All these factors had been weighed, and a new tactic devised:
No further attempt to destroy the pens through the roofs was going to be made. The bombs would be sent through the front door, so to speak. What that meant, Douglass quickly—if with a certain amount of incredulity— came to understand, was that bombs would be thrown into the pen entrances from low-flying aircraft. And the low-flying aircraft picked for this task were the P-38Es of the 311th Fighter Group, USAAC, Major Peter Douglass, Jr., commanding.
Following the law of physics that a body in motion tends to remain in motion until acted upon by outside forces, a 500-pound bomb dropped from the wing of a P-38 would continue for a time to move through the air at the same speed as the aircraft. Wind resistance would slow it down, of course, and gravity would pull it toward the earth, but for a certain brief period of time, it would proceed parallel to the ground.
The idea was that it would be released at the precise moment when its trajectory would carry it into the mouths of the sub pens.
This new tactic, the bomber pilot turned strategy expert announced, would have several other desirable characteristics. The Germans, like the English, had a new radio device that bounced radio signals off objects in the sky. These signals returned to clever devices that could then determine the range of the object in the sky. The devices were not very effective, however, against objects that were just off the surface of the water.
So, as the P-38Es approached the sub pens a hundred feet off the water, the altitude necessary to “throw” their bombs into the pens, they would arrive undetected. German ack-ack and fighters would not be waiting for them. And as soon as the P-38s dropped their bombs, they would, aerodynamically speaking, be clean fighter aircraft again and could very likely start making strafing runs on the German fighter bases before the Germans could get airborne.
During the final briefing, Douglass could agree with only one thing that the light bird said: There was truly no need for extensive training for this operation. This was so because the fighter group had already trained in the States in low-level bombing attacks.
The training, in fact, had been for the support of ground troops, but Doug knew the result was almost the same: His men knew how bombs behaved when they were dropped at low altitude.
Further practice in England would almost certainly have alerted the Luftwaffe to what they were up to.
They would leave Atcham, the briefing officer concluded, one hour before sunset. That would permit them to land at Ibsley, the closest P38 base to Saint-Lazare, by nightfall. During the night the aircraft would be fueled and the bombs loaded onto the wing racks. At first light they would take off. They could expect to be back in England before nine in the morning.
Except for his professional officer’s understanding that planners are not happy unless they can make the simple as complicated as possible, Douglass could see no reason for the overnight stop at Ibsley. But he also understood his was not to reason why. Into the valley of the sub pens would fly the 311th Fighter Group.
He took twenty-nine P-38Es to Ibsley on the evening of December 19 and lost the first of them the next morning ten minutes into the mission: The pilot lost control on his takeoff roll, went off the runway, tipped up on one wing, and rolled over and over. The bombs didn’t go off, but the avgas did, and there was an explosion.
There were Messerschmidt ME-109s waiting for them twenty-five miles from Saint-Lazare. If the German Radar hadn’t worked, then something else had tipped them off about what was coming off.
“This is Dropsy Leader,” Douglass said to his microphone. “Firewall it and follow me.”
The twenty-eight remaining P-38 pilots advanced their throttles to FULL EMERGENCY MILITARY POWER, which was both hell on the engines and caused fuel consumption to increase incredibly. But festooned with bombs the way they were, their only defense against the ME-109Es was to get to the target and dump the bombs as quickly as they could. At about six miles a minute, it would take them about four minutes to reach the drop point; the engines would probably not collapse before then.
Three of his P-38s, following orders he had given them out of hearing of the strategic genius, dropped their bombs that instant and turned to take on the Messerschmidts. The three were in the rear. In case it got as far as an official inquiry, all the others could truthfully swear they hadn’t seen anybody drop bombs in contravention of specific orders not to do so.
That turned out to be a moot point anyway. There were forty-odd German fighters, and not one of the three P-38s who rose to meet them made it back to England.
The Germans had cleverly designed their 88mm aircraft cannon so the muzzle could be depressed for use against tanks and other ground forces. Thus, when the sub pens came into view, they were partially obscured by the bursts of ack-ack shells.
Six P-38s were shot down by antiaircraft fire. Three of them simply disappeared in a puff of smoke. These had obviously been hit by the 88s. There was no way to tell whether the other three were downed by 88s, 20mm Oerlikon automatic cannons, or machine-gun fire.
Twenty-two P-38s successfully completed the bomb run. Of the forty-four 500-pound bombs “thrown” toward the sub pen entrances, it was estimated that eighteen or twenty entered the sub pens. Aerial reconnaissance indicated that these had done little or no damage.
Two P-38s were lost on the return leg of the flight, one of them to a Messerschmidt ME-109E and the other to unknown causes. Possibly a wounded pilot lost consciousness. A final fatality occurred at Ibsley when a P-38 attempted a wheels-up landing and exploded on contact with the runway.
A story circulated through the officers’ messes of the Eighth Air Force that the group commander of the 311th Fighter Group—“Those poor bastards who got the shit kicked out of them at Saint-Lazare sub pens”—committed a physical assault upon the Eighth Air Force Plans and Training Officer whose idea the mission had been.
According to the story, the assault had been hushed up. The Commander of the 311th was a West Pointer, for one thing, and he’d been a Flying Tiger with ten kills for another, and for a third, his own P-38 had been shot up so badly they didn’t even consider repairing it. They just hauled it off to the boneyard.
Chapter THREE
Frankfurt am Main, Germany
24 December 1942
As the Berlin-Frankfurt train backed into Frankfurt’s Hauptbahnhof, Obersturmbannführer Johann Müller stood in the aisle of the first-class coach looking out the window. The station platforms were covered by a glass-and-steel arch, as if an enormous tube had been slit in half lengthwise and placed over the tracks. The framework of the arch remained intact, but many, perhaps most, of the glass windows had been blown out by bombing. Snow had come through these openings, leaving a soot-colored slush over most of the platform.
Müller’s policeman’s eye saw, too, the security in place. At the far end of the station, in order to make sure that no one left the platform by way of the yards, there stood two gray-uniformed members of the Feldgendarmerie (Military Police) and a civilian wearing an ankle-length leather overcoat and a gray snap-brim felt hat.
In theory, the civilian was working in plainclothes to facilitate his efforts in defense of Reich security. In practice, since only persons with a special ration coupon had access to full-length leather coats, he might as well have worn a hatband with “Gestapo” printed on it.
As a general rule of thumb, Obersturmbannführer Müller did not have much respect for the Gestapo. There were some genuine detectives in its ranks, but the bulk of them were patrolman types promoted over their abilities. You didn’t have to be much of a detective if you were armed with power to arrest without giving a reason, and could then conduct an “interrogation, ” which generally began with stripping the suspect naked and beating him senseless before any questions were put to him.
Near the station end of the platform were the checkpoints. One was manned by the Feldgendarmerie and the other by the Railway Police. The first checked the identity and
travel documents of military personnel— Army, Navy, and Air Force—and the other checked everyone else. Two more men in leather overcoats and snap-brim caps stood where they could watch this procedure.
Müller was a little surprised to see two black-uniformed men as well, an SS-Hauptsturmführer (Captain) and an SS-Scharführer (Staff Sergeant) standing to one side behind the Railway Police checkpoint. The SS-SD rarely wasted its time standing around railway platforms.
When the train stopped, Müller took his leather suitcase from his compartment, stepped off the train, and walked the few steps to the checkpoints. Before he could take his credentials from his pocket, the Hauptsturmführer, smiling, walked up to him, gave the stiff-armed salute, and barked, “Herr Obersturmbannführer Müller?”
“I’m Müller.”
“Heil Hitler!” the Hauptsturmführer said, and then barked again: “Take the Obersturmbannführer’s luggage, Scharführer!”
The Scharführer took Müller’s suitcase from his hand.
“Standartenführer Kramer sent us to meet you, Herr Obersturmbannführer, ” the Hauptsturmführer said. “He hopes that your schedule will permit you to call upon him, but if you are pressed for time, we are at your service to take you where you wish to go.”
“Very kind of the Standartenführer,” Müller said. “I look forward to seeing him.”
Müller knew Kramer slightly. He was the commanding officer of the Hessian region of the SS-SD. He was a jovial man, fat, a p olitician,a man who had become what he was because of who and not what he knew. Müller wondered what the hell he wanted.
An Opel Admiral, obviously Kramer’s own official car, was parked outside the Hauptbahnhof. With the cooperation of the policeman on duty, it made an illegal U-turn and drove Müller to SS-SD headquarters for Hesse, a turn-of-the century villa across a wide lawn from the curved corporate headquarters of the I.G. Farben Chemical Company. On the way, they passed the Frankfurt office building of FEG, the Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft.
“My dear Johnny,” Kramer said when he saw Müller in his office door, and then he came from behind his desk, hand extended. “I’m glad they found you.”
He did not, Müller noticed, say “Heil Hitler!”
“Having me met was very kind of you, Herr Standartenführer,” Müller said.
“You don’t know, do you?” Kramer asked happily. “I rather thought you might not.”
“Sir?”
“Geehr,” Kramer said to the Hauptsturmführer, “will you give him his Christmas present, please?”
Geehr clicked his heels and made a little bow as he handed Müller a small, tissue-wrapped package.
As Müller unwrapped it, Kramer said, “I telephoned Berlin the moment it came over the wire, Johnny, and they told me you were on leave. I took a chance that you were coming home, and had Geehr meet the Berlin trains. You were on the second one.”
The box contained the shoulder boards and lapel insignia of an SS-STANDARTENFÜHRER. When Müller looked at Kramer, Kramer beamed.
“May I presume, Herr Standartenführer,” Kramer said, “that I have the great privilege of being the first to congratulate you on your well-deserved promotion?”
"I had no idea,” Müller said, truthfully.
“With rank as of 1 December,” Kramer said and snapped his fingers. Geehr handed him a sheet of Teletype paper, which Kramer then handed to Müller.
There was no question about it. He had his own paragraph
Ss-obergruppenführer reinhard heydrich announces with pleasure the promotion with date of rank 1 december 1942 of obersturmbannführer ss-sd johann müller to standartenführer ss-sd.
“May I keep this?” Müller asked as Kramer first enthusiastically pumped his hand. Then, with a snap of his fingers, Kramer ordered Geehr to produce a tray with a bottle of cognac and glasses.
“Yes, of course,” Kramer said, and then:“The timing is a little awkward.”
“Sir?’’
“If it weren’t Christmas Eve, Johnny, I would insist on doing more than offering a glass of schnapps,” Kramer said. “But I daresay you are anxious to get home.”
"My train is at half past five,” Müller said.
“Nonsense. We have a car for you, of course, Herr Standartenführer.”
"That’s very kind,” Müller said.
“With a driver, of course,” Kramer added.
“I don’t want to be responsible for someone having the duty on Christmas, ” Müller said.
“That’s very kind of you, then,” Kramer said. “What have we the Standartenführer can drive?”
“We have that nice little Autounion roadster, Herr Standartenführer,” Geehr said.
“Splendid!” Kramer said. “That all right with you, Johnny?”
“That would be fine,” Müller said.
“And if you’ll take off your tunic, Johnny, I’ll have Frau Zern put the proper insignia on it.”
As Müller handed his tunic to Kramer’s secretary, Kramer said,“I realize this sounds odd, but I was about to say perhaps we can have a drink together at the funeral.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The remains of the Baron Steighofen have been returned from the Eastern Front,” Kramer said. “They will be interred at the Schloss on December 28. They’re making quite a do of it. The Prince of Hesse, in the name of the Führer, will make a posthumous award of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. Steighofen’s not far from Marburg. I’m sure the Baroness would be pleased if you could find the time to attend.”
Translated, Müller thought, that means he is telling me it would be politically smart for me to attend. Does that mean I have to?
“The Steighofens are well connected, Johnny,” Kramer went on, immediately confirming what Müller had guessed. “With Baron Fulmar of FEG, for one thing.”
“The twenty-eighth, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure I can make it,” Müller said.
“Then I look forward to seeing you there,” Kramer said. “And once again, my dear Johnny, my most warm congratulations on your promotion.”
I am your “dear Johnny,” Müller thought, because it has occurred to you that the only way a Hessian peasant policeman like myself could get himself promoted is because I have powerful friends. I was not your "dear Johnny” before I went to Morocco.
“I wonder if I might use your phone before I go,” Müller said.
“Of course,” Kramer said.
“Could you have me put through to Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz in the Foreign Ministry?” Müller asked. “I think he might wish to attend the Baron’s interment, and I’m sure he didn’t know about it either.”
Kramer nodded at Geehr, who picked up the telephone and placed the call.
Calling von Heurten-Mitnitz from Kramer’s office, Müller decided, served to buttress Kramer’s notion that he had highly placed friends. But perhaps more important, the funeral would permit von Heurten-Mitnitz to talk to Fulmar’s father under unsuspicious circumstances. If Müller placed the call anywhere else, there might have been questions.
But there would be no questions if the call was made from the office of the commander of the Hessian Region of the SS-SD.
Chapter FOUR
The Autounion roadster turned out to be a sporty yellow convertible. Müller drove it up the Autobahn as far as Giessen, and then along the tranquil Lahn River to the ancient university town of Marburg.
Under other circumstances, he thought, it would have been a very pleasant way for him to go home, at the wheel of a fancy car, and with the corded silver epaulets of a Standartenführer on his shoulders.
He had been a lowly Wachtmann, an ordinary police patrolman, when he had left Kreis Marburg to go to Prussia. And he was thrilled then to be appointed a Kriminalinspektor, Grade Three. With a little luck and hard work, he’d thought at the time, he might make it to Kriminalinspektor, Grade One, or even Deputy Inspector.
It had never occurred to him then that he would g
o into the SS-SD, or that he would rise to Obersturmbannführer if he did. It was quite as difficult to believe that he was now a Standartenführer as it was to accept that he was engaged in treasonous activities against the German State.
Giessen had been bombed, probably as an alternate target when fog obscured Frankfurt am Main. But after he left Giessen, there was no sign of war damage, or, for that matter, of the war itself. Everything was in fact just about as he remembered it. There were fewer Christmas decorations than he expected, and there were Winterhilfe posters splattered all over, even on trees, appealing for warm clothing, both for bombed-out civilians and for the troops in Russia. But otherwise time seemed to have stopped.
As he turned off the main road onto Frankfurterstrasse, he allowed himself to dwell on the notion that there were men from Marburg at Stalingrad right now, doomed to surrender and probably death.
He drove past a barracks compound and pulled the yellow roadster onto the cobblestones before a three-story, turn-of-the-century building that housed both the headquarters of the Kreis Polizei for Marburg and the regional office of the SS-SD. He got out of the car and walked into the building. There was a small Christmas tree sitting on a table in the lobby.
The Scharführer on duty, visibly startled at the visit of so senior an officer on Christmas Eve, popped to attention. He didn’t at first recognize Müller, but Müller knew who he was. His name was Otto Zeiman. When Müller first joined the police as an Unterwachtmann, Zeiman had been his corporal. He, too, had joined the SS-SD and had risen to Scharführer.
"Heil Hitler! ” Zeiman said. “How may I help the Standartenführer?”
“How are you, Otto?” Müller asked, offering the older man his hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“The Standartenführer is kind to remember me,” Zeiman said, beaming happily at him.
“When no one’s around, Otto, it’s Johnny, like always.”
The older man colored with pleasure. He would never, Müller knew, call him by anything but his rank, but the gesture had cost nothing, and it was always valuable for a man like Zeiman to think of himself as a special friend.
The Soldier Spies Page 11
