliminated all key personnel."
"Civilian or not, they are not harmless victims. They are a threat to the Reich, to its very existence. What that scum's talking about is chaining up Russians and Jews for my men to shoot like so many goats. I can't stop his kind from pursuing their pleasures—but I'll be damned if I let them contaminate my men. And always remember, any moral issue aside, lingering over fallen prey is operationally inefficient!"
To Skorzeny that was clearly the worst crime of all.
Göring chuckled. "The truth is you are getting soft," he said, pretending not to believe that for the tall SS commando efficiency would outweigh any questions of morality every time.
Since Skorzeny had absolutely no doubts about his ruthlessness when ruthlessness was called for, the blow fell on air. "I'm a soldier. Killing in combat is my job. I'm good at it, and in fact I enjoy it." The witchfire that burned in his eyes as he spoke made the fat Reichsmarschal unconsciously take a half step back.
"But cold-blooded murder for little more than the pleasure of it is something else."
"I never thought you to be interested in such fine moral distinctions. Remember, Himmler is also under the orders of our Führer."
Skorzeny said nothing. Indeed that fact rather troubled him when he thought about it. For him the hunt, the fight, the climax of the kill, was life itself. But he had no truck with the sort of scum who thought that killing helpless prisoners was a manly thing. He could do it at need, of course, but he rated it somewhere below shooting caged rabbits on his personal scale of enjoyment. Alas, with the coming of peace those who enjoyed shooting caged rabbits had
"Quite a mess you have here tonight Skorzeny," a new voice broke in from the surrounding darkness.
Skorzeny turned and stiffened as from out of the flickering shadows emerged SS Colonel Hoffbrauer, Himmler's personal secretary and informer. Hoffbrauer surveyed the entire scene with obvious disdain, and then turned back to Skorzeny, who barely acknowledged his presence.
"I have a suggestion," Hoffbrauer finally said, breaking the silence.
"And that is?" Skorzeny said grudgingly.
"Tour men need blooding."
"I lost half a dozen here tonight," Skorzeny replied coldly.
"Oh no, I don't mean in that way. They need to be reminded of what it is to kill. All this foolishness of running around in the dark, firing blanks at each other: it's like playing at 'Cowboys and Indians.' I could get you several hundred residents of one of our camps. You could dress them up as you desire, American, British, soldiers, civilians . . . even some women and children to add verisimilitude. Give your men live ammunition and get the real feel of a kill. I assure you, it would work wonders for their training. We do it all the time with some of our special units."
"Get the hell off this exercise field," Skorzeny growled.
Taken aback, Hoffbrauer said nothing.
"Get out of here before I break your neck. You make me want to vomit."
Göring chuckled softly as the SS officer bowed stiffly and withdrew with a look of haughty disdain, trying his best to mask his entirely justifiable fear that Skorzeny might follow word with deed.
"You made another enemy tonight."
"An enemy like that is a badge of honor. I am a soldier, not a butcher. I will do my assignment as the Führer orders. The Totenkopf units can play their murderous games; my men don't need it. They are professionals, not murdering thugs."
"Yet you are training to cold-bloodedly kill at the very least hundreds of American civilians. I can certainly conceive of no other way to be sure you have eliminated all key personnel."
"Civilian or not, they are not harmless victims. They are a threat to the Reich, to its very existence. What that scum's talking about is chaining up Russians and Jews for my men to shoot like so many goats. I can't stop his kind from pursuing their pleasures—but I'll be damned if I let them contaminate my men. And always remember, any moral issue aside, lingering over fallen prey is operationally inefficient!"
To Skorzeny that was clearly the worst crime of all.
Göring chuckled. "The truth is you are getting soft," he said, pretending not to believe that for the tall SS commando efficiency would outweigh any questions of morality every time.
Since Skorzeny had absolutely no doubts about his ruthlessness when ruthlessness was called for, the blow fell on air. "I'm a soldier. Killing in combat is my job. I'm good at it, and in fact I enjoy it." The witchfire that burned in his eyes as he spoke made the fat Reichsmarschal unconsciously take a half step back.
"But cold-blooded murder for little more than the pleasure of it is something else."
"I never thought you to be interested in such fine moral distinctions. Remember, Himmler is also under the orders of our Führer."
Skorzeny said nothing. Indeed that fact rather troubled him when he thought about it. For him the hunt, the fight, the climax of the kill, was life itself. But he had no truck with the sort of scum who thought that killing helpless prisoners was a manly thing. He could do it at need, of course, but he rated it somewhere below shooting caged rabbits on his personal scale of enjoyment. Alas, with the coming of peace those who enjoyed shooting caged rabbits had
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