“The same with the Luftwaffe,” he continued. “We have literally dozens of bases with no planes. At worst, those personnel currently loitering at them can be utilized as infantry, although that would be as a last resort. They will be more useful as antiarmor and antiaircraft defenders. Of course, those Luftwaffe personnel needed for existing planes and the new jets will be retained.”
To Himmler’s surprise, there were no objections from Doenitz or Galland. Had he been there, Goering would have had a tantrum at the partial dismantling of his precious and now almost irrelevant Luftwaffe.
Yes, he thought, something must be done about Goering. And Bormann.
The morning drizzle had turned to a steady, driving rain. Nazi weather, the men of the 74th called it. The rain meant that the dirt roads had turned to deep mud that even the tracked vehicles found difficult, and the far more numerous wheeled vehicles found impassible. As a result, the regiment was effectively stalled.
Rain also meant that nothing was in the air, including American fighter-bombers and, of course, Morgan’s patched up Piper Cub. Leach was in a hospital and would recover; however, his return to the regiment was problematic at best. Rear echelon duty looked to be in his future. It was almost as good as a wound requiring a medical discharge, the proverbial “million dollar” wound.
PFC Snyder was now Jack’s copilot but only after a very serious discussion. When initially tapped for the job, Snyder had flatly refused, even though disobeying a direct order might mean a court-martial and even jail time.
“At least I’d be alive, sir. With nothing but the highest respects for you as an officer and a pilot, what you have there is a flying coffin for the back seat driver. Think about it, Captain. If it’d been you who was hit, Leach would have been helpless. All he could have done was ride the thing down to the ground, screaming and praying and calling for his mother. No sir, and again with profoundest respects, what that plane requires is a set of dual controls so the back seat guy stands at least some chance of landing that thing. You get those built and I’ll gladly volunteer. If not, no thank you, sir.”
Since it had only been the two of them talking, Snyder was on fairly safe ground with his near insubordination. More important, he’d been right. While Sergeant Major Rolfe and the mechanics were fixing and cleaning the plane, Jack had them rig a set of controls for what Morgan now referred to as his copilot. He also had a pair of. 30 caliber machine guns mounted on the wings with a crude trigger in the cabin.
“You know these things can jam, sir,” Rolfe said. “in which case they’d be useless as tits on a boar.”
Morgan smiled. “You know that and I know that, but I’d just feel better having them and knowing that I might just stand a chance of firing back at somebody shooting at me. I never realized how helpless we were up there until the krauts opened fire and I could do nothing but jerk and twist and run like hell.”
Rolfe laughed. “Sometimes running’s the best possible move, if you ask me.”
The plane was ready and Snyder was ready. It was time to go back up, but the weather wasn’t going to cooperate. Damn.
With nothing much better to do, Jack drove his Jeep around traffic and towards the head of the column. Jeb Carter’s company had point this miserable and slow-moving day.
The column was stalled. Again. Trees had been felled across the road and there were clear indications that the road had been mined. If so, it was likely that the shoulders and the fields on either side were also mined. The Germans had a helluva lot of mines.
Soldiers were hunched over and moving cautiously towards the rude barricade. A couple of men had mine detectors and they swung them slowly over suspected areas like magic wands, while others waited the okay to start clearing the road. The mine detectors could pick up buried metal, but some German mines were made out of plastic, or even wood.
Jeb Carter, now Captain Jeb Carter, was in the turret of his Sherman and standing up with the hatch open. When he saw Jack, he grinned. “Hey, come on up here where real men hang out.”
Several of Carter’s men laughed at the jibe. “Good. Maybe I can get combat pay,” Jack retorted as he climbed onto the tank’s hull. It was slippery and he was wearing a poncho. He prayed he wouldn’t slip and fall into the mud. Carter would never let him hear the end of it.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get rain in your tank?”
Carter laughed. “It’ll help rinse all the crud out of it. Damn thing stinks of piss, oil, and sweat.”
Bang!
One of the men at the roadblock jerked and fell. “Sniper!” someone yelled and the others scattered and one poor soul stepped on a mine. It exploded and Morgan watched in horror as the man’s torso went in one direction and his legs in another.
Bang! Another GI fell, writhing and screaming. One of his buddies grabbed him and dragged him under cover. Jack slid off the tank and into a ditch. Carter had ducked into the turret and closed the hatch. The tank’s engine roared and the tank lurched forward. Carter stopped his tank just before the roadblock. A mine could rip the treads off his vehicle and leave him stranded and helpless.
Levin plopped down in the dirt beside Jack. “Where the hell is Carter going? Does he even know where the sniper is?”
“If the sniper has any brains, he’s halfway to Berlin by now,” Jack said.
Another tank joined Carter’s and the two of them sprayed likely areas with their machine guns. There was no response. An infantry patrol moved forward and disappeared into the rain, which had decided to fall in torrents. After what seemed an eternity, the patrol returned. Two men half-carried, half-dragged a wounded German soldier, while another carried a Mauser rifle with a telescopic sight. A Luger was stuck in a GI’s belt. The German grimaced with pain as he was ungently dumped beside Morgan and Levin.
Carter reversed his tank, stopped beside them, and clambered down.
“The dumb shit didn’t run away in time,” Carter snarled, his face contorted with fury. Men in his company had been among those killed and wounded. The German had been shot in the thigh, but didn’t seem in any life-threatening danger. They searched his pockets and found he was from the 89th Infantry Division, a unit neither had heard was in the area. Jack thought that intelligence would like to talk to this guy.
“The son of a bitch just stood up and surrendered,” one of the soldiers said. “He was even grinning at us.”
The sergeant in charge of the men clearing the roadblock walked up, took the prisoner’s Luger from a suddenly grinning corporal, held it to the prisoner’s forehead and pulled the trigger, splattering the German’s brains on the ground. Morgan and Levin were stunned.
“Those were my guys the fucker killed, Captain,” the sergeant snarled to Carter as if daring him to do something about it. Morgan had heard that a lot of prisoners never made it back to the prison pens. Surrendering in combat was very chancy, especially for someone who’d just killed several Americans. Too bad nobody would get a chance to interrogate this one, although his papers would tell a great deal.
Carter nodded. “Don’t ever do that again, Sergeant. And, oh yeah, give me the fucking Luger. Shooting a prisoner does not qualify you for a souvenir.”
CHAPTER 7
Hermann Goering half dozed in his oversized hospital bed and thought of Carinhall, his magnificent estate northeast of Berlin. Named for his first wife, Carin, it had also been the site of his wedding to his second wife, Emmy. His dreamy drug-induced thoughts included his happily observing the magnificent and historic art works taken from museums and private owners. Most of the latter were, of course, Jews. Much of it had been bought from the previous owners and not stolen, as some alleged, and so what if he paid only a minuscule fraction of the real worth? The owners were permitted to live, weren’t they? At least for a while, he thought and giggled softly, unless they had somehow managed to get out of Nazi Germany, in which case they could live all they wanted.