Swift conversations with his Army Commanders took place, each man in turn receiving a simple order.
“Reform your line General, reform your line.”
Each was different, for McCreery had problems contrasting those of Bradley, who had worse problems than Devers et al.
Eisenhower felt like Old Mother Hubbard. He already knew that he had probably just lost the best part of three divisions of good fighting troops and he sought replacements.
The cupboard was all but bare.
Some units were coming ashore in France, some in England. A few were already moving forward to their staging areas near the Rhine, ready for operational deployment.
Setting his staff to the problems of logistics he let them take the strain whilst he sucked greedily on a cigarette and watched the disaster unfold.
Report followed report, problem heaped on problem as the Red Army moved relentlessly and surprisingly quickly forward.
Ike stubbed out number one having lit number two from its dying butt, spotting the normally dapper but now quite dishevelled Tedder approach, half an eye on his Commander in Chief and half a horrified eye on the situation map.
So shocked was the Air Chief Marshall that he stopped, mouth open wide, watching as blue lines were removed to be replaced by red arrows.
Eisenhower moved to the RAF officer who seemed rooted to the spot.
“Arthur, they’ve hit us bad and we are in pieces as you see.”
The Englishman managed a nod accompanied by a grimace as arrows, red in colour, appeared moving north of München .
“I want maximum effort from you, maximum effort. Get everyone in the air that can carry a bomb or a machine-gun. I will get you my list of target priorities within the next hour. Send everyone Arthur, even those who have been out tonight.”
That drew a dismayed look from Tedder, this time aimed at Ike.
The complaint grew on his lips but withered under Ike’s unusually hard gaze.
“Arthur, I know your boys will be tired and I know the casualties will reflect that. Send them in later if you must but send them in, come what may. Are we clear?”
Tedder stiffened.
“Yes General, we are clear. There will be a turnaround time in any case, so I can rest them but it is a long time since many of them have done day ops.”
Eisenhower, both hands extended palms towards his man, spoke softly.
“I know Arthur. I am asking a lot of them but I think much will be asked of many of us this day, don’t you?”
The Air Chief Marshall couldn’t buck that at all, especially as he caught the stream of arrows around München grow further out the corner of his eye.
“Very well Sir. I will get them ready for a maximum effort. Target list will be with me by five?”
“I will do my very best Arthur.”
The man sped away, his mind already full of orders and thoughts of incredulous RAF officers reading them as tired crews touched down at bases all over Europe.
No one was going to be spared on this day.
Four Mosquitoes of 163 Squadron RAF had been tasked with destroying a Soviet engineer bridge laid over the Fuhse River at Groß Ilsede, the main road bridge having been dropped into the water by British demolition engineers some days previously.
The plan was for the lead aircraft to illuminate with flares to permit the rest of the flight to drop accurately.
Squadron Leader Pinnock and his navigator Flying Officer Rogers both knew their stuff inside out and the Mk XXV Mosquito arrived on time and on target, releasing its illumination.
Flight Lieutenant Johar, a Sikh and the squadron’s top bomber was confused. The landmarks were quite clearly right; the parallel railway, the watery curve, both present and yet it wasn’t there.
Johar streaked over the target area, his bombs firmly on board, closely followed by three and four, equally confused. Navigators did checks and came up with the same result.
“This is the right place, dead on Skipper, no question” Rogers holding out his handwork for his boss to examine.
“Roger Bill,” Pinnock not bothering to go for the normal play on Rogers name and radio procedure that whiled away hours of lonely flying for the pair.
Thumbing his mike he spoke to the others.
“This is Baker lead, this is Baker lead. Mission abort, say again mission abort. Take out the rail track rather than dump ordnance.”
The bombs rained down, savaging the track running to the east of the Fuhse, rendering it useless for days to come.
163’s professionalism was such that no more was said over the radio until they touched down at Wyton some hours later.
The base adjutant, debriefing the crews, insisted that there must have been a navigational mistake until all four navigators produced their documentation, setting aside his first possibility.
Which raised a rather interesting second one.
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder. The author has asserted the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.