Running his finger along the marking Eisenhower had just made, Patton put into words each man’s thoughts, or more precisely, fears.
“They have pushed through Southern Germany, never turning south. Our Alpine line is secure, we think, as they display no interest. Here, in Austria, they have pinned our units in place, and we have congratulated ourselves for our successful defence.”
Picking up a pencil, Patton drew a cross on the map, his actions leaving no doubt that he had just sorted the problem of where the Russians would come.
“Here is where they will focus, and here is where they will aim at,” the pencil drawing a thick arrow all the way to the sea.
Eisenhower leant forward, his eyes taking in the simple pencil line, his mind already hearing the base sounds of battle, the screams of the dying, and the screams of the living.
“Can you get Alexander on the horn please, George?”
Patton was on the phone in a second, brusquely ordering a connection through to Field Marshal Alexander’s headquarters.
Eisenhower took the proffered receiver.
“Harry, it’s Ike.”
Clearly, Alexander had heard a buzz.
“Yes, I can confirm that to you now. General Strong has just informed me.”
Eisenhower listened politely, not caring to interrupt the Englishman in full flow, using the moment to get another cigarette going, oblivious to Patton’s displeasure.
“I agree. Try this one on for size, Harry. The Soviet reinforcements that have been spotted in Bavaria aren’t reinforcements for the German Front. They are new units with a different purpose.”
Patton opened another two windows, whilst Alexander said his piece.
Eisenhower patiently let the British Field Marshal finish.
“Well, it makes perfect sense to me. They move the new Army up, shaping like a wave of reinforcements, until they are ready. One swift oblique movement, and they fall on the Alps to the south.”
“Just think about it, Harry. We have weakened your forces in favour of Germany, and now the Italians have done an about turn. They will hit you on a broad front, and find a weakness, but our best guess”, he acknowledged Patton with an inclination of the head, “Is that their main axis of advance will be from Innsbruck, Trento, Brescia, aimed at the Mediterranean at Genoa.”
Eisenhower stubbed his cigarette out furiously, unusually irritated by the Field Marshal’s reply.
“Yes, I do know that, Harry, and they are good troops too. But no matter what, that enemy force in Bavaria can turn and descend on Innsbruck before we have a chance to reinforce.”
Alexander clearly wanted his units back.
“No, that’s not possible, Harry. They’re either in harm’s way, or needed. None will be coming back to you. Use the Spanish and the Germans to thicken up your force.”
The conversation was drawing to a natural close until the line went dead, the silence enforced by a sneak air raid on Alexander’s headquarters, one bomb knocking out the telephone communications centre on which 15th Army Group heavily relied.
Eisenhower returned the receiver to its cradle.
“Air raid in progress. Lost the line.”
Eisenhower took another look at the map, almost reminding himself of the precarious nature of the position.
“Ok George, I gotta get back to manage this thing. I will get your men disengaged when I can so that you can sort them out.”
“General, my boys are spoiling for a fight. Hell, so am I. We are sick and tired of running, so just give us a chance to fight back and kick some Commie ass soon!”
The two exchanged formal salutes and Eisenhower returned to his vehicle for the drive back to the airfield, where his aircraft waited to take him back to Versailles.
Chapter 88 – THE RESCUE
616 Squadron RAF, or rather, what was left of it, was airborne on an interception mission. Soviet bombers had been spotted by a returning flight of ground attack aircraft, and the Meteors had been quickly redirected onto an interception course.
Flight Lieutenant de Villiers, the de facto Squadron commander, led his six jet fighters forward into yet another air battle.
His war so far had been exhausting, mission after mission stacking up, sleep and relaxation becoming rarer beasts by the day.
Like the rest of his flight crews, he was tired, but he understood that every Allied pilot was the same. Every Allied flyer also understood that they had to be in the air, because air power was all that was presently holding the Soviets back.
Baines, as usual, spotted the enemy aircraft, flying in close formation at roughly twenty-five thousand feet, some five thousand feet below the rapidly closing Meteors.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, nine bandits at ten o’clock low, four engine bombers, type Polikarpov Eight’s.”
Six pairs of eyes took in the unusual sight of a group of the Soviet Union’s only four engine bombers.
The PE-8’s had been retired before the end of the German War, but the Russians never threw anything away, and so the venerable old birds were brought out to play the greatest game once again.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, Blue-One calling, line astern formation, rear approach. Starboard turn, then port wheel. Attacking now.”
The Meteor responded as de Villiers applied more power, the twin jet engines pushing him in a fast turn to starboard until he reversed stick, and started to haul the fighter round to port. His turn was timed to bring him perfectly in line behind the rear bomber.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, Blue-two. Escort fighters down low. Our Spits are all over them.”
The Meteor’s cannon pumped out their shells as De Villiers pressed the button, every single 20mm missing its target.
The Polikarpov was travelling at less than half the speed of the Meteor.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, second pass, throttle back, speed 300.”
The line of jets circled again, the sky inky and smudged from the smoke of the sole victim of the first pass, still in formation, but full of men who knew they were on borrowed time.
De Villiers lined up on a different aircraft, and was rewarded with pieces of its wing flying off, as the cannon shells exploded on contact.
Circling for a third run, the South African checked the enemy formation, immediately spotting that nine had become seven, three of which were smoking badly.
The Soviet bombers turned, staying tight, but bleeding off height, desperately calling for assistance, as scared pilots tried to find some way of staying alive for another minute.
De Villiers selected the nearest aircraft, smoking badly and clearly in great difficulty.
Enough of his cannon shells hit the lumbering bomber to ensure its death, port wing and engines flying into pieces.
“Crew, bail out!”
Voitsev, the pilot, shouted the order, unsure who was still alive, or who was like his co-pilot, so recently transformed into a lump of warm and bloody meat.
The PE-8 had a crew of eleven, and he was determined to hold the dying bird steady long enough for them all to escape.
He knew his own fate was already sealed.
The Flight Engineer had rushed into the rear of the aircraft, and Mladshy Leytenant Voitsev could hear him shouting at the crew above the rush of air through the increasingly numerous holes.