She stopped when she saw the door was ajar. She walked slowly, wondering if burglars were inside and she should start running down the stairs, when Monique popped her head out. “Your turn,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “Tell them the truth. Tell them everything you know.” With that, she turned and began walking down the stairs, sobbing loudly and dramatically.
Jessica entered her apartment. Two army majors stood and introduced themselves as members of the OPMG, the Office of the Provost Marshal General. In short, they were cops. The taller introduced himself as Major Harmon and the shorter officer with dark curly hair was Major Pierce. The OPMG had checked her background before letting her join the Red Cross, which she’d thought was a ridiculous waste of time and effort.
Jessica sat down. After all, it was her apartment. “I assume you’re here about Monique’s friend.”
Harmon answered. He appeared to be the leader. “Sergeant Doyle, yes.”
She smiled. “It’s Boyle, major.”
Annoyed, the taller officer corrected something on his notes. “What do you know about Boyle, Miss Granville?”
“Very little. Monique met him when we were all stationed at Rennes. He works in supply and that’s about all I know about him. I did not socialize with him. He is, was, Monique’s friend.”
“Did he ever bring around any presents?” Pierce asked.
She shrugged. “Flowers, food, chocolates, some wine, and some cognac are all I can remember.”
Pierce persisted. “I mean anything truly expensive?”
Jessica laughed. “Look around. Do you see anything remotely expensive?”
Harmon smiled. “Good point. By the way, is Boyle paying for this place?”
“No, I am. I’m also quite sure you’re aware that my father is a lawyer, and that my uncle is on Ike’s staff.”
“Actually, he’s on Beetle Smith’s staff,” Harmon said, “which may be a distinction without a difference, and yes, we do know about your family. Our asking you these questions is just a formality. But we do have to cover all our bases.”
“Gentlemen, what concerns me is the level of interest you’re showing. Boyle told Monique that he was under suspicion of stealing something, but we both thought it was relatively petty. I’m beginning to think we were mistaken.”
Harmon took a deep breath. “Look, just about everyone in supply takes something and it’s generally used to make their lives more comfortable, rather than trying to make a huge profit.”
“Yeah,” Pierce said, “for instance, you’d be shocked, simply shocked, at how many bottles of liquor destined for officers’ clubs go missing, or how many sides of beef run off like they still had hooves, but, you’re right, this is different. Ever hear of penicillin?”
“A little. It’s supposed to be a wonder drug that kills almost all infections. It’s supposed to be saving a lot of lives of wounded soldiers.” Realization dawned. “Oh God.”
“That’s right,” Harmon said. “It’s extremely valuable and extremely expensive. Significant quantities of it have disappeared and Boyle’s involved. And a suitcase full of it could be worth many thousands of dollars, unlike a case of whisky or a side of beef.”
“Even worse,” Pierce added, “every little bit missing means some wounded GI isn’t the getting help he needs to recover from his wounds.”
Jessica shook her head sadly. Boyle had seemed like a nice guy. “What’s Monique’s involvement?”
Pierce answered. “We can’t prove she knew anything and, like you, she doesn’t appear to have profited. In short, she’s in the clear until proven otherwise. So are you for that matter, although I sincerely doubted you were ever involved.”
“Thank you, I guess. And Boyle?”
“He’s disappeared,” said Major Harmon, standing to go. “He’s joined a growing number of deserters who feel they can hide out in the chaos surrounding the war.”
Pierce glared. “And God have mercy on them when we find them, because we’ll hang them.”
***
General George Catlett Marshall fumed quietly. Had the late General Leslie McNair been the problem or the solution? They’d had heated arguments over the proper use of armor on the battlefield and what type of tanks should be built. There would be no more arguments. McNair was dead, the victim of friendly fire on the beaches of Normandy just a couple of months earlier. That Leslie McNair had been a good an honorable man was without question. But had he convinced the army to make a bad decision? Hindsight always provided a hell of a view and Marshall decided to leave it at that.
Pre-war army doctrine had said that tanks did not fight other tanks. That job was left to the so-called tank destroyers, which were light and quick and designed to wait for enemy armor to attack them. Tanks supported infantry, or smashed like cavalry into the rear of an opponent’s army and destroyed their supplies and communications. That, of course, was dogma before the Germans and their blitzkrieg attacks and their rapidly moving and well-armored tank columns.
With significant influence from the late General McNair, the decision had been made to go with the M4 Sherman as America’s main battle tank, and let M10 tank destroyers fight the Nazi armor. It hadn’t worked out that way, and now U.S. armor was being cut to pieces by German tanks, while the open topped and lightly armored tank destroyers accomplished relatively little. The men were brave, but their weapons were inadequate, and that was intolerable to Marshall.
Marshall looked across the table at Eisenhower. He had flown into Paris from Washington that morning. Marshall was tired and looked it.
“Bradley feels the answer is the M26, the Pershing,” Ike said and Bradley nodded. “Patton agrees to a point but says it doesn’t matter since we’ll never get the Pershing in sufficient numbers to make a difference. Therefore, Patton wants more and more Shermans and plans to overwhelm the Nazis with numbers and speed.”
The decision to go with the Sherman had come because it could be built relatively cheaply and transported across the ocean both economically and in great numbers. It also was better than anything either the Germans, or the Russians for that matter, had at the time. Now, the Sherman was outclassed by the main battle tanks of either Germany or Russia. The Pershing, with its 90mm gun would solve a lot of those problems.
Bradley continued. “Patton discounts the fact that we are taking large casualties with the Sherman. He says that’s a cost of war and, to a point, he’s right. If the Sherman is the best we have and the best we’re going to have, then there’s little else we can do except follow Patton’s plans to overwhelm the Germans.”
Patton wasn’t present. His massive Third Army was to the south and Marshall would visit him in person. By the end of this year, forty-thousand Shermans would have been built, with the vast majority of them coming to Europe, and France in particular. With the war in Italy at the stalemate stage, and armor unsuited to the mountains, additional tanks were being shipped from that country to France.
However, the Germans appeared to be doing the same thing. According to Ultra estimates, only about five thousand Panthers had been built to date and most had been sent east to fight the Russians. But now, if the Russians were indeed pulling out of the war for however long, the German tanks would be moving west to aid German armies as they slowly retreated towards the Rhine. The same held true for the even larger German Tiger and King Tiger tanks, which dwarfed and outgunned the best the U.S. had or would have, even if the Pershing came into action. Thankfully, there were relatively few Tigers and even fewer King Tigers. Even the Russians, first with their T34 and then with their KV and Stalin tanks, had larger and better weapons systems than the U.S.
“Ike, I take it you don’t agree with Patton.”
“I don’t like the idea of wasting lives. We have to have something better. The Sherman is now a second tier weapon,” Ike answered. “We need the Pershings. They can stand up to just about anything the Germans have, or the Russians for that matter.”
Marshall shook his head.
“I agree with you, but I can’t flip a switch and change over from one tank to another. We’re already making some Pershings, just not a large number of them. I’ve been told there’ll be a dozen or so by the end of the year.”
Ike laughed harshly. “A dozen? Good God, that’s not even a drop in the bucket. We’ll need hundreds, thousands, if we’re to take on the Germans.” Ike lit another cigarette and grinned. “Kick some butt, General. Push the manufacturers hard. Winter’s coming which should slow things down for a while, but when spring comes we’ll need the Pershing’s 90mm gun if our boys aren’t going to get slaughtered. A Panther is worth at least five Shermans. If we maintain that ratio we’ll wipe out the Panthers, but also our armored divisions.”
“What does Patton say about that?” Marshall asked.
“He agrees with the casualty numbers. He just doesn’t think there’s an alternative. Like I said, he doesn’t see enough Pershings arriving soon enough to make a difference, and a dozen sure as hell isn’t going to make any difference at all.”
Marshall stood and looked at Bradley. “Okay. Brad, I’ll make you a deal. You will get no significant increases in the numbers of Shermans, only replacements for losses. Any increases will go to Patton. In the meantime, I will do my best to accelerate production of the new tank and every one of them will go to you.”
“Agreed,” said Bradley.
“Any questions?” Marshall asked.
“Just one,” said Ike. “What the hell are the Russians up to?”
***
Half a world away, Franklin Delano Roosevelt angrily snuffed out his cigarette into an ashtray emblazoned with the symbol of the White House. The ashtrays had a habit of disappearing each time he had a first-time visitor. He wondered how many were proudly displayed in somebody’s library or living room, even those of the handful of annoying nonsmokers.
FDR and the others were in the map room, a place he loved to visit and take in the war’s latest events. The walls were covered with maps of all the war’s theaters, and colored tabs and pins showed him at a glance the makeup and location of all the combatants. Thanks to code-breaking successes, virtually all the German units were correctly placed. It caused some concern as it appeared that the Germans were repositioning their forces.
Not quite as much was known about the Japanese since what remained of their navy could pick up and move at any time while maintaining radio silence. Nor was it difficult to hide a fleet, as the United States had learned to its dismay on December 7, 1941, when the Japanese navy, thought to be safe in the Home Islands, emerged out of the cold Pacific and attacked Pearl Harbor. The Japanese army was fairly immobile with many of her garrisons bypassed and those scheduled to be attacked unable to be reinforced. The large Japanese army in China posed no threat and was of no immediate concern.
There was some information on the Soviet side thanks to breakthroughs by the army’s Signals Intelligence Headquarters at the nearby former girls school called Arlington Hall. It was a point of concern for Secretary of State Cordell Hull who felt that spying on the Soviets was a violation of the U.S. agreement with them. It was noted by this day’s attendees in the Map Room that Hull, ill and soon to be replaced, was not present. Dean Acheson represented State, while OSS head Bill Donovan, and Secretary of War Henry Stimson rounded out the small group.
To a man they wished General Marshall was present, but he was still in Europe.
FDR’s righteous anger flared again. “Do not for one moment even think of telling me that Joe Stalin is going to renege on his agreements. I looked in the face of that man when we met at Tehran last year and he assured me that he would be in the fight to the finish and that he would not even consider a separate peace. I believed him then and I’ve seen no reason to change my mind. We can trust Joe Stalin and don’t forget it.”
Donovan stood his ground. “Then please consider what has happened. If we take Stalin’s statement that his army needs a rest at face value, then why are the Germans moving large portions of their Eastern Front armies to France? A rest and refit might last a month or two, but this has all the earmarks of a major pullback; thus, a big change in overall strategy, which has to reflect a change in the relations between Germany and Russia. It’s as if the Nazis know that the commies aren’t going to attack for a very long time and not just for a month or two. Otherwise there’s no reason for them to strip their armies of so much strength.”
“He gave me his word,” Roosevelt said stubbornly.
Acheson took his turn. “Stalin is a murdering monster. He’s slaughtered millions of his own people and enslaved millions more. His word is as trustworthy as that of a gangster, an Al Capone.”
“Stalin is an ally,” added FDR as if that said it all. “But what then are the Soviets doing?” he asked, suddenly reasonable.
The others looked at each other. The army’s code-breaking efforts were providing them with some diplomatic information, but they knew very little about the Russian military.
“We have no OSS agents in the Soviet Union,” Donovan admitted.
“Our embassy in Moscow might as well be on the moon,” Acheson said. “Our personnel are followed everywhere and only allowed to go to certain areas, and see what the Soviets wish us to see, and talk to people with whom they wish us to speak, all of whom are spies. Russia is as much a closed society as is Japan.”
“Even so, there’s nothing on the Russian side to indicate perfidy, is there?” FDR said smugly.
“Nothing concrete,” Acheson admitted. “But the embassy is still picking up rumors of vast troop movements headed towards the Urals and Siberia.”
Roosevelt laughed hugely and slapped his large hand on the table. “And that, gentlemen, makes no fucking sense whatsoever. They do not have an enemy in Siberia, and what would they do with an army in that frosted land in the winter?”
It was Stimson’s turn. “German military intelligence also indicates that the Reds are pulling out.”
“Rumors, counterrumors, and rumors of rumors,” FDR said, practically sneering. “Gentlemen, please, do not bother me with bogey men and monsters under the bed.”
He lit another cigarette and took a long, slow, drag. It seemed to calm him down. “Gentlemen, I respect your opinions and I even permit the possibility that you might be right, however much I doubt it. In fact, I doubt it so strongly that I want no further discussions of the possibility of Russian treachery to take place with me. Continue to gather data, of course, but do not bother me without concrete facts, which I am confident you will not find.”
He coughed and laid the cigarette and its long holder in the ashtray. “There is, of course another reason for keeping the lid on these wild rumors. In just under two weeks we will have the election and I will either be President for a fourth term or tossed out on my can and Tom Dewey will be voted in for his first term. Now, this Dewey person is an excellent governor of New York and might make a fine President under other circumstances, but not right now. We need continuity in the White House. A ship does not change captains in mid-course.”
He looked around and they all nodded. FDR’s decision to run for a third term in 1940 had provoked enormous controversy. No President had held the office for more than two terms, following an implied guideline established by George Washington. His decision to run for a fourth term, whatever the circumstances and the rationale, had upset a large part of the nation who were beginning to think that Roosevelt was establishing a dictatorship of his own. Many voters were thinking continuity be damned-it was time for a change. Similar winds were blowing in England where it was felt that Churchill’s skills as a war leader were no longer needed, and that he should be replaced by someone who knew how to rebuild the shattered British Empire.
Republican Tom Dewey was a formidable opponent, which truly concerned Roosevelt. If it should get out that the alliance between the U.S. and the Soviet Union forged only a few years earlier was falling apart, it would strongly imply that FDR was no longer in control of the internat
ional situation. While photographs still did not show him in a wheelchair, no one who saw his picture in the newspapers or in newsreels could deny that he was a frail and sickly man. An openly discussed question was whether he would even be still living four years from now. Thus, failure with Russia would indicate a need for a new hand at the helm. The others nodded. They would keep the possibility of a problem with Stalin quiet for a couple of weeks.
Unsaid was the fact that Henry Wallace would no longer be Vice President after the elections. Politically, he leaned too far left for the comfort of the men in the room. If FDR won, the new Vice President would be the senator from Missouri, Harry Truman. Nobody knew much about him except that he’d served honorably in World War I and wasn’t a communist.
Roosevelt smiled his famous smile. “Wonderful. Now, let’s do something constructive about this. Mr. Acheson, you will have our Moscow people find out all they can without, of course, endangering themselves or their sources. Mr. Byrnes, you will meet with Mr. Gromyko again and push him to let us know a precise date when the Russian offensive will start up, while I will send a letter to ‘Uncle Joe’ essentially asking the same thing.”
He leaned forward, more confident now. “And you, Mr. Donovan, will try to infiltrate the Soviet Union, or at least focus more on what they are doing.”
“That would take years,” Donovan said ruefully. “Realistically, Mr. President, we should be working with sympathetic Germans to find out what they are observing regarding Russian moves, and develop sources who might know of secret German-Russian agreements. What I can and will do regarding the Soviets is send teams into Poland to observe.”
Roosevelt thought for a moment. “Very well,” he said thoughtfully and then beamed. “Martinis?”
CHAPTER 14
Himmler's war Page 22
