Germanica

CHAPTER 12

When it was decided that OSS teams would try to sabotage the food shipments to Germanica, Winnie was the first to volunteer. She was also the first to be rejected.

“Your German and French are very good,” Dulles said, “even excellent, but you could never pass for a local. Your American accent would give you away immediately. You would then fall into the clutches of the Gestapo who would wrench from you everything you know about us. Then they would kill you. I have had enough agents fall into enemy hands and be executed. They were brave and you are brave for asking, but accepting your offer would be the same as signing your death sentence. I will not permit useless deaths. I have another team coming here and they will arrive shortly.”

Winnie moped for a while. She was disappointed that she couldn’t go in harm’s way, but she understood Dulles’ rationale. Another part of her was relieved that she had been rejected. The idea of capture and torture followed by death was frightening. The incident in Bregenz where she’d been brutally beaten for no reason at all by an SS officer was still fresh in her mind. The physical scars were gone, but not the mental ones. Thank God, she thought, that she had Ernie to depend on.

Her spirits were buoyed when the new team arrived. It consisted of two very tall and athletic young men and a short and boyish-looking woman. “Marie!” Winnie screamed on seeing her, and the two women embraced.

“Obviously, you know each other,” Ernie said with a grin.

“Absolutely. Marie was a junior and I was a senior in high school. She was an exchange student and we were good friends.”

Marie was warm and friendly but did size Ernie up. “He’ll do,” she said. The two men were introduced as Sven and Hans and it was understood that those weren’t their real names. Even Marie would have been using a different name if Winnie hadn’t recognized her and blurted out her real one.

“How long will you be here in Arbon before you have to go and do whatever you’re going to do?” Winnie asked.

“As long as is necessary. Mr. Dulles did not give us a precise schedule. As to what we are going to do, I understand it involves observing the movement of German supplies from Arbon to Bregenz and out to the troops in the field.”

Ernie was puzzled. “No sabotage?”

“Not at this time, although the three of us could certainly accomplish it. I’m sure that we could be supplied with dynamite or nitroglycerine.”

“How did they get you here?” Ernie asked.

Marie answered for the group. Apparently she was the spokesperson. Either that or the other two’s English wasn’t all that good. “We came in the back of a truck. We’d arrived by plane in Zurich two days ago.”

“Are you going to be confined to this building or will you be allowed to go out?” Winnie asked.

Marie laughed. “Are you suggesting that we act like the schoolgirls we once were and go shopping in marvelous Arbon? I can’t imagine that we’ll find anything to match Wanamaker’s in Philadelphia. Sorry, but I think we’ll stay right here and out of sight until Dulles decides when he wants us to move out.”

Winnie was a little chagrined. Of course they could not allow themselves to be seen by any of the Germans wandering Arbon. They could not risk being identified and followed. But it did feel good to have someone she’d actually known from her life as an ordinary person. She wondered if she could ever go back to an ordinary life. She knew that Ernie was thinking much along the same line. How did the old song go? Oh yes, how you gonna keep them down on the farm after they’d seen Paree? Well, Switzerland wasn’t Gay Paree, but being part of the OSS was more thrilling and fulfilling than anything she’d done in her life.

* * *

Joseph Goebbels did not particularly like General Walter Warlimont. Goebbels acknowledged that Warlimont had worked marvels in creating everything that remained of the Third Reich at Bregenz and outlying areas. There was still the nagging feeling that Warlimont simply hadn’t been caught in the July 20, 1944 plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler.

Goebbels slammed the papers down on his desk and spoke harshly. “What do you mean that German soldiers have contracted scurvy? Isn’t that the illness that affects sailors?”

Warlimont was unfazed. Contrary to the rumors, he had been a devout supporter of Hitler and felt that Goebbels was a pale and second-rate imitation of his Fuhrer. “Scurvy will affect anyone who doesn’t get enough Vitamin C. If unchecked, a patient will die. If Vitamin C can be located and given to a patient in sufficient quantities, the patient will recover, possibly fully. Right now we have several thousand soldiers suffering from the extremely painful and debilitating problem. If we cannot get enough Vitamin C to the men, the German Army will cease to exist.”

The blunt answer subdued Goebbels. “Then what do you propose, General?”

Warlimont shrugged. “The answer is obvious, Minister. We must get some Vitamin C. There are vitamin tablets that can be manufactured and perhaps acquired from the Swiss. I very much doubt that we can get much in the way of fruits or vegetables, but apparently eating some meats will help. I suggest that the next shipment of foodstuffs from Switzerland include vitamin tablets and the right meats. We simply cannot have our soldiers existing on field rations for extensive periods of time.”

Goebbels sat down and sagged. He had just received other news from Field Marshal Schoerner, who’d forwarded additionally unwelcome information from Generals Rendulic and von Vietinghoff. The gist of their problems was that ammunition and fuel were being expended at a rate faster than anticipated. Soon, Goebbels thought glumly, what remained of the German Army would be both sick and impotent.

“Marshal Schoerner, what do you propose as a solution?”

“We have enough ammunition for one last major battle. Perhaps we should launch an all-out attack in an attempt to shock the Americans. Perhaps they will think we are stronger than we actually are and begin negotiations.”

Goebbels was not convinced. “That sounds very much what the late Fuhrer hoped would be the results of the attack in the Ardennes. It was a failure and led to the collapse of the Western front. If your attack becomes a suicide attack, everything we have here will be destroyed.”

“Minister, only the stupid and racially inferior Japanese commit suicide attacks. I do not propose anything resembling a kamikaze attack. I would like to hit the Americans hard and drive them back in a limited assault. Our goal would be to show that we cannot be taken easily. There is no possibility of driving them more than a few miles, but even that might shake them. Thanks to the Swiss, we can monitor civilian radio broadcasts and there are apparently growing numbers of civilian protests in the United States, even riots, over the continuation of the war with us. The American people want peace with Germany so they can concentrate on destroying Japan.”

Goebbels leaned back in his chair. What Warlimont proposed made sense. He would have to ask if using the atomic bomb would be an appropriate weapon to support the attack or if it would be better to wait for an American offensive before considering its use.

* * *

Mildred Ruffino was hot and sweaty. Her several layers of clothing, including a heavy girdle, were clinging to her. The fifty-five-year-old grandmother, however, would not be deterred no matter how humid and sticky Washington D.C. was. She had a goal and that was to help bring home the boys home from Europe. She was not totally consumed by the need for peace. She understood fully that the nasty little Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor and needed to be punished severely. She further understood that it would cost additional lives. For Mildred and her family, some of the price had already been paid. One of her nephews was in a hospital in Honolulu getting over the fact that he’d lost much of his left foot on some awful place called Peleliu. Another neighbor had lost a son fighting in France and that was where she thought it should end. Hitler and Mussolini were dead and what was left of Nazi Germany was nothing more than a little corner of that nation. Some people were making noises saying that the country couldn’t trust Joe Stalin, but that was nonsense. For years every American had been told by FDR that we could trust good old Uncle Joe, so who was this little piss-ant imitation of a president, Harry Truman, to tell her otherwise?

Why not just dig a ditch around the place called Germanica and let the Nazi inhabitants all starve to death if they didn’t want to surrender? It would serve them right. It would also bring home her oldest son, who was in the 82nd Airborne Division and God only knew what plans the army had for him. Why the devil he had ever volunteered to be a paratrooper was beyond her. Mildred thanked the lord that one of her other sons was a sophomore in high school and too young to be drafted, while the oldest, Joey, had a bad foot that made him 4F. Of course, rules could be changed and they could start drafting infants if the army needed the manpower.

So here she was, marching around the White House along with a couple thousand other Americans, mainly women. They all carried signs urging Harry Truman to get them out of what they felt was the unnecessary German war. They’d enjoyed being interviewed and photographed by reporters but now the heat of the day was getting to them. Mildred congratulated herself on having had the common sense to bring a canteen filled with water and put it in her oversize purse. Still, she gave herself another hour before she would have to surrender to the oppressive weather. Already she’d had to share some of the water with one of her companions who looked red-faced and terrible. She didn’t want to be told what she looked like.

“There he is,” someone shrieked. Sure enough, there was Harry Truman and he was beginning one of his frequent walks. She had to give the little man credit. He knew that he was going to have to run the gauntlet of angry protesters but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that deter him. The protesters would follow him and dog him and shout at him to stop the war. Truman would wave and smile and continue walking at his usual brisk pace. As always a handful of younger reporters started to walk with him but soon gave up.

Mildred Ruffino snorted. She would not give up. She was made of sterner stuff. Still she wished she’d lost the twenty or thirty pounds she’d been planning to but never managed to. It would have made keeping up with Truman so much easier. She also wished she hadn’t worn so much clothing, but standards dictated that she wear not only the damned girdle, but cotton stockings, a slip, and, of course, a bra.

After another mile, Mildred was gasping. Most of the other protesters had fallen back. She gave Truman credit for one more thing. He was in excellent shape.

She looked around and saw that she was alone save for a handful of Secret Service agents and one young reporter who was sweating like a hog. Truman was only a few feet away. He looked at her with some concern.

“Ma’am, you don’t look well. Don’t you think you should stop?”

Mildred was stunned. The President of the United States was actually talking to her. “I’ll stop when you bring our boys home.”

“And I promise you that I’ll bring them home as soon as I can.”

Mildred was feeling lightheaded. “Not good enough. Please bring them home now. Let the Nazis have that little corner of their world, and bring them home now.”

Mildred was about to add something to this wonderful conversation that she was having with one of the most powerful men in the world when her vision turned red and the sidewalk rose up and hit her in the face. She felt hands turning her over and heard the sound of a siren in the distance and coming closer. She looked up and saw a very concerned Harry Truman looking down on her.

“Lie still and you’ll be all right,” the president said gently.

Mildred’s world was spinning and she had the feeling that she was about to take flight like a bird. “No, I won’t,” were her last words.

* * *

“Do you recall Operation Cobra?” asked General Devers.

“Of course,” said Ike. “It was an attempt to break out of Normandy and take the city of Caen.” They were in Devers’ Sixth Army Group headquarters in Strasbourg, France.

“And Cobra succeeded. Now I want to recreate it and start with a massive carpet bombing of German positions. Bradley used three thousand bombers to blast the Germans and I propose the same thing. And then I want to hit them with all the tanks and infantry I have, at least,” he paused, “as much as can fit through the relatively narrow opening of the Brenner Pass.”

Ike was solemn. “I recall that the massive and concentrated bombing, while effective, led to tragedy. So many planes dropped their bombs short and a large number of American troops, including General Leslie McNair, were killed and many others wounded. We can’t have that again.”

“Agreed. We can and must be more cautious and the planning must be more detailed and precise. There was a huge misunderstanding about the direction the planes would come from and that led to the disaster.”

Both men knew it hadn’t been a misunderstanding. The air force had disregarded orders to bomb north to south and had attacked east to west, thus putting their planes over the American lines for an extraordinary amount of time. During that time, the pattern of bomb dropping had crept back towards American lines while horrified GIs waited, unable to run or dig in. The air force did it that way because they were concerned about German planes and the possibility of dense antiaircraft fire shredding the bomber formations. German planes were no longer a threat, but antiaircraft fire still was. But AA could be heavy and come from any direction.

“Ike, I am very confident that we can break through the German defenses and split this Germanica animal in half. With Clark hitting them from the south and my men from the north, we can deal the Germans a decisively catastrophic blow that might just end the war.”

Ike nodded. He would approve Devers’ plans, but he would keep close tabs on them. There would be no surprises and the air force would be fully on board. He looked at Devers, who turned away. Ike had the feeling that the other general’s presentation had smacked of desperation. Devers had lost weight and looked stressed. He’d been defeated in his first attempt to push through the Brenner, and neither he nor his career could stand a second loss. Damn it. Patch was going to relinquish the Seventh Army because of his health. Would he have to replace Devers as well?

* * *

Doctor Lennie Hagerman was still wearing scrubs when Tanner showed up after being requested. “I want to show you something,” Hagerman said. “That last group of prisoners had some unusual problems and you might want to report it upward.”

“Sure,” said Tanner. He’d helped interview several of them and, aside from looking hungry and miserable, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. They were prisoners who’d been beaten down both physically and mentally.

Hagerman pulled out a folder with a number of photographs in it. “I know you’re not a doctor, but try to figure out what’s wrong with these people.”

Tanner agreed that he was not a doctor but agreed to look anyhow. The photos were in color, which made the Germans look terrible. They were all staring at the camera with their mouths open and their teeth and gums exposed. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “what am I looking for?”

“See how their gums are discolored? Take my word for it but there were sores all over their bodies.”

“Jesus, please don’t tell me it’s something contagious like the plague. Something like that could wipe out the entire German army.”

“Along with a few million other people,” Hagerman added. “No, this is nothing that bad. These poor dumb Nazis are suffering from scurvy. Being a kind and gentle soul, I’ve prescribed vitamin C, which should solve their problems. When they go to a prison camp they’ll be somebody else’s problem. However, if too many Germans facing us get it, there will be large numbers of men too sick, too lethargic and in too much pain to do much of anything in the way of fighting.”

Tanner thought of how Lena had been weakened when he’d first met her. He’d put it down to lack of food and not necessarily to incomplete diet. Perhaps she had been in the beginning stages of scurvy herself. Hagerman was right, however, this was something that had to be bumped upstairs and quickly. Out of curiosity, he would ask Lena if she’d ever suffered any of the symptoms.

After that he would try to find out when the army would make its inevitable next attack through the Brenner.

* * *

“Private Gruber, it is wonderful to see that you escaped from the clutches of the Americans.”

Gruber grinned widely at the compliment from General Hahn, a man he worshipped almost as much as he had his late Fuhrer. “It wasn’t all that difficult, General. They had a fool guarding me. I tricked him, hurt him, and then took his uniform and rifle.”

Hahn rubbed his hands with glee. What a resourceful and violent boy young Gruber had turned out to be.

“And when you were in their clutches, what information did you give them?”

“I admit I told them everything I knew, which wasn’t much at all. They already knew about the Werewolves, so I embellished everything I said. I told them there were hundreds of us and that we were well armed and trained. I begged to be saved and promised them everything if they wouldn’t send me off to Russia.”

Hahn nodded amiably. He had read the young man’s detailed report and didn’t doubt that Gruber had told the Americans everything that he knew. While there might have been some embellishment in telling of his escape, Hahn was confident that Gruber had been basically truthful. He also doubted that the Americans had believed everything Gruber had told them. The Americans were not fools, after all. They would know that a skinny fourteen-year-old wouldn’t have access to anything important.

“What would you like to do now, Private Gruber?”

Gruber smiled. “I wish nothing more than to serve Germany.”

“Excellent answer and you shall. It is an added bonus that you brought an American uniform. We can never have too many of those and, to be frank, they are in short supply. The rifle was a bonus as well. The uniform you brought will be given to an older and more senior soldier to use when infiltrating American positions.”

Gruber was crestfallen. He had hoped to wear it.

Hahn reached out and fondly patted Gruber’s shoulder. “I know what you are thinking, but, even though the American you took it from was a small man, he was still larger than you. The Americans would not hand out a uniform that was too large and ill-fitting. You were quite fortunate to make it through to us without getting caught and then hanged for hurting that guard. I do admit, Private Gruber, that carving a swastika in his forehead was a marvelous idea. And don’t worry about being left out of any future Werewolf operations. There will be a special place for you. Who knows, we might even let you use the rifle you stole.”

* * *

“Hey Tanner, who the hell is, or was, a Mildred Ruffino?” asked Cullen.

He had been reading the latest issue of Stars and Stripes, the newspaper printed for the men and women of the American army. The paper was editorially independent of the Army’s hierarchy and frequently printed items that the higher-ups did not always want published. The paper’s editors had gotten into trouble with a number of senior commanders including General George Patton who’d tried to have the newspaper shut down-only to be overruled by higher powers.

“Isn’t she that lady who passed out and died in Harry Truman’s arms?”

Cullen laughed. “If I found myself in Harry Truman’s arms I’d pass out too. Yeah, I recall her now. They’re talking about peace marchers using her name as if she was some kind of damn martyr or saint. Hey, I guess she was sort of a martyr, wasn’t she?”

The soldiers of the 105th had mixed emotions about the peace efforts. Yes, they wanted the war to end and they didn’t much care if it was through a negotiated peace or the abject surrender of either or both Japan and Germany. But they knew they couldn’t go home until the Germans gave up. And then it would likely be a brief stop while on their way to invade Japan. There was an uncomfortable feeling that well-meaning people like Mildred Ruffino were inadvertently encouraging the Germans to hang on, that the United States would grow genuinely war weary and give up. That could not be allowed to happen.

All of which meant that the Army was going to have to attack again. There had been a significant lull that was about to end. Ammunition and other supplies had been stockpiled. Destroyed tanks had been replaced and large numbers of replacements had arrived.

“Tanner, do you realize that the division is two thousand men understrength?”

“Yep. We’ve lost three thousand and only gotten one thousand to fill in. Worse, those replacements are very miserable specimens, both physically and mentally.”

“And don’t forget morally,” Cullen added and Tanner agreed. There had been more and more incidents of soldiers finding ways to avoid combat without getting court-martialed for cowardice or for disobeying a direct order. Large numbers of soldiers had managed to wound or injure themselves. Some of the more creative ones had discovered that you could live quite nicely without a big toe, so they “accidentally” shot it off. Now such wounds were automatically considered criminal and court-martials were convened. Sadly, some soldiers considered jail time and a dishonorable discharge a better alternative to being killed or horribly maimed. Nobody either Tanner or Cullen knew felt that way, but another disaster could change matters.

“So when do you think we’ll attack?” Cullen asked. “We can’t sit here all summer with our thumbs up our asses. We wait too long and we’ll be climbing the Alps in the dead of winter. Did you hear about the latest plan to bomb the Germans?”

Tanner laughed. Someone in Ike’s staff had a relative in Congress who suggested that the air force commence low-level night bombing since it had become obvious that the Germans were moving men and supplies at night.

Whoever it was had given no thought to the difficulty involved in flying through mountains at night, the problems with sudden winds, and, of course, the inability to hit anything when pilots and crew were focused on not smearing their planes all over the Alps. No, that idea had been laughed away with the result that the Germans were still safe in the mountains and the land adjacent to Switzerland.

Cullen laughed harshly. “So the ghost of Mildred Ruffino lives on.”

“And on,” said Tanner.

“What’s your best guess as to when we’ll hit them again?”

“Sometime between a couple of days and a couple of weeks,” Tanner answered.

“Jesus, Tanner, you’re no help whatsoever.”

* * *

Lena had no difficulty locating Father Shanahan. She’d been wanting to for a while, but had been too busy. She owed him a debt of gratitude and wanted him to know it.

“You’re looking well,” he said. “There’s color in your cheeks and you’ve gotten some decent food in you.”

“Not too much, Father, I don’t want to become some plump German dumpling.”

“I don’t think there’s a chance of that, at least not a German dumpling. So how can I help you?”

“Does everyone who comes to see you want your help?”

“Generally, yes. I don’t lead that exciting a life, so how can I help you?”

Lena took a deep breath. Some things still hurt. “I understand that the Red Cross is establishing a registry of refugees, or displaced persons as they’re now being called. I was wondering if you would be able to help me find my father.”

Shanahan pursed his lips. “I don’t see why I can’t at least try. Now, do you still have that lovely Luger?”

She laughed. “Yes and it’s still not for sale. There’s a war yet to end, and who knows, I might have to use it to protect myself.” And protect Captain Scott Tanner, she realized with a jolt.

* * *

The M4 Sherman tank was not the best tank in the world, but it was being mass-produced by the tens of thousands. While it could hold its own against German Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks, it was totally outclassed by the Panther and Tiger tanks. Fortunately, these German monsters did not exist in great numbers. Germany’s lack of production capacity was the cause of that shortage, and most of those that had rolled off production lines had been destroyed. It was widely understood that the Sherman was vastly inferior to the Red Army’s T34, which was also being produced in enormous quantities. The Sherman tank had been upgraded with a 76mm high-velocity gun, which was superior to the original 75mm gun the tanks had been built with. Still, no one would want to fight a Panther or a Tiger or even a T34. Originally, the upgraded Sherman had been sent to the British, but with them now effectively out of the war, the tanks were going to American units.

The Sherman had a crew of five and weighed in at about thirty tons. Along with the main gun, it had a.50 caliber machine gun and two.30 caliber guns. The tank had a gasoline engine that allowed for a range of one hundred and twenty miles and could go upwards of thirty miles an hour. Mileage and speed were dependent on a number of factors, including terrain and the skill of the driver. Her shortcomings were the fact that she was underarmored and, standing at nine feet, far too tall. Thus, she could be spotted fairly easily by enemies lying low in the grass.

But to Sergeant Archie Dixon, the Chrysler-built tank named “Mimi” was lovely. Even lovelier was the anatomically correct painting of a half-naked blond with huge boobs on her hull. A couple of prudish officers had complained, but Dixon had not received any direct order to cover it up. If he had, he would have used some cardboard that had been painted olive drab to temporarily cover the offending boobs and hope that nobody important noticed when he removed it. Getting Mimi painted had cost the crew ten bucks and some liberated cognac.

Dixon, the tank, and the 14th Armored Division had been in Europe for only a few months and had missed much of the heavy fighting after Normandy, something that didn’t bother Dixon one little bit. They had played a minor part in the first assault on the German positions in the Brenner Pass and had taken some casualties. That attack had cost the division dearly when the Nazis fought tooth and nail. They were preparing to launch a second attack and Archie wondered if their luck would still hold. He and his crew considered themselves a band of brothers and he wouldn’t want anything to happen to his brothers.

But now the Nazis did not appear to have any armored capabilities. Those splendid Panther and Tiger tanks had almost all been destroyed or captured. What remained were a relatively few enemy tanks in the Alpine Redoubt. As a result, the battalion Dixon belonged to had been broken off from the division and attached to the 105th Infantry as support when they attacked through the Brenner Pass.

“Piss break,” said Dixon as he jumped off the tank and stretched. The Sherman was consistently uncomfortable. In the winter it was too cold and in the summer it was too hot. The rest of the four tank column had pulled off to the side of the two lane paved road the treads of the tanks were chewing to pieces. Their crews were also savoring the moment.

As he relieved himself, Dixon had to admit that the land around him was beautiful, heavily forested, and hilly. A city boy from the Bronx, he’d never had the chance to be in the woods, and this part of southern Germany had some incredible scenery. On the other hand, the hills were getting higher and more foreboding as they drew closer to the Alps.

“At least we won’t have to fight in the mountains,” Archie said as he buttoned up his fly. He hoped he was right. He’d been a buck sergeant for only two weeks and then only because his predecessor as commander of Mimi had gotten himself shot in the face by a sniper. It was a hideous wound and the man had still been alive when an ambulance carted him off. He had been trying to scream but the blood gurgling up from his mouth kept cutting off any real sound he’d been attempting to make. They’d been in an area they thought was safe and was proof that the Nazis, while defeated, were still able to kill.

It further pointed out that the 14th Division, known as the “Liberators,” was through liberating. Now they were conquering and sometimes having a good time of it. It gave them some pleasure to see German civilians weeping and groveling and begging. Fuck them, was the consensus. They had started the war and now they could suffer the consequences. And so what if some buildings got destroyed or some silverware went missing. If anybody resisted, they might get shot. They drew the line at raping frauleins. The brass was hell on that and anyone who did rape a German woman could count on decades at hard labor.

Not that the tankers cared, but being attached to the 105th wasn’t all that bad. The infantry had managed to make themselves fairly comfortable while waiting for the big attack to take place.

A jeep pulled up next to Mimi and a captain got out. Dixon successfully fought the urge to salute and simply nodded in recognition. “How can I help you, Captain Tanner?”

“First, you can give me the name of the woman who modeled for Mimi.”

Dixon grinned. “You’d have to kill me first, sir.”

“Well then, maybe you can tell me where the rest of your tanks are. The division was expecting twenty and it looks like we’re short sixteen.”

“Sir, I understand that the rest will be along shortly. There were some issues that the colonel wanted to iron out with the men before we came up here.”

Aw, crap, Tanner thought. “Let me guess, Sergeant. A number of the men were less than enthusiastic about coming up here to fight in the Pass.”

“That’s about the size of it, sir,” Dixon said. The rest of the men in the small column had left their tanks but were staying out of hearing range. “We got to go because I was the most junior sergeant and the least likely to piss and bitch about the situation.”

“Did anybody actually refuse orders?”

“No, sir. The colonel’s just letting them sound off about how they felt. We were in the first attack and the division got chewed up badly, which is how I got this last stripe. My guess is that they’ll be along in about an hour or so.”

Tanner forced a smile. “I guess the war can wait that long.”

He had to wonder, though, if the army was getting close to actually refusing to go back into the battle. It had happened before, but not with any large force of Americans. In the First World War, however, a number of French divisions had refused to go on the attack after suffering appalling losses in a number of battles ordered by incompetent French generals. A number of historians felt that the French infantry had been pushed beyond endurance by making a number of futile and bloody attacks on strong German defenses. As a result, the French refused to attack. They would stand on the defensive but not waste men in further slaughters. A number of the mutineers had been hanged, but the French hierarchy became more aware of the anger of their men. They didn’t want a revolution like the Russians had. Was this what was going to happen to the American army? Good lord.

“Sergeant, are the men aware that the attacks will be preceded by very heavy bombing?”

Dixon started to laugh but caught himself. Captain Tanner seemed like a decent guy, but he knew he shouldn’t push it by being a smartass. “Sorry sir, but most of the guys think that’s just so much bullshit, if you’ll forgive my language. There are a lot of guys who don’t think the bombers can hit the ground, much less a target.”

There was a faint rumble and they instinctively looked skyward. “Speak of the devil,” Tanner said. A long line of bombers was high overhead and headed down the pass. Another rumble told them that the remaining sixteen tanks were heading into the area.

“Sir, I sure as hell hope you’re right about the bombers, sir. It would give me a great thrill to put Mimi in gear and simply cruise through Germany without any incident and not put the brakes on until we hit Switzerland.”