

 

Putsch

November , , was to be a painful turning point in the lives
of both Hitler and Göring. Icy cold and bitterly windy, the
dawn broke to the unfamiliar sound of marching feet in Mu-
nich; strange uniforms were seen; there seemed to be ancient
carbines and revolvers everywhere. Trucks disgorged Göring’s
ski-capped SA men. The railroad stations rang with mountain
boots as Weber’s men arrived from the Alpine highlands,
sporting helmets and Edelweiss insignia.
Göring’s wife was still laid low with the pneumonia she had
caught at Fanny Göring’s funeral. He knelt at Carin’s bedside,
kissed her, and said he might be late that night; then he drove
downtown in the Mercedes-Benz, taking the shiny black leather
coat and steel helmet with him. Carin knew nothing of what was
afoot  nor did most of Göring’s commanders.
By : .. he had issued orders to a trusted handful of
them. Wilhelm Brückner, a lanky ex-marine gunner, was to take