Himmler's War-ARC (48 page)

“Does Himmler know this?”

Varner laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, but he and Goebbels are bluffing. We may have knocked Russia out of the war, but they’ll be back and the Americans are still here.”

“Ernst, aren’t the Yanks working on a bomb of their own?”

“I can say yes without betraying any secrets.”

“And would our bomb have fit in an American B29?”

“From what I know of the plane, yes.”

“Then have you heard that the B29 is heading to Europe?”

“Jesus,” Varner said, chilled at the thought of American bombers dropping nuclear weapons on a defenseless Germany. Photos of the devastation in Moscow were beginning to come from diplomatic and news sources and the effect was horrific, although not all that different from the flaming hell rained on Hamburg and other German cities.

“Thank you for making my day, Hans, but that’s not why I’m here. I am convinced that the main American attack will not come in the south, but will be in the north near Bonn. Unfortunately, I cannot find any proof. All the landing craft are in Patton’s area, and not in Simpson’s.”

Varner explained what pilots and spies had located. Schurmer’s eyes narrowed. He rose and closed the office door. “Tell me, when you became a general did you leave your brains behind? Where were you when the Yanks landed in Normandy?”

“Getting out of the hospital, as you well know.”

“Have you seen photos or newsreels of the landings?”

“A few. What are you driving at?”

Schurmer split the last of the scotch with his guest, unevenly as Varner noticed. What the hell, it was his bottle.

“Rundstedt and Himmler are transfixed by platoon-sized landing craft,” Schurmer said. “Did you ever hear of a ‘duck’? And no, I am not talking about a feathered creature that waddles on the ground and quacks; instead, I am talking about the creature that swims rather well. In this context, the word duck stands for an absurd abbreviation for a vehicle that is half boat and half truck.”

He stepped over to a wall shelf and pulled out a folder filled with photographs. “Look at this, General Varner.”

Varner paled. He saw scores of small landing craft heading for the Normandy shore in a photo taken by an incredibly brave German photographer.

“The Americans have thousands of these things and they hold a squad each,” Schurmer said. “Nor do they have to be hidden since they run on wheels when on land and act like a boat in water. They worked marvelously.”

“Dear God.”

“Don’t get religious, Ernst, it doesn’t become you. Here’s another picture. This is a Sherman tank attempting to swim to shore using flotation devices during the Normandy invasion. They didn’t work very well and almost all the tanks sank because the seas were too rough and they were dropped off too far from shore. Tell me, O newly anointed General, how rough is the Rhine and how far would they have to travel?”

“The water is as smooth as glass,” Varner said softly. “And the distance to cross will be relatively short. This means I’m right. The main attack won’t be in the south.”

Schurmer laughed harshly. “We’ve always said that we couldn’t stand up to American numbers and firepower, and that we needed the Rhine Wall to protect us. This shows that they can and doubtless will attack wherever they want and simply overwhelm our defenses. Dietrich’s reserve army, now heading south to confront Patton, will be ordered to reorient itself and head north to confront the true menace, which means it will be vulnerable to American planes.”

“Does Rundstedt know about this?”

“Of course, and he’s chosen to ignore it.”

Varner was aghast. “But why?”

Schurmer shrugged and gazed longingly at the empty bottle of Scotch. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

       * * *

Colonel Tom Granville looked up in surprise at the thin young man who stood before him. “Phips, what the devil are you doing here and in my office? Aren’t you supposed to be in New York or someplace selling war bonds?”

“I can’t do that anymore, sir. Getting people to buy bonds might be a good idea for some, but I’m beginning to feel like a pimp. Also, I’m yesterday’s hero. Hitler’s been dead for a while now and the war’s still going on. Hell, sir, I’ve had people tell me it’s my fault that we’re still fighting.”

“Phips, does the Pentagon know you’re here?”

“No sir. I faked my way across by telling who I was and that I had verbal orders from Ike.”

“Good God, that’s a court-martial offense. Correction, that’s several of them. Why the devil did you do it?”

“Because of Stover, sir. His mother wrote me that they got word through the Red Cross that he’d died in a prison camp hospital after being shot down. I’ve talked with some people at State and in the OSS and they’re convinced that he was probably beaten to death after parachuting safely from his damaged plane. Maybe they even knew he was one of the guys who killed Hitler. I decided it wasn’t fair that I would be screwing around in American cities while my crewmen were dealing with danger. Colonel, I applied through channels and they all thought I was crazy.”

“Well, you are,” Granville said. Perhaps the boy had more balls then he’d originally thought. Still, there were problems. “What do you hope I will do?”

“Sir, I’d like to get back in a bomber. I’ve tried to reach people in the Eighth Air Force and they basically said they didn’t want to talk to me. Since I used Ike’s name so liberally, I thought I’d see you.”

Granville sat back in his chair and sighed. “Son, there’s no way in hell you’re going back in a bomber.”

Phips’ jaw dropped in dismay. “Why?”

“Because if the Nazi fanatics even got a hint you were up they’d make every effort to kill you and that would include your crew, just like what might have happened to Stover. Some Nazis are so fanatic they’d even make like a Jap and try to ram your plane. In fact, some German fools are doing that already. Now tell me, would that be fair to your new crewmen?”

Phips sagged visibly. “No sir, it wouldn’t. I’ve got enough on my plate what with feeling guilty about Stover. His mom wrote me that he’d wanted to go back up and prove he was good as I was. Hell, sir, all I did was bomb some damn building. How was I supposed to know Adolf the Shithead was in it?”

“First, Captain Phips, you are not responsible for other people’s behavior and I know you’ve been told that. I suggest you start believing it. As to what to do with you, I’ve just decided that we need another liaison officer to check on how well we’re coordinating with the army. I’ll make up some retroactive orders to cover your ass and keep you out of the stockade.”

There was a knock on the door and a young woman entered carrying some folders. She smiled happily. “My God, it’s Phipsie!”

Phips grinned happily. “In the flesh, Margie.”

Granville rolled his eyes. “Margie, Captain Phips is being assigned here. Why don’t you take him around and get him settled in.”

Margie took Phips by the arm and led him away. “I’ve missed you, you silly boy.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he said and meant it.

“And I’ll bet you don’t even know my last name, do you? It’s Fletcher, by the way. Well, you’re going to have plenty of time to learn that and a lot of other really, really important things.”

* * *

Morgan and Levin watched from a bunker as the west bank of the Rhine was gradually pulverized by the hundreds of pieces of American artillery that had taken over from the waves of bombers. These included the relatively small 105mm howitzers that the 74th possessed. Heavier artillery from neighboring divisions provided the bigger guns utilizing a technique referred to as “time on target.” This meant that every gun that could be brought to bear fired on the exact same place for a set period of time. It generally devastated the target and raised havoc with the morale of the persons under fire, or nearby waiting their turn. American tanks held their fire. They would need their ammunition on the other side.

“Once again,” said Levin, “how can anybody be alive after all this? Yet I know that a lot of them will be. I don’t know about you, but I’m damn glad we won’t be going in with the first waves.”

Jack offered no argument. The night before it had been announced that Patton’s Third Army was crossing to their south and was meeting stiff resistance. “Why don’t we make our own atomic bomb and drop it on the Nazis?” Jack asked. Levin merely grunted.

All around them hundreds of ducks stuffed with men from the 116th Infantry Division were rolling to their take-off points. Close to fifty Sherman tanks fitted with flotation devices moved with them. Still, the Germans hadn’t responded to the American barrages.

Carter slipped in beside them. His Pershing tanks wouldn’t move until a pontoon bridge had been built. They were too heavy for the existing flotation equipment and Carter was not brokenhearted about missing the initial fighting. Tanks, he’d pronounced, were not meant to float on anything.

“Hey, did you two see the drivers on the ducks?”

Morgan grinned. He knew what was coming. “No, Jeb, why don’t you tell me?”

“The drivers are Negroes. They are actually sending colored boys into combat. And you know what’s worse? They’ve got rifles in those trucks.”

“How else are they supposed to defend themselves?” Levin asked.

“They aren’t supposed to fight, especially not against white men. Or hadn’t you noticed that the krauts are white?”

Further discussion was silenced when the ducks and tanks began to move towards the river. “Looks like a herd of large turtles,” Carter mused.

The vehicles splashed into the water and began to plow forward. Now the German guns opened up and multitudes of splashes kicked up around the swarm of American craft. The German fire was so intense that it looked like giant raindrops from an immense storm were falling among the craft.

In order to fire, however, the German gunners had to expose themselves, if only for a moment. American counterfire began to hit around the newly exposed targets.

Carter swore and ran off. His tanks could hit the German guns and could be reloaded with additional ammo before any pontoon bridge was built.

A duck was hit and blew apart. Another was swamped by a nearby shell, sending men into the deep and still frigid water. The ducks and tanks surged on as still more were killed. When the attack force got to the middle of the river, German heavy artillery fired from sites dug in behind the hills. They could not be seen by American gunners who depended on spotters to find their targets, but the huge weapons could destroy with a near miss as waves and concussion took out still more ducks. Morgan longed to go up and spot for American gunners, but it was too dangerous with so much metal flying around in the air. His turn would come when the barrage lifted.

Behind the hills, American dive bombers bombed and strafed as the big German guns came out to fire. Enormous splashes landed among the landing craft. “Go faster,” someone near Jack yelled, but the ducks and tanks couldn’t. A glacial six miles an hour was about it for them. Several hundred small craft were now visible in a tableau that reminded many of the Normandy landings.

The ducks reached the far shore, which meant that the enemy bombardment would be lifted. “Time for me to go,” Jack said. He stood and trotted to the rear where his tiny air force awaited. His planes were ready to lift off and spot for the amphibious Sherman tanks that were also reaching the shore. Most of the tanks and ducks had made it, although a disconcerting number were either burning, sinking or had disappeared. As with the crossing of the Seine, heads could be seen bobbing in the dark waters of the Rhine. The tank flotation devices worked, and only a handful of the Shermans had been hit.

Tanks and ducks lumbered over the ground. About a hundred yards in, the ducks disgorged their human cargo and turned around for the next trip. The tanks, with infantry beside them, moved slowly into the heart of the Rhine Wall while German machine guns and antitank guns raked the advancing Americans.

Fingers of flame shot out from the Shermans that had been modified to work as armored flamethrowers. Fire hit the German bunkers and Levin felt he could hear the screams from those inside as they were turned into human torches. He had a hard time feeling any sympathy.

Above it all Jack’s plane flew high above the Rhine and then swooped down behind the hills that hid the German artillery. A nervous Snyder sat behind him.

Jack pointed downward. A short rail line was visible behind a hill. The Germans had hidden a big gun inside the hill, trundling it out on the tracks to fire at American targets, and rolling it back in for safety. But the act of firing had blown away its camouflage and the tracks stood out starkly.

“Aw shit, not again,” howled Snyder as Morgan dropped to below tree-top level and slowed the plane.

“Get ready, Snyder.” They approached the tracks. “Now,” yelled Morgan.

Snyder quickly dropped a couple of flares out the window. They burst into a bright and glaring light. Morgan quickly radioed his position and a pair of dive-bombers soon strafed the area and bombed it. Jack flew back over and confirmed that the tracks had been destroyed. The gun hadn’t been killed, but it had been immobilized. He grinned and banked to look for more tracks.

* * *

On the ground by the river, Sergeant Tyree Wall turned and yelled. “Everybody get the hell out of my bus!”

Ranger First Lieutenant Stan Bakowski slapped him on the shoulder. “Knew you’d get us here safely, Sergeant, that’s why I asked for you.”

“Fuck you. I’ll never do another favor for a white man again.”

Bakowski laughed and gathered his Rangers. With such a short crossing, most of them were close around, although a full truckload was missing. Bakowski didn’t have time to dwell on those implications. His men had to maneuver around the German lines and get into the rear where the big guns were hidden. Planes and bombs could only do so much. Sooner or later, someone wearing combat boots was going to have to go underground and root them out.

Wall’s duck hit the water and headed west. Long lines of American soldiers were waiting for his ferry service. It appeared to him that German fire was slackening. It also seemed there were far fewer landing craft than had set off just a little while before. A mangled body floated face down in the water and he swerved to avoid it. Part of him said he should pull it in but that would have meant stopping and making him a stationery target. Sorry buddy, he muttered to himself. If you looked wounded, I’d take a chance, but you are clearly dead. He hoped somebody downstream would pull the dead GI out.