Early the next day and after a shower and a bland breakfast, he found himself waiting with a bunch of other officers, most of whom were young and fresh-faced second lieutenants. They looked at him with a degree of wonder.

“Morgan, John C., Captain,” came the call.

Jack walked over to the table where a staff sergeant named Sweeney awaited. “Here are your orders, Captain. You will report ASAP to the 74th Armored Regiment. Grab your gear and a Jeep will take you to them.”

“Armor? You sure, Sergeant? I’m a pilot, not a tanker.”

The sergeant shrugged. “This came directly from the major running this place. He said the 74th requested a captain and you’re the only captain here right now. Congratulations.”

“I don’t know a thing about tanks,” Jack said and realized he was sounding whiny and foolish.

Sergeant Sweeney shrugged eloquently. He didn’t care. “If you know what a tank looks like, you’re way ahead of those adolescent virgin second lieutenants who are standing there and wondering what we’re talking about. And welcome to the real army, sir.”

Sergeant Sweeney was right. Borderline insubordinate, but right. But what the devil would he do in an armored unit? Supply? Probably. Jesus, he didn’t want to spend the war handing out underwear and pillowcases.

“Thank you, Sergeant Sweeney, and may you someday get reassigned to submarines as a deck hand.” Sweeney laughed.

***

Varner had never met Heinrich Himmler and had never wanted to. The man’s name was synonymous with terror and death.

In person he appeared pasty faced, even worse than his pictures. Himmler’s fishy eyes looked coldly at him. Varner willed himself to be calm. This man was even more dangerous than the Soviets had been at Stalingrad. Heinrich Himmler controlled the SS and the Gestapo, and might now be the heir to the late Adolf Hitler. Himmler held the power of life and death in the Third Reich. Many thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands, had disappeared, were tortured, and died without trial at his whim.