“I got you, colonel,” said the sergeant. “You just saved all our lives.”
The sergeant and a couple of others they dragged him away from the burning and exploding tank. The pain in his chest was intense and he was certain he’d broken a couple of ribs as he’d fallen to the ground.
They heard more tank engines nearby, but these were different sounds. Tom managed a smile. “Those are Shermans, boys, the cavalry just arrived.”
They counted heads. Of the men in the depression, only three were unhurt. Four others, counting Tom, were wounded and five were dead. Others must have run off. He didn’t blame them and could only hope they were safe.
Tom and the sergeant looked over the edge and saw several Sherman tanks firing at the Germans with their stubby 75mm main guns. A couple of the Panzers were burning and the rest were withdrawing. The Sherman could indeed stand up to the Panzer III. The Panzer IV wouldn’t be that easy and who knew what would happen if and when American tanks ran into the large and deadly Panther. At least it wouldn’t happen today, he thought.
Several hours later, Tom’s chest had been swathed in bandages and he’d taken some aspirin to take the edge off the pain. He’d been offered morphine but declined. His chest hurt like the devil and he had a number of cuts and bruises, and it was difficult to breathe. He limped into Patton’s headquarters tent and found that the general had made it back to safety with only a cut on his forehead.
Patton slapped him on the shoulder, causing Tom to wince, “Great job, colonel. I heard what you did to that kraut tank. That’s going to get you a medal along with an ass-chewing for being so close to the front.”
The last comment was said with a smile. Patton had been much closer and just as lucky to have gotten away with his life.
“I want you to fly back to Washington and tell everyone in the Pentagon that Guderian just got his ass kicked from here to Sunday. He made his great spoiling attack and it failed. I’m sure he’s going to try again and I’m just as certain that the results will be the same. He’s now missing maybe a hundred and fifty tanks and a couple of thousand men, and many of them are now our prisoners. Our flyboys shot down a bunch of their MEs as well. If you believe the pilots, they killed a thousand, but it’s likely a hundred. Regardless, none of the tanks or planes they lost can be recovered and repaired and now they have some serious holes that can’t be filled.”
“What about our casualties?” Tom asked.
An aide responded. “About the same and that includes men taken prisoner in the initial attack.”
Tom took a deep breath and found that he could control the pain. “Can I tell them you’re going to counter-attack?”
Patton’s laugh was a high-pitched snort. “Hell, Guderian was the one who counter-attacked. Now I’m going to launch a full attack and kick his ass all the way back to Toronto.”
A courier entered and looked around, puzzled. “Where’s General Patton?” he asked and a couple of men pointed him to where the general had turned his back on them.
Something resonated in Tom’s brain. “Grab him,” he yelled.
Nothing happened for a desperate second as Patton and his staff looked confused. “He’s a German,” Tom screamed.
Tom hurled himself at the man who’d pulled a revolver from beneath his fatigue jacket. A shot rang out as a host of U.S. soldiers buried the man. Seconds later, the bruised soldier was hauled to his feet. The bullet had gone harmlessly through the canvas top of the tent.
“What the hell is going on?” Patton asked. “He doesn’t sound German.”
“He isn’t,” Tom answered, wincing with pain. He’d hurt his ribs again. “He’s Canadian. Probably one of their Black Shirts and I’ll bet he was sent here to kill you. I yelled that he was German because if I said he was Canadian you’d wonder what the problem was.”
“Damn it,” Patton said, his face red with fury. “These boys are starting to play rough. Well, we can play that game too.”
FDR looked confused as well as exhausted. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. His doctors admitted that there was something wrong with his heart, what he referred to as his “ticker,” and they said that rest was what he needed. However, there was a war on and Roosevelt felt that he was the best man to lead America through it, which was why he was running for an unprecedented fourth term. Of course, his third term had been unprecedented too. Every president before him had stopped at two terms, honoring a tradition begun by George Washington.
“Would someone please tell me why Argentina, Brazil, and Chile just declared war on Great Britain?”
They were in the Map Room and a large map of South American was attached to the wall. Secretary of State Cordell Hull answered in a weak voice, another reminder to the president that the sickly Hull had to be replaced, even though FDR generally ignored the man and preferred to be his own secretary of state. According to current law, the secretary of state was behind only the vice president in the line of succession should the president die. The president had decided that Harry Truman would be his next vice president instead of keeping that annoying socialist, Henry Wallace. Like it or not, he would have to strengthen the line of succession. He hoped Truman would prove to be a good choice and Ed Stettinius, a career businessman, would be tapped to replace Hull after he was eased out of the office he’d held for twelve exhausting years.
“Sir, the Argentines just went through a fascist coup led by a Colonel Juan Peron, and they want the Falkland Islands back from Great Britain, which is a very sore point with them. They call them the Malvinas and have claimed them for some time. The islands are, you will recall, just off of Argentina and might as well be Argentine save for the fact that they have been owned by the British for more than a century, and are totally inhabited by Englishmen who don’t want to be part of Argentina. The British also have a small military station there. It has no real military value, but it is of great emotional value to the Argentines. Taking the Falklands will doubtless take the average Argentinian’s mind off of the coup and other issues.”
FDR glowered, “And what about the others? Silly me, I knew that Chile was fascist, but I thought Brazil was leaning towards us?” “Obviously the Germans must have made extravagant promises to them,” Hull said. “Support of their possession of the Falklands must have been one for Argentina, while Brazil might be attempting to grab the Guianas, or perhaps Jamaica, from Great Britain. As to Chile, I have no idea. Indeed, we assumed that Chile and Argentina were practically enemies.”
Roosevelt lit a cigarette and puffed angrily. The others in the map room noticed that his hands shook even worse than before. “In practical matters, what does this mean? They are at war with Great Britain, our ally, but not with us? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Agreed,” Hull said. “But it doesn’t have to make sense, at least not to us.” He nodded towards Admiral King. “I spoke with Admiral King and he feels that this South American alliance would be free to attack the food convoys to England that come from South Africa, as well as Canada. Obviously, this would help Germany. According to the rules we’ve established with Germany, the food convoys must be unescorted by warships. We’ve complied and the British have as well. The South Africans don’t have a navy to speak of, so the task of defending the convoys, if it becomes necessary and we choose to do so, will fall on us.”
“Clever bastards,” said Roosevelt. “That would put us at war with those three nations and make us the enemy of many others in South and Latin America.”
“But what else can we do?” Hull asked.
FDR smiled hugely. “Why we’ll sic the Royal Navy on them, that’s what. Admiral Vian has been chomping at the bit and I can’t think of anything more just than letting him take on Britain’s newest enemies.”
King, who had been sitting quietly, shook his head in disagreement. “The British might be chomping at the bit, but they are in no shape to do much more than reinforce Jamaica, and perhaps Georgetown in Guiana. They only have two working aircraft carrier
s to protect their battleships from enemy planes and subs. Fortunately, Argentina has no carriers and only two old battleships and the Brits would likely destroy them with ease, while neither Chile nor Brazil has a navy worth mentioning. Along with attacks from land based planes, the Royal Navy’s real enemies will be the vast distances involved and the need to develop a fleet supply train like we have in the Pacific. They simply don’t have the transports and tankers to operate independently. They’ll also need their warships to protect the convoys from what ships the Argentines and Brazilians do have.”
“Can’t we help them?” Roosevelt asked, almost plaintively.
“Not without curtailing our own operations,” King responded. “We barely have enough tankers and transports to take care of our own needs.”
“Still, we must do something. We cannot permit the British to starve and that’s exactly what will happen if the food ceases to flow. Therefore,” Roosevelt continued, “we must aid England even if it means sending our warships to escort the food convoys.”
“Would that mean war with Argentina?” Hull asked.
“If they attack our ships, then our ships will defend and retaliate. In the meantime, admiral, I suggest that you get that Admiral Vian fellow to get some ships down to Jamaica and perhaps to that port in Guiana, Georgetown. When he gets enough fuel, perhaps Vian’s battleships can bombard Rio de Janeiro. I would hate to see that striking statue of Jesus blown off that mountain top, but that certainly would get Brazil’s attention. We cannot have other nations intruding in our war for survival with their own petty causes.”
“And what shall be done with Argentina?” Hull asked. “It is my understanding that if Argentine soldiers haven’t already landed on the Falklands they very shortly will, and will doubtless overwhelm what defenses the British might have.”
King shrugged, “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do at this time. Until and if we get a base closer to either the Falklands or Buenos Aires, we suffer from the same time and distance problems as the British.”
The plane was a Piper Cub, an old two seater that had been through a lot. Maybe World War I as well as World War II, thought Tony Romano as he gazed at the patched up wreck.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” said Farrell, his new OSS coordinator.
If Farrell had a first name, he never said it. Nor did Tony know the names of the four other men who’d been working on the small plane. After Sherry had freed him, he’d been hidden in a truck and driven to a small farm near St. Catharines, Ontario. He was just a few miles away from the border between Canada and the U.S. and he could almost taste freedom and home.
Of course, a few miles might as well have been the distance from earth to the moon. The area was crawling with Germans as they prepared to resist an invasion from the U.S., and they’d had to be careful. As it was, they’d been stopped a couple of times, but their phony papers had been good enough to get them through.
“Well, can you fly the damn thing?” Farrell asked.
Tony had checked it over. Aside from the obvious wear and tear, it looked like a sturdy little beast. “Will I get an opportunity to try it out?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope, you get one chance and one chance only. With all the krauts in the area, we can’t afford to let them see you flying around, especially with what looks like a bomb strapped to it.”
Tony had been told that the plane would be fitted with a 55 gallon drum filled with gasoline and fitted with a crude trigger that was supposed to ignite it on impact. His target would be the first of a small column of German U-boats that would be transiting the Welland Canal on its way to Lake Erie. If all went well, saboteurs would also have damaged the locks, preventing the subs from moving through them.
Farrell laughed. “If this works, you might just get your fifth sub, ace.”
“Or get the words nice try engraved on my tombstone.”
“We’re planning on you doing a night attack.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Tony said. “It’ll be tricky enough to locate and hit it during the day. At night I’d be lucky to find Toronto. I’ll fly in from the north right after dawn and maybe they won’t notice me until the last minute. Maybe all their guns will be pointed south.”
Farrell concurred, not that it mattered. Tony would be flying the plane, not him.
And maybe pigs will fly and maybe Hitler wears women’s panties, Tony thought. But he had to do it. He couldn’t let these other people take all the risks after getting him out of the camp. But how would his family or Nancy O’Connor find out what was happening to him?
“And one other thing,” Tony added, “I’ll be flying real low, hopefully well under a hundred feet.”
Fortunately, he wouldn’t be going too fast. On a good day, the little plane could do eighty miles an hour, which meant he should be able to dodge anything really tall. He laughed bitterly. He’d already lost two planes. Would this little Piper Cub be the third? And how many damn crashes could he survive?
Kommodore Reinhard Hardegan commanded a small squadron of three Type IX U-boats. He was a combat veteran who’d been awarded the Iron Cross among other medals. He was considered a fair, honest, and even honorable commander. At forty-one he was thought to be a rising star in the U-boat command. When the war with the United States started, he had launched attacks against American merchant ships and had sunk several. He’d even penetrated Chesapeake Bay and given serious thought to doing the same with New York Harbor. Cooler heads among his crew talked him out if it. Still, he thought with a quiet smile, it would have been a good feeling to have sunk a merchant ship in the shadow of the Empire State Building.
At this moment, however, he felt impotent and foolish. His sub, the U-123, was the first of the three to try and transit from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie via the Welland Canal. His boat had been skillfully disguised by the addition of fake wooden walls that had been painted to make the U-123 look like a small tramp steamer. The same had been done to the other two boats that waited patiently behind him in other locks. Like the U-123, they were all moored to the side of the lock, which meant they couldn’t move. It didn’t matter. They had no place to go.
There were no longer any German ships in Lake Erie. There had been at least one sub and there had been no reports from it. Thus it was imperative that the three German subs make it into Lake Erie to forestall the possibility of an American amphibious assault behind German lines. However, to get to Lake Erie he had to get through a lock on the Welland Canal that apparently had been sabotaged. At least it hadn’t been blown up, he thought ruefully. Had that occurred, the rush of water downstream to the lower Lake Ontario might have crushed the hull of U-123. He didn’t think the damage to the lock was all that serious, but nobody could find the men who worked on the canal and could fix it. Damn Canadians, he thought. Are they allies or enemies?
The sun was rising which presented another problem. He had the nagging thought that the damage to the locks presaged an attack by American planes at first light. Hardegen had decided that if his ship was a sitting duck, his crew need not be. He had ordered all but those necessary to man the 20mm anti-aircraft guns to go ashore. At first the others had protested, but they saw the logic. Since they were unable to move, they might as well have a form of shore leave even though the men were only a hundred yards or so away. He could see them sprawled out on the grass and enjoying themselves. He would rotate them to minimize any threat. His men appreciated that and he appreciated them.
Enough of the fake walls had been removed to give his gunners a clear field of fire. Any attack by the Americans had to come from the south. As he peered through his binoculars for the first sign of danger, he heard in the background the sound of a small plane, either a Storch or one of the local Piper Cubs. Regardless, it wasn’t a fighter or a bomber. Perhaps, he thought, it was someone from Guderian’s headquarters wondering what the hell the problem was.
The sound of the small plane drew closer and it seemed like it was headed directly
towards the U-123.
Hardegan turned to the north. Shit. The small Piper was headed straight towards him and there was something slung below it. He screamed and the gunners turned their weapons around to face the new threat. The enemy plane was coming in very low and was very close. Tracers from the guns streaked through the air, but the plane was too close to stop. It appeared to stagger as some shells struck it, but the bomb had already been released.
Hardegan watched in horror as it struck the wall of the lock and bounced into the air where it exploded. A wave of burning gasoline poured over the sub, setting the fake walls on fire and sending flaming gas down the stern hatch that had been open to help air the boat out.
Burning gas drenched Hardegen. As his clothes and skin began to singe, he jumped into the water. His crewmen on the wall of the lock grabbed him and dragged him ashore. His hands and face were burned, but the wounds didn’t look serious. They began to hurt and he stifled a scream. What was happening to his beloved U-123?
Black smoke and flames began to pour from the deck hatches and the conning tower. The sub was loaded with torpedoes, diesel fuel, and ammunition for the deck gun and the anti-aircraft guns. They could all start exploding at any time. The sub was doomed. Any possible fire-fighters were on the grass and staring in stunned disbelief.
“Abandon ship,” Hardegen yelled to the few who’d remained on the sub. They needed no prompting. The rest of his crew arrived to help him and the others onto higher ground.
He sent a runner to the other subs telling them to immediately withdraw back to Lake Ontario if they could. He and his crew would try to make it overland to Toronto. The Yanks clearly knew they were there and the next assaults would be by bombers and not Piper Cubs. He turned to the south and saw that the Piper was a dot disappearing in the general direction of upper New York. It seemed to be smoking and Hardegan wondered just how long the brave bastard of a pilot could keep it aloft.
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