Himmler's War-ARC (25 page)

“Jets,” another voice said and Stover’s blood ran cold. He’d heard that jets existed and that they could fly at incredible speeds. His own plane’s machine guns started chattering at something he couldn’t see. And then he could, and then it was gone in a shrieking second. At the same time, his plane shuddered. It’d been hit. His outer left engine had been shredded, pieces were flying off as it and his left wing were disintegrating.

Slowly and with apparent dignity, the wing collapsed and the plane began a slow death spiral. Stover ordered everybody to jump, but it was almost impossible as centrifugal force pinned them to the hull. Finally, Stover clawed his way to a hatch and pushed two of his men out into the wind. He couldn’t see the rest of his crew. He hoped they’d gone. He couldn’t wait. The ground was coming up far too fast.

Stover jumped and felt the blast of cold air grab him and spin him. He missed the bomber’s tail by a few feet. Seconds later, he opened his parachute and watched as his bomber sped downwards and corkscrewed itself into the ground. The bombs exploded with a mighty blast. He looked around as he descended. The rest of his formation was disappearing and the German jets, if that’s what they were, had also vanished.

He landed awkwardly and he felt his right leg snap. He screamed and was dragged by his chute until he managed to overcome the agony from his leg and free himself. He lay there for a few minutes fighting off the waves of nauseating pain and trying to compose himself.

Stover heard voices and, a few moments later, several German civilians were gathered over him. “
Bitte,
” he said. He thought it meant please. “
Kamerad,
” he tried again.

The civilians glared at him with undisguised hatred. Here was one of the American murderers who was savaging their cities and massacring innocent family members.

One of the German men leaned over and spat in his face, and a woman kicked him in his obviously injured leg. Stover screamed and they laughed. A man with a pitchfork stuck it into his other thigh and twisted. Stover writhed and tried to evade further jabs. It was futile and the pain from repeated stabs nearly made him unconscious. He screamed some more and the German civilians cheered. “Now you suffer like we do,” one of them said in English.

An authoritative voice stopped them. A man in a uniform, probably a cop, Stover thought, looked down on him with contempt. He barked some orders and the men picked him up without care for his injured legs and he screamed again. He continued to scream when they threw him in the back of a truck, and finally he passed out when they drove down the rutted road.

Miles away and thousands of feet in the sky, Lieutenant General Adolf Galland, “Dolfo” to his friends, flew alongside Major Walter Nowotny who commanded the ME262 squadron. It had been a most worthwhile test run. Of course, some would say that generals should not fly in combat, but Galland was sick and tired of desk duty and he’d flown the ME262 on test runs before.

This fine day, he’d bagged a P51 fighter and a B17 bomber without any damage to his plane and Nowotny had killed two fighters and damaged a bomber. The jet could go more than twice the speed of the Flying Fortress and a hundred miles an hour faster than the fighter escorts.

Sadly, it would be a while before the ME262 appeared over Germany in any great numbers. Aircraft manufacture of any kind had been slowed by the damned Allied bombers. The plane was designed to destroy the bombers and obviously could slaughter them in great numbers. There was a shortage of jet fuel, too, although there were more than enough qualified pilots to fly the few jets the Luftwaffe possessed.

Still, many of the best and brightest Luftwaffe pilots had been killed in the war and replacement pilots from service in other planes were scantily trained, little more than cannon fodder for the Americans who shot them down as fast as they went up.

Perhaps, Galland thought with a smile, the situation would require him to spend more time in a cockpit.

       * * *

Beetle Smith was in his normal lousy mood. “Granville, please tell me you know what the hell is going on because nobody else around here does.”

Colonel Tom Granville took a seat and adjusted the folders he’d brought. He knew everything in them, but their physical presence reassured him. Smith was a harsh and demanding leader on a good day, and this wasn’t a good day.

“Regarding the jets, it’s easy, General. The ME262 is something we’ve known about for a long time. It was inevitable that the krauts would introduce it, and they have a number of other new planes being developed, including a rocket plane that’s a real pilot killer, the ME163 Comet, and another jet, the Heinkel 162, which they refer to as the Salamander. Of the group, the 262—it’s called the Swallow, by the way—is by far the most formidable if only because they are beginning to make them in numbers that are large for German war production, although quite small in comparison with ours. We picked up a message that Galland himself flew one of the planes involved in that attack on our bombers, and that he referred to the jet as an ‘angel.’ He also said it was worth five ME109’s. We should thank our lucky stars, or our air force pilots who have been bombing their factories, that the Germans are unable to produce them in any real quantity.”

“Shit. Tell me again what we’ve got in the way of jets to counter the ME.”

Granville sighed. “Not much. The British are introducing something called the Meteor, but it’s nowhere near as fast as the 262, and we’ve got the P80 but it’s a long ways away from entering the field. Apparently it’s killing more of our pilots than anyone likes.”

“Fantastic. So what is the air force going to do now?”

“They are going to saturate the skies with fighter escorts, mainly P51’s. The air force believes we will win a battle of attrition if only because we outnumber them so vastly.”

“And that will be a great comfort to the widows and other family members of those killed.”

“General, the air force does have other tactical plans. The German jets guzzle fuel, so they have to land and gas up fairly frequently. The idea is to follow them and either shoot them down when they slow down to land, or hit them on the ground, or bomb the crap out of the airfields so they can’t take off or land.”

“I guess it’s better than our boys lining up to be shot at,” Smith said, again grumpily. “Now, what the hell is going on with the French and what the hell are the Russians up to? All I’m getting is word that the French commies are rioting and that the Soviet advance is slowing and we don’t need either to happen, not for one damn minute.”

“General, we’re trying to pin things down, but nothing looks very good. In fact, it could wind up being real, real bad.”

* * *

Jack flew the Piper in lazy circles around the barn a thousand feet below while Snyder called out information that was largely superfluous. The American tanks were pounding the building. For reasons known only to them, a handful of German soldiers had opened fire on the head of the 74th’s column. A Jeep and a half-track had been damaged and two men lightly wounded, but now the barn, yet another old stone structure, was surrounded and being blasted to pieces by a platoon of tanks. Although he could not tell the difference from the sky, he knew that the American tanks were Jeb’s and now had the higher velocity 76mm guns that could knock out most German tanks. Unfortunately, they still had inadequate armor and were vulnerable to both German tanks and antitank guns.

“Can’t have everything,” Jeb Carter had said. “And by the way, keep yourself out of my cousin’s pants.”

They’d had the conversation that morning. “Got nowhere near her pants, or any other part of her clothing or anatomy,” Jack had responded in mock anger. “Even though she’s related to you, she’s got more class than to allow that.”

Jack was well aware that the relationship was by marriage not blood. “I’ve seen her naked,” Jeb volunteered, shocking both Jack and Levin. “Of course she was two and I was about four. Still, she said she was impressed with the state of my manhood even at that young age. Sadly, I thought she was a little flatchested.” He declined to add that he’d seen her half naked just a few years ago when she was much older.

Jack flew lower to see the damage being done to the barn. As he did, Snyder caught motion and suggested they reverse course and fly higher. “Good catch, Snyder,” he said and keyed his radio to the ground. “Jeb, you’ve got a handful of German tanks coming right at you.”

Carter chortled. “How many in a handful? Some of my cracker relatives got eight webbed fingers on a hand.”

“Four tanks and one scout vehicle and, oh shit, I think they’re Panthers.” He flew low, almost at ground level and picked up the distinct slope to the hull and turret. “Confirmed, Jeb, they’re Panthers.”

Carter swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was suddenly dry. The five man Panther weighed nearly forty-five tons, but, more importantly carried a high velocity 75mm gun as its main weapon, and its sloping front was heavily armored and virtually impervious to many American weapons. Now it was time to find out what the Sherman’s new 76mm gun could do. Many other U.S. units had fought the Panther with mixed results. In most cases, the German tanks had inflicted serious damage and withdrawn.

The Germans were in sight and Morgan again confirmed that they were the dreaded Panthers. Now they were just within range. “Open fire,” Carter ordered.

All four of his tanks shot, but, at long range, only one hit, and that shell bounced off the glacis, or sloping frontal hull.
We’re in trouble,
Carter thought. He’d also fired way too soon and cursed himself for the mistake.

The Panthers fired and one of Carter’s tanks was hit. The shell penetrated the tank’s armor and it began to burn almost immediately. Jeb heard the explosions but was too focused on his immediate front to care about the other tank and its crew. Carter’s tank fired and again the shell bounced off the glacis.

“Damn it to hell,” Carter swore. Even with improved guns, the Panther’s front armor was impervious to the Sherman. The reports were right, only a hit on the side or a damned good shot on the turret would stop a Panther.

A second Sherman was hit and damaged. Carter called for reinforcements and the remainder of his twelve-tank company responded rapidly. The Germans saw them and decided they’d had enough. They began to back away. Carter’s tank fired again; this time the gunner’s aim was true, hitting a Panther’s turret. Smoke and fire billowed from it. Carter was about to cheer when his own tank was rocked by a hit, hurling him against the turret’s wall. Smoke filled the compartment.

“Abandon ship,” he yelled, coughing violently from the smoke. The order was probably unnecessary. Everyone knew to get the hell out once fire started. He tried to open the turret hatch but it was stuck. Jesus, he thought as he fought off panic, I am going to burn to death.

Carter slid down through the smoke to the belly of his tank. The bottom hatch was open and one of his crew was already escaping that way. Carter called out and heard no one else. He hoped they were all gone. If not, their life expectancy was now in seconds. He slid down and crawled out behind his immobile tank, hoping that he wasn’t going to be machine-gunned. When he was far enough away and thought he might be safe, he stood up and watched the remainder of his force moving carefully in the direction of the Germans who could no longer be seen.

“Anybody call for air support?” he yelled. His voice was hoarse from inhaling smoke.

“They’re coming,” was the answer.

“Yeah,” he said. “Once again a day late and a dollar short.” Worse, they’d just had their first real taste of fighting the best tank the Germans had and it had just clobbered the best tank the U.S. had, the up-gunned Sherman.

“This is going to be a long fucking war,” he said to no one in particular.

* * *

Colonel Otto Skorzeny stood at attention. Both Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler and Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt waved him to a seat. Skorzeny smiled inwardly at the fact. Which of them, he wondered, was truly in charge? And who would still be standing when this damned war was over, Himmler the snake or Rundstedt the warrior? Never bet against the snake, he decided.

Himmler smiled. “Colonel, we have several important and discrete tasks for you. I’ve been told you speak both English and French, true?”

“Yes, but not as fluently as a native.”

Himmler smiled. “No, we would not think of passing you off as one. Do you also speak Russian?”

“A very little,” he admitted, “but I am certain I could improve on my skills.”

“An excellent idea,” said Rundstedt. “In the meantime, we wish you to develop separate detachments of men who can speak English, Russian, or French, or, perhaps, all of them. And in these cases, the men must be fluent enough to fool the natives, so to speak.”

Skorzeny paused for a moment, thinking. “Finding large numbers of men who can, as you say, fool the natives, will be very difficult, if not impossible. Many of my men who have those language skills from living in other countries have now lived in the Reich so long that they’ve picked up accents or forgotten old idiom, or are unaware of current ones. The Americans, for instance, ask questions about current baseball standings if they are suspicious of someone, and most of my English speakers don’t even know the rules of the game, or they learned their English in England where they know even less about it.”

“As do I,” Rundstedt said dryly, and even Himmler smiled.

“Although, there are times when an English accent is often a good excuse for not knowing about American trivia,” Skorzeny said. “In fact, Americans are almost childishly impressed with an intelligent sounding British accent.” His mind was racing with possibilities. What on earth did they want him to do?

“What would be feasible,” Skorzeny continued, “is to establish certain levels of language skills, such as Class A for the handful of those who could pass as natives, Class B for those larger numbers who are fluent but have accents and lack knowledge of minutiae, and Class C for that largest group who are fluent enough to understand and be understood, and read newspapers, bulletins, menus, etc.”