This lull in the East gave Rommel top priority for new units, and he had made use of every ounce of influence he still possessed with the Führer and OKW to get new forces, particularly armor and air units, for France. His only competition was Kesselring, who was constantly screaming for reinforcements to deal with Italian duplicity, which Rommel could appreciate, given his own long experience with the Italians, but that was defensive and Rommel wanted to take the offensive. He had a concept that was audacious enough to appeal to Hitler’s gambler’s instinct, and to bring it off he needed not only tanks but fighters to keep the British and American air forces off their backs for a few crucial days. The traditional heavy overcast of March would be ideal for what he had in mind, and if his meteorologists were right, there would be a record low rainfall that year, which might not be good for the farmers, but it would give his armor added maneuverability.
Rommel was fairly confident by this time that he had already won the race with the Allies. Even if they suddenly regained the initiative, his defenses were in place and would channel them just where he wanted them to go. The only thing he could still pray for was that they would open a new front somewhere else, somewhere other than France, that would draw off their resources and prevent them from quickly making good the losses he planned to inflict on them. Most importantly, if they would commit the several corps’ worth of British troops concentrated in England and their amphibious capacity, he would have a free hand to divert more of his own troops from Northern France to the south. Rommel was also aware, however, that he must act soon. As soon as the spring mud dried out sufficiently in Russia, he knew that Hitler was eager to mount a new offensive on the Eastern Front, and he would then not only lack for further reinforcement but would soon begin to lose units if he could not employ them aggressively. If he could just have a free hand for a few weeks, he could still conceivably turn the war around.
1500 HOURS, 24 FEBRUARY 1943
NORTH OF MONTAUBAN, FRANCE
Lieutenant Colonel Creighton W. Abrams, now commander of CCA of the 1st Armored Division, shook his head as he passed the smoking carcasses of two Shermans and several half-tracks. Charred bodies littered the frozen ground all about them, most of them hanging from the torn and crushed grapevines that marched in straight rows across the field. The Tarn River was only ten miles behind them, and yet this was the third such ambush site he had seen. The Germans would set up their deadly 88mm or 76mm anti-tank guns in a treeline or inside a bam covering Route Nationale 20, Abrams’ avenue of advance. The infantry would be cleverly dug in and camouflaged, sometimes right in the open fields in a kind of spider hole topped with a sheet of plywood covered with dirt and with shallow escape trenches dug to the rear. They would open an intense fire, knocking out several vehicles in a matter of minutes, and be on their way to their next fighting position before artillery or airstrikes could be called up. But the column would have to deploy and send out skirmishers to comb the woods and fields before the advance could resume. No wonder their progress was so slow.
There was no explaining this to General Patton, however. The Americans had been shifted to the left flank of the Allied lodgment after the Battle of Valence. VII Corps was now along the Spanish border, V Corp was in the center, and his own I Corps was pushing north along the western edge of the Massif Central. The two new French corps covered the Massif Central itself to the Rhone Valley, with the Canadians and British on the right facing the Italians. At least I Corps had the narrow arc of the American sweep around the German flank, with VII Corps units having to cover more than double the distance, but they also met with far less resistance as the Germans seemed to have written off everything south of Bordeaux. Patton had pressed them to get across the Tarn, which the Germans had heavily fortified, and it had taken two tries before they had established bridgeheads that would hold. Meanwhile, the 1st Division had been badly bloodied in the street fighting for Montauban the previous week.
Now they were across, but they were cutting across the grain of all of France’s rivers, it seemed, with a major river crossing every thirty to forty miles. And in between, the Germans were employing these delaying tactics, inflicting casualties and buying time, then pulling back. The Americans were advancing too fast for their artillery support lo keep up with them effectively, and most of the 12th Air Force’s planes were dedicated to protecting the Mediterranean ports and hitting Luftwaffe bases from which bomber raids on Allied shipping were launched. There was also scuttlebutt that air units were being pulled back to support some kind of offensive in Italy. So Abrams’ tankers had to dig out the Germans themselves, treeline by treeline, stone farmhouse by stone farmhouse. This was going to be a very long war, he decided.
1200 HOURS, 24 FEBRUARY 1943
OVER STUTTGART, GERMANY
Lieutenant Heinrich Ladenberg slapped himself hard on both cheeks. Ordinarily, the prelude to combat might be expected to be the ultimate stimulant, but it had become all that he could do to avoid dozing off, even in the middle of a dogfight. He had flown and fought every day that weather permitted since the Allied landings in southern France, sometimes several sorties a day, and he found it amusing that even the aircraft he brought back with little or no battle damage were given more recuperation time than he was. It seemed that steel and titanium were not as durable as flesh and bone when it came to flying.
Not that Ladenberg’s situation was different from that of any other pilot in the 3rd Fighter Division, or in any sector of the Luftwaffe now. For more than a year, it had only been the flyers on the Eastern Front who had really suffered the strains of an endless stream of high priority targets, although without much in the way of competition in air to-air combat. Here in the West, Ladenberg and his colleagues had been content to wait for the radar screen, which had been extended to cover most of the western border of the Reich, to advise them of a worthwhile enemy raid to attack, purposely avoiding fighter “sweeps” by the enemy in favor of pouncing on unprotected bombers once they ventured past the range of their fighter cover. There had still been losses, of course, especially when confronting the improved tactics of the massive American bombers, the well named “Flying Fortresses,” but it had still been quite a gentleman’s war.
But that had all changed in December. Now it was the Germans who had to escort lumbering bombers right into the jaws of the enemy fighters around Marseille, and, while the American planes had originally not been very good, there had been clouds of them. Now, there were more and more of the dreaded P-51s and the twin-tailed P-38s with considerably more speed, range, and firepower than the earlier models. Ladenberg, at only twenty years of age, had missed the Battle of Britain, so this kind of duty was new to him. And that was only the half of it. The same fighter squadrons that shepherded the bombers to attack Allied ports also had to scramble to beat off the waves of American and British bombers that continued to pound the Fatherland.
The cost had been easy enough to measure. After six months of flying, Ladenberg was now squadron commander, the “old man,” leading only six planes out of what should have been a full dozen. And not even all of these were real fighters. Ladenberg and three of his men flew top-of-the-line Focke-Wulf 190s armed with two machine guns and two 20mm cannon and with speed, climb rate, and maneuverability superior to any but the latest American fighters. The other two were older Me-110s, one equipped with stand-off rockets for firing at enemy bombers from outside of their machine-gun range, the other with a new prototype “fist” device. This was a set of half a dozen 30mm cannon mounted vertically in the fuselage that would be fired in a single devastating volley when triggered by a photo-electric cell sensing the shadow cast by the enemy bomber when the Me-110 dove under it at close range. Ladenberg had little faith in the new gizmo and had made certain that the co-pilot of that particular plane paid him the forty marks he owed before going on this mission.
And they no longer had the luxury of radar warning. With half of the enemy missions now coming out of southern France and Corsica,
they simply bypassed the German radar network and most of the heaviest concentrations of flak as well, along the original routes across northern France and the Low Countries. Of course, new radar stations were cropping up, and there were still observers who could radio in reports of enemy bomber formations, which were far too large to sneak by in any case, but that left precious little time for the fighters to scramble and intercept.
The only good news for Ladenberg was that, now that the British and Americans were fighting on the ground again in Europe, their own air forces had other tasks than bombing the Reich. When the strategic bombing campaign had been the only game in town for them, they could devote every aircraft and all of their tremendous resources to it. Now they also had to fly close-support missions for the ground forces along the front, missions that were usually over with long before defensive fighters could intervene, and that was just fine with Ladenberg. Let the mud sloggers earn their pay, he believed.
That was where Ladenberg and his squadron were now. They had just reached 25,000 feet, well above the cloud cover, and he was scanning the sky to the southwest for the enemy, when his mouth dropped open and the first curses came over the radio. He had faced large enemy formations before, but now the sky was virtually tilled with the slowly growing forms of dozens upon dozens of enemy bombers, their tight Vs stacked up like pancakes, extending for miles to either side, and as far back as he could see. There would be other fighter squadrons coming in, of course, but Ladenberg knew only too well how heavy a toll his division had suffered in recent weeks, and there would never be enough to deal with this. He hauled back on his stick, and his squadron rose with him. Their only hope would be to gain altitude, launch a high-speed diving run and punch right through the enemy formation. Whether they could turn for another pass would depend upon how many of them survived to come out the other side.
He could make out the smaller specks of enemy fighters rising quickly to meet him, but his orders were to ignore them. It was the bombers he was after, and he rolled over for his dive. The forward firepower of the B-17 was too much for him, and he preferred an angle that cut across the target just behind the nose and forward of the wing, thus blocking the fire of the tail, belly and waist gunners, at least for a time. One pair of FWs and the rocket-firing Me-110 would circle around to hammer at the rear of the formation, while Ladenberg’s wing man would follow him in high, and the “fist” plane would dive under the target.
He picked up speed as he dove, pressed back into the seat as the olive drab shape of the lead bomber grew in his windscreen. He could see tiny lights winking off to his left as a P-40 tried to cut him off, but it must have been a new pilot, and the man didn’t lead him enough, his tracers passing harmlessly to his rear. At least that was what crossed Ladenberg’s mind as his own finger tightened gradually on his trigger, but he felt his aircraft shudder and realized that his wingman had exploded behind him. Had the American gotten lucky, or had that been his target all along?
Yellow fingers of fire were reaching out toward Ladenberg from the target aircraft and from several others nearby, forming an intricate spider web that it seemed impossible he could pass through unscathed. He fired, and the joy-stick jerked in his hand as he walked his own tracers onto the fuselage of the target, sending chunks of debris flying. And in an instant, he was past. He kept diving down into the clouds to shake off any pursuit, checking his rear-view mirror, and seeing no signs of any, nor of the “fist” plane either.
He pulled back up into the sunlight and strove for more altitude. He could focus now on the radio chatter, listening for any of the familiar voices of his squadron mates, but they were not there. Another unit had joined the battle, pilots calling out directions and claiming kills, punctuated by an occasional frantic call for help or a scream. Contrails crisscrossed the sky, and he watched as one B-17 slowly banked, black smoke streaming from two of its engines and bright orange flames playing along the fuselage. That one would not make it home, he thought.
Then he looked southward again, and his blood ran cold. The formation he had first seen, the one he had felt so little hope of confronting, had only been the vanguard. There must have been a thousand of the huge bombers coming on, row after row, and he could see more enemy fighters turning toward him. That was enough for one day’s work, Ladenberg thought, as he dove back into the clouds and headed for home.
0100 HOURS, 26 FEBRUARY 1943
MILAN, ITALY
Field Marshal Kesselring could hardly believe his good fortune. At first he assumed that the radio broadcasts that began early on the evening of the 19th had been some form of particularly ludicrous disinformation campaign by the Allies. It had almost immediately been confirmed by his radio intercept unit that the broadcasts were, in fact, originating with stations run by the Italian government. He had instantly informed OKH that the new Italian government had announced its withdrawal from the war, and was pleasantly surprised to receive an almost equally instantaneous authorization to launch Operation ALARIC. And the Allies had not come ashore yet. The enemy had tipped their hand before they were in a position to do anything about it, and Kesselring could deal with his two foes, one at a time.
Naturally, the defection of Italy hardly came as a total surprise, as preparations for ALARIC clearly showed. But Kesselring had been struggling for weeks between an increasing volume of intelligence information that negotiations were under way between Marshall Badoglio, King Victor Emmanuel, and other opponents of Mussolini and the Allies in Madrid, and the Führer’s reluctance to take any overt action which might actually undermine Mussolini’s waning influence in Rome. Then, Mussolini himself had been deposed and placed under house arrest, and Badoglio set up as a kind of provisional president under the king. Directives from Hitler suddenly became less conciliatory, even confrontational, demanding assurances from the Italians of their continued adherence to the Axis. The assurances had been forthcoming, but generally in such a lukewarm fashion that no one in Berlin was convinced.
This revelation had not made it any easier for Kesselring to pry reinforcements out of OKH, however. Naturally, there were other requirements at the front, in Russia and France, and provisions had to be made to replace the thirty Italian divisions stationed in Yugoslavia and Greece and others facing the Allies in the French Alps, but Kesselring’s concern was securing all of mainland Italy and Sicily with reliable German troops, possibly in the face of open hostility with the Italians. Even those troops who had been released to him were finding it increasingly difficult to enter Italian territory without obstruction from the local military authorities. Although Kesselring had a very low opinion of the fighting qualities of the Italian Army, they did have over one million men under arms and possessed hundreds of guns, tanks, and planes. He had no doubt that, in a matter of one, or at most two weeks, with additional infantry divisions from Germany, he could overwhelm the Italians, but that was assuming they would stand alone. The Germans’ greatest fear was that the Allies would launch a major invasion of Italy, somewhere along its hundreds of miles of coastline, in conjunction with a defection by the Italians. Kesselring could probably deal with each threat, but not both at once.
Given the limitations on the resources he was provided by OKH, and the sensitivity of the Italians to the arrival of more German troops on their territory, Kesselring had opted to concentrate on a relatively small number of elite troops. He had managed to obtain the 3rd Parachute Division, stationed at the Folgore Barracks near Rome, three panzer divisions, the 14th, 19th, and 24th, and two of panzer grenadiers, the 15th and the Feldherrnhalle, which he had spaced down the length of the peninsula, with his only two infantry divisions, the 305th and 334th, stiffening the Italian garrison on Sicily. Between these units and a host of independent tank, artillery, anti-aircraft, military police, and motorized infantry regiments, he could move quickly to shatter any nuclei of opposition the Italians might attempt to form, or move to counter any Allied landing. He could then leave it to the two or three infantry corps he
had been promised from Germany in the event of an Italian defection to sweep down the peninsula over highways and bridges secured by his current forces.
The bases of his troops were carefully selected, astride the main routes of communication and near key political and strategic targets such as all of Italy’s major cities, industrial centers, and military headquarters. They were well entrenched and oriented for all-around defense, with access by Italian military personnel strictly limited, while his own commanders had made a conscious effort at conducting “training exercises,” maneuvers and troops rotations that sent columns rumbling back and forth all over the country, so that no future German troop movements would attract undue attention.
Lists had been made up by the Abwehr of the key leaders of the antifascist faction in the Italian government, and these would be rounded up to face the vengeance of Mussolini when the Germans had returned him to power. SS police companies were scattered around Rome for just this contingency. And, now that Badoglio had been foolish enough to make his announcement of dropping out of the war, with no Allied troops on hand to back his play, Kesselring’s hands were free to deal with the Italians, but he would have to move fast. Aerial reconnaissance and intelligence reports had noted the departure from England of large numbers of landing craft heading for the Mediterranean, along with at least a full corps of troops, and sources in Egypt, notably from the Free Officers’ Movement headed by an Egyptian Army Captain named Gamal Abdul Nasser, had reported that most of the British 8th Army had boarded ships in Alexandria for points unknown. For the moment, however, all Kesselring had to worry about was disarming about one million hostile Italians and conquering a country about seven hundred miles long.
0400 HOURS, 26 FEBRUARY 1943
Second Front: The Allied Invasion of France, 1942–43 (An Alternative History) Page 20
