But what if they were not? What if their actions, and not those who still accepted Ruff's orders, were appropriate? And what at this point was right and what was wrong? It was all very confusing. All untidy and beyond explanation. The only thing that was clear to Lange, and he was sure to Mondorf, was that the point of decision had been reached. Each officer, as both he and Mondorf had been taught, had to decide between right and wrong for himself. Staff studies, regulations, orders, and philosophical discussions had no place here. This was, Lange knew, a critical moment in the life of Germany, and he alone should decide how that moment ended.
When his superior said or did nothing, Mondorf slowly turned his head and looked over to where Lange sat, lost in his own thoughts. He could see by Lange's furrowed brows and glazed, unflinching stare that the concerns and perplexed thoughts that were racing through his mind were weighing heavily upon him. Relaxing his stance slightly, Mondorf turned toward Lange and in a low voice spoke. "When it comes time, the difference between one's duty and one's conscience is hard to separate. I fear that perhaps we have been soldiers for too long, Herr General."
Lange looked up at Mondorf. He was right, of course. He was absolutely right. As a senior commander, Lange realized that he had allowed his duty and his conscience to merge into one. This, he suddenly realized, was why senior officers, far removed from the heat of battle, were having problems deciding what to do, while many junior officers saw clearly what needed to be done and did it. To them the choice was simple, fight or step aside and let the Americans pass. Finally he knew what he must do.
"Yes, Horst, you are right. I have forgotten." Then, like a man galvanized into sudden action, Lange jumped to his feet. "But I have not forgotten that before I was a soldier I was a German. You and other men of courage like you, thank God, have not forgotten that." Reaching down for his coat, Lange all but shouted like a man possessed, "Come, Horst, we have much to do and not much time."
"Where, Herr General, are we going?"
"We are going to Bremerhaven, now, tonight. We will use my helicopter. Turn your operations here over to your chief of staff."
Still bewildered, Mondorf hesitated as Lange raced for the door. He was halfway through the door when he noticed that Mondorf was not following. Stopping, he turned to Mondorf. "Come. We must reach our paratroopers before the Americans do."
Part Five
TO THE SEA
CHAPTER 18
"TEN MINUTES! TEN MINUTES TO THE DROP ZONE." The sudden shouting of the jump master broke the long silence that had settled over both the crew and the paratroops in the ancient C-141 transport. From where he sat, the sight of nervous young men, younger than the airplane that had transported them across the Atlantic to their drop zones west of Bremerhaven, Germany, was not new to Major General Benjamin Matthew. With over thirty years invested in the Army, which had started during the dying days of Viet-Nam, nothing that he saw, heard, or smelled that morning was new.
Fighting the weight and bulk of the parachute and personal equipment strapped to his body, Matthew pulled himself forward and looked down the length of the aircraft at the young soldiers he was about to lead into battle. They were no different than thousands of other young paratroopers who had on many occasions in the past stepped out into thin air and jumped into hell. The big difference this time was that this would be the last time that Americans would do it. His division was scheduled for deactivation. There was, planners in Washington had determined, no place in the twenty-first century for airborne forces in the new model Army that was being built. "The airborne division," one brilliant young staff officer in the Pentagon had stated, "was like the dinosaur, big, clumsy, and unable to adapt to the changing environment of the modern battlefield of a new century."
Easing back into the nylon jump seat, Matthew shook his head. Well, he thought, at least I'll be able to go out like my division, in a blaze of glory and doing what I was trained to do. Matthew had already decided that he would retire after this command. In fact, he had requested that his last day of active duty coincide with the day the 17th Airborne was scheduled to deactivate. If the Army was so ready to bury this old dinosaur, Matthew told his wife, they'd have to get someone else to kick the dirt into the grave.
But that was still in the future. Right now Matthew was preparing to throw the war in Germany into a new phase that would serve notice to Germany that the United States was not prepared to sit idly by and allow the soldiers of the Tenth Corps to be swallowed up, regardless of who was right or wrong. "Without us," he had told his command before leaving Fort Bragg, "the Tenth Corps doesn't even have hope. Only we can make a difference. Though some of us will die, we will die fighting in the only cause that really makes sense, to save our fellow soldiers."
On command from the pilot, the jump masters prepared for the jump. Opening the door and deploying the large spoilers that would protect the paratroopers from the blast of the jet engines as they exited the aircraft, the jump masters brought the 122 paratroops to life. Everywhere, in Matthew's plane and dozens like it following in formation, the men and women of the 17th Airborne checked their personal equipment, parachutes, and personal effects as they waited for the jump master's next command. Even Matthew was occupied checking his gear out for the fourth time when the jump master tapped him on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw the jump master holding his earphones, connected to the aircraft's intercom system, out to him. Over the roar of the engines and the air rushing in, the jump master yelled, "General, the pilot wants to talk to you." The pilot on this particular aircraft was no ordinary throttle jockey. Taking his cue from Matthew, and seeking to salvage the reputation of the Military Airlift Command after the Sembach debacle, the commander of the air division from which most of the transports in this armada came from, Major General Eddie Bower, flew the lead aircraft, Matthew's aircraft. Before leaving, he had told Matthew that if he didn't put him right on the money, he'd turn in his stars too. It was a show of faith that everyone in the 17th Airborne appreciated.
As he pulled his helmet off and slipped the earphones on, Matthew hoped that this operation was not being called off for some foolish reason by some weenie in Washington who had suddenly gotten cold feet. Ready, he pulled the microphone up to his lips and clicked the intercom button. "Eddie, this is Ben. What's up?"
"Ben, I just got the strangest damned message over the radio. A German who claims to be the commander of the German 27th Parachute Brigade is calling for you by name. Says he wants to talk to you. It's coming in over the clear on the commercial airlines channel. You want to talk to him?"
Matthew shook his head and thought. He had met the colonel who commanded the 27th Brigade twice before but couldn't remember the name. If he had the face right, he wasn't a bad sort of fellow. Friendly, tough, professional, and, according to Matthew's intelligence officer, straight as an arrow when it came to following orders. The 27th Parachute Brigade, charged with preparing the defenses of Bremerhaven, was a crack unit that would be the principal obstacle in the 17th Airborne Division's path into the city. Fact was, the 27th, with three battalions organized and ready on the ground, could be more than a match for the eight battalions the 17th was dropping that morning if the German commander reacted quickly and aggressively. That he knew Matthew and the division were on the way and near enough to communicate told Matthew that the German commander was ready. Seeing that there was nothing to lose, Matthew asked Bower to switch over his headset to the radio and monitor. When Bower passed on that his mike was hot, Matthew keyed the radio. "This is Major General Matthew. Over."