| Hitler Here: A Biographical Novel by George Thomas Clark is a hard-hitting, emotionally charged and historically accurate novel that is getting worldwide attention by being published on three continents. First in the United States and then India, and now the Czech version has been published in a hard cover version that is worthy of the finest libraries. |
| "Hitler Here is a fantastic biographical novel about the development and events of World War II, and in my unbiased opinion ranks with Stephen Ambrose's great World War II books." Lt. Col Arne Christiansen (Retired) |
| George Thomas Clark, Author, Historian and Political Commentator |
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George Thomas Clark is one of the most creative writers in
terms of how he constructs history books. Taking a subject, he
delves into the details so that his characters come alive for the
reader without sacrificing any historical facts.
He spent 20 years writing his ground breaking biographical
novel, Hitler Here, which is written under a series of bylines by a
host of people who were either in league with Hitler or working
against him. While written primarily from the perspective of the
Fuhrer, Clark even has comments from anonymous sources such
as "an economist" or "a British officer."
A history book unlike any ever written, Clark brought this same
technique to a lively biography about famed film star, Errol Flynn.
Denigrated in lifetime for his acting skills, Flynn has come to
be recognized as fine actor. Betty Davis acknowledged late life
that he did a great job with her in the film, Elizabeth and Essex,
about the great Queen Elizabeth I and her sometime
lover and admirer Lord Essex.
Clark also produces a fascinating newsletter that comments
on events of the day using the same writing technique.
His creative genius with history and issues needs to be
lauded for bringing a new and fresh perspective to times
which have and will continue to shape our world.
terms of how he constructs history books. Taking a subject, he
delves into the details so that his characters come alive for the
reader without sacrificing any historical facts.
He spent 20 years writing his ground breaking biographical
novel, Hitler Here, which is written under a series of bylines by a
host of people who were either in league with Hitler or working
against him. While written primarily from the perspective of the
Fuhrer, Clark even has comments from anonymous sources such
as "an economist" or "a British officer."
A history book unlike any ever written, Clark brought this same
technique to a lively biography about famed film star, Errol Flynn.
Denigrated in lifetime for his acting skills, Flynn has come to
be recognized as fine actor. Betty Davis acknowledged late life
that he did a great job with her in the film, Elizabeth and Essex,
about the great Queen Elizabeth I and her sometime
lover and admirer Lord Essex.
Clark also produces a fascinating newsletter that comments
on events of the day using the same writing technique.
His creative genius with history and issues needs to be
lauded for bringing a new and fresh perspective to times
which have and will continue to shape our world.
| George Thomas Clark P.O. Box 70100 Bakersfield, CA 93387 tom24@earthlink.net (661) 631-1925 |
| The United States Version |
| The Version From India |
| The Czech Version |
What are the twenty-two short stories in OUTLIVING FLYNN
about? They’re about men and women in love and turmoil,
about people struggling with alcoholism and drug addiction,
about lost friendship, unscrupulous salespeople, a university
president overwhelmed by ambition, a family for generations
beset by cancer, a woman trapped by old customs and mental
illness, about extraterrestrial beings dominating the earth, a
man traveling back in time to an era of destruction, a guy who
wants to be a woman for a day, and about Martin Stevens, an
actor who looks like Errol Flynn and tries to be like him. These
stories are about people on the edge.
about? They’re about men and women in love and turmoil,
about people struggling with alcoholism and drug addiction,
about lost friendship, unscrupulous salespeople, a university
president overwhelmed by ambition, a family for generations
beset by cancer, a woman trapped by old customs and mental
illness, about extraterrestrial beings dominating the earth, a
man traveling back in time to an era of destruction, a guy who
wants to be a woman for a day, and about Martin Stevens, an
actor who looks like Errol Flynn and tries to be like him. These
stories are about people on the edge.
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.
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.
| RUSSIAN WINTER By A German Soldier |
| An Excerpt from Hitler Here |
| An Excerpt from Hitler Here |
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.”
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.”
| 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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
| Promotion By Field Marshal Friedrich von Paulus |
| An Excerpt from Hitler Here |
Born to a lower middle-class family in Hesse, Paulus failed
to gain admission to the navy and was commissioned into
the infantry. For part of WW I he served with the élite
Alpenkorps. He stayed on in the Reichswehr, commanding a
motorized battalion in 1934 and being promoted major
general in 1939. An army COS in Poland in 1939, he was
posted to the German army high command (OKH) as chief
of the operations section in 1940, and played a leading role
in planning BARBAROSSA. In January 1942 he was given
command of Sixth Army in south Russia, a surprising choice
in view of his lack of command experience.
He came close to capturing Stalingrad, but was encircled by
the Soviet counter stroke and surrendered in January
1943. Hitler had promoted him to field marshal shortly
before, in the expectation that he would commit suicide.
Paulus broadcast support for the German Resistance after
the bomb plot of 20 July 1944, but he was not released
until 1953. He was a talented staff officer but an
uninspiring commander: a morally braver man would have
pressed harder to be allowed to withdraw from Stalingrad
before the pincers closed, saving part of his army.
Courtesy of Answers.com
to gain admission to the navy and was commissioned into
the infantry. For part of WW I he served with the élite
Alpenkorps. He stayed on in the Reichswehr, commanding a
motorized battalion in 1934 and being promoted major
general in 1939. An army COS in Poland in 1939, he was
posted to the German army high command (OKH) as chief
of the operations section in 1940, and played a leading role
in planning BARBAROSSA. In January 1942 he was given
command of Sixth Army in south Russia, a surprising choice
in view of his lack of command experience.
He came close to capturing Stalingrad, but was encircled by
the Soviet counter stroke and surrendered in January
1943. Hitler had promoted him to field marshal shortly
before, in the expectation that he would commit suicide.
Paulus broadcast support for the German Resistance after
the bomb plot of 20 July 1944, but he was not released
until 1953. He was a talented staff officer but an
uninspiring commander: a morally braver man would have
pressed harder to be allowed to withdraw from Stalingrad
before the pincers closed, saving part of his army.
Courtesy of Answers.com
| Biography of Field Marshal Friedrich von Paulus |
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