The Art of War
#17 All warfare is based on deception
The Council has orchestrated a daring mission for Rudolf Hess to penetrate the heart of England. He will meet with the British Government’s highest officials and convince them to become spectators in our European war.
Hess will negotiate the terms of the peace proposal with the British Government, which includes relief from the Luftwaffe air raids. The peace proposal promises Hitler will withdraw the Nazi military from Western Europe and cease all war operations in the West. Hitler demands that no country will be burdened with reparations from the war.
With the British cowed into complacency, Hitler can then unleash the full might of the Nazi military upon the Soviet Union. It shall be the Third Reich’s crowning glory in the expansion of its territory. The Tzar’s treasure will soon belong to the Vatican.
Chapter 58
6 May 1941
Rome, Italy
“Iwish for you to fly to England to negotiate a peace proposal with the Duke of Hamilton,” Pope Pius XII commanded Rudolph Hess over a secure phone line, his voice full of authority.
“Yes, Your Holiness. I am your loyal servant.”
“Bohle, despite his position, lacks the necessary prominence within the Nazi ranks to effectively communicate our peace proposal. We need to dispatch someone whose stature mirrors that of Hitler himself.”
“What about Adolf?”
The removal of Rudolf Hess from Hitler’s side would sever the pope’s direct line of communication with the Führer. The Council had stressed the importance of keeping Britain out of the war so that the German war machine could focus all its efforts on the Soviet Union front. Pacifying Britain at this juncture was crucial. The Third Reich needed to capture more territory to project ultimate power over Western and Eastern Europe. In Hess’s absence, the pope would have to resort to slower coded messages to communicate with Hitler.
“You will meet with Hitler tomorrow. I will call on a secure phone line to explain the details of your mission to England. Convincing Hitler to temporarily release you from service for this critical mission will be a task in itself.”
7 May 1941
Berlin, Germany
“Outrageous!” the Führer’s voice thundered through the room, his fury inescapable over the pope’s audacious demand. “Wilhelm Bohle is already en route to negotiate with the British.” He could hardly believe the pope would dare alter his plans without first consulting with him. Ernst Wilhelm Bohle, the Foreign Minister of the Nazi Party, was Hitler’s chosen envoy.
Pacelli chose his words carefully, a blend of flattery and logic designed to sway Hitler. “Mein Führer, the British are not biting,” he countered, his voice steady in contrast to Hitler’s heavy breathing. “Bohle has failed to make the progress we need. We must send a figure of greater prominence, someone who commands your level of respect and authority. Who better than your deputy to convince the British to accept this proposal? It is by divine providence that your loyal assistant is a man who truly understands your vision for a thousand-year Reich. His presence alone will command the attention of the British and ensure the ratification of this peace proposal.”
Sensing Hitler’s hesitation, the pope delivered his final argument. “To expand the empire’s territory, you cannot afford a war on two fronts,” he stated, invoking the wisdom of The Art of War. “It is absolutely crucial we pacify Britain so you can focus on expanding into Soviet territory, Mein Führer.” The Council would not risk stretching the Nazi army thin across two fronts. The attacks needed to remain consolidated on one military front, and that front was the Soviet Union.
Hitler fell silent, his mind whirling with the pope’s words. His mentor had been a steadfast ally in his rise to power, guiding him to become the Führer of the Nazi Party then all of Germany. Surely, the pope would not propose something that could jeopardize the fate of the Third Reich?
The problem was, Hitler knew the pope was correct—Hitler’s chosen foreign affairs representative wasn’t the right man for this mission. He was weak. It would take someone of Hitler’s own stature to convince the British to accept this peace proposal. The British needed to believe in the sincerity of Germany’s peace offering, and who better than Rudolf Hess to convince them?
Hess sat in the dimly lit Führerbunker near Hitler, his gaze fixed on his master. The Führer’s face was a canvas of emotion, shifting from stubborn defiance to reluctant acceptance as he absorbed the pope’s words. It was becoming clear to Hitler that the pope’s argument was irrefutable—Hess was the only man capable of executing this critical mission.
As the line went dead, Hitler turned to Hess, his face a mask of resignation, haunted by the realization that he might be bidding his closest ally a final farewell. “This mission could very well be a one-way journey for you, my friend.”
“I will persuade the British that I am an emissary, and they will ensure my safe return to Germany,” Hess responded, his voice brimming with confidence. He had faith in the pope’s wisdom, even if it meant severing the pontiff’s direct line of communication with Hitler.
As they moved into the anteroom, Hitler draped his arm around Hess in a rare display of affection. “Hess, you really are stubborn. I will miss you.”
10 May 1941
Augsburg, Germany
Rudolf Hess, in a daring act, commandeered a Messerschmitt Bf 110D from Augsburg, Germany, taking off a mere thirty-one miles west of Munich. His target was the Grand Dungavel House, the Scottish stronghold of the Duke of Hamilton. Their acquaintance traced back to the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin. Hess was banking on leveraging this connection to secure a meeting with Prime Minister Winston Churchill. He remained devout in his mission to secure the strategic peace proposal with the British government on behalf of Germany.
Fate, however, had other plans. Hess, flying over the rugged Scottish landscape, missed his intended landing site by a staggering twelve miles. With his fuel reserves dwindling, he was forced to parachute from his plane, landing in the pastoral fields of a farmer named David McLean in Eaglesham, Scotland. The sight of the flaming Messerschmitt with its Nazi insignia was enough to send McLean out into the field, pitchfork in hand.
“Are ye alright?” McLean asked, his pitchfork pointed menacingly at Hess.
“I need to reach the Duke of Hamilton. Can you assist me?” Hess replied in his best English.
“Ye look in no shape to meet anyone, lad,” McLean retorted, his thick Scottish accent braying into the quiet night. Seeing the German’s injured state, he took pity on him and helped him to his feet. The pair made their way to the farmer’s humble cottage where his wife served Hess a comforting cup of tea by the fireside and tended to his injured ankle.
As word of the crash spread, curious neighbors gathered at McLean’s doorstep, peppering him with questions about the mysterious pilot.
“Who is he?”
“Says his name is Captain Alfred Horn,” McLean said, repeating the clandestine name Hess had given him.
“What does he want?”
“He’s pigheaded. Wants to meet the Duke of Hamilton.”
“Why?”
“Won’t say.”
