Galland's black eyes shifted to him in amusement; it would be interesting to see how Josten handled this.
"About expanding production, yes, my Fuehrer. And about creating a system of factories. But I think the important thing is the types of aircraft we build."
"What do you think of this so-called jet fighter?"
"It is essential. If we don't get it, our Messerschmitts are going to be as obsolete as the Swordfish."
"I agree with you in part. The problem is the time and resources the technical development for a weapon like this takes. In 1939, at Rechlin, I was shown a half dozen aircraft that were going to revolutionize warfare. It is now 1942 and not one of them has been in action. What makes you think the jet fighter will be different?"
"It won't be any different unless we manage it correctly. As you know, Colonel Hafner has set up a team to expedite the introduction of the Me 262. This team should have top priority over everything."
A weary smile passed over Hitler's face. "Yes, the tank men tell me about the Russian tanks, and say they need top priority to counter the T-34. Admiral Doenitz comes in and dances on my chest until he gets top priority for the submarines. And now Speer, who wants top priority for everything."
In his mesmerizing basso, Galland spoke with a quiet urgency. "You won't have tanks or submarines if we lose control of the skies over Germany. They will bomb us into oblivion."
Hitler registered no emotion at Galland's remark. "What is the one major technical problem that we have to overcome with the Me 262?"
With a movement of his bushy eyebrows, Galland signaled Josten to be quiet and said, "The engines, of course, mein Fuehrer. They are designed to operate at much higher temperatures than piston engines do. We still have to find the correct alloys for the turbine blades."
"Agreed," Hitler snapped. "And that is precisely the problem. The jet engines require large quantities of chromium and high-grade nickel. We don't have it. Yet. When we finish with Russia, things will be different. And we can defeat Russia with our present aircraft. Can't we, Josten?"
"Russia, perhaps, but not England and Russia. And if we don't finish Russia soon, before the United States gets mobilized, England will become a huge, unsinkable aircraft carrier."
"You know what Goering tells me about the American airplanes, don't you?"
"That the Americans can build cars and razor blades—" Hitler interrupted, "No, not that old story. No, now he tells me that it is good that they are building four-engine aircraft, because when we shoot them down, it means twice as great a loss. Do you believe that?"
Galland could not restrain himself. "Sir, may I answer that? You know that the American aviation publications keep no secrets. We would shoot anyone who gave away information as they do. The Americans are continually improving the B-17s—if they come in large numbers they will be very difficult to bring down with our existing equipment."
Hitler seemed excited now, his eyes acquiring a fierce glow, expanding even as his voice did. "Exactly. I've been calling for thirty-millimeter cannon for our aircraft for years, and not one has it. At least the 262 is supposed to get them. Now I want fifty-millimeter cannon installed, and all I hear from the Luftwaffe technical staff is that it can't be done."
"The pilots would be satisfied with the thirty-millimeter, sir. We—"
Hitler stood up suddenly and put his hand out. The gesture seemed curiously constrained; he offered his hand, yet the crank of his arm told how reluctant he was to have it accepted.
"Thank you and congratulations again. I've learned a great deal from you." They saluted and Von Below led them to their rooms in a bunker half sunk in the ground, chill and dank in the cold East Prussian night.
"What do you think, Josty?"
Josten waited to reply, to make sure that the boyish enthusiasm he felt was not too evident. After a moment he said, "He is undeniably brilliant, and he knows what he's talking about. I have to say he inspired me."
As Josten spoke, Galland moved carefully around the room, checking it for microphones, his hand pressed to his lips. Then he reached over and turned on the battered record player which a former occupant of the room had left behind. The only record was a scratched one, of Furtwangler conducting the Berlin Philharmonic in the overture to Fidelio. As the record groaned, Galland signaled Josten to speak.
Galland whispered back. "You're easy, Josten. Yet there's something to what you say. I've met him several times before, but never like this. It gives me something to think about." He paused, then added, "Just like your friendship with Hafner does."
Josten raised his voice defensively. "What is there to think about? He is an old comrade."
"He's a dangerous man, Josty. Be careful."
Josten paused before he replied. "Dolfo, if you and Hafner combine forces, we'll get the 262 next year. He already has enormous power, plus backing at the very top. But he needs your approval, your imprimatur, for the 262. Will you work with him?"
"Now that you've asked, point-blank, I'll tell you. I'm reluctant to work closely with him as a matter of principle. He siphons off something from every deal, just like all the top Nazis, Hitler included."
Josten was troubled, almost insulted. How could he say this about the man they'd just left? "Hitler? Goering perhaps, but not Hitler. He lives very simply."
The concern about microphones had one advantage; in speaking softly, Galland also spoke slowly and distinctly.
"Don't fool yourself. He's become the wealthiest man in Germany, from the sales of Mein Kampf, from his royalty on stamps—and they all have his portrait now—from gifts, who knows what all. But I can excuse Hitler and Goering; they are certifiable. But not Hafner; he is a soldier, or he was one. For him to steal from his fellow soldiers is truly criminal."
Galland turned and went to his cubicle. Josten fingered his new "tin necktie." Every German service man dreamed of winning the Knight's Cross; it was the ultimate reward, respected by all, soldiers and civilians alike. With it you could go to the head of any line, get reservations in any restaurant, and rarely have to pay. Even the enemy knew what it meant. Yet after talking to Galland, it didn't seem significant anymore.
The Japanese were unstoppable in the Pacific. President Franklin Roosevelt decided to intervene personally in the tactical conduct of the war, to create a victory as a sop to American morale. Germany was still the main target, but he demanded a reprisal air raid on Tokyo.
On the surface, it seemed impossible. The pitifully few U.S. carriers could not be risked close to Japan, nor were there any bases from which the longer-ranged Army Air Forces bombers could attack.
Yet, by chance, the answer to Roosevelt's demands had already been realized. On January 20, 1942, six weeks after Pearl Harbor, Captain Francis S. Low had suggested to Admiral Ernest J. King, chief of naval operations, that Army medium bombers launched from a Navy carrier could bomb Tokyo. It was unheard of, but the aggressive King liked the concept, and sent Low to ask General Henry Arnold's opinion. Arnold concurred, calling Henry Caldwell in to confer. The meeting was simple. Arnold outlined the problem and Caldwell said, "There's only one man for the operation—Jimmy Doolittle. I'll back him up with some good help, but Jimmy's your man." After the meeting, Caldwell called Jim Lee on the phone and detailed him as Doolittle's right-hand man.
Despite the urgent need for materiel everywhere—warships, aircraft, men, equipment—a task force was created for this symbolic strike at the Japanese heartland. King saw to it that the Navy made the carrier and escorts available and, with Caldwell's backing, Lee saw to it that Doolittle had everything he needed. It was a tremendous learning experience for everyone—and one of the things Lee learned was that he had a talent for management.
As so often in the past, Caldwell had picked exactly the right men for the job. The diminutive Doolittle was world-famed for his record-setting flying. The public was less aware that he was a scientist and a manager of extraordinary capability. His first task was to select the aircraft to be used
. The choice was simple, for only one bomber existed that had both the range and would fit on the deck of the carrier—the North American B-25. It was called the "Mitchell," for the court-martialed general who had so long ago preached the vulnerability of warships to airplanes and predicted a Sunday morning attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor.
Doolittle, given carte blanche, sent Lee to the depot in Sacramento to supervise the aircraft modifications. In the meantime, Doolittle worked out the tactics and logistics, trained the pilots and crew members, and had the entire task force on the docks in Alameda, California, ready to sail on the new U.S.S. Hornet's first wartime sortie. To Lee's intense disappointment, Doolittle didn't select him for a crew position. To Doolittle it was a simple decision—Lee didn't have enough multi-engine flying time. Lee took the rebuff quietly, making up his mind to check out in every damn airplane at Wright Field.
On April 18, 1942, Doolittle delivered the blow Roosevelt had called for, one that affected the war only imperceptibly but foretold its end perfectly.
Characteristically, Doolittle had been the first man off the Hornet's deck. No one before had ever taken off from a carrier in a heavily laden bomber the size of the B-25. There had been only 467 feet of deck between the plane and the ocean. Two white lines, one for the nose wheel and one for the left wheel, were painted as guides down the rolling, pitching deck. If the pilot stayed on the lines the right wing would miss the carrier's island by six feet. Doolittle had made it look easy. The other pilots had followed with confidence.
Each of the sixteen B-25s was carrying three five-hundred-pound demolition bombs and a single special five-hundred-pound canister of incendiaries. Sixteen planes, each with a ton of bombs, was not much of a force compared to Pearl Harbor—yet it made the Japanese blink. And much later, when Caldwell had Jim Lee compile the intelligence summaries on the raid, their planning was reinforced. The country needed the long-range B-29 if it were ever to defeat Japan.
*
Wright Field/July 18, 1942
Bandfield stood at the window, watching the flight line at Wright Field. When he'd been there the first time, in 1933, there had only been a handful of biplanes scattered about. Now there were more than a hundred airplanes on the ramp, everything from Ryan trainers to the huge Douglas XB-19. With a 212-foot wingspan, it was the biggest airplane in the world—and already hopelessly obsolete.
Bandfield followed Hadley Roget into the conference room and Roget nodded to the group of officers sitting around the table, muttering, "I only know a few of these guys. They're pretty big wheels to be lumped in one meeting."
"They head up all the major supply and logistic divisions at Wright and Patterson fields."
Roget, always irritable, moaned, "Well, what does Caldwell want? I've got more to do than stand around jawing with you."
"I'm not sure, but he's only called in you, me, Jim Lee, and the division heads."
Lee, recognized as Caldwell's fair-haired lad since the Tokyo raid, was sitting quietly in the corner, exhausted from his self-imposed schedule. Still furious with himself because Doolittle hadn't selected him, he'd spent the intervening months flying everything he could get his hands on, from PT-17s to B-24s.
At the same time, he knew his non-selection had been fortunate. None of the sixteen airplanes on the Tokyo raid had made it to their planned safe havens; only fourteen of the crews had survived. Jimmy Doolittle came home expecting to be court-martialed for what he considered a failure—instead he'd been given the Medal of Honor and was made a brigadier general.
The door flew open and a grim-faced Caldwell stormed in, both arms clasped around a bulging leather briefcase. Around the table the officers made halfhearted attempts at coming to attention, the mixture of movements that said, "We know what we're supposed to do, but we know you don't go for that stuff."
"At ease, gentlemen, as if you weren't already. I'm sorry to interrupt your schedule, but I want to make sure you understand my message today. Let me go through my list, then we'll have questions later."
Caldwell picked through his briefcase and picked out four manila folders, each one crammed with the crumpled onionskin carbons that poured out of headquarters and sheets of yellow foolscap with his cramped writing scrawled all over.
Looking around, Caldwell said, "Gentlemen, I've called you here to impress one thing upon you. The only way we can win this war is with the best technology. The Germans are smart—we've got to be smarter. For that reason the top priorities for the United States Army Air Forces are the following four projects."
He paused, making sure he had their attention, and went on. "First, the Boeing B-29. The program is just beginning to develop, but it takes precedence over everything, even the other priority programs. I'm going to be the point man, but you are the people who will make it happen.
"Second, the long-range fighter program. We've got to have a fighter that can go all the way to Berlin and back. Don't rule anything out—refueling, towing, parasite fighters, anything—because we won't be able to live in the air over Germany without them. Bandy, I want you to concentrate on this, especially on developing bigger external tanks. Right now I think the best solution is to put a Merlin engine in the McNaughton Sidewinder, and hang some big tanks on it."
Eyebrows lifted all around the room. McNaughton's contribution to the war effort had been marginal so far—more bad technology than high technology.
"Third, Hadley Roger's 'Operation Leapfrog.' We've got to come up with something special. We're getting back reports that the Germans have already flown at least two different types of jet fighters."
There were surprised exclamations; these men were veterans and knew that it took years—decades sometimes—to develop a conventional engine, much less anything radical.
"And last, aircraft for Russia. We're going to send them as many P-40s and McNaughton Sidewinders as we can; Arnold is willing to waive all deliveries on Sidewinders to the USAAF, and send them all to Russia."
He looked up expectantly and asked, "Any questions?"
The lowest ranking man in the room, the just promoted Jim Lee, was the first to speak.
"General, how come we're sticking with McNaughton? I saw Bandfield here get shot down in one by a slant-eye in a Jap Piper Cub over in Hawaii."
"The McNaughton is a good plane—"
"Come on, General, you know as well as I do that the McNaughton is a big disappointment." Lee paused during the stunned silence and said, "Forgive my speaking out, but you didn't make general by being quiet, did you?"
Caldwell knew that stupid familiarity like this was the price for seeking out individualists—and for not pulling rank. He took a moment to control himself, then said, "No, Captain, but that's how I made major."
The group burst into laughter, relieved to have the situation resolved with the general coming out on top. Caldwell looked at Lee for a few seconds, realizing that his work was cut out for him.
"Stick around after this meeting, Captain Lee. I've got a little additional instruction for you." The officers around the table nudged each other and winked; nobody liked a smart-ass and Lee was going to get his. Yet most felt that he was right—Caldwell's support for McNaughton was unusual.
"Any serious questions?"
Roget put up his hand. "Yes, General, can you tell us what the source of your information is on the new German engine? Or at least, how reliable you think it is?"
Caldwell thought of Lyra and suppressed a smile. "Hadley, take it from me that it's a very reliable source."
He entertained a little more discussion, then dismissed them, motioning Lee to wait. Bandfield asked if he could wait outside and see him after he was finished with Lee. Surprised and somewhat annoyed, Caldwell agreed.
When the door was shut, Caldwell said quietly, "Captain Lee, you were out of line. You did a terrific job working with Doolittle, and I know you were disappointed that you didn't fly the mission. But it's not becoming for you to behave like that. And it's insulting to me."
&nb
sp; Lee automatically came to rigid attention.
Caldwell went on. "At ease. I'm as concerned as you are about McNaughton's performance. And I think you are the man who can help. The Sidewinder has some problems, just like any other new plane."
Lee shifted uncomfortably, feeling that he was being set up.
"In about six months I'm going to need you to go to Seattle to ramrod the B-29 program. That's how much I think of you—how much I value what you did in preparing for the Tokyo raid. In the meantime, I'm getting you an assignment to the 67th Fighter Squadron in the South Pacific. It's reequipping with Sidewinders, using airplanes that the British ordered and turned back. You're just the guy to figure out how to improve them."
Lee saw immediately what Caldwell was doing. It was classic service discipline: give somebody who makes a criticism the task of correcting the problem. And perhaps there was more. Caldwell was giving him a flick of the whip, getting him prepared for the future. Well—okay. Flying even the McNaughton in combat was better than pushing papers at Wright Field.
"That's great, General. I appreciate the challenge. I'll do my best."
"You're dismissed. Send Major Bandfield in, please."
Bandfield came in and asked, "Can we talk off the record—as friends?"
Caldwell nodded, pointed to a chair, and dug in his desk for a bottle of Old Crow and two glasses.
"What can I do for you, Bandy?"
"I'm trying to do something for you. It would be the biggest mistake of the war to put Merlin engines in the Sidewinder; it's throwing good money after bad. The engines ought to go in the P-51."
"I think you're wrong." Caldwell's voice had gone up a notch, the veins in his neck were thickening, and a rosy hue suffused his face, all signs of losing control of his temper.
"There's something else, too." Bandfield was hesitant. They'd been friends a long time, but this was pretty delicate.
"It's how people perceive it, Henry. Everybody knows the Mustang is a superior plane. The P-51 program is going to need all the Merlin engines Packard can produce. If you send Merlins to McNaughton, the only conclusion people will draw is that you're favoring them."
Eagles at War Page 15
