by Ward Wagher
“Very well, put him through.”
“Goering, Herr Reich Chancellor. The Russians are beginning to slip across the border. Guderian has ordered Case Rupert.”
“Very well, Hermann. I will be in my office shortly. Thanks for calling.”
“I would say you’re welcome, Herr Reich Chancellor, but this is the event we have all feared.”
Schloss sighed. “You are absolutely correct in that, Hermann. Call me when you have further news.”
As he sat down the phone receiver into its cradle, Gisela spoke. “It’s beginning.”
Schloss walked over to the wardrobe and began pulling clothes out. “Yes, it is. The Russians are beginning to come across the border. I really do need to get downstairs.”
She slid out of bed and pulled on her robe. “Let me go see about getting you some coffee. Unless this is a false alarm, this will be a long day for you Hennie.”
Stepping into her slippers she walked to the door and then out into the short hallway past the inevitable guard. She blinked when she opened the door to walk into the kitchen. The lights were already on.
“Herr Schloss’s day has begun,” Frau Marsden stated matter-of-factly. The coffee pot was on the stove and the blue flame wavered across the bottom of the pot.
“Herr Goering just called,” Gisela said. “The Russians have crossed the border.”
“This will be a difficult time for Herr Schloss,” the old woman said. “He will need to lean upon you as never before. However, you needn’t worry about survival. Germany will win this war.”
“Hennie is very worried,” Gisela replied. “And, as usual, he is trying to carry the burdens of the whole country on his own back.”
“That is a characteristic of the good rulers,” the old lady commented. She turned around and leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “Herr Schloss cares for the people of this country. He is rightfully concerned about the Russians; however, he will do whatever is necessary to protect the nation. He also worries about you.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Gisela said simply. “Any time that I need to get things ready for Hennie you are already here. It’s like you read minds or something.”
The old lady laughed softly. “It is nothing so mysterious as that. I heard the phone rang. When Herr Schloss gets a call in the middle of the night, he will always get dressed and go down to his office.”
She turned and lifted a cover off of a tray of Danish and set the pastries on the table. The coffee pot was at a rolling boil by then and began the brewing process. Gisela folded her arms across her chest as she watched the old lady.
“How old are you, Frau Marsden?”
She looked up, apparently surprised at Gisela’s question. “Why do you ask, child?”
“I never see you sleep. You could easily work anyone of us into the ground. Pardon me for saying this, but you would almost have to be nearly twice my age. I have not seen very many elderly people with the energy that you have.”
Frau Marsden raised an eyebrow. “I suppose some of us are blessed with more stamina than others.”
“And you know things,” Gisela continued.
Frau Marsden’s cheek twitched. “I try to always pay close attention to what is going on around me. It is surprising the things you hear when people don’t realize you are listening.”
“I suppose that is the case. But sometimes I suspect there is more to it than that.”
The old lady grinned. “There are advantages to appearing mysterious. People sometimes don’t know what to think about me.”
“That is certainly the truth,” Gisela declared.
At that moment Schloss walked quickly into the kitchen. Frau Marsden had already turned to pour a cup of coffee for him, and she handed it to him as he stepped up to the table.
“Bless you, Frau Marsden. I woke up effectively when I received the phone call, but the coffee is always welcome.”
“Let me slide a Danish onto a small plate for you, Herr Schloss. You can take that with you. I will bring the rest down a little later.”
“I shall enjoy this,” he said. “There will be little enough else to enjoy this day.”
“Difficult times are coming, Herr Schloss,” the old lady explained cryptically. “I am confident you will find your way through the troubles and ultimately succeed.”
Schloss snorted. “That’s one of us anyway.”
He picked up the small dish with the Danish resting on it and swept out of the room, also carrying his coffee. They could hear him speaking to the guards, and then the door closed, leaving the apartments in silence.
Gisela turned back to from Marsden. “It is going to be very bad, isn’t it?”
“Child, the Maker wishes to sift Germany. The ultimate outcome of this war is not in doubt, but the hearts of the people of this land are more important than winning a war.”
“What are you saying?”
“Over the last century, as Germany achieved greatness, she has forgotten her roots. Returning to her roots is the only way for Germany to survive and prosper in the future.”
“Are you talking about our beginnings in Prussia?”
“No, Liebchen,” the old lady said. “I am talking about our beginnings in Wittemburg. Martin Luther was the beginning of the German nation as we know it. The other leaders were simply the Maker’s tools. And we have since been led astray by our own intellect.”
“I do not understand.”
“Think about it, Frau Schloss. We will speak again.”
Frau Marsden turned to pick up the tray of pastries and then left the apartment. Gisela cupped her hands around her coffee and sipped as she pondered what the old lady had said. She did not know why it was so difficult for her to understand.
§ § §
April 17, 1973; 4:30 AM
German Eastern Polish District
The Fiesler Storch leveled off at 3000 meters and the pilot throttled back to the most fuel-efficient cruising speed of about 150 kilometers per hour. Herbert Weber had begun his career in the Luftwaffe flying the BF 109. While flying a high-performance fighter was a rush, he had grown tired of the temperamental and quirky Messerschmitt. If he wasn’t fidgeting with the carburetor mixture or the supercharger, he was trying to prevent ground looping the beast when landing. When offered a chance to fly observation craft, he thought why not?
The Storch, though not fast, was every bit the thoroughbred as the fighter. It was highly maneuverable, and it could take off and land almost on a postage stamp, and it was also a joy to fly. Flying observation was probably more dangerous than flying fighters, but it also allowed more independence.
His task this morning was to spot the position of the Russian forces while flying above no man’s land in the dark. He also had to do his spotting while flying high enough to avoid the artillery. He thought, tongue-in-cheek, that occupying the same air space with an artillery shell would have unfortunate consequences for the airframe as well as one Sergeant Weber. His spotter in the backseat, Dieter Moeller, alternated looking out the left and right side of the airplane with his binoculars. Apparently, he was seeing something because he spoke into the intercom.
“Bring us about 15 degrees to the left, Pilot.”
“15 degrees to the left acknowledged,” Weber replied.
“Okay, we have a massive armor coming off the road and spreading out into the fields.”
“Are they over the border?” Weber asked.
“Yes, no question about that.”
“Call it in, then.”
Weber listened as the spotter called in the report over the radio. Not only did he appear to have the description accurate, but also the exact location coordinates. Weber found that amazing. When flying around in the dark he had only a general idea of his location. The spotter’s ability to locate themselves on the map bordered on witchcraft.
“They are coming across the border, Herr Field Marshal,” Rommel’s intelligence officer reported. “The spotters think the
Russians have most of their inventory on the road.”
Rommel watched as the Army clerks began marking enemy positions on the acetate overlays for the map. So far, they were doing almost exactly as he and Guderian had predicted. Rommel reminded himself not to fall in love with his plan. With the size of the armies that were getting ready to collide on the northern European plains, he could afford no mistakes. His biggest worry was the level of precision required for Case Rupert. When dealing with people, it required no effort to make mistakes. Things did not have to go very wrong to turn the operation into a disaster. And that would be very bad for Germany.
General Model stepped up next to Rommel. “At the moment, we have little to complain about, Herr Field Marshal.”
“Do you have your lucky rabbit’s foot with you, Walter?”
Model grinned and pulled the small piece of fur from his pocket and showed it to the field marshal. “As always, Sir.”
“Then you should be industriously rubbing it today, General. We will need every bit of luck we can generate to achieve these carefully crafted plans.”
“And I should probably be getting back to my headquarters. The ball is going to open soon. With your permission, Herr Field Marshal?”
Rommel laughed. “Be off. Just do not have an auto accident or anything.”
The field marshal turned back to study the map. This operation would not win the war for Germany, but it should bloody Stalin’s nose enough to give him pause. He hoped. With Goering’s approval, he and Guderian were rolling the dice. Given the disparities in power, there was little else they could do.
At Weber’s altitude, the sun was now creeping above the horizon. The land below was still in darkness, and Weber could see the Bf109’s and the Fw190’s orbiting above him. He did not see any Russian planes yet, which bothered him.
“It looks like the Russians are nearly at Point Echo,” his spotter called over the intercom.
“Then you’d better call it in. We need to earn our munificent pay today.”
“Right.”
The spotter made another contact report over the radio and then shouted over the intercom.
“I’ve got incoming planes at 3 o’clock.!”
Weber glanced out to the right to see a flight of five aircraft headed for the Storch. He immediately shoved the stick all the way forward and tromped the right rudder to the floor. The aircraft snapped over into the beginnings of a spin. Weber made a quick radio call as he counteracted the rudder and pulled the stick back. He wondered if the high cover fighters had even noticed the Russians. The Storch had now reversed direction and was several hundred feet lower. Weber hoped this sufficiently disturbed the aim of the other planes. The five-plane V flew closely overhead and into the beginnings of a turn. Far above, the German fighters were beginning their dives, and Weber thought they were a bit late.
“Those are Yak-3’s,” his spotter called.
“So they are. I guess it’s time to dance.”
As the Russian fighters swung around, Weber worked hard to make sure the Storch was never quite where they expected him to be. While the Yaks were fast and highly maneuverable, their speed inhibited their ability to swarm the slow German plane.
“Ah, you are a good dancer, Pilot,” the spotter called.
“Just hang on,” Weber grunted as he pulled the plane into a tight turn. “We don’t want to lose our slippers.”
A few moments later, the German fighters were able to swarm the Russians and shoot them down, for the loss of two Bf109s. Weber resumed his course and altitude as the Germans reformed above him.
“The Russians have reached Point Echo, Herr Field Marshall,” Rommel’s intelligence officer reported.
Rommel looked around the room. “Are we in place and ready?”
“Yes, Herr Field Marshall. Everything is ready for Case Rupert.”
“Very well, then. Execute!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
April 17, 1943, 4 AM
Bay of Bengal
Captain Michael Philpot sat in his chair on the bridge of the U.S.S. Ranger and sipped on another cup of coffee. He glanced out the windows in front of the helmsman, but it was still too dark to see anything. The carrier Ranger and the light carrier Bogue were part of a combined British and American task force that had been directed to locate and engage the Japanese fleet.
The Brit Catalina flying boat had located the fleet on the previous day. It had called in the contact report and then disappeared. Everyone assumed it had been shot down. The flight controller had lined up a half dozen TBF Avengers on the deck and they would try to find the Japanese again.
Philpot wondered if he would still be alive at the end of this day. It looked like the Japanese had them outgunned. Six carrier decks to four was worrying. And the disparity was worse not just because of the numbers. Ranger was commissioned in 1933 and was built during a time when the navy was still experimenting with its carrier doctrine. At 15,000 tons, she was a small carrier. The USS Bogue, Ranger’s partner in the operation was smaller yet at 10,000 tons. They were good platforms for anti-submarine work, but not really suited to offensive operations.
The Royal Navy was somewhat better equipped for this operation. The Illustrious and the Eagle were both faster and better armored. Yet, they were facing an enemy that was highly trained and very experienced in combat.
Philpot turned when Admiral McWhorter walked through the hatch onto the bridge and then walked over to him.
“Good morning, Admiral. The coffee is hot if you want some.”
Ernest McWhorter glanced around the bridge before he spoke. “Some coffee would be very good.”
The ever-present steward appeared with a cup and a donut on a plate. He poured the coffee from a steel pitcher. McWhorter took the cup and lifted the donut off the plate.
“Thank you, Sailor,” he murmured.
He turned to the captain. “What’s the status, Mike?”
“We will be launching the recon birds within the next ten minutes. We’ll have them on station at sunrise.”
“The Japs still north of us?”
“The Intel weenies think so, Sir. There has been no new information since yesterday, however.”
“Where’s Admiral Cunningham?”
“The Brits are about one-hundred miles to our west.”
“No new information from them, I assume,” the admiral said.
“No, Sir. Nobody has their radios up.”
“Good. Let me get out of your hair, Mike. I’ll be up on the flag bridge.”
“Of course, Sir.”
The bridge watch-stander slipped over to the captain. “Pri-Fly requests permission to launch, Sir.”
“Very well. Inform Pri-Fly they have permission to launch. Where’s the wind?”
“Almost on the bow, Sir.”
Philpot nodded. “Inform the task force we will increase to launch speed.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Philpot walked over to his chair and pulled a telephone receiver from its rack on the bulkhead and punched the button for the Flag Bridge. He waited for someone to answer.
“Admiral’s Bridge, Chief Carson, Sir.”
“This is the captain. Please inform the admiral we are launching the recon group.”
He hung up and climbed into his chair. He wished for a cigarette but would not light up in the bridge so as not to disrupt the night sight of the crew. He had a good crew and worked hard to not take advantage of his position.
Philpot considered the current situation. He was convinced the allied battle group did not have nearly the weight of metal for its mission. Oh, if they got lucky, they could land a force on the Australian continent somewhere. But supporting that mission and augmenting it would be the devil’s errand. And anticipating the Japanese reaction, whatever it would be, was something to be concerned about.
And the Japanese had cooperated in relieving Allied ignorance by driving a massive force through the Southeast Asian seas to face the allies head-on. It
seemed like they threw everything they had against the allies. He certainly hoped the Admirals Forbes and King knew what they were doing.
He heard aircraft engines coughing to life, so he moved over to the windows on the port side of the bridge. The flight crews all assumed he did that to offer encouragement. Philpot had no intentions of relieving the pilots of that assumption. But he was mainly interested in watching in case one of the aircraft crashed on the deck and set fire to his ship. After a brief warmup, the deck crew began lining the Avengers up. One by one they trundled down the deck and staggered into the air. When the last one was safely off the deck, he heaved a sigh of relief and moved back over to his chair. The steward noticed his cup was empty and refilled it with fresh, hot coffee.
Now all they had to do was wait. If they could catch the Japanese right at sunrise, maybe the Americans and British could get their licks in and retreat before the Japanese could respond. Philpot thought the chances of that were slim, but he had a good crew.
§ § §
April 17, 1943, 6 AM
Office of the Prime Minister
Tokyo, Japan
Admiral Shigetarō Shimada, the Chief of the Imperial Japanese Navy marched into Yamamoto’s office when directed and halted before the prime minister’s desk. Yamamoto stood and the two admirals exchanged salutes.
“What have you brought to me this morning, Admiral?” Yamamoto asked.
“Sir, our fleet is in the Bay of Bengal and will attack Trincomalee today. It was spotted by a British flying boat. Although we shot down the flying boat, we have to assume it got a warning out.”
Yamamoto nodded. “Come over to the map with me. I would like to understand the positioning of the fleets.”
The prime minister had kept his map up to date by diagramming the fleet positions with a grease pen on the acetate overlay. Shimada looked at the message in his hand and back at the map.
“I would place our naval position as about here,” He pointed at a spot on the map.
