They were all in shock. It had happened so quickly. Only Whiteside was in control as he barked orders to have the artillery hit the wood line. It took a couple of moments to coordinate, and, by that time, the Germans were pulling back beyond it and the shells landed on empty dirt. Jack had never seen German armor in action and, even from a distance, their tanks looked formidable. Hell, they were obviously formidable. The Panzer IV was supposed to be inferior to the German Panther or Tiger, but a trio of them had just kicked the shit out of an American column of Shermans and Stuarts.
* * *
“Walk with me,” Whiteside said. The regiment had taken up position just past the trees where the Germans had devastated American armor. Stoddard’s headquarters was secure and the demoralized regiment had settled down for the night. There were no thoughts about pushing on. They had wounded to treat, dead to bury, and a number of vehicles to either repair or scrap. Tomorrow they would move out and again try to bring their elusive enemy to bay.
Whiteside led Jack through the ruined village. The stench of burned wood and flesh filled the air. They walked by the collapsed church where the smell was the worst.
“Villagers were inside here, maybe a score of them,” the colonel said. “At first we thought we’d killed them with our barrage and maybe we did kill some of them, but a survivor in the village said the Germans went in just before our attack and hosed them down with submachine guns and then poured gasoline on them. I guess they were in the way.”
“It’s hard to believe there were any survivors, sir.”
To everyone’s surprise a dozen people had emerged from their vaulted and ancient basements, shaken and stunned, but alive. None, however, had come from the church. The villagers were also united in their hatred for the Boche who had brought such horror to their quiet homes.
A short row of German military dead had been laid out in the street. There were only eleven dead Germans in return for all the hell that had been visited on the French village and the American regiment. The villagers had looked on the corpses with contempt. Some of the dead Germans had been horribly torn and mutilated and were missing limbs, even a head. One had been charred to a crisp and appeared to be grinning through white teeth surrounded by blackened skin, while a couple looked unhurt, just surprised. The villagers had spat on them and one old man had exposed his ancient penis and urinated on them, cackling hysterically as he did.
“Do bomber crews realize this is what occurs when they drop their eggs, Morgan?”
Jack swallowed rising bile. “I doubt it, sir. I know I never did. I never bombed anyone, but, no, any thoughts were abstract.”
The colonel chuckled. “Abstract? Wars are not abstract. Did you notice the dead krauts all have their belt buckles missing? That’s because they were embossed with ‘Gott Mit Uns,’ which means they make great souvenirs. The phrase roughly means God is on our side, which is funny since we thought he was on ours, and not the Nazis’.”
“Maybe God’s neutral, sir.”
“Maybe there’s no God,” said Whiteside. “Forget I said that.”
The Germans were from the 21st Panzer Division. Intelligence had said that the division had been decimated by earlier fighting and was no longer an effective unit. Intelligence, Jack decided, wasn’t worth a good shit.
“Jack, when you first came here we all thought you’d prove useless. In the short time since then, you’ve changed our minds and we think we can use you better than having you set up Stoddard’s headquarters. Stoddard agrees, by the way. And don’t worry, we won’t put you in charge of an armored company. That’d be suicidal for all concerned.”
“Thank you sir, I think.”
“Trust me, it’s a compliment.”
They’d walked through the village and past the dead tanks and half-tracks. Again their nostrils were assailed by the stench of burned flesh. These vehicles were scrap and would be replaced. One good thing about American wartime production—there would never be a shortage of vehicles. Just a shame, Jack thought, that they weren’t all that good, and more than a shame that good men died in them.
At that moment, a flight of American P47 fighter bombers flew low and over them. “Where the hell were they a few hours ago?” Whiteside snarled. “When we asked for help we were told they were too busy for small targets. That is, after we finally got through to them in the first place.”
Morgan decided it would be inappropriate to comment. Relations between the army and the air force were even more strained than he’d thought, even though they were still part of the same service branch. The air force wasn’t independent yet and maybe never would be. A few seconds later, there was the rumble of thunder, and smoke billowed in the distance.
“Can you fly a Grasshopper, Morgan, or was the B17 the only thing you were trained on?”
“Not that it matters, sir, but I flew the B24, not the 17, and yes I can fly a Grasshopper.” The Grasshopper was the military variant of the Piper Cub. “I flew the Piper a couple of times before pilot training and a handful of times after.”
“Excellent. We were caught with our pants down both this last skirmish as well as the one where the eighty-eight ambushed our column. We don’t want that to happen again if it’s humanly possible. The regiment is authorized reconnaissance aircraft; however, neither planes nor pilots were available. Now, thanks to you we have a pilot and a plane has suddenly appeared. Just don’t ask how we got it, except that a division north of here is wondering why they’re a plane short. You will command a detachment to fly it and any others we can dredge up. Levin will take over your duties. Take maybe five minutes to figure out what you’ll need and get back to me.”
Poor Levin, Jack thought. But at least he’d be back in the air, even though in an innocuous little plane. And, he laughed, no more tucking Stoddard into bed each night in a den surrounded by barb wire.
“Have you told Levin, sir?”
“Yeah, and now he’s telling your former lieutenants just what a joy it will be for them to have a Jewish commanding officer. He’s also telling them they’ll have to be circumcised.”
* * *
When Phips woke up, he wasn’t certain where he was. He’d been partying just like he’d been almost every night since it’d become public knowledge that his plane had bombed Hitler into Valhalla, or wherever dead Nazis thought they’d go. At least he wasn’t too badly hung over. God, there had been some memorable celebrations with him as the guest of honor. Finally, he remembered that he was in a very large bed in an expensive suite in Claridge’s Hotel in the center of London.
He rolled over and felt warm flesh beside him. He was naked, and so was the woman beside him. Who the hell was she? Oh yeah, her name was Margie and she was an English civilian working at SHAEF. Last night she told him she was thrilled to meet the man who killed Hitler, and then proceeded to prove it.
Phips thought he was becoming quite the man of the world. He’d met Ike, who showed steel behind his affable exterior; Churchill, who was shorter than he thought; King George, pleasant but even shorter than Churchill; Montgomery, who seemed a conceited twit; and a horde of generals and admirals.
And, for the first time in his life, he’d gotten laid. Margie wasn’t the first, however. That encounter had been more than a week ago and there had been several since then, including a couple with “Lady” in front of their names and, he thought wickedly, ladies they weren’t. All England, it seemed, wanted to honor him one way or another. He wondered if the rest of the crew of the Mother’s Milk were doing as well. Probably, he thought. Somebody’d commented that his copilot, Stover, had movie star looks. He was probably sleeping with chicks who made Margie look ugly and Margie was far from ugly. In fact, she was the best looking woman he’d ever been with. She hated Hitler and the Nazis. She’d been engaged and her fiancé had been killed in North Africa.
Then he recalled that his bomber’s new name was American Girl, and that she’d been repainted, dismantled for shipment, and was on her way to the U.S. wher
e she’d be on display. So would he, Phips remembered. He had a train to catch.
There was a knock on the door and it opened to admit Colonel Granville. “Rise and shine, Phips. or you’ll be late for your trip back home.”
Margie sat up abruptly and smiled. She made no effort to cover herself. “Good morning, Colonel.”
Granville rolled his eyes in an effort not to stare at her exquisite breasts. “And a hearty English good morning to you, Margie. You’re looking exceptionally lovely.”
Margie giggled, got out of bed and walked slowly to the bathroom, treating them both to a marvelous view of her voluptuous body and dimpled bottom. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, “while I take care of some personal things.”
Phips looked at his watch. “Am I that late?”
“If you move your ass, you’ll make it. We go to Victoria Station and you catch the train to Liverpool where another officer will take over as tour guide. You’ll meet the rest of your crew in Liverpool and take the Queen Mary to New York. Don’t get too excited about the accommodations, she’s been made over into a troop ship.”
Phips grinned. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll be good to get home, although England’s beginning to grow on me.”
Margie emerged from the bathroom. She’d managed to get clothed in only a few seconds, which probably meant she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. She grinned wickedly. “What’s growing on you, Phipsie?”
* * *
Two hours later Granville was standing in Piccadilly Square. Phips was well on his way to Liverpool and he hoped Margie made it back to the office in time to do some real work. He also hoped she had managed to put on some underwear.
He checked his watch and looked around nervously. Jessica wasn’t really late. How could anyone be late when civilian schedules meant nothing and military ones were changed all the time?
The square was filled with people. Most of the men and quite a few of the women were in uniform, and, even though it was early afternoon, a large number of them were drunk. When he got home, he’d have a lot of stories to tell his wife and kids. He wondered if he’d tell about Phips and Margie and decided he would. His wife would love it and his kids would be old enough to appreciate it. Hell, at the rate the war was going, they would all be retired before he got home.
He also decided that London had the potential to be a lovely city if only someone would clean it up. He didn’t mean the sandbags piled many feet high around buildings to provide a little protection against German bombs and rockets. So far these had generally fallen on the West End and not that much on the center of London. They said that the Battle of Britain was over and that Nazi bombers were a thing of the past. He wasn’t so sure. The Nazis had begun launching their rockets at anything in or near London with utter disregard to where they landed. Regardless, when the war was over the sandbags would disappear quickly.
No, by cleaning up the city, he meant getting rid of the many centuries worth of soot caused by the hundreds of thousands of coal fires used to heat London’s homes and businesses. The city’s buildings were almost all a uniform gray-black and cried out for a good scrubbing.
“Uncle!”
He grinned and turned. The young woman ran into his arms and they hugged fiercely. He kissed her on the cheek. “My favorite niece in London. I don’t believe it.”
Jessica Granville laughed. She was his only niece. She was twenty-one, almost as tall as he and slender. Her brown hair was cut almost boyishly short and she wore an American dress that style-starved British women passing by stared at enviously. She was well-fed and ruddily healthy, which also bothered British women and caused the men to stare. So many Brits were pale and drab thanks to clothing and food shortages.
At first glance, many people thought Jessica was plain, but when she talked or laughed, they found her vivacious. “I see you got rid of Phips,” she said. He’d written her of life with the accidental hero. “Too bad, I wanted to meet him.”
He told her how so many British women had managed to meet him and she laughed again. “Phipsie? Good lord. At least his departure means I have a room for the short while.”
Tom had shamelessly used his influence and managed to change Phips’ room at the Claridge to Jessica’s name. She would be able to pay for it. Her allowance from her family was more than adequate. Must be nice to have money, he mused.
“So tell me again, what are you going to be doing here in London?”
She took his arm and they strolled down Haymarket in the general direction of the Thames. “I’m with the Red Cross. When we get to France, I’ll be working with refugees and those broadly being referred to as displaced persons. My job will be to try to unite them with their families.”
“Good luck. There are hordes of them already and I don’t think the real refugee crisis has even begun.”
They paused as a column of American trucks drove by. “And you didn’t want to join the WACs? With two years of college under your belt, I could have pulled some strings and gotten you into women’s OCS, or whatever they call it. At least you’d have a commission.”
She shook her head vehemently. “And then I’d be supervising either a bunch of typists or a gaggle of women drivers, all of whom would be working for lecherous colonels, present company excluded, of course.”
He laughed. “Certainly.”
She was absolutely correct. Regardless of her skills, she would wind up in some clerical capacity where her intellect and potential talents would be wasted. The Red Cross would use her far more effectively.
“Will you be going to France with Ike?”
“It’s supposed to be a military secret, Jessica, but yes. Ike isn’t there yet.” Not true. He’d crossed the Channel for good a couple of days earlier and set up a small headquarters in Normandy.
“I hope to see dear Cousin Jeb when I get there.”
Granville sighed. “Highly unlikely. He’s in an armored regiment and, well, close to the front. Please don’t tell me you’re still infatuated with him.”
“Oh God, no. We’re cousins, remember, and that infatuation occurred when we were kids.”
“You’re third cousins and much is permitted at that level.”
“But not by me, Uncle.”
However, she did recall a couple of times when Dear Cousin Jeb tried to get in her pants and one time when he very nearly succeeded. If he hadn’t been so drunk that he’d passed out, who knew what might have happened. She’d been under the influence as well, but had managed to stay awake and reasonably alert. Still, he was a genial rogue and she was very fond of him.
They heard an odd and ominous sound and looked up. It sounded like a cross between a roar and a whine. They stared as a strange craft flew overhead. It looked like two large pipes connected to each other, and it was making the noise. The roaring stopped and the craft began to plunge to the ground.
“Down!” yelled Tom and he grabbed her, slamming her to the sidewalk. Around them, others were doing the same thing, while a bemused few looked around to see what was happening. The explosion was deafening and debris flew down the streets, funneled by the buildings. Screams of pain and fear followed.
Jessica and her uncle got up, shaken. Many people were running away from the explosion, while others ran towards the source to help out if they could. Bloody walking wounded staggered from the bomb site.
“Uncle, what the hell was that?” She was badly shaken and gasping.
Tom Granville dusted himself off and tried to act nonchalant. “It’s one of the late Adolf Hitler’s V-1 rockets, Jessica. They’ve been falling indiscriminately for a few weeks now. Just like the Nazis. They kill innocent people, although they I don’t think they’ve ever hit anything of military significance.”
Jessica’s knee was bleeding from where she’d fallen and a trickle of blood was running down her leg and into her shoe. She wiped at it with a handkerchief. Ambulances raced by, their sirens making that funny squealing sound. The city of London had plenty of expe
rience with tragedies like this. The two of them would be in the way at the bomb site.
She took his arm and squeezed it as they walked. She was shaken by her first experience with violence. She knew it wouldn’t be her last. This time they would go directly to her hotel. “I thought the Battle of Britain was over, Uncle?”
“So did everyone else.”
CHAPTER 6
THE PIPER CUB, nobody called it a Grasshopper, showed a lot of wear and tear. There were a number of patches to the wings and body that covered bullet holes. This did not sit well with Morgan as he flew two thousand feet above the ground looking for German activity below while simultaneously keeping an eye out for the Luftwaffe. The Germans weren’t supposed to have many planes left, but all he needed was to run into one of them in his helpless little plane.
He tried not to wonder what had happened to the man, or men, inside the tattered craft when it had been shot up, and whether or not the plane had been intended for the junk heap before it was borrowed by Levin and some others on Stoddard’s staff.
Still, with Corporal Leach seated behind him, and providing a second pair of eyes, he felt comfortable, even happy to be up in the air once again even if it was in a plane that was so ridiculously easy to fly. Someone had said if you could ride a bike, you could fly a Piper Cub.
Of course it wasn’t anywhere near that simple, and a mistake at several thousand feet in the air was likely to be deadly and not simply result in bruises.
The Cub was a durable tool. She had a service ceiling of more than eleven thousand feet, although Jack had no intention of coming even close to that height. First, it was already cold at two thousand and would be freezing at eleven. Second, the thin air would require oxygen and the plane wasn’t configured for it.
Her top speed was eighty-seven miles per hour and her cruising speed was a mere seventy-five. Under many circumstances, she couldn’t outrun a car. He grinned as he looked down. Several vehicles were on the two-lane road below him. He presumed they were German and he really wasn’t blowing past them. On the other hand, they weren’t shooting at him. He thought about calling in some artillery, but the targets were moving and would be difficult, if not impossible, to hit. This time the krauts were safe.
Himmler's War-ARC Page 9
