CHAPTER 5
WERNER HEISENBERG was forty-four but looked much older. Exhaustion had taken its toll and he appeared gaunt and strained. He was a Nobel Laureate, having won the prize for physics in 1932. He now headed the Physics Department at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin. He was exasperated at having to spend his valuable time meeting with a mere colonel, even though he’d received directions to do so from his superior, Albert Speer, and the new head of the OKW, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt.
As a result of Allied bomber attacks, much of the institute’s work had been scattered about the Berlin area, a fact that further aggravated Heisenberg. However necessary, coordinating efforts from multiple locations was extremely difficult and inefficient.
“Have a seat, Colonel, and please tell me how I can satisfy you and your leaders and then get back to my work.”
Varner smiled with what he hoped was a degree of geniality. There was no reason to aggravate the obviously exhausted little man. He’d dealt with scientists and academicians before and they’d all thought that whatever they were doing was the most important thing in the history of humanity. He’d been told that, this time, Heisenberg might be right.
“Field Marshal von Rundstedt wishes an assessment of the Reich’s true military potential. I emphasize the word true, since much of what has been disseminated or reported in the past has been absolute fiction and fairy tales involving weapons that don’t work and production levels that never happened. I need the plain, unvarnished truth, Dr. Heisenberg, and I don’t care who is insulted or made uncomfortable. I have been told that you are working on a wonder weapon and need to know if this is true and if the weapon is feasible.” He smiled tightly. “Does my candor bother you, Doctor?”
“We’ll see,” Heisenberg said. There was a hint of mischief in his eyes. “What do you know about the science of physics?”
“I believe I can spell it if I had to, but not much more, Doctor.”
Heisenberg blinked and then laughed. “Good God, you’re not a typical all-knowing OKW staff officer, are you?”
“Hardly. I much prefer commanding tanks and overrunning large countries like Poland or Russia. Now, please, what are you working on? I was told it was a very large bomb.”
“Colonel Varner, I will keep it very simple. Do you know what an atom is?”
“Somewhat. The smallest thing in the world, I believe.”
“What I am working on has the potential to be far more than that large bomb you referred to. My staff and I, along with a number of others in other countries, are working on the possibility that the energy inherent in the atom can be channeled and used as a bomb. And not just a large bomb, but a device with enormous explosive potential.”
“How enormous?”
“An estimated twenty-thousand tons of dynamite per bomb.”
Varner’s mind reeled. One bomb would be enough to effectively destroy most large cities, and cause extensive damage to the largest ones. On the battlefield, it would destroy at least one enemy division, perhaps a corps.
“Is that possible?”
“Theoretically, yes. Right now, if you wanted a twenty-thousand-ton bomb, you would have to accumulate twenty-thousand tons of dynamite, somehow transport it to the target, and then figure out how to detonate it all simultaneously. Our efforts will, hopefully, correct that and result in a bomb of that strength, but only weighing a couple of tons, not twenty-thousand.”
“You’ve used the word theoretical, Doctor, what are the difficulties?”
Heisenberg sighed. “Almost too numerous to mention, Colonel. First, I need scientists. Please recall that physics has often been referred to as a ‘Jewish science.’ Ergo, the brightest of the Jewish scientists fled Germany and other countries when Hitler either came to power or took over their countries. The people who remained behind are far too few and, in large part, second-rate. I need first-rate people and many more of them.
“Also, I need the equipment and resources. We need a substance called uranium and we don’t have enough of it, along with other materials, such as heavy water. Do you understand this, Colonel?”
“I understand that you need help from a number of sources. Would you like me to invite Einstein to return? We could declare him an honorary Aryan.”
Heisenberg chortled. “Him and a hundred others, yes. There are other issues. Are you aware of something called radiation?”
Varner shrugged. “It causes watch dials to glow in the dark and it killed Marie Curie. I understand it can cause cancer in large doses if exposed to it over a period of time.”
“Excellent, Colonel. Extraordinary large doses will be instantly released when a uranium bomb explodes, and with what long- and short-term effects we do not know. And, of course, I have absolutely no idea just how such a large bomb could ever be transported to an enemy.”
Varner thought quickly. The Luftwaffe had a handful of bombers with multiton capacity, but how to get them through Allied air defenses was a problem. “Could you make a number of smaller bombs, instead of one large one?”
Heisenberg was surprised and intrigued. “Quite possibly. Why?”
Varner grinned. “They would be far easier to transport. I can even visualize a uranium bomb as the warhead of a V1 or V2 rocket. Each one now carries a warhead of approximately one ton. And the FX1400 radio-controlled bomb that was used so successfully against Allied shipping off Italy weighs approximately half that.”
“Indeed,” Heisenberg said thoughtfully, “but I have to build the first bomb before worrying about the second and third.”
Varner stood. He was making mental plans to visit Werner von Braun at the V1 and V2 launching sites. “I will report this to von Rundstedt, although I question what he will be able to do about solving your difficulties.”
They shook hands. “Then tell your field marshal this, Colonel. Einstein and all those brilliant emigré scientists are in the United States are they not? Well then, just what the devil do you think they are all doing?”
* * *
The little village was named St. Theresa of Something and was just a speck on the inadequate maps provided to the 74th Armored. It consisted of a dozen stone buildings, and included one church and a tavern. Jeb Carter said that ’bout evened things out.
Everything looked centuries old and all the stone buildings had thick walls and each could easily be its own fortress.
A patrol consisting of two Jeeps and one Stuart tank had circled behind the village and been fired on. Two GI’s in the Jeeps had been wounded, one seriously. A subsequent probe had drawn heavier fire from the village, although no casualties, and Colonel Stoddard had come to the inescapable conclusion that the German garrison had to be removed before they could proceed.
The dirt road the 74th was on ran west through the village and on to Paris somewhere in the distance. The road curved sharply as it wound through the village. Jack commented that there were no straight lines in France. Everything seemed to wander all over the place. Levin thought that all French engineers were drunks. St. Theresa could not be bypassed. Even though most of the bocage area was behind them, traveling cross-country was not an option. While the tanks and half-tracks might make it through the boggy ground, the wheeled vehicles were road-bound.
Levin handed the binoculars to Jack. “Everything’s stone and six feet thick. Don’t these people ever build with plywood or even straw?”
“That would be nice,” Jack said. “We could huff and puff and blow the walls down.”
He had never seen an armored assault and was intrigued. They were in the loft of a barn, also of stone, on a slight rise that gave a good view of the village. It was a mile away from the tree line and surrounded by neat farm plots all fenced solidly with stone. Another stand of woods lay a mile or so beyond the village.
Colonel Stoddard had assigned ten Shermans and two Stuarts to the attack. A company of infantry mounted in half-tracks would accompany the tanks. Jack had been close enough to the colonel to hear him say that a dozen tanks would be enough to handle any resistance from what appeared to be a small force seeking merely to delay the American advance. The German force had to be small. St. Theresa of Something just wasn’t that large a village.
Delaying the American advance was something the Germans were proving to be quite skilled at. Bridges were blown, roads cratered, and mines were strewn everywhere. Some were hidden, but others just lay there, daring the Americans to advance. Houses, corpses, and anything that could be booby-trapped were tied to explosives. Everything, therefore, had to be cleared, painfully and with exquisite slowness.
The regiment’s advance was less than a crawl. Jokesters said they’d be in Paris by the end of 1980. Others said they’d be collecting Social Security before they reached the Rhine.
The entire American army was barely moving as the Germans fought a masterful defensive withdrawal. Intelligence said that the krauts had successfully withdrawn their Seventh and Fifteenth Field Armies from vulnerable positions in southern and western France and were moving east towards the Seine where they would dig in and make a major stand. Nobody liked the idea of crossing a major river under fire.
With Hitler dead, there was grumbling among the troops, both enlisted and officers, about why they were still fighting. Hitler was dead, they said, then weren’t the Nazis dead as well? Let’s get the hell out of Europe and stick it to the little yellow bastards who’d bombed Pearl Harbor. And then let’s all go home where we can drink ourselves silly and make babies.
Jack supported the idea of going home, although, like everyone, deep down he knew that nobody was going to leave until the German government had been toppled and that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon. Also, as the advance slowed, some of the older officers and NCOs had a horror of refighting the murderous trench warfare of World War I. Therefore, they had to keep moving before the krauts established a new line of trenches.
Major Tolbert would command the assault. Jeb Carter’s tank company was in reserve. It felt funny to Jack to watch people he knew go into combat and know some would not return. It was a most unpleasant feeling and unlike anything he’d known before. He also felt strange being so useless. The overwhelming majority of the regiment was not going to be involved in the attack. He and Levin were merely spectators.
An artillery shell landed in the village and exploded, sending up a cloud of smoke and debris. “Ranging shot,” Levin said.
Seconds later, shells from a half dozen 105mm howitzers began to paste the village. Roofs collapsed and great plumes of smoke and dust rose skyward, although most of the thick stone walls remained intact. The sound waves rolled over them. Colonel Stoddard might have had a reputation of being paranoid about security, but he was very careful with the lives of his men. He was not one for sending men charging hell for leather into enemy fire, which was greatly appreciated.
Colonel Whiteside crawled beside them. A secondary explosion ripped the village. The shelling had hit either ammunition or fuel, and some men cheered.
The tanks started to roll out and the barrage, on schedule, stopped. “Now they’ll crawl out of their hidey-holes,” Whiteside muttered, “and either fight or run to Berlin.” Jack was incredulous. People were still alive in that smoking hell?
The armor fanned out and began their own firing. At about a hundred yards from the ruined stone buildings, a projectile streaked out and just barely missed a tank.
“Panzerfaust,” snarled Whiteside. The German Panzerfaust was a self-propelled rocket, their equivalent to the American bazooka and, some said, far more lethal.
More Panzerfaust rockets streamed from Germans dug into the rubble. One hit a Sherman, stopping it dead. A second tank was hit, ripping its tracks off. The remaining tanks began to flank the village. They would attack it from the rear.Jack had a sense of foreboding as he watched the drama play out before him. Half a dozen tanks and ten half-tracks rolled behind the village, turned, and began to move towards it. Then it hit him.
“Colonel, it’s another ambush.”
Whiteside looked up, startled. “What are you talking about?”
“Our tanks are showing their fannies to that line of woods. If you look carefully, you can see tracks leading up to those trees and not beyond. There have to be more krauts in there, Colonel.”
Jack was about to say some more when the woods on the other side of the village erupted in fire. German armor became visible as camouflage fell off. Three Panzer IV tanks began blasting at the American armor and tanks began to explode. German machine guns ripped through the thin armor of the rear of the half-tracks and Jack could only imagine the carnage inside.
Another Sherman erupted in a plume of exploding gasoline, reminding him of their sardonic nickname—Ronsons, named after the popular cigarette lighter because they lit up so easily.
The American units hastily retreated, leaving four more burning tanks and three dead half-tracks. A number of dead and wounded littered the ground. As the mauled American force returned in disarray to the American lines, German vehicles hidden in the village began racing out, carrying the survivors of the German garrison away to fight another day.
They were all in shock. It had happened so quickly. Only Whiteside was in control as he barked orders to have the artillery hit the wood line. It took a couple of moments to coordinate, and, by that time, the Germans were pulling back beyond it and the shells landed on empty dirt. Jack had never seen German armor in action and, even from a distance, their tanks looked formidable. Hell, they were obviously formidable. The Panzer IV was supposed to be inferior to the German Panther or Tiger, but a trio of them had just kicked the shit out of an American column of Shermans and Stuarts.
* * *
“Walk with me,” Whiteside said. The regiment had taken up position just past the trees where the Germans had devastated American armor. Stoddard’s headquarters was secure and the demoralized regiment had settled down for the night. There were no thoughts about pushing on. They had wounded to treat, dead to bury, and a number of vehicles to either repair or scrap. Tomorrow they would move out and again try to bring their elusive enemy to bay.
Whiteside led Jack through the ruined village. The stench of burned wood and flesh filled the air. They walked by the collapsed church where the smell was the worst.
“Villagers were inside here, maybe a score of them,” the colonel said. “At first we thought we’d killed them with our barrage and maybe we did kill some of them, but a survivor in the village said the Germans went in just before our attack and hosed them down with submachine guns and then poured gasoline on them. I guess they were in the way.”
“It’s hard to believe there were any survivors, sir.”
To everyone’s surprise a dozen people had emerged from their vaulted and ancient basements, shaken and stunned, but alive. None, however, had come from the church. The villagers were also united in their hatred for the Boche who had brought such horror to their quiet homes.
A short row of German military dead had been laid out in the street. There were only eleven dead Germans in return for all the hell that had been visited on the French village and the American regiment. The villagers had looked on the corpses with contempt. Some of the dead Germans had been horribly torn and mutilated and were missing limbs, even a head. One had been charred to a crisp and appeared to be grinning through white teeth surrounded by blackened skin, while a couple looked unhurt, just surprised. The villagers had spat on them and one old man had exposed his ancient penis and urinated on them, cackling hysterically as he did.
“Do bomber crews realize this is what occurs when they drop their eggs, Morgan?”
Jack swallowed rising bile. “I doubt it, sir. I know I never did. I never bombed anyone, but, no, any thoughts were abstract.”
The colonel chuckled. “Abstract? Wars are not abstract. Did you notice the dead krauts all have their belt buckles missing? That’s because they were embossed with ‘Gott Mit Uns,’ which means they make great souvenirs. The phrase roughly means God is on our side, which is funny since we thought he was on ours, and not the Nazis’.”
“Maybe God’s neutral, sir.”
“Maybe there’s no God,” said Whiteside. “Forget I said that.”
The Germans were from the 21st Panzer Division. Intelligence had said that the division had been decimated by earlier fighting and was no longer an effective unit. Intelligence, Jack decided, wasn’t worth a good shit.
“Jack, when you first came here we all thought you’d prove useless. In the short time since then, you’ve changed our minds and we think we can use you better than having you set up Stoddard’s headquarters. Stoddard agrees, by the way. And don’t worry, we won’t put you in charge of an armored company. That’d be suicidal for all concerned.”
“Thank you sir, I think.”
“Trust me, it’s a compliment.”
They’d walked through the village and past the dead tanks and half-tracks. Again their nostrils were assailed by the stench of burned flesh. These vehicles were scrap and would be replaced. One good thing about American wartime production—there would never be a shortage of vehicles. Just a shame, Jack thought, that they weren’t all that good, and more than a shame that good men died in them.
At that moment, a flight of American P47 fighter bombers flew low and over them. “Where the hell were they a few hours ago?” Whiteside snarled. “When we asked for help we were told they were too busy for small targets. That is, after we finally got through to them in the first place.”
Morgan decided it would be inappropriate to comment. Relations between the army and the air force were even more strained than he’d thought, even though they were still part of the same service branch. The air force wasn’t independent yet and maybe never would be. A few seconds later, there was the rumble of thunder, and smoke billowed in the distance.
“Can you fly a Grasshopper, Morgan, or was the B17 the only thing you were trained on?”
“Not that it matters, sir, but I flew the B24, not the 17, and yes I can fly a Grasshopper.” The Grasshopper was the military variant of the Piper Cub. “I flew the Piper a couple of times before pilot training and a handful of times after.”
“Excellent. We were caught with our pants down both this last skirmish as well as the one where the eighty-eight ambushed our column. We don’t want that to happen again if it’s humanly possible. The regiment is authorized reconnaissance aircraft; however, neither planes nor pilots were available. Now, thanks to you we have a pilot and a plane has suddenly appeared. Just don’t ask how we got it, except that a division north of here is wondering why they’re a plane short. You will command a detachment to fly it and any others we can dredge up. Levin will take over your duties. Take maybe five minutes to figure out what you’ll need and get back to me.”
Poor Levin, Jack thought. But at least he’d be back in the air, even though in an innocuous little plane. And, he laughed, no more tucking Stoddard into bed each night in a den surrounded by barb wire.
“Have you told Levin, sir?”
“Yeah, and now he’s telling your former lieutenants just what a joy it will be for them to have a Jewish commanding officer. He’s also telling them they’ll have to be circumcised.”
* * *
When Phips woke up, he wasn’t certain where he was. He’d been partying just like he’d been almost every night since it’d become public knowledge that his plane had bombed Hitler into Valhalla, or wherever dead Nazis thought they’d go. At least he wasn’t too badly hung over. God, there had been some memorable celebrations with him as the guest of honor. Finally, he remembered that he was in a very large bed in an expensive suite in Claridge’s Hotel in the center of London.
He rolled over and felt warm flesh beside him. He was naked, and so was the woman beside him. Who the hell was she? Oh yeah, her name was Margie and she was an English civilian working at SHAEF. Last night she told him she was thrilled to meet the man who killed Hitler, and then proceeded to prove it.
Phips thought he was becoming quite the man of the world. He’d met Ike, who showed steel behind his affable exterior; Churchill, who was shorter than he thought; King George, pleasant but even shorter than Churchill; Montgomery, who seemed a conceited twit; and a horde of generals and admirals.
And, for the first time in his life, he’d gotten laid. Margie wasn’t the first, however. That encounter had been more than a week ago and there had been several since then, including a couple with “Lady” in front of their names and, he thought wickedly, ladies they weren’t. All England, it seemed, wanted to honor him one way or another. He wondered if the rest of the crew of the Mother’s Milk were doing as well. Probably, he thought. Somebody’d commented that his copilot, Stover, had movie star looks. He was probably sleeping with chicks who made Margie look ugly and Margie was far from ugly. In fact, she was the best looking woman he’d ever been with. She hated Hitler and the Nazis. She’d been engaged and her fiancé had been killed in North Africa.
Then he recalled that his bomber’s new name was American Girl, and that she’d been repainted, dismantled for shipment, and was on her way to the U.S. where she’d be on display. So would he, Phips remembered. He had a train to catch.
There was a knock on the door and it opened to admit Colonel Granville. “Rise and shine, Phips. or you’ll be late for your trip back home.”
Margie sat up abruptly and smiled. She made no effort to cover herself. “Good morning, Colonel.”
Granville rolled his eyes in an effort not to stare at her exquisite breasts. “And a hearty English good morning to you, Margie. You’re looking exceptionally lovely.”
Margie giggled, got out of bed and walked slowly to the bathroom, treating them both to a marvelous view of her voluptuous body and dimpled bottom. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, “while I take care of some personal things.”
Phips looked at his watch. “Am I that late?”
“If you move your ass, you’ll make it. We go to Victoria Station and you catch the train to Liverpool where another officer will take over as tour guide. You’ll meet the rest of your crew in Liverpool and take the Queen Mary to New York. Don’t get too excited about the accommodations, she’s been made over into a troop ship.”
Phips grinned. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll be good to get home, although England’s beginning to grow on me.”
Margie emerged from the bathroom. She’d managed to get clothed in only a few seconds, which probably meant she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. She grinned wickedly. “What’s growing on you, Phipsie?”
* * *
Two hours later Granville was standing in Piccadilly Square. Phips was well on his way to Liverpool and he hoped Margie made it back to the office in time to do some real work. He also hoped she had managed to put on some underwear.
He checked his watch and looked around nervously. Jessica wasn’t really late. How could anyone be late when civilian schedules meant nothing and military ones were changed all the time?
The square was filled with people. Most of the men and quite a few of the women were in uniform, and, even though it was early afternoon, a large number of them were drunk. When he got home, he’d have a lot of stories to tell his wife and kids. He wondered if he’d tell about Phips and Margie and decided he would. His wife would love it and his kids would be old enough to appreciate it. Hell, at the rate the war was going, they would all be retired before he got home.
He also decided that London had the potential to be a lovely city if only someone would clean it up. He didn’t mean the sandbags piled many feet high around buildings to provide a little protection against German bombs and rockets. So far these had generally fallen on the West End and not that much on the center of London. They said that the Battle of Britain was over and that Nazi bombers were a thing of the past. He wasn’t so sure. The Nazis had begun launching their rockets at anything in or near London with utter disregard to where they landed. Regardless, when the war was over the sandbags would disappear quickly.
No, by cleaning up the city, he meant getting rid of the many centuries worth of soot caused by the hundreds of thousands of coal fires used to heat London’s homes and businesses. The city’s buildings were almost all a uniform gray-black and cried out for a good scrubbing.
“Uncle!”
He grinned and turned. The young woman ran into his arms and they hugged fiercely. He kissed her on the cheek. “My favorite niece in London. I don’t believe it.”
Jessica Granville laughed. She was his only niece. She was twenty-one, almost as tall as he and slender. Her brown hair was cut almost boyishly short and she wore an American dress that style-starved British women passing by stared at enviously. She was well-fed and ruddily healthy, which also bothered British women and caused the men to stare. So many Brits were pale and drab thanks to clothing and food shortages.
At first glance, many people thought Jessica was plain, but when she talked or laughed, they found her vivacious. “I see you got rid of Phips,” she said. He’d written her of life with the accidental hero. “Too bad, I wanted to meet him.”
He told her how so many British women had managed to meet him and she laughed again. “Phipsie? Good lord. At least his departure means I have a room for the short while.”
Tom had shamelessly used his influence and managed to change Phips’ room at the Claridge to Jessica’s name. She would be able to pay for it. Her allowance from her family was more than adequate. Must be nice to have money, he mused.
“So tell me again, what are you going to be doing here in London?”
She took his arm and they strolled down Haymarket in the general direction of the Thames. “I’m with the Red Cross. When we get to France, I’ll be working with refugees and those broadly being referred to as displaced persons. My job will be to try to unite them with their families.”
“Good luck. There are hordes of them already and I don’t think the real refugee crisis has even begun.”
They paused as a column of American trucks drove by. “And you didn’t want to join the WACs? With two years of college under your belt, I could have pulled some strings and gotten you into women’s OCS, or whatever they call it. At least you’d have a commission.”
She shook her head vehemently. “And then I’d be supervising either a bunch of typists or a gaggle of women drivers, all of whom would be working for lecherous colonels, present company excluded, of course.”
He laughed. “Certainly.”
She was absolutely correct. Regardless of her skills, she would wind up in some clerical capacity where her intellect and potential talents would be wasted. The Red Cross would use her far more effectively.
“Will you be going to France with Ike?”
“It’s supposed to be a military secret, Jessica, but yes. Ike isn’t there yet.” Not true. He’d crossed the Channel for good a couple of days earlier and set up a small headquarters in Normandy.
“I hope to see dear Cousin Jeb when I get there.”
Granville sighed. “Highly unlikely. He’s in an armored regiment and, well, close to the front. Please don’t tell me you’re still infatuated with him.”
“Oh God, no. We’re cousins, remember, and that infatuation occurred when we were kids.”
“You’re third cousins and much is permitted at that level.”
“But not by me, Uncle.”
However, she did recall a couple of times when Dear Cousin Jeb tried to get in her pants and one time when he very nearly succeeded. If he hadn’t been so drunk that he’d passed out, who knew what might have happened. She’d been under the influence as well, but had managed to stay awake and reasonably alert. Still, he was a genial rogue and she was very fond of him.
They heard an odd and ominous sound and looked up. It sounded like a cross between a roar and a whine. They stared as a strange craft flew overhead. It looked like two large pipes connected to each other, and it was making the noise. The roaring stopped and the craft began to plunge to the ground.
“Down!” yelled Tom and he grabbed her, slamming her to the sidewalk. Around them, others were doing the same thing, while a bemused few looked around to see what was happening. The explosion was deafening and debris flew down the streets, funneled by the buildings. Screams of pain and fear followed.
Jessica and her uncle got up, shaken. Many people were running away from the explosion, while others ran towards the source to help out if they could. Bloody walking wounded staggered from the bomb site.
“Uncle, what the hell was that?” She was badly shaken and gasping.
Tom Granville dusted himself off and tried to act nonchalant. “It’s one of the late Adolf Hitler’s V-1 rockets, Jessica. They’ve been falling indiscriminately for a few weeks now. Just like the Nazis. They kill innocent people, although they I don’t think they’ve ever hit anything of military significance.”
Jessica’s knee was bleeding from where she’d fallen and a trickle of blood was running down her leg and into her shoe. She wiped at it with a handkerchief. Ambulances raced by, their sirens making that funny squealing sound. The city of London had plenty of experience with tragedies like this. The two of them would be in the way at the bomb site.
She took his arm and squeezed it as they walked. She was shaken by her first experience with violence. She knew it wouldn’t be her last. This time they would go directly to her hotel. “I thought the Battle of Britain was over, Uncle?”
“So did everyone else.”