| George Thomas Clark Author, Historian, Political & Pop Culture Commentator |
George Thomas Clark, author of Hitler Here: A Biographical Novel,
has an extremely unique way of chronicling historic events, expressing
political thought and writing about public or private figures in the news.
Whether Clark is writing about political leaders, generals, athletes,
business leaders or entertainment celebrities, he brings the reader into
their heads in a personal perspective that is interesting and humorous.
George Thomas Clark spent 20 years writing his ground breaking
biographical novel, Hitler Here, which is constructed under a series of
bylines by a wide variety of characters who were either in league with
Hitler or arrayed against him in the struggle for world domination. While
written primarily from the perspective of the Fuhrer, Clark has essays
and blurbs from anonymous sources such as "an economist," "a British
officer" or "A Book" about to be burned in pre-war Germany.
Hitler Here is emotionally charged and historically accurate, a wild ride
that begins with Hitler during his service in the First World War and ends
with mass suicide in the Fuhrer Bunker in May 1945. Published in India
and the Czech Republic (see right) in both hardback and paperback
versions, the response to this amazing look at a fascinating time in our
history has been universally positive from professional and amateur
historians, both finding a thousand news ways to look at past events in
general and World War II specifically.
Political, Historical and Current Events Blog Postings:
Taking his style to new vistas, Clark continues to write from the point of
view of all types of people in the news, both current and from the past.
The line of names on left show a wide-ranging field of interest and give
the reader a peak behind the eyes of those whose behavior has created
headlines that shocks or inspires, that amazes of astounds, that brings
revulsion or elicits inspiration.
George Clark task it get the audience in the habit of looking at a person
or topic from different perspectives and from what it just might be to rest
within the shoes of the famous and infamous.
Send you comments or suggestions for stories to George
Thomas Clark at tomclark24@att.net.
has an extremely unique way of chronicling historic events, expressing
political thought and writing about public or private figures in the news.
Whether Clark is writing about political leaders, generals, athletes,
business leaders or entertainment celebrities, he brings the reader into
their heads in a personal perspective that is interesting and humorous.
George Thomas Clark spent 20 years writing his ground breaking
biographical novel, Hitler Here, which is constructed under a series of
bylines by a wide variety of characters who were either in league with
Hitler or arrayed against him in the struggle for world domination. While
written primarily from the perspective of the Fuhrer, Clark has essays
and blurbs from anonymous sources such as "an economist," "a British
officer" or "A Book" about to be burned in pre-war Germany.
Hitler Here is emotionally charged and historically accurate, a wild ride
that begins with Hitler during his service in the First World War and ends
with mass suicide in the Fuhrer Bunker in May 1945. Published in India
and the Czech Republic (see right) in both hardback and paperback
versions, the response to this amazing look at a fascinating time in our
history has been universally positive from professional and amateur
historians, both finding a thousand news ways to look at past events in
general and World War II specifically.
Political, Historical and Current Events Blog Postings:
Taking his style to new vistas, Clark continues to write from the point of
view of all types of people in the news, both current and from the past.
The line of names on left show a wide-ranging field of interest and give
the reader a peak behind the eyes of those whose behavior has created
headlines that shocks or inspires, that amazes of astounds, that brings
revulsion or elicits inspiration.
George Clark task it get the audience in the habit of looking at a person
or topic from different perspectives and from what it just might be to rest
within the shoes of the famous and infamous.
Send you comments or suggestions for stories to George
Thomas Clark at tomclark24@att.net.
| Hitler Here, U.S. Version |
| India Version |
I hoped the new goggles would help. I needed to see the enemies when they came again. We had not even
detected them, much less imagined so many, until the instant their guns began scattering trees. We didn’t
care then what our orders were, not entirely. There had to be a better defensive line than one besieged by
howling snowmen. We hurriedly built fires under our engines and pulled back.
Now, in a place not being bombarded, we made new homes in holes in the frozen ground. Our small rifle-oil
lamps gave us a little light and quite a bit of smoke. The smoke stunk and so did the tobacco and especially
all the men stunk. Their clothes and their bodies stunk and so did their wounds from war and their wounds
from frostbite. Everything in the holes was stinking and rotten, but these were the best places in a world of
malicious ice.
I had put on every piece of clothing I had, three shirts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of underwear, one rag,
three pairs of socks and two overcoats, one of which I’d taken off my friend’s body. I prayed the new goggles
would help, too. Now it was my turn for sentry duty. We all hated that because we had to leave our stinking
holes. I stepped out into a blizzard. It seemed there was always a blizzard. It came from the East and ripped
into my face like a million pieces of glass.
I kept looking to the East. That’s where Ivan was still gathering in December 1941. We knew that now. The
hotshots in Army headquarters had insisted he wasn’t there. They could stick those intelligence reports up
their asses. Ivan was certainly there, and coming here, and through my goggles I looked into ice.
Sentry duty used to be an hour, then thirty minutes and now was only fifteen minutes. It seemed like fifteen
hours. It was long enough to about kill you. I was relieved. I had been dreading that, in a way. Now I knew I’d
have to empty my system. I had not done so in days.
Everything was frozen inside, too. But now I had to go. I went behind a jeep and, with frozen hands in frozen
gloves, pried off layer after layer of clothes, and unwrapped the thick dirty rag around my penis, which was
frozen down the size of a fingertip, and I tried. I certainly had to eventually. How could I never go? The icy wind
whipped my flesh so hard I whimpered. God, please let me. This was taking longer than sentry duty. And it
was much worse. Inside me a jagged mass ripped my intestines all the raw and frozen way out. I put my
clothes back on, the rag and layer after layer, and I went back home to my stinking hole and took off my
goggles and looked at the flesh from my cheeks stuck to the goggles.
detected them, much less imagined so many, until the instant their guns began scattering trees. We didn’t
care then what our orders were, not entirely. There had to be a better defensive line than one besieged by
howling snowmen. We hurriedly built fires under our engines and pulled back.
Now, in a place not being bombarded, we made new homes in holes in the frozen ground. Our small rifle-oil
lamps gave us a little light and quite a bit of smoke. The smoke stunk and so did the tobacco and especially
all the men stunk. Their clothes and their bodies stunk and so did their wounds from war and their wounds
from frostbite. Everything in the holes was stinking and rotten, but these were the best places in a world of
malicious ice.
I had put on every piece of clothing I had, three shirts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of underwear, one rag,
three pairs of socks and two overcoats, one of which I’d taken off my friend’s body. I prayed the new goggles
would help, too. Now it was my turn for sentry duty. We all hated that because we had to leave our stinking
holes. I stepped out into a blizzard. It seemed there was always a blizzard. It came from the East and ripped
into my face like a million pieces of glass.
I kept looking to the East. That’s where Ivan was still gathering in December 1941. We knew that now. The
hotshots in Army headquarters had insisted he wasn’t there. They could stick those intelligence reports up
their asses. Ivan was certainly there, and coming here, and through my goggles I looked into ice.
Sentry duty used to be an hour, then thirty minutes and now was only fifteen minutes. It seemed like fifteen
hours. It was long enough to about kill you. I was relieved. I had been dreading that, in a way. Now I knew I’d
have to empty my system. I had not done so in days.
Everything was frozen inside, too. But now I had to go. I went behind a jeep and, with frozen hands in frozen
gloves, pried off layer after layer of clothes, and unwrapped the thick dirty rag around my penis, which was
frozen down the size of a fingertip, and I tried. I certainly had to eventually. How could I never go? The icy wind
whipped my flesh so hard I whimpered. God, please let me. This was taking longer than sentry duty. And it
was much worse. Inside me a jagged mass ripped my intestines all the raw and frozen way out. I put my
clothes back on, the rag and layer after layer, and I went back home to my stinking hole and took off my
goggles and looked at the flesh from my cheeks stuck to the goggles.
| "Russian Winter" by A German Soldier |
| Excerpts from "Hitler Here: A Biographical Novel" |
I accepted responsibility for Stalingrad. I accepted every bit of it and was proud to do so. My resolve in holding
Stalingrad so long was all that saved Army Group A from being trapped in the Caucasus. Those soldiers
escaped to their northwest and would fight again. On the Eastern Front, the initiative would once again be
ours. Despite my manifest encouragement about the future, I did have some fundamental worries about my
commanders, especially Paulus.
“What an incomprehensible coward,” I said at a conference on February first, 1943. “I can’t fathom an Army
commander, a man I’d just made a field marshal, just meekly giving up after so many of his men had died so
heroically. I would like to believe that Paulus had been severely wounded before surrender, but I can’t. I was
naïve to believe there would be a heroic ending.
“That’s what’s so disgusting. I have no respect for a soldier who’s afraid to do what a woman I once knew did.
She was really a very beautiful young woman. Yet when someone close to her made a few insulting remarks,
she locked herself in a room and shot herself. Over a triviality, really. She had so much pride. A weakling of a
woman.
“And, now, look at Paulus. Twenty thousand people a year in Germany commit suicide, and they haven’t sent
thousands of their comrades bravely die. His cowardice cancels out the heroism of everyone else. And for
what? So he can be tortured and put on the radio to denounce me. He should simply have shot himself, like a
beautiful young woman. He doesn’t understand what life is. It is the nation. The individual must die anyway. It
is the nation which lives on after the individual. How can anyone be afraid of the moment that sets him free
from this vale of misery.”
Stalingrad so long was all that saved Army Group A from being trapped in the Caucasus. Those soldiers
escaped to their northwest and would fight again. On the Eastern Front, the initiative would once again be
ours. Despite my manifest encouragement about the future, I did have some fundamental worries about my
commanders, especially Paulus.
“What an incomprehensible coward,” I said at a conference on February first, 1943. “I can’t fathom an Army
commander, a man I’d just made a field marshal, just meekly giving up after so many of his men had died so
heroically. I would like to believe that Paulus had been severely wounded before surrender, but I can’t. I was
naïve to believe there would be a heroic ending.
“That’s what’s so disgusting. I have no respect for a soldier who’s afraid to do what a woman I once knew did.
She was really a very beautiful young woman. Yet when someone close to her made a few insulting remarks,
she locked herself in a room and shot herself. Over a triviality, really. She had so much pride. A weakling of a
woman.
“And, now, look at Paulus. Twenty thousand people a year in Germany commit suicide, and they haven’t sent
thousands of their comrades bravely die. His cowardice cancels out the heroism of everyone else. And for
what? So he can be tortured and put on the radio to denounce me. He should simply have shot himself, like a
beautiful young woman. He doesn’t understand what life is. It is the nation. The individual must die anyway. It
is the nation which lives on after the individual. How can anyone be afraid of the moment that sets him free
from this vale of misery.”
| "Salvation" by Adolf Hitler |
The Fuehrer yesterday promoted me to field marshal. What an extraordinary honor
that was. All of my officers were very proud. This was the pinnacle of any military
career. But today, January thirty-first, I really did not feel like a field marshal. I had,
in fact, never felt so bad. In the basement of a department store, my new
headquarters, we were being shelled, and the walls and roof rattled and threatened
to collapse.
“You tell them” I said to my officers. “Yes. Now. Go right on up there and tell them.”
I lay down, shivering on a cot, inhaling cigarettes to keep warm and stay calm. My
officers brought some Russians down into the next room to negotiate. There was not
much of substance to say. I let my officers take care of that. I lay smoking on the cot.
When the details had been arranged, I agreed to talk to the Russians. They told me
I had one hour to pack up and accompany them to the headquarters of General
Shumilov, who commanded one of the seven armies that converged on Stalingrad.
that was. All of my officers were very proud. This was the pinnacle of any military
career. But today, January thirty-first, I really did not feel like a field marshal. I had,
in fact, never felt so bad. In the basement of a department store, my new
headquarters, we were being shelled, and the walls and roof rattled and threatened
to collapse.
“You tell them” I said to my officers. “Yes. Now. Go right on up there and tell them.”
I lay down, shivering on a cot, inhaling cigarettes to keep warm and stay calm. My
officers brought some Russians down into the next room to negotiate. There was not
much of substance to say. I let my officers take care of that. I lay smoking on the cot.
When the details had been arranged, I agreed to talk to the Russians. They told me
I had one hour to pack up and accompany them to the headquarters of General
Shumilov, who commanded one of the seven armies that converged on Stalingrad.
| "Promotion" by Field Marshal Friedrich von Paulus |
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“Good afternoon,” I said.
“Your identification, please,” said General Shumilov.
I groped my pockets and came out with my service book. Shumilov examined it and said, “I need a document
verifying you’re commander of the Sixth Army.”
I gave him that.
“Is it true you’ve been promoted to field marshal?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then I may report to my high command that Field Marshal Paulus has been taken prisoner by my army?”
“Yes sir.”
“We have many questions for you.”
The questions were entirely relevant and professional, and I knew I was dealing with high caliber men.
During lunch with my officers, I poured vodka for everyone. Then I rose and raised my glass and said, “To
those who defeated us, the Russian army and its leaders.”
“Your identification, please,” said General Shumilov.
I groped my pockets and came out with my service book. Shumilov examined it and said, “I need a document
verifying you’re commander of the Sixth Army.”
I gave him that.
“Is it true you’ve been promoted to field marshal?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then I may report to my high command that Field Marshal Paulus has been taken prisoner by my army?”
“Yes sir.”
“We have many questions for you.”
The questions were entirely relevant and professional, and I knew I was dealing with high caliber men.
During lunch with my officers, I poured vodka for everyone. Then I rose and raised my glass and said, “To
those who defeated us, the Russian army and its leaders.”
| Czech Republic Version |