“Of course, by the time she gets to Paris, we’ll all likely be too far away.”
“Not a chance,” said Levin. “The way things are shaping up, we won’t be in any condition to move for a couple of weeks.”
“Okay, you know everything so what about the rumor that we’re getting new tanks?”
“False,” said Levin. “What they’re trying to do is upgrade the Sherman with a higher velocity seventy-five that’ll enable us to take on the Pk4 and the Panther on more even terms.”
“That’s not news, Roy.”
“I know, but what is news is that they’re actually doing it instead of talking the problem to death.”
Jack checked the time and his fuel situation. He turned the plane back towards the regiment. One of the last things he wanted to do was run out of fuel and have to cadge some from another unit. That would be too embarrassing, especially since there would be no compelling reason for it to happen except pilot stupidity.
“Roy, so what does it matter if we get better guns? What kind of surprises will the Germans have for us?” Levin replied that he didn’t want to think about it.
Much of the work on the weapons referred to by the Allies as the V1 and V2 rockets had taken place at Peenemunde, on the Baltic coast. In 1943, however, the facility had been heavily bombed, which resulted in the disbursing of its factory units to a number of other locations. This impaired efficiency, but the rocket program survived.
At only thirty-four, Dr. Wernher von Braun was technical director and effectively in charge of the program. He was almost childishly young for his position. Stocky, even plump, he smiled affably at Varner and the two men shook hands.
“So tell me, Colonel, Herr Himmler requires more information regarding the rocket program and wants to know why it isn’t performing better and winning the war.”
The so-called Vengeance weapons that had fascinated Hitler also had intrigued Himmler from the beginning, and he’d exercised considerable control and influence over the program.
“That’s a pretty close estimate of the situation,” Varner admitted.
Von Braun took a seat and gestured for Varner to do the same. “Sadly, Colonel, the V1 and V2 are merely high-tech toys. Someday when we are in outer space, history will say these were the first tiny steps towards taking man to the stars. They are capable of annoying the Allies, but not of winning the war. We can hurl them at England or even locations in France that have fallen to the Allies, but they cannot do enough damage to make a difference. As you know, both rockets carry a warhead of about one ton, while a single American or British bomber can exceed that by a wide margin. Better yet, a bomber stands a chance of actually hitting what it’s aiming for, while our rockets are unaimed and simply fired in the general direction of a very large target, say London. Even with such a huge target, very many of them go astray or suffer mechanical failure, or, worse, are shot down as the British are doing to our V1’s.”
Varner already understood that. “But what about the rocket that can hit New York?”
Von Braun guffawed. “A pipe dream. Someday certainly, but not for a decade or more. What is possible, theoretically, is that a V1 or V2 rocket might be launched from a U-boat and thus strike New York or any other American port. However, the warhead will still be small and odds are that it will land in a pond on Long Island or a farm north of the city and never even be noticed.”
“You don’t paint an encouraging picture.”
Von Braun smiled coldly. “I thought you wanted the truth, Colonel Varner. The wonder weapons will not change the course of the war. Ultimately and in another form, they might change the course of history, but that’s for decades in the future.”
Varner’s opinion of von Braun diminished. The young scientist had just said that the missile program was a fraud. The expenditure of money and manpower had been for nothing. Scientists like von Braun were using the resources of the Reich to foster their dreams of spaceships and travel to outer space instead of winning the war.
The whole V-weapon enterprise had also used thousands of slave laborers for the construction of the facilities. The more Varner saw and thought of the plight of the Jews and others who were being mistreated by the government, the more he realized that Germany would have a lot to answer for if she lost the war. Therefore, she could not lose the war.
“I think,” Monique said dryly, “that there are more American military police in Paris than there are Frenchmen.”
Jessica agreed. Every block or so they were stopped by MP’s who demanded their identification and orders and wondered why they were driving U.S. Army vehicles, even though they were clearly marked as belonging to the Red Cross. Jessica’s American passport and ID got her through, even to the point of intriguing the MP’s who hadn’t talked to an American woman in a long while. Monique was just another French woman and they were sometimes curt with her.
Monique didn’t mind. “They are the victors. The victors always set the rules.”
“And write history,” Jessica added. Or rewrite it, she thought.
She had been only mildly surprised when Monique decided to accompany her when the unit moved to Paris, leaving her son behind with relatives. It turned out that her master sergeant lover had also been transferred there as part of the massive American supply operation headquartered in Paris. He had used his influence to get them quarters they didn’t deserve, close to the center of the city. Jessica had to pay an exorbitant rent for the apartment, but that was all right as rooms of any kind were at a premium. Jessica and Monique would have separate bedrooms with a shared bath and a stunning view of a rubbish-filled alley. It would be more than satisfactory in a city overflowing with refugees and military personnel from a multitude of nations.
Uncle Tom Granville was somewhere in the mass of humanity and Jessica was determined to look him up. Among other things, she wanted to swap news about relatives back home, and she wanted to know what he could tell her about Cousin Jeb’s situation. She admitted to herself that she was more than a little intrigued by his friend, Jack Morgan. The photo he’d sent her made him look like a little boy alongside his flying toy, and the smile on his face looked genuine and not forced for the camera.
Dear God, she thought, am I falling in love with someone I’ve never met?
Monique had chided her frequently about dressing better and, therefore, looking better to men, especially American men who were starved for a familiar sounding voice. Jessica had laughingly informed her friend that she would not slink around the Red Cross offices in a low-cut red dress. Not only was it not appropriate, but all she had was very functional and relatively sexless clothing. She admitted that she’d never thought she’d wind up in Paris.
Along with a couple of letters from Jack Morgan, she’d gotten a batch from home. Most of the comments from her mother were complaints about the inequities of the ration system. There never was enough gas, they were supposed to do without meat on certain days, and, heavens to Betsy, nylons were nonexistent.
Jessica’s father was more pragmatic. It didn’t bother him that they were reduced to driving one car and that it was now almost five years old. Everyone was in the same boat and, he said, as long as the boat wasn’t sinking, all was well. She sometimes wondered just what planet her mother came from. Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler hadn’t made a new car since shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Everything they now produced went to the military. Her father said there would be plenty of time for new cars, new houses, and, yes, nylons, when the war was won.