“Do you think four or five days will make any difference?”
Göring must have contemplated the fiasco with mixed
feelings. He rushed over to the Chancellery. His rival, Ribben-
trop, had fled. “Führer pretty broken up,” recorded General
Franz Halder, concealing his own relief. “Slender hope of ma-
neuvering Britain into accepting terms that Poles will reject.” He
rounded off this diary entry with the cryptic phrase: “Göring
compromise.”
This was indeed Göring’s advice now. At : ..
Bodenschatz whispered to him that Dahlerus was on the line
from London. Göring took the phone. “I’m at the Reich Chan-
cellery with the Führer at this very moment,” he shouted into
the mouthpiece. “The war orders are just being written out.”
“What’s gone wrong?” he heard Dahlerus gasp.
“The Führer regards London’s ratification of the Polish al-
liance as a slap in the face.”
It was not the only reason, but Göring was doing all he
could now to halt the madness that he and Hitler had them-
selves wrought. He returned to Carinhall and embraced his sis-
ter Olga. “Everybody wants war,” he said. “Everybody except me
the soldier and field marshal!”
Dawn came. The immense military machine that Hitler
had ordered set in motion the previous afternoon had halted,
teetering on the very brink. Airports were closed, all overflights
forbidden. Göring set out early from Carinhall that day, August
, , and drove into Berlin. Since the planned Reichstag
meeting had been canceled at the last moment, he had chosen to
wear a casual ensemble in pure white, with a black cravat passed
through a ring embellished with rubies, diamonds, and sap-
phires.
At midday a courier brought a red envelope to his office
with the latest FA intercept of an immense list of ludicrous