“Indeed,” FDR said softly. “I am afraid there will be pressures from many quarters to work with the new German government to end the war. If nothing else, so that we can focus on destroying the little yellow bastards who bombed Pearl Harbor.”
Marshall nodded. Many senior military men, including Admiral Ernie King and General Douglas MacArthur, felt that America’s war efforts should have been focused on the despicable Japs and not Germany. Many in Congress, particularly those from western states, also wanted America’s focus on defeating Japan. Instead, Roosevelt had insisted on adherence to pre-war plans that called for defeating Germany first while containing Japanese aggression. Allied plans also called for Germany’s unconditional surrender and, if Hitler was indeed dead, would that affect it?
“Enough speculating over that,” Roosevelt said. “Now, what about this Phips person. A medal or what?”
“A medal at least, but I suggest waiting until Hitler’s death is confirmed.”
“And Ultra says nothing?”
Marshall instinctively looked around. Ultra was the name of the super-secret British code-reading activity at Bletchley Park in England. The Germans were unaware that England had broken their most secret and sacred codes and were now sharing the information, albeit reluctantly, with their American cousins. Very few Americans were in on the secret, and most key members of Roosevelt’s staff were unaware of it. They were also unaware of what was being developed in New Mexico under the name of the Manhattan Project.
FDR sighed. “And this Phips person is such a nebbish, a fucking clerk. Why couldn’t it have been the copilot who’d been in charge? He looks a helluva lot more heroic than Phips.”
Marshall permitted himself a small smile. “That might work in our favor. The German supermen would be humiliated to find that Hitler’d been killed by a scrawny little nothing like Phips.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “Perhaps it might. At any rate, do something about the plane. Mother’s Milk, my ass. That name and the caricature have got to go. The tits on that farm girl are larger than several states and are an insult to every woman voter.”
* * *
“Roy Levin’s my name and yes I’m Jewish, why would you even ask?”
Morgan grinned. “I didn’t ask and you don’t look Jewish.”
Captain Roy Levin was short and stocky, and had an olive complexion topped by short curly hair. He looked more Sicilian than anything else. Morgan decided he was an easy man to like. Levin sat on the bunk opposite Morgan’s in their four-man tent.
“Welcome to Stockade Stoddard’s rolling armored circus. And by the way, don’t let the colonel ever hear you refer to him by that name. He knows we all do, but not to his face. Could be fatal. You might bleed to death after getting your ass chewed.”
“Understood, but how did he get the name?”
Levin sat on his bunk and lit a cigarette. Jack declined his offer. “The good colonel’s regimental headquarters was overrun by the Germans in North Africa and he was nearly captured at a lovely place called the Kasserine Pass. His battalion was out of touch for several days until relief columns arrived, and he sincerely believes that a lot of his men died because his regiment’s HQ was gone. He decided then and there that his HQ would always be fortified. Thus, he moves men and equipment around and sets up with each new move. Kind of like the Roman legions did. And, yes, that’s your job now.”
“Wonderful.”
“To give Stoddard his due, the man is neither a coward nor stupid, just cautious. He’s got legitimate medals from North Africa and he’s also a decent guy as long as you don’t piss him off, like screwing up the defenses around his HQ for instance. He’s also one of the handful of guys in the 74th who’s actually been in combat. Even though we’ve been in Normandy for a couple of days, there’s been no real fighting for us. Some shelling and sniping, but nothing major.”
“I’ll do my best to keep him happy. Now, you’re supposed to tell me about the regiment.”
Levin pulled a bottle of wine from his duffle bag, opened it, and poured some into their canteen cups. “Crystal would be better,” he said after taking a swallow, “it enhances the bouquet, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, the wine ain’t all that good. One of my men got it from some guys in the First Infantry Division who liberated a bar or something.”
Levin explained that there were three thousand men in the 74th, clustered around the seventy tanks that made up its strike force. He added that the regiment was an independent unit, currently assigned to General Leonard Gerow’s V Corps, which was part of Courtney Hodges’ First Army. “All of which belongs to Omar Bradley’s Twenty-First Army Group,” he added.
“If you’re curious, and there’s no reason you should be, there are other independent armored regiments and even a slew of independent armored battalions floating around. As to our strength, we have fifty M4 Shermans and twenty Stuarts. The Stuarts are light tanks and aren’t worth a shit. Worse, all they’ve got is a piddly 37mm gun which won’t hurt a Panzer Mark IV or a Panther. Might scrape its paint, but that’s all. They’re supposed to be phased out this winter and replaced by something called a Chaffee which also isn’t worth squat against kraut armor. The Sherman is bigger than the Stuart, but isn’t much better.”
Levin went on to explain that the Sherman had a 75mm gun and could beat the Panzer Mark III with its 37mm gun and hold its own with the Panzer Mark IV and its 75mm gun, but the introduction of the Panzer V, the Panther, and the less numerous Tiger and King Tiger varieties had disrupted all that.
“The Panzer III is still around and the Germans’ main tank is the Panzer IV, which is what the Sherman was allegedly designed to fight. The Panther has come as a terrible and unpleasant surprise that we’ve so far been able to avoid. It can’t last, however.”
Jack took another sip of the wine. “What’s the difference between a Panzer and a Panther?”
“Contrary to popular belief among the willfully ignorant, Panzer is not German for Panther. Panzer is derived from something else, maybe a French term. Technically speaking, the Panther is the Panzer V. Others, like the Tiger, which actually is the Panzer VI, the King Tiger, and the Leopard are different breeds of cat.” He chortled, “Damn, I am witty.”
“Not really,” Jack said, “but you are confusing the hell out of me. However, please continue.”
“Screw you too,” Levin said amiably, clearly pleased with his lousy joke. “Simply put, the seventy-five millimeter gun on the Sherman can’t penetrate the Panther’s front armor and the Panther’s gun goes through a Sherman’s thinner armor like a hot knife through butter. Since we haven’t seen any real combat it hasn’t happened to us yet, but I’ve been told that, statistically, one Panther can knock out as much as a dozen Shermans before ultimately taking a damaging hit and a Tiger can do even better, which I hope is an exaggeration. The only saving virtue is that the krauts don’t have all that many Panthers or Tigers.”
“How the hell did it happen that we got the crappy tanks and the Germans the good ones?” Jack asked. “We make millions of great cars, so why not tanks?”
Levin shrugged and added some more wine. “Ask the politicians and the manufacturers who convinced the army that the Germans wouldn’t be leap-frogging ahead of us with their designs. I’ve also heard that the Pentagon wanted the Sherman kept small so more of them could be shipped overseas without taking up precious space in ships. Oh yeah, it’s got too high a silhouette so the krauts can see us long before we see them. There was also the idea that tanks wouldn’t be fighting other tanks. Instead, tank destroyers would kill the German tanks while Shermans aided the infantry. That hasn’t worked out that way either. Another perfectly good plan shot to hell.”
Levin took a swallow and grimaced. The wine truly was pretty bad, but it was alcohol and they were beginning to feel comfortable. Levin continued, “And along with the tanks, there are a number of semi-armored half-tracks and a dozen M10 tank destroyers, which are also under-gunned against the German
s and don’t have any tops on them in order to save weight, which is supposed to increase speed. Dumb.
“We have our own artillery, consisting of a number of 105mm howitzers on open tank chassis. We also have a large number of trucks, gas tanker trucks, and Jeeps, but it’s common knowledge that we don’t have enough of them.”
Jack added more wine to his cup. “What a fuckup.”
Levin laughed. “Yeah, and we’re supposed to be winning this war.”
* * *
Colonel Ernst Varner was well on his way home when the sirens began to wail. He felt his stomach churn as he moved quickly to the nearest bomb shelter in the basement of an office building. It was the middle of the day and that meant it was the Americans who were going to rain destruction down on Berlin. Again, just as they did almost every day. The British bombed at night.
Varner was as brave as the next man, but he felt helpless as he cowered in the shelter. He could only wonder as he did each time—what the devil had happened to Germany’s air defenses? Where were the fighters? Why weren’t German bombers hitting enemy airfields? When the war started, Hermann Goering had boasted that if an Allied bomb fell on Berlin he would change his name to Meyer, a Jewish name. Well, the bombs fell constantly now on a relatively helpless Berlin and the disgraced Goering rarely made an appearance. To the people of Berlin he was a buffoon. Varner agreed, although only to himself.
The crump-crump of the bombs could be heard. Some nearby area was getting pasted. Varner could only hope and pray the bombs weren’t falling anywhere near the apartment building where Magda and Margarete awaited his return.
The bombs were falling closer. The shelter began to vibrate and dust filtered down onto the scores of people who huddled in terror. People were moaning and a woman screamed. Children cried. Varner fought the urge to piss. A direct hit on the building above could bury them alive. No matter how many times he’d been in combat, there was always that feeling of unreasonable fear when the firing began. Show me someone without fear, he’d always thought, and I’ll show you either a fool or a lunatic.
Like a thunderstorm in the summer, the bombs reached a violent and ear-shattering crescendo. The walls of the shelter shook with their violence, and still more dust fell from the ceiling, covering everyone jammed inside. Varner smelled smoke and prayed that the exit wasn’t blocked by flames or falling debris. He’d seen instances where that had happened and the people inside were fried to a crisp, their bodies stacked by a blocked exit.
The woman screamed again, yelling for the bombing to stop and then cursing Hitler and Goering for letting it happen. Someone stifled her and prevented her from crying out again. Varner could understand her fear and frustration, but not her outburst. While the Gestapo might not be everywhere, the Gestapo’s informants were, and such hysterical comments could be construed as treasonous.
As the dust settled, he saw the woman, now standing alone. Nobody wanted to be associated with her. She was wide-eyed and terrified, but now from a new sense of panic.
The sounds of bombing faded. But were the Americans through or was this just the first of many waves of attackers? The Yanks seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of planes. Berlin wasn’t totally helpless as hundreds, perhaps thousands, of antiaircraft guns fired at the distant bombers. They would hit some of them, but nowhere near enough to change matters. The British would come tonight and the Americans again tomorrow during the day. And so it would go on.
The all clear sounded and Varner led the group out of the shelter into a changed world. Walls were down and buildings were on fire. Choking black smoke filled the air and torn bodies lay in the street. Ambulances and fire engines were trying valiantly to stem the tide of blood, fire, and damage. He looked for the screaming woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. A policeman with a bandage on his face walked up to him.
“Excuse me, Colonel, but do you know anything about a woman saying treasonous things while in the shelter?”
Well, Varner thought, that didn’t take long. “I heard a hysterical woman howling, but that was all. I really couldn’t make out what she was saying. I was really more concerned about two children who were crying nearby.”
“Do you think you could recognize her?”
“No.”
The policeman nodded knowingly. “Nor can anybody else. What a surprise.”
“Officer, I really don’t think a terrified woman’s outbursts qualify as treason, even if she said them.”
“Nor do I, Colonel, nor do I,” the policeman said and walked away.
A child began screaming. Varner and others went to where a boy was pinned by debris. They pulled him out but not before his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. A quick check showed he was still breathing. The boy was about ten and his left arm was smashed and would doubtless have to be amputated.
A medic appeared beside Varner. “At least this one won’t have to go in your army, Colonel.”
“Careful,” Varner snapped.
“Of what?” the medic retorted. “Sooner or later we’ll all be dead and you know it, Colonel.”
Varner found he could not respond. He left the medic and began the long walk back to his apartment.
* * *
Morgan sat in the front passenger seat of his Jeep and pondered. It was just like any other traffic jam except he was on a hedgerow-lined dirt road in northern France, and he had an M3 “grease gun” across his lap. He’d chosen that weapon because others recommended it. The M3 fired full automatic, and was smaller than the M1 Garand. Size was a factor for tankers since room inside one was at a premium. He hadn’t had a chance to fire it yet, so he felt just a little foolish carrying it. He also had a .45 automatic in a holster on his belt. He’d never fired that either. Nor had he yet been inside a tank.
Somewhere he recalled reading that armored columns were supposed to move quickly and charge dramatically into battle. Well, it wasn’t happening this day. The tanks and tank destroyers were in the front of the column, while half-tracks and trucks followed. Literally hundreds of armored and support vehicles were lined up in the narrow dirt road, and all were heading into combat for the first time as a unit. That is, if they ever got there.
The hedgerows in this area weren’t as bad as those closer to the Normandy coast, but they were difficult enough. They constricted vision and forced the regiment into one long single-file column.
Morgan had drawn PFC Snyder again as his driver. Jack yawned and glared at the half-track in front of them. A dozen men were stuffed into it and they all looked bored as hell. His radioman dozed in the back seat. His chief NCO, Sergeant Major Rolfe, and his two lieutenants, Hazen and Vance, rode in vehicles behind him.
Morgan decided to make light of it. “At this rate, Snyder, the war’ll be over before we get to it.”
Snyder grinned. With Morgan his commanding officer, he was no longer the taciturn and bored driver who’d brought him to the regiment. “Fine by me, sir.”
There was a loud crack and the half-track in front exploded. Bodies flew through the track’s open top and into the air. “What the hell?” Morgan said.
Flames erupted from the stricken vehicle as it slowly fell onto its side. A handful of survivors crawled out. One was on fire. Others screamed and tried to crawl away. Snyder floored the accelerator and pulled off the road to their left just as a second crack sounded and the vehicle in front of the dying half-track also exploded. Their Jeep slid onto its side and all three men jumped out.
It was a German ambush. “Everybody out of the trucks,” Morgan yelled. The order was unnecessary as everyone was doing just that. He jumped up and ran down the line to repeat the order to a handful of men who remained frozen in place, grabbing a couple by the collar and hurling them to the ground. Sergeant Major Rolfe was already doing the same thing, but Morgan’s young lieutenants, Vance and Hazen, seemed dazed and confused, and remained in their vehicles. Jack grabbed Hazen and threw him on the ground. Vance shook off his shock and climbed down. All up and down
the line trucks were emptying of men.
Crack!
Rolfe dropped down beside Morgan, who was hugging the ground. “It’s a German eighty-eight, Captain. I remember the sound of the fuckers from North Africa and Sicily.”
The squat bow-legged sergeant was one of his few veterans. Properly identifying their enemy was one thing, but doing something about it was something else.
Crack, and another truck exploded. “It’s a turkey shoot,” Rolfe said. “You’re in charge, Captain. I suggest we do something.”
A Sherman tank roared down the line of trucks, its stubby seventy-five looking for a target. It was on the Germans’ side of the road and the stalled vehicles, and its run exposed the tank’s less heavily armored side.
Crack, and the tank lurched to a halt. Black smoke began to pour from its hatches as the crew stumbled out. Only two of the five made it before the ammunition in the tank began to explode.
“God help the poor bastards,” said Rolfe.
“Can you see where the kraut gun is?” Morgan asked.
“Kinda. I thought I saw a flash in those trees to our left front, maybe a quarter mile away.”
The area wasn’t as thick with hedges and trees as the ancient farms around the Normandy invasion site, but the foliage was thick enough to hide an antitank gun.
“Then get everybody shooting in that general direction. If nothing else, it’ll keep them pinned down a little. I’m going to take some volunteers and see if we can creep up on it before the son of a bitch destroys the whole regiment.”
He started to run, but slipped, falling on his knees. He gagged as he realized he’d stepped in the intestines of a soldier who was gasping and flailing his arms. All around him men were yelling and screaming. A few were trying to help the wounded, but panic reigned. If the Germans had a machine gun on this side of the road, they would have slaughtered the men of the 74th like sheep. He shook off his shock and got up.
With Rolfe’s sometimes aggressive assistance, Morgan grabbed a half dozen “volunteers” and headed out to their right. He ordered the men left behind to keep shooting in the general direction of the German gun. Maybe they’d hit something. Maybe they’d help keep the Germans’ heads down. At least it would give them something to do. He hoped to keep out of sight until he was behind the German gun.
Himmler's War-ARC Page 5
