but to eliminate any possible bar to trial or punishment.”
Göring had already made the simple decision that eluded
his co-defendants in the coming trial: to die like a man. He had
never been afraid of death. As a lad, he had stood his ground
when an Austrian avalanche had crashed around him. “The true
German,” he had sermonized to his staff on November , ,
“faces up to the ultimate sacrifice with a certain sovereignty and
peace of mind.... For me, life on this planet has just been an
intermission during which I have had to perform as best I could.
No more, and no less.... The devil take it, before I allow any
man to drag me down and make me grovel just to cling on to
this tattered thing called life!”
On August , the U.S. Army sent to SHAEF headquarters
the formal list of prisoners to be turned over to the control of
prosecuting counsel. Göring’s name headed the list. He had be-
come number-one man in Nazi Germany at last. Five days later
his paracodeine medication was stopped for good.
Unwell once again, he remained upstairs in the Grand Hotel,
suffering the old heart trouble, while his more fortunate fellow
prisoners were mustered and left. All came to say their farewells
except for two Staatssekretäre who churlishly refused. Dönitz’s
adjutant was the last to come up. Göring received him en-
sconced at the head of his bed in a heap of blankets that he had
contrived to convert into a kind of throne, as though sitting in
the high chair at Carinhall. The naval officer could see he was in
a brilliant mood, having obviously found his old form and vital-
ity. “Whatever happens,” the Reichsmarschall promised him,
with the glint of coming battle in his eye, “you can count on me.
There’re one or two things I’m going to say at the coming trial.”
That afternoon, August , , an American C- trans-
port plane flew him from Luxembourg to Nuremberg. Perhaps