The big story--at least until the Enterprise disaster--seemed to be Aachen and Metz. Rommel’s counterpunch had slowed Patton’s lightning march through France briefly, then it was hell for leather, with the Allies chasing the Nazis all the way back to the Westwall. General Hodges’s First Army had nearly pushed the Germans out of Aachen, but then the news stories had been saying he’d “nearly” cleared out the city for over a month now.
And Patton was still bogged down in Metz, taking heavy losses in men. Porter followed the details of Patton’s campaign much more closely, flipping through page after page of Teletype paper. While Hodges and the First Army might be strategically important, Patton always made the best copy, no matter what he was doing. His drive across France had restored some of the luster Patton had lost in Sicily in the famous “soldier-slapping” incident. Now, however, his reputation was being tarnished in Metz. There had been lots of casualties already, and new divisions were being assigned to the operation, including one that had served under Patton during the Cobra breakout. Metz was a meat grinder, no doubt, and Porter was sure that Rommel, the Desert Fox, was at work.
That was a great story: the ultimate rematch of the war. Patton vs. Rommel. It sounded like a title fight, the tough-but-tarnished good guy up against the noble villain for the heavyweight championship of the world. He liked a story with a clear dramatic thrust, and he was already rehearsing phrases and angles. It was only the morning of his first working day in London, and he was ready to go. He looked at the team of reporters, each working on his own stories. Time for an editorial conference, and then to work. He lit a cigarette in anticipation before calling his first meeting.
Reichstag, Berlin, Germany, 25 October 1944, 1550 hours GMT
“Come in, General Galland,” purred Heinrich Himmler, leaning back in his chair so that his face was covered with shadow. “I’ve been reading your reports on the Me-262 program. Excellent work. Your group has been consistently ahead of schedule. One day I must come to see one of your hangars. Herr Speer tells me they are a sight to behold.”
“Yes, Führer” replied the Luftwaffe commander, taking his cap and placing it under his arm. “It’s always interesting to be there when someone sees the underground excavation for the first time. Even when you’re told how big it is, it just doesn’t penetrate until you see it for yourself.”
“Well then, I shall certainly come at my very earliest opportunity,” said Himmler. He looked down at the papers on his desk and picked up one sheet with a gesture that was oddly dainty. “But I gather that with all your successes, you continue to report one problem.”
“Yes, Führer” Galland shook his head. “All the technology in the world means nothing without the fuels. We’ve been running on less than ten percent of the fuel we need--and that’s the minimum level. It doesn’t matter how brave our pilots or how superior our aircraft. Without fuel, all this is a waste.” Himmler nodded in return, then tilted his hands together under his chin. “Every day a line of people come to visit me, and the one thing they all plead for is more fuel, more fuel. Each need is real, of course, but priorities must be set.”
Galland’s shoulders drooped slightly. He expected yet another “no” answer; that’s all he’d gotten for weeks and months, but without a “yes,” he was helpless.
But then the Führer leaned forward. “Without recapturing air superiority, at least for a period of time, there is little chance of getting the fuel stocks we need. So I have decided that all the output of the synthetic fuels plants will be diverted to Luftwaffe needs. Your job is to plan a raid so huge, so utterly devastating, that you can shut down the Allied bombing campaign, at least for a time. Can you do it?”
“Can I?” Galland’s eyes brightened. “With the new jet fighters, I can tear them apart as long as there is a supply of fuel.” Then he paused. “You said, for a time?”
“Yes, for a time. Your mission will be to interdict the Allied bombing campaign. On the ground, the mission will be somewhat different. You see, I know where there is a virtually unlimited supply of fuel.”
“Where?” asked Galland.
“In the stockpiles of the Allies,” replied the Führer.
Nineteenth Armored Division Headquarters Building, Luxembourg City, Luxembourg, 30 October 1944, 1447 hours GMT
Colonel Frank Ballard was supposed to use a cane for the next month, but he could walk well without it. Besides, what he always liked best about tanks was that you didn’t have to do a lot of walking. The jeep pulled up in front of the building in Luxembourg City that had been commandeered as division HQ, and he stepped out quite steadily, only using the cane for a moment to steady himself on the downward movement. “Here you are, sir,” said the driver.
“Thanks, corporal,” Ballard said, before striding confidently through the door. The last time he’d seen the Nineteenth, it had been dying around him, but now it looked almost back to normal. The staff was busy, but the men stopped working long enough to offer a hearty round of applause to their returning tank commander. The MP grinned and said, “Welcome back, Colonel. The general is in his office.”
Ballard walked inside, conscious of his gait, wanting to look as healed as possible. Another lesson from his boxing days: don’t let ’em know how much it hurts. He swung his cane jauntily, even though he could feel the lance of pain each time his leg came down on the concrete floor.
“Frank! I’m glad you’re back!” Henry Wakefield roared in his deep voice, obviously delighted to see his returning officer. “How’s the leg? More to the point, how were the Paris nurses?”
“The leg reaches all the way to the ground, General,” replied the lieutenant colonel with a smile, then winced slightly at Wakefield’s ham-handed grip. “And the nurses--well, vive la France, as they say.” The men laughed together. In fact, the nurses had been all American and all business, but Ballard knew what he was supposed to say.
“Well, Frank, you’ve got your old command back.” Wakefield nodded to Pulaski, who was standing off to the side. “Jimmy’s been patching it up while you were gone, and I think you’ll find it nearly as good as new.”
“Thank you, General. It’s good to be back.” Ballard turned to Pulaski and saluted. “Jimmy, good to see you again.”
“Welcome back, Frank,” said Pulaski, with a voice empty of affect.
The wounded officer was shocked at the gaunt, hollow-eyed man who stood before him. After all, Ballard had been the one torn up and bloody at the end of the last battle. Why, then, did Pulaski look like the one who had been badly damaged? The colonel had escaped without a scratch physically, but he looked like too many of the horribly mangled soldiers who’d packed the Paris hospital. Surely Pulaski didn’t think it was all his fault, Ballard thought. He’d seen men who looked like that in the hospital, men whose battlefield damage was inside, not outside.
Wakefield watched the two men closely. They had been the command team that had made Combat Command A work during that brief campaign that now seemed like such a long time ago. Would they be able to do it again? Pulaski, he was relieved to see, was steady as he met the gaze of this man who had been nearly killed under his command. Wakefield was still concerned, however, about Pulaski’s morale. Instead of getting better, Pulaski seemed to be slipping deeper into depression. Would he ever again be willing to send Ballard and the rest of his men into harm’s way?
The general remembered the sickening news of two months earlier, word that CCA was all but gone, ambushed south of the Abbeville bridge, destroyed by the shrewd counterattack of an enemy general who by all rights should have been dead. Now, the wrecked machinery had been replaced, and new men had arrived to operate it, but the general agonized over the constant question:
Would the result be the same?
When Ballard left, Wakefield turned to Pulaski and drew a deep breath. When he let it out, he spoke with what he hoped was confidence-building firmness. “Jimmy, you have command of CCA of the Nineteenth Armored, a combat unit in this man’s army.
You’re activated as of today, and you’ll get orders with the rest of the division in the briefing that’s going to start right now.”
There was no cheer, no protest, no reaction. Pulaski saluted, stood straight, and met his gaze. “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned to leave.
“I’m sure you can handle it.” Wakefield said, his tone intentionally harsh. “The orders came from higher up.”
“General Hodges?” The colonel, who had had nothing to do with First Army command since he had been relegated to replacement training, was obviously puzzled.
“Not Hodges. You’ll find out with the rest of the officers. And Jimmy--at least Ballard’s okay. Had a vacation with nurses.”
“The others aren’t coming back from vacation,” Pulaski said evenly. His face was devoid of expression.
Wakefield nodded curtly. He couldn’t hope for anything else, not now.
The men left the office for the adjacent auditorium, where all the company-grade and higher officers of the Nineteenth Armored had gathered. The general noticed that Pulaski walked stiffly, avoiding any look at his superior officer. He did introduce Ballard to Diaz, and the two lieutenant colonels exchanged a cordial handshake.
“Ten-shun!” snapped the division sergeant-major, and with a shuffling of chairs the officers of the Nineteenth got to their feet. They were gathered, somewhat casually, into three groups: the seasoned men of Bob Jackson’s Combat Command B, the fresh faces mixed with a few weathered veterans of Pulaski’s CCA, and the division and support staff, the officers who handled the divisional artillery and engineering assets, as well as intelligence, supply, logistics, and all the other tasks that kept fourteen thousand men organized, fed, and supplied with the materials necessary to wage war.
“At ease,” Wakefield said, striding to the podium. He looked over the men gathered before him, knowing they were rested and as well-trained as could be expected. They’d seen a little action under Hodges’s First Army, and Bob Jackson’s Combat Command B had known some successes. But now, once more, they were embarking into an unknown future.
“I’ll get right to the point: We’ve been reassigned to Third Army.”
Henry Wakefield kept his face impassive as he informed his officers. The staff and unit commanders of the Nineteenth Armored Division had gathered in the long barracks hall that had been training grounds and classroom for his recruits during the last month. Now they exchanged looks, a few wide-eyed stares or blinks of astonishment. But nobody vocalized a response.
“Patton needs us again, men. I guess he liked our work so much in Normandy that he decided he just couldn’t win the war without us.”
That provoked a few chuckles, though the officers, like their general, had a feel for the truth. The Nineteenth was being transferred because such a move was convenient for both armies. Wakefield’s division was the southernmost unit of First Army and now would hold the northern flank of the Third. Wakefield had actually protested the move when it had first been proposed, but it was clear that Patton needed reinforcements if he was going to reduce Metz. Old Blood and Guts had been surprisingly enthusiastic about bringing Wakefield back, though Wakefield knew that the final decision had been made by Omar Bradley as commanding general of the Twelfth Army Group.
Now, Wakefield and Patton were stuck with each other, again. Maybe it would go as well this time as it did the last. He could hope. The general indicated his S-3, the staff operations officer.
“Colonel Clark will fill you in on the rest of the details.” Stepping to the side, Wakefield tried to suppress his emotions. He had learned that Hodges was a good man, careful and precise, one who cared about his troops. Of course, the Nineteenth Division’s casualties had not been among the worst suffered by the army, since half the division--Combat Command A--had spent most of the time in rest and refurbishment. Wakefield knew that in Aachen, much of First Army had faced a bloodbath, and that was despite the general’s care and concern for the welfare of his men.
Now, they were back under the firebrand, Patton. Perhaps the most surprising thing of all was that tank general’s first words when he’d spoken to the Nineteenth CO. Patton had asked about Jimmy Pulaski by name and called him a “good man.” This about the colonel who had led his unit into Third Army’s biggest setback. Well, Patton was always a bit capricious, but for once he recognized when a man had done his best and gotten chewed up for reasons that weren’t his fault. Too bad Pulaski hadn’t heard it... or believed it.
Wakefield stole a surreptitious look at Pulaski as the wiry Clark spoke from the podium. Pulaski’s eyes had blinked at the news, but then his empty face covered up everything else once again. Wakefield’s fists closed. He felt frustrated, unable to do anything except make Pulaski get back up on the horse and pray that the man could ride.
“It seems that the Third needs our help to encircle and capture Metz,” Clark declared, unrolling the big map against the wall. “Combat Command B, under Colonel Jackson, will lead the way. Combat Command A will be in ready reserve.”
Pulaski was impassive but paid attention.
Clark went over the plan. He outlined a small bridgehead on the east bank of the Moselle River, where the 104th Infantry Division had established a perimeter but was unable to advance. “We’re going to bust up this valley, here--more of a ravine, actually. Here, here, and here the Krauts have pillboxes. They’ll be plastered by the air force, but it’s going to be your job to clean them out. Once you do, this is good road here, all the way to the east side of Metz. And that’s where you’re to link up with the Fourth Armored, who’re already coming up from the south.”
The staff officer went on to calmly outline the scheduled air support, as well as the traffic patterns that would get the division’s components smoothly over the lone bridge. He turned to Pulaski as he got specific. “Jimmy, your boys will wait here, around this town just north of the crossing. You’ll have to be ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Bob, you’ll take CCB over the river at first light and draw up in these fields. You’ll be sheltered from the Kraut artillery spotters, at least until you start moving up the ravine.”
“Damn, that looks like a meat grinder down there,” one man said.
“Yes, it is,” Wakefield intervened with a grim smile. “But since we’re talking about our meat, let’s see that it’s the Krauts who get ground.”
578 Squadron Base, Wendling, Norfolk, England
Staff Sgt. Frank “Digger” O’Dell
Wendling, Norfolk, England
November 7, 1944
Mrs. Lucy O’Dell
Roxboro, North Carolina
Dear Mama,
Well, Russ’s Ruffians have got ourselves a new airplane, and maybe even a chance to get home, but we’ve got some extra raids to go on first.
You’ve read in the newspapers about how lots of flight crews name their airplanes and usually paint Petty Girls on the nose and all. Well, we never could come up with a good name for our old airplane, so it was just P-Bar, because there was a big P with a bar over it in a big white circle on the tail, like it was a cattle brand or something.
This airplane has a name and some nose art already, but it’s not a Petty Girl or anything. It’s got a drawing of an old colored man driving a Model T Ford, and the name of the plane is Ford’s Folly. Although Consolidated Aircraft designed the B-24, they didn’t have enough factories to build all that we needed, so Ford Motor Company started building them as well. This plane is part of history because it’s the first B-24 “H” model built by Ford, and that’s why it’s called Ford’s Folly. Here’s a picture of it.
There’s something else special about it, and that’s why we’re all real happy with Lieutenant Russ for getting it. Ford’s Folly has more raids on it than any other American bomber in the whole Army Air Force. Seventy-nine raids. That’s an awful lot. And, if we can bring it up to a hundred raids, we’ll get to bring the airplane back to the United States and go on a War Bond tour and maybe even to Hollywood, just like the Memphi
s Belle, which was the first American airplane to last twenty-five raids, even if it was a B:17.
But we’ve got to put twenty-one raids on the plane first, and right now, it’s in no shape to fly. We got the airplane assigned to us on a Saturday. On Sunday morning, we went out and swung the compass and calibrated the instruments and a few things like that. Monday we checked out the guns and the turrets, and Tuesday and Wednesday we took it up to fly it a bit to find out all the things that were wrong, and the rest of the week was spent fixing it up.
Our first raid in Ford’s Folly was to a town called Karlsruhe on the Rhine River. There was a railroad bridge across the river that was still intact, and the Germans were funneling materiel and men across the railroad bridge to fight off Patton, who was on a line between Nancy and Metz in France. We had strict orders not to hit the bridge; we were supposed to hit the marshaling yard (where the Germans get everything lined up and organized so they can send it out) only. On this particular raid, we got to fly deputy lead.
Our job was to synchronize on the lead bomber when the bombs were dropped. The lead and the deputy lead also carry smoke bombs, so when we drop them, it marks the spot where we want the other bombs to fall, so when the other airplanes pull up even with the smoke, the bombardiers would hit a toggle switch and drop their bombs on the smoke.
It’s a strange thing being part of a large raid. Normally your own airplane is so loud you can’t hear anything else, maybe a little shouting from the crew. When the raid is over, it takes a while for you to hear normally. But when the raid is large enough, you can hear the noise from the thousands of planes cutting through the noise of your own plane, plus the sound of ack-ack and machine gun fire, and the whine of enemy fighters, not that there have been many of those lately.
Fox On The Rhine Page 35
