CHAPTER 2
BEFORE HE COULD LEAVE the damaged vessel, Jack was questioned by an American rear admiral about the mine the LST had hit. When Jack insisted that he’d seen torpedo tracks, the admiral had sternly rebuked him. “It was a mine, Morgan. The krauts do not have subs in the English Channel. Do you understand that, Captain?”
When Jack persisted, Commander Stephens had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. “Captain, do you recall the story of the emperor’s new clothes, the invisible ones?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you are under navy jurisdiction now and the official line is that there are no U-boats in the Channel. If you persist, the navy will send you to someplace north of Iceland for the duration of the war plus eternity while they pretend to sort this out.”
Jack had a sudden epiphany. He informed the navy brass that, darn, maybe he wasn’t certain it was a torpedo. After all, what did a bomber pilot know about torpedoes and mines?
The investigation quickly ended and Jack was free to go. Stephens again collared him. “If you’re feeling bad about that little lie, don’t. It’s not like it’s going to change anything and it might just help protect our guys if the Nazis don’t know that their U-boat attack was successful. Regardless, the dead are still dead, and the wounded still hurting. Oh yeah, thanks for helping out.”
Jack agreed. Except for the navy’s ego, who the hell cared what the truth was?
The Americans had taken Cherbourg, but the Nazis had blown up everything and destroyed its usefulness as a port. Repairs would take months, which was why the LST had to land on the beach in the first place. Nor had the LST been able to get terribly close as it had taken on a lot of water and everyone who was able to had to wade. The wounded and the dead were taken off by small boats or by medics who waded out with stretchers, but the majority of the soldiers, Jack included, had to walk through cold water that sometimes came over their waists.
The residue of war littered the beaches of Normandy. Burned out tanks and trucks and crushed German emplacements were everywhere as mute testimony to the battle that raged only a few days prior.
As a soggy Morgan walked across the sandy beaches, he had the unpleasant thought that he was treading on dead soldiers who were lying just underneath his water-soaked boots. This, he decided, was hallowed ground, like Gettysburg. He felt inadequate walking there.
A little farther on, the sight of temporary graves did nothing to dispel this feeling and a growing sense of inadequacy. How had he gotten himself into this mess? He should be flying bombers, not walking in sandy muck.
He knew the answer, of course. He’d frozen at the controls of his plane and the copilot, a mere trainee, was forced to land it for him. This happened after seeing one of his friends blown to little pieces when his bomber had crashed and exploded on landing. Jack first thought he could handle it, but he’d been wrong. Thus, he no longer flew bombers and was sent from Kansas to England and now to France. Who needed a pilot who wouldn’t fly? Who would ever trust a pilot who froze up? Funny, but he thought he was over his collapse and could take the controls again, but it didn’t look like he’d get the opportunity anytime soon.
Man-made thunder rumbled in the background as a constant reminder that the Germans were still very close to the beaches at Normandy. Even though the perimeter had expanded eastward, German artillery could still hit many targets inside the perimeter.
He trudged on. His clothing and boots were soggy and he was shivering from the cold, even though it was summer. Soon, he found the tent city that was the replacement depot. It was a confused sea of humanity, all dressed in olive drab. Literally thousands of men were arriving and departing to new units. Morgan was first sent to a clinic where he received some stitches in his forehead along with a fresh bandage. The medic assured him it made him look heroic. Jack told the medic to go screw himself, which the medic thought was hilarious. His bruises and scratches were treated and he was assured that his shoulder was fine but would pain him for a while, which was something he’d already figured out.
He’d recovered his duffle bag, but much of the contents had been ruined by salt water. This meant standing in long lines to get replacement uniforms and equipment. Fortunately, all his personal and official papers, along with his orders, had been in a waterproof envelope. A GI in England had made that suggestion and it turned out to be a damned good one.
The replacement depot was outside the ruined town of Trevieres, a place that would have been unlovely even if it hadn’t been shelled to pieces during the invasion. Jack found a cot in a tent assigned to officers and settled in to wait. He was told not to unpack. He would be out and on his way the next morning. He lay down and wondered if he’d be able to sleep. It proved to be no problem.
Early the next day and after a shower and a bland breakfast, he found himself waiting with a bunch of other officers, most of whom were young and fresh-faced second lieutenants. They looked at him with a degree of wonder.
“Morgan, John C., Captain,” came the call.
Jack walked over to the table where a staff sergeant named Sweeney awaited. “Here are your orders, Captain. You will report ASAP to the 74th Armored Regiment. Grab your gear and a Jeep will take you to them.”
“Armor? You sure, Sergeant? I’m a pilot, not a tanker.”
The sergeant shrugged. “This came directly from the major running this place. He said the 74th requested a captain and you’re the only captain here right now. Congratulations.”
“I don’t know a thing about tanks,” Jack said and realized he was sounding whiny and foolish.
Sergeant Sweeney shrugged eloquently. He didn’t care. “If you know what a tank looks like, you’re way ahead of those adolescent virgin second lieutenants who are standing there and wondering what we’re talking about. And welcome to the real army, sir.”
Sergeant Sweeney was right. Borderline insubordinate, but right. But what the devil would he do in an armored unit? Supply? Probably. Jesus, he didn’t want to spend the war handing out underwear and pillowcases.
“Thank you, Sergeant Sweeney, and may you someday get reassigned to submarines as a deck hand.” Sweeney laughed.
* * *
Varner had never met Heinrich Himmler and had never wanted to. The man’s name was synonymous with terror and death.
In person he appeared pasty faced, even worse than his pictures. Himmler’s fishy eyes looked coldly at him. Varner willed himself to be calm. This man was even more dangerous than the Soviets had been at Stalingrad. Heinrich Himmler controlled the SS and the Gestapo, and might now be the heir to the late Adolf Hitler. Himmler held the power of life and death in the Third Reich. Many thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands, had disappeared, were tortured, and died without trial at his whim.
Himmler’s detractors liked to claim that the forty-five-year-old Reichsfuhrer was nothing more than an ignorant chicken farmer, an opportunist, a murderer, and a man who’d ridden Hitler’s coattails to prominence. They were correct, but Heinrich Himmler was now one of the most important men in Germany, if not its most important man thanks to the events at Rastenberg.
Varner was glad that he wasn’t alone in Himmler’s conference room in the basement of the Reich Chancellery located in the heart of Berlin. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt represented the army and was now its de facto head because of the deaths of Jodl and Keitel. He was the man Varner had immediately notified by radio from Rastenberg. Varner had served under him in Russia and the sixty-nine-year-old field marshal had left his current position in France to fly back to Berlin and take control of the military aspects of the developing situation. The field marshal was terse and unlikeable, but thoroughly professional. He was bringing order back from the chaos that was the decapitated OKW.
Himmler bit his lower lip and glared at Varner. “You did extraordinarily well, Colonel Varner. The world still thinks Hitler is recovering from his wounds instead of lying in an ice-filled coffin in his train en route to Berlin. It might have been better if you had notified me first, but you are a soldier and contacting von Rundstedt must have made sense.”
“It did, sir, and I apologize if I should have done differently.”
“I’m quite certain he had no way of contacting you, Reichsfuhrer,” von Rundstedt said.
Himmler blinked and waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. Everything is going well and you are to be commended for your presence of mind in both sealing off the compound and convincing those around that the Fuhrer was alive. Everything is under control and Goebbels is going to end the rumors and formally announce that Hitler is injured. We will announce his demise in the very near future when the time is appropriate. There remains some fear that dissident elements, traitors, remnant Jews, and communists, will attempt to take advantage of any chaos and confusion.
“However, that is not my main concern. Tell me, Colonel, do you have any idea just how the Americans came to know that the Fuhrer was going to be at that particular place and at that particular time?”
The question stunned Varner. He had thought the bombing a tragic accident of war, but could it be that it was assassination, and not an accident? “Sir, I have no idea.”
“You were with von Stauffenberg. Did he say anything suspicious?”
“No sir. We had just managed lighting our cigarettes, no small feat when our wounds are considered, when the bomber suddenly appeared quite low overhead. We both jumped into a slit trench and tried to make ourselves very small. Otherwise, we had not spoken.”
Himmler leaned back in his chair. “And how did you know each other?”
Varner felt himself beginning to sweat. He caught von Rundstedt out of the corner of his eye. The old general was expressionless, a flinty statue.
“We first met at the hospital. We were both there for therapy on our wounds. Prior to that I did not know him personally, although I had heard of him. Most people in the army had, of course.”
Himmler nodded and Varner forced himself to exhale. Was it possible that von Stauffenberg had been part of a plot to assassinate Hitler, and, if so, had he somehow managed to carry it out?
There was a pause as Josepf Goebbels, the clubfooted and diminutive Minister of Information and Propaganda limped in and took a seat. The most important people in the Nazi hierarchy were now together, with the exception of Hermann Goering and Martin Bormann. Varner thought Goering’s absence was particularly curious. It was commonly suspected that the obese air marshal was the heir to Hitler’s Germany, and not Himmler. It was also rumored that he spent most of his time in a narcotic haze.
Himmler nodded to Goebbels to speak. “Thank you, Reichsfuhrer Himmler,” he said formally. “We are just now announcing confirmation of the rumors that Adolf Hitler was wounded in an air raid. We shall issue medical updates as needed until the Fuhrer recovers enough to be interviewed.”
Himmler turned towards Varner. “Tell him, Colonel.”
Varner took a deep breath. “Adolf Hitler is dead. I helped pull his body from the rubble in Rastenberg and planted the tale that he was merely wounded.”
Goebbels reacted as if he’d been punched in the gut. He paled and hunched over. “God in heaven, no.”
“There is no God and there is no heaven.” Himmler sneered. “Colonel Varner acted heroically by hiding the fact of Hitler’s death, and may have saved the Reich from forces that wish to destroy it.”
“I understand,” Goebbels said. Grief was etched on his face. “Thank you, Colonel.”
Himmler continued. He was clearly in charge. “Along with that announcement, there are other steps to be taken. First, all of Stauffenberg’s friends and family will be rounded up and interrogated. Gently, at first, until and if we find a conspiracy, and then more harshly. Tell me, General von Rundstedt, is possible that the Allies have radio controlled weapons like we do?”
Field Marshal von Rundstedt was a proud man and he bristled at being referred to as a mere general. However, he did not correct Himmler. “Indeed it is possible. We sank a ship in Naples harbor with one and there is no reason to assume the Allies don’t have them either.”
Himmler nodded. “Which might explain the fact that Stauffenberg’s briefcase was empty. Perhaps he had a signaling device in it which he used to guide the bomber.”
Or, Varner thought, had the contents of the briefcase merely blown away, or had he left whatever papers he’d brought with Jodl or Keitel?
“Is that possible, Colonel Varner?” Himmler asked.
Rundstedt responded for a very perplexed Varner. “It is, Reichsfuhrer, but it also implies that von Stauffenberg either knew very little about the accuracy of bombs or that he was suicidal. While it might be possible to guide a robot plane fairly precisely, accurately dropping a bomb load on a small target is not. In my opinion, hitting the building where the Fuhrer was, was blind luck, and that leads me to think that a conspiracy is most unlikely.
“I might also add, Reichsfuhrer, that Hitler’s decision to go to Rastenberg was made at the last minute and in great secrecy. He left by train the night before, arrived in the morning and had planned to return that evening. Therefore, I do not think there was enough time to plan and execute such a complicated assassination as you describe.”
Himmler shook his head, accepting Rundstedt’s analysis with obvious reluctance. “This is all speculation. We will have more knowledge when we are through with our investigations.”
“And announcements,” Goebbels said. “I will personally prepare to announce that Adolf Hitler died a martyr’s death after heroically fighting terrible wounds inflicted on him by our cowardly enemies. The announcement will be made at your discretion, of course.”
Himmler nodded. “And you will further announce that he was assassinated by murdering Americans conspiring with Wall Street Jews,” said Himmler. “That will inflame the public on our behalf.”
Goebbels made a note. “Excellent. And what about his funeral? It should be one fit for a god, with thousands of marching soldiers and the leaders of the Reich assembled to honor our fallen leader.”
Rundstedt laughed harshly. “And won’t that make a wonderful target for the Ami bombers? They could finish what they started at Rastenberg and end the war in an afternoon.” Goebbels flushed at the criticism and hunched down in his chair.
Himmler stood. “Enough. We will meet again and soon.”
“It cannot be soon enough,” said Rundstedt as he rose. “Germany has been badly hurt, but we have also been handed potential opportunities. I wonder how the Allies will take the news and how it might affect their plans for the war? And how will this affect our own plans?”
Opportunities indeed, thought Himmler.
* * *
The ride from the replacement depot to the 74th Armored was short, only a few miles, but it took almost two hours because of all the traffic, most of it also heading for the front lines. Several times his lonely Jeep was shunted aside by MP’s in favor of columns of trucks and tanks that had greater priority even though they were all headed in the same direction. This gave Jack an opportunity to look around and be shocked by the level of destruction. Except for the attack on the LST, he’d never seen war before and, in particular, a pilot was usually insulated from its effects.
Although the heavily cratered roads had been patched, there were still enough holes and bumps to shake his spine as the Jeep, driven by a thoroughly disinterested private named Snyder, lurched its way forward. Pushed off the road were the carcasses of numerous charred vehicles, almost all of them German. From the stench emanating from a number of them, their occupants, now thoroughly cooked, remained inside. Graves Registration gave American dead a high priority. Nazis could wait until hell froze over, and Jack was okay with that.
The road was dirt and narrow, hemmed in by dense hedgerows that Snyder said were called bocages by the locals. Along with Snyder and Morgan, the Jeep carried mail and Jack had a sack of it on his lap. Snyder’d hinted that the mail was more important than Jack was.
Morgan had picked up enough to know that the hedgerows had been a most unpleasant surprise for the Americans. Centuries old, some said they even dated to Roman times, the hedgerows were upwards of fifteen feet thick at the base and half a dozen feet high. They were topped by trees and hedges that added to the problem. They originally defined each farmer’s generally small piece of property and were often separated by narrow roads. Vehicles simply couldn’t bull their way through the hedgerows and men had to squeeze through extremely narrow openings in the foliage; thus, a handful of Germans could and often did hold up large numbers of Americans. Snyder mentioned that some tanks had been fitted with bulldozerlike contraptions that enabled the tank to slice a path through the hedgerow. He added that the 74th was a cherry regiment, virgins who had never seen much combat. Wonderful, Jack thought. He was one more virgin.
As they neared their destination, they passed numbers of parked American tanks and other vehicles. Morgan knew enough to recognize the squat and stubby M4 Sherman, and the smaller Stuart. Their crews were working on them in obvious anticipation of moving into battle, and the sounds of artillery were now quite distinct. This did not bode well, Morgan thought.
They also passed a number of antiaircraft batteries, their guns pointed toward the sky and their crews lounging about on the ground. Either U.S. radar was that good or it was testimony to the fact that the Luftwaffe was pretty well wiped out. He hoped it was both.
Finally, the Jeep pulled up in front of a nondescript tent. Jack took his gear, thanked Snyder who simply grunted, and entered. Inside was a desk and a couple of chairs. A lieutenant colonel sat behind the desk.
“Sit down, Captain. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Jim Whiteside and you can call me either colonel or sir, and I’m the executive officer of this regiment.”
Morgan sat as directed. Whiteside seemed affable enough, but he also looked a little strained. He was a short, stocky man in his mid-thirties and had thinning red hair.
Jack had only been with the 74th for a few minutes and already the culture shock was huge. Obviously, instead of planes and bombers there were large numbers of tanks, half-tracks, artillery, trucks, and Jeeps. And, where there was a degree of cleanliness kept in the air corps because of the need to keep plane engines clean, such was lacking in the 74th. Men were covered with dirt and grease, and Jack felt hugely out of place in his new fatigues.
Whiteside leaned back in his folding chair. “I’ll be blunt. You are not what we expected or wanted. We need an officer familiar with armor and they sent me you.”
Jack was about to comment but the colonel shushed him with a wave. “I know it’s not your fault. Somebody at the depot saw we had a captain killed and thought we needed a captain to replace him, when what we really need is an officer of any rank with a solid knowledge of tanks and armored warfare. Just a typical snafu, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“At any rate, you’re here and we’re gonna make the best of the situation. Now tell me candidly, why did you leave bombers?”
Jack told him what had happened, how he had frozen, and how he felt he was over it. “I’d seen a lot of trainees die, someone said ten percent are killed in training, but this time it finally got to me.”
Whiteside was shocked. “Ten percent dead before they even make it to the war?”
“Yes sir.”
The colonel shook his head. This was news to him. “Well, I guess there are no minor accidents in an airplane. Not like a tank bumping into a tree. Hell, the tree would likely lose. We’ve lost men killed and injured in training, but nothing like ten percent.”
“Of course, sir, there’s also the thought that we have more than enough bomber pilots and planes?”
“What?” Whiteside said incredulously. “That better be somebody’s idea of a joke.”
“Sorry, sir, but it isn’t. There’s a feeling among air force brass that the Nazis are on their last legs and that victory is just around the corner, so a lot of pilots and trainees are being declared superfluous and transferred to other branches. Obviously, top brass doesn’t talk to me, but there are rumors and nobody’s disputing them.”
“Shit.”
“It gets worse. The air force thinks they’re running out of targets.”
“Bull-fuck and double shit,” Whiteside said, his face reddening. “Why don’t they come and ask the guys who are trying to clear Nazis out of the way? They want targets? Hell, I’ll give them a dozen just a few miles away.”
Whiteside again shook his head. “Jesus, what a war. Well, here we are, and, even though you don’t know diddly about tanks, I have no choice but to put you in charge of Headquarters Company B, the position held by your predecessor. You’ll be in charge of setting up the regimental headquarters when we move and for security at all times. The CO is Colonel Stoddard. He’s at division getting orders and you’ll meet him soon enough.”
Whiteside looked through some more papers. “You a college graduate?”
“Not quite, sir. I made it through three years at Michigan State College in East Lansing, Michigan, before I got drafted.”
“Life’s a bitch,” the major muttered. “I ran a hardware store in Cleveland.”
“May I ask what happened to the guy I’m replacing?”
“What happened shouldn’t have. I wrote a letter to his family saying that his Jeep struck a mine and he’d been killed instantly. Of course it didn’t happen that way. He saw a dead kraut officer and tried to take the dead guy’s Luger as a souvenir. Unfortunately, the body was booby-trapped and your predecessor lost his arms and his face. And he didn’t die instantly. He screamed for two hours before medics got enough morphine in him to shut him up. Permanently. Rule number one for rookie officers is don’t go souvenir hunting. I’ll have someone take you to your quarters and you can meet Captain Levin. He’s in charge of Headquarters A Company.”
Morgan was dismissed but had a point to add. “By the way, Colonel. Maybe you don’t want to wish for close-in bomber support.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter what propaganda they’ve been feeding you, but bombers can’t hit anything accurately from high up. If you’re within a couple of miles of the target, you’re in more danger than the krauts.”
“Shit.”
“Frankly, sir,” Morgan said wickedly, “the safest place to be when bombs drop is right at the target.”
* * *
First Lieutenant Phips did what he was told. In the middle of a clammy and rainy night, he gathered the crew of Mother’s Milk and they were taken away in two trucks while he rode in the back seat of an army sedan. The trucks were buttoned up and there were shades on the side windows of the sedan. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought that the army didn’t want anybody to see him.
And why not? He was a pariah. On finally making it back to base, he’d had his ass chewed up down and sideways for having broken formation; thus putting both himself and others at risk. He’d endured it because he knew his superiors and peers were right and that he’d committed a major wrong.
Even worse, one of his men had been killed and likely as a result of his stupidity. Phips had been told in no uncertain terms that it might just be a cold day in hell before he ever saw the inside of a plane from the pilot’s seat again. It was further implied that his crew would be broken up and that saddened him. They would pay for his fuckup and that wasn’t right.
Thus, he wasn’t really surprised when the trucks containing his crew went one way and he the other. He’d tried discussing matters with the sergeant driving him, but the sergeant tersely said he was not allowed to talk to him, which further depressed Phips.
After several hours of slow driving through the English countryside, they pulled up in front of a guard post where their papers were scrutinized and the car searched before being sent on. There was a splendid looking country manor house that might have been several hundred years old and it was surrounded by a several dozen large army tents and Quonset huts. To his surprise, they went to the main old building where Phips was hustled down an ornately furnished corridor lined with portraits of distinguished looking people in historic costumes, and finally into a room containing only a couple of chairs. His duffle bag arrived a few moments later and was deposited with a thud by his feet.
A little while later, a full colonel entered and glared at him. Phips snapped to attention and was told to sit down. The colonel was maybe forty and was powerfully built. Phips quickly noted combat ribbons on his chest.
“I’m Colonel Tom Granville with army intelligence and I’ve got a few questions for you. For the record, confirm that three days ago you flew a B17 named the Mother’s Milk over Germany, East Prussia to be precise. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“Was your plane alone?”
“To the best of my knowledge, yes sir. At least after we shot down that ME that’d been chasing us all over the place.”
“Good job doing that, by the way. And after killing the ME, you knowingly and intentionally dropped a load of bombs on some buildings you spotted at the last second?”
Oh Jesus, Phips thought. Despite the antiaircraft fire they had hit a school, or a convent. He visualized dead and maimed children. He swallowed. “Yes, sir. We dropped the bombs to save on fuel and the buildings were the first things we saw.”
“Any idea just what the hell you hit, Lieutenant?”
“No sir. One of my crew said it was Germany so it didn’t much matter and I agreed. We just had to lighten our load so we could get home.”
The colonel’s grim-set mouth flickered. Was that a smile? Maybe he hadn’t hit a school. Granville continued. “Well you certainly did hit Germany and you did make your way back, and you did shoot down that ME, and now we don’t quite know what to do with you.”
“Sir?”
“Without divulging our sources, let me say that we now know that Adolf Hitler was at one of his secret headquarters in Rastenberg, Prussia, when a lone American B17 bomber flew low over the compound and dropped a load of bombs on his ugly fucking head.”
Phips jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah, Lieutenant, oh my God. Germany has just announced that he was injured in a one-plane bombing attack. However, we are getting subtle hints that his Fuhrer ass is dead and that his unlamented demise will be announced in a few days. This delay will give the new Nazi regime a chance to get settled. The krauts are saying it was a Jewish-American conspiracy to murder Hitler. However, we know better, don’t we? It was just one dumb, lucky son of a bitch in a lost B17 who dumped a load of bombs to save fuel and hit the jackpot.”
“And you’re sure I did it?”
“Yes we are and, until this all gets sorted out, you and your crew are going to be kept incommunicado. We don’t know whether to give you a medal for maybe killing der Fuhrer or court-martial your ass for breaking formation and maybe for losing a crewman. Maybe we’ll do both. A medal would look good on prison fatigues, don’t you think?”
Granville rose and Phips did as well. “In the meantime, you will stay here in utter squalor in this sixteenth-century building that might have housed Queen Elizabeth at some time. Try not to break anything. Sleep in, eat all you want, drink all you can find, and keep your mouth shut.”
“And my crew, sir?”
“I will be debriefing them shortly and you will all be reunited, hopefully to live happily ever after.”