“Would that be bad?” Truman asked. He wished someone other than Stettinius was present. Dean Acheson was vastly preferable to the current secretary of state who seemed to have his own agenda when it came to dealing with the Soviet Union.
“We don’t know,” Marshall answered. “He’s a ruthless, capable and hard-driving general who doesn’t seem to care how many casualties he takes as long as he wins, but we don’t know what he would do as head of state.”
Truman laughed harshly. He was familiar with the situation. “Maybe he doesn’t know either.”
“The Germans will counterattack shortly,” Marshall said, abruptly changing the subject. “Dietrich’s Reserve Army has been ordered to shift north and attack the Remagen bridgehead. We believe he will leave a covering force to keep Patton in check. As if,” he laughed grimly, “anyone can keep Patton in check. As soon as Patton confirms this, he will cross the Rhine in force.”
Marshall stepped to the map of the Remagen area. “We are hitting the German armies, bombing them, with everything we have. Its mission has changed so it has to come out in the day to move. Dietrich’s army is huge and, despite our efforts, a goodly portion of it will still reach the point where it will attack our Rhine beachheads.”
Truman paled. “Can we defend them? Can we defeat that son of a bitch?”
“Mister President, we still don’t have our full forces across. That will take weeks. If we are fortunate and can truly reduce them through air power, we will prevail, especially as we don’t think their infantry is anywhere near first rate.”
“What about their jets?” Truman inquired.
“Here we are on more solid ground, sir. Our air force has been pasting anything that looks like a landing strip or a fuel depot. Ultra says that German pilots are complaining about lacking enough fuel to even take off, much less fight, and that many fields have been so badly cratered as to be unusable. The Luftwaffe will not be a major factor.”
Truman sat back. Were things looking up? “Then what can go wrong?”
Marshall answered. “The weather. Long-range forecasts are for clouds and rain, just like those that delayed the attack at Normandy. If the Germans are able to attack us without hindrance from above, then all bets are off and the battle could disintegrate into a bloody brawl.”
Stan Bakowski had lost fully a third of his Rangers trying to fight and sneak their way behind German lines.
While they crept forward, the infantry and armor slogged their way up the steep hills of the Rhine valley, taking on each pillbox, slit trench and bunker one at a time. Flamethrowers searched each opening in the German defenses, no matter how small. Black smoke billowed from ventilation shafts, indicating that anyone inside had been cremated. Bakowski shuddered when he saw that.
The Rangers’ job was to find a fifteen-inch naval gun intelligence said was situated well behind the German lines. Its massive shells were exploding in the river, swamping and overturning landing craft and killing by the force of the shock. Other shells exploded in the masses of men and vehicles awaiting their turn to cross the Rhine. Thus, the Rangers’ orders were to avoid fighting. They were to bypass German defenders every chance they could and get in their rear. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. It never did. German defenders didn’t want to be bypassed and shot at the Rangers every chance they could. More than a score of Rangers fell dead and wounded while Bakowski’s men were forced to take out places they should have bypassed.
Finally and after several hours, they reached a point behind the German lines where they could move with relative ease and quickness. Bakowski took out his map and the overhead photos of the area. Of course, the terrain resembled nothing on any of them. Constant bombing and shelling had transformed this part of the world into a moonscape.
The Rangers spread out and looked for clues. They’d been told that the gun was likely that the opening in the hill would be on its east side so the hill could shield it from direct fire. Railroad tracks would be the clue. The giant gun was part of a small train. The gun was mounted on railroad tracks which enabled its crew to run it in and out between shellings.
Bakowski was about to order a search in another direction when, like magic, a massive door in the hill slowly opened. The Rangers dropped and hid. A moment later, a crew of German soldiers ran out and lifted the planking that hid the railroad tracks.
Another moment and the giant gun moved ponderously out into the open. The crew was fixated on prepping the gun and not looking for Rangers.
Bakowski grinned. “First platoon take the gun, second and third follow me.”
Close to a hundred Rangers rose up. The first platoon sprayed the gun crew with bullets, killing many Germans before they knew what happened. A few Germans raised their hands in surrender, but most were cut down before anybody realized what they were trying to do.
Bakowski and two platoons raced into the man-made cavern and confronted a score or more astonished and horrified Germans. Only a couple of them were able to fight back and they died quickly. This time, a handful were able to give themselves up.
Dynamite charges were placed around the big gun and the train. Other charges were placed inside the cavern to drop the walls of the cave as well as to explode the many remaining shells.
They left the cave with their prisoners and moved a half mile away. A German staff car was approaching and they raked it with gunfire. Nobody got out.
“Faster,” Bakowski urged but his demolitions men ignored him. Move too fast and they’d blow themselves up and not the target.
Finally, everything was in order. The plunger was rammed home. First, the wheels on one side of the train blew off. A second later, explosions ripped through the cab. Then without the wheels on one side, the train was unbalanced and it slowly tipped over onto its side. The gun ripped away from its mountings and, like a giant toy, rolled a few yards away.
Next, everything in the cavern exploded and the mountain caved in on what the Germans had built so laboriously. The smoke and dust attracted attention from some American planes. They flew low and quickly determined what had happened. One wagged its wings and they all flew off.
A good day’s work, Bakowski thought. If only he hadn’t had to lose so many good men.
Varner found his good friend Schurmer in his office stuffing papers into a briefcase. “The rats are deserting the ship,” Varner said.
“Rats usually survive-” Schurmer smiled “-for the simple reason that they don’t go down with the damned ship. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that so many OKW staffers are conspicuous by their absence.”
Varner sat down. “I assume they don’t believe that Dietrich’s army will change the course of history.”
“They will alter it but not change it. They may precipitate a bloodbath, but win the war? I think not. However, if the improbable should occur, everyone who is fleeing will return and pretend that nothing happened.”
“Hans, I am worried sick about my family. I cannot get through to them. The farm is going to be inundated by the battle.”
Schurmer looked at him coldly. “How well can I trust you?”
“Implicitly,” he answered, surprised by the question.
“Easy to say, but we will see.” He wrote a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Varner. “Here.”
“And what is this?”
“What the Americans refer to as a get out of jail card. That is my contact in American intelligence. When you are captured by the Americans, or surrender if you prefer, ask for military intelligence and tell them to contact this person on your behalf. He will not know you but will know me as an agent named Crow and you are Cardinal.”