RETURN OF THE BOYS

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Return

The Boys

CHARLES C. KRIM

BOOK TWO

Of The Series

e-Book 2002

www.mittymax.com

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RETURN OF THE BOYS

CHARLES C. KRIM

e-Book

Maverick Publishing

HOUSTON, TEXAS

RETURN OF THE BOYS

CHARLES C. KRIM

FICTION

Any resemblance of the characters in this novel

to persons living or dead is coincidental.

e-Book

RETURN OF THE BOYS

CHARLES C. KRIM

A delusion, a mockery, and a snare.

LORD DENMAN

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RETURN OF THE BOYS

CHARLES C. KRIM

PROLOGUE

2002 was the firm prediction for Wiking's New Order for Germany.

Concealed deep within its appearance of legality, while flirting on the fringes of illegality, if not criminal conduct, the Wiking political party was fighting in the political and social arenas, gathering new members and general public support. The quest for national power was and remains its end mission.

Wiking's fascist ideology was rapidly developing and spreading, money contributions were pouring in from every state in Germany, and its people seemed to like Wiking's political agenda. The polls consistently proved it.

The Wiking political doctrine remained pure and determined. Every time the media discovered detrimental evidence against it, it only added to a greater mystery of factual interpretation. Wiking's unrelenting propaganda machine plowed along, insuring that result and adding its own brand of redemptive fire to any storm.

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The new mystic leader of Wiking was Walter Krieger. In quick time he re-organized it, replacing many subordinates with cold blooded activists who had no fear of German laws and believed in taking chances. Krieger was no pawn of the boys of Das Reich in South America and considered them to be political consultants at best.

Was Krieger a latent tool of the old boys of Das Reich? Not hardly at all. His personal magnetism in building Wiking was never in question nor his undisputed leadership qualities. He rose above his obedient herd, feeding it with more and more political goals for the public and German youth movement. His main vice was not to take any advice, having once stated that no one can escape the pitfalls of total power.

Crusades require crusaders. Wiking carried Nordic blood superiority to a level of mysticism not seen since the 1930's, preaching “lost lands” to be returned to Germany, deportation of immigrants, and abandonment of foreign military bases on German soil. The new gospel according to Wiking was now in print and the first edition was sold out.

There was only inconsequential opposition from the established German political parties. Wiking's crusade had begun in earnest, employing steamroller techniques in every avenue of approach to national prominence and the supreme seat of power — the Chancellorship of Germany.

Flags again fluttered in every city and town in the rough winds of political change flowing across Germany. The time had come for the Wiking revolution. To that end, Germany would come first and individual needs would be a secondary consideration.

A German general had once stated that the armies would honor their war dead, as they sped over their graves in the pursuit of total victory. Wiking could not have said it any better nor meant it even more.

RETURN OF THE BOYS

CHARLES C. KRIM

New Beginnings

CHAPTER TWO

February 15^th was an extremely cold and windy day in the port city of Hamburg.

Sturm sat in the Locarno Club in the worst section of the city, noted for its bars and the sex trade. It offered for a price continuous exotic dancers, now mostly meaty Russian girls who un-rhythmically performed sexual acts with phallic-like poles that were situated next to each customers table. The waitress, dressed as horny little red devils, charged thirty marks for any drink, plus the tip.

It was a perfect place to meet a contact. If someone was not concentrating on the girls, it would be easily spotted. The lights were almost non-existent and the music deafening.

Herbert Hess came and sat next to Sturm. He was with the German BND or Bundesnachrichten Dienst — like the FBI. Young, aggressive, and married, he still couldn't see enough of the tanless girls who were gyrating at a nearby table, as some Frenchmen pushed money down their bras. The more they gave, the more they squealed like the flabby pigs they were.

“Hey,” said Sturm, “I'm over here.”

Hess grinned and said, “Okay American, what's up? Looking for some dirt on Clinton over here?”

Sturm thought this is going to be lively, dealing with him, but his kind of sarcastic humor appealed to him.

“Know anything about this fellow?” handing Hess an old photo. The picture showed a young man wearing a tailored suit, smiling, with dark eyes set deep in his heavy brows. He kind of looked like Sly Stallone, even the powerful physique matched.

“Sure, that's Peter Yburg. He's a no-nonsense membership recruiter for Wiking. A real bully boy when he must. A street brawler, hard drinker, womanizer. He works the rural farm areas,” glancing again at the photo. “That's his target — farming towns and the tractor jockeys that abound there.”

“I'd like to attend one of his recruitment meetings, as soon as possible. Can you find out when and where?” said Sturm.

Sturm's German was perfect with no trace of an American accent. He knew its slang and could throw out a Berliner accent at will and get away with it. He not only knew the language but its people and culture.

“Sure I can. I think Yburg is somewhere south-east of Hamburg at the moment. I'll call you on your cell tomorrow. How's that for our express line service?”

“Waitress, two beers over here,” said Sturm.

A new shift of dumpy girls appeared. These Russian women had a hard unsmiling look on their pasty faces. Surely they weren't legally in this country. The club owner must not ever let them see the sun, thought Hess. They probably made more money than he and paid no taxes.

Walter Krieger was the new leader of the Wiking party. Almost age 40, his credentials were impeccably impressive. He had graduated from the University of Heidelberg, majoring in communications and political science. On relocating to Munich he became an active member of Wiking. His organizational abilities and mesmeric oratory skills soon brought him to the attention of the top leadership. With each assignment and each swift success, he was quickly promoted, walking over the grey hairs of many men to reach the top. He clearly knew how to take advantage of a situation and turn it in to his own profit. How to use people and not be used. How to access people to get them to bend to his will and needs. Krieger let it be known early in his career that he always fully paid back those who helped him, or harmed him.

Munich was now the national headquarters of Wiking. In fact it had bought Hitler's Brown House, expensively refurbished it to its 1931 splendor, when the black, white, red swastika flag was first hoisted over it by the brown shirted S.A. storm troopers. A focused rabble, if there ever was one, said its former leader Ernst Roehm. The building had a terrible past, forgotten by most by now.

Donations from German industries and membership fees paid off the mortgage within a year. How much hard cash was pumped into Wiking from other sources is impossible to calculate. Free tours of Wiking HQ were daily and used as a recruitment tool.

Krieger stood at the large oval table alone in his office and read. A broad smile reached across his clean shaven and square jawed face. The land purchases in the Sudetenland had been going smoothly and would be easily completed by year's end, probably under budget. Then, he thought, phase two would begin in a deadly but very much controlled fashion. One measured step at a time was his way of proceeding. Krieger's method to operate was total control of his carefully developed plan, tell no-one the actual objective, limit overview information and employ plenty of disinformation to all. Not even Bismark Products suspected the real reason for its gigantic land grabs. For them it was good business with great profits to be realized for its stockholders.

He neatly folded the map, put it in the already stuffed safe, and spun the combination dial. Why he even bothered to lock it was a puzzle, as there was nothing in it of value or secret. All the long range Wiking plans were in his head, stored in his formidable memory banks.

The bells at a nearby church rang the noon hour. From his balcony, he could see Germans filling the sidewalks. No one jay-walked here but waited for the green light to direct them. Yes, he mused, Germans were easily directed. They only needed a real-time piped piper. He would be that piper, playing “Today Germany, tomorrow the world.” He knew the words by heart, frequently whistling its tune over and over again.

Krieger's computer advised him a staff meeting was scheduled for 12:15 PM in the upstairs conference room. He put on his jacket, grabbed some folders, and promptly left.

The silence within the Brown House always reminded him of being in a museum or crypt. This was good. There were no fights to be had in those arenas. He needed periodic peace to pull himself together and focus on the prize.

CHAPTER THREE

Peter Yburg stood tall and muscular in casual clothes inside the township meeting building in Burgdorf, about seventy kilometers from Hamburg. He carefully scanned the people as they arrived and took their seats.

The evening was frosty. Still two wintry for crop farmers to have any real work to do. This was good for Yburg’s purpose. It should cause a sizeable turnout, especially his targeted group who were young and the sons of farmers. They would make great pioneers in building Germany’s future.

At 7:30 PM the room was full and many were left standing in the rear. The room was overheated and Yburg ordered refreshments to be served immediately. He then bounded to the stage and greeted them.

Yburg’s technique, when he wanted to win over an audience, was to use great charm. He had a personal charisma which his supervisors in Wiking were still unable to adequately describe. He was like a smooth talking insurance salesman or priest. In any event, he was the foremost dynamo they had who got results. That was their only bottom line.

Yburg had unprecedented will-power and intelligence. When speaking, he was in total control of the group with a knowledge of the subject matter that had to influence all. It did not matter if some of his data was incorrect or nebulous. His first goal was to plow over the audience and leave them stunned with hope and trust.

He could change his delivery, as needed, the transition from one mood to another was immediate and merciless to anyone who challenged him. And few ever did. Speak the language they understood, and they will come to you with open arms and minds.

Yburg was basically an extremely gifted actor who convinced himself of his righteousness, then the audience. Believe in yourself first, he always said to other recruiters. If you did not believe in your message, then the crowds would hear it and leave long before your presentation was over.

Yburg sized up the audience, waited a few long minutes until all was quiet, then began his harangue.

“You know why you young farmers are here? I know it already. You are here because you want a family, a good life and job, children – a heritage for them. Right?”

“But to get there you need what?” no one replied to either question. He paused and scrutinized the crowd.

In a quiet voice he answered his own questions. “To have a future you need land. Land has always been a problem for Germany. We fought a great war for living space, didn’t we?”

He paused again and looked into their faces for any signs of discord. There was none discernible. Everyone knew that land was at a premium in Germany. It always has been so.

Yburg’s eyes glazed over like he knew something they couldn’t see.

In a slow, measured voice he continued.

“I can offer you what you don’t have. What you may never have until you’re old and grey. On behalf of Bismark Products I offer you your future. I offer you land – your own land – at no cost to you in the old German Sudetenland. The land becomes yours, if you work it for one generation and plant the produce that Bismark needs for its markets.”

Consternation struck the group. Land, after all, was the biggest purchase you could make in your lifetime, and you probably wouldn’t be able to pay off the mortgage in that period. In reality, your children would most likely pay it off.

One hand went up into empty air. A question arose from a young, powerfully built fellow. “But we are not citizens of that country.”

“That’s a predictable question. Allow me to respond. – consider yourself to be – a colonist – in a German colony – along the German border – minutes from your fatherland – working for a German company paid by Germans in German marks – taken care by Germans on land owned by Germans. – You will never know that you stepped out of the Fatherland. – And who knows, you are well aware that Wiking will be trying to re-negotiate our southeastern border with the Czech Republic in the near future. – Reincorporation with the Reich is not so out of reach, you know.”

The fellow who had asked the question could only nod in agreement.

Chatter amongst small groups started. Positive talk – excited people – malleable people. Yburg didn’t interrupt them but took a break. Let them discuss the concept. This was good for the pitch. There was no need for crowd control. He had them – their emotions – and had correctly calculated right. He had reduced the problem raised to the simplest terms and the mass realized it. They trusted him. Once trust was established, Yburg had fertile fields to harvest his new crop of pioneers

Sturm and Hess leisurely left the meeting hall and headed for their auto. No one else had left the meeting. It was going that well.

“Let’s get back to Hamburg tonight,” said Sturm. “I’ve got to leave for Berlin by early tomorrow morning.”

“Well, Wes, what did you think of our junior Hitler? Quite a handful, I’d say. Know his programs. I’m sure he’s convinced some to jump on board the frontier express. –Free passage. – The only thing he didn’t mention was pioneer wives for the pioneers!”

“That was a damn good sales pitch. He sold them alright. Young blood for new lands and all expenses paid in advance. If he has a sales quote, he’s made it tonight,” said Sturm.

Sturm continued, “The probe must be inserted deeper. So many things are happening with Wiking. I just read that their membership drives are now heaviest in southeastern Germany. – A lot of restless, unemployed Germans in that area. And they’re gravitating to Wiking in large numbers. What is the unemployment rate now? 10 to 20% or so?”

“It’s all about numbers,” interjected Hess. “Make the right number, and you’re in the power seat. – And the unemployed will help you get there. Just line in 1933.”

“Unless they make a critical blunder, they’re on the fast tract to national prominence. –You know what the last words on German radio were at the fall of Berlin? A propagandist said, ‘We will be back’. That just may come true yet.”

“Maybe, just maybe,” said Hess. “But this is a very different Germany than after World War One. While we now have high unemployment, the economy is quite strong. And we don’t have those pesky fellows in brown running around either.”

Sturm closed his eyes and slept. In an hour he’d be back in Hamburg for the night.

Hess turned the car radio on. The news reporter was saying that while the Saur government recognized that German industrial production was down for the fourth consecutive month, it saw no need for any tax cuts to stimulate the economy.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sturm lit up another cigarette and slowly inhaled, blowing the smoke over his head, toward the squirming pole dancers at the Locarno Club. The lights were dim, his glass now empty. He was alone with his private thoughts.

A woman in a casual, dark two piece suit wandered over to Sturm and sat down across from him.

“Looks like a fresh bunch of cheap Russian whores to me,” she said in German with a sneer.

“You’re not Russian?” asked Sturm.

“Please don’t put me in that gulag. I’m 100% German and proud of it. Born and raised in Hamburg. My name is Isolde.” She reached out to shake hands with Sturm who introduced himself. Her handshake was firm.

For the moment the music subsided and the dancers left the stage. Sturm ordered Isolde a drink.

“So what are you doing here?” he said.

“I’m trying to sell the club owners on our line of champagnes. –Not much luck so far.”

“This place seems to me to be more of a beer and buns kind of place. Look around – this is not a champagne club. Workers, truck drivers, perverts – that’s the crowd here,” said Sturm.

“Yes, I think that’s the case for the majority here. But some who come here have money. Lots of it. Those are the ones these Russian bitches are after. They take them to rooms upstairs, ply them with high priced alcohol, screw them, and leave with their money,” remarked Isolde candidly.

“It looks like you did find a very slim market to sell your product,” commented Sturm.

Isolde smiled.

Sturm became interested in Isolde Fleish and her overtness. Her natural beauty and clever wit became more apparent at a late night dinner. They had more than their share of alcohol.

After dinner Sturm took Isolde to his hotel in an upscale section of the city. German women, he thought, had no barriers to most anything. He made love to her like it was the first time in his life. Later he pulled her out of the bed. What followed was a lingering hot shower, while he mumbled to her what he wanted to do to her the next time.

“And so the adventure begins,” she responded.

Sturm hadn’t had a relationship with a woman in almost a year. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted one. His last girlfriend was killed but still entered his heart when he was bored, leaving it as soon as he got busy again. He tried to stay occupied all the time. And Isolde? Well, she appeared to be something special and an unknown quantity.

CHAPTER FIVE

Herbert Hess was operating his computer when Sturm walked into his private, unmarked office in a downtown building in Hamburg.

“You know, Wes, Wiking has another website dedicated to the promotion of the old German tribal gods. Imagine that! What next? –Perhaps an on-line auction of Hitler’s balls.”

Hess rose to his feet and handed Sturm a fat file. He reviewed its contents, containing two dozen or so pages.

These are all clothing orders to manufacturers,” said Sturm drily. “What’s the big deal?”

“If you put all the clothing articles together, you know what you have?” Hess paused. “A complete brown shirt uniform. Much modernized. Apparently it was designed for Wiking by Parisian designers, no-less. How about that?”

“Doesn’t German law prohibit the wearing of Nazi uniforms?” said Sturm.

“Sure does,” said Hess matter-of-factly. “But German law has no impact on Germans who will move to the Sudetenland.”

“Any new information on land purchases there?” said Sturm.

“Looks like the purchases have been almost completed for many millions of Euros. Check this map,” said Hess, handing it to him for close inspection.

“The red area is now German owned by Bismark Products. It covers about fifteen square kilometers of second grade farm lands and butts up against the German border. Interestingly enough, there is no border crossing in that area into Germany,” said Hess.

Sturm was unpleasantly surprised at the phenomenal speed of events. The planning and coordination of Wiking recruiters, land acquisitions, relocation of pioneer farmers, and even anticipating the material needs was truly astounding. These people must have been working twenty-four hours a day to do it.

“That’s not all,” said Hess. “They will be building a road on the border to their lands. They already secured permission to do it from the Czech government. –God only knows what will eventually move down that road.”

“So the land will actually be farmed?” Asked Sturm.

“Sure will be. The land is really only good for feed crops for animals. Seed has already been ordered,” replied Hess. “And within three weeks, or thereabout, many more farmers will be moving in. The first wave took over farms at the outer regions of the acquisitions. –Kind of a first line of defense, also the youngest and most aggressive ones, all to the last man are Wiking members. –Later the back areas to the border will be occupied with older and more defensive in nature farmers.

These Wiking boys are just a beehive of activities. Their success in the Sudetenland has made them almost predictable, yet still darkly secretive, thought Sturm.

Sturm decided he would have to meet the miracle leader of Wiking – Walter Krieger. Rather sooner than later. But first he needed data to study his personality and the psychology of the man. The man who was already being called a great visionary of Germany’s future, was to be Sturm’s primary target and not the Wiking party itself.

CHAPTER SIX

When Hitler was headquartered in Munich in the Brown House on the Briennenstrasse, the building was a tourist attraction, as it again is today. It was formerly the Barlow Palace, which once housed the Italian Embassy in the 19^th century.

The edifice is brown sand-stone with large slabs of fascia on it. There are three floors with an attic. On the second and third floors, huge French windows open onto small balconies. A black terra-cotta roof with a long overhang to it capped it off.

Passing through the entry gates, where either side had once been guarded by stone pillars with a swastika engraved on each, the long gravel driveway had been traveled many times by Hitler in his custom made Mercedes Benz. It ended in a circle driveway in front of the double-hung doors, which were twelve feet high to the lintel.

One can easily imagine the Nazi party flags flying from a cluster of roles situated in a round patch of grass, that fronted the main doors. And there would be Hitler’s personal Fuehrer flag in place when he was in residence.

When Hitler was in the Brown House he demanded that the staff members work in silence on the second floor. Most of the first floor was reserved for tours only. It was like living in a cold tomb, some said. You would only hear whispered conversations, phones always were picked up on the first ring, and the staff walked lightly up and down the marble corridors.

The foyer hadn’t changed since the House was built in the 1920's. A sixteen-foot ceiling with a dark green marble floor and massive colored pillars stood guard, spaced every 6 meters apart. Between these pillars were paintings of Bismark, von Hindenburg, and array of German emperors, and a somber portrait of Albert Speer, Minister of Armaments in the Third Reich.

At the far end of the hallway stood two huge men dressed in dark business suits. Behind them was the entrance to the spacious office of Walter Krieger, leader of Wiking.

“You are expected, Herr Sturm, please come with me,” said the younger man.

Sturm entered the office that was bare of any furniture except for a large oak desk, a computer station, and a couple chairs. On the wall behind the desk was another portrait which depicted the assassination of Julius Caesar.

“Please have a seat Herr Sturm,” said Krieger without looking up at him. He put his pen down and shut off the computer screen. “State your business, sir.”

Before Sturm could respond, Krieger said in a firm voice, “Be quick about it. My time is quite valuable. And I must tell you now that I know who you are and what you are up to. You are not a commercial diplomat out of Berlin. I granted this time frame for you because I am curious. Curious indeed. Curious why the CIA is interested in a political party of a country friendly to U.S. interests. A country that we Germans still allow you to occupy and monitor.” Krieger dramatically paused and raised his voice a few octaves. “Talk to me, man! Exactly why are you here?”

No sense denying anything, was there? thought Sturm, put unexpectedly on the defensive. He wasn’t going to be able to do a face to face assessment this day. That he was sure of.

“What is the connection between Bismark Products and Wiking?” asked Sturm in a relaxed tone.

“You know already. Why do you even ask that question. And if you don’t know, you should ask the BND,” retorted Krieger. “Would you feel better if I told you that Wiking has a stock investment in it. This is common business knowledge.”

“We thought . . .” Before Sturm could continue he was rudely interrupted by Krieger.

“What a major German political party does is none of your damn business nor the CIA’s. How dare you make inquiries all over Germany about us. This still is a sovereign nation! Want to investigate something, investigate all the illegalities that Langley is involved in, investigate the lies of your own State Department that caused the insane bombing of Serbia, investigate the rapes of German women by American soldiers that go unpunished!”

Sturm accomplished nothing but now had some first hand information on Krieger, his volatility and temperament. The man definitely did not grow roses as a hobby.

Sturm rose from his seat, bowed his head, and walked out the door. The last sound he heard was Krieger’s computer clicking on. The two beefy fellows escorted him to his car and wished him a safe trip back to Langley!

Looking in his rear-view mirror, he could see Krieger standing on his balcony, looking down on him as he slowly drove down the driveway. It was like, thought Sturm, he was the second coming of Hitler, when he had triumphantly appeared on the balcony of his hotel in Vienna, reviewing and waving to a sea of ardent supporters. After a few seconds the vision disappeared in his mirror.

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