On cue the bombers appeared overhead, the roar of their engines interrupting their conversation. They’d been staged from the Wayne County Airport that was near the Michigan city of Romulus and the Willow Run facility. The men looked up eagerly as the planes continued on from the west and towards the German lines. Colored smoke flares had been ignited to show the air force just where the American lines ended.
Grant stared through his binoculars and saw the bomb bay doors open and strings of bombs start tumbling down. In short order, they impacted around the German fortifications, sending up huge debris clouds and making the ground shake.
Another wave of bombers followed the first and Tom had the feeling that the bombs were falling closer to where they were watching. When the third wave hit, he and the others were certain of it. The bombers were unloading early and the attack was creeping back to where they were watching.
“Down,” Patton screamed. Everyone hugged the earth as the explosions drew closer.
“Call off the fucking bombers,” Truscott yelled. Tom heard someone trying desperately to get through to the air force.
Bombs exploded all around them. The concussions lifted them off the ground and slammed them back down. The explosions were deafening. Tom heard screams and realized it was his voice. I don’t want to die, he kept thinking.
The bombing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Tom staggered to his feet. Patton had a cut on his cheek and his right arm hung limply. Truscott appeared dazed but unhurt. Tom checked himself. He had a bloody nose and there was a ringing in his ears.
A young lieutenant rushed up to Patton and said, “Let me get you to a hospital.”
Patton shook his head angrily. “No goddamn hospital. Get the attack going right now and just like we planned.”
Truscott grabbed Patton’s arm. “George, we just bombed our own men. Some of our boys must have been killed or wounded.”
“Don’t you think I know that? All the more reason to attack. We can’t let them die in vain. The first bombs must have damaged the kraut lines. The German shits who survived are doubtless laughing their asses off at us and won’t be expecting the rest of the army to come charging right at them.”
Grant’s head was still buzzing as he turned his binoculars to the scores of Sherman tanks heading towards the Germans. Overhead, P47s streaked in strafing and dropping their own bombs, this time accurately since they were flying lower. Patton let out a whoop and jumped into his jeep. He waited for the combat vehicles and fighters to clear the area and ordered his driver forward.
Truscott and one of his key aides found another jeep, while Tom and Bryce found another. “Why the hell did they drop short?” Tom snapped at the air force major.
Bryce grimaced. “It’s the way they’re trained. The lead bomber drops on target and the rest unload when they seem him do it. Inevitably, the bombs creep back. Since the target would be obscured by the first bombs, nobody knows a much better way of doing it and don’t suggest bombing north-south instead of east-west because that would make the bombers fly over a lot of enemy turf full of people who’d be shooting at them, and then try to hit a thin ribbon of fortifications from high altitude. Any way you look at it, most bombs are going to miss. We just should have had our troops and us farther back.”
And, Grant thought, I almost got killed because Patton and Truscott wanted to be close to the action. Worse, American troops poised to jump off and attack what they hoped would be dazed and confused Germans were now hurt and confused themselves.
They had to drive more slowly the closer they got to the German lines. It was quickly apparent that a goodly number of Germans had survived the bombing, which was another lesson. Machine gun and anti-tank fire sliced through American infantry and a number of American tanks went up in flames. Tom stopped and they jumped into a bomb crater.
“Please don’t tell me we’re going to retreat,” Bryce said. “That would be a sin after all our boys went through. And where the hell are the generals?”
A quick look confirmed that Patton and Truscott were a little in front of them and a hundred yards to their left. Another tank exploded and someone yelled that the place was mined. Grant and Bryce looked around their crater and wondered if they were lying on a mine.
They slithered up and carefully crawled back to their jeep. They slowly drove forward, conscious that mines could be just under the earth. They passed several broken Sherman tanks that were burning furiously. The stench coming from them told them that not all the crew had made it outside. More bodies lay on the ground, and most were American.
Finally, they were through the German line. In the distance, they could see other enemy vehicles pulling back, while anti-tank and machine guns covered them. This German defensive position had been taken, but at what cost? How many GIs had been killed or wounded by their own planes, and how many others had fallen while taking a thin line of bunkers and machine gun nests? Worse, when the Germans had pulled back, they had taken most of their equipment with them for use at the next site.
As if to taunt them, well-hidden German artillery opened fire, again driving them to the ground. “How far is it from Detroit to Toronto?” Bryce asked.
“A little more than five hundred miles,” Tom answered.
“Christ, Tom, this is going to be a long damned war.”
Canfield looked up from the stack of papers on his desk and glared at Sergeant Dubinski. “Why the hell didn’t you just shoot the little bastard and throw his ass in the lake?”
With that, the scrawny young man in handcuffs standing beside Dubinski started to cry. The sergeant slapped him on the ear, “Shut up you little fucking coward.” Canfield was not going to shoot the foolish boy, nor was Dubinski really going to hurt him. What they really wanted to do was get through to the young soldier and make him realize just how close he’d been to getting hanged for desertion.
Canfield glared at the private. “Tell me, Private Hipple, just how the hell did you think you could get away with deserting? You didn’t even get twenty miles before the MPs picked you up, did you?”
Hipple gulped. “No sir.”
“That’s right,” Canfield continued, “and I’ll bet they were real nice and polite while they kicked the crap out of you weren’t they, which means you have no complaints about the way you were treated, do you?”
Hipple’s face was bruised and both his eyes were blackened, and his ribs were bruised which made breathing difficult. “No sir,” he managed.
“So why the hell did you do it?”
“I wanted to get home, sir.”
“Where’s home son?” Canfield already knew the answer. He had Hipple’s personnel file on his desk.
“Texas, sir. We live on a farm in Hudspeth County and that’s in way west Texas, sir.”
Dubinski snickered. “Ain’t anything much farther west than Hudspeth County. And I’ll be there ain’t nothing in Hudspeth County worth coming home to, is there Hipple, unless, of course, you’re partial to rattlesnakes and lizards?”
Hipple glared back but quickly looked at the floor. “It’s my home and it’s a place where people talk like me and don’t tease me because they think I talk funny. Back home they don’t make fun of me because I don’t know much ‘cause they don’t know nothing either. They also don’t have all this goddamn snow.”
The boy was lonely, Canfield had long ago realized, and homesick to boot. Hipple was twenty years old and had been drafted out of Texas and then sent to upper New York as a filler for the regiment that was trying to get to full strength. Since most of the men were from upper New York, he’d been the odd duck from the first day. He’d arrived several months prior and had been doing what they’d all been doing, train, train, and train some more.
“I was going to come back, sir. I just wanted to see my people. I ain’t heard from them in a long while.”
“Why didn’t you write them a letter or maybe even phone?”
Hipple turned away. “We don’t got no phone anywhere near a
nd none of my people can write.”
Canfield looked at Dubinski who shrugged. The kid was likely telling the truth. “It’s your lucky day, Hipple, I am not going to hang your ass. I cannot bust you to private because you already are one. However, I can see to it that it’ll be an eternity before you get promoted and you will be performing every shit detail we have until we get into combat, at which point you will be allowed to redeem yourself. You will also be watched like a hawk and if you should make a move to get off base, I will make sure that everyone on guard duty knows they have my permission to shoot your worthless ass back to Hudspeth County in far west asshole Texas. You understand?”
Hipple gulped, “Yes sir.”
“Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”
Hipple ran like he was on fire. Canfield waved Dubinski to a chair. “Why the hell didn’t the army keep him in Texas?”
“Beats me, chief. Don’t forget, there’s the right way, the wrong way, and the army way.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Hipple can read and write, sort of, but otherwise he’s a social illiterate. Hell, he never saw indoor plumbing until he got drafted. He figured out what toilets and urinals were for, but never realized you had to flush the things to get rid of the piss and shit. Maybe he thought the tooth fairy did it. His so-called buddies rode him hard because of that piece of ignorance along with other stuff.”
“Does he have any useful skills?”
“I hear he’s real good with horses and mules.”
“Jesus.”
“He’s bragged that he’s a dead shot and can hit anything he can see.”
Canfield was intrigued. “Kindly check that out. If he’s as good as he thinks he is, maybe we’ve got ourselves a designated shooter when the time comes.”
Canfield stood and walked outside. Dubinski followed. Canfield waved at the sea of tents surrounding them. “Look at all this. We’ve got an entire army sitting around and doing nothing more than get into trouble.”
“Maybe we should start a war, chief.”
“Maybe we should start fighting one, and haven’t I told you to stop calling me chief? We have an entire army that’s bored to tears and getting into trouble. Abraham Lincoln once had a general, McClelland, who spent all his time training the Union Army and not fighting, so Abe asked him since he wasn’t using his army might he borrow it. I understand McClelland got real angry. Well, I’m angry. I know it isn’t entirely General Fredendall’s fault, but we could do something other than digging ditches and planning to repel a German attack that isn’t going to happen.”
Dubinski shook his head. “I don’t know, colonel, at least nobody’s getting killed digging ditches.”
Chapter Sixteen
Once again the view of the mountains from his mountaintop retreat at Berchtesgaden was breathtaking. Adolf Hitler, however, did not even notice it. He was too angry. His military leaders were failing him. First, the campaign to destroy the Soviet Union for once and for all was bogging down badly in the mud of southern Russia. Field Marshal von Paulus was complaining about the lack of resources he possessed as well as the unexpected tenacity of the Red Army. Hitler was beginning to have doubts about von Paulus’ suitability for high command. The Russians were inferior people and should have been crushed. Yes, it was a very long way from Berlin to where the battles were raging, but von Paulus had an army of more than a million men with several hundred thousand others buttressing his flanks. There was yet another army protecting his lines of supply from hordes of partisans who were causing incredible damage.
Hitler ignored the two men standing behind him. Their turn would come. In the meantime, he would have someone draft a memo to von Paulus that would light a fire under him. The Russians would collapse if they were pressed, he was certain of that. Yes, the terrain was awful and going to get worse the farther east they went, but it was bad for both sides. The route of attack had been chosen because it largely bypassed the Ural Mountains to the north. Once around the southern flank of the mountain range, von Paulus was to split his army and send one half north to destroy the Red’s new production facilities, while the southern half continued eastward, conquering as it went. The Soviets might think that their land went on forever, but they were wrong. They would have to capitulate soon.
First, however, he had to convince his generals that this could be done. He also had to deal with his admirals, two of whom were standing behind him, looking like school children who’ve been caught doing something bad. Well, he thought, they had.
“Admiral Raeder, when will the relief convoy sail for the Americas?”
The commander of the Kriegsmarine, Germany’s navy, winced but did not look intimidated.
“My Fuhrer, there will be no convoy. We do not have the transport ships to send and we do not have enough of a navy to protect the ships even if we did have them.”
“Explain yourself, admiral,” Hitler said, his voice dripping acid.
“As you well know,” Raeder said with thinly veiled sarcasm, “we would require several hundred merchant ships to send a relief army of sufficient size to Canada and it would require that fleet to make several trips and it would have to be well protected. We simply do not have the warships to convoy that fleet. Please recall that we said that we would not be prepared to fight either the U.S. or Great Britain on the high seas for several years. I believe our victory over England and Russia caused us to believe that a large German navy was no longer necessary. Instead, iron and steel that could have been used to build surface warships went instead to build the tanks and planes von Paulus is using to defeat the Soviets.”
Hitler seethed. “I gave you three hundred U-boats, which is what you asked for. With them, you said you could sweep the seas of enemy ships. When I suggested that a picket line of submarines be employed to protect relief convoys, I do not recall hearing any objections from you.”
Raeder shook his head sadly. “And that is because we underestimated the problems our submarines would have. The Americans have proven to be extremely skillful opponents. As of this date, at least thirty of our subs have been killed with a likelihood of many more. All sub captains are expected to check in by radio each day and at least twenty have not been heard from in several days. We are afraid they have been lost as well.”
Hitler was aghast. Fifty subs destroyed? The Reich no longer had the resources to replace them. Raeder was correct. With England neutralized and the United States run by Jews and cowards, Germany had focused on developing the weapons necessary to destroy the remnants of the Soviet Union, a job that von Paulus appeared to be botching.
“What about our surface fleet? We can send the Tirpitz along with our other warships, can’t we?”
“When the Tirpitz was first launched,” said Raeder, “she was one of the largest and most modern battleships in the world. She and her sister, the Bismarck, were almost unconquerable. Now, the Bismarck is sunk and the Tirpitz just one among many equivalent battleships. The Americans have a number of massive new battleships with more under construction. In addition to the Tirpitz, we only have two smaller battleships, the Scharnhorst and the Gneisnau, and a handful of heavy cruisers that could form a battle line, and that includes our remaining pocket battleships.”
“And what about our beloved allies?” Hitler asked. “What can they contribute?”
“The Italians have a few capital ships remaining,” Raeder answered, “but they are locked in the Mediterranean because the Americans control Gibraltar. That and the fact that Mussolini is afraid they will be sunk and he will be disgraced. Both are likely, by the way. His warships sacrificed armor for speed and cannot slug it out with the Americans or even the British if they finally show up. The French have but one battleship and one out of commission aircraft carrier.”
“Speaking of which,” Doenitz injected, “the Americans have a number of aircraft carriers now operating in the Atlantic, along with unsinkable air bases at Gibraltar, Lisbon, Oporto, Iceland, and they
even now have a small base at Greenland that they are enlarging. They also still have a base at Gander, Newfoundland.”
“Which is doubtless part of the reason the Americans are so able to seek out and destroy our U-boats,” Raeder added. “Sometimes it seems like they actually know where they are or are going to be. We have badly underestimated their technology.”
“More Jewish science,” Hitler muttered angrily.
The Fuhrer paced the balcony. A strong cold wind had begun to blow, but he ignored it. “Here is what will happen. Despite von Paulus’s whining he will press on and destroy the Soviets, no matter what the cost. Once Russia has been crushed and capitulates, the United States will find that she stands alone. She will then negotiate with us and we will be in a position of strength despite the failings of the Kriegsmarine.”
Raeder stiffened. Hitler had been responsible for starting the war before the German navy was ready and Hitler was the one who’d starved it of ships and men in order to feed the insatiable needs of the army. Dictators have short memories, he concluded ruefully.
“Then what of our army in Canada, my Fuhrer?” Raeder asked.
Hitler laughed and clapped his hands. “Why it is all Guderian’s responsibility. He has so often told me what a great general he is, now he will have a chance to prove it. I will promote him to field marshal, which is what the arrogant man has always wanted, and order him to never surrender. Canada must be defended to the last. They must hang on until von Paulus’s inevitable victory changes things. I will have Himmler instruct whoever is in charge of the Gestapo in Toronto that many hostages must be taken and used. They will be executed if the Americans appear like they will win. The Americans are cowards. They will never permit those deaths to happen.”
The New York Stock Exchange had been founded in 1792 and first operations took place in a room at 40 Wall Street. The exchange had grown into world prominence and finally moved to its present location in 1903.
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